Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Part 2: The Father Who Left and the Lies He Taught Me

The absence of a parent leaves a mark, but it’s not just the absence. It’s the way the gaps are filled, often with confusion, fear, and misplaced blame. My father left when I was young, disappearing from the home without explanation. But before he left, he had a strange, quiet way of preparing me to cover for him to lie, to manipulate, and to navigate adult situations that I wasn’t ready for. He used me as a shield, a messenger, a participant in his deceit, and I learned early that loyalty to him came at the cost of my innocence.

I didn’t understand what was happening at the time. All I knew was that I was often made to feel responsible for outcomes I couldn’t control. If something went wrong, if someone got angry, if the household was tense: it was on me. Even when it wasn’t. I was the one being blamed the one held accountable for things I didn’t do, things I didn’t understand. And all the while, I had to navigate the shadow of a parent who could leave at any time.

When my father finally did leave, it wasn’t just him who walked away, it was stability, predictability, and the possibility of feeling safe at home. He left my mother, my sisters, and me with a ball full of emotion, responsibility, and unanswered questions. And yet, somehow, the narrative became that I had failed in some way. That I had contributed to his leaving. That I was, in a sense, the reason he disappeared.

It’s a complicated paradox: a father whose actions caused trauma, but whose presence. When fleeting taught lessons in control, survival, and distrust. I remember running errands with him sometimes, watching him meet women he shouldn’t have, and being coached to be complicit. It was confusing. I didn’t know if I was learning strategy or if I was learning betrayal. Perhaps both.

Those early lessons shaped the way I approached relationships later in life. They taught me that trust must be earned, that control is non-negotiable, and that survival often takes precedence over connection. They taught me that loyalty can be weaponized, and that sometimes, the people we look to for guidance are the very ones who cause the deepest wounds.

Even now, reflecting on those experiences, I can see the layers of damage intertwined with resilience. I survived because I had to. I adapted because there was no other option. And while I carry scars from those early betrayals, I also carry the ability to protect myself, to read people, and to navigate complex emotional landscapes.

But survival came at a cost. It shaped the way I interacted with men for years, the way I approached intimacy, and the way I tried to understand others while carrying my own burden of distrust. My father’s absence, and the lies he left me to manage, became a blueprint that I would unknowingly follow me for decades.

Closing Reflection:

Have you ever realized that the people who hurt us most also taught us how to survive?

How much of resilience is born from necessity, and how much is shaped by absence and deception?