healing, Jen Pastiloff, Jen's Musings, Truth

Promises & Lies.

January 8, 2013
beauty-hunting-jen-logo-blackBy Jen Pastiloff.

Promise. The word itself is sleazy. Hard at first, then sizzling out at the end like something that can’t last. A snake. A word that can’t get up off the ground.

You promised though.

You promised.

I promise you.

We promise.

I promise. 

Hsssssssss. Promisssssse.

**

In 1983 we lived in Pennsauken, New Jersey, after having moved from Philadelphia a couple years earlier. Across the street from our house was a little store called Kirk’s Newsroom. The store itself a tiny animal, nestled next to an appliance repair shop and a Jersey highway called Route 38.

There was nothing pretty about it. We bought American cheese there, thinly sliced, and egg nog in December. Kools for my dad, Almond Joys, sometimes a newspaper. I played PacMan in the back in the dark little room where there were two video games shoved against a wall.

We had a “house account” at Kirk’s Newsroom. My dad would send me across the street to get him a hard pack of Kools, cheese, and half-n-half. I don’t remember what Kirk looked like besides having a mustache and a thin face, he was always behind the counter. Put it on my dad’s account I’d say like a lady to the mustache behind the counter. And can I get a hard pack of Kools?

I think about that now and how a child could never walk into a store and get a pack of cigarettes and also, do house accounts even exist anymore? It was the early 80’s however and most things were possible until they weren’t.

I hated that store. It felt dirty and old and every time I was sent there to retrieve things I’d felt as if I was being delivered into the arms of a rat. Go, my child! Go straight into the den of vermin! Be gone now! Come back with cigarettes and cheese. Don’t let the snakes eat you!

Kirk was nice enough, I guess. He’d leave egg nog on our doorstep around the holidays. We’d wake up and a frozen carton would be there waiting for us or we’d open the door and step on it, not knowing it had been there. Either way, I hated the place like I knew it would kill us in the end.

And it did.

I’d flushed a pack down the toilet because I’d been so angry that he’d promised to quit smoking and hadn’t. He’d promised! I was ballsy and triumphant at 8 years old. I’ll show him! Flush.

He smoked 4 packs of menthol cigarettes a day. Now that so much time has passed, I often wondered what has turned to myth, as so much does, but, nonetheless, he chain-smoked a shitload of very-bad-for-you cigarettes daily. He was not happy with the flushing incident, he did not think it was cute. You are being bad and making me not feel good. Now, please go get me a pack of cigarettes across the street.

Did he really say that?

You’re asking me? As if. As if our minds can be relied upon. As if history doesn’t fold in upon itself and change over time. As if our memories are safe. As if Time hasn’t ravished them and then polished them before putting them back into the wrong compartment.

You always break your promises! I hate you.

The end.

He died that night, and yes, that was the last thing I ever said to him. I. Hate. You.

Things and people I have tried to blame it on: Kirk: the bastard who sold cigarettes and newspapers. Myself: I killed him with my words. I was bad and made him not feel good. Speed: his heart, his poor heart racing to keep up, a fist in his chest, pumping five times faster. Downers: the confusion his heart must have felt daily, up and down, up and down. My mother: why couldn’t she save him? God: God hated me and this was proof. The woman he’d had an affair with: if he’d never met her this would never have happened. Promises: if he’d never promised to quit smoking, I would never have told him I hated him and the night would have played out differently. He would not die. I would not walk 17 times around the block in an effort to not cry. We would not pick up and move to California. We would be safe.

Fucking promises.

There is a promise when a baby comes into the world as you hold them for the first time. I will care for you. I will be here. You are safe. We are safe. But how can you know that?

How dare you promise anything?

 

When I lived in NYC I used to promise myself nightly that if I didn’t die during the night I would stop abusing laxatives. I didn’t die and I would do it the next night and the next and the next in my little single apartment owned by NYU Housing. I would take 10 laxative tea bags and put them in a few ounces of water until it was  brown sludge. Sometime in the middle of the night as my eyes were wildly dilated from the diet pills I was taking, my stomach would begin to gurgle and I would rush to the bathroom and pray Don’t let me die.

I couldn’t even keep a promise to myself.

I promise I will do better.

Can you remember all the promises you’ve made to yourself? I can’t.

What is a promise called when you don’t really mean it? When you just say it to get you to the next tier? Is it a lie?

I lied to myself over and over.

Maybe you’re cringing or maybe you pity me. Maybe you don’t care at all since promises to ourselves are the worst kinds of promises because no one is holding us accountable. Or perhaps you’d pick up your own coffee cup, the one right after you’ve sworn off coffee, and nod with I promise I will do better before you put it back down and go off to brew another pot. The newer lies I tell myself stacked on top of the old ones all along the edges of my life in places nobody would care to look. All the years I lied to myself about not wanting to be a writer. The lies I told myself about who I was. The lies themselves innumerable and ugly. What’s most scary about these lies we tell to ourselves is their proximity to the truth.

Such a strange sense of satisfaction being so close to the truth. Holding it in your hands like a thing with weight, until you realize that lies are slippery and wet, unholdable at best, and that they have no weight. They carry nothing but themselves.

They will not carry you.

I couldn’t keep up with the promises I told myself.

Every year that I stayed at my waitressing job was another year I had promised and failed to: go back to school, to try and get acting work, to do something, to get out finally from waitressing, to make a change, to stop hating myself so much, to stop starving myself all day and only eating at night. There were so many promises, all as empty as I wanted to feel at night when I would lie in bed and make sure my ribs were protruding by pressing into them hard like something I wanted to make disappear.

I had lost faith in promises, their meanings slippery as the years I had stayed at the restaurant. All through my 20’s and I couldn’t tell you one year from the next until all of a sudden I was 30 and then 31 and then Oh My God, I promised myself I would be Something by now. I would be Somebody.

Who was I promising anyway? It sure wasn’t God. I’d mutter the promises to myself or write them down on random slips of paper and then scribble them out and throw them away so nobody would see. After my father died, I had decided that God hated me. I constantly searched for evidence of this. Bad things happen to me, I’d think. I walked around waiting for that fact to shake up my life, to turn up at a street corner and snatch me away.

Bad things happen to everyone sometimes.

That is what I now know. This too is innumerable and ugly, as so many things often are. But it is also a testament to life, one that we are born into whether we like it or not. As soon as we are held for the first time by our parents, as soon as they whisper into our new soft baby heads: I will care for you. I will be here. You are safe. We are safe.

Promises are tricky: when they break, when their shells crack and they fall all over the kitchen floor like a fallen glass, your heart goes along with it. Be careful when you pick up the glass to throw it away that you don’t throw a little bit of your heart away. It can happen like that. And then the digging and searching through garbage to find what remains.

I spent years digging through crap to find my missing parts.

Don’t make a promise you can’t, or (don’t intend to) keep. I say this to myself as well as to you. I write it here, and instead of secretly scribbling it out and crumpling it up so nobody can read it, I share it with you. Stop lying to myself I write, on my mirror in red lipstick. Don’t make promises to yourself that you know you won’t keep just so that you can  slump yourself on the floor validating how rotten you are and how bad you suck, yet again and yet again and yet again.

Don’t do it.

I always know when I am lying to myself, that’s the thing. Always. I always knew I wouldn’t stop taking the laxatives even as I promised that if I didn’t die on the toilet, I would never ever do it again. 

I knew I would do it again.

So, what is the point of the promises that know themselves so well, that know they are untrue things?

I think they actually think they are keeping us safe.

My father thought if he told me he’d promised to quit smoking he’d be safer than if he said I never want to stop. I love smoking. It makes me happy and I don’t want to quit now.

We all want to be safe.

If I didn’t tell myself all those lies I would have easily sank to the bottom of the ocean. By telling myself the lies, I became equipped with a temporary life jacket. I am safe in the world right now because starting tomorrow I will stop abusing myself. Starting tomorrow I will ______. Starting tomorrow I will not _______. 

Tomorrow would never come. I would carry on doing what I did until I finally did sink to the bottom of the ocean. I finally had my breakdown. There weren’t any more promises I could think of that hadn’t broken me.

I got up and took off the platform shoes I had been wearing for over ten years to pretend I was tall. I waitressed on concrete for over ten years in really really bad platform shoes. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and put on some nice supportive sneakers. It took a while to get used to my frame of reference being 5 inches shorter but I did it and when people balked at me You are a midget! I had no idea you were so short I just smiled and fought every urge that said Dig those shoes out of the trash and put them back on as soon as possible. 

I didn’t ever put the platforms back on.

Eventually I stopped taking the laxatives and abusing myself. Eventually, after over 13 years, I left the restaurant. Eventually I admitted that I did not want to be an actress.

It wasn’t because I promised myself. It was because I finally woke up one day and realized that lying was harder. That who I am was far more beautiful than who I was pretending to be or promising I would become. I woke up and said Enough. And then I said it over and over and over Enough Enough Enough.

I didn’t want any more promises or lies. I wanted what was rightfully mine, my birthright, as it were, and that was the knowledge that I was whole. That I wasn’t missing any parts.

It’s true that there are many things in life that are innumerable and ugly and inconceivable. But it is also true that what is on the other side is a whole world of glittering NOW.

There is nothing to promise NOW. You and I are here now. I am writing this now and you are reading this now and we are here and alive and what else could matter? What future based promise could possibly touch that irrevocable fact?

The Manifestation Workshop in Vancouver. Jan 17th. Book here. No yoga experience required. Only requirement is to  be a human being.

The Manifestation Workshop in Vancouver. Jan 17th. Book here. No yoga experience required. Only requirement is to be a human being.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being.

 

Join Jen Pastiloff, the founder of The Manifest-Station, in The Berkshires of Western Massachusetts in Feb of 2015 for a weekend on being human. It involves writing and some yoga. In a word: it's magical.

Join Jen Pastiloff, the founder of The Manifest-Station, in The Berkshires of Western Massachusetts in Feb of 2015 for a weekend on being human. It involves writing and some yoga. In a word: it’s magical.

 

 

Contact Rachel for health coaching, weight loss, strategies, recipes, detoxes, cleanses or help getting off sugar. Click here.

Contact Rachel for health coaching, weight loss, strategies, recipes, detoxes, cleanses or help getting off sugar. Click here.

You Might Also Like

20 Comments

  • Reply Sara January 8, 2013 at 2:25 pm

    Very Interesting. Here at my work, I fear the “P” word. It’s a bad word. I don’t promise anything to my customers because I have no control. And even if I did, could I really promise? I don’t think so.

  • Reply Lenora January 8, 2013 at 2:29 pm

    I so wish I could hold your hand, one day I know I will meet you, this I know for sure……xo

  • Reply jamesvincentknowles January 8, 2013 at 2:47 pm

    wow man, that’s fucking true love writing.

  • Reply OneHotMess January 8, 2013 at 2:55 pm

    Jen, is there a way to contact you?

  • Reply chissotti1012 January 8, 2013 at 4:59 pm

    Dearest Jennifer-I always promise I am going to leave a comment after reading your inspirational writings and then, I too lie to myself and don’t , but today I am capturing the moment, NOW-When I saw this, I couldn’t believe it, as my class today was about promises …How it is best to never make a promise …Yes, last Friday, while sitting in the cushy chair at my therapist office, I fell flat on my derrière , right in my ass, totally humbled and crushed and at the same time liberated-There I was sobbing, I sobbed the whole hour ,as my lies fell out my body, my heart, my soul, out my eyes into the ground. I was sharing with her an incident where a friend had last minute bailed on plans we had made.This friend was a guy, any way, the experience of him calling last minute after having made these plans three weeks earlier and just leaving me a message that he was no longer going to be able to keep his commitment, simply because he needed to ” tend to himself “, left me upset, angry and back to the endless times, my father had ” promised ” to be there and then wasn’t . I had to deal once again with that feeling of ” not being enough” , thoughts like, “If I mattered he would make it a priority ” , ” I always keep my word ” (often to the detriment of myself ) , so there I was sobbing that even though I knew it was not the same thing,my emotions reactions were still stuck in the expectations not met from the past-Ugh, really am I still dealing with the Sh*t ? When my therapist simply said ” I never make a promise, never . ” -Stunned, I looked at her as if the chair had been pulled out from underneath me , wait lets rewind …..what did she say ? ” Yes, I never make promises ” …again I was studdering in my mind again ” wh wh wh what ? “, all I could think of is my son , Moses, and I muttered ” not even to your children ? ” and she said ” especially not to your children” . In total shock she then says it ” I never make a promise, because I am not in control ” ” I never make a promise to my child, because I am not in control and if that does not happen, whatever that is, then the disappointment is terrible . ” That is right, to some degree we can control what we choose within the circumstance we are in , but we are not in control and so as you said , we make those promises , lying to ourselves to give ourselves a false sense if safety -So the real question and work is how can we feel safe in the knowledge that we are not in control and that we are really in the unknown ? Just today, I received such terrible news if an 8 year old boy, same age as my son , in our school community that just died of a heart attack ….So tragic, so horrible, one can really not understand why anyone should have to live through such pain and I think of all the promises that will never be-So the truth is Promises are a Lie -Wow, I still feel like I have been punched in the stomach at that harsh harsh truth. I have to reference one of my favorite books Shantaram ” sometimes all there is , is love and its duty and truth and its sorrow ” -No more promises just here writing this , letting you know how close I feel to you and all that you share, that your writings are endless inspiration and wonderful company to me -Thank You -ella*

    • Reply JenPastiloff January 8, 2013 at 5:13 pm

      that just made me tear up dear woman.

      • Reply cazaflows January 8, 2013 at 6:50 pm

        frig.
        So where does this leave ‘commitment’ ?

        • Reply JenPastiloff January 8, 2013 at 10:18 pm

          you made me think all night about this..

          I was speaking namely of promises that were NEVER intended to be kept, I think….

          Commitments are important.

          I am a language fanatic. I am a poet. there is something about the word promise itself, as I said in the opening that hooks me.

          But I love your bringing this up.

    • Reply zayewhat January 10, 2013 at 2:36 pm

      thank you chissotti1012 for sharing that, I have been in that same doctor’s office, trying to find the freedom that you expressed and failed, well, promised to find it and dig deeper and well…thanks really

  • Reply cazaflows January 8, 2013 at 6:40 pm

    “NOW” can always be trusted!
    I love it!

  • Reply summerteifi January 8, 2013 at 8:44 pm

    Wow. So so beautiful. Promises so often get thought of as those that we say to other people or other people says to us. But until reading this I had never thought of all the promises we make to ourselves…a what a truck load there can be. I feel like the lying to myself is a promise even if I never use that word, if that makes sense. I feel like promises can take lots of different disguises – wear different jackets – without actually being the word Promise. I really really connected with all those times your promised to yourself that you would stop laxatives and then the next day came and it happened again – it took me back to the years of such intense, hideous and painful turmoil of binging, laxatives and the rest. It isn’t that far away but it’s far away to realise that even when I was saying the words ‘i won’t do this tomorrow, I WON’T, things will be different, I’ll sort myself out’, without necessarily saying the word promise, it still was a promise to my soul, because we have been trained from such early on what kind of many jackets a promise wears.
    This also made me see for me that all my hidden promises to myself at the moment are more in the form of my thoughts and mind set – any worrying and anxiety and trauma stuff that I’m holding at the moment, becomes a project to overcome and battle with – but what about forgetting all those promises of doing my bloody best and seeing that in the NOW I am doing my best – we all are, always – so pipe down and give yourself a break because you are doing so bloody well. We all are.
    I really do believe that promises, as much as they become something that is fuel for self sabbotage when we don’t follow through (Hoorah! a reason to give ourselves a hard time), they are also very much an act of love for ourselves – we love ourselves, we want ourselves to thrive and do our best and live up to all that we can be, etc etc, so we’ll promise ourselves all these things…but what if actually we are always doing our best and by just living in the now and going with what is, that is the ultimate gift we can give ourselves? My heart sung when I read the NOW bit at the end – I really needed that. Thank you.
    Your writing touched me so much beautiful woman. It’s so inspiring to read the way you share your story and empowers me to know its safe, and flippin’ great, for me to share mine. So thank you.
    You shine. X

    • Reply Sarah December 6, 2014 at 11:31 am

      Love this!! We are definitely not in charge, such a valuable realization… It is a huge relief if you ask me… How do you feel 11 months after this experience?

  • Reply Joyce January 8, 2013 at 9:43 pm

    Here is my hand, reach for it, hold it

  • Reply Joyce January 8, 2013 at 9:45 pm

    Here I am hold my hand. Much love, thank you

  • Reply barbarapotter January 8, 2013 at 11:00 pm

    Wow so inspiring. Never looked at it that way but it really rings a true bell. Love this writing keep sharing. Love you.

  • Reply Lydia - El Pynchon January 10, 2013 at 4:40 pm

    Love you, Jen – this is amazing.

  • Reply Rachel Pastiloff January 10, 2013 at 6:17 pm

    I live a life full of breaking promises to myself. It is so boring I am working on a shift in that area!

  • Reply Barbara Potter December 5, 2014 at 11:39 am

    Thanks for sharing again.

  • Reply Sarah December 6, 2014 at 11:28 am

    Beauty found here! Above in your writing… You found it, sought it out, wrestled with it and shared it perfectly. Perfect is another word like promise that may as well be 4 letters, however, I see perfection often!!! Beyond the illusion, within the illusion, before and after, above and below, amidst order and apparent chaos… Perfection exists, Dare I promise? I may promise because, who am I , but my own master… I do believe in perfect order. Thank G*D for that…
    p.s. Thank you so much for sharing your gift, shining your light, and awakening others through your humor and experiences. Namaste and Shabbat Shalom

  • Leave a Reply

    This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

    %d bloggers like this: