I was driving the other day. I love long stretches of road where my mind is forced to slow. Where the images that blur past are a reflection of my thoughts melting, one into another, until I am underneath all the veneer. All the smile that I put on for everyone because it’s a lot of work to share the crap. The real crap. Then, I remembered that I felt like this last year. I said things like this last year. Will this become a thing? Oh, I hope not.
This month I’ve had my fair share of hits. So, this letter goes out to all of you who have thrown a punch in my general direction. You didn’t make contact, I can bob and weave like the best of them, but the stale air behind those missed punches, well, they linger and leave me with the question:
I don’t know you. I don’t know why you hide behind the pretentious corset of “cooler than thou” or smarter than the “average bear”. I don’t know why you say what you say, or why you say it. I don’t know why you think the way I do anything is wrong, or needs to be improved. Least of all, I don’t know why you feel it’s ok to put me down.
Why? Because you don’t really know me either. You don’t know that my flaws are my greatest strengths. You don’t know that I love to cheer and get behind whatever it is you’re most passionate about and ask for nothing in return. You don’t know that I am brave. Brave enough to try anything and everything whether it be writing, or converting to a faith I knew little about. You don’t know that I consider fails to be wins, vulnerability to be beautiful and you certainly don’t know that I know, that you, you are a sad child yourself.
I freeze up when the insults come, not because I am afraid, but because I am trying to understand you. Because the insults makes no sense. I am shifting quickly to a place of trying to help you get past the pain you tried to inflict upon me, that is merely a broken reflection of you.
Unfortunately, I can’t be your fixer. I can’t be your worry-stone, your means to make yourself feel better about the cruelty you dish out. I can’t be the one you call upon when your ego needs a boost, or when you need that final push, and I certainly won’t be your whipping girl. Here’s what I can do, I can walk away and leave you to play with your toys while I chase my dreams. My dreams are like butterflies. Sure, they kiss flowers and they’re hard to catch, but they are beautiful, they are mine, and they are more real than any “real” you try to conjure up. Most importantly, they can fly away from you.
So the answer to my question is, I don’t really care who you are, because you don’t really care to know who I am either.