sweets for the troll

He reads my blog.

He's reading this right now. 

Or will when curiosity gets a hold of him. 

Or because I told him not to. 

I realize now asking him to not do something is really like saying, oh please please do it, because we subscribe to the same Don't Tell Me What to Fucking Do! Logic.

That wasn't actually my intent, though.

See, I made a mistake.

7 weeks pass and I feel a tinge of kindness overshadow my fear. 

So what do I do?

I communicate it. 

And what does he do?

Rejects it. Violently. 

I don't know why I'd never thought to Google him (I'm a bad stalker) but one night I did and I found all these songs back from when he was a kid. (Which actually wasn't that many years ago)

And it was really wonderful because they were songs he'd played for me, months back, when things were wonderful and magical and I couldn't believe how happy I was just laying in his sheets. 

So hearing the music again felt like some sort of time machine. 

It let my brain exist in a memory that didn't cause my hands to shake, and it felt incredible for my thought life to exist there. 

For the first time in months. 

And I don't know, I guess I knew my friend going into his bar and throwing a drink upset him (even though he deserves worse) and I wanted to provide some minuscule fragment of comfort because that's the sappy woman I am and I just wanted. 

I wanted, whatever communication we were to have. 

If there would be any. 

To be kind. 

Loving truth. 

I'm a naive little fucker.

So I sent him a text. 

And I told him I'd found his music and I just wanted him to know listening to it made me really happy. 

And he responded that he'd made it private now so I could no longer listen to it. 

And I know it shouldn't have, but it surprised me. 

I shared this joyful secret of mine, that it comforted my heart to listen to his voice singing mournfully as I folded laundry in my living room. 

And all he wanted was to take that thing that brought me joy away. 

I guess it was one more thing for him to destroy.

And then.

THEN.

He texted me that he'd just read some of my blog and was upset about what I wrote. 

He quoted something I'd written the next day which meant he'd continued reading my blog. 

So. 

It was unhealthy for me to ask him to not make his music private, music he'd shared publicly for years. 

But it was his perfect right, to go seek out my blog, and read that, and then be upset about what I'd written, even if he admitted my words were, albeit some true.

I find our interaction so disheartening. 

Because one. 

I truly believed I'd never hear from him again. 

But instead of replying to my kindness with kindness, he was responding to be hurtful.

He actually told me to Move along.

When I read that sentence I was so stunned I put my phone down and refused to respond. 

Move along??

W O W.

I am offering a loving interaction after the literal hell he put me through and that is his response. 

N O O O.

I saw Amelie that night and told her what happened.

And when I got to the last part I said, NO. Nooooo.

And she laughed and said, That's the girl I know.

She told me once I didn't realize how much I said that. 

No.

When I'm making an important point or standing up for myself, for what I believe, when I feel I have been wronged by someone I love. 

I always say, NO.

One time when I was walking late at night alone to my car and my PTSD creeped in and tried to frighten me into an anxiety attack I said, No. No. No. No no no no no. NO.

And surprisingly. 

It worked.

So I told her I'd sent him a No text. 

Because while I don't want to have anything to do with any negative interactions with him, I also can't stay silent when something is important. 

And this probably sounds ridiculous but I've gone back and reread the text I sent him so many times. 

Because it comforts me. 

It comforts me knowing that I responded to hate with loving truth. 

It comforts me that I said exactly what I needed to say and I called him out on his shit. 

He told me once he hated that I called him out on his shit and I don't care. 

Men need to be called out. 

We all do. 

But especially men. 

There's this pressure on women to be so fucking agreeable all the time and when someone is lying to my face I am going to tell them I know exactly what they're doing. 

Feigning memory loss is a great tactic when you don't want to deal with something. 

But I am a force to be dealt with. 

And if you don't have the strength to be honest, you will never survive the winds of my loving truth. 

That shit will knock you DOWN.