It’s True: Lying is a Co-operative Act

In my previous post I wrote a little about deception. In light of recent events of a personal nature (more about that later), it got me thinking about the complexities of lying. Among my 4,000 pet peeves, being lied to is probably at the top of the list. Nobody likes being lied to, even when it is done with good intentions (as an act of protection or to avoid discomfort).

Of course, it is easy (and natural) to feel anger towards the liar and to feel like a victim, especially when the lie has serious consequences. However, I recently stumbled upon some interesting information related to this topic that has really got me thinking about this whole deception schtick.

Part of living in a culture in which saying “no” is taboo means that lying, particularly white lies, becomes a part of everyday life. These lies are of little consequence and act as a social lubricant. I’m as guilty as the next person for telling the odd white lie.

As writer Amy Bloom puts it: “I cannot shake my dependency on the white lie, because I was brought up to be nice. And I’ve never figured out the nice way to say, ‘I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than come to your house for dinner.’”

What is interesting about lying (white and otherwise) is that it is a co-operative act. If, like me, you are somewhat sensitive and intuitive, often you know when someone is lying right to your face (or your computer screen). The crazy thing is that you don’t call them on it.

Lie expert Pamela Meyer outlines the dynamics of this in her fascinating TED talk: “Think about it, a lie has no power whatsoever by its mere utterance. Its power emerges when someone else agrees to believe the lie…if at some point you got lied to, it’s because you agreed to get lied to.”

In other words, we willingly participate in deception! And why? For many reasons: to avoid conflict, to save face, to maintain an illusion, to remain in denial. Maybe we are scared to transgress social mores and norms. We don’t want to come across as psychotic/paranoid/delusional/accusatory and so we play the game.

More often though, as Meyer points out: “Lying is an attempt to bridge a gap, to connect our wishes and our fantasies, about who we wish we were, how we could be, with what we’re really like.” Truth schmuth. I totally rocked that purple, shoulder-padded Lady Gaga-esque pleather dress last night. My friend told me so.

Sam Harris, who has on him a very large brain (he’s a neuroscientist), has written lucidly on the subject of lying. He argues that, “People lie so that others will form beliefs that are not true. The more consequential the beliefs—that is, the more a person’s well-being depends upon a correct understanding of the world—the more consequential the lie.”

According to Harris, there are generally two kinds of lying – things we do (acts of commission) and things we fail to do (acts of omission). We judge acts of commission more harshly, while the latter – failing to correct false impressions and assumptions – allows the liar to get away with a lot more. For example, someone may lie to you about their marital status (“no, I’m not married”), only for you to find out later that they are, whereas an act of omission means they never tell you their marriage status in the first place.

Harris takes a conservative approach to lying and veers on the side of honesty as much as possible with some exceptions (because who wants to sound like one of those annoying and brutally honest four year olds who often blurt out ‘you are fat/ugly/stupid/bad at Connect Four’ etc.).

He argues that: “by lying, we deny our friends [family, lovers] access to reality—and their resulting ignorance often harms them in ways we did not anticipate. Our friends may act on our falsehoods, or fail to solve problems that could have been solved only on the basis of good information. Rather often, to lie is to infringe upon the freedom of those we care about.”

In my own case, when a male friend (and potential romantic interest) omitted the tiny fact that he is married and had recently became the father to a new born baby because he wanted to get laid, I was livid. Then, when I calmed down, I realized the way in which I had cooperated in this façade. Over the course of several months of correspondence, I had asked questions, had some suspicions and intuitions but stopped short of probing further, even though my instincts told me I should. There was something for me to gain by being naïve, an attempt to bridge the gap…my access to reality had been denied by his omissions, yet it was partly my own fault.

To revisit Amy Bloom: “The meaningful lie, the kind that involves being untruthful or deceitful about important stuff to those you love, is like poison. Telling the truth hurts, but it doesn’t kill. Lying kills love.”

The Case for Falling in Love?

Photo by Gabriela Camerotti

Anybody who has ever suffered and endured the pain of a broken heart inevitably feels a sense of a failure, regardless of their role as heart breaker or heart breakee (although it is never quite that black and white).

Trying to find meaning in my latest romantic “failure” and feeling very much overcome by the F word, my good friend led me to Harvard-trained academic Mari Ruti’s anti-self-help self-help book, The Case for Falling in Love.

This woman urges a different perspective on the messy enterprise of love: “As long as we believe that the goal of love is to make us happy, we see romantic ruptures and disappointments as mistakes; we see love’s missteps as deviations from its ‘proper’ course. In contrast, when we admit that love’s mission might be to mold our destiny, we are able to view its misfortunes as an important part of the process.” Ahhhhh.

According to Ms. Ruti, life events, such as heartbreak, can accelerate our development, propelling us from one stage of life to the next and open us up to new possibilities.

Her overarching theme is that suffering, and suffering caused by ‘failed’ love is ultimately beneficial: “Suffering cuts through layers of redundancy. It strikes at the very heart of being, releasing our spirit from its cage. In this sense, moments when things don’t work out well for us are rife with opportunity; they are openings to transformative energies that, in the long run, revitalize our lives.”

She contends that once we are ready to get back on our feet after licking our wounds, our heart and soul rebuilt, albeit haphazardly and askew, we are better people for it – more thoughtful and compassionate.

There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in (Leonard Cohen)

And how do we get back up on our feet? Although we lose the person, we can steal qualities from our lovers – emotional tonalities that help us grow and become part of our psyche. The intertwining of the psychic and social renders us psychologically agile but also vulnerable. Like it or not, our lover gets under our skin and stays there.

Healing occurs as we undertake the journey to reconfigure our identity. Although the relationship is broken, we can take on the potentialities that were present in the relationship and nourish them. In Ms. Ruti’s words: “It’s only when we learn to thrive beyond the confines of that relationship that it’s safe for us to finally let go of it.”

Ultimately, she concedes, we must learn to tolerate the gray murkiness of love by being resilient and resourceful. “This is where the battle should be waged: Not between you and your lover, but within your own being.”

Easier said than done, right? Transforming meaningless suffering into emotional and psychological growth is an arduous path. In the early stages of grieving and mourning, it doesn’t help to think your way out of heartache. You can rationalize ‘til the cows come home, but it won’t make things any clearer or easier. After all, the heart wants what it wants. But, as we have seen, in time, we must ultimately learn, grow and march forth with scars where the wounds used to be to meet our destiny.