The Pathological Liar - The Shortcut

I met him when I was 15, and for the purpose of this blog and for privacy, I will call him “The Pathological Liar” — the man who would eventually become the father of my son. He was four years older: confident, persistent, smooth. And at the time, I didn’t see all the signs for what they were. My life was already complicated, and he slipped into it like a shortcut. An easy attachment. Maybe even a survival instinct.

But the truth is, the red flags were there from the beginning — I just didn’t have the language, the life experience, or the strength to name them yet.

He lied.
He cheated.
He manipulated.
He made up elaborate stories and played the role he needed to, just long enough to get what he wanted.

And me? I was young. Naïve, as most of us are at that age. I later found out he was related to a girl I knew from school. When I found out, I apologized and tried to do the right thing. But I was already deep in it.

On the day of my 16th birthday, my stepfather kicked me out, citing that I was now officially an adult and could live on my own. When I think back now and realize how young sixteen really is, I’m baffled that anyone could think I was ready to survive alone. With nowhere to go, The Pathological Liar took me in. He became my first live-in boyfriend. What did I know about living with someone at 16?

I quickly came to learn he was also a petty crook. Theft was his go-to: stolen vehicles, robbing trucks that carried goods — anything that could make fast money. The first time I met his father was after he bailed me out of jail. A very shameful introduction. I could see the disappointment in the man’s face. Hi, this is me. Thanks for bailing me out. And lucky he did — while being held, I had gotten into an altercation with another girl. Had I not been released, I’m sure I would’ve been jumped.

We lived with his father for a while after that. I tried to go back to school. Tried to pretend something normal could grow from all this. But he never stopped cheating. The disrespect wasn’t hidden — it was casual. Normal for him. Or maybe he did it to show me who was in control.

He pushed me around. Slapped me. Stole from me. Lied with ease.

I started to wonder what I was doing there and tried to figure out a way to get out. But before I could, I got pregnant.

We were still living together. He never touched me with affection. No love, no cuddling, no kind words. He used to say I took up too much space in the bed. I would end up pressed against the wall with nowhere else to go. There was no warmth — it felt like reliving my time with my mother. She never gave me that softness either, so his coldness didn’t seem off. It just felt familiar.

He was never there emotionally — only physically when it served him. Other than that, I was just there. Used when needed. Lied to. Cheated on. Discarded the moment I no longer served a purpose.

My son was the only good thing in all that chaos. The only reason I kept going.