i went thru a phase when i was 10 where i fibbed every chance i got. i would make up tall tales, on the spot sometimes. outlandish and over the top, dramatical and far fetched. peter never could figure out why i was lying so much. i would tell bold face lies without blinking or stuttering. i’m sure as a parent, a new one at that, it was frustrating for him and my stepmother, who was only 28 at the time.
but i didn’t care. i was living half way across the world, away from the only family that i knew, away from my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins who were my built in friends. i was lonely and scared. so i lied. often.
it could be said that i was acting out because it was a new environment for me, i didn’t know how to act or behave. or it could be said that i learned from what i saw, that i lied due to the environment around me. everyone lied. manila wasn’t fun, i didn’t like my new family, the worst of all was the lie that i was fed all my life, a lie that he still maintains despite the fact that i’ve already met the woman: that peter had no idea where my biological mother was.
i outgrew that habit, of course. i learned to deal, i only had 8 years with them. and when i hit 18, i went off to college and didn’t look back. and now the truth is all i want. i would rather be stung by the truth than be hurt by a lie.