But he won’t take responsibility.
“God, you’resofucking dumb,” he says, rolling his eyes like I’ve just suggested the earth is flat. “It’s not my fault. It’sobviouslyfrom the grocery store.”
I’ve become so accustomed to his insults that they barely register anymore. I don’t even flinch at ‘dumb’ or the way his tone drips with contempt. It’s become background noise, like the hum of a refrigerator—steady and unrelenting.
But sometimes, his attitude still gets to me. And when it does, I lash out in ways that make me ashamed of myself.
And then I feel complicit.
As if I’m just as much to blame as him.
By now, Timmy is still navigating the emotional fallout of Darren’s death. The memorial is approaching, and I can sense his agitation growing.
To distract him—and to encourage him to contribute financially—I buy him a refurbished laptop that will run his graphic design software more efficiently.
“I really need it for my art,” he’d pleaded, his eyes wide with sincerity. “I’ll sell tons of hats and T-shirts, and I’ll give you all the money I make.”
To be fair, hehasbeen giving me what little he earns from his part-time job, so, at first, I believe he means well. But, within days, and despite a lot of talk about graphic design ideas, it becomes clear that the laptop is more symbolic than practical. He rarely opens it, and—when I ask about his progress—there’s always an excuse.
“I’m not feeling well,” he says one day. “I can’t focus when my stomach hurts this bad.”
Another day, it’s a nightmare that derails him.
Or vague chest pains.
Or a headache.
The list goes on.
Before Timmy, I’d never met a grown adult who puts their life on hold so frequently due to a ‘tummy ache’ or a ‘nightmare’.
He’d probably call out if he stubbed his toe.
I try to motivate him. “You can’t call out of work for a nightmare, Timmy. And if you’re your own boss, you should be harder on yourself than any corporate boss would ever be. You owe it to yourself to make your dream come true—but instead, you go to sleep late, then sleep in late, and complain about these problems. If you’re really feeling that bad, maybe you should go to the doctor,” I suggest.
And so that becomes his next focus.
“There’s something wrong with my heart,” he says, grabbing at his chest. “I can tell.”
Cardiologist: “Your heart is fine, sir.”
“I need my skin checked,” he says, obsessively examining his freckles in the mirror. “I might have skin cancer.”
Dermatologist: “Your skin is fine, sir.”
“My feet need checking,” he says, rubbing at his toes. “Dad says your feet are the most important thing to take care of as you get older.”
Podiatrist: “Your feet are fine, sir. But let’s clean up those toenails.”
Each visit ends with a clean bill of health, and each time, Timmy breathes a sigh of relief—only to conjure a new ailment days later, and a new specialist he needs to see.
I try to help. “Maybe stop drinking so much—or at all?” I suggest, exasperated. “Drink water? Exercise? Eat healthy? Get up at a normal time? Work?”
I’m not trying to be flippant, but he takes it that way. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” he snaps.
“I’m trying to help you,” I counter, my tone measured. “I don’t always follow my own advice,” I explain. “But I do most of the time. That’s the key. You need consistency to see results. You have to show up for yourself.”
But Timmy’s only consistency is his inconsistency.