You're not strong, she comments. Someone told me about your blog so I come here occasionally. My sister lost a two year-old and she doesn't blather on like you do. I bet no one in your real life says nice things to you like all these strangers do, because you don't deserve it. You need to go take care of your gorgeous husband and your babies and get over it. Get a life. You're not strong. You're just like everyone else.

She was gone so fast, I have to paraphrase her for your benefit. Sorry, suzymomof4. I've got a twitchy trigger finger.

You're what most people would call a troll. Elevating your words and responding to them is against policy. But you're a nice one, because you said my husband is gorgeous. So that makes you a troll with great taste in men.

You might be seething now, figuring yourself proved correct that I'm an attention whore who can't handle anything but gushing support. I'm too tired to try and convince you otherwise, even if it wasn't completely pointless to try.

No one should have to go through what your family's been through. You try to shame me because you've been hurt. I don't know if it made you feel better, this scolding. If that's all you've got for release, then I hope it helped, even at my expense.

Some people jog. Other people drink. Other people visit therapists. Other people implode into themselves and never speak of pain, even when that piece of themselves turns gangrenous and crippling. Other people write to cleanse, to get it out.

You don't understand how public writing can be necessary, and healing, because it doesn't do those things for you, or for your sister. Fair enough. But I hope that if she ever does need you to listen, you won't tell her to quit blathering. I hope she's got some kind of safe place she can either be heard or be peacefully silent, whatever she prefers.

For me, this is it. It always has been, even without an audience, long before our car crash. And that's in addition to Having a Life, not instead of it.

++++++

A while back, I tripped over this. Interesting, the prospect of redefining blogging and participation and the point of it all. How freeing that would be — no comments, no stats, no reciprocity. Just a screen and text that facilitates no relationship between the writer and the readers, or the ego and the strokers, if that's how you'd prefer to see it. Just pure Out There and nothing else.

And then I was pissed that I couldn't leave a comment.

I wanted to see a dialog spring from it. I wanted to see reaction from others, and then to hear more from her. I wanted to witness a conversation, not just a dead-end (like this post, which can be only that).

Still, to be commentless strikes me as some elevated form, a barefoot monk as compared to a high catholic priest with crosses swinging from his belt and incense and yards upon yards of purple velvet.

If I did that, I'd miss out on so much, and so would you. But then, at least, no one could accuse me of being a self-centred twit.

And that would be lovely.

Comments are off on this post for her sake and for mine, and because I want the Internet to be bigger than this, and not so toxic, even if toxicity is justified. That's all.

Just knowing you're out there in receipt is plenty good.