Violent Mother Fucking Friend Break Up

I recently had a falling out with a friend who is also long-ago ex boyfriend. He fucking punched me in the sternum, hard and in anger!

He was on the phone fumbling through a story about he and his friend being attacked at the gym in the locker room – a place he and his friend spend most of their time and productive energies, “getting bigger”. I met him sitting in a sidewalk seating area outside a busy coffee shop, hunched forward facing the ground. I waited for him to wrap up the call, but it kept going. He was stammering and looping back over details again and again. I thought, he is upset, but if he is talking to a friend, hang it up and talk to me, I was standing right in front of him after all.

I gently pulled him out of his hunch, trying to achieve eye contact and asked, “is that a complaint call?” He jumped up from the chair and flailed his arms. He was so animated I thought that it might be a joke, and then he shoved me away. I chuckled a bit, “what’s going on?” and I playfully shoved him back.

The thing is, just two weeks prior to this situation, I was stuck on an important work call outside a shop where Matt and I had plans to meet that day. The call was going long as I was attempting to retain a client that meant several hundred dollars a month to me. I was ten minutes over our meeting time, and Matt was immediately impatient. As he has done many times before, in a typical display of his complete lack of boundaries, and general disregard for other people’s work and life situations, he began to talk loudly, so that my client on the line could hear him, while also physically hassling me – pushing, grabbing, trying to intrusively kiss me – just annoying crap. Like him, I got mad, shoved him away, mouthed that I needed five minutes, that this was important, it’s work, and for him to fuck off. That day he got pissed and walked off while texting that I have no respect for other people’s time, and that it is a typical selfish move on my part. I’m not disagreeing with him, and work is work.

Today, immediately after the comical, animated flailing, he raised his fist, shook it and punched me squarely in the sternum. It was loud. It knocked half the air out of me. It happened very fast, there was no more than two to four seconds from my first inquiry to his surprising and extreme reaction. The half dozen people around us looked, it was outside on a city street, and still loud enough to attract everyones attention. It hurt, Matt is a big, strong gym rat.

While feeling the gut cramp that comes with having the air knocked out of you, I took a beat, and then another. It took those moments to scan for physical damage, and then to begin to comprehend the emotional damage. I stepped past him and into the street, decided that I needed to get out of there. Extreme sadness and shock swelled up with every second past, and on their tails came adrenaline and anger. “Fuck this, and fuck you.” I whispered as I headed toward my bicycle, locked up around the corner.

I could feel the pressure behind my eyes, and a raw expression on my face, one that I was sure even a stranger could see and understand. I imagined that I looked like I was about to cry. I attempted to flatten my expression, grabbed my phone, still touching the cramped up space just below my sternum, and I very deliberately sent Matt a text message reading, “Fuck your mother”.

I realize that this may seem reactive, but it is actually a very deliberate statement for me. While I can be quite confrontational when the occasion arrises, I’ve never been in a fist fight; however, once during a very frustrating, very lucid, and tense dream, I decided that when someone is looking to transition a disagreement from a frustrating impasse into a physical fight, all one has to say is, “Fuck your mother.”

I actually had that dream several years ago when I was dating Matt. I remembered recapping it for him the next morning. I told him how I had a few moments to think about my actions and words and that it felt like I stumbled upon a universal school-yard truth about violence and violent intention; that is to say those three words calmly, clearly, firmly, and with resolve.

I’m sure that Matt didn’t remembered this, and I know when I tell this story, the deliberateness of that statement is lost to anyone that does not exist inside my head. Still, I’m rather proud of the concise and specific nature of the seemingly immature and reactive words that I communicated in that text message.

When given the chance, Matt text me something about my being selfish, and self centered, and to never contact him again. He sent this while I was riding my bicycle home through The Mission. While I was sorting through my feelings and fantasizing about the mean things I’d say to him, he too, was still reacting outloud to his targeted observations about the horridness of me. So, he loaded those insults on top of the literal injury he had just inflicted.

I was realizing that I didn’t want an apology. That I couldn’t hear one, and that the irony of this tables-turned experience was surely lost on my socially weird, and childish friend. The creative nastiness was welling up. I was planning a message that went something like, I don’t want to hear from you unless you have a problem on par with your mother being abducted and made into some biker gang’s anal cum-dump whore. It’s a good 25 minute ride home, so I had the chance to add more to my communication restrictions; that his dad would also have to be held hostage, and made to watch his wife get repeatedly anally gang-raped while tied up near by.

This is how clearly I wanted to express my anger, this is the vile image I wanted to instill in Matt for that reactive punch, for his complete disregard for our history and our friendship. For his immature lack of control. For the dark, sad, empty hole he had just created in me, the one I could already feel so distinctly. For the place he used to exist in my heart as someone I cared about, someone I was happy to see, and watch grow, and enjoy life. He just punched that hole into my heart, and sentenced me to feeling that lack for years and years to come.

Once home, I pulled out my phone and saw the insulting text he sent during my ride. I couldn’t believe he was still reacting, still blaming me for getting punched. I started thumbing my sad response into the phone, while wishing, dry-eyed, that I could cry this out: text one: “You are a narcissistic child”. Text two: “You’re blocked.” Text three, “Fuck your mother.”

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