When someone asserts their will without any reason other than “I am asserting my will no matter what, and you may not fucking question or defy me” understand that you cannot reason with this kind of person. No appeal to fairness, decency, reasonableness, empathy, friendship, kinship, mutuality, morality or anything else will make any difference. There is no negotiation with people who are irrational, particularly when these fuckers are in a rage. Their “arguments” are incoherent, there is no conflict that can be discussed, no possible compromise, no possibility of future understanding. Still, it can take decades to understand what you are up against when you suddenly face this implacable truculence in someone you care about, are connected to, have a long, fond history with.

I recently sent several chapters from the second draft of my manuscript to an old friend who asked to read them. I sent them after explaining that I needed her comments, no matter how brief, to let me know she’d read the pages. I told her how hard it is to get feedback from readers, and how necessary such feedback is to understand how certain writings land with a reader, what needs to be fixed or otherwise clarified. Hearing nothing in a week, I sent a follow up note. After another follow up several days later, with no response, I started to get pissed off. It was tempting to write something angry and dismissive. I note that all of this happened during a few weeks of escalating medical troubles and nights of poor sleep.

In the end, I was glad I’d held my disappointment and temper in check. I wrote this to her, after a phone conversation that helped me greatly from a medical perspective (she’s a retired doctor who did research as we spoke and came to a logical conclusion as to the source and cure of my present autoimmune situation), to help her understand why silence by way of response is so intolerable to me.

As you described, when you were upset as a kid you closed yourself in your room and did math.  You were good at it and immersing yourself in it took you away from your hurt feelings and helped you regain a sense of order and control, a very important thing for us puny earthlings, particularly when we feel under attack.   My escape was always writing, drawing and playing guitar in my room.  All of these were things I controlled, and got better and better at, all things that took me away from my unfairly battered feelings.  Writing has been so important since my banishment from the group of rabid lemmings who expressed great love for me over the last fifty years.

My father’s most effective weapon of abuse was silence.  I’d talk to him about something that bothered me, worried me, tormented me, and he’d reframe it, bat it away, blame me, etc.  When I wouldn’t let him hijack the conversation, he’d go silent.  No response at all.  It was, and still is, kryptonite to me.  

Gina, after assuring me she was “happy” to hear my concerns, gave me complete, total, unbroken silence for four months (followed by an enraged teenaged/two year-old’s temper tantrum when I forced a meeting by insulting Flack’s fragile manhood).   Her hapless puppet, the “homo”, made excuses, blamed me, got offended, had hissy fits, defended his wife’s right to be an enraged, abusive bitch, got mad, calmed down, insisted over and over on irrational points, made incoherent comebacks, etc. but his periods of silence would only last a few weeks at a time.   Letters, texts, WhatsApps, phone calls from me were all ignored by the two queens, the homophobe and her pathologically obliging mate, during this ugly transition from friendship to eternal hatred, hatred spread generously throughout a large group that comprised most of my close friends and their now adult children — all revealed to be as emotionally/morally malleable as any lynch mob anywhere.

That is why after I told you I need acknowledgement before I’d send you my chapters it was so hurtful not to hear back day after day, even after I sent a few follow-ups.   Every day when I checked my email it would be like another little silent kick in the nuts, so familiar from anyone in my life who had malice or passive aggressive anger to let me know about. The intent isn’t relevant really, the effect is the same, particularly with my stress level turned up due to ongoing and new health threats, 80% disability, medical negligence, etc..

Anyway, fucking read that short bit I sent you again today.  It will take you about 6 minutes.  Then write “nice”, or “oh”, or “I think this will interest a literary agent” or “I’d suggest changing this, adding this” or “well-done” or “you really have an inflated sense of your literary abilities, pal, dontcha?” or “Bitter much?” or “I think you could lose part 3” or “I think this is so-so, even though the writing itself is OK” or “I know nothing about these things, but good luck” or … you get the point.  Anything but nothing.  Without reader feedback I’m working in the dark much of the time in how this material might land and getting this feedback is generally about as easy as pulling out my own wisdom teeth.

And so, we were able to come to a better understanding of each other and preserve a relationship that could have easily been severed forever. She emailed that she found my chapter about the unreliable narrator, the one a perverse but perceptive friend urged me to write, portraying myself as a despicable villain well-deserving of my punishment, very funny. Several people have found this chapter about my unpardonable faults funny. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. But I take this all as progress, boys and girls, and another living example of living and learning to do better, and using Reason and an appeal to empathy to work through tangled, inflamed emotions with someone capable of responding in kind.