Yes, in fact, I am a Phony
It’s a hard pill to swallow, but the old friend who called me a phony? She had it exactly right.
I recently reached out to an old friend, someone I’ve known since high school. She’s angry at me, and as it sometimes goes with old friends, I’m not exactly sure why. There was a waylaid invitation to a party that she never received. A late reply to a text that I received from her on the day of my grandson’s graduation from kindergarten (yeah, that’s how old I am, so that makes her a really old friend, at least in terms of the number of years we’ve known each other). I took at least a week to reply.
As a result, my failure to be as responsive or responsible as she would like for me to be has resulted in over eighteen months of no real contact between the two of us. I’ve attempted to make contact by text a couple of times, knowing that a call wouldn’t be answered. She’s chosen not to respond (just like I did in June last year). And let me say this right now — she’s entitled to be pissed off at me. I haven’t been a particularly good friend.
But a couple of weeks ago, there was a serious illness and hospitalization in her family and I reached out by text to say that I was thinking about her and hoping for the best. My concern was genuine. I didn’t want the person who was ill to get worse worse. I didn’t know if she cared whether I was thinking of her, but I knew I had to say it.
There was no response. For at a week. And then this, at 3:25 a.m. one Monday morning:
“You only texted me so that you could say you did. You PHONY.”
Lest you start thinking this sounds like a high school fight in our fifties, let me be honest here. I am a phony. Or at least I certainly was in that moment.
I am a phony on a lot of levels. I’m not phony in that I was thinking about her and hoping things went well. But I was a phony in that at the moment I sent the text, I wasn’t being completely authentic. I wasn’t dying to let her know that I was thinking of her.
Instead I was fulfilling an old set of expectations created by my parents, especially my mother who is the kindest, most generous woman on the planet. I was reaching out because it was expected of me. Because when someone’s sick, you go to the hospital and take a gift. Except that now we can’t take gifts or go to the hospital, so a text was what I offered.
I think that qualifies as phony. The definition of phony is “not genuine; bogus; false; fake. . .” and a lot of other unsavory words. Not genuine is the form of phony I was most guilty of that day. My words were not false, but my heart wasn’t completely in it. I wasn’t totally authentic.
We talk about authenticity today as though it’s the highest of all virtues. If you search the word “authentic” on Amazon in the books section, the results are endless. It’s been a catchword for at least a decade. And then there’s authenticity. Fearless Authenticity. The Ethics of Authenticity. Claiming your Authenticity.
We’re so bent on being authentic that we forget the truth. On occasion, we’re just phonies.
And let me tell you, it’s not all bad. Sometimes being a phony serves a real purpose. It gets you moving toward something better.
I was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer eight years ago. Every day after that trip to the ER, I received calls and cards and gifts from folks who said they loved and cared about me. I was overwhelmed with the generosity of these people, particularly the spirit of thought and care they gave me. I felt like the center of their universe. I needed their thoughts and prayers. I covered myself up with the blankets they sent, both the literal and the metaphoric.
Later after I recovered, after the treatments and surgery, I heard from a few of those friends who said, “I was scared to death to reach out. It was so freaky for you to be sick. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if you would want to hear from me. I just felt like I had to do it.”
In other words, their communication with me could be seen as phony. Were they being authentic? Did they tell me they were scared at the time? Did they sound anything other than assured that I wanted to hear from them? No. In their own ways, they were being phony. They were doing what was expected of them.
I’ve written a book entitled “Lifesaving Gratitude” that will be published in January 2021. I talk about my daily gratitude practice a lot. I strongly believe it was a big piece of what got me well.
But did I feel grateful every day? Did I feel grateful half of the time? Did I feel truly grateful even one-tenth of the time?
No. When I was sick, I mostly felt like shit. Scared. Ugly. Worn Out. Full of Dread. Scared again. Ungracious. And Ungrateful.
I faked it anyway. I was a total phony. I wrote down things I was grateful for, like my kids and my clients who kept me afloat and my sweet Santa Fe adobe home and the light on the aspens. I also said my Ambien prescription, about which I wasn’t phony. I was authentically grateful for Ambien.
Everything else about my life? Not so much.
So yes, I was a phony then.
I’m still a bit of a phony. I do a lot of things I’m not 100% authentic about. I’m not thrilled to wear a mask to the grocery store. I’m not excited to spend yet another month shut down (New Mexico is VERY conservative when it comes to fighting COVID). I’m sick of trying to write, write, write every single damn day. I finished my book during the shutdown and some days all I wanted to do was watch Netflix. Now that would have been being authentic!
But here’s the thing about being a phony. Mostly phoniness is about just needing to begin and then letting the “authenticity” or whatever you want to call it take over. Almost every endeavor we begin is started with incomplete motivation and authenticity.
Every sick day, I stared down that red notebook where I had promised to write at least one thing I was grateful for. My gratitude practice began with less enthusiasm that I was likely to admit to anyone other than myself. Those smiles I gave my oncologist were probably at least fifty percent phony. My positive attitude at the Cancer Center? Totally phony.
In going back through the CaringBridge posts I wrote when I was getting treatment, I found that I was the epitome of phony. I wrote good cheer and optimism until I felt like gagging.
But here’s what I know now about being a phony. Sometimes it’s the only defense you have against despair. Sometimes you simply have to begin with phony and get to your okay authentic self. Because it’s not a crime if you’re just okay today instead of perfect (and don’t even get me started on the insincere part of social media — I’m the queen of being phony there).
I was initially sorry that my good friend (more important than saying she’s old) thought I was a phony. I want everyone to think I’m my mother’s child, that I’m generous and kind every single minute of every day. My mantra is that I want to be the answer to someone’s prayer every day. Sickening, right?
But now I appreciate her calling me on it. I don’t know that our friendship will be repaired. It will make me sad if it isn’t, but I also know her well enough to know that she will call me when she’s ready to talk, even if it’s only to shout in my ear. She won’t be a phony.
My best advice today (for myself at least) is to accept that sometimes you’re a phony. Sometimes phony is the best thing you’ve got at the moment. If you have to be phony to be kind, to extend condolences, to extend yourself, try some phoniness. The old adage “Fake it until you make it,” is only a cliche because it’s mostly true.
If I can’t start at phony rather than waiting on the Most Authentic and Amazing Me, I’m likely to stay in bed most days. And that will never work.
Go for phony. If you get called on it, admit it. Just know that phoniness is hardly ever malicious. It’s frequently just the first step to a better you.
