There is this self torturous need to find out just how deep the web of lies continues. And the more I look, the more I find. I always knew he told wild stories about his childhood. I thought it was probably a normal reaction to such a traumatic time. I thought the adult grew up and left all the lying behind. That maybe the stories needed to be embellished as a way of survival for kids in group homes.
Clearly someone should have told me to stop thinking. Everyday was a lie. Every moment of everyday was a lie. Every action, every word, everything. I spent 2 or more years trying desperately to find the man I fell in love with in that first year. That man was never real. But he allowed me to see glimpses of “him” enough that I was led to believe he was in there somewhere and so it was worth continuing to search.
I was wrong.