What is my problem?

Sometimes I'm just a bumbling ol' idiot. I let thoughts escape through that rusty-hinged trap door that sometimes just shouldn't open. Especially not when certain people can see these verities, consume them, and properly digest them. Now I've gotten myself dug into a nice little hole, and it's all of my own doing. The shovel was mine; I executed this social suicide thoroughly and neatly. I cannot accost anyone else for my own actions; I must own up to the truth. And the truth is what got me here in the first place. Thus I have come to this realization: maybe truth isn't so honorable. Maybe it shouldn't be revered or cast in a light that makes it seem like exposing my lies, or things unrevealed otherwise, is the right thing to do. Truth is an option, but so is protection, survival. And I am a beast. I must bite through this flesh to stay alive. I must live for the lies.