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HIERARCHY OF WEIRD SHIT

I begin to see a pattern that I can’t believe I haven’t noticed before—a direct and unmistakable correlation between what Timmy chooses to wear on any given day, and how he’s likely to behave.

I begin to dread all of it, like an internal weather system predicting the storm before it begins.

At the lowest level of this strange hierarchy is the claw necklace. When he wears it, he wants to stand out, but not too much—just a bit of flair to fish for compliments. The claw necklace means he’s feeling a little restless, maybe seeking validation, but still manageable. I can handle him on claw necklace days.

I’m glad he doesn’t have that hideous fucking bone necklace anymore, or I’m sure it would be next.

But god help me when the Superman cape comes out. Nothing good happens when Timmy wears the cape. It’s like slipping on that ridiculous piece of red fabric, made for a child, gives him permission to abandon all self-restraint, as if the flimsy costume allows him to become the version of himself that only exists at the height of his mania. The chaotic supervillain that nobody wants or needs .

And I’m grateful—so grateful—that the giant coconut hat is gone, destroyed after the day he exploded on me in the first apartment. It was a harbinger of chaos, its appearance always preceding an outburst, like an omen. Timmy himself admitted that wearing that hat made him feel mischievous and invincible, reckless.

Without it, we’re down to the cape, the claw necklace, and occasionally my sunglasses. That little accessory feels like a warning, too—like some part of him enjoys stepping into my world and twisting it into his playground.

There are other red flags, too. The days he asks me to braid his hair, for example, aren’t as innocent and cute as they first seemed. Sometimes, it’s just vanity—he likes the way the soft lilac hair ties I got him look against his finer hair. And I agree—he looks cute with his hair done like that. But if the braids appear alongside the Superman cape? That’s a double warning. A sure sign that his playful energy is spiraling toward something more dangerous. It’s like he’s slowly assembling armor—becoming a caricature of himself, gearing up for behavior even he struggles to contain.

By now, the sight of him putting on the cape alone is enough to give me instant heartburn. I get that sick, anxious feeling, like my body knows what’s coming before my mind can fully process it. It’s almost like, by slipping into these costumes, Timmy gives himself permission to unleash the parts of him that he usually hides. The parts that frighten me. It’s like he believes the clothes transform him into something untouchable, someone wild and untethered and accountable to no one. He’s waving a red cloth at a terrifying, raging bull, but he’s both the bull and the matador.

He starts off mildly excited, practically bouncing on his toes, but I can always sense the tension bubbling just underneath the surface. Excitement turns into hyperactivity, and then, inevitably, agitation creeps in. His energy feels combustible, like a powder keg ready to explode at any moment.

He thrives on the attention these costumes bring him. It doesn’t matter that people are staring at him because he looks absurd—he revels in all of it. Positive attention, negative attention—it’s all the same to Timmy. All publicity is good publicity in his mind. And if someone offers him even the smallest compliment, he clings to it, repeating it over and over, embellishing it each time. The five people who said something nice become ten, then twelve, then more. It’s as if every kind word becomes a trophy he hoards, a shield against the reality of his spiraling behavior.

Meanwhile, I’m left in the background, desperate for even a fraction of the affection and praise he once lavished on me. When we first met, his compliments came in waves—almost too much—making me feel beautiful, talented, special. But now that well has dried up, and all I get are the odd scraps.

Instead of praise, I get picked apart. Constant little jabs that chip away at my confidence—comments about what I’m eating—even though I’ve asked him not to, how I’m cooking, how I’m cleaning. It feels relentless, like there’s no aspect of my life too small to be criticized.

The only thing he doesn’t seem to criticize is what I wear, and I don’t know if that’s a relief or just another way he’s checked out.

These days, I don’t feel so pretty looking in the mirror. I don’t feel so confident in my ability to get things done. My brain is in a constant fog. I can count on one finger the amount of nice things he’ll say to me in a day. Sometimes no fingers. But the jabs are becoming exponential.

I start to keep a mental catalogue of the things I do that upset him that might set him off, no doubt inviting more jabs—putting on a show he doesn’t like, putting on a song he doesn’t feel like listening to, saying no when he wants me to buy him something, saying no when he wants to smoke cigarettes out on the street in a dangerous neighborhood late at night, saying no when he wants to jump off a bridge—that one really seems to set him off, asking him to get out of bed before midday, asking him to contribute financially, bringing up his promises to do the dishes—which he inevitably ignores, letting them pile up until he’s furious about their gross state—and I end up cleaning them at that point, anyway.

It’s not that my requests are unreasonable. In a healthy relationship, none of these things would be issues. They’d be quick conversations, followed by compromise and mutual respect. But with Timmy, setting even the tiniest boundary feels like poking a bear.

Any resistance on my part unleashes an avalanche of hostility. It’s like he expects me to adjust to his shifting moods, no matter how chaotic or contradictory they become. If he changes his mind about something from one day to the next, I’m just expected to know and go along with it—even if it hurts me.

But when Timmy gets what he wants? He’s euphoric. He’s happiest when he’s in control of what we watch, what we do, how we spend our time, when he’s receiving compliments and admiration—especially from strangers, when I buy him things without complaint, when he remembers prior praise and compliments, and when he garners new praise from people on the street or on the beach—wherever he can find it.

His need for external validation has grown insatiable. He seems far less interested in my opinions now, as though my praise has lost its value. But if a stranger says something nice, he’s over the moon—grinning for hours, replaying the moment in exaggerated detail.

It’s like dealing with a toddler: do what Timmy wants, receive love—set a boundary with Timmy, all hell breaks loose.

The exhausting whiplash between his fleeting joy and explosive anger is taking its toll. I feel like I’m constantly walking on eggshells, trying to navigate his moods without triggering an outburst. But it’s impossible—no matter how careful I am, something always sets him off.

I used to believe that all adults, even the most complicated ones, could be reasoned with. That love and communication could solve most problems. But Timmy’s emotional landscape feels less like the nuanced complexity of adulthood, and more like the volatile whims of a child.

I know he’s hurting. I know that there’s a part of him that’s lost and desperate for love and validation. But his need for control, for attention, for things to go his way at all times—those things are swallowing him .

And I’m starting to wonder if there’s any version of this relationship where I don’t get eaten alive too.