Every now and again, you’ll hear a woman say, “The word ‘bitch’ should be removed from the English language!”  Sometimes I agree, but now and again, you find these incredible witches with capital “B”’s who underscore the necessity of the word. 
     “Dorothy” (we’ll call her for the purpose of keeping her privacy) is one of those.  More than just witchlike, she was a psycho who couldn’t understand normal thinking.  On second thought, even the c-word might be too tame…

     We met in a bar several years ago.  It was just after midnight, and we’d been having a great conversation.  She was from a state that I used to live in, and we spent quite a while reminiscing the old days.  Old hangouts, old friends (a few of whom we knew in common), old cars and old girlfriends, husbands and wives.
     Eventually, she invited me back to her place to “hang out” for a while.  I went, mind you, but made my motives pretty clear — “Listen, you’re drunk.  I’m not gonna take advantage of that.  You might say it’s not taking advantage, but let’s not do something either of us might regret.  Okay?”
     I’m good like that.  I don’t send mixed signals.

     Unfortunately, once we got back to her place, she was no longer the semi-sober woman she was in the bar and car ride home.  She wanted to dance, scream, and grope, and well, from what I’d seen, this was purely just alcohol talking.  I gave my apologies, my telephone number, and a farewell.
     I’m a nice guy like that.

     The next day, she apologized for “making an ass” of herself, and confided that she’d actually love to see me again.  She said that just wasn’t used to alcohol, couldn’t hold her liquor, and that’s why she never drank.  She also talked about what an amazing coincidence it was that the one time she went out, we met by chance.
     I had to agree.  Yes, we’d had an incredible conversation the night before.  We sat for hours talking like old friends.  She felt somehow familiar, and came complete with all the usual coincidences that make you go, “Hmmmmm.”
     And so, over the next two weeks, we went out several times — taking it all slow and easy. 
     I’m a nice guy like that.

     When you’re a single guy who’s dating often, you’re gonna hear, “Every time I tell someone I have a daughter, they freak out and run away,” at least once in your life.
     Dorothy did it a little differently.  After confiding that she’d hidden the fact that she had a daughter, she said that she’d been afraid to mention it because she was terrified that I’d feel like she was putting too much pressure on me, and our relationship as it was.  
     “You wanna run away now don’t you?” she sobbed.  “I’m sorry… I should have told you.  I just met you… I was afraid.”
     I liked Dorothy pretty well by then, and the fact that she’d hidden having a daughter from, albeit strange, seemed acceptable.
     Because, ya know, I’m a nice guy like that.

     Her daughter, “Dakota,” was understandably timid, having a strange guy around.  Actually, it was strange for her to have a guy around at all, especially one who’d actually talk to her and include her in things.
     She showed a spark of wit and intelligence far beyond her years.  Her and I just clicked — we became good friends and confidants.  I helped her with her homework.  We both loved logic puzzles.  It was kind of weird to be talking to a little girl about history, current events, and things she was going through with her medication (she was diagnosed as ADHD, same as me).
     She was a really, special kid.

     As with all relationships, slowly but surely, the thin veneer of privacy began to wear away.  I was around more often, and for longer and longer each time.
     One day, as I walked up to the front door, I heard her screaming, “You’re [expletive] stupid, Dakota!  You little bitch!  What the Hell is your problem?!”
     It got worse.

     Overprotective…
     The word has so many connotations these days…
     But hey, Dorothy went absolutely ballistic on me on day (screaming every profanity in the book) because I let her daughter use a pencil out of my briefcase.
     “You stupid [expletive] [expletive]!  What the [expletive] were you thinking?  You [expletive] psycho!  Trying to kill my daughter!  I should have known better than to go with such an idiot!  I have a PhD!”
     Instead of responding in kind (did I mention I’m a nice guy?) I finally asked her, “What are you yelling at me for?  This makes no sense!”
     “Pencils have lead in them!  That’s deadly!  You stupid [expletive] [expletive]!  You act like you can be a good [expletive] parent!  What the [expletive] are you giving my stupid [expletive] child a pencil for?  You [expletive] uneducated redneck!”
     Now, aside from all the ridiculous accusations … This was a post-grad with a PhD, and she could somehow make the jump from my allowing her daughter to use a pencil to my being an “uneducated redneck” who was attempting to kill my own daughter — that was where the context led.
     One thing at time — I had to wonder, did this woman skip science class in public school, or what?  As far as I knew, “lead” had been substituted for varying degrees of graphite for *at least* thirty years by the time of this incident.
     She went off for a solid three hours more, attacking me, my personality, my livelihood, my friends, my family, the Republican Party, the planet Mercury, the Solar System, at least fourty-eight percent of the Milky Way galaxy and some guy she met at a Quick Trip in Oklahoma.
     And that she had a PhD, and I was most certainly “a [expletive] idiot.”
     I held my tongue — because I’m a nice guy, dammit! — and tried to see past all the weird crapola to the crux of the issue.  It was becoming more than apparent to me that Dorothy was, in fact, a raving lunatic.
     True to form, she got a lot worse.

     Eventually, Dorothy, thirty years her daughter’s senior, devolved into a nasty little child one day, screaming, “I’m a PhD, your an idiot, and I hate you!  Hate you!  La-lalala!  She held her hands over her ears and continued to “la-lalala” for some time.
     It had started simply enough.  Dakota and I had been looking through a puzzle book.  One of the puzzles, an optical illusion, was so simple, we were pretty sure we were missing something.  To Dorothy, however, she looked at it for ten minutes before figuring it out, and raved about how brilliant the puzzle was.
     Dakota said something about how she and I weren’t sure if that’s what it actually was, because it seemed a little too simple, and Dorothy lost her mind.
     With a closed first, she punched Dakota in the chest, knocked her over and started kicking.
     I grabbed hold of her and pulled out of the room to keep her from beating Dakota to death.
     If only she’d been a man…

     Eventually, after many, many conversations which ended with, “I’m a PhD and you’re a [expletive] idiot!” I got her to agree to let Dakota stay with her father for a few months.
     As soon as school was over, we packed in the car and headed off to meet him halfway — a four hundred and fifty mile car trip with a screaming nutjob.
     On the way back, I snapped.

     I had a revelation then.  I had stayed in that relationship to act as a buffer between an abusive mother and a terrified little girl.
     “Ya know,” I said calmly.  “There’s a lot of difference between ‘intelligent’ and ’smart.’  You, my dear, are neither.  I’m not a parent, but you seem to want me to be.
     “To me, parenting isn’t about having to take sides in stupid arguments.  It’s about giving a child enough leighway to allow her to make her own decisions, have her own failures, and be there for her regardless of the outcome.
     “You can tell her ‘yes’ and ‘no’ all you want, but she’s probably gonna do whatever the Hell she wants to do no matter what you say.  You can punish her when she screws up.  But the next damn time you hit her, just remember that she’s almost as big as you.  It’s not gonna too long before she stands up and kicks your ass.
     “And quite honestly, hon, I hope you’re still sane enough to take a good ass-whooping from her because I don’t want to be the one to give it to you.
     “You need to start trying to fix yourself right now.
     “You can pull over and drop me off right here.  And [expletive] off.”
     In retrospect, sure.  It was mean.  But that’s what needed to be said.  Nevermind that she dropped me off on the interstate one hundred miles away from home.
     No child should have to put up with that shit — and neither should I.

     A few months later, Dorothy called me at 4AM.
     “I’ve been thinking about you!” she slurred.
     “Oh, have you?  Well, I haven’t been thinking about you.  Goodbye.”
     “No, wait … wait!” she screamed.  “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said.  You’re right.  And you’re a [expletive] [expletive]!  Why the [expletive] do you hafta be right all the time?  You [expletive] [expletive]!  But that’s why I love you.”
     “You are [expletive] nuts.  Please seek professional help.”
     “You’ve been thinking about me!  I know you have!”
     “Please seek professional help.  For you and your daughter’s sake.  Otherwise, I’ll be happy to call child and family services.”
     “You [expletive] [expletive]!  You go ahead and do it, and you’ll just prove that YOU’RE the psychobitch!  I have a PhD and you’re [expletive] stupid!”
     I played the role of “peacemaker” between a nutso-schizoid mother, who thought everything was a Right-Wing Conspiracy to screw her over and everyone else (being, literally, everyone else) was just a “[expletive] dumbass,” and a terrified, hyper-intelligent little girl.
     Nobody should be put in that position. 

     I never talked to Dorothy again after that drunken phone call of hers.  I hope Dakota turned out to be well-adjusted despite it all, and certainly hope the physical abuse didn’t continue… 
     But I could not take another second of that crap without … well … I had stopped Dorothy from beating Dakota so often — not spanking, mind you, I’m talking about hitting her, with a closed fist, in the arms, torso and face — that it was only a matter of time before I gave Mommy a little taste of what she was dishing out.
     It terrified me.

     The silver lining came unexpectedly as my first ex-wife and I started a dialogue after so many years of not speaking to one another.  
     When we’d been married, I was angry pretty much all of the time.  Quite a lot of that centered around my wife — but not at her, mind you.  I put her on a pedestal that she the sweetest woman in the world, and anyone else who didn’t see that was an asshole!
     I was angry if someone was looking at her sideways, angry if they didn’t like her.  Whatever the reason, I was certainly going to kick somebody’s ass.
     Eventually, she had enough.  It was always more and more extreme, and quite embarassing for her.  She just knew that that one day, I might direct some of that hatred and anger towards her.
     Honestly, I would have walked away first.  But certainly, I can’t blame her at all for thinking that.

     I probably never would have thought about any of that if it weren’t for Dorothy.  Yeah, she was a psychobitch nutjob.  But in my book, if you can make peace with the past and move on, it’s a good day.
     Walking away made sure I stayed a nice guy.