some misgivingsI had a thought, yesterday, to track down one of my old co-workers. The reason was that he was in the "unknown" section of a "where are they now" list that was circulating the office. He had seemed to me to be a nice guy, and I was wondering where he was at right now. Doing so made me rethink something I'd written recently on another site. The Internet, in many ways, is a wonderful thing. Google especially. I wasn't having a whole lot of luck, though, so I tried a different tack. I came across his wife's online diary. A little nagging voice quietly whispered "don't go there." I never listen to that anyway. I read her most recent entry, written the day before, saying that she might reconsider getting a divorce after all. And that nagging voice got a little louder. I read some more. I was compelled—drawn in. For one thing, she seemed funny, sincere, poetic, thoughtful, likes the Powerpuff Girls, liable to sell herself short, frustrated, resentful of her own timidity and other shortcomings... I found myself relating. Even if she likes Buttercup and I'm more of a Bubbles person. So if, as I said, her husband seemed to be a nice guy, what was up? I was driven to ask out of fear, I suppose. I can't imagine anything worse than being stuck in a life without love, but knowing I couldn't do anything to change it without hurting someone I care (or cared) deeply about, even if doing nothing meant I and everyone else were hurt repeatedly, slowly and methodically until something really bad happened. I think most of my fear of connecting with others stems from my fear that this might happen. A life without love on my own seems the lesser of evils. So I read the entry about their going into therapy. And I read some more. And then I read about how she was raped as a teenager. Several times. I felt numb. I had to leave the office, because I was afraid someone might see me crying. I had already invested too much into it, I suppose. I had been thinking that this might be an interesting thing to write about here, and when I found myself thinking that she and I weren't all that dissimilar, I was lost—totally unprepared for what I'd find. After all, I don't know her. I didn't really know her husband either. He was just someone I saw at work every day for a year or so. Now in some ways, I feel awful. Not just for the guilt of invading someone's privacy, no matter how public she made it. I also feel guilt that I'm using her pain to fill up this web page. I'm writing this anyway. I don't know why. It's too much to keep to myself. That's probably why she wrote about it herself. When I compare it to anything I'd be able to write here, I feel empty. It's not that I wish I had that kind of pain to express.... It's just... I don't know... complicated. I was going to come to a point right about now. I can't do it anymore. I've debated whether I should post a link, but I don't think I can. Being a pimp is somehow much worse than just being a voyeur. comments:
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