Goodbye Part Two: The Unpublished Story of the Attempted Murder-Suicide

I’ve said my goodbyes to the internet for the time being. (And those of you betting on when I’ll be back, it won’t be soon, and those of you betting on my suicide, fuck you.)

But as I go I want to publish something else, something that I think needs to be put out there. The story that originally created such fuss around my career was a 2011 account of trying to kill my ex girlfriend and myself back in 1998. I wrote a sloppy, terrible version and deleted it when the controversy began, but not before the “attempted murderer meme” had become part and parcel of my public life.

I began to write a memoir, to “set the proverbial record straight.” However recent events, including my breakdown, two psychiatric hospitalizations and the revelation of multiple affairs (for the record, none with students, and including more women than Christina) have revealed me to be broken, a fraud.

I am not who I claimed to be, not who I tried to be. I need to work on getting sober again, seeing if my marriage can be repaired, and staying alive for my beautiful precious children. That’s the real truth. I am not well but I will be. I am on heavy meds, including (ironically) Klonopin, the very drug that is mentioned in the story below. I am certainly not fit for a public role.

So here is the opening short chapter of what was to have been the memoir. The story of what happened 15 years ago, dispelling rumors and so forth. It is the final record on that sad story and it is all true. (All names have been changed.)

And now, I’m gone.

Hitting Bottom.


The thing about being on a binge is that the clarity comes in waves. Long periods of oblivion, punctuated by brief and intense moments where everything comes into shocking, painful focus.

I had awoken with a start. I was on my back, naked on the thin carpet. Kerith, emaciated and frail, was curled next to me, her breathing shallow. The room smelled of pizza, of alcohol, of sex, of sweat. I felt something in my hand – a Ziploc baggie half-filled with prescription pills. Klonopin, Demerol, Ativan, Percocet; we’d been eating them like jellybeans, washed down with vodka.

I knew exactly where I was, what time it was, whom I was with. For the first time in days, I felt the cigarette burns on my chest and arms, the rawness in my nose from the coke, the awful dry mouth from the pills, the acid in my stomach. And I knew, with a certainty I hadn’t felt in weeks, exactly what I had to do.

It was June 27, 1998, the second anniversary of the day Kerith and I had met..

Exactly two years earlier, I checked into “Starting Over,” a sober living house for addicts just out of treatment. Joanna, (my second wife) and I were separated; if I could finish 90 days clean here, she’d promised to take me back. I clung to that thought, though given the frantic immediacy with which I lived my life, three months might as well have been 30 years.

Joanna seemed a long way away as I carried my two pathetically small suitcases (one filled with clothes, one with books) into my little room in Starting Over. Unpacked on a cool early summer Pasadena afternoon, I was forty-five minutes and five Marlboro Reds in to my stay, reading at the communal kitchen table, when Kerith walked in. My first impression was that she walked like a dancer: slender and petite; she had auburn hair, pale skin, cashmere sweater set, Hillary Clinton headband, a fierce and unsettling smile. After an awkward introduction, she asked softly, certain of the answer: “may I bum one?” I lit her cigarette as gallantly as I could, while her gaze settled on my paperback: Auden’s Collected Poems. Kerith exhaled, looked off into the distance, and recited, softly,

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

She inhaled deeply, looked down at me. “Your turn,” she said.

I gaped at her, my mind momentarily blank. Kerith was, I realized, also disconcertingly beautiful. Her brown eyes bored into mine as she took a second long drag on the cigarette. Think, Hugo, think. And then something came: an extended excerpt from “The Common Life.”

We finished the pack, walked to the grocery store for supplies. At the freezer case our fingers brushed; by the checkout line we were holding hands. We kissed in the parking lot; we undressed each other in the Starting Over storage closet. I’d signed the sober living’s code of conduct – which forbade sex between residents – at noon. I’d broken that rule and my marriage vows by six.

Two nights later, I relapsed on speed and beer, tore my tiny bedroom apart, swallowed dozens of boring pills my shrink prescribed (Anafranil and Wellbutrin), and slashed my wrists with glass from a broken mirror. Another relapse, another hospitalization, another divorce followed in predictable order.

Kerith followed. She drank her way out of Starting Over, and with nowhere else willing to take us, we moved in together into a bleak but furnished one-bedroom apartment in East Pasadena. We spent the next two years together breaking up and getting back together. I worked on my dissertation and taught my classes, used drugs and slept with two dozen students; Kerith worked on her MFA, danced at Pasadena’s sole strip club, and fell deeper into her benzodiazepine addiction. We fought, drank, and – somehow – functioned together.

By June of ’98 Keri and I were both nearing a bottom. She’d moved out after another breakup and was crashing on the couches and in the beds of guy friends who were all too willing to play the white knight for a very obviously damaged damsel. Meanwhile, I was on summer break from teaching, always my most vulnerable time. The rhythms of the academic calendar were what often kept me out of the worst trouble; no matter what, sober or loaded, I found a way to show up and teach and grade.

That spring had been different. I’d fallen for an 18 year-old student who had dumped me in disgust once her starry-eyed infatuation with a charismatic professor had worn off in the face of my neediness, my dishonesty, my compulsivity. Kiley’s transition from crush to disdain had been rapid and unmistakable, and had sent me spiraling rapidly downward. She’d dumped me for good on June 21; I’d spent the last six days since on a binge. When I was sober, I cut myself with razor blades and burned myself with cigarettes. When I was loaded, the days blended into each other with increasing speed.

Just after noon on Saturday the 27th, Kerith called me. We hadn’t spoken in weeks after a huge blowout fight in the street in front of her parents’ home. Her father – a powerful, well-connected local politician had told me to stay away from his daughter, and I’d had no problem complying with his request. And then the phone call came.

Keri sounded very small, very frightened, and very sober. She asked me to come pick her up right away. I asked her where she was, and she told me she wasn’t sure. She was at a payphone, she said, and the way the mountains looked, she thought she might be in Highland Park or El Sereno, two poor communities near Pasadena. I told her to hang up, look for some street signs, and call me back. Five minutes later, she called back with an address. I looked it up in my Thomas Guide, and though I was in no condition to drive, I climbed into my truck and went off to find my battered, beautiful Keri. I snorted the last of my coke first. I loved Keri, but if she was coming over, I didn’t want to share that.

When I found her, she was standing on a corner in the sun, dressed improbably in a crushed velvet burgundy party dress, holding her heels and her purse. I helped her into the cab, breathing in the stale alcohol that came through her pores. Kerith was both more alert and more fragile than I had seen her in months. As I got behind the wheel I glanced at her arms. Kerith had fresh rope burns on her wrists. She’d been at a dealer’s house, that much was obvious. She looked and smelled like she’d been paying a drug debt in a way all too awful and familiar to young female addicts. The numbed sadness I’d been feeling for weeks lifted momentarily; my heart lurched. I loved this woman.

Before I could buckle my seatbelt, Kerith lifted my right arm and draped it around herself, nestling her body against mine, her head on my chest. Take me home, Hugo,” she said softly. “I want a pizza. And I want you.”

Keenly aware that I was surely still above the legal limit, I drove us back to the apartment with elaborate one-handed care. When we got inside, I called Romeo’s and ordered our beloved usual – an extra large pie with pineapple, cilantro and Canadian bacon – for delivery. Keri stumbled into the shower. I poured myself a shot, and began to rummage through her purse, looking for her Ziploc baggie that was usually at least as well stocked as my own. It was there; whatever Kerith had surrendered at her dealer, she’d left with a plentiful salad of pills. I started picking through them, looking for my reliable favorites.

The shower stopped. A moment later, Kerith walked naked into the room, a towel hanging uselessly from one hand, her wet hair dripping onto the rug. Though she was the thinnest I’d ever seen her, almost impossibly frail, she moved with purpose into my arms. “I want you,” she whispered, “it’s been too long.” I lifted her up to carry her to the bedroom, picking up the Smirnoff bottle with one hand. Her legs wrapped around me, Keri deftly took it took from me. She drained most of what remained, and her mouth found mine.

When Kerith and I had sober sex, it was so emotionally intense it often left both of us raw. She would cry; I’d feel so vulnerable that I couldn’t get hard. Like more than a few alcoholics (and very unlike most non-addict men) I had an easier time getting an erection when I was at least lightly buzzed. I was more than high enough, and with a few more pulls from the bottle, Keri was well on her way as well.

The lovemaking was as desperately hot as it was desperately heartbreaking. We were both so thin, so battered, so covered in both fresh and aging scars. “We look so beautiful,” Keri said, catching a glimpse of our bodies in the mirror as she rode me. “So sweet,” she whispered as she came, “so sweet, so sweet.”

The knock at the door came seconds after we finished. I wrapped a towel around myself, paid the pizza delivery boy, and put the box on the kitchen table. We never opened it. Instead, we sat on the floor with a fresh vodka bottle and opened our Ziplocs. We compared, we shared, we swallowed. We’d done it before, but never like this. Normally, when we’d used together, we combined pills with care. Now, we did it with a determined recklessness. This is bad, Hugo, this is bad, I thought to myself. I had no idea what I was taking. I lost track of how much we were drinking.

It was probably around 4:00 in the afternoon when we passed out on the floor. Perhaps five hours later, I came to, instantly and painfully alert. I looked at Kerith, heard her shallow breathing. I sat up, looking at the still-fresh scars on my arm. One of my wounds had opened up again; there was dried blood on my wrists and on my torso and on Keri’s body as well.

I knew what I had to do.

I’d attempted suicide twice before; Kerith had tried perhaps half-a-dozen times. We’d talked often about ODing together, but by grace our timing was always off. I wanted to die when she wanted to live, and vice versa. Now it’s time to be strong for both of us, I thought. I could finish all of her pain and all of mine, I realized. Perhaps we’d be together in the next life. At least neither of you will die alone.

I stumbled into the kitchen a few feet away. I stood over the ancient stove, blew out the pilot lights on each of the burners and then the one in the oven, leaving the door open. I turned all the dials to maximum, the strong odor of gas filling the room. Pulling the stove away from the wall, I pushed it as far towards where Kerith lay as I could. I took another swig of vodka, swallowed more pills. I then lay down beside her, spooning her.

The recollection ends there.

Our memory is invariably imperfect, especially when filtered through the haze of drugs and alcohol. For all the clarity of those few moments with the stove, what I don’t remember is that I also made several phone calls to friends and family to say goodbye. It was a Saturday night; I reached a lot of answering machines. One friend in San Francisco was home. According to her, I slurred the words “Kerith and I are checking out… goodbye” and then hung up. Pamela knew me well enough to know I wasn’t in the habit of making idle threats. She called her local police and gave them my address; the cops in San Francisco contacted the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department to report a double suicide in progress.

It’s hard to know how long they took to arrive. My best guess is that it was perhaps 45 minutes from the time I turned on the gas until the deputies burst into the apartment. The front door was cheap and flimsy; it couldn’t have taken more than one good kick to break it open.

The sound of the door splintering woke me up again. I felt strong arms grabbing me, heard men shouting, then Kerith crying out in confusion. The smell of gas was suffocating, but we were very much alive.

The deputies half-dragged, half-carried us outside. I had on bloodstained boxer shorts but Keri was naked; I remember a female deputy grabbing a blanket from the bed and wrapping her tightly in it. Another handcuffed me, which struck me as odd and utterly unnecessary. I turned to him in bewilderment. “Sir,” I slurred as politely as I could in my state, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I remember a surprisingly gentle smile beneath an impressive full mustache. “Buddy, it’s not me I’m worried about,” the deputy said. “Why don’t you let me help you sit down?” I passed out again before my butt hit the ground.

The next memory is of vomiting charcoal. While unconscious, Kerith and I had been rushed to the ER; our stomachs had been pumped. I’d been through that unhappy procedure more than once before; this time, I woke up choking on my own puke, throwing up what the nurses had pushed in to absorb all the pills. My arms were bandaged and restrained, which made it impossible to turn over and clear the vomit. I was gagging, unable to breathe. In retrospect, I realized that that might have been the closest I came to death that night. Once the nurses had cleared my airway and cleaned me up, I lost consciousness again.

Some drugs take longer than others to clear the system. Both Kerith and I had taken massive overdoses of Klonopin, a benzodiazepine normally prescribed to combat anxiety. In excess, its effects can linger in the system for days. As a result, the next few days blurred together, and I wasn’t able to say much that was coherent. We were both taken to Northridge Hospital, placed on yet another “5150” – an involuntary 72-hour hold on a locked psychiatric ward.

We weren’t there together for long. Most psych wards don’t allow romantic partners to be hospitalized in the same unit; after a few hours, Kerith was transferred. We were allowed to say goodbye to each other, surrounded by a team of orderlies and police officers. I still had an IV in and was in a hospital gown; they’d put Keri in scrubs for her trip. It was early Monday afternoon, perhaps 48 hours since she’d first called me.

“I love you,” she whispered as she kissed my cheek; “but I don’t understand what happened.”

“I tried to kill us, Keri. I turned on the gas.”

When the orderlies and cops heard that, they began to lead Keri away; others held me in place. Kerith looked back at me, confusion and shock growing in her face. Just before she reached the door, she gave me an encouraging smile. I remember hoping that it was a small signal of forgiveness, but I’m not sure she could yet grasp what I’d said, what I’d done.

We never saw each other again.

Based on what I’d said to Pamela and what they’d found in the apartment, the authorities had had no initial reason to suspect that this was anything other than a double suicide attempt. We had both tried to kill ourselves before; the grim joke among our friends was that we had frequent visitor discounts in all the local emergency rooms and psych wards. My impulsive hallway confession proved almost as astonishing to the staff as it did to Kerith.

Because I was still in a very real sense high from all the drugs in my system, my memories of what happened next are blurry. I know I was questioned first by my psychiatrist, and then by two uniformed sheriff’s deputies who – it seemed – repeated the same queries endlessly as I fought off drowsiness and dry mouth. Their interrogation might have lasted three hours, or 10 minutes. I still had no sense of time.

By Tuesday the 30th, my third day in the hospital, things were clearer. My psychiatrist told me that the deputies had spoken with Kerith and her family, and that while the investigation was “open,” her parents were adamant that they didn’t want to pursue a case. “You could be charged with attempted murder, Hugo” the doctor cautioned, his tone grave. “I need to advise you to speak with your own family about getting a lawyer.”

Attempted murder. His words – coming as they did in concert with the wearing-off of the benzodiazepine haze – left me gasping and dizzy. For the first time, I understood that there was a name for what I’d tried to do. As self-destructive as Kerith was, she hadn’t wanted to die on that particular Saturday night. I had – and out of a mixture of cowardice and misplaced tenderness, I’d made the unilateral decision to take her with me. As incapacitated by depression and drugs as we’d both so often been in our two years together – and as often as we’d cheated on each other — we’d always practiced a kind of fierce solidarity. “You and me, kid, against a cruel world” had been our motto.

And in what had falsely appeared as a moment of both exquisite clarity and tender kindness, I’d done the cruelest thing imaginable.


13 years later – and clean and sober since the events of that night — I wrote a much shorter version of this story on my own blog. I shared it to explain, as I hope to do in this book, how to come to terms with having done something inexcusable. I wanted to document not only a road to enduring sobriety, but the journey of living out amends for the damage I had done.

The story appeared just as I was beginning to get widespread recognition as a writer and commentator on gender issues. After teaching courses on women’s history, men and masculinity and the history of beauty and body image for many years at Pasadena City College, in 2004 I started blogging about sexuality and relationships. By 2011, I was an editor at the Good Men Project, a columnist for Jezebel, the co-author of a memoir by a celebrated fashion model, and an increasingly in-demand speaker on college campuses as well as radio and television. At 44, after nearly 20 years of full-time teaching, I was developing a second career.

Eight days before Christmas 2011, one of the most celebrated feminist websites in the blogosphere, Feministe, featured an interview with me. The questions were relatively benign, focusing on what it was like to be a straight man that advocated so publicly for feminism, and how I integrated my faith and my gender politics. Minutes after the interview was posted, a commenter linked to my original brief, poorly-written account of the night I tried to kill Kerith and myself, asking pointedly why the site was featuring an attempted murderer of women as a male feminist role model. Other commenters picked up the cry, noting too my confession of sleeping with many students early in my teaching career.

This wasn’t just the usual sniping that is so common across the web. This was shock and outrage, and it quickly spread to other sites across the small but growing feminist blogosphere. A Facebook page – “Feminists Against Hugo Schwyzer” appeared and soon attracted nearly 1000 “likes.” The college administration was besieged with demands for my ouster. A viral campaign started to get me fired from the sites for which I wrote; my editors fielded countless angry phone calls and emails. And on Christmas Eve, I started getting what sounded like death threats. “I hope someone shoots Hugo Schwyzer in the head,” wrote one young woman on her Tumblr; she got more fierce agreement than disapproval in response.

Within two weeks, I resigned from the boards of several organizations, including a non-profit I’d co-founded. Several universities, at which I’d booked speaking gigs, from Harvard to Evergreen State, cancelled in response to the controversy. A prominent former ally, whom I’d once counted as a colleague if not a close friend, wrote on her website that not only did she now consider me a dangerous misogynist, anyone who continued to publish my work or invite me to speak was enabling a culture of violence against women. More death threats soon followed.

At the heart of the controversy were a series of complicated questions: How do we deal with the dark pasts of people whom we admire? Can a man who once tried to kill a woman (even if he was high on drugs at the time) ever be an acceptable feminist leader? What does it mean to make amends not only to those one has directly harmed, but also to a larger audience triggered and troubled by the truth?

Even bigger questions loomed: can people really change? Even if they can, how can we verify it? Are the lessons of transformation duplicable? Thinking about this story, telling this story, I have no definitive answer. I can tell you I am not that man who turned on the gas and tried to take another person’s life as well as my own. I can tell you that I have cried and sweat and prayed and donated and listened and done every damn thing I know how to do to make amends to Kerith, her family, and to all those affected.

I know now there is no comeback from some things. Whatever public career I have, it will not belong as the “poster child” male feminist. I did not ask to be America’s most notorious  male feminist, but I understand how this story – every word of which is true save for the changed names – constitutes for many a permanent disqualification for speaking as a “male feminist.” That’s fine — as of July 2013, I’m done writing about feminism. I believe in the cause but have become a piss-poor representative thereof.

I have two messages I will not stop repeating. One, men can change, Two, women have the right to demand change, to expect men to be flexible and malleable and to have a vocabulary for their own inner emotional terrain. Men can learn to show up as partners; they can overcome violence, they can be real friends with women. They can be safe.

This I know.

I also know I am not safe now.  I am under care and will be for the foreseeable future.  And when I return to writing, it will be very different, with no petulant claims of being misunderstood nor fraudulent claims of a perfection I have not achieved. And I am so very sorry to the editors and readers whom I have misled.

90 thoughts on “Goodbye Part Two: The Unpublished Story of the Attempted Murder-Suicide

  1. Log off.


    Stop checking your blog, stop reading Twitter, turn off the data plan on your phone. You can’t be online right now. It’s hurting you. Wait.

  2. You are the same man as made the choice to turn on the gas, Hugo. That is the power of change. You will change some more. I wish you a full and speedy recovery from your disease of addiction.

  3. do you srsly not know when to leave? no one cares, this isn’t going to win you anything but more bullshit. i do not know why you can’t learn the lesson that literally nothing you will say will make your detractors change your mind because WE DON’T OWE YOU OUR FORGIVENESS.

  4. I think you need to stop contributing to the internet. You are helping no one right now. Least of all yourself.

    Just walk away from the computer.

  5. “Goodbye part 2”?

    Hugo, this is how little self-awareness you have. You’ve already come back. You’re back right now. The only reason to tell people to stop betting on when you’ll come back is because that race has already been won.

    Actually, how little self-awareness you have is that you think this lovingly lurid account will set the record straight and paint you in a positive or even better light.

    Hugo, you say that this turn of events has revealed you to be a broken fraud and that your redemption/change isn’t what you made it out to be. Isn’t it a heck of a coincidence that so many people have been saying all along? The signs were always there. The pattern of your behavior has always been there. There has always been a straight, clear line connecting the you who thought you were doing “Kerith” a solid when you tried to kill her to your actions today.

    I’ve said… in comments on this very blog… that if someone believes they have changed, the worst thing someone can do is believe them. Assuming you even want to change, assuming any part of this was not a pose or a ploy or a “brand” you were trying to build, please take this heart: the biggest obstacle to your recovery will always be your desire to believe that you’ve “made it”.

    Change is a progress. An incremental progress. And it doesn’t have an end. There is no point where the guy who did what you did (for any value of “guy” and “what you did”) can actually say “Well, that was a different person. Glad I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

    The fact that you have always tried to treat your worst decisions as something that belongs to your “pre-sobriety past” is the biggest red flag in your behavior.

    Yes, bigger than the fact that you tried to kill someone. That only tells us what you did in the past. The fact that you say “Well, that was the past!” gives us a clue about the present and the future.

    Maybe it’s not healthy for you to immerse yourself in the words of your critics, Hugo, but you’re never going to change if you assume we’re all just a bunch of meanie doo-doo heads who took your words out of context and jumped on a bunch of imaginary faults while you coincidentally were crumbling over your real ones.

  6. Alexandra Erin: I needed to hear this: “The biggest obstacle to your recovery will always be your desire to believe that you’ve “made it”. I am a recovering addict and I am also one of Hugo’s former mentees. Today, I asked him to set the record straight on something crucial for me: did he relapse on drugs or did he not? Apparently, it was on ME – his MENTEE – to make the determination that I ought not to trust anything he said. So I won’t trust him from now on. “I can’t be held to a standard of consistency” he essentially said. Hugo’s influence in my life is invaluable: I came to him a defiant anti-feminist, and he broke me out of that. When he is good, he is really good. But when he is bad, he is bad bad. I could see where he had gone astray: he acted as if strict veganism and the extremes of it were somehow different than the extremes we go to due to our disease. People eat meat. So what? People hate feminists. So what? He needs to stop taking on the world. It is as it is. I know a serenity now that I never knew because I keep it simple. Choose your battles. If you are fighting to get people to fit square pegs in round holes all day, it ain’t gonna make you happy.

    He once asked me: “Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?” I hope he asks that of himself. Hugo stopped placing recovery first, and he stopped believing in the particular Higher Power that got him clean in the first place. I saw signs. I emailed him to ask if he was on relapse, because I intuitively felt it. But I was casually dismissed. I am not sure what Eira is going to do, but I feel way more for her than I do for Hugo. How could he have the gall to teach “History of the Western Dysfunctional Family” and then go on to have a series of affairs with porn advocates a few years later? WTF?! Hugo, I love you, I have as much anger as I have for love for you. For now, you are a cautionary tale for me that reminds me to remain vigilant about my program, even as I pursue a career in Speech Language Pathology. Beware of the “I have arrived” feeling. I can see it creeping in me already. You will always, always, always have a special place in my heart. Now get back to the basics of the 12-Steps and we’ll talk in a few years.

    • The 12 steps don’t work. Google “A.A. does not work”. More and more professionals are speaking out against the so-called spiritual program that has the same success rate as doing nothing at all.

      I feel for Eira.

      • AA DOES work. Don’t google, “AA doesn’t work”, if you want to find evidence that it does. Millions of people live sober lives far superior to the fraudulent life described in this blog, because of AA and the 12-steps. If you are an addict and want to get sober, please google “AA works”, instead. BTW, the statement, “you get what you believe” is a truism in this case.

        • AA most definitely DOES NOT work.

          The rate of AA “success” stories is about 5%, the same rate as doing nothing at all.

          AA adherents are inculcated with idea that they are powerless and have a “disease” that will never be cured. This allows the 12 stepper, a cop out, as in “I have a disease from which I’ll never recover. What do you expect? Of course I’ll fuck up.” That is where Hugo is now, shirking personal responsibility for his actions. He’s “powerless”. He has a “disease”.

          There is absolutely no scientific evidence whatsoever that this “spiritual” program that reveres the dogma from a 1930’s text keeps people from abusing alcohol.

          If one had cancer, would the person go to a bunch of meetings, repeat over and over their so-called “character defects” in hopes of overcoming the cancer? Would we use the knowledge we had up to the 1930s to treat cancer in the year 2013? The answer is a definitive “NO.”

          Cancer is a real disease. And we would go to a real doctor who uses the most up to date information to overcome the disease.

          Hugo is avoiding personal responsibility and is using the all powerful systemic privilege he enjoys to get away with, yet again, the deceit, and abuse he has heaped upon the vulnerable for his entire career.

          Mental illness?
          No excuse. Many, many people with mental illness do not commit the outright evil that Hugo has. Hugo’s repeated plea of “Have mercy on me, I am mentally ill” is malarkey.

        • Haha.

          Valdez is right:
          AA DOES NOT WORK.

          AA uses mind-control to convince its members that they are powerless against an incurable “disease”. This allows for any 12 stepper to avoid full responsibility for their actions, which is actually what Hugo is doing.

          There is absolutely no legitimate evidence that AA is an affective treatment for the abuse of alcohol.

          If anyone were suffering from a real disease, say cancer or kidney failure, they would go to a highly trained professional and receive the latest evidence-based treatment for their illness. They most certainly would NOT go to endless meetings, dwell on their past, and follow the dogma of a text written in the 1930s.

          The statement “you get what you believe” most certainly applies since Hugo likely believes that he is powerless over his behavior and that his behavior is a real disease that will never be cured. It is a perfect tool for the manipulative abuser that he is.

  7. Hugo, we’ve had a lot of back and forth over the years online, and while we haven’t agreed much, I’ve never wished you ill, certainly not the situation you’ve put yourself in (and not for the first time). And I take no pleasure in you being taken down and having to call yourself “broken” and a “fraud.” I especially take no pleasure in what Eira and your children may be going through with all of this.

    Get. Off. The. Goddamned. Internet. Your lovers, your haters, the feminist movement, the anti-feminist movement, MRAs, none of the rest of us human beings are here to either love you for being so awesomely “new, sober Hugo” or to give you the perverse validation of being “the piece of shit the world revolves around.” (Something I’ve heard before from addicts who’ve hit a bottom.) You need to go be Hugo, and figure out who that is. And something tells me that that needs to be something that’s neither piece of shit attempted murderer nor male feminist paragon. Go be a man, and if you can’t be that, at least try to be a father to your kids.

    • Right on the money Tom. It’s not about the “internet take down culture” or trying to attempt to be something he’s not. So he isn’t a paragon of male feminist virtue. Nobody placed him in that role but himself. He needs to stop feeling sorry for himself. Man up and be a father to those kids! And he can be a perfectly good father in a non monagamous relationship, which we obviously can see is not his thing. Plenty of divorced dads are excellent fathers. But if they end up in a pysch word or dead there isn’t any chance for that. Man up Hugo and be the father you proported to be online. Via Instagram, twitter etc. Just because your marriage may be over doesn’t mean your obligations as a father stop. So rise above get the help you need, stop living a lie and be there for those kids. If you can be a constant, present, positive force in their lives. Then you will have succeeded. And they are so young that this can be but a blip on their radar screen. But it’s down to you!

  8. But, seriously, not cool naming your would-be victim, or trying to make some kind of “point” with it. Take this bullshit “memoir” down. It’s a lurid and grotesquely self-pitying and self-indulgent “war story.”

  9. I do not think this really adds anything to the 2011 piece, so I am not sure why you felt compelled to publish it. Nor, after so many lies, do I see how anyone can possibly figure out what is true here. This serves no purpose other than draw more attention to this lurid, grotesque, quasi-pornographic, horrible story.

    If I had one piece of advice, it would be to stop looking for validation outside of yourself. You clearly hate yourself with a passion, and have ever since your teens if not childhood (some of your articles on male body image make this quite clear). You’ve tried to find validation, salvation, a coping mechanism, in everything from God, drugs, alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, feminism, your wives. All have failed you, as this latest episode makes quite clear. Nothing will change unless you can somehow find the source of your self-hatred and find a way to truly deal with the pain.

    You once wrote that “While religion taught me that my behaviour was a problem of sin, and therapists suggested that my struggles were rooted in my childhood experiences, feminism helped me see that my self-destructive and reckless behaviour was linked to a deep-seated misogyny that had more to do with the broader culture than with anything my mother had said or done.”

    This is transparent nonsense. I and all other men grew up in the same culture you did – in fact, most of us did not have second-gen feminist mothers. The vast majority of men do not grow up to be homicidal, suicidal, compulsive addicts. I don’t know what the answers are, but I’m fairly sure you’ve been looking in the wrong place.

    For the sake of your wife and kids, good luck.

  10. Oh, so names have been changed, but Kerith, the daughter of a powerful local politician, was working on her MFA and stripping in Pasadena’s only strip joint in 1996-98. Very anonymous, I’m sure.

    Fuck you and your neverending narcissism.

  11. Pingback: Was Hugo Schwyzer’s Confession Honest? |

  12. Pingback: Hugo Schwyzer is Still Doing Harm |

  13. Pingback: Poor Hugo Schwyzer! | Clarissa's Blog

  14. WHOA.

    Just when we think we’ve plumbed the deepest recesses of Hugo’s monomaniacal narcissism… this happens. And wow.

    I’m shocked he didn’t stay gone… said nobody ever.

    I don’t like Hugo or his writing, but at some point making fun of him goes from funny to… pathetic. He’s obviously got *severe* psychological and mental health issues and desperately needs help.

    Dude, just stop it. Stop talking, go away and try to get your shambles of a life together.

  15. Pingback: When Allies Become Enemies: Hugo Schwyzer’s Curious Tale |

  16. You can’t claim to post the true account, you’re posting your side of it. Your victim’s side exists as well, and you have no right to speak for her. You’re biased, not just because you were on drugs but because you are trying to exonerate yourself.

    You tried to kill someone, you served zero jail time for it, it’s not for you to say you’ve moved past that.

      • You’re not brave, Michael Rowe.

        People like you and Hugo have NO IDEA what real consequences are all about.

        Put a sock in it.

      • Michael Rowe,

        I don’t know what your game is, but you are kind of bizarre with such a staunch defence of this person. A defence not even Hugo himself claims – he has admitted now to multiple affairs etc. once again. He gets to keep his moronic job at a moronic community college.

        Everyone around him suffers from the acts of this narcissist. And you want to hold him up as some kind of hero.

        What is your problem?

    • This is your third post on this thread, Tom, and like the others, it’s greasy with fake “concern” that doesn’t quite manage to cover your glee at what has happened to him. Are you enjoying his pain? Is it getting you off? You people are fucking disgusting.

      • Michael Rowe: YOU are fucking disgusting. Hugo has done what he’s always done.

        He abuses women.

        Now he gets to rest his weary little head near his mommy’s home while his wife and family figure out how to move on after this disaster.

        Join him in his padded cell, you fucking disgusting elitist snob, Michael Rowe.

  17. Oh my goodness, Hugo.

    I’ve been an exceptionally bitter critic of yours over the last few years. I really hope none of what I said about your opinions and past behaviour contributed to this. But I have to say this: please don’t harm yourself. Get help, and stay away from the path of self-destruction. Whatever you may have done in the past, and however much criticism you may have taken, including from me, for your opinions: God loves you, and wants you to live.

    • No, the only person who did this to Hugo was Hugo himself.
      He chose to write a torrid account of his attempts at murdering another person, he chose to pursue a very public career path in terms of his involvement with feminism and he chose, to a certain degree, to return to his dysfunctional coping mechanisms even though a man in his position is afforded massive amounts of support and access to all manner of help, both physical and psychological, unlike most less privileged members of society. He was also given a lot more chances at redemption that the average person too.
      Blaming feminism for his problems is really telling, and not in a good way either.

  18. Your writing has been important to me, and often shared with friends. Thank you for that. Good luck in your struggles. I wish you only the best. From one imperfect being to another –

  19. Hugo, that was a powerful testimony and I’ve had cause myself to come to terms with, as you put it, “the dark pasts of people we admire”. I think that perhaps we should all admire less, in the sense of putting people on pedestals, and accept the full, flawed human being more. I hope you find peace.

  20. You are such a delusional, awful person. You may stop the pills but that doesn’t mean you stopped being an abusive fuck. No one gives a shit about how sorry you are you tried to kill someone. And honestly if you’d really given a shit then you wouldn’t have participated in those feminist spaces where deep down you knew you didn’t belong.

    Rot in hell you abusive bastard. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.

  21. We can’t miss you if you don’t leave, Hugo.

    Walk away, don’t write anymore about any of this publicly, quit doing interviews, just STOP. Get it together and live your life out of the public eye.

  22. I agree with what others have been saying here. Take this site down, get offline, and get to an AA meeting or into a mental health facility. You are approving comments here, which means that you are online and reading what others are saying. This is bad.

    I don’t know what you are seeking: Validation or punishment, probably a mixture of both, but stop it. Internet people don’t know you, we don’t know your situation and we have an agenda that isn’t yours. You aren’t going to get what you need here.

    Your children need you. Get offline and get some direction from a mental health professional, spiritual director, 12-step sponsor or a combination of the above. Do what they say and don’t listen to the Internet.

    You are responsible for your own mental health, your own serenity. If you can’t take care of yourself right now, put yourself in the hands of someone who can. The Internet can’t do this.

    Please Hugo, please. Stop.

  23. Oh—you have been reading James Frey!

    Fried Frey, masticated & masturbated over, soaked in a spitty wormy bath of vomited chunks of Auden. Poor Auden.

    Perhaps you shouldnt wear yr influences so very visibly on yr sleeve, or bared so very gracelessly inside yr transparent nonsensical pill baggie. Or maybe it’s best not to clip them in plain sight upon yr refusal to understand—actually: to admit you know—that it’s all but impossible to die from an OD of Vitamin K.

    Something which, btw & of course, is known by every would be American suicide over the age of twelve. It’s so simple. In a world of lawsuits, why would they give bottles of something lethal to depressives? You wouldve been more likely to, thankfully, leave us had you eaten a bottle or two of Tylenol. You know that. I am certain you are not moral, but you have seen too much school to be stupid.

    Then again, maybe you are more devoted to yr absurd refusal to acknowledge something else of which you are most certainly, & completely, aware:
    That for many decades there has been nothing floating through anyone’s household gas pipes that will kill you, me, or anyone else. Not even a rat, dude. Not even a rat. Gotta pay the exterminator to tent yr house for those.

    You know that now, & you knew it in 1998. No question. How do i know? In the early-mid 90s out came a new & important bio of Sylvia Plath. You were playing depressive, you were playing intellectual. Cant carry the official misery card held dear inside the left breast pocket of every half-well read depressive w/o Plath. This is especially important for Men who desire to prove their sensitivity to Girls.

    In that bio it was explained that, because she did not understand that gas was, of all things, heavy, she almost killed her downstairs neighbor when she, sadly & desperately, killed herself. There was big talk about this among circles intellectual &, particularly, intellectual-suicidal. You were not among the latter group [i was, so i know], but you wanted people—mostly girls—to admire you for looking like you were tilting at it. So gas, & its impossible seeming weight, is something you remember. I know you do. It’s as obvious as yr influences. Most obvious, of course, is yr boundless narcissism.

    Oh, wait—theres another reason i know that you know about the heaviness of our long lost gas. So you could use it in that “murder/suicide [almost]” story w/o ever having done a thing. Sounds good; is Not Real. Impresses junior college girls, at least before they’ve read all the Plath biographies. Does not impress people who know anything. Looks ludicrous to those of us who know too much. Not just ludicrous—looks, in fact, like the ludicrous literary device it obviously is, overbloated to bursting not w/ gas but w/ cliché.

    That’s that for the gas, also the “attempted murder/suicide.” Narcissistic drama is exhausting. The real question is how do you make it work? Yr stuff is so very, very obvious. It’s as transparent, to me, as if it arrived at my door, under glass, as a present from Oprah & her entire Book Club.

    At any rate, we have but dipped our fingers in the faux. Shall we go then, you & i, Hefty pill bag in the sky, shall we go & make our visit? I mean, if in the one night cheap hotel rooms every sad addict knows from tip to stern but you have never seen—if when we get there, you dont recognize any of the dope you say almost killed you, oh, hell of all hells, do not ask “what is it?” Just take yr f’ing lumps, it’s time.

    i must say, i do not know you in person—i am too old for you, i am almost as old as you are, in fact—but i have known so many like you, all fairly horrific, & i have read you—meaning: read you—on Jezebel. You are doing a lot of damage to women. You are very, very obviously polluting—in both senses of the word—feminism for yr own selfishness. This is despicable, it truly is—but, almost unbelievably, it is still not quite as loathsome as trying to squeeze an “intense, manic-depressive, junky, suicidal, blah blah—&, btw, horny porny academic feminist” career from the sorry street cred honestly owned by the brave, honored, too long & too young dead while you do yr everlovin damndest to force a ride upon the backs of the living, sort of, but most lost of all.

    Tomorrow, perhaps, we will do Dope. i honestly do not know if you have ever seen it. Surely not in any way other than the most chippy chippy. For heavens sake, pillheads are trendy now—they werent then. I guess this might pass if nobody yr own age ever read what you said. Please also know that yr story sounds ridiculous—& nothing but—to someone who knows the world at which you pretend, too well. Finally, i must say that someone nearing fifty who makes a big play of being a long term ‘recovering’ addict, one who has been in & out of rehab, etc & ect, on & on & on & on, & who never mentions HIV is either so self-involved that there is no reason for anyone to interfere w/ his solipsism or, of course, he is lying. Scarily, you might be both.

    • Proserpine, yes!

      He’s so full of shit. He’s got no cred at all.

      Prissy little untouched snob.

      And what has he done now? He ran to his mommy!

      Some feminist.

      He’s told men to grow the fuck up. What a joke.

  24. not here, then elsewhere. & all of it—i can deconstruct it all. it’s ridiculous, every splinter of it is, & so infuriating to me, who has lost so many people, so many real people—that i will. no problem. bye.

  25. So you served zero jail time for trying to kill a woman? Please. Many people in feminist circles don’t want a man like you in their spaces. We’re too busy recovering from a users like you. On a base level, you hold women responsible for your actions. You’re doing it again. Who is responsible for all of this? Your leaving the Internet, the drugs, the suicide attempt? You are! Not people online. You. Only you. Just you.

    I think you should reopen your attempted murder case and ask to spend some time in jail. That would help your sorry ass out. But I think you’re using the guise of feminism to exonerate yourself. We will never let you do that bc men like you get away with harming women way too often. Show us that you can own up to your crime and do some actual jail time as a penance for the women you’ve hurt.

    • So impressive, showing your great sympathy for his wife and children by gloating about his suicide attempt, hoping he succeeds next time, things his daughter will see in years to come. Such impressive feminism You people are fucking disgusting.

      • Michael: So far as I can see, John Valdez never said any of that in this thread. Instead of heaping abuse on random commenters, try aiming them at specific comments.

        I mean, also try not heaping abuse on people, but you know, impulse control and men, lulz.

      • Michael Rowe: YOU are fucking disgusting defending an abuser like Hugo. HE is the one who has flaunted his privilege and has admitted himself that he is a fraud.

        Hugo clearly placed himself in a FEMINIST space. The most direct victims of his flagrant selfish acts are HIS WIFE, his children, his suegra who lived in his home and cared for his children.

        Those defending this hypocrite are the fools.

        His privilege allows him to keep his high prestige job, take two months of for his continued narcissism, etc. He is doing NOTHING for his wife and kids who are hours away from his mommy who he ran to to take care of him.

        Hugo is an extremely privileged abuser of women.

        Most others would have lost their job way back when, ended up homeless, addicted, incarcerated.

        Go join Hugo in his cush padded cell, Michael Rowe, you disgusting supporter of a woman abuser.

  26. Wait, why did you change the text.

    Hugo originally wrote “Recent events, including my breakdown and hospitalization and revelation of multiple affairs (for the record, none with students, and including more woman than Christina) have revealed me to be broken, a fraud.”

    And then he took the part out about admitting to the other affairs. I think we all know that these other affairs where you cheated on Eira all exist, why are you trying to cover them up now?

  27. Let me get this story straight: Even after earning a degree in gender studies you have:
    1. Cheated on your wife
    2. Slept with students
    3. Profited off of the sexual exploitation of your girlfriend “Kerith”
    4. Attempted to murder a woman.
    These are all actions of male entitlement. I am including the attempted murder of Kerith because you felt entitled to decide to end her life. You were not content with suicide. You felt Kerith belonged to YOU and needed to own her even in death.

    This is AFTER you have studied and taught feminism. It is very clear that no amount of enlightenment will get through to you. Dispite all this whining, you are the same entitled man you were 15 years ago. You blame all your problems on your female dissenters and all the woman in your life. And after all of this, you still feel entitled to tell women how to do feminism your way.

    You are a disgrace and an example for why modern feminism is failing. Women do not need you. Feminism does not need you. You are not a good example of a pro-feminist man. Stop writing. Stop talking to women. Do not touch another woman. Stop calling yourself a feminist. Live in a cave and eat berries for all I care. Just stop talking.

  28. Hugo: I wish you well and will miss your commentary on men’s issues, as I miss your old blog. I wish you a happy marriage, if continuing is your desire and your wife’s, as I would have wished you a happy bacherlorhood had that been your choice, and as happy a separation as possible if that is the case. Mainly, I wish your children the best. I am sorry, in a way, that your indiscretion involved such tawdry, unsatisfying ephemera, and am wondering which of the “Orthodox Jewish bakerie[s]” we all frequent in this neighborhood it involved. I would have wished you a happy open marriage, equally, if you were or are one of the people capable of carrying out such a thing, I am very conflicted about your actions, because I know how hard monogamous marriage can be, how pervasive temptation can be. I wish you and your wife the resolution that best suits your feelings for each other and your future endeavors, and I wish all of you the best.

  29. I always thought it was just a matter of time before you start self-destructing. You got that streak in you. Wish you all the best but I hope you’re gone for good. Nobody likes a hypocrite, and you aren’t getting a pity party on account of your wrong choices.

  30. This post is the Hail Mary of a pathological narcissist. After you’ve been found out to be a total hypocrite, there’s only one thing left to do: admit it in the most pitiable way humanly possible so as to try to gain people’s sympathies. Then let it simmer, do some “rehab” , and make your comeback in a few months with a long sappy article about all the progress you’ve made and how it’s all a process. Rise and repeat.

    You’re famous /because/ you sort of tried to kill your girlfriend. You never really take responsibility (i.e. you’re always saying the pills/booze did it) but never absolve yourself either. The moment you take one side or the other, the debate will end and you’ll fade back into obscurity and lose the positive and negative attention that you love. You have to be a hypocrite to remain successful, and in all likelihood people will continue to not see this, and situate themselves on one side or another of this “debate”, which is just what you want. You (deliberately) embody a sick little fantasy that emotionally stultified feminists have: to have a man who acts like a real man (i.e. you get around) but who hates himself for it and needs forgiveness from women. You receive hate from feminists because you set yourself to be the perfect punching bag for their little power trips. And you like it. A million bazillion dollars says you’ll be back on the internet writing articles about pegging the patriarchy with big black dildos before Christmas.

  31. Hugo, I really feel bad for you and your family, and for the women who have been hurt by your behavior. I’m sad it’s come to this. I was a regular reader of your blog from the beginning, and although I strongly disagreed when you made the switch from anti-porn to porn defender, I often draw on the feminist insights that I first discovered on your site. As a male ally, you were a good gateway for me to begin exploring the diversity of feminist thought. You showed me that feminists didn’t have to be anti-male or anti-femininity. But I have to echo what Mermade said above — healing is about integrating your past self, not splitting off from it. I wish you a good recovery in private.

  32. If you REALLY want to repent…turn yourself in. You have here described, again your attempt to murder your girlfriend. You have also admitted to being a rapist before. Atone in prison.

    • Yes! Exactly this. *That* would be a shining example of change, a true taking of responsibility. Speak up clearly and accurately about sleeping with your students; face the consequences to your employment. Report your attempt at murder to the authorities, and face the consequences. And while you are doing those things, don’t lie. If you are really sorry, give your victims justice.

      My favorite line from the interview, referring to male feminists who, mysteriously, haven’t committed rape, or tried to kill any women out of “love”: “It’s almost like they take their cues from the women around them.”

      Clearly this is something Hugo hasn’t even seen the need for, let alone learned how to do.

  33. Sorry but Hugo will be back and women will accept him back, hell even Joanna in this thread is white knighting him, of course that is no surprise because she has white knighted him everywhere, including a website she is a moderator of, WHY because hugo like Joanna, blames all men for the actions of a few.

  34. Hugo now admits to at least 3 affairs that were “consumated” and several others involving just social media.

    Well, I guess the only thing to say at this point is: Someone should let Eira know that not all men are like this. In fact, hardly any of us are. Serial infidelity is the aberration. Heck, infidelity at actually an aberration. Everyone that is saying “oh the temptation to cheat is too much” or “normal” or a “daily struggle”.. really?

    I was reading someone describe Hugo as the stereotype of the Californian that is outwardly deeply (loudly?) involved in self-improvement measures but is actually more screwed up then everyone else.

    Also, what about these other relationships; we know that Eira was hurt, but were any of these (other) women involved in existing relationships? This has come up time and time again. How many families and relationships has Hugo invaded and wrecked? And also, I can guarantee you I know whats going on in Eira’s mind right now. “I had planned on only being married once…only having one other parent for my children.”

    Now she gets to choose between staying alone or starting again with some stranger she hasn’t met yet, who may look at her a little different since she already has kids, she’s already approaching 40.

    What is the human cost of the Cult of Hugo Schwyzer.. and also, if he didn’t have these sordid stories to wow us with, would anyone bother listening to this screwed up person at all?

  35. Hugo, you are a pariah.
    You deserve it.
    I hope PCC finds a way to terminate you the way they should have done all those years ago.
    I am ashamed that for a short while I actually bought into your act.
    You hypocrite.

  36. I guess the question is where we unreconstructed Neanderthals who never assaulted a woman, or tried to kill one, are supposed to go. Were we on the wrong track?
    Nobody forgives us for failing to try to kill women.

  37. Has anyone been able to verify that there is any truth to this narrative at all? The apparent rationale for no charges being laid are flimsy, at best.

    “Based on what I’d said to Darla and what they’d found in the apartment, the authorities had had no initial reason to suspect that this was anything other than a double suicide attempt.”

    Oh, really? What about the still-alive girlfriend who they could simply ask if she had intended to take her own life with you? They just took it for granted it was a double-suicide attempt, and dropped you off at a psyche ward instead? Really.

    “My psychiatrist told me that the deputies had spoken with Kerith and her family, and that while the investigation was “open,” her parents were adamant that they didn’t want to pursue a case.”

    IANAL, but I am pretty sure that attempted murder is not a charge that can be made to go away because a victim decided against pressing charges, let alone because a victim’s parents’ decided against it. Otherwise victims of violent crime would be under an even greater threat of violence from the accused. Never mind the fact that it’s fairly implausible that any parent would be “adamant” that they want the almost-killer of their daughter to walk free. It’s a frankly preposterous claim intended to prop the story up despite the obvious inconsistencies in the Freyesque narrative.

    There is no statute of limitations on attempted murder in California. The only way this “confession” makes any sense at all is if it is pure fiction, and he knows he can’t ever face charges because it never even happened. Who knows what Schwyzer’s motives are for spinning this yarn. All part of his fabricated redemption narrative, perhaps. All in hopes of making his “memoir” a best seller one day, maybe. I know it’s tempting to take this story at face value, because it constitutes proof-positive of all the worst things people want to believe about Schwyzer. I think he may be another layer of twisted yet. I don’t think we have seen anything that remotely resembles the truth of this story, despite Schwyzer’s cross-his-heart-hope-to-die on this version of the tale.

  38. Pingback: Recent Links and News: Steven Pinker on “scientism”, male joblessness, political beliefs and decisions, luxury handbags and Hugo Schwyzer - Sex, Genes & Rock

  39. I do not understand what any of you get out of posting comments that are not going to help him but put him down, but then again that is what you want isn’t it? To make him feel worse off then what he already is, who are you to say anything about HIS life, we are all adults stop acting like kids and bullying him. Get over yourselves and live your own life, judge yourself. It is his blog and his freedom of speech, if he chooses to express himself then let him, this could be a way that helps him ease some of the pain because once you put emotions in words they become real and it can help you get over whatever you are going through. I am pulling for you Professor Schwyzer, we are not perfect but people do change and we have to go through that change in order to live and learn right? I hope that everything you are going through helps you come back as a much stronger person. Do not listen to any of the negative comments, posts, remarks, you are human and you are not perfect. You stand up for what you believe in and you have a voice of opinion, not everyone stands up for what they believe in so they try and bring down those who do. Wishing you nothing but the best in this journey of yours!

    • If you want to know why, there are three categories of people who resent this creep.
      Men, whom he blamed for everything, no matter what.
      Women whom he hurt and those who sympathize with the hurt.
      Certain feminists who had serious disagreements with him.
      After he’s been castigating so many for so long….
      As I said earlier, you’d have to round up quite a bunch of guys at random to accumulate, between them, all the offenses against women this pious bullshit artist pulled off all by his lonesome.
      While scolding us.

  40. I don’t understand how this guy is (or was) allowed to teach? Does he just have a ton of money? God this was fucking horrible to read, I’m mad that I was even curious enough to check it out

  41. Pingback: Community College Spotlight | ‘Porn professor’ admits sexting

  42. Pingback: Sexting is bad enough when teenagers do it. But it turns really creepy when middle-aged men get in on the act – Telegraph Blogs

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  45. I’ve been reading your blog for almost two years. I’ve disagreed with some of your posts, even found a handful of them distasteful or offensive, but I didn’t wish you harm then and wouldn’t wish you ill now. I learned long ago that no person is 100% honest 100% of the time, and the world still goes on. Thanks for both the “good” and the “bad” you’ve contributed to the realm of feminist thought. Now it’s time to step out of the spotlight and the mayhem and, hopefully, into some semblance of normalcy. I wish you a wholesome healing process. The world needs more healing, not more hurt.

  46. Hugo I wish you a speedy recovery and my thoughts are with you and your family, I will miss your articles, I always enjoyed reading them. But I know one day you will be back.

  47. Praying for you, Hugo. When I was first flapping my feminist wings, your writing was immensely important to me- I remain grateful for that. I hope that you and Eira find healing and rest.

  48. Pingback: Are you a feminist? Two simple ways to tell. - Sex, Genes & Rock

  49. Hugo, I don’t know you or your work very well. I think a lot of people on here know it TOO well, because they are clearly caught up (as are you) in the specifics of your life, your past, your work. I understand that. But from a big, big picture, I see a very smart man with a very big biological issue. Addiction and depression are not excuses for behavior, but they are the most fundamental explanation for so many issues for so many people. It is unfortunate that individuals have become so consumed by their own perceptions of you and your work (whether or not these perceptions are justified) that they have made such dismissive comments about the validity or seriousness of your mental health and the role it has played in your life story.

    I personally do not care whether or not you return to the internet, because I don’t personally allow my happiness to be dictated by the opinions other people put forth into the world. I can see you have a need for validation, as many many people do. I personally think the internet is a crappy forum for that, as it allows people to publish and comment and emote and degrade without understanding the impact their words have on the recipient. Seems like a lot of unnecessary hate and evil.

    You are a human. You have a right to be happy and a responsibility to bring happiness to others. That is all. Find joy in things you have never before explored. I wish you strength and peace and self acceptance.

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