Gregg Lied About Everything.
I’d never known a pathological liar before. There was no way to google such a thing in 1988, and I had no idea that this wasn’t a fixable problem.
I had only known Gregg for half a year and he’d lied to me a thousand times. Gregg lied to me about enormous things, like whether or not he had $400 for our vacation, about stealing the rent money to pay for cocaine, and about having a full-time job.
But he also lied about things that didn’t matter, like whether or not he’d had a sandwich, or his favorite song. I learned to believe nothing he said was true.
He did his best to make me believe his lies, too. He’d disappear for hours and hours, as though he were going to work, probably splashing in puddles at a nearby construction site so he could look like he’d been working.
Whenever I asked him about money, he reassured me as though I could trust him. He’d put his strong arms around me and squeeze, as though that confirmed that he was trustworthy.
Gregg was the youngest of six boys, all raised by a mother who died when Gregg was 14 and a raging alcoholic father. I don’t know what killed Gregg’s mom, but I knew that people who were raised by alcoholics tended to become alcoholics.
I didn’t see that in Gregg. He was a pothead, sure, but he seemed to be okay without alcohol. In addition to pot, of course, Gregg used sex to avoid intimacy. We both did.
But I saw Gregg’s family life as a pretty good excuse for being a liar. I imagined him being smacked around by his brothers for opening his mouth, beaten by his father in a drunken rage, with no calming motherly presence to save him from the horrors of adolescence.
I’d met his father; he actually existed. His father was drinking, sullen and brooding on the few occasions I’d seen him, living in the pitch blackness of an empty house. Gregg’s brothers had all moved away and left Gregg behind, where I’d found him flopping around like a fish on sand.
I couldn’t imagine the hell that had been his childhood. I tried to figure out Gregg’s motives, what made him tick. I guessed that if he ever felt safe, he would never have to lie.
But Gregg never felt safe, with me or with anyone else. Nothing I did could make him feel safe.
He lied about jobs, school, girlfriends, guy friends, disagreements, feelings and sandwiches. He lied when telling the truth would do. And since no one could trust him and he was broke, he always, always lied about money.
Gregg lied about everything. He didn’t seem to know the truth.
I believe Gregg could never be himself in the world. He thought he needed to be better, brighter, more handsome, more clever, funnier, smarter and nicer than he acted. He believed that lying about himself would make other people think more highly of him.
The opposite happened, of course; he never seemed to recognize this. He just kept lying about everything to everyone.
For me, though, lying is tantamount to physical abuse. Even during my addiction, I wanted to be honest. The only thing I lied about was my addiction.
Lying breaks trust, and I learned through this relationship that trust was the only thing that actually matters in a relationship. Without it, there’s no chance for a relationship to survive.
Eventually it didn’t matter why he lied. I just wanted to get away from him.