Today, I discovered a series of text messages from a man ridiculing me. I’d talked about living in Mexico for a time because it was cheaper than the U.S., maybe it made sense, etc., nothing dramatic, nothing serious, until I saw what he wrote about me. He called me crazy. He made racist comments about Mexicans. He was the man I never expected to be, but wasn’t surprised to discover the man he was. The man who humiliated me in texts to his friends was my pop—the man I’ve known since I was 12. The man who fixed me macaroni and cheese and shepherded me through childhood.
The man who made light of my rape in 2013. The man who never had to worry about being homeless because there was always a woman to usher him into their home. There was always a family in Ireland ready to guarantee shelter.
Our relationship only worked if I faked fine. As long as I was the trophy child he’d always known, someone he could brag about to his friends (my daughter’s a published author!), I could keep him in my life. Only today did I realize he wasn’t that much different from my mother in their desire to showboat me from childhood onward.
I was a prize, never a person.
Today, I confronted him about the texts, his cold and cruel indifference, and he laughed and it put me to thinking that people are truly never want you want them to be. I wasn’t hurt or sad or angry—in a way, I expected this. No drama, no fanfare, no tears. Just a quiet resignation. I knew this would happen.
My last text to him today before I blocked him and deleted his number was this: This is what I always expected from you.
And it occurred to me that many people enjoy my sadness. It’s fodder for hate-reading and group chats and text messages when I wonder what I’ve done to warrant such cruelty.
So, I’ve decided to get off the internets, as it were. I’ll send consistent monthly missives to the folks who’ve subscribed because they’d paid me and I’m beholden to that. I always meet my obligations. And I’ll write about writing (which I love), nothing personal.
But I’ve learned that when I try to be real and honest, people just want to laugh at it and I’m tired of being laughed at.
I’ll be back in a while. But it’ll never be personal again. I’ll never write a personal essay again. It’ll be about the work, only the writing (the fiction and the novel) and the work, never fodder for humiliation. Never ammunition for laughter. Because I’m tired of being other people’s entertainment.
Until then, best to you, my friends. Cruelty has won—I’m off the internet. Rejoice!
Warmly, Felicia
This saddens me because I've read your words about the important role your pop has played, on and off, in your life. I am sorry that he -- and nasty people on the Internet -- have treated you so poorly. This is no reflection on you. It's an ugly world. But your writing? It's beautiful, sophisticated, wonderful. I wish you the very, very best in all things.
I’m just a stranger in Wisconsin, but I truly adore your writing and honesty and everything you bring forth. Your writing has always made me believe that I wasn’t alone in my thoughts.