For most of my life, I was a liar.
A more charitable person might simply say I was full of delusions. Whatever you want to call it — lies, deceptions, delusions — I was full of them. The normal rules of life didn’t apply to me. I was going to be instantly successful at whatever I tried. People were going to recognize me for the superior person I was. They were going to love me, praise me, follow me, adore me.
I believed I was special. I believed others would see that.
When I was a small boy, I used to put myself to sleep every night making up stories. I was always the hero. I saved people in trouble. Other men wanted to follow me and emulate me. All the women wanted me to choose them. One of my earliest consistent stories was of rescuing a girl from a burning building. She was a classmate on whom I had a crush. After the rescue, she adored me, of course.
I grew up. I quit fantasizing about rescuing Wendy from burning buildings.
But what I didn’t realize is that the delusions didn’t go away. They grew into bigger delusions. I was still sure I was special. That faith carried me. I didn’t know the day would come when my self-deception would all come crashing down.
Watching kids on a Friday night reminds me of struggle to belong
What if other people see you or hear you differently than you do?
If romantic love is mental illness, do many of us want to be cured?
Midlife becomes big crisis when our self-deception stops working
Shock of seeing ‘Airplane!’ was realizing that I wasn’t all alone