You all amaze me and damn near bring me to tears. [Not that that’s that difficult to do. When I was 13, I cried when Sherlock Holmes “died” at the end of “The Final Problem.”]
A couple days ago, I vented some old frustrations in this open letter to a maladjusted creep with no regard for personal space. It’s something that had been collecting mold in my head and my heart for a little over 4 years. It’s one of those experiences that I’ve had mild success in battling off its toxic spores, but it’s still one that nags at me, makes me breathe it in and hack a nasty cough of remembrance once in a while.
Why didn’t I stand up for myself better? And could I feel good about making the experience public?
Those of you who read it and commented were supportive beyond what I had fathomed at all. I really hadn’t expected the earnest levels of compassion that showed through in those comments. The “letter” was something I wanted people to read and learn from, sure, but the reasons were largely self-serving, as well. Reading your generous words reaching out to me triggered feelings of guilt, of attention whore-dom, but it also warmed the cockles of my goddamn heart. And I mean that so sincerely, I don’t even know how to properly convey it to you.
So I’m dedicating this post, to all of you who choose to read these textual scribblings of a confused millennial and answer back with basins spilling over with your empathy, your camaraderie.
Thank you. Thank you all for being compassionate badasses.
[Header image source: Pixabay]