How often do you lie? Your instinctive reaction may be to protest, ‘Me? Never!’ But that’s probably a lie in itself.
Because all of us lie, in small ways, all the time. But the thing about lying is that it has a way of running away from you.
I should know. For a long time, I was a serial liar. A fibber. A fantasist. Once I started, I couldn’t stop.
I was extremely rich; I was incredibly poor; I’d been in prison; I was a child prodigy. Anything to seem more interesting. Until I’m not sure that anyone knew the real me any more – I didn’t even recognise myself.
It started, as so many lies do, from a place of fear.
Moving away from home for the first time for university felt so incredibly nerve-racking. I was terrified, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I’d wanted to feel like a grown-up version of myself but I was far from it – a mere imitation of the woman I wanted to become.
The first few months were a blur of new faces and daunting situations. And it was in those moments that I found myself whispering untruths into people’s ears.
My lies started, as so many lies do, from a place of fear, writes Alice Snape
I’d gone to school with one of the Spice Girls. I’d had an affair with a teacher. I was an erotic novelist. My dad was mates with then-prime minister Tony Blair. The lies kept coming
One night, during Freshers’ Week, I was sitting opposite one of my intimidatingly clever new housemates in the pub. I can’t remember exactly what she was saying – maybe she was telling me about an intellectual-sounding book she’d read that I’d never heard of, or commenting on something political that I didn’t understand – but I floundered.
I felt silly and small and totally out of my depth. So when she asked about me, I lied. I told her that I’d lived in New York and worked as a nanny for a year after leaving school. I told her how fabulous it was. How I’d ‘found myself’.
The reality was that I’d retaken an A-level because I didn’t get into my first choice of university. I’d spent a whole extra year back in sixth form while working part-time as a receptionist and still living with my parents.
But I wanted my fellow students to think I was the kind of person who’d done something, well, more. I’d ached to be cool and clever and daring, rather than cripplingly shy and unsure of myself.
And in letting that first lie slip out, I realised its power. I enjoyed this chic character I’d created. This alternate narrative my life could have taken.
So I fabricated more falsehoods. I created personas depending on the strangers I was chatting to, conjuring up elaborate backstories on the spot.
I was a child actor in Grange Hill. I’d been in prison for fraud (apt). I was years younger than my real age but I’d been so clever that I’d taken my exams early. I’d gone to school with one of the Spice Girls. I’d had an affair with a teacher. I was an erotic novelist. My dad was mates with then-prime minister Tony Blair. I was rich – like mega-rich – or I had no money at all.
It felt like a game no one knew I was playing. I liked the attention, too.
I loved turning up to dates as an entirely different character – it was somehow easier that way. When I was pretending, I’d wear something the real me wouldn’t dare to – shorter skirts, tighter jeans, brighter lipstick.
Slowly, though, my mind became clouded with the lies I’d told. The strangers on the receiving end of my tall tales seemed to have a way of finding me again. I couldn’t keep up with myself. How could I continue dating someone if our first date was based on a lie?
Lying is fun, until it’s really not fun, and you’re sitting right next to someone you’ve lied to in a seminar, or on the bus, or at a bar. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was up to. The confidence it gave me was replaced with anxiety – which was what I’d been trying to avoid in the first place.
I felt uneasy every time I was in the company of the housemate I’d lied to. She wasn’t a stranger, not now I saw her every day. I was constantly worried she’d out me.
And so I confessed. Which made me feel silly and small and totally out of my depth – again. I vaguely remember her hugging me, trying to make me feel better, but I knew we’d never be proper friends now.
I know now that some of my lies are linked to my mental health. It’s something I’ve been back and forth to the doctors about over the entirety of my adult life.
I relied on my lies to get me through situations I felt uncomfortable in. The urge to fabricate things emerged every time I was at a turning point in my life.
Once I’d graduated and was living in another new city in my first new job, I lied again – about boyfriends or who I was friends with or where I went to university. I’d say I’d done my masters in Oxford (I’d studied at Brookes), but let people assume I meant the ‘real’ Oxford. It was like my comfort blanket. A lie can be perfect and complete, whereas the reality is messy and nuanced.
I overthink to the extent that I’ve been diagnosed with anxiety, depression and OCD. My lies had become compulsions in the same way that I need to check the door is locked exactly ten times or take photos of my unplugged hair straighteners so I don’t spend all day worrying I haven’t turned them off and that my flat is on fire.
Recognising my compulsions are the symptom of an illness has been a revelation. I know myself now. And so, sometimes, if someone asks me how I am or what I do, I might tell them. Like really tell them. Sometimes that raw honesty can open up an unexpected connection. I don’t need to be someone I’m not.
I’d say I’d done my masters in Oxford (I’d studied at Brookes), but let people assume I meant the ‘real’ Oxford
But, I confess, there are still sometimes that I lie. I adore the drama of make-believe – an ex dumped me because he said I live my life like I’m in an episode of teen drama series The O.C.
The difference now, aged 42, is that I know when lying is just a bit of innocent fun, and when it could tangle me in a humiliating web of deceit.
Last year, when I was on holiday with my best friend, I drew her into my fictional world.
Not incidentally, she was one of the first people at university that I revealed my true self to. I told her I’d failed an A-level, and it turned out she had, too. We connected. She saw me for who I was and I saw her. It was such a relief. Maybe I knew that she’d become one of the most important women in my life.
And so on holiday we pretended we were married to each other, madly in love. We forgot about our husbands at home. For the weekend, it was just us on holiday. Which feels fitting, we lied together because she knows exactly who I am – neurotic, nervous, an extroverted introvert, an overthinker.
The other, worse kind of lies still leak out when I’m particularly nervous, though. Often, still, it’s in a situation where I’m surrounded by people I think are cleverer than me. Although it happens less now that, at last, I’m becoming the woman I used to long to be.
Sometimes I realise I’m living the life I used to lie about – not a criminal or a pop star, but I am a published writer. But if a lie does slip out, I take it back, however embarrassing it is. You never know when strangers might weave their way into your life.
Plus, I’m more sure of myself. I embrace the eccentric and introverted parts of my personality. So I wear the dress or the lipstick that used to feel like too much. Because I’m a lot, and I’m OK with that. And I stay in when I’m feeling extremely anxious, the times when I know might lead to me saying things that could get me in trouble.
You may think I’m awful for admitting to such things. But, right now, I’m just being honest.