tBWoP is an abbreviation for the working title of my memoir, the Black Widow[1] of Portofino—a relic from a time I can only describe as Before, before a deep psychological shift altered how I approach this project. OK, that’s not completely honest: it’s wishful thinking. Part of me, the stubborn bit always getting me into trouble, still clings to that black-and-white time. A time before I’d done any research, when I could point my finger with undue confidence and wag it. I hate that side of me—the part of me I can’t measure or control.
If the spider had never existed and Dad drank himself to death anyway, would I still be writing this memoir?
I like to think so. But through this process, I’ve learned that I don’t know diddly. Maybe I am just out for revenge. Framing Dad’s story under that title certainly feels wrong now, reinforcing my fear that I started this project for the wrong reasons. So, while it remains my memoir’s “working title,” I’ve moved away from that name and what it represents. (I’ll save it for a rainy day; sequels are all the rage, and I’ll always find her character—or lack of one—fascinating.)
Printing out the rest of my epic timeline the other day shook the peace I thought I’d found. It reminded me how unhinged the Black Widow’s actions were, but more than that, it reminded me how sick my daddy was—and for much longer than she was around. She didn’t cause his disease, but she made it worse. She was detrimental to his health, but she didn’t kill him.
Whenever I think, Maybe I’m starting to forgive—a sharp, searing pain, best described as anger, shoots from my head to my heart. It’s like that scene in A Christmas Story when Flick sticks his tongue to the cold flagpole. But imagine him yanking it free himself—no kindly teacher, no soothing hot water. That’s how this anger feels for me when I think about forgiving the unforgivable. I can’t even forgive myself, if that means anything. I used to convince myself that if only I’d squashed that ugly spider when she first bared her fangs at me, Dad’s death could’ve been prevented. But now I know it would have backfired.
A swarm of mutant baby spiders would’ve exploded from her burst gut, or worse—my love-sick daddy would’ve blamed me for chasing away his succubus. Maybe Dad would still be alive, but he would’ve resented me for losing her. And I couldn’t have handled that. It’s why I never set boundaries before he died—always letting them fall to avoid upsetting anyone. Even if I’d forced her out, Dad would have let her back in. He couldn’t stop her, no matter how much I wanted him to. Once I was out of the way, the Black Widow would’ve come creeping-crawling back.
Getting rid of a person with dollar sign eyes, zero shame, and no moral core isn’t something you can just do.
Even if I had managed it, the damage was already done. If, by some miracle, she left him alone, but for good this time—say, after he lost all his money in the stock market—Dad would’ve been consumed by devastating grief. Again.
In Psychopath Free, Jackson Mackenzie[2] perfectly describes this type of devastation. Dad had been through it before. In October 2020 (and in April, June, and July 2020), the Black Widow periodically left him for another on-again-off-again boyfriend, whom she’s still chasing in 2024. The texts I recovered from that timeframe eerily mirrored Mackenzie’s descriptions of emotional abuse. Dad’s confusion was heartbreakingly clear as the spider methodically checked off every box in the “psychopathic breakup checklist,” which Mackenzie starts to explain on page 85 of his book.
Mackenzie writes, “The early stages of recovery are like a whirlwind—chaotic, volatile, and uncontrollable… You don’t yet understand how the abuse destroyed your confidence and identity—because you don’t even know to call it abuse. All you know is that you’re hurting more than you ever have in your life” (p. 116). The symptoms he lists—shock, emptiness, substance abuse, suicidal thoughts, inability to focus, depression, and physical deterioration—fit Dad to a T.
One day, possibly around his birthday or maybe Thanksgiving, Dad put a gun to his temple. And for reasons I still can’t fathom, the spider took a picture of him. I’m staring at the photo right now. She didn’t take that picture to help him. If she had, she would have shown it to his doctors or reached out to someone for help, rather than using it allegedly to taunt his ex. Instead, we only found out about it later. It wasn’t until my little sister received a desperate text from Dad that someone finally called 911, and he got the help he needed.
I have to believe Dad sending a suicidal text to his daughter wasn’t deliberate; it couldn’t have been. Dad had accidentally texted her before when he thought he was texting the Black Widow. I just can’t accept that he’d do that to his Boobear on purpose. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Dad would have texted anyone else before texting his sweet Boo something like that, but there’s a chance he truly was feeling that desperate.
Of course, of course, his daughter did what the Black Widow never would—she called 911.
Given Dad’s reaction when the cops showed up, texting Libby was an accident. He was not happy, but he got help that day.
I think his drinking had already begun to chip away at his brain, but it wouldn’t be until after rehab that a traumatic brain injury would seriously impair him. It’s hard to say anything for sure, but the difference in his brain scans from March and June 2021 was stark enough for a layperson to notice.
Dad’s stroke and the drinking that followed had stripped him of more than we could’ve imagined. He was no longer the man I’d grown up with. According to a neurologist our family consulted in 2022, there was “a significant loss of brain volume, especially in the frontal lobes.” His doctors must’ve known how serious it was. A clinical care coordinator from GB Hospital tried reaching out to Dad and his new wife just before the end, but her calls went unanswered. Like my sister, she called 911 for a welfare check, concerned by reports of abuse and Dad’s many missed appointments.
Dad wasn’t well; he should’ve been taken to a hospital, not the marriage altar.
[1] For clarification, this is the same person I’ve referenced in past posts as Undesirable #1 and She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. She has a pseudonym in my memoir to protect her identity, which I might start using here to avoid any confusion. (Let me know if you think that would be helpful.)
[2] In a future post, I’ll go into more detail about the entire process, which Jackson Mackenzie lays out in three parts: the manufactured soulmate, the path to recovery, and freedom. Using examples from my dad’s experience, including texts, social media posts, and recovered data from his computer, I’ve tracked his toxic relationship as it evolved into something more sinister.
Also, I feel it’s important to note that Mr. Mackenzie, while knowledgeable in this subject because of his own experiences dealing with narcissistic abuse, was not a doctor. He was a cofounder of PyschopathFree.com and tragically passed away in 2023. May he rest in peace.
Resources:
MacKenzie, Jackson. Psychopath Free (Expanded Edition): Recovering from Emotionally Abusive Relationships With Narcissists, Sociopaths, and Other Toxic People. Penguin, 2015.
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A gre
I can assume what you were going to say. Thanks, Mom. #1 Fan. Always.
What she is, really, is a rattlesnake. They’re dangerous animals but only if you play with them. If you leave them alone, they will leave you alone. So, if you play with a rattlesnake and it bites you, you really cannot blame the snake. It’s just doing what’s in its nature to do. And if the bite proves fatal, I think it’s a waste for the survivors to hate the snake.
Keep at it, Kinsey.
— your penpal
SO powerful, Kinsey. Wow.
Alcoholism is such a terrible disease. I am witnessing it right now with a loved one. The effect on the body and the brain is staggering. My heart aches for your father – imagining what he went through – and for all of you, who truly loved and cherished him.
Those who prey on the weak and the vulnerable are sick and ugly people. How could anyone take a photo of someone they supposedly cared about putting a gun to their own temple? There is a hole where her heart ought to be.
I’m sorry you’re going through this with a loved one, as I truly wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even the Black Widow. It’s such a helpless, hopeless feeling, watching it take away someone you care about, how it can turn their mind and make them someone mean. So many conflicting emotions with alcoholism. Excuse my French, but it’s honestly a mind-fuck to love someone with this disease. I’m sending positive vibes your way (an atheist’s thoughts and prayers).