The Hidden Cost of Loving a Man Who Lies

September 25, 2025

There’s a hidden cost to this relationship and breakup I didn’t expect:

somehow, I’ve been the “bad guy.”

I know my writing and this blog might cast me that way in some people’s eyes—

but what I’m talking about goes far beyond words on a screen.

It’s about how, without my consent,

I became part of other women’s pain.

When all he and I did was hike, he told me he was free.

No attachments, and happy.

That story continued as we courted and simply enjoyed each other’s company.

As our closeness grew, so did the words he used.

He said he was searching for his “true companion,” his “person.”

He said he’d told his ex-wife about me.

Looking back now, I believe that was a lie.

What he never told me was that he was keeping other relationships alive—

women who believed they were his.

Meanwhile, he spoke words like rituals:

that he would keep me safe, warm, cherished, and loved.

That the more he knew my heart, the more of a treasure it was.

He worked hard for my trust.

He spoke of “symbiosis,” even talked of marriage and his hopes for our future together.

But things weren’t right.

I wanted to be public about our relationship.

He wanted privacy.

He promised I wasn’t a secret, but everything stayed so carefully contained, hidden away.

Each time another woman surfaced, I grew more insecure.

Instead of accepting that he was not a good partner for me,

I tried harder to earn my place on his arm.

I stayed. And he never asked me to leave.

After last summer, things between us were not great.

I was filled with fear and uncertainty because of events I’m not ready to write about here. We tried to push through—some conversations, a lot of avoidance, and the resentment and hurt that lived inside me.

I hoped and prayed our connection would return to what I thought it had been,

but it never did. It was never the same.

As time went on, there were signs—subtle, but undeniable—that my trust wasn’t safe. Gestures that didn’t add up. Stories that didn’t match.

Small cracks that pointed to someone else quietly moving into the picture.

Each one deepened my suspicion, even as I tried to hold on.

He grew more distant. I grew more watchful.

There were moments when he hinted at being flawed, “human,”

but never in a way that allowed for honesty or repair.

It was always just enough to keep me uncertain,

just enough to keep me from walking away.

By the beginning of this year,

I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The truth was there,

even if I didn’t yet have the whole story: I wasn’t the only one.

And when things finally fractured, he did what some people always do—

moved on without pause.

The same rituals of closeness, the same routines of intimacy, now with someone else.

Some people don’t end relationships; they overlap them.

Never pausing to grieve, reflect, or take accountability—

just moving on while the damage is left behind.

There’s a name for this: Monkey Branching.

Swinging from one relationship to the next without ever letting go.

Keeping someone new, or recycled, within reach before releasing the old.

I don’t know what story he’s told about me.

But I do know the kinds of stories he told me about other women. In each version, they were somehow lacking—too cold, too distant, too independent, or no longer the partner he wanted them to be. And if a woman didn’t accept his terms, he cast her as the one who pushed too hard, who wanted more than he was willing to give. He wasn’t happy.

But here is the truth, each of those women loved and believed him.

And now I know that some of these stories were outright lies.

And without knowing it, I became part of deceptions that hurt them.

Stories like these always follow the same pattern:

he’s the misunderstood good guy, and she’s the problem.

But evidence kept surfacing that told a different story.

It left me uncertain—hypervigilant.

And in the end, that vigilance is what saved me.

I may not know what stories he’s told about me.

But I do know what it feels like to be on the other side of that story—

to compare yourself to the one who came before and after,

to believe the script and doubt yourself,

to accept scraps because being chosen feels like being special.

And to stay, because his love is intoxicating.

I don’t want to take up space in anyone else’s relationship.

I don’t want to hurt anyone.

But the truth is, deception never disappears quietly.

A relationship built on overlap is a cesspool waiting to happen. I know because I lived it, unintentionally.

It leaves ghosts that drift between people, stories, and memories.

Even when one of the three finally walks away, the presence of what was hidden lingers—and the cracks in the foundation only deepen over time.

That is the hidden cost of loving a man who lies:

no one leaves untouched, unharmed, loved properly.

And in that, I have unintentionally hurt other women.

Women already face enough battles in this world—

I don’t want to be one who makes it harder.

I have been before, and I learned that painful lesson.

That’s what makes this more difficult.

I was careful. Thoughtful. Selective.

And still, I wasn’t told the true rules of his game.