This will be an unhinged post, so fair warning.
On May 22, 2023 one of the worst chapters of my life ended. I was honestly relieved. It didn’t require his death; he simply needed to be out of my life.
This is a letter to him.
It is raw emotion, so consider yourself warned.
Dear Jacob,
We recently passed the three-year mark since you left this mortal coil. Seeing your niece graduate from high school and seeing your family after those 3 years brought a lot to the surface
I realized something that would have been difficult for me to admit even a year ago: I’m glad you’re gone.
I never wished you dead. I never will. But this last week tested every ounce of patience I had left.
When I finally received the results of your autopsy.
When the hell did you contract HIV?
And why the fuck didn’t you tell me?
Of all the things you did during our marriage, that may take the cake.
It also explains why you refused an HIV test when I renewed your Descovy prescription. Did you already know? Did you find out in January? Was that why you suddenly wanted to start having sex again after nearly four years without intimacy?
By that point, I had no interest in sex with you. Honestly, during the last few months of your life, it felt purely mechanical. Looking back, it always seemed to be about you. I was simply present because you wanted me there.
Nothing demonstrated that better than your birthday weekend. Five men one night. Two more the next.
I had always given you a hall pass, even though I was never afforded the same privilege. But seven people in two days? Did they know your status? Are there seven people wandering around Salt Lake City who may have been exposed because you chose not to disclose it?
The irony is that you were always terrified of illnesses. You would panic over the mere mention of certain diseases. Yet if you knew, you apparently chose not to tell anyone. Hell you even turned down a friend years ago because he had it.
The truly maddening part is that HIV is treatable. It is not the death sentence it was in the 1980s. People live long, healthy lives with proper treatment.
But honesty was never your strong suit.
When I told your father, his response was simply, “It is what it is.”
That sounds like a man who had long ago stopped being surprised by your behavior.
Judging from what your family later told my sister when she delivered your cremated remains, your depression and defiance were hardly new developments.
What still fascinates me is your obsession with controlling who I could see.
Your family was always welcome.
Mine was always “bringing drama.”
My mother and sister weren’t allowed in what you called “your house,” despite the fact that I paid half the mortgage and my name was on the title. If I wanted to see them, I had to leave home to do it. I used to have to meet them at the Maverick Truck Stop off of I-215
Even my father eventually became unwelcome.
The funny part is that after you died, my dad told me it was the first time he had visited the house without feeling like he needed a drink just to tolerate being there.
I’ve been reading about narcissistic behavior a lot since then.
You could be the poster child.
The entitlement alone was unbearable. The irony is that you constantly complained about entitled people. Looking back, I think you simply didn’t want anyone competing with you for attention.
A friend who traveled with me to Costa Rica shortly after your death and asked whether you had always been like that.
The answer surprised me.
Yes.
The signs were there from the beginning.
Our friend Sarah once said, “Jacob is a for-profit-for-Jacob entity.”
She saw it years before I did.
I ignored it because we shared interests, history, companionship, and a life together. Those things made it easy to overlook the warning signs.
But the pattern was always there.
The real shift happened when you turned twenty-one and started spending your nights at Snookum’s in Butte.
Suddenly, you wanted complete freedom to do whatever you wanted.
And you did.
Meanwhile, I was buried in nursing school and trying to build a future.
You were free to fool around.
I wasn’t.
Whenever I attempted to establish equal rules, you became hostile.
There were periods when, according to you, we lived together but weren’t together.
Twice in Butte.
Twice in Salt Lake City.
The rules always applied differently depending on whether they benefited you.
Looking back, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you contracted HIV.
Protection was often optional in your mind. You trusted strangers at their word and assumed that asking a question somehow created safety.
It never made sense to me.
Neither did the double standard.
If I found someone attractive, I was expected to bring them home so you could be involved.
If you wanted someone, you simply did whatever you wanted.
I should have recognized the pattern much earlier.
Then there was the violence.
The garage fight after ROM that left me with a fractured orbital bone.
I should have called the police.
Instead, I was convinced it was my fault.
The next morning, I conducted Green Dot training with a broken face (Sorry Black Swan).
Then there was Thanksgiving 2017.
You were intoxicated on nitrous oxide and alcohol and attacked me.
I called 911.
Yet somehow, after everything, you still managed to convince me not to press charges.
The final incident happened shortly before your death.
You kicked in the bathroom door while I was inside, damaging the frame and wall.
I didn’t call the police because by then I already knew I was leaving.
I simply didn’t have the energy left to fight.
What you never knew was that I was done.
I had secured an apartment.
I was prepared to absorb a two-thousand-dollar-a-month rent increase just to be free of you.
My attorney and I had already worked out a divorce settlement that was more than fair.
Even at the end, I was still trying to make sure you landed on your feet.
I think you sensed I was leaving.
And I think Costa Rica and 3 years of therapy finally made me realize something.
Nothing there has changed since we visited together.
The beaches are the same.
The towns are the same.
The food is the same.
The only meaningful difference was that you are no longer there.
And everything is better.
I still believe your suicide was your final narcissistic act.
Maybe that’s unfair.
Maybe it isn’t.
But from where I sit, it feels like one final attempt to control the narrative.
One final act that ensured everyone would spend years talking about you.
I’ll admit it affected me.
It disrupted my life.
It forced me to explain the story over and over.
It left damage that I am still working through.
But it did not accomplish what you probably hoped it would.
I survived.
More importantly, I moved on.
I have spent three years rebuilding a life that no longer revolves around your needs, your moods, your crises, and your demands.
You will always be remembered.
That much is true.
But today, when I think of you, I don’t find fond memories.
I find lessons.
I find scars.
I find reminders of everything I survived.
And perhaps that is the final truth.
The best thing you left behind was the opportunity for me to finally become free. Both my dog and more importantly my Mom got to see me without the barriers you created.