Everything She Never Was

I don't remember when I first learned how to lie. I only remember the feeling the first time someone believed me.

I had to be seven, possibly eight, when I told my teacher my dad was a pilot just to see what it felt like. He was a plumber. But I appreciated the expression of wonder in her eyes, the way her voice softened "Oh, how exciting", I liked that version of me. I liked being the girl with a dad who flew planes more than I liked being the girl whose dad repaired dripping toilets

That's where it started. Little, harmless details like my mom was a lawyer, having a beach house in Cape Town, being born in Italy, being allergic to chocolate, my cousin modeling in Paris, my cousin being in a Netflix show and once hugging Beyonce in an airport

No one ever checked facts. And if they did, I always had an answer, another story, an excuse and a better lie to cover the ugly truth.

I told my classmates that I read The Picture of Dorian Gray in primary school. I didn't even know who Oscar Wilde was back then, I just liked how clever it sounded. I told them I had a secret twin sister who died at birth. I made up a dead twin and even made up a name for her, Layla

I once told a guy I was talking to online that I used to be homeschooled because I had a brain tumor as a child and couldn't go to regular school. He said I was strong, I liked that word on me

I lied about birthdays, breakups, bruises and break-ins. I lied about winning a writing contest. I lied about being stalked once to convince a girl to let me stay at her place. I lied about my house catching fire in JSS2. I lied about my brother being deaf. I don't even have a brother

I lied when I didn't have to. I lied even when telling the truth would have been simpler. At some point, I lost track of where the lies ended and I began. The thing about lying is that if you do it well enough for a long time, you start to believe your own story. You change your memories like a video reel, you cut and paste until you can't even tell what's real

But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is when you want to stop but you can't

I still remember the day everything unraveled. I had told my best friend Ella that I was diagnosed with something. Something scary. I wanted attention, I wanted her to hold me the way she held her cousin when he got sick, I wanted her tears

I didn't think it would go too far

But she did what real friends do, she showed up. She told her mom, her mom told the school, a whole community rallied around me offering support, prayers and hugs I didn't deserve

And then.... well, then came the blood test. That lie couldn't survive in a scientific world

When they called me into the principal's office, my mom was already sitting there, she was holding a paper in her hand. And I didn't even flinch, I lied again, "I don't know what happened. Maybe the lab mixed things up" I said

My mother's voice trembled "Stop, just stop, Talia. Please" But I couldn't

Even as I cried, I told them my tears were from fear. That the diagnosis was real and the test was wrong. I swore on my dead grandmother's name and she wasn't even dead

It felt like someone was talking through me. They were pulling the strings. They didn't care that I was exhausted, that I hadn't slept in weeks or that I was overwhelmed with guilt

I tried, God, I tried to tell the truth. But nothing real would come out

Ella doesn't talk to me anymore. She looked at me like I was something foul, as if she was upset that she ever let me be her friend. I still text her sometimes, sending half truths, explanations and apologies that don't really sound like apologies. She never replies

My mom watched me now like I'm a loaded weapon she forgot how to disarm. I hear her whispering on the phone one night "I don't know if she even knows what's real anymore"

I do. Sometimes. People say you can choose to be better and to heal. But no one explains how tough it is when the lie feels safer than the truth. I don't want to lie anymore. I promise I don't. But the words come out on their own, like muscle memory or a second skin

I told someone yesterday that I used to live in spain. I didn't. I've never left this town. But I said it anyway and I smiled like it was true. Afterwards, I went to the bathroom and cried until my ribs ached

It wasn't even raining but I looked at the mirror and told myself it was, just so I could pretend my tears weren't tear, but the rain