I mentioned writer’s block yesterday, and here’s why: I’ve been chewing on how to talk about this without sounding mean-spirited or like I’m slinging mud for the sake of it. The problem is, when the truth itself is ugly, there’s only so much you can do to make it sound polite. And honestly? I’m not here to be polite. I’m here to be real.

I’ve made a conscious effort in this blog to be fair — to not name names, to not burn the whole forest down just because I’m holding the match. But it’s been difficult to strike the balance between honesty and restraint. This isn’t about revenge. The past is the past, and no rant I post at 2 a.m. will change it.

But I am drowning in a sea of regret. And this is me throwing a buoy — not just for me, but maybe for someone else who’s floating out here, too.

Let’s be clear: PTSD is a parasite. It clings to your reactions and paints you as “unstable,” “too emotional,” “overreacting.” And for someone like him, that was gold. “See?” he’d say, “That’s how he is.”

No. That’s how I became. And the brutal truth is, these last 20 years have been a marathon of surviving — not thriving. There were good moments, sure, but the overall landscape? Brutal.

> The child who stayed silent to stay safe became the adult who swallowed their needs to feel loved. They smiled when they were hurting. They fixed what wasn’t theirs. They kept proving, hoping someone would say, “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

But no one did.
You were never “too much.” You just never felt safe enough to be real.

 

And narcissists? Oh, narcissists LOVE PTSD. Even more than cops love donuts. For them, it’s a playground. A game. A place to perform and manipulate. At least someone was having fun in that relationship, because I sure wasn’t.

Try developing coping mechanisms while living under emotional sniper fire. Try defending yourself, your identity, your friends — every single day — and see how that wears on a soul. I spent 27 years doing just that, on constant defense. I don’t know how to sugarcoat that. And I don’t think I should.

And now — after his death — I’m still unpacking the lies. Person after person coming forward, telling me what he said about me. About my behavior. About my friends. And the misinformation? Lord. The sheer amount of energy he spent planting seeds of doubt is almost impressive, if it weren’t so pathetically toxic.

Let’s talk specifics.

There’s one friend in particular — someone he couldn’t stand. Someone who’s the kind of friend that will drop everything and show up when you’re falling apart. You know what kind of threat that is to a narcissist? A genuine human connection.

He lied about this person. Told people they were extorting money from me. That never happened. Not even close. Yes, I helped this friend financially sometimes. That’s called being a friend, not a victim. I’ve helped lots of people. He gave money to Abdul — yeah, the smoke shop guy — who he gave so much money to, I’m pretty sure his kids are now fully equipped to attend Harvard on a hookah scholarship.

That friend has supported me more than most, especially during the war zone that was my marriage. So let me be clear: if you ever hear someone being accused of something as serious as extortion — maybe ask questions before deciding to smear their name based on gossip passed down like a cursed heirloom.

Because here’s the truth: 99% of what he said about me, or the people close to me, were lies. Or twisted half-truths so far from reality they might as well have been fan fiction.

And you know what? That’s what makes me furious. I did the best I could. I bent over backward to keep the peace, to be “the good guy,” to please everyone. And the only person I ended up betraying was myself.

Just now, I handed out the evening dog treats to my four furry companions. Loyal, loving, honest creatures.

Your dogs — and your mom — will never hurt you.

Everyone else? Start asking questions.