Lies I Believe So I Can Get By

Over the last week, my average daily screen time was 22 minutes. I shared this — admittedly, with nonchalant smugness — over coffee with friends whose birth years all begin with "20" and felt instantly swaddled by awestruck reverence.

They asked how I did it. How is it possible to engage earnestly with a world whose every dimension resembles the Amazon checkout UI more and more each day? What, if not escaping into the digital abyss, keeps my head above the pH-balanced, electrolyte-infused, overpriced, glass-bottled water Gen Z has been sadistically forced to tread?

It's not because there is anything inherently evolved about me — like any being capable of self-awareness, I was born with an unrelenting, all-consuming sadness inside of me that the TikTok algorithm could absolutely stifle. Instead, I've learned to coexist with the sadness.

That was the best answer I could conjure for my friends on our coffee date. But it felt hollow even as it came out of my mouth. So I ruminated, as I often do, until I was struck by existential truth in the produce section of the bargain grocery store. As I often am.

There are five lies I must tell myself every day to keep from quitting my job to focus on doomscrolling and chain-smoking full-time. Technically, they are not lies so much as speculative precepts, fluid and indeterminate, but "lies" is easier to digest and this is my blog and I can call them whatever I want.

Here they are.

Lie 1: "I Am Not Scared of Bread."

"Look at any trendy diet from the last two decades: keto, Atkins, gluten-free — what tenet do they all have in common? 'Bread makes you fat.' And, honestly, they're not wrong," my lover propounds between bites of hot dog poutine.

It is 5 p.m. and we are having our first meal of the day. He appears both concerned and impressed that I eat all of my sandwich. I think it is because he does not yet understand that the only way to stop constantly thinking about bread is to eat it until you are satisfied. And to trust that, eventually, you will be.

"I am not scared of bread," I tell myself, so I do not need to watch a woman I do not know who is four sizes smaller than me rate soft pretzels over a hyperpop remix of a Sabrina Carpenter single in the passenger seat of her Cybertruck nine thousand kilometers away. I can just eat some.

Lie 2: "This Is Enough."

Disillusionment with life's mundanity is, in my opinion, the source of most misery. Though I, too, yearn for the everlasting fulfillment that comes with serving an absolute purpose, my every attempt to pinpoint such a purpose has failed. I have managed only to taste fulfillment in fleeting mouthfulls of all my pursuits amalgamated.

In the walk-in coolers at the store, I see a frozen fascimile of a family recipe. I take a picture and send it to my mom. I try not to fret about how I could use it to become famous.

"Ours are better 😋," my mom responds.

"This is all there is. And this is enough," I tell myself.

Lie 3: "I Will Always Find Another Lover."

I make romantic and sexual mistakes often. Sometimes on purpose, just to prove that I can.

A good-looking man with a well-paying job and a three-bedroom apartment tells me he loves me, routinely brings me flowers, and cares for me when I'm sick. I leave him because I do not want to feel beholden to answering his text messages and would like to spend three nights a week watching reality television alone in my apartment, even though I am almost 26 and my mother keeps asking when someone will come home with me for Christmas.

It is loneliness I fear, not aloneness. And staying involved with a partner unwilling or unable to meet my needs will not solve loneliness — only aloneness. If I must be lonely, I would rather do so in private.

I cannot say to myself "I can be happy on my own" because, humanly, solitude disquiets me. So, I say to myself, "I will always find another lover." I do not put myself through the dystopian horror of curating a five-photo carousel to advertise my companionship like a SHEIN skirt.

Lie 4: "I'll Get To The Bottom of This Inbox Someday."

I cannot remember the last time I had nothing to do. If it's not emails, it's laundry; if it's not laundry, it's a meeting. Most days my foremost accomplishment is successfully delegating my unfinished work to my tomorrow self.

Summit fever is deceptive and clever; it tells me nightly that if I spend just one more hour at my desk I may finally, fully, rest. "I'll get to the bottom of this inbox someday," I reply and turn off my computer.

There will always be more work to do. I must catch my breath whenever I have the chance.

Lie 5: "Everything Is Going to Be Okay."

Even if I eat too much bread. Even if I have no absolute purpose. Even if I never find another lover or get to the bottom of my inbox.

Even if it is unlikely, to stay sane I must believe the creases in the fabric of my life will flatten. Often, this unfounded belief alone keeps me pressing the iron — and keeps me from pressing the "page refresh" button.

I believe these mantras because they prevent me from descending into pixellated madness. I don't believe they are probable. Like the Tooth Fairy, they seem too whimsical to be. But, like the child who believes in her, I must interpret the world through magic lore so the growing pains are bearable.

If it helps, lie to yourself, too.