I once heard an interview with Norman Lear in which he said if he could put the same bumper sticker on every car, it would read: Just Another Version of You. I was so taken by this that I actually had bumper stickers printed up with the phrase on them. There’s still one—very faded—on the back of my pickup truck.
I was thinking about this bumper sticker as I obsessively followed the Austin murder trial of Kaitlin Armstrong who, in May 2022, stalked and then brutally executed Mo Wilson, a woman she viewed as a rival for the love and attention of a douchebag named Colin Armstrong. It’s a very long, very complicated story that involves Armstrong fleeing to Costa Rica using her sister’s passport, getting plastic surgery, getting caught, and eventually making another attempt to flee a couple of weeks before her trial.
As I observed myself devouring every article about this story as it unfolded, and digging deep into Reddit threads, I paused to examine my fixation. What was at the root of it?
And then I had a very, very uncomfortable memory of an event that happened many years ago.
I was driving home from Galveston, which necessitated passing through Houston, where lived the last man I had dated, a truly evil narcissist who had beaten on me physically and psychologically during the nearly two years we’d been together. I eventually discovered he was also addicted to porn and meth and that he had been cheating on me with a coworker of his. Nineteen days after he dumped me, he and this woman went public on social media in a way that made it very clear they’d been fucking around for sometime.
Though the breakup was behind me by a good stretch, driving through Houston churned up a lot of old emotions. Suddenly, my mind flipped into rage mode. I wanted them both to suffer, to really really suffer. To my absolute horror, a movie appeared in my mind in which I shot them both dead using the gun this man had gifted me (which, for the record, was unloaded and safely stored back at the ranch).
Though it only lasted a minute or so, I was so flipped out by this unbidden thought that, as I recall, I spoke to my therapist about it. I wasn’t concerned that I would ever actualize the scenario. But the mere idea that I could even think such a thing terrified me. What kind of a person was I?
Like I said, all that happened years ago. It is beyond rare for me to think of that guy at all anymore. Any thoughts that do come in now are clear headed and rational and do not prompt rage or even a slight desire for revenge. I understand cellularly now how severe childhood trauma laid the foundation for me to have gotten involved with this violent narcissist in the first place—my own father had been a violent narcissist. The rare, fleeting moments this ex flits across my mental screen, the only feeling I experience is deep relief that he is gone from my life. I know now, too, that that other woman was just another version of me, a sucker for his lies, and that he surely abused the shit out of her as he had abused me and those that came before me.
And, while I still hate, and will always hate, those sixty seconds or so when I imagined taking the pair of them out, I have also cultivated great compassion for the version of myself that was so utterly emotionally fucked up as to be capable of such thinking.
That part of me is gone now. Laid to rest. I have made choices to ensure I’m never again in a position to feel such unmitigated rage. Namely, after that guy I never dated again and I have no intention of ever trying. Because for all the healing I have done, all the hard work I have put into achieving ongoing calm in my life, I know from far too much experience that I am terrible at choosing partners and that in partnership I am always on super high alert, perpetually anxious, a nervous wreck. I suppose I could do another thirty years of therapy and possibly develop healthy relationship skills but I’d rather focus my efforts on other things, first and foremost my mental health.
There is nothing more important to me than taking care of my mind, which was severely damaged by what happened to me as a child and left me deeply imprinted with many false ideas. That I was a worthless piece of shit. That men are violent and it’s a woman’s job to stand by her man and make excuses for his violence. That I am to do whatever it takes to stroke the egos of these men and put up with their shit.
One word that showed up over and over again in the headlines regarding this sensational murder case is jealousy. Armstrong was broadly portrayed as the spurned lover, a woman driven mad by competitive feelings for the woman she killed, ten years her junior, incredibly accomplished and, it seemed, on deck to “replace” her. But I think there is a more accurate word that might better capture what prompted Armstrong to break.
Before I get to that, it feels important to emphasize that I am in no way making excuses for Armstrong. What she did and the way she did it—cold, calculated, premeditated, remorseless—is inexcusable. Still I remain curious about her state of mind. Many are claiming she’s a flat out psychopath, born a bad seed, incapable of emotion, without any redeeming qualities. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know her. I can’t say.
I can say now, with certainty, what led me to feel as crazy as I felt when I had my murderous thoughts. My rage had less to do with garden variety jealousy and far more to do with humiliation. I had felt so humiliated by this guy, his hateful words, how he had cheated. I felt so humiliated by the other woman, her knowing of my existence and not giving a shit about the pain her choices caused me. I wasn’t jealous in any classic way. But I was furious at having been played, deceived, betrayed.
Humiliation was how my father broke me as a child. The only time I ever spent in a room with him when he did not take the time to insult me was at his wake, which I had not planned to attend but wound up going to at the last minute to show support for my mother. Seeing him dead in that box brought me tremendous relief, knowing he could not continue to hurt me, even if the damage he had already done would never stop hurting.
My narcissistic ex was a master of humiliation. He knew just where to hit me. He would tell me I was way too fat, that he needed a woman he was hot for. When these remarks kicked my eating disorder out of remission and I lost forty pounds—not to please him but purely from anxiety—he went on a rant about how now I was far too bony and still horribly unattractive. I remember when, during our time together, I was voted Best Writer in Austin by readers of the Chronicle, and how I did not want to tell him because I knew he would find some way to cut me down, tell me I was bragging, shame me.
You might ask yourself why I would stay with such an asshole. I actually did try to get out, six months in. But two months after that he called crying from a hospital, about to head into surgery. I rushed to his side, nursed him back to health, and just like that, I was back in. Psychologists call this trauma bonding. In fact there are lots of theories why ill-suited people get together and then stay together, living in a circle of hell that would make Dante wince. There’s repetition compulsion in which one repeats a scenario futilely trying for a different outcome, one that will magically turn an ugly relationship beautiful and simultaneously wash away all childhood wounds. There are attachment disorders that often find those of us with anxious attachment latching onto those with avoidant attachment.
And then there is narcissistic abuse, in which a narcissist love bombs a new victim and convinces her she is loved beyond loved. Once the bond is established, the narcissist switches gears and goes for the emotional jugular, perpetually keeping the victim in a state of confusion. Think of the guy who beats his wife then brings her flowers. It’s called gaslighting and take it from me, this particular form of cruelty can literally cause someone to lose their mind.
I lost my mind when I was with that last guy. I broke completely. I was far more worried I would harm myself than him. There were many times I thought being dead would be preferable to staying alive and continuing to experience his torment.
I look at that version of me now and my heart hurts so much for her. These days I can spot narcissists a mile away. It’s so easy now to see how fucked up and delusional and sadistic they are. I give them a wide berth. But for the longest time I did not have this ability.
A million years ago I was at an Elvis Costello show at The Backyard. Mid-concert a woman leapt onstage. She could not contain herself. Maybe she thought Costello would stop the show, hold her in a deep embrace and run off into the sunset with her. Well, the show did stop, but there was no long embrace. Security hauled her off. She missed the show and she briefly messed it up for the rest of us. As I watched her being wrestled away, I thought about times I had fantasized about being the girl who jumps on stage. I was grateful for whatever filter I had in place that kept me from trying to follow through.
Clearly Kaitlyn Armstrong did not have this filter. She was found guilty and sentenced to ninety years. After sentencing, Wilson’s family issued a statement which read in part:
Other than the prosecution team, there really are no winners here. This sad story is a perfect example of why integrity and honesty are crucial in our personal relationships, and how dishonesty can often lead to unintended consequences. Selfish manipulation, jealousy and hatred never lead to good outcomes. Violence is never a good way to solve personal issues, in fact, violence doesn’t solve anything but only leads to more suffering.
I interpreted this in part as their way of calling out Colin Strickland for his role in Wilson’s murder. Technically the guy is legally innocent. But he did buy the gun for Armstrong. He very clearly played her again and again. Is he culpable for Armstrong pulling the trigger? No. But is there some validity in the idea that his perpetual dishonesty, utter lack of integrity and ongoing manipulation—he had a long pattern of manipulating women—flipped a switch in Armstrong?
Wilson’s family seems to think so. I very much agree.
Some say Strickland will have to live with this for the rest of his life, that his life is over, and this is his punishment. I’d say it’s far less over for him than the women he played, one of whom is dead and the other who will likely spend the rest of her life in prison. If he is feeling remorse—which his behavior in court seems to suggest he is not—at least he can walk around freely thinking about it.
But in my experience, narcissistic abusers never change. They are notoriously difficult to treat because they absolutely refuse to believe anything is wrong with them. Everything is always everyone else’s fault. Self-accountability cannot occur. I have little doubt that if Strickland doesn’t already have a new girlfriend/supply, he’ll find someone who will buy his sob story that it’s not his fault his ex was a psycho. I imagine this woman to be like another version of me, the me that no longer exists, the me that used to buy the sob stories, too.
I have not enjoyed writing this week’s installment, not at all. It hurts me so much to see just how broken my mind was. Broken by a narcissistic parent whose job it was to keep me safe but who did the opposite. Broken again and again over the years as I wound up getting involved with one narcissist after another, unable to spot my patterns let alone do anything about them until decades of excruciating work in therapy got me to the place I am now, finally free of that bullshit.
I wish I had never needed to be told certain basic things, over and over and over, to get to a better place. In hindsight it all seems so simple—if someone is hurting you, leave. Don’t stick around. But women, especially, are conditioned to stick around, often to our brutal detriment.
And so I say to anyone out there who needs to hear it (and hope that maybe this will be the time the message gets through):
A person who lies to you is a person who does not deserve your time.
A person who cheats on you is a person who does not deserve your time.
A person who hits you in the face (or anywhere else) does not deserve your time.
A person who humiliates you does not deserve your time.
The only broken person you have any chance of fixing is yourself.
I know from experience that when you’re in The Crazy Place, you can feel so alone. Like you’re the only one who ever got in such a bad situation. That it’s too shameful to tell anyone about. I assure you, you are not alone. There are so many of us who have been through it. It is okay to ask us for help. Really, we are just another version of you.
NOTES:
Y’all Memorize This: 988. Say it out loud now: 988. That is the MENTAL HEALTH HOTLINE.
The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800.799.SAFE (7233)
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This week’s question: Are you will to share a story about a time you experienced rage? Humiliation?
I’ve got a free writing workshop at the Hampton Branch Library on Tuesday, November 21, 2023 from 5:30-7:30. Even though it’s free, please register here.
Four-week mini memoir writing workshop for ladies at the ranch starts Tuesday November 28, 11 am - 1 pm. $100. I have a couple of slots left. Email me for details.
Thanks for reading y’all!