White lies: Please stop being honest!
I used to have a friend who thought she was the personified truth. She said what she thought, she thought what she wanted, and she did not much care what she devised herself and sometimes did out loud "truth". Her consistent refusal of dishonesty, I understand it just so, but her tendency to throw completely unfounded her unfaithful opinion in the room, she made her for their environment about as sympathetic as a cross between Dieter Bohlen and Donald Trump. Yes, the truth can sometimes be brutal. And no, you do not always have to say it out loud.
"I just want to be honest"
Her highly acclaimed love of truth led to compliments such as "Uh, I would rather cover your arms, bobbing quite nicely" or statements like "Basti was quite out of place yesterday." About Bastis disinterest and my wobbly arms (maybe there is a connection?) Informed this friend me, of course, unasked. She had to, too. After all, she just wanted to be honest. So she said that. And it took me a long time to realize that this woman did not understand one thing: the truth is sometimes an asshole. And not uttering them is sometimes a lot more virtuous than doing it.
Your truth is not my truth
It is like this: The ONE truth does not exist. Well, if it rains in Hamburg, then it rains in Hamburg. Is true and little debatable. And if anyone wants to talk about it: only to. But whether my arms are too wobbly or what Basti's raised eyebrow meant, that's clearly ambiguous. People who declare their own thinking as "truth" in such situations and feel obligated to trumpet it into the world do not understand one important thing: the world is much more complex than any one human being would ever realize. Everyone listens to thousands of experiences. Nobody perceives the environment as the other. And some find that my arms are just right. At least I think so now. Maybe Basti. But who knows that exactly besides Basti? Yes, the truth, the truth, sometimes I do not want to know her.
Lies are the glue that holds us together
I want to admit it here and now: I'm lying. I tell my children that they have painted beautifully, even though this is obviously not the case. I praise clothes that I would never wear and sometimes make excuses not to hurt people. Why do I do that? Because it is my truth that there are more important things than merciless honesty. I want my children to be proud and not to doubt themselves. I want my girlfriend to feel sexy when we go to the party where her ex will be, and I do not want my grandmother to know how little I'm in today, the same story for the hundred and eighteenth time to hear the heavy birth of my father. It may be a bit reprehensible. And some call that lie. I call it love. Because she knows only one truth: I want you good. And being honest is NOT always good.
