The Little Book of Big Lies

I said yes, but I was just being nice.

THE WINDOWS WERE FOGGY AND THE AIR JUST CHILLY enough to add to the excitement of having Jackson’s tongue in my mouth and his hands trying to go where no man had gone before. I was sixteen, and Jackson was eighteen. A man. In the back seat of his green Taurus, I learned the truth that “I can’t” is a lie.

I liked Jackson—a lot. I had been talking my then-best-friend Joyce’s ear off for a year about all things Jackson: in hallways, between classes, “Joyce, look at the cool way he walks holding his head to one side!” In the schoolyard, “Joyce, Joyce, look at the way Jackson’s friends wait to see how he responds before they respond!” On the telephone, “Joyce, last night I was talking to Jackson under the covers so my parents wouldn’t know I was on the phone and we talked so long I fell asleep on him!”

I was destined to wind up in the back seat of Jackson’s car. I had yearned to be noticed by him since I had entered the school as a freshman . . . way too young then to be attractive to a junior. But as a sophomore, with my own standout style, things had changed. We were dating—holding hands, making excuses to get released from our classes at the same time under the guise of needing to go to the bathroom. Then we’d hook up for a quick kiss and frontal grind in the balcony of the empty student auditorium.

That night in his car, we both were prepared to go further. His magician hands were magically sending my turquoise bikini cuts to my knees. While we were kissing, he began to move oddly and grope for something other than me. When I heard a crackle and felt our lips disengage, I opened my eyes as his pearly teeth bit down on a foil package and with one tug ripped it open: a condom.

A condom. Of course, we needed a condom. How responsible of him. We had talked about having sex but had not talked about the particulars. Suddenly, in the reality of the moment, everything stopped. For the first time in more than a year of being obsessed about being Jackson’s girlfriend, something inside me went very quiet.

In my mind, underneath the incessant obsession with Jackson were pictures and questions I had not seen or considered. We were about to cross an important line. Inwardly, I assessed the situation. Jackson felt me disengage and asked, “What’s wrong?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what was wrong. But something was indeed bothering me. “Come on,” he said. I looked at him, and to my surprise I said, “I can’t.” His brow furrowed. He did not expect this. I did not expect this! Again, he asked, “What’s wrong?” Shaking my head, becoming more and more disengaged, I replied: “There’s nothing wrong. I like you. I just can’t. I’m not ready. I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t expecting his next question, “What are you afraid of?” but a part of me was ready with an answer. From deep within, a volcano of worry erupted: “I’m afraid maybe I don’t love you, maybe I just like you a whole bunch . . . that this car is not where I want to make love for the first time . . . what if that condom breaks . . . I certainly wouldn’t be happy with the consequences . . . I’m so happy you have the condom . . . I appreciate it . . . but it also reminds me that I don’t know you . . . I’m too young to get pregnant . . . I’m afraid of ruining my life!” All this worry flowed like hot lava into the car, making us both uncomfortable.

My “I can’t” wasn’t a “real” I can’t—that is, of course I could have sex. My aroused body was proof that I was physically able. But I was afraid. “I can’t” in that moment wasn’t about ability; it was about choices. It was suddenly about what I was choosing for my life, and what I wanted. I did not want to get pregnant, and even the slightest risk created a definite “no” to sex.

Jackson listened. He too was becoming less engaged, but he had not yet written off receiving the fruits he expected after five months of heavy petting. He leaned in to me and whispered: “You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going to get you pregnant. I can pull out at the end if you want me to, and that way you’ll be safe for sure.” I looked in his eyes. I liked him. But as I looked into his eyes, I couldn’t see us together in the future.

I searched my mind for any evidence of him in my life. But he was not there. When I looked beyond him into my future, I was surrounded by books, with no Jackson. I looked for our children in my mind’s eye. They were not there. Jackson was not in my future, yet here I was in the back seat of his car about to share one of life’s best memories with him.

I am not a tease. I don’t know why I hadn’t taken a few moments for this sober look at my life before getting Jackson, and myself, all worked up. But there I was. The only thing I could think to say was, “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Hurt, he bit back, “You can, you just don’t want to.”

Wow. He was right. Inside of me things became quieter and clearer. My “I can’t” was not the truth. The truth was I thought I wanted to, but now I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to continue down that path. I didn’t want sex with Jackson. I liked petting. It was safe. With petting I didn’t have to think about my future. But when my future and my dreams were added to the picture, no, I didn’t want to have sex with Jackson.

“Come on,” he tried with less commitment. And I said again, “I can’t.” This “I can’t” was strong without being mean. It was an “I can’t” that we both knew meant “I’m not going to.” My decision was made. (I was born under the astrological sign of Taurus, and they say people born under Taurus are stubborn. Without an effective argument that shifts my thinking, when I come to a decision, it is usually for good.) That last “I can’t”—the one that meant “I’m not going to”—meant that it was time for us to readjust our clothes and find a way to gracefully get out of the car and say goodbye.

The lesson I learned at the expense of Jackson’s sexual frustration: I can’t is a lie. The truth is “I don’t want to,” “I’m not going to,” “I can’t imagine that I can.”

On my road to inner fitness, this “I can’t” lesson has helped me find my way to deeper truths for more than three decades. It has helped me guide clients to their deeper truths. When we don’t explore “I can’t,” we live on the surface of life without acknowledging, examining, and understanding our deeper feelings. This surface surfing overlooks the truth, and as the old saying goes, the truth sets us free.

* * *

When my client Jen was offered a promotion, her first response was, “I can’t.” This promotion was an acknowledgment of her leadership and the faith her bosses had in her ability to perform. Jen had worked fifty- and sixty-hour weeks. She had been a listening ear and surprising leader when, during a low point in company morale, she maintained an optimistic “We can get through this” attitude and delivered better-than-expected results. She deserved the promotion.

But Jen explained she didn’t do what she did because she was trying to get promoted. The idea of the promotion made Jen despondent to the point of mild depression. She told me, “I can’t accept the promotion.” (Thank God she said this to me and not her boss.) Of course, I knew there was more to her “I can’t.” So, just like I did in the back seat of Jackson’s car, I walked with her through her “I can’t” statements to help her see the truth, as I had learned to do years earlier.

I started with a reality check. I asked whether she was physically or mentally impaired in a way that would make her unable to perform the tasks that went with the new job. She chuckled and said, “No,” and then soberly, “I just can’t take the job.”

I explained to Jen that “I can’t” would be accurate if we were talking about turning off a stove and she discovered that the knob was broken, or if she was in Hawaii and suddenly remembered that she had left the stove on in Los Angeles. Then “I can’t” makes sense. I reiterated that can’t implies physical inability. I asked, “What does ‘I can’t’ mean to you regarding this promotion?”

She just stared at me. I was sitting with Jen but seeing myself in the car with Jackson. I pressed and asked whether “I can’t” meant she didn’t want to—like it had for me. She shook her head no.

“So, you would like the promotion?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But I can’t take it.”

I have to admit my next question was tinged with exasperation: “What does that mean?” Her answer had even more exasperation in it than my question: “It means I’m afraid! I can’t imagine that I can do a good job!”

Eureka! There it was—her truth . . . not THE truth, but the truth of the limited way Jen saw herself. She saw herself as not capable. I knew that Jen had learned this from her mother, who had never applauded Jen’s outstanding accomplishments or congratulated her. Instead, Jen’s mother would say, “If your teachers really knew you, they would see you as a fraud.” So Jen came to see herself as a fraud, and as unworthy.

This was the distorted image Jen carried about herself. The truth we would discover, however, was much more exciting. But to get there, we first had to put her history and Self-doubt on the table—uncovered and naked for us both to see.

I was excited because I knew that Jen’s limited view of her Self was a habit handed to her by her mother, and it was fear—false evidence appearing real. I was confident that together we could navigate to the other side of her fear.

“I can’t” rarely means that we in fact are unable to do something. It is more often an emotional bypass—a way of getting around our feelings without having to actually feel them. “I can’t” is an easy way to place distance between us and our more vulnerable feelings and difficult choices. It is easier and more comfortable to say “I can’t” than “I’m afraid,” “I don’t want to,” “I don’t want to do what’s required,” “I don’t want the responsibility of this choice,” “This crosses my boundary,” “I don’t know how”—or as in Jen’s case, “I’m afraid that I’m not capable.”

Whenever we are stuck, a deeper truth is underneath our stopping point that needs to get out. When we take a moment to listen to our Self at a deeper level, we discover deeper truths. When we become aware of our deeper truths, we can consciously choose actions that either support them or override them.

Conscious choices are better choices, because we are aware we are choosing. Choice means we’ve opted to take one path over another. When we know we’re choosing, we can always decide to choose again. We can make a change. We can rethink, redirect, and rechoose. The ability and right to choose again and again belong to all of us, in every situation. Of course, making a new choice can be challenging. But we can do it.

I am sorry that Jackson probably remembers me as a tease; however, I am thrilled that I made a conscious choice about what I did not want for my life in the back seat of his car. Four years later, with the college freshman who became my first long-term relationship, I had sex for the first time. That night left me with a beautiful memory. It was full of love, openness, and mutual agreement.

Jen took the promotion, and then she earned yet another. She left her vague and scary “I can’t” in my office, much the way I had left mine in Jackson’s car. You can leave the lie of “I can’t” behind by getting clear about what your “I can’t” really means.

Inner Fitness Practice

The Big Lie

“I can’t.”

The Truth

“I can’t” is not a choice. It is a fussy avoidance of a deeper truth.

The Possibility

Inviting clarity by acknowledging where you are and your right to consciously choose the direction that is best for you.

Try This

Make a pact with your Self to listen for your “I can’t” statements. When you hear them, complete this sentence: If I tell myself the truth, this “I can’t” really means ____________ (fill in the blank).