I’ve been lying a lot recently. Not because I necessarily want to, or even because I necessarily need to, but because it’s simply just…easier. It’s easier to make it seem like my life has gone in a different direction than it has, because then I don’t have to break my heart again with the reality of it all.
And you can call me weak for doing so, or accuse me of giving too much of a shit about what others think. Hell, go right ahead.
But I just wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable look of pity to flash across my peripheral. To suddenly turn embarrassed and red, wondering if that person secretly thinks I’m broken or damaged.
So, instead, when this really nice woman I met the other day asked me what my parents were up to, since both my sister and I are abroad, I said they were traveling. Lie number one. Living their best lives, as they had always dreamed of. Lie number 2. And when I went on a date a couple of weeks ago, I told the guy they were probably busy on the tennis court or the golf course. Lie number three.
They didn’t need to know I haven’t heard my father’s voice in nearly 2,400 days. Or that the last time I saw him, he was wearing so much makeup, he looked like a wax statue. They didn’t need to know I’ve fallen apart more times than I can count or how many pieces of myself I have had to pick up off the bathroom floor.
You would think that after six years, I wouldn’t still struggle to tell people my father passed away. And yet, I do. And it isn’t because I haven’t accepted it. Believe me, I have ridden in the rodeo long enough to know that tears can’t resurrect the dead.
It’s just that admitting he’s gone means opening myself up to others in ways that leave me vulnerable and often unprotected. It’s as if I am stripping myself naked for the world to see and assess all my jagged pieces and scars.
I lied to keep myself safe.
And I don’t regret it for a single second.
Because it meant I got to keep him alive, even if for a moment. I got to picture him and my mother laughing and smiling together, experiencing the future they should have had.
What a gift that was.
I just wish it could’ve been real…
Ultimately, I hate that I am still ashamed of what has happened to my family and I. And that his decision still leaves me reeling with humiliation and shame.
But I think that’s just grief, unfortunately. No matter how healed you think you are, you will never be fully put back together. That’s just how it is, unfortunately.
As always, I am sending all my love to whoever needs it. Together, we will get through the big moments, the little moments, and the shitty moments with strength and resiliency. You got this💜
We Got This 