Artificial Indifference
Artificial Indifference. Finally—a name for the thing that was sought, feigned, and revered in my family, and later in an equally dysfunctional marriage. I see my younger son trying to develop this same vibe. We jokingly call it “Bro Bro” or “Chad” whenever he slips into that “whatever” tone, blank face, and flat energy—right in moments when something is deeply affecting him or someone else. He refuses to acknowledge any struggle or discomfort, his or anybody’s.
What the hell. Poor kid. His father’s refusal to share even basic logistical information about our sons keeps him stuck in the middle. My son becomes the messenger for information his father withholds. He works hard to appear calm, unaffected, unbiased. He knows the price of doing otherwise, and he seems naturally wired to pull it off. My other son gets torn apart by this forced dissociation.
What my sister, my boys’ father, and our genetically linked people perpetuate through this dynamic is soul‑killing for children. It’s traumatic. Why the constant hustle to appear indifferent to the natural discomfort caused by hurtful things people think, say, or do?
My sons return today from an 11‑day visit with an aunt who openly diminishes me in front of them—because I calmly said no to her, once, with finality. She does it in support of their dad, her brother, whose love she can buy and whose approval she accepts conditionally. Here’s an idea: what about supporting the young, developing boys you claim you’d do anything for?
They’re flying home a day later than I was told, with no flight or return information provided. Lesson learned. I will not agree to another trip where they must abandon me—or themselves—to enjoy the benefits of inclusion and protection.
I am angry. Recovery doesn’t require me to avoid anger; it requires me not to let the feeling control my words or actions. I’m recovered enough not to comment directly to their father about these damaging patterns. I accept that this is the best he can do. I don’t “accept” it as in approve—I accept it as reality.
I’m proud that I can feel this disturbed, rightly so, and still not compromise my sense of self or wellness. People benefitted for too long from the distraction of my reactive behaviors.
This man not only breaks our boys’ hearts and basic parenting codes—he also breaks the law. He is legally required to provide this information. Until he can do that, this will be the last trip I consent to. This isn’t retaliation. It’s preservation. It’s parenting.
I really did marry my snakey sister. I genuinely appreciate actual reptiles doing their snake things. But the sneaky, underhanded, shadow‑slithering tactics? I cannot.
Recently, I heard someone say “my ex,” and I realized I would never refer to the emotional, moral, and spiritual clone of my sibling—the man I married—as “my ex.” He is not my anything. He is a reminder and a final lesson. I refer to him only as the father of my children. And because he likely prefers the optics of a “failed marriage” he can blame on me over simply being single, I’m sure he proudly calls me “my ex.”
I’ve now met two women who went on dates with him and reported that he spent the entire first (and only) date talking about me. Ew.
With his commitment to never changing, I sometimes believe our boys would be better off with one of us gone. That thought makes me sad. Too much has been asked of them and taken from them. They have a depressed mother who is openly in pain, and a father who insists that acknowledging pain makes it real. When trauma is denied, trauma is repeated.
On a side note—spiteful, maybe, but grounding—I remind myself:
- His only “real” relationship before me (according to him) was with his best friend Roger’s wife, and he blamed her for the fallout.
- He aligned with my sister at our children’s expense and maintained that situationship as long as she allowed it.
- He reached out to his sister’s ex‑husband—someone he barely knew—to bond over shared irritation at her reactions.
- Another sister took up with her ex‑husband’s best friend immediately after her divorce.
This is what I’m working with, alongside my own wounds and demons.
It’s ridiculous—like I’m gossiping and talking shit to myself. My behavior isn’t always good. Still. Maybe I’ll do better tomorrow.
