It’s been an interesting experiment these last few years online. I started blogging back in 2008 after a good friend back then suggested it. I’ve had two blogs and one Instagram account associated with my current blog. There have been moments of bliss and moments of torment.
If you have followed my blog or Instagram account you might know that I’ve had a fair share of haters. Some of them have pretended to be friends or admirers but, really, they were always just people who hated me.
Hated me? Yes. Yes, indeed. And you know, that’s the funny and important thing I’ve realized in the last day or two. They really did hate “me” or, in some cases, something like me…
Now, I’m not sure why entirely. I’ve suspected petty jealousy in some cases but I also suspect it’s possible the reasons are either more convoluted or, as in the case of at least a couple of people, stem back to some accidental slight I made years ago.
At any rate, I am the person they hate.
Occasionally I know a few people have tried to turn me into a dim witted, or silly caricature of myself. Others have claimed I’m fake. Some have infused their own weaknesses or lies into my narrative or character. But really, I’m just…me.
And despite what my mother has always insisted honestly, some people really are likely to see me as a genuine bitch. I’ve known this for years. Others might just think I’m a cold snob. When I was interested in politics there were those who might even have found me admirably ruthless (as in, someone who actually makes things work and gets things done). I always enjoyed the fun, superhero “bad-ass” image of the last one… But anyway, while I am indeed the kind-hearted and polite person my mother raised, others often see something else. Of course, they weren’t raised by my mother…unfortunately for them.
One spring in high school I went to a youth conference. It was a religious meeting. And the gentleman leading the meeting, a gentleman from Wales (in the U.K.) who was a sort of Christian guru, told me he had visions of me riding side saddle on a horse very much like a lady. He said that my family wanted me to be proper. But he insisted that at heart I was wild. Very wild. He was right, but he didn’t seem to understand himself what he was talking about entirely…and the conversation became awkward.
I am “wild” in a real way (not in the cheesy, cliché ways so often perceived as wild). And my family, the “family” that wants me to be proper, is not just my actual family-of-origin but more the family of humankind I associate with day to day. To the credit of that society it is at least in part for practical reasons. Each culture requires a certain amount of conformity to glue it all together. Still, when you’re taming an inner wild horse that wants to potentially kick everyone in the face and run away you have to have enormous discipline and respect for others and truly moral authority – a self-control that can read as being “uppity” and “cold.” And that horse and rider are both symbols of my soul, of course.
People do often hate that image in person though – a lady or gentleman riding side saddle. It might sound romantic or lovely in a book, in pictures or on screen but when you meet someone who belongs in those images you might not like them. In fact, you might hate them.
I’d like to think it’s not because you actually hate who I am in my soul per se, as much as something about my “outside” that speaks to evil. And I’d like to think if you could learn to separate who I am from the evil you associate me with that you’d see a better view of reality. People may have worn my shoes or my hat, in a way, and done evil acts but I am not those people and it’s not impossible that they wore them with the very intent to sadistically trick you into tasting their version of death and Hell or some sort of evil. But, again, I am not those people… At least, none of the insults thrown at me have ever held water. So if really there is some reason you hate me for who I am on the inside it’s elusive to me (not for lack of self knowledge either, I don’t think). *shrugs*
Last night I had a nightmare that my entire family and my friends were killed except for me and my daughter and we had to run away to Sweden for safety. Seemingly America was in a sort of tragic, violent revolution. The sick narcissists among the downtrodden had perverted the warriors and killed the true lovers and peacemakers among them and decided to go after those who “held their gold” with knives and guns. They had turned America into a meaningless and psychotic version of Paris in 1789. They had turned into the Devil and decided to do what he does best: Nothing but torturing humans as much and as long as he can.
But we all are humans. Aren’t we? Isn’t it possible that those among us who are the peacemakers and lovers need to be stronger? And the warriors need to be very careful who and what they trust in. Because if the evil downtrodden don’t come with their delusions and illogical, self-aggrandizing hate to kill those they see as stealing their “precious” (Tolkien allusion) then the wealthy evil will surely do the same in reverse. Surely. Maybe they already are… *ahem* *cough*
Sadly though, I think America is going in that direction either route we take… We’re going to have a huge group of wealthy overlords with a weak and desperate poor and not much in between (save for recent immigrants or some other minorities) or we’ll have total chaos and the end of the country. That’s the trajectory we’re on. At least, I think so. It’s death. Death of the “American Dream” for many (read that as fact and not any sort of hyperbole) or death of America in general.
From my vantage point for whatever it’s worth, I think this. Go ahead and hate me but tread with caution. Those among you who are kind and belong to Heaven might not like evil. Illogical, meaningless and futile evil. And I hope those who are truly with me and not just wastefully and foolishly coming after me with a machete will encourage me to be a better version of myself…