A Letter to an Idiot

The next morning in traffic, I compose the following letter in my head:

Dear Mary-ellen, you uncommonly stupid woman -

Though I need to be clear that your inane opinions are completely meaningless and unimportant to me, and frankly, to most of the planet's inhabitants, the fact that you so confidently spew forth your unsolicited commentary on the events of my life and your assumptions about them, compels me to fill in the enormous gaps in your intelligence on this topic. Pun intended.

First, you are an idiot to think that my mother could influence even the most minor decisions in my life. Unlike your needy, dependent self, I do not regularly consult my mother on matters of any import, as I am a fully evolved adult with a superior education, and goals and ambitions, and distinct opinions about the life I intend to live myself and attain for my children. I also have standards, and taste, and some sense of propriety, all of which you would know nothing about.

Secondly, how you can even dare to assert an opinion or a musing of any kind about my life is beyond my comprehension. We have never been on friendly terms, I have shared nothing personal with you, and do not trust you. What you may think you have learned about me you are likely to be mistaken about; your version of factual information is diluted and distorted by distance, and grossly misunderstood by my brother who is as uninformed as you. So do yourself a favor and stow your opinions. You do nothing but embarrass yourself. You may as well be pontificating about Kate Middleton. You don't even know what you don't know.

And lastly, to make even a futile attempt to enlighten you and hope that your sieve of a brain retains even the slightest point of fact, I would like you to know that the following things, none of which had anything to do with my mother, were the reasons for my choosing to divorce Lars, and informed the choices I have made in doing so:

Lars is an unstable man. His parents clearly did not love him. The things they did as parents and failed to do as parents should have landed them in jail. These facts came home to haunt him right after the children were born. His behavior changed over the next few years to the point where he became intolerable to live with. His mistreatment extends not only to me but to our children.

Lars, in his sadness, turned to drugs. He did not choose therapy, or choose to confide in his wife, or seek any sort of professional help to heal himself. He chose drugs. He began abusing prescription drugs and put his career, his freedom, his life and the lives of his family at risk in favor of drug abuse. That is a very sad truth for a wife to accept.

Lars' personality became dark and suspicious. He sat in the dark for hours watching movies and insisting the children and I remain quiet. No phone, no lights, no computer, no talking. If we wanted to enjoy those things we had to go somewhere else.

He fantasized that I was having affairs with all manner of people at work and called me incessantly all day long in my office. All of my coworkers remarked on it and thought him a fool. The truth is that he gave me every motivation to run around and keep company with men who would appreciate me, but I never did. Not even once. And he thanks me by telling everyone that I did.

He became so jealous and paranoid that he saw fit to mistreat me. At home, in public, socially, and in front of the kids. I would avoid fights by ignoring it, but we fought on the way home from every party, wedding, school event, and gathering of friends, once outside the company of others. On the night before I told him I wanted a divorce, he humiliated me at a black tie charity event where we were seated with some very important partners from my firm. They commented to me later that week. I was mortified that they'd noticed. I'd so hoped I'd been the only one. The disrespect was so hurtful.

I got to the point where I could not get happy. Not at home, not with the kids, not on vacation, not in my work. My life with Lars was so oppressive that I could do nothing but simply put one foot in front of the other and go through the motions of living one day after another. It was a sad, bleak, hopeless existence with few moments of joy, and more moments of despair. After retreating to Charlotte's house a few times to escape, she said to me, "Liza, this is the third time this month you've been crying in my kitchen. What are you going to do? Your kids deserve a happier mother."

And she was right. I was afraid and I was confused and I was hurt and I was lonely and I didn't know how to fix what was wrong. I'd asked Lars to go to counseling with me a year or two before, and he'd refused, saying only, "You are the one with all the problems. If you want counseling, go get yourself some counseling." But I was certain about one thing. I was not giving my kids the mother they deserved and the attention they needed by wallowing in my misery day in and day out. And the only way to give them what they needed would be in divorcing their father and gaining the distance to restore myself.

When my mother came to town a week later, I told her I thought I needed to get divorced, and what you may be surprised to learn is that she told me the children were too young and to try to get myself happy, and to stick it out for a few years and maybe by then things would have changed for the better.

What I said then I will say now. I did not need anyone's permission. I did not seek anyone's approval. I did not need anyone to clear me for take off. I needed to change my life. Telling you in advance was just a courtesy.

I do not need you to understand any of this. It is complicated and personal. You think you can sit in judgement of me, but you can not. To do so, you would have to comprehend and your opinion would have to matter. You don't and it does not.

So before you go spouting off on topics about which your are woefully uninformed, and before you dare let my name or your opinion of me cross your lips, understand that you have been horribly wrong and misguided, and all that matters is that I KNOW IT. I don't care what you think or what you think you know about me, or what you've said about me. You are indescribably insignificant.

I hope you find some way to focus on your own life and stop dwelling on mine. In my worst moment I have been a finer, more productive, happier, more grounded, better informed, more thoughtful person than you have been in your finest hour. Shame on you for assuming otherwise. You are pathetic.


Most sincerely,

Liza

Of course I will never send it. But it feels good to have written it. She is not worth the paper and stamp it would waste, and any attempt to enlighten her is a fool's errand to begin with. I am satisfied knowing the truth in my heart.