I’ve kept myself from composing a new blog entry this past month. Recent events have put a lot on my mind, but I did not feel my thoughts coincided with the mission of this blog: for me to explore how to become a more ethical human being.
I’ve since changed my mind. I define “ethical” broadly, after all: while my previous entry on shame may not have confronted climate change, materialism, or racism, resolving toward self-compassion qualifies as moving towards morality. This self-compassion piece spurs me toward my current musing: how should we navigate the fantasies of those around us?
Here’s my situation, sketched briefly. I found out that someone I loved, someone in whom I invested one and a half years of time, energy, and emotional labor, was lying throughout that entire time. Not only was the identity she assumed fictitious, but she had also preyed on us: told us false tragic tales about what she was going through, and watched us sacrifice to uplift and care for her.
The first few weeks after the revelation, I cycled through many emotions: grief at losing someone I loved, pain that one-third of my college experience was irrevocably violated, fear I might encounter the imposter again, desperation to rationalize her behavior, guilt that I hadn’t seen the signs of lying earlier, fierce longing for closure.
The emotions have settled, and now, I am curious. As I grapple with memories of stories she told me, laughter and tears we shared: I have no idea what went through her mind when we were together. Did she ever believe in her imaginary identity? When watching us cry as she told us untrue sob stories, did she feel guilt or pleasure? Was any part of her–her animatedly delivered anecdotes, her confessed vulnerabilities, her love she exuded–true?
One day, I may write on these questions, as psychologists again have opinions on such matters. But I’m more perplexed wondering: which answers should matter to me?
You see: my friend lied about her experiences. She was not affiliated with the institutions, in the places, or doing the things that she said she was. The experiences never happened, but the persona that she projected: for all intents and purposes, it existed in this realm. This persona–one that would constantly voice how profoundly it was shaped by those experiences–interacted with people, made people laugh, it made people love.
The question arises: to you, what comprises who “I” am: the sum of my past experiences and inner thoughts, or the facade I project at you?
And, friend: this is just one piece of my conundrum. Let me posit the world where my friend believed in her lies. Analogously, you might meet someone who believes they were beaten daily at a young age. They are shaped by the trauma, they want you to comfort them; in turn, you love them, listen as they process their emotions, help them seek counsel, and embed them in your life. Apart from the single deviation that their abuse never occurred, their persona is consistent with physical reality. Does their true past matter to you?
These questions are relevant regardless of whether you know a pathological liar: for example, you encounter them every time you interact with someone who believes in a religion different from your own. More generally, diverging belief structures on what is “actual” shape us all—be they religion, morality, normative political ideology, or historical narratives. Any structure that can’t be linked to a physical basis could be deemed a “fantasy;” thus, we live life interfacing with people governed by disparate fantasies.
And so, we approach the title of this post: how do we navigate other people’s fantasies?
(In my next entry, I will explore how my answers to these questions change my worldview. I’ll also share how I have organized my thoughts upon learning my close friend was a pathological liar.)