The man responsible for shaping me into the person I am, for good and ill, was found dead in his apartment yesterday.
I hadn’t spoken with him in about a month. Despite a lot of talk about being a better person, he’d slipped into his manipulative ways. I called him out on it, after which his multiple phone calls per day abruptly ceased. He was the person who taught me not to back down when “in the right,” so I let it play out assuming that he’d have to blink for his annual tradition of calling me on the exact-to-the-minute anniversary of my birth. He ended up missing it by about thirty-six hours.
There’s a lot I could say about the man and the complicated relationship we had, especially now that I’m free to speak frankly about some of the shit he put me through as a child. It will be a while before that happens, because I’m still processing pretty much everything surrounding his passing.