Why we should all lie more often

There was a time when I was a world-class Olympic gold-worthy liar. In my teens I told lies to my parents and teachers almost daily.

No, that lighter in my pocket wasn’t a sign that I smoked. No, that boy you just found in my room wasn’t my boyfriend, he was my boyfriend’s boyfriend, crying on my shoulder over their breakup.

No, those missing slices of bread from the still-closed loaf in the kitchen had nothing to do with me and certainly not a sign that I had broken the diet you put on me.

I had mixed success with these lies, but I practiced and got better.

I successfully impersonated a gay friend’s fiancé at his boss’s daughter’s wedding; I pretended to be another friend’s existing, long-term girlfriend when we went to visit his grandparents at their nursing home.

I was so good at pretending to be sick to get out of college tutoring that I would actually make myself sick (which was effective, but kind of self-defeating). I also kept lying to my parents about everything – from boyfriends to drug use, even down to what I weighed.

But as I got older and stronger, I slowly realized that I could actually battle it out with the truth, that I didn’t have to hide who I was.

These days – known ironically for my transparency and for being a bad liar – I look back and am ashamed of how much I lied. After all, as children, we are taught that lying is undeniably bad.

However, according to a new book that explores the fascinating world of lying, I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.

Author Kathleen Wyatt believes that certain lies have the power to do good, that they “bind families, communities, and society together,” and are a “vital social glue.” She points out that people often tell lies out of self-protection.

This is true from adolescence. Lying was a self-defense mechanism; both for keeping the peace of mind of my parents and teachers and for protecting myself.

However, she agrees that we don’t like to think of ourselves as liars – even if we lie several times a day. If I asked you if you’re a liar, for example, you’d probably be shocked.

But if I were to ask you how many lies you’ve told in the past three days, I guarantee they’ll be in the double digits. From saying, “That’s okay,” when someone steps on your toe on the bus, to telling your co-worker that, yes, her mullet haircut suits her.

Author Kathleen Wyatt believes that certain lies have the power to do good, that they “bind families, communities, and society together,” and are a “vital social glue.” Stock image used

In the case of Kathleen Wyatt, lying may have had a direct impact on her life. In January 1994, as a 20-year-old college student, she suffered a heart attack at a bus stop

Yet the perception of lying – being a liar – still lingers. In parliaments around the world you are not allowed to call anyone a ‘liar’, so toxic is the association of it.

As Kathleen Wyatt says, “What I found over and over again was that when I asked people about lies, they flinched. But when I called them “cheating” everyone was suddenly happy to talk and admit. They discussed them as if they were discussing necessary weaknesses.”

So what is a lie and what is a lie? Lying is often defined as “the deliberate assertion of what the liar perceives to be false, with the intent to create a false belief in others.” But so are lies; it is only the purity or impurity of the intention that differs i.e. you lie with bad intentions and lie with good ones.

As Kathleen points out, lying is ingrained in society – backed up by the fact that there are 64 words for lies and really only one for truth. White lies and deceit fall into the pale gray area, alongside words like embroidery, exaggeration, and “gilding.”

Kathleen is convinced that lying is essential to good human interaction: that we lie not only to cover our own backs, but also to protect others and sometimes just to lubricate the day-to-day. She even goes so far as to call it a superpower. “I’m sorry I was late, I got stuck in traffic” might be a lie, but it’s kinder than “I don’t think you’re important enough to prioritize me leaving on time.”

Then there’s the friend who remembered, “I told an unashamed lie to my very old, very clumsy parents that, no, my mom didn’t have cancer, that the tests had come back clear.” I felt terrible about it for a second, but it would have put a strain on their last few months together.

As it was, she was put on wonderful pain meds and palliative care and passed away very peacefully from what we and the doctors believed to be my father’s “natural causes.” Soon after, he died in his sleep. I’m glad I lied.”

Especially with young children, the gentle lie is a staple of parenting: yes, their painting is fantastic; yes, they did brilliantly in the nativity play. These lies build their confidence and reassure them that they fit in well in a largely benign world.

In the case of Kathleen Wyatt, lying may have had a direct impact on her life. In January 1994, as a 20-year-old college student, she suffered a heart attack at a bus stop.

She was in a coma for several days. Her friends were unsure whether to tell her parents that Kathleen had used Class A drugs at a New Year’s Eve party ten days earlier.

They decided to lie to her parents, to spare them the pain, but to tell the doctors the truth. By doing so, they informed the doctors’ treatment decisions and may have saved her life.

But they openly admit that it was only because Kathleen was over 18 and that doctors would therefore be bound by patient confidentiality. In other words, the fact that they could lie enabled them to tell the truth.

Ironically, one of the simplest lies I’ve ever told had the most lasting impact. It was the one to my mom about scoring the slices of bread. Such a minor offense but the lies I repeated about how it wasn’t me meant she never trusted me again. Instead, she worked harder to keep me straight and narrow on the diet.

And while I felt increasingly miserable about this (and fat), I never forgave her for being the kind of mom who counted the slices of bread in a loaf in the first place.

So beware of the lies masquerading as petty deceptions: they may come back to haunt you.

• THE social superpower: the big truth about little lies, by Kathleen Wyatt (£18.99 from Biteback Publishing, or £7.95 on Amazon).