A few things in the universe must have converged in the last couple of weeks. All the cockroaches seem to have crawled out from under the woodwork, in an effort to spread around their filth. Nasty comments, innuendos, suppositions and criticisms have been rampant.
One of the people I follow, deleted her blog. She writes lovely, poignant poetry and one of her “friends” blasted her because they thought she had written something about them. She has never written anything that could be construed as critical and I would have been honored, had she written something about me.
Another person I follow (summerlikestoshine.wordpress.com) like so many of us, has suffered greatly. Like so many of us, she is trying her best to survive and posts openly and honestly about her struggles with depression. She was told that her depression was “a choice.”
Let’s run the gamut. Yes, everything we write is about YOU. And yes, we all “choose” to be bi-polar. We all “choose” to be mentally ill. We all “choose” to be depressed. We all “choose” to have PTSD. We all “choose” to be locked in a frozen world of sorrow, hopelessness and fear.
We can now all breathe a sigh of relief, and save a lot of time and money, knowing that there is no further need for drugs, therapists, psychiatrists or psychologists, as we have all “chosen” these afflictions.
I recently had my share of comments that of course, were followed with the phrase that I have come to despise with ever fiber of my being.
I LOVE to hear about how much “I was and am loved.”.
I always loved to hear about how much my mama “loved me,” after she had blackened my eyes and beaten the shit out of me. I always loved to hear about how much Loser “loved me,” while he was committing serial adultery, getting and passing on incurable sexually transmitted diseases and telling me “if you care enough, it doesn’t matter.”
I always loved to hear about how much his drunken mama “loved me,” after she had told me I was useless in every possible way. I loved it when Losers’ spineless daddy waited until he was dying to tearfully tell me how much he “loved me,” after having allowed somebody treat me like garbage for thirty years.
I always loved to hear my son tell me how much he “loved me,” just minutes after he had sent me an abusive, drunken text.
Yeah. I LOVE to hear about how much “I was loved.”
Here’s some advice.
Don’t send lengthy comments about what essentially amounts to you telling me what a piece of shit I am and then follow it up with a flip “I love you.”
Don’t assume that everything somebody writes is all about YOU.
Don’t tell a writer that her depression is “a choice.”
How special it must be for those select few, living in their ivory towers, making their judgments and offering their “professional” opinions. I imagine that like us, these people made “a choice,” too. They chose to be arrogant assholes.
Is this what you would like for us to promise?
1. We will all make a concerted effort to make the “right choice” from now on, so as to live up to your guidelines, expectations and demands.
2. We will never write anything else about anybody, unless and until, of course, we clear it with you first.
3. We will conform to your rules and requests and write only about the land of Utopia and angels on Earth that you wish the world to know.
Sorry. It’s not going to happen.
Remember, people who are enjoying the view from their high horses, sometimes find themselves hitting the ground with a loud thump.