The Comments Section

I feel shame like heat from my sternum to my back, slightly skewed to the left, pretty close to the apex of my heart. My inspiratory muscles ache on account of the fact that I’m likely holding my breath.

The fact of the matter is that some folks are meaner than cat shat. Wicked words hurled right across the screen, hit hard and fast deep within my chest. They fracture tender places, they crush fragile feeling sorts of spaces. Right into my neighbourhood — right into my night.

It’s half past two and sleep just don’t come easy. The shame storm woke me up. The words thundered, and lit up the back of my eye lids. I read the comments. Good Lord, if you send another flood, I’ll completely understand.

I’m too intelligent. I’m too attractive. I’m too adult. I’m too articulate. I should have known better. I took legal action. I didn’t take enough action. I am too much. I am too little. I am too late. I’m not a victim. I’m not victim enough.

It goes on endlessly and crushingly.

I feel gnawed to the bone.

My chest still aches.

I hate the comments.

I hate the hate.

I fear they will DARVO me to death.

And what’s, more they like it.

Father, forgive them, they know what they do.

And they do it anyway.

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