I lied about abuse. Am I a horrible person?

Her entire life, she had been a stranger to her family—a niece neglected, forgotten, and left to navigate the tumultuous waters of her existence alone. The bonds that most children take for granted—the warmth of an aunt’s embrace, the comfort of knowing that extended family is just a phone call away—were luxuries she never knew. No one called, no one wrote, no one visited. She grew up in an unpredictable, unstable home, where her father’s explosive temper cast a long, terrifying shadow over her childhood. As a sensitive child, she absorbed the chaos around her, carrying the heavy burden of an environment where fear was a constant companion.
In her teens, she turned inward, developing an eating disorder and falling into the destructive habit of shoplifting—small acts of rebellion against a world that seemed indifferent to her pain. By her twenties, she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, a name that seemed to capture the chaos inside her, the deep-seated fear of abandonment, and the desperate longing for connection that had defined her life.
Much later, when she had finally carved out some semblance of stability in her life, a call came that reignited a long-held curiosity and a deep, unspoken desire. Her aunt, the sister of her deceased father, had been diagnosed with cancer at the age of seventy-seven. The news stirred something in her. Despite the years of silence, she had always been curious about this woman who shared her blood, and she had always desired a relationship with her. Over the years, she had reached out periodically, sending gifts she had made with her own hands—small tokens of the love she wished to share, hoping they might bridge the distance between them. But the aunt lived far away, and the silence that followed each gesture only deepened the void between them.
The news of her aunt’s illness filled her with a renewed sense of urgency. She saw in this crisis an opportunity to finally build the connection she had longed for. She missed her father terribly, and in reaching out to his sister, she hoped to reclaim a piece of the family she had lost. She asked if they could begin exchanging emails, a simple request to get to know one another, to finally bridge the gap that had existed for so long.
For three months, she poured herself into the relationship. She wrote long, daily emails, filled with thoughts and reflections, sent videos and articles she thought might bring her aunt some comfort, and crafted gifts with her own hands—tangible expressions of the love and care she had harbored for so many years. But the responses were sparse, little more than a few words, which she told herself was because of the cancer.
When it was discovered that the doctor had made a mistake, and her aunt’s cancer had not returned after all, she was relieved. But as the days passed, the lack of reciprocation gnawed at her. Despite the good news, the distance between them remained unchanged. She felt the familiar sting of rejection, the echo of a lifetime of feeling unloved and unnoticed. It was as if the aunt’s neglect in those emails mirrored the neglect she had felt as a child—an aunt who had never cared enough to be part of her life now seemed indifferent even in the face of her niece’s desperate attempts to build a connection.
Exhaustion set in, an emotional fatigue that weighed her down. The relationship felt like a one-sided effort, a draining exercise in futility. She had always been sensitive, and this indifference from her aunt cut deep. The resentment she had buried for so long began to surface, boiling over in a moment of uncontrollable rage. She called her aunt, and the words erupted from her—a scream that had been building inside for years: “I hate you.” It was a cry born of pain, of years of feeling unseen, unloved, and ignored.
The response was a cold withdrawal, the kind of shocked silence that only deepened her wounds. The rejection was like a knife, cutting through the thin thread of hope she had clung to. Desperate, she tried to apologize, to mend the damage, but the distance between them only grew wider. The more she tried, the more her aunt pulled away, leaving her feeling like she was drowning in her own sorrow.
In her anguish, she tried to explain—tried to make her aunt understand the pain she had carried all these years. She opened up in ways she had never done before, sharing the horrors of her childhood, the emotional abuse she had endured at the hands of her father. But her aunt’s response was dismissive, a cold, unfeeling question: “Was it really that bad?”
It was as if her aunt had thrown her pain back in her face. The trust she had placed in her aunt, the hope that she might finally be seen and understood, was shattered. She was unraveling, her emotions spiraling out of control. In her desperation to be heard, to be acknowledged, she made a fateful mistake. In a moment of extreme hurt and anger, she lied. The words tumbled out, unbidden and unstoppable—she told her aunt that her father had abused her in a way that society deems much worse than emotional abuse.
It was an impulsive act, born of a desperate need to make her aunt understand the depth of her pain. But as soon as the words left her lips, she knew she had crossed a line. The lie hung in the air, a testament to the chaos inside her—a reflection of the deep-seated need for love and validation that had driven her to this point.
She was a niece neglected, a child who had grown up in the shadow of her father’s rage, a woman who had spent her life searching for the love she had never received. And in her desperation to connect with the aunt who had always been just out of reach, she had lost herself in a lie—a lie that was born not of malice, but of a desperate, aching need to be seen.

It sounds as though you were craving to be seen and understood. And your aunt didn't want to see. Maybe her ideals and what she knew of what your father were completely at odds with what you were saying about him. I have a family member (no longer alive) I've recently discovered was an abuser, and it shattered the image I had of him, which was so, so far from that. Maybe she had her own abuse story and it was too triggering to be brought up.

But you are not the first and definitely will not be the last to exaggerate something in order to be seen and heard.

It sounds like you were desperate for a connection with her, any connection, which is understandable when you have little to no other family around you.

Do you have any other support around you at the moment- friends or a therapist?

Hugs if you'd like some.