I’ve been struggling with how to feel or what to think in the aftermath of your spectacular, self destructive spiral. Because emotionally, which is a new perspective for me, none of it makes sense.
This feels like chaos, completely unmoored. Everything you’ve done or said defies reason or common sense. But you know what? At the same time it is mind-numbingly, stupidly predictable. Because I know substance use (alcohol and drugs) and intimate partner violence are almost always linked. I know that violence against your partner’s inanimate objects—like you with your ex’s laptop—almost always escalates to violence against your partner.
I know how many men are selfish, absent fathers. I know men can be prompted to empathize but are less empathetic overall. I know your standard operating mode of overconfidence, hiding mistakes out of shame, haphazardly hopping from one life raft to another until the inevitable huge blow up. And then what? Well then you flee the scene of the crime (often the continent), pivot and reinvent yourself to some unsuspecting person, usually a woman.
So I need you to know that none of this, not even the most terrible parts of it, are surprising. In fact it’s so common that it’s boring. For all of your claims of genius and creativity, you’ve collapsed into the laziest archetype there is: deadbeat abusive dad with a drug problem. I mean if someone wrote your character into a show, he’d be criticized as flat, a tired trope. They might even call it racist, a man of color obsessively chasing blonde women only to treat them badly and eventually find a girl a decade younger, get her pregnant, neglect and abuse her and then disappear.
I’ve always viewed you as a brother, kinda like a twin. Because a good chunk of our raw material is the same. You have this beautiful gift for improvising and an intellectual curiosity that has carried you around the world. But one of the ways we seem to differ is how steadfastly you refuse to turn your curiosity inward. And so while I’ve spent the better part of two years trying to be less destructive, more vulnerable and the best version of myself, you’ve wrapped every ounce of yourself around your ego, protecting it from some very real and necessary examination. The result has been pretty fucking catastrophic.
But here are some more facts I know: a woman who has been strangled by her partner is 8x more likely to be killed by him later. I know non-fatal strangulation, as it’s called, is actually the strongest red flag for eventual murder. I know that in almost half of cases where kids are removed from their homes and placed in foster care, parental substance abuse is a determining factor. I know—and you do too, asshole—that a girl who watches her father abuse her mother is 3x more likely to be in an abusive relationship herself.
So while I was fine to let you play out your stupid story in this stupid and predictable way, the risks for your wife and kid were too…the outcomes for them both were potentially devastating. And because I used to love you fiercely, I love your daughter the same way, even if you don’t. Even if you can’t. And to love someone fiercely is to protect them. Especially when it’s hard.
I wish I could hate you, but I’ll settle for a general disgust or disdain. I mean every response you’ve had to this so far has only reinforced my resolve and assured me I did the right thing. I did do the right thing. Someone had to. I’d do it again. Every time.
You should know that this weekend I saw you with your ex, the one who used to scream at you, spit on you and treat your friends like shit. I know it’s your way of punishing yourself but I wish you’d stop being such a coward. I know how much shame hurts. I know that inclination you feel to avoid pain at all costs. But grow the fuck up. Integrate your pain into who you are. Face the consequences and become better for it.
Last week I was worried you might try to kill yourself. But then you stopped responding to your 2 year old daughter and wife, went back to the same bar you did coke in 10 years ago, fucked the same ex you were with when I met you and I realized you aren’t going to kill yourself—you’re going to kill your family, kill their memory. You’re going to pretend they don’t exist, that they never did. And that is how you will cope. And that is why we won’t ever be friends again.
Instead I will discard you into the 38 year old pile of useless, disappointing men in my life. So in that way, I guess you’re dead to me too.
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