“I’m thinking of moving back into Downtown,” I say. “I feel isolated out here.”
She nods, but offers a nudge I wasn’t expecting. “What if you moved there without Timmy? You could still see each other, but have a space that’s yours.”
The thought feels impossible and freeing all at once. “Maybe,” I say, thinking it through.
“What would happen to him if you did?” she asks, as if reading my mind. It’s as if she’s pointing out how sad he is as an individual, that he’s relying on me to have a roof over his head. That if I wasn’t providing for him, he would have to mooch off someone else rather than hold his own head above water.
“He wouldn’t have a place to live,” I protest weakly.
“He’s an adult,” she says, gently but firmly. “The way things are now, you’re like a caregiver to him. He needs to figure out his own living situation.”
The guilt churns in my stomach. The idea of leaving him to fend for himself makes me uncomfortable, but deep down, I know she’s right. I’m just not ready.
I’m embarrassed to have stepped into the role of his caregiver. He’s not a partner, he’s a leech.
I think through what would likely happen if I followed her suggestion. The only people who would probably take him in are the bad influences we moved out here to avoid—which makes me feel extremely uncomfortable.
I get that this is part of a bigger issue, but my mind isn’t quite ready to fully admit it. Instead, I feel resistance and guilt and resentment.
We work on a safety plan, discussing go-bags and exit strategies.
My plan from here on out is that I’m going to remain calm, and not drink around Timmy. Hopefully his dad will stop sending him money for ‘soda’.
And if and when Timmy repeats the cycle, I have a strategy to get out quickly.
Her parting words linger long after our session ends:“Remember, you are a badass. Let’s check in next week.”
Back at the apartment, Timmy swings wildly between sweet gestures and exhausting self-absorption. He cleans the kitchen, makes me a cup of herbal tea, and heaps on compliments so sugary they feel calculated.
These small acts of kindness seem less about bringing me joy, and more about building a defense for himself—ammunition to later point to and say, ‘Look at the good I’ve done,’ as if it erases all the harm.
His primary focus, however, is no longer on me. He pours his time, energy, and attention into strangers, making it clear he doesn’t think I’m deserving of the same effort.
He beams with pride when praised by random beachgoers for picking up litter. “Two people said what I was doing was amazing,” he announces, fishing for validation. Yet, I’m certain he wouldn’t care about saving the world’s oceans if no one was there to notice.
Behind closed doors, the praise he craves vanishes, and his treatment of me shifts—indifference at best, cruelty at worst.
The cracks in our relationship deepen daily, the same toxic patterns playing out on repeat.
He interrupts my workouts, the one thing that helps me feel grounded and sane.
He complains when I take even a moment for myself, drowning out my focus with his incessant demands for attention.
Meanwhile, I’m drowning under the weight of financial pressure, providing for both of us, while juggling a mountain of overdue book deadlines. Still, I plow on with writing, hoping that focusing on something other than Timmy—somethingproductive that I love—will let my brain unjumble itself and get me out of this fog I’ve been in for far too long.
I know this heaviness—it’s depression, creeping in again, pulling me further from myself. For months, I’ve barely set foot on the beach, though it’s only steps away.
It feels like I’m punishing myself, withholding the joy of this beautiful paradise because I’m too miserable to enjoy it.
There’s no silence in Timmy’s world—there is no down time with Timmy, no reprieve.
The Timmy Show runs 24/7/365, always centered on him and his erratic moods.
What Timmy wants.
What Timmy needs.
What Timmy feels entitled to.