Phil’s response is as unhelpful as ever. The same man who sent his thirty-nine-year-old son money for ‘soda’ just months earlier.
It’s easier for him to blame me than face the reality of his son’s behavior.
“You must have done something to upset him,” Phil says, his new go-to refrain.
My blood boils.
That’s me. The provocateur. The instigator.
“What could I possibly have done, Phil? I played a song he didn’t like once, and he fractured my skull. Dude, Ibreathed,and he got upset. But sure, tell me how I’m the problem.”
Phil offers no solutions, no support—just the same dismissive rhetoric I’ve now come to expect.
When Timmy finally staggers home, the cycle begins anew.
“You drink too,” he sneers. “And when you do, you’re abitch!”
It’s an unfair, absurd comparison.
When I drink, I get silly, emotional, maybe even overly chatty.
Sometimes I cry.
But I don’t break things.
I don’t threaten lives.
When Timmy drinks, he becomes a different person entirely—angry, vindictive, destructive, violent, homicidal. He’s broken things, made death threats against me and others, and physically hurt me.
And yet, he acts like we’re the same.
“You’re such a bitch,” he tells me, “and then you wake up all cute, like nothing happened the night before.”
The hypocrisy is staggering.
He’sthe one who wakes up as if the night before didn’t happen.
He’sthe one who pretends his rage and cruelty are figments of my imagination.
If he didn’t constantly make digs at me, there wouldn’t be conflict.
If he got out of bed and worked, there wouldn’t be conflict.
If he kept his promises, there wouldn’t be conflict.
I’m not someone who picks fights for the sake of it.
I want peace.
I crave positivity.
But our relationship has become anything but.
What started as fun and carefree has devolved into something heavy, oppressive, and dangerous.
Timmy’s moods dictateeverything.
His need for constant praise—even for the bare minimum—has become exhausting.