Dear Roe,
I’m a man in my 40s who had to walk away from a 20-year friendship several years ago. We were very close, we lived and travelled together and we shared a lot. I thought he was my best friend for the first 10 years. Over time, as I began to find stability, he spiralled into bitterness through poor life decisions and became deeply frustrated. His jokes became cruel and he started revealing intimate, distorted details about my life to others. He even tried to sabotage the relationship with my partner, seemingly resenting my happiness. I caught him badmouthing me behind my back, mixing truths with lies to damage my reputation while pretending we were still friends.
His manipulation became relentless and confusing – I’d never experienced anything like it from another man. Though we argued and had many conversations regarding his behaviour, I stayed friends with him for quite some time through loyalty, but things only deteriorated and we met less and less. At our final meeting nearly a decade ago, he was so vindictive towards me and others, he was totally unrecognisable to the guy I became friends with.
Soon after I walked away I realised how much I had tolerated. He gossiped viciously, not just about me but everyone around him, including his friends, ex-girlfriends and family. When some of them approached me later seeking answers, I finally saw the pattern – he thrived on cruelty, using people’s trust as material to feed his image in an attempt to elevate his status over others. I realised he was an abusive person and the friendship I thought we had ended a long time before I walked away. I was ashamed I had overlooked so many red flags.
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Now I still find myself occasionally confronted by his cruelty. His twisted version of me has spread among mutual acquaintances, some of whom have made sly, underhanded remarks. I’ve stayed silent out of caution but his entire method of abuse relied on people not comparing stories. Approaching people I barely know to clarify the situation seems petty to me but I’m now wondering should I break that silence and clear my name?
I’m so sorry you’ve been through this. It’s clear from your letter that loyalty, respect and integrity are important values to you, and it was these values that kept you tied to this man for so long, even as his behaviour became destructive. It’s clear that your loyalty and desire to forgive him petty jealousies at the beginning, and your later bafflement at his cruelty and manipulation, came from the same place: the belief that true friendship should be grounded in empathy, loyalty and care.
That’s what makes this kind of betrayal and emotional abuse so destabilising. When someone we once trusted begins to harm us, it shakes not only our sense of safety but our understanding of human goodness. The pain isn’t just about losing a friend, it’s about the shattering of a worldview. For people who hold loyalty and empathy as moral principles, it feels almost unthinkable that someone could betray that bond so deliberately.
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Our options then become stark: to accept that someone we cared about is capable of cruelty, and grieve that loss fully – or to avoid the grief by turning the blame inward. It’s far less painful, in the short term, to think “maybe I’m overreacting” or “maybe I provoked this”, because that self-blame preserves an illusion of control: if we caused it, maybe we can fix it.
But in truth, we can’t. What you endured was not a misunderstanding, it was a sustained pattern of emotional manipulation. You stayed because your empathy ran deep, but empathy without boundaries is self-destruction.
You also touch on something profoundly gendered when you write: “I’d never experienced anything like it from another man.” Many men are taught to value loyalty and directness in their friendship; to assume a sort of quiet brotherhood where honesty and mutual respect are sacred.
When another man weaponises that bond, it can feel like a double betrayal, cutting across both friendship and identity. But just as you once overextended loyalty to him, you might now be overextending another belief – that men should protect each other at all costs – by remaining silent while he continues to shape the narrative about you. Refusing to defend yourself doesn’t make you noble; it only hands him more power.
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You are entitled to address the rumours, the passive-aggressive remarks, and the social isolation his lies have caused. You are allowed to speak up for yourself and to expect respect from others. Silence may have felt like the dignified choice but in situations like this, silence often only protects the abuser. There’s also a cultural dimension. In Irish life we often have an unspoken rule about “not airing dirty laundry” and “keeping the peace”. Yet as you’ve seen, that silence doesn’t protect the innocent – it shields those who cause harm. We claim to value discretion, yet we have a national addiction to gossip. You’re caught in that contradiction: if you speak up, you risk being called dramatic; if you don’t, the lies linger.
But you didn’t create this situation – he did. You don’t have to protect him from the consequences of his behaviour. In fact, speaking truthfully can help others who have been hurt by him recognise the pattern.
If there are people whose opinions you genuinely value – friends or acquaintances who matter to you – you might start small. You could say something like: “I feel awkward bringing this up, but I’ve been the target of some nasty rumours from a mutual acquaintance, and I worry they may have shaped how people see me.”
You’re not gossiping; you’re reclaiming your story. See how they respond. You could also ask close friends to support you if they ever hear the topic brought up. Be selective, though – only engage with people who have shown honesty and integrity. Don’t waste energy trying to convince those who thrive on gossip. For casual acquaintances, you don’t owe long explanations – but if someone makes a sly remark, you can calmly ask, “What do you mean by that?” or say, “He’s spread a lot of lies about me and others, so I don’t associate with him any more”.
That’s factual and dignified, and it sets a boundary without feeding drama. But remember that the opinions of people who believe gossip without question are not worth your peace. You don’t need to prove your decency to the wrong audience. Focus instead on those who have earned your vulnerability.
You might also consider seeing a therapist to help you unpack the pain and confusion and self-doubt this has brought you, because it is valid and deserves support. And while I know this situation still weighs on you, it’s time to learn how to stop centring him in your life. Every thought you spend wondering what others think of you keeps him relevant. You can’t control what he says or who listens – but you can control how much space he occupies in your head.
Start investing your energy where it belongs: with people who make you feel safe, respected and valued. Seek out friendships that reflect your integrity, not exploit it. You’ve learned a hard but vital lesson: that empathy without discernment can be dangerous, and that silence in the face of cruelty doesn’t equal strength. Now it’s time to move forward with these lesson and your values, leaving him behind. Because in the end, the story that matters isn’t the one he told about you, but it’s the one you create in your life – one of integrity, healing, genuine connections and freedom. The best of luck.