The Apology

by Eve Ensler

  Of course, the repetition of the lie alone will not be enough to solidify the narrative or secure its permanence. This is a much more extensive project. The whole environment surrounding the lie must be altered as well. You must work to break the community (who consciously or unconsciously know the truth) of their capacity to believe themselves or each other. You must enact a scheme that will steadily and assuredly convince them of their own stupidity and lack of credibility. I devoted a great deal of energy and time to this endeavor. And one of the most chilling aspects of it was to discover that in convincing you and your mother of your stupidity, I actually made you stupid. This of course only made me despise you more.

  Credibility is at once an amorphous and a specific thing. It’s suffused with intangible qualities: sureness, confidence, calm. Those who have been beaten down and been made to feel like worthless idiots can never exude such assurance and poise. They appear desperate because they are desperate. No one has ever believed them, and so they are compelled to resort to extreme measures: emotionality, hyperbole, exaggeration. They speak louder, they wave their hands. They appear hysterical. Eve, you started to embellish facts and exaggerate. You would tell me, “Daddy, I want to drive to school. Everyone in my class is driving a car.”

  And I would say, “Everyone, Eve? Every single person?” And you would say, “Yes, yes, yes, everyone,” and I would say, “Okay then, go gather their names, bring them to me. Show me the everyone.” At which point your face would fall. Case closed. Guilty as charged.

  It’s a vicious circle, really, and one that I exploited. You refuse to believe the person. They become extreme in order to prove their case. Their exaggeration and overstatement erase their credibility and eventually, over time, they too begin to doubt themselves as well as everyone who witnesses this ongoing enactment. The whole family came to mock you, Eve, and your huge pronouncements based on little to no facts, your almost fanciful exaggerations of almost everything, your extreme displays of emotion in delivering these absurdities. And so the project fulfilled itself and you became the one who could not be trusted, the one no one believed.

  I can see now how this robbed you of sureness of your own seriousness and intelligence. I know you have been plagued with an agonizing and debilitating belief that you are stupid in the face of others who have not had to resort to such hyperbole in order to be seen or believed. It was trickier with your mother. I had to make her seem stupid but not too stupid, otherwise the legitimacy of her allegiance to my authority would have come into question.

  My attacks on her intelligence were more nuanced and less frequent and had to be moderated with care, undermining her enough to assure complete dominance and her total dependence, but not so extremely as to make it seem as though her choices were not her own.

  I know you are wondering, was all this a conscious maneuvering on my part? Did I methodically manipulate and design this wickedness? And the answer is not clear. I will not lie here, Eve, I had come to despise you. You had taken life away from me. You had opened my heart and made it dependent on fresh blood and then you had cut it off at the arteries. I was a drowning privileged man. Did I know then that what I was doing was diabolical? Did I have an inner moral sense that what I did was terribly off? Perhaps, but even in my worst rages, my most violent attacks, when I flashed on your bloody face or the welts on your legs or the terror in your eyes, even if there may have been a passing flinch, the justification for my actions always subsumed my guilt or self-doubt.

  I can tell you I had anxiety. I had rage. I had melancholy. It is why I drank so much. At the time I attributed it more to existential despair, and to the pressures of running a company, but it has occurred to me as I have been spinning in limbo that perhaps there was some place deep inside me that felt horrified by my actions as I felt horrified by my own father and brother. How much self-awareness does a life of privilege and entitlement afford the entitled? If you are birthed into a particular paradigm that serves you, what would compel you to look outside?

  You may argue that others who have had such indoctrination found the motivation to revolt. Their inner compass signaled they were headed in the wrong direction and they changed course. I never met such men. It seems to me that change is usually catalyzed by some deprivation or catastrophe—some event or series of events that forces one into crisis and collapse. No man I knew would ever openly question himself in front of others. He would never admit defeat or doubt. And as I told you, my sense of entitlement was steely and impenetrable. My exaggerated sense of self-importance repelled all incoming objects. It simply never occurred to me that anything I ever felt compelled to do could possibly be wrong.

  And because, as a child, I had been filled with exaltation rather than comfort, my narcissism triumphed over my ability to care.

  Was I a coldhearted monster, or a man with a broken and revengeful heart? Is there a difference? Does it matter? Certainly not in terms of the pain my cruelty inflicted on you. Was I consciously aware of Shadow Man? Wasn’t I a witness to his brutality? Couldn’t I have stopped him? Was I a psychopath? That would be an easy out.

  No. I was not insane. I was a privileged, forceful man. I lived above this world, above criticism, above reproach. I was programmed to control, to win at all costs. You were my child. You were my property. You would do as I instructed you to do. When you didn’t, it was my duty to enact the discipline and punishment that would bring you around. This is how I had been raised. I was doing what was done to me. I was doing as I was taught. But there is another, far more wicked truth. As Shadow Man had drawn me over the borders of sin when you were five, he was now hauling me into hell. Sure, it was my upbringing that favored these specific tools of punishment, but it was a much more terrifying thing. It is almost impossible to confess. But at this moment, I am bizarrely possessed by a poem by T. S. Eliot. A poem I once and often recited to you about cats. It is ringing through my head, blocking out all else.

  The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

  It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

  You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter

  When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

  This poem may seem like an incongruous departure, but it is not. You were sixteen. You had a cat. You loved her dearly. She was a bit eccentric, but she made you very happy. I was indifferent to animals, but through your vast and creative appreciation, I came to see the wonder and whimsy of this gray-and-white-striped tiger. Her name was strange. I believe it was Backhand. And somehow in the midst of this war between us, this quirky cat invited surprising and delightful expressions of myself. At night, when Backhand would go into heat, we would listen to her agonizing moans echo throughout the woods and we would howl with embarrassment and delight. When you were not around I would sneak into the kitchen where I never went and feed her salty herring. I would whisper to her and she would rub me and follow me room to room. I was unable to conceal how deeply this pleased me. And you would be shocked to come home sometimes and find her curled up, purring in my lap.

  Everyone took joy in my love of the cat, as they had never seen me playful or gentle except with you. I know how much it meant to you that I had come to cherish this furry being you loved so dearly. Backhand became the repository of our tenderness, the remnants and reminder of what lived between us but could no longer be expressed. This soft and pulsing creature, manifestation of our loss and our yearning.

  Then the unthinkable happened. You were away for the afternoon with friends. I was in the house when we heard the sound of tires screeching and then a small commotion outside the house. Your mother and I ran out and there to our horror was Backhand’s listless body lying in the middle of the road. I was beside myself. I ran to her and without even thinking, picked her up. She was bloody and broken but still seemed to be breathing. It was at this moment that you drove up. You jumped out of the car and ran to see what was going on and when you saw Backhand draped and looking lifeless in my arms, you let o
ut a piercing scream. An unbearable shriek that tore through the impenetrable walls of my defenses. I found myself crying. Tears sliding down my cheeks. Tears of sorrow for the fragile life in my arms who was crushed. Tears for all the ways I let you down. Tears of loss and regret for my carelessness, for this singular and remarkable gift of you, which I had not protected but instead destroyed. Tears that matched your aching grief for yet another comfort that had been taken from you. Tears for this cat, your companion, your cozy friend, shattered, smashed, and close to death.

  And you saw my tears. I could not hide them from you. And this made you cry even more, but for that moment you were not alone. I was crying with you. I felt your pain and it was mine. For maybe the first and only time, a window opened into the pulpy business of my tortured heart. You found yourself there, Eve. And although this window never opened again, it was undeniable evidence of another story. I know it stayed with you.

  Backhand did not die. Her bladder was injured but she learned to pee again. Her jaw was broken and was wired into a new configuration. Her once adorable and open face was twisted and disfigured. Even her smile became a grimace. Just like my Eve, violence had made its mark on all her features. And just like my fierce and unstoppable daughter, she had nine lives. Her will to survive surpassed her reliance on beauty. Why does this event come to me now at the most grueling hour of my accounting and confession? It must seem like a bizarre departure and distraction.

  This letter has not been easy. Each confession demands a rigor and precision, each unmasks a more onerous intention. Each forces me to use flaccid, unexercised muscles of moral self-scrutiny. Each stretches me beyond my mental capacity. My life was wholly devoid of self-awareness. I had no motivation or interest in examining my reasons or behavior. And of all the things I feel most ashamed, it is this arrogance, this superiority and pride. And yet it has become so much my nature that I cannot imagine how to be without it.

  Without it, how could I possibly be a man? My lord, to be dead and still worrying about being a man! Even in limbo I feel compelled to prove myself and no one is here. Proving myself to God perhaps. Showing him I will not be defeated. That even in the face of eternal torture I will not surrender this conceit.

  You are asking me to question the very nature of what it means to be a man. And even to submit to the exercise assumes a defeat.

  The irony, of course, is that I’ve already lost. But the mind is a seductive labyrinth camouflaging a cage. And ironically, I am caught believing that if I surrender my privilege I will disintegrate, even as I’m already a nonentity.

  I was brought up in a time when men were praised for controlling and withholding their emotions. They were admired for their steely steadfastness and knowing the way. They never apologized. They never asked questions. They never explained. They never revealed their hand. They didn’t speak. Their silence was evidence of their strength and virility. They were expected to master the world and to lead with determination and assurance. The thrust of a man’s existence was to maintain his position.

  And even in death, absent of body and no apparent self, as absurd as it may sound, there is part of me that would rather face an eternity in torturous limbo than relinquish this identity.

  For what other framework do I have for the explanation of my being? What other demarcation renders me value or meaning?

  It has become increasingly apparent, writing this letter to you, that this structure of identity has been the cause of great harm to you and others and is most definitely the reason I am suspended in torturous spinning. I see now that this particular notion of manhood is highly questionable, as great violence is always required to preserve it. And it seems to me that any structure predicated on the need to destroy another is not just or sustainable. But as much as I can grasp this analytically, giving it up is a whole other matter. It feels nothing short of asking one to delete one’s ego. For this patriarchal blueprint has been implanted into the basic psychological compendium: ego, superego, id, man.

  Perhaps the only way to dissolution is what you have called me to do: probe the exact nature of the harms inflicted, do my best to open myself to how my behavior affected you, and trust that the alchemy of this exercise will allow me to be more and more honest in the service of your freedom. So, I have avoided this last testimony long enough. It feels treacherous and searing to put to print. It cannot be taken back. And the quandary that underlies it has gnawed and pursued me like a demon and given me no rest. Did I, in your teenage years, set out to kill you? Did I do it with conscious intent? This much I know: there was more than one incident in which I could have taken your life. After the first terrifying encounter, I did not desist. With each new dispute, I became more volatile. I knew alcohol was fuel for Shadow Man and I did not stop drinking. My fear for your safety was never an inhibiting factor. In fact, I blamed you each time for provoking me and truly believed it was you who were responsible for my behavior.

  Breathe, Arthur, breathe. May the gods take me to hell!

  I wanted you dead, Eve. I tried on several occasions to murder you. I had to kill what I had already destroyed. I had to erase the evidence. And you, being deeply intuitive, felt this filicidal thrust. But in order to keep your sanity you had to deny it. For how could you live knowing your own father was conspiring, consciously or not, to kill you? And this act of denial created a pattern in which you would later be constantly blinded and drawn to the most violent and wounding. You would put yourself in serious danger throughout your life, time and time again, because you could not read it as such and because it was so familiar. You would seek out hurtful people and situations in hopes that you would one day be strong enough to conquer them. And most scarily, eventually your sexual pleasure would come to be laced with this danger.

  I made a masochist of you.

  And I believe what got identified in you as suicidal in your early teens may have in fact been you wanting to finally be murdered and relieved of the ongoing terror and dread. There are incidents that haunt me. I share the details of each with the hopes that a specific and arduous accounting confirms your memory. I share them to make transparent the depth of my ferocity and brutality. I share them so I may bring to light my unending project of terror and torture. I am responsible, Eve. I was this wicked. I was a coward of this highest order.

  I beat a child half my size. I battered a little girl. I used my hands, my fist, and belts as whips. I interrogated you mercilessly. I called you every terrible name. I insulted every fiber of your being and body. My intention was to humiliate and extinguish. My tactics knew no bounds. And then I further stultified and negated you by threatening you if you dared to scream or beg or cry. I denied you an outlet for your anguish or terror or pain. It gave me satisfaction that this agony would fester and lodge in you. It’s how I made my mark. How I burrowed in and left my poison.

  Horrifying incidents replaying over and over on one punishing, unrelenting loop for fifteen years here. Pieces of events, objects, fragments, flashes like those early movies, which cut rapidly scene to scene.

  • •

  Pizza parlor. Classless joint. Family dinner. No martinis. Annoyed. You antsy in your seat. You’re reaching for things. Sit up straight, Eve. Sit still. I say something. You immediately disagree. Stupid, girl. “No, I’m not. I’m right.” Boom.

  Fist lands in the center of your stupid face. Blood spurting from your nose. Crimson stains on red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. You frozen, staring with contempt, blood streaming down your face. The family is horrified.

  “Chris, get her out of here. Clean her up.” Your mother trying to move you quickly through the restaurant. You stopping. Displaying your face for entire room. Embarrassing me. Disgracing the family.

  Outside I grab your arm hard. Drag you through the parking lot. I throw you in car. Whimpering in back seat. “Shut your mouth, Eve. Shut your dirty stupid jackass mouth.”

  • •

  Shaken awake out of deep sleep. Your mother rattled and alarmed.
Get up, Arthur. Get up. Eve smoking in her bed. Storming your room.

  You outside your window on the roof half naked with a cigarette. Whore. Slut. Grab you. Pull you roughly through the window. Beat you. Smash you. Drag you down the stairs.

  Throw you outside. In the dark, in the cold, in your underwear. Now you’ll live as a whore on the front lawn for all the world to see. Slammed, locked the door. Left you there.

  • •

  Get down here, Eve. Get down here now. Stand there. Against the wall. When I speak to you, look at me. Look at me. Where did you go Thursday night? You mumbling under your breath. I can’t hear you, Eve, speak up. Where did you go? Who were you with? Who were you with, Eve? Didn’t you tell me you were staying after school? And you did not. Did you lie to me? Did you lie? Lie. How dare you lie to me? Dirty liar! Hands around your lying head. Hands smashing head against the new wood-paneled wall. Banging. Banging head. Concrete ball. Want to smash it to pieces and watch all the stupid lies fall out. Bang bang. Smash head.

  “Chris, Chris. This child is rotten to the core. Go, go and get a knife from the kitchen.” Your mother doesn’t move. Get the goddamn knife. Your mother leaves the room. She doesn’t return.

  • •

  Hands around your neck choking you. I cannot stop. Choking and choking. You cannot breathe. Your face is red. Gagging. Your mother screaming, “Stop. Stop. She cannot breathe.” Choking more. You turning blue.

  Something in me doesn’t want to stop. Something in me wants to choke the stupid life out of you. Choking and choking. You’re no longer breathing. Your mother pulls me off.

  • •

  I catch you sneaking and whispering on the phone. No phone calls allowed. “Hang up this phone, Eve. Get up here now.”

  “Get my belt, Chris. Get my belt.” She hesitates. “Get it now!”

  I wrap the end around my hand. Bend over the bed, Eve. Bend over now. Whip and whip your legs. I can see welts already forming.