I am one who has wished for someone to die…That they just stopped existing… I dreamed about what life would be like, if that person wasn’t on this planet any longer. I was horrible enough of a person, to actually waste my time on such a dark wish. The thing is, I thought I would be ecstatic. I’m not.
My mom called me last night, while I was enjoying some time with other family for Christmas, to tell me the Pro-Social sociopath was dead. I sounded cold-hearted when she told me. I feel bad for his family and friends, who love him. I feel bad for his son, and dog. He died on Christmas Eve. I sounded uncaring. Cold. Inhuman. The fact is, I was in shock. I still am. I don’t know how to feel…
I got my wish. How do I feel about that?
My human self is at odds with my angry bitter self. I was able to say to someone, “I don’t hate him…”, after we split up. But deep-down, I really did. I tried to bury that darkness, by renaming it. “He’s not right for me.” and “Someone loves him. It’s just not me.” There were other things I said, trying to rid myself of that hatred. The fact is, I may not have outwardly wished for his death. I might not have said it, or even accepted it, but each time I had to see him, I secretly wished he just didn’t exist. I didn’t want to see him anymore. Ever. Even though I thought life would be better without him on the planet, I find myself strangely, slightly mournful. I don’t even know if that’s the right word. Am I feeling guilty? Maybe.
I wasn’t the one who was cruel, in every way imaginable. I wasn’t the person who was mean. I wasn’t the abuser. I did the right thing, when I made him leave. I did the right thing, when I ended contact between us. I was entitled to be angry and to hate him. I earned that right. Right??
I’m going to try to put this into real-life perspective.
When he finally left, I was relieved. I was happy and ecstatic to have my home and life back. I was only slightly scathed by the ordeal. There was some damage, as you cannot go through abuse of any kind, without it changing you to some degree. He wasn’t my first abuser. He was an echo of the first monster, from four years ago. Been there, done that, burned the t-shirt.
When he left, he was dead to me already. Except for those times that life insisted that I would have to see him again. And again. And again. How did I handle having to see him as part of my job? At first, it was difficult. I didn’t want to be there. He remained cruel to me. Heartless. I left his shop with as business-like of an attitude as I could muster. Under my breath I said to him, “Fuck off, asshole”, as I walked out the door. The days went by, and I started being a little more at ease with the situation. Never trusting him, but always walking away with my head held high.
My job has changed. New company. New life. I haven’t had to worry about seeing him again, for over a month. I still thought about him from time to time, but as a distant memory of an old nightmare. That is where he has stayed…
I once asked a figurative question, when I was freshly away from the monster who started all of this… four years ago… “What if he did die? Would my nightmare be over?” The monster of my past is alive and well, though not in my life. He’s affected me and created the canvas of a new me, which is still being painted.
The pro-social sociopath of my not-so-distant past, who solidified those changes and allowed them to take a more solid form, is gone. I don’t hate him. I don’t pity him. I’m glad he’s gone, but I’m more glad that he doesn’t have to live a lie any longer.
For his sake…
Rest in peace…