Letter to a Liar

Dear you,
I have a nagging, horrible feeling that you lied to me, somewhere along the way. Maybe it’s my constant paranoia, but maybe it’s not.

It would be absolutely terrible if you had lied about that. What it was, when it happened, how it affected our relationship moving forward from me finding about that. The latter, if touched by any lie you told, would just make things… Wrong. I’d have to re-evaluate my feelings towards you, towards our previous (and dare I say, current) friendship, so here’s to hoping I never find out for sure whether you did or not.

I’m being elusive again, like I was in my last letter. It just means that yet again, I won’t reveal who this “you” is. The exact thing you might have lied about won’t be said either, because that’s too invasive, and barely anyone knew when you told me – though maybe a thousand different people know exactly what occurred that day, from your perspective.

It breaks my heart to know that I have so little faith in you now that I’d even consider that you lied – when we were close, or much closer than we are now, the thought of you lying about something so important to you and I was inconceivable. I scoffed at that idea, because I was absolutely certain you would always be honest: you’d tell me when I was awful; you’d let me know if something happened; you’d be the person I could rely on. For a time, you were that, like my own little light in the confusion that was my head, but you aren’t that now.

The reality is that I don’t trust you. I’m not sure when I stopped, and I could easily dive back into the well of trust that you and I once had, but that would hurt. When you’re not sure if the foundation of your friendship or feelings were based off lies, it’s difficult not to fall into a different kind of well entirely – one of endless worry. Luckily, I’ve not despaired so much as to be like that, yet, and I never want to get that low.

Some people say that I never should have trusted you in the first place, but I disagree. You were something special to me, that I’ve moved on from but still hurts in a little corner of my mind, and I can’t forget that. You brought me happiness and laughter, security and friendship before any pain. What you did wasn’t your fault, I know – and not mine, though I convince myself it is. Somehow.

I can’t talk about untruths, because I lied to you too. You may not know it – you may suspect – but I did, after it all. Never did I lie during our friendship, or whatever you want to call it. It was only after: after my morals twisted a little and I became even more suspicious of everything, that I told you things that weren’t the truth. Like a lot of liars, I did it to stop you hurting, to shield you and me from something – your anger, my hurt, my fucked up sense of what was right? I don’t know.

I wonder – did you do what I did? Perhaps I’ve overthought this, but let’s go with the idea that you lied: did you do it to save yourself, or to help me? I wish I’d known, and you’d known, that lying only brings complex tragedy. Wishing for changes in the past gets you nowhere: ultimately, we didn’t know and so the web of lies that I now can’t reveal to certain people for fear of fucking things up even more than I have has entangled me.

In a parody of thought, I’ll be honest with you. I miss you, but I miss the version of happiness we had. One that wasn’t tempered by cynicism and careful dancing over subjects that would reveal that I’d been dishonest, or you, or either of us; I don’t know what’s reality any more when it comes to what we had. That’s the thing: I could have avoided lying, and you could have too, if we weren’t so scared of the other’s reaction. Fuck knows if, and when, you lied but I know that I was so petrified and still am that if you find out the truth of what I did after things went to shit, you’d hate me and never speak to me again.

I’m done with lies, and secrets, and stupid amounts of care to get my words right in case I step over the line. If I don’t trust you, and I’m worried you lied, maybe it’s better if I remove myself from this situation. It hurts, but you don’t deserve to think about someone who got so overwhelmed and miserable by her situation that she spoke to the one person who hurt you, who did the same thing to you that they did to me.

Perhaps people are destined to lie if they have to, but that doesn’t mean it’ll continue. I’ll never find out if you told me the truth that day, but I don’t really want to know. I want to love who I love without being terrified that they’d lie to me without thinking, and then get so caught up in lies that we run away. I think that’s what we both did, and that’s okay, because moving forward, I can remember to always, always be honest: it’s what you taught me, then and now, when your honesty made me happy, when it didn’t and when your lack of it made me think.

I won’t be bitter over something that might not have happened the way I thought. Life’s too short for that.

From me 🙂

4 thoughts on “Letter to a Liar

    • I agree, though there are plenty of other liars who hurt you just as badly. Lying is so destructive, but we’ve all done it.

  1. I like what you said right here…”and when your lack of it made me think.” Sometimes situations are laid before us to make us stop, and think. Re-evaluate. I have stopped trying to figure out why some people lie, and will even lie about lying. It has become an art form to them in some way. A finely honed skill. Today, when people are no longer in my life I am not sad because it ended. I am happy because it happened. Much love to you lovely. xx

    • Your attitude is precisely the one I want to have. I think that lying is almost a necessary part of life – not NECESSARY as in it has to be done, but rather necessary in that sometimes, people don’t have another option. It’s sad, but true. Thanks for your comment!

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