The meme definition of insanity, often attributed to Albert Einstein, is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome. I offer a full-color real-life illustration of that principle in action. I am only slightly less insane, for most of this anecdote, than the madman I am describing.

An old friend was going through a difficult divorce (I know of few easy ones) from a wife whose impressive anger he was physically afraid of. He had reason to be afraid, she looked like she could kick the shit out of him if it came to it. They fought constantly, though he never crossed the line to find out if his wife would actually beat him to a pulp, maim or murder him.

That’s where I, his closest friend ever, as he often told me, came in. He could take out some of this anger in the safety of our friendship, through passive aggressive attacks. Physical aggression was never his style, nor mine, but if it came to it, he was taking no chances with me. So he’d provoke me, usually by playing a merciless devil’s advocate in any situation where I expressed indignation, hurt or confusion.

As I’d start getting pissed off and testily tell him to pump the brakes, he’d announce, each time, that I had a problem with my temper. That raises a separate question, most people will eventually lose their composure if provoked relentlessly enough by someone close to them.

Of course, he could never admit to provoking me, since he is a high minded man of peace who simply wants everyone to get along.  How would admitting he purposely makes his closest friend angry every time they got together make him look?  So we had a long stalemate that lasted several years.  We had more than one sit down to talk things out, things that I hadn’t yet realized were in the nature of the irrational beast that was our childhood friendship.  

During this time I exercised a patience that sometimes felt superhuman to me.  I almost slugged him on a couple of occasions, but our middle class upbringings got the better of that impulse.  I came to regard him as something close to a friend, but stopped trusting  him with vulnerabilities he could exploit.  This compromise made our friendship a seriously limited partnership.  If you can’t trust a friend with your feelings, there’s not much left.

In the end, after speaking to him many times about this constant provocation, and his reflexive denial that he’d ever provoked me, or anyone else, I concluded the friendship was not viable. This was some years before I learned the terrible law of some friendships — whatever you once tolerated from a friend is the baseline for what you will get in the future, if things start going south. There is no saving certain relationships. When you see contempt and the constant dismissal of your right to your actual feelings, a friendship can’t be saved.

Toward the end of his hellish thirty year marriage, and the official end of our friendship, I called to see how he was holding up. He texted back that we couldn’t talk on the phone, that any talk would need to be in person. He texted back that he needed to see me as soon as possible. A few days later he showed up in my neighborhood, texted when he arrived and we chose a corner to meet on. I stood on that corner and waved to him, as he pulled up. He looked around frantically, made a right turn and drove up Broadway. When I caught up to him at a red light and got in, I saw how stressed he was by the way one of his eyes was twitching.

He smiled and made small talk until I asked him what the urgency to meet in person was. Then he came to the point.

“I don’t know if our friendship can be saved,” he said, “too much damage may have already been done by what you did, and I don’t know if it’s forgivable.”

I think he understood from my expression that I had no idea what he was talking about, but, taking no chances, I said “you’ll have to help me out here, I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Then it came out in a cascade. I had, either deliberately, or with a recklessness no friend is ever allowed to show to someone he cares about, tried to destroy his marriage.

You could have knocked me over with yer proverbial feather. I asked him to elaborate. It turns out that at a marriage counseling session his wife had quoted me, with massive distortion and out of context, to crippling effect. She was then able to say “I’m not the only one who knows you’re a compulsive liar. Your best friend from childhood says you’re a fucking liar!” citing what I’d supposedly said about two versions of the same story I’d heard from each of them.

His story of a recent conflict between an insane and destructive friend of his and his wife, an anecdote I had no interest in hearing, lasted less than a minute. He stopped, telling me he regretted that he’d started to tell it to me. I asked no questions and we went on to other subjects. His wife, who I always liked, called a few days later and told me the complete story. When she was done I said “well, that makes a lot more sense than what Moishe told me.”

“Oh, what did that fucking liar tell you?” she asked, gearing up for the next round with her provocative sparring partner husband.

I told her he’d started to tell me the story, I had no interest in hearing it, he thought better of telling it, stopped, I’d asked him no follow up questions. I told her I didn’t care to hear about it, and his partial version, which lasted about a minute, hadn’t made much sense, but that her long version totally explained what had actually happened.

From here it was a straight line to the marriage counselor agreeing with his angry wife that if he didn’t have the courage to confront a friend who called him a liar behind his back, a destructive person and false friend deliberately or recklessly trying to destroy his marriage, then neither his wife, nor the marriage counselor, could ever have any respect for him. Thus manipulated he rushed off, eye atwitch, to do battle and prove his courage under fire, to save his doomed marriage.

My reaction doesn’t matter for purposes of this story. I sat with him for a few hours, talking everything through, giving him context, making my best suggestions. I told him to go back and tell the marriage counselor what had actually happened, give her all the context.

I was still too innocent, somehow, to realize that talk, no matter how rational or persuasive, can never make a dent in craziness like this. I also didn’t yet grasp the right thing to do when confronted that way, particularly by someone who fears you. Taking the high road, I could have just left the car and walked away. Alternatively, I could have grabbed him by the front of his shirt and menaced him before walking away. I could have also offered him one hard, open handed slap in the face, to be done with the brittle veneer of our friendship forever. Talking reasonably wasn’t going to help anyone at that point, though, by reflex and long habit, I did this for literally a few hours. He even thanked me at the end.

Now we fast forward a decade or so, a period of non-friendship. He has become, in some ways, an observant Jew. He goes to the Chabad House in his town, puts on t’fillin (ancient prayer accoutrements bound to the head and arm) every morning to pray and studies the teachings of the Jewish religion with a rabbi.

The most important teaching of our religion is our duty to our fellow humans on the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur. On that day, according to tradition, God judges each of us, according to our deeds. We are required, before nightfall on Yom Kippur, to seek forgiveness from those we’ve hurt the previous year, forgive those who seek our forgiveness and make amends whenever we can.

In this guy’s personal vision of Judaism, apparently, expressing sympathy for another person’s health problems is the highest moral act a person can perform. He calls periodically to express sympathy for my medical challenges, and ask endless questions about my several major health aggravations. I speak to him calmly, tell him about life lessons I’ve learned since we last spoke. He never has any new lessons to report. He calls a few months later, and after expressing shock that we haven’t talked for so long, asks the same detailed questions about the same aggravating health headaches.

In his mind, it would seem, if enough time passes after even the worst interpersonal ugliness, everything mystically heals. Time itself, through the operation of the Divine, perhaps, eliminates the need to do any more than show sympathy for physical troubles in order to make friendship magically bloom again, no matter what has occurred in the past. You can call this idea crazy, I certainly do. And yet, until now, I have picked up the phone when he calls. It is a weird thing on my part, I have to confess.

I recognize that he is, arguably, the most neurotic person I’ve ever met. It’s easy to see he lacks even the most primitive ability to be self-critical, though he is visibly self-loathing enough for a whole family of self-haters. Why do I pick up the phone when I see his name on the screen? I’m certainly far beyond expecting a different outcome.

I guess there’s a side of me that wants to see how far he will keep pushing this crazy envelope. There is a strange fascination for me, not untinged with horror, every time he reaches out as though we are still the best of friends. So far I haven’t had the heart to ask him this heartbreakingly simple, deal breaking question:

If you accuse somebody of maliciously trying to hurt you, and it turns out they were not trying to hurt you, that, acting on false intel, you acted unfairly, unwisely, hurtfully, in a way that would have badly hurt you, had someone done it to you, are you right to pray every day, and study the words of the sages, righteously hoping for a better life, without ever offering an apology to the person you hurt?

I could add, why don’t you ask your rabbi what the thing God wants you to do is? But that would be overkill, no? Like sending him a link to this piece.