The Lies That Built Me

My name is Alaria—Ria for short. And I need you to listen because nobody has my entire life.

I realized there were scarier things that existed beyond the dark when I was eight; monsters were real. Not the kind you’d find under your bed or hiding in your closet, but the ones that never go away—even when the sun comes up.

These were the kind that made you feel safe, made you believe they cared with I love you’s and pretend heartwarming smiles—pulling you in close before ripping your heart right from your chest. They left you cold, empty, and questioning your worth, laughing in your face because you were foolish enough to trust them. And just when you think they’re done, they hold you by the throat until you’re gasping for air—so close to slipping away—before letting you go and helping you up.

Just to do it all over again.

What do you do when you run to the one person you trust to protect you, only to discover they’re one of them? Who do you run to then?

I don’t remember when it started—the unhappy thoughts, the feeling of being hated. The voices telling me that I wasn’t good enough.

Maybe I was too young to understand, or maybe I just didn’t want to see the dark shadows that hid behind your smiles the evil glim that shun in your eyes.

The thing about monsters is that they don’t show you their claws right away.

First, they smile.

First, they love you.

And then, they don’t.

****

My dad was everything to me at one point. I used to cling to his every word and hang onto the affection he gave me- however fleeting it was. He took me to restaurants to try food I’d never had. He bought me new clothes and books that I had never owned and never knew I wanted. I had never been spoiled before—until I met my dad. Even my birthday was an experience I’d never forget. It was just a cake, but it was more than I had ever gotten. Before then, I didn’t even know a day like that existed.

So naturally, as a little girl, I thought to myself; Why didn’t Mommy ever tell me about my birthday?

My dad showed me kindness in ways I hadn’t known before. I lived in a nice place and had nice clothes. And in my innocent mind, that meant he must love me more. My mom never did those things for me.

I know now that my mom would do anything to make sure I was okay, while my dad would do anything to make sure he was okay—even at the cost of me.

****

When I was young, I was Daddy’s little girl. I never had a father before—I spent the first four years of my life without one. So when he finally came into my life, it felt like everything I had ever dreamed of. I was special. I was wanted.

But what I never could have predicted was that I only had my dad’s unconditional love for a year before he sent me to live with my grandmother.

And that’s where the real story begins.

***

The thing about lies is that the truth always finds its way out, no matter how long it takes.

This one took ten years.

I was abandoned without even realizing it.

My dad said, “I’m sending you to your grandmother to learn how to read”. And in a way, that was true. She did teach me.

****

Living with my grandmother was fun. She took good care of me, taught me table manners, and made sure I was never without a meal. Every morning, she would make me breakfast. Anytime we went to the store, she’d tell me to pick out any snack I wanted for school. My grandmother was so loving, and everyone in the community knew it, too.

She’s gone now, but I think about her often. She helped teach me how to read and would give me money so I could buy ice cream after school. I never felt that her love was fake, and she never made me feel left out.

*****

At night, I crawled into her bed, scared—she was my haven, the one place I felt truly protected. There wasn’t a worry in my mind when I was around her. She would never let anyone treat me badly, and if someone tried, she would defend me. With her, I was never yelled at or beaten. She knew how to teach me right from wrong without making me feel small. I think that was the only time I felt like I could be a kid.

One night, I had a bad dream and woke up crying. Before I could even say a word, my grandmother pulled me into her arms, rubbing my back and whispering, “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” The way she held me felt like a shield against the world—like nothing could ever hurt me so long as she was there.

When someone knows the truth about how a person you love feels, they’ll use it against you—because they know exactly how to make it hurt.

I found out my dad sent me to my grandmother because he needed a break from me when my stepmother told me. She was yelling, trying to hurt my feelings hurling insults my way like I was a bowling pin.

At first, I thought she was lying. My dad doesn’t think of me like that, I told myself.

But every lie has a bit of truth to it.

I’ve realized that now.

*****

The illusion of being my father’s little girl shattered like glass. And for the first time, I saw myself through his eyes.

I wasn’t his little girl.

I was the consequence of his actions. The burden he had to carry for one minor slip-up. I think I remind him of everything he lost because of my existence. And maybe that’s why he kept me at a distance—why his love had an expiration date.

He never said it outright, but I could feel it.

The slow, suffocating change.

At first, his affection was like sunlight, warm and steady. But then... it began to fade.

Like a cloud creeping in, cold and indifferent, turning his words sharp and his eyes vacant.

In the way he could look right at me and see through me—like I was never really there.

Like I was never supposed to be.

And if I could see it, I wonder if anyone else noticed too.

The way my presence seemed to bother him.

The way he hated talking to me.

I saw it, Dad. I saw the way you could be a loving father to everyone else, even children that were not your own. You’d laugh with them, lift them onto your shoulders, chase them around the house.

But with me? there was only silence.

The kind of silence that sliced through the air, sharp enough to wound. The air thick, slowly being sucked from the room leaving only you. And maybe, if you were different, that would have been comforting. But the hostility radiated off you making the stillness unbearable.

You’d come home and immediately ask about their day.

But Daddy, I was right there.

You never once asked to know my favorite color. What I liked to eat. I’d show you my drawings, but I wasn’t even worth a glance. I was always dismissed. Always in the way.

“leave you alone,” you’d say

I just wanted to show you...

And now? Now, it’s hard to show anyone something I’m proud of, fearing that same feeling of rejection.

I don’t get it.

What was so wrong with me?

Why was I the only one you couldn’t love?