Telling Half Truths

It's a strange feeling to be found out; to be caught in something, or be discovered speaking half-truths as a substitute for the real thing. I think most people have found themselves in a moment like that: telling someone a "kind of" truth because it's easier than going through the full story of what really happened. We all say we are honest people but when it comes down to it—we rarely are. We justify our actions by telling ourselves that there is some amount of truth in the lies we tell. 

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn is a New York Times Bestseller and it is being made into a movie. I picked up the book on a weekend wine tasting trip with my closest friends. We stopped off for some coffee and sandwiches in Leelenau, MI, and happened upon  Leelanau Books. If you are ever up there it's well worth the visit. My buddy Cameron told me to pick up Gone Girl, which I had been avoiding simply because everyone else on the planet had already read it, and I didn't really feel like being one of them. But I made the right decision taking his advice. This book held up a mirror to my ugly side.

It's about relationships gone horribly wrong. It's about manipulation in all its grotesque and glorious forms. It's about marriage and sacrifice and dreams and hopes being smashed to a thousand pieces by expectation and new found desires. But the big one, the one that made me say, shit, is that it's about a man who cheats on his wife.

I’ve cheated.

There is a saying that goes: "Once a cheater, always a cheater." I find it extremely one dimensional, but it haunts me, nonetheless. What haunts me more is that the husband in the book realizes that he has become a cliché. He is "one of those guys" that everyone expects in society. He's a douchebag liar that isn't worth two pennies because he can't control his penis. He even tells himself, "I'm not a good man." 

I read that line in Yucca Valley, just twenty minutes outside of Joshua Tree National Park in California. I was sitting next to a pool with my beautiful girlfriend, Kate and my two best friends, Drew and Kelsey. Everyone was enjoying the sun, each in long poolside chairs, with absolutely zero cares in the world. As I read those words, I had to stop and put the book down.

I lit a cigarette. I looked at Kate, then Kelsey, then Drew. I sat up in my chair and almost blurted out, "I'm not a good man!" But I held it in. I hated, hated that I could relate to that character. One of the best things about books is that you can empathize with any kind of character on the planet because books make you see humanity in all its forms. I hated that character now, mostly because I hated that part of who I was. I hated that when he said, "I'm not a good man," I thought, "Me neither.”

The book not only held a mirror up to my ugliness, but also held a mirror up to my own horrible expectations in relationships. You see, the book has two narrators: the wife, who disappears in the story, and the "good" husband, who is trying to track her down. Both characters, come to find out, are completely untrustworthy in their versions of the stories that they tell. They both only give parts of the story, playing you as you read along rooting for them and thinking how wonderful they are, only to discover that no one is good, at least not in the ways you would expect.

I say that the book held a mirror to my own expectations in relationships because sometimes I find myself taking the lazy way out. I withhold information, especially when I perceive that I’ve done nothing wrong, simply to avoid suspicion or judgment. I expect that if I share a particular version of myself with my girlfriend that doesn't paint the entire picture that it will be "OK." The thing about my girlfriend is, she rarely accepts “OK,” and she never accepts the easy way out. Not for herself and not for anyone she actually cares about.

The other half-truth that I tell myself is that I am wholly good. Both the characters in the book have justifications for everything they do. They go on lengthy tirades explaining how the pain and the hurt have led to these outcomes. Neither of them takes the time to step back and let go. They force themselves to continue fighting and clawing at each other because it's all they know.

The difference that I found is that when I told my three best friends next to the pool that, "My greatest fear is that I'm not good, that I'm going to be the thing I fear the most—a truly bad man." They looked at me and paused. It seemed like they gave plenty of thought to what they wanted to say, and didn't just spit it out. They all said something like this: 

You are a good man, just because you have done bad things doesn't make you bad. You can see your faults and recognize them for what they are. Truly bad men don’t do that. You have a big heart, which sees the best in people. You give more chances than ought to be given. You love deeply, and fight fiercely for the things you believe in. A bad man doesn’t do those things either. You are a good man who has done a few bad things. Forgive yourself for those things because they aren't who you are. You are good.

I was found out. Caught in my own version of myself. Caught in the lies I’ve told myself and have told those most dear to me. But even in my moment of fear and self-deception, the ones closest to me brought me back to seeing a better version of myself. I no longer needed to relate solely to the “bad” man. There was a fuller truth I could live out: I am a good man. 

(Here is a link to purchase this gripping and intense novel)