I know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think right. I have an irreconcilable difference in processing. It seems like a small glitch, but the consequences are unbearable. I don’t believe in hurting back. I doubt I’m the only one with this flaw, but I’m sure it’s not a question others would answer. (I could write a book on things not to ask.) I’ve tried several times to understand people who murderously lash out at others after being hurt by them. I avoid the news, but stories of killers who take out ever-increasing numbers of humans in rampages often seep in any way.
I reach the same conclusion each time. These killers are hurting back as hard as they can. It’s illogical, sloppy futility, but it’s far from unusual based on my observations of people. The only difference seems to be the use of extreme violence. Most hurt back in far more subtle ways. They opt for a sneakier, socially acceptable manner: Psychological warfare.
The results don’t vary (from my perspective.) The hurt people continue hurting because harming others doesn’t heal their hurt; it only increases that of their target. Some may convince themselves they feel better after seeking revenge, but I don’t buy it. Self-deception is a sad religion. I’m an unbeliever. Worse, lashing out at others for hurting me increases my pain. It’s something I learned as a young child.
I’ve lived decades beyond that lesson, so this vindictive thought process is practically imperceptible now. But I’m occasionally aware of the petty vengeance going on around me. It sometimes amuses me due to its creativity, but I usually ignore it. I observed quite a bit when I used Twitter. It fascinated me for a brief time. The passive aggressiveness was stunning. I quickly recognized the depth of my unsophistication. It amplified my sense of alienation from humanity. I don’t think this way, and it makes me incompatible.
I feel almost like a perpetually deserving victim. I won’t hit back, which seems to be sufficient justification for being punched in the first place on this planet. E.T. phone home, please.
It’s a melancholy day. I’m sad Tom Petty has passed. I’ve been listening to his music all day. The massacre in Las Vegas has me in a full body clench. I don’t understand how anything could lead to such an act. Nothing is more precious than life. How can any circumstance negate this fact? There are no words or gestures of empathy to soothe. Just the ugly, pervasive knowledge it’s only slightly more horrific than the last massacre.
I refuse to be inured to violence. I’m pretty sure it’s not possible in my case, anyway. I still have nightmares from allowing curiosity to get the best of me regarding Game of Thrones. I read the books. I should have left it at that. Instead, I watched it on HBO, up until The Mountain crushed Prince Oberyn’s head. That scene really messed me up. I haven’t watched so much as a clip since.
Other extremely violent scenes bothered me, but that scene annihilated my curiosity for the story. It may have been a cumulative factor. I don’t watch anything violent, now. I’ve exceeded my tolerance for life. I don’t care that it’s acting. I’ve seen my best friends head beaten to a pulp by her raging husband. I know what it looks like in reality. I know what it smells like in reality. I wish I could forget.
I’m tired. I finished reading the Mists of Avalon series. It reinforced my atheism. I’m reading Reckless: My Life as a Pretender by Chrissie Hynde, presently. I’ve only just begun, but am already delighted I’ve found that for which I didn’t realize I was searching: A woman’s perspective of the time period I’m studying.
It’s well written and so descriptive, I sat on the floor and drew horses with child Chrissie Hynde, while we discussed the state of humanity, (in my imagination.) I walked with her all over her vast childhood domain in Ohio, and observed intensely with her (without shame.) I met her parents through Chrissie Hynde’s eyes and understanding. (It prevented any automatic dismissal based solely on their political inclinations.)
I also grew up in white America. I too benefitted from white privilege and feel compelled to correct any tainted views born of a sheltered childhood in racial isolation. (You don’t have to be of Caucasian descent to be tainted by white privilege. Growing up in America more than suffices, which is kinda the point.) I’m still learning how to broaden my perspectives to an inclusive and righteous viewpoint. I don’t allow myself to feel resentment for having to relearn how I think. (It’s just disguised overwhelm, anyway.)
I visualize it internally as removing a dam in a river one pebble at a time. Walking into the river, bending and picking up a single rock, then returning it to the shore calms me. It’s a favorite meditation. It reminds me the journey is as important as the destination. I’m girl crushing pretty hard on Chrissie Hynde. 😂 It makes me happy to spend some time in her head and recognize she’s brilliant and thoughtful.
I know songwriters are storytellers. I just struggle to believe any interpretation of lyrics that don’t come from the mouth of the writer. Most songwriters don’t tell their fans what the songs mean to them. It used to piss me off, but now I see it’s more a gift. What it means to the listener doesn’t have to match what it means to the writer. It took a while, but I got here. 🙃
I know Chrissie Hynde’s story has darkness ahead. She foreshadowed, plus I know a bit from interviews. It helps when I can see it coming. I’m a bit surprised how well I handled the darkness of Mists of Avalon. I do feel betrayed by the author for inventing unnecessary horrors that could have been omitted without affecting the story. If it doesn’t drive the plot, why bother? Why hurt the reader for no good reason?
It hurts me when creators use violence as a spice. When I put myself in their figurative shoes, I can’t fathom a positive cause. The seeking of an edge through violence is to writing what Axe cologne is to frustrated virgins. Rape is violence. It’s the act of forcibly stealing someone’s free will. It’s still barely a crime and becoming less so thanks to the Predator in Chief and his Merry Misogynists. I guess the book series upset me more than I realized.
I thought I would get past this inner fury from having my free will dominated. I thought it would lessen and fade over time, like most pain. I see now it was wickedly unreasonable of me to expect such. I live on a planet where rape scenes are considered entertainment. Where the average adult is so numbed to acted violence, they don’t seem to feel despair over the reality.
I’m long past harboring a desire to fit in on earth. (The thought alone made me laugh out loud.) I cling tightly (internally) to those I meet on this journey who are also horrified by the horrors of life. Knowing I’m not alone is comforting. Alienation feels a lot like homesickness. I’ve just never been home. Too bad it doesn’t lessen the longing. At least I know it’s a state of mind, not a location. I’m pleased to share the path with Chrissie Hynde.