It's things like this that best illustrate to me that the internet isn't real life. As I have been reading more things outside of my normal "news of the day" variety, I will occasionally run into stories that pick at parts of my brain I prefer remain dormant. The last was the story from Ayelet Levy Shachar over on the freepress, about her daughter. Whenever I get this particular feeling I look to grab the tools I normally have to take the edges off it. A drop in for some consoling or just commiseration, a hug, whiskey, or as you fantasized about, something more kinetic (though I am more of a hammer and nail, let god sort them out type). But because it is the internet all I can do write something, and then feel pathetic as one does when the tool isn't fit to purpose. It must be a thing everyone feels. My buddy calls his kids his "heart outside of his body" and while I don't have kids, I know love and this feels correct. All tools are ultimately useless repairing a loss of this scale. For my bit of magical thinking, I think if I carry it for a while and think on it maybe the pool of suffering weighs less on those most burdened by it. Then I just belch out some rambling sentences as penance for not being there. Good stuff as always, looks like I have another book to read. Tho after having this article in my mind for the better part of the day, I am thinking it will be a minute.
I've not yet experienced anything as close as what you wrote about. I think I'd be hard-pressed not to be contemplating the kind of revenge you wrote about.
I remember. Indelibly. 😞
It's things like this that best illustrate to me that the internet isn't real life. As I have been reading more things outside of my normal "news of the day" variety, I will occasionally run into stories that pick at parts of my brain I prefer remain dormant. The last was the story from Ayelet Levy Shachar over on the freepress, about her daughter. Whenever I get this particular feeling I look to grab the tools I normally have to take the edges off it. A drop in for some consoling or just commiseration, a hug, whiskey, or as you fantasized about, something more kinetic (though I am more of a hammer and nail, let god sort them out type). But because it is the internet all I can do write something, and then feel pathetic as one does when the tool isn't fit to purpose. It must be a thing everyone feels. My buddy calls his kids his "heart outside of his body" and while I don't have kids, I know love and this feels correct. All tools are ultimately useless repairing a loss of this scale. For my bit of magical thinking, I think if I carry it for a while and think on it maybe the pool of suffering weighs less on those most burdened by it. Then I just belch out some rambling sentences as penance for not being there. Good stuff as always, looks like I have another book to read. Tho after having this article in my mind for the better part of the day, I am thinking it will be a minute.
Well said.
I've not yet experienced anything as close as what you wrote about. I think I'd be hard-pressed not to be contemplating the kind of revenge you wrote about.
This piece reminded me about the death of Heather Armstrong, aka Dooce, just a year ago, and all the bloggers glomming on to it.