I was recently accused of maliciously and deliberately setting out to inflict emotional pain on someone already in crisis. It was further insinuated that this is something I do routinely for the sole purpose of entertaining myself, as if I derive some sort of twisted pleasure from watching other people suffer.
I take particular issue with this accusation because I most certainly am not the kind of person who would even wish harm on someone, much less set out to cause that harm.
I don’t even wish suffering on those who have hurt me most in my life. At times I even hurt for them, knowing that they will never experience, much less enjoy, some of life’s simplest pleasures, or understand the deeper meaning of “tea for two”.
Because these accusations run so completely contrary to who I am as a person, I cannot bring myself to let them go unchallenged. Writing also gives it a sort of physical form, making it easier to process and providing a place to “put” it all. Perhaps other writers can relate.
So, what the hell happened anyway? Continue reading