Sensitivity

If you are human and live on this Earth, eventually someone is going to hurt you. It's an inescapable fact.

I'm sensitive, or so I've been told, so that means I'm probably more easily hurt than the average person. And it's true, I'm sometimes sensitive about things that aren't that important. Jason would surely not only agree with that last statement, but would also likely launch into a dissertation regarding the attractive/cute/pretty/beautiful hierarchy that I still haven't been able to get him to effectively understand after more than ten years.

But sometimes? When someone says "Oh Stephanie, you're so sensitive!" it's because they are trying to mask the fact that they nothing more than a cruel douchenozzle. Because, seriously. I'm pretty sure it's fairly normal to be shocked and crushed if someone insults your children, your marriage, your weight, your secondary infertility or your writing. Or, you know, whatever means a whole lot to you personally. Frankly, I get a little annoyed with people trying to act like I'm the one with the problem. I mean, I have plenty of problems. I just don't think that's one of them.

When I've been hurt, or more accurately, when I've been destroyed by someone I will admit that often my first thought is, "They'll get theirs". You have to say it really Billy Bob Thortonish too. They'll get theirs. They will regret hurting me. They'll be sorry.

I believe that too. Even if you don't believe in the Big Guy Upstairs, you probably believe Karma is a real thing and that one or the other will get you. How I've managed not to have the absolute crap smited out of me for all the nonsense and foolishness I've done over the years, I'll never know, but I firmly, firmly believe you can run but you can't hide. Eventually it all catches up to you.

The only problem, I guess, is that I sometimes looked forward to this "getting" of others with an almost giddy anticipation. I plotted revenge fantasies. Elaborate ones, involving angry monkeys trapped in boxes after they had taken large doses of chocolate-flavored laxatives. I was sure, positive even, that it was going to be a great and glorious day when the bad people hurt. Hurt as much as they hurt me. And I couldn't wait.


Odd though. When it happened several times recently? I found no joy in it.



It's not how I thought it would be.

Instead, it's terrible.

I've discovered I don't want other people to hurt just because they've hurt me. I don't want anyone to be heartbroken. I don't want anyone to suffer. I don't even want to send any primates with bowel issues via the USPS. They wouldn't let me anyway. I checked.

I generally hate the whole WWJD craze and how it reduced the word of our Lord to some cheap plastic bracelets and a plethora of knock-off smartassery instead of a reminder to act in a way which would glorify the Big Guy, as it was intended. But I swear, I actually thought about that this morning.

What would Jesus do?

I promise you, he wouldn't be rejoicing in someone else's pain.


So neither will I. I don't even want to. I'm sensitive, remember?






This whole trying to be a better person crap? I think it might be working.


I still say crap a lot though. My bad.