I lied to my doctor

Hello Courageous Thrivers,

I lied to my doctor.

Why am I telling you this?

First, because shame doesn’t like exposure—and lying is not something I ever feel proud of. So I told my husband right away. Now you. Shame revealed is shame with less power.

Second, I think my lie is a lovely example of how trauma responses live deep, deep within our nervous systems—and how we act from them so quickly and so unconsciously, often against our own best interest (which was the case here) and/or in ways that cause harm to others (as is the case when police react to Black bodies from a place of fear and with violence that is unwarranted in the actual circumstance).

In my experience, more often than not, trauma responses lead us to act in ways that conflict with consciously held beliefs and values.

That’s why we need to take the moral judgment out of our evaluations of these kinds of actions. Recognize the harm done and seek repair—absolutely. But let go of the judgment—of ourselves and others.

This reflection is one step I’m taking to follow that path. I hope it helps you do the same. Because we’ve got a whole lot of people acting from their trauma and pain right now.

I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for a world in which the majority of us are acting from a place of compassion and courage. We’ve got a lot of practicing to do to get there.

With that desire pulling me forward, I return to the story of When Debbie Lied to Her Doctor:

It all started on Zoom, as most things do. It was a chilly January day and I had a virtual appointment with a new doctor. I’d made the appointment primarily to get a refill on my thyroid medication after having procrastinated for months.

“You’re not going to like this,” I said, “but I’ve been taking half a dose since about September.”

He didn’t scold me at all, just asked why. He was friendly, warm, and supportive—as he had been from the start of the appointment. He even acted as if I might know something about my own body (which I don’t always experience with doctors).

“Have you been consistently taking half, or have you sometimes taken a whole dose?” he asked.

Uh oh. I had taken a full dose just the day before. I’d been feeling sluggish, and I knew I had a doctor’s appointment and could soon get a refill, so I figured I didn’t need to keep rationing what I had left.

“No,” I said. “I’ve only been taking half.”

Wait. WHAAAAATTTT? Why? Why did I just lie?

“Seriously?” Part of me thought, “What is wrong with you?”

As this conversation started inside my head, I began to disconnect. It wasn’t long before I felt as if I was watching the conversation from a distance—dissociated, not fully present.

“That’s good,” the doctor said (i.e., it’s good that I’d been consistently taking a half-dosage for the past four weeks—which, as you know, isn’t true because I’d taken a whole dose the day before). “Because then we will get a good read on whether you’re at the right level.”

He told me to keep taking just half a pill and scheduled bloodwork to see if the half-dosage was enough.

I still didn’t tell him that I’d lied. I was too afraid.

Remember I said he was really, really nice? Really friendly? Really supportive?

There was no logical reason for my fear.
Except that there was.

Like many of you, I was socialized to find safety in being a good girl. I am skilled at detecting what other people want and seeking to provide it—whether or not it’s explicitly stated. His question triggered my good girl radar.

“Oh no, changing my dosage is wrong! Must not admit to being wrong. Danger. Danger.”

I’ve done “good girl” well. And when I haven’t, it was devastating to me.

• I cried when I got my first B+ in school (in penmanship—seriously? Is that a fair subject to grade?)

• As the military version of a crossing guard (Junior Military Police, or Junior MP for short), I once stood in the pouring rain without a raincoat because when I went to grab my official Jr. MP crossing guard raincoat, I found the room filled with other Junior MPs for our weekly meeting—which I’d forgotten to attend.

• When I got my first UTI at about age 20 because I’d been fooling around with my boyfriend (mind you, not even actually experiencing penetration), I lied to that doctor too. “Oh no, I was not having sex. Oh my, no. Certainly not.”
  “Walking around in a wet bathing suit then?”
  “Yes,” I said. “That must be it. Yes.”

And here I was again, in my 50s, having gotten a Ph.D. and done more self-development work in a year than most people do in a lifetime. I’d helped lots of other people—mostly women—claim their power and speak their truth.

And still, I lied to my doctor before I even knew what was happening.
Because I wanted him to see me as good.

That’s what my nervous system is used to doing to stay safe—being (or at least appearing to be) compliant with the person in authority.

Maybe it’s because I had ancestors who were healers who got called witches—or lived in fear of being called witches and getting tormented or killed as a result. Or maybe my ancestors looked on as their friends were tormented and killed for the “crime” of being women who had healing powers (even if it was just through their knowledge of herbs).

Maybe it’s just my cultural, religious, and familial conditioning.

It doesn’t really matter.

What matters—for me and for you—is that we don’t continue the cycle of shame and punishment by shaming and punishing ourselves when our good girl impulses cause us to act in ways that don’t line up with who we want to be, what we value, or how we want to live in the world.

My nervous system is not bad. But it definitely needs some updating. Because this pattern of compliance isn’t helping me to thrive. Nor does it support me in taking courageous action for a more just world—both of which are needed right now.

I’m helping it to update by:

• telling you what I did, not staying in shame and embarrassment

• doing breathwork and shaking and other practices that help my body process and release habits that aren’t helpful anymore

• practicing self-compassion—both the softer versions (like speaking kindly to myself) and the fierce ones (like setting boundaries and refusing to continue to be underpaid in the name of being nice)

• strengthening and deepening community connections, especially with others who are committed to compassion and courage

• working with healing artists, coaches, and therapists who support my body/mind/soul in letting go of long-held patterns

What about you? Do you struggle with good girl/boy/person tendencies?

Are you finding new ways forward? Are you feeling stuck?

Do you have questions for me about how to start shifting these patterns?

Hit reply. I’ll respond to you personally.

Here’s to thriving, and equity, and welcoming all our parts,
Deb

P.S. BTW, did you create a picture in your head of a White man as I wrote the above? Just notice if that’s what your brain did. Because this doctor wasn’t a White guy. But more than likely, if you’re reading this, your brain has come to associate “doctor” with “White guy” unless you’re told otherwise—even if you live in a melanated body. Doesn’t make you a bad person. It does mean you have a bias, and you’ll need to work to notice it and make sure you don’t act from that place of bias in ways that do harm to yourself or others.

If you want to learn more about how trauma shows up in police bodies and nervous systems, please, please read My Grandmother’s Hands or otherwise connect with Resmaa Menakem’s work.