#closing this chapter

follow-up to this Ask

Well, first of all, it's a shock to me to receive a compliment on my writing for Stephen Strange. It was always so few and far between, both here and on AO3. So thank you for that, I'll take whatever kindness I can get about my work!

I never, never, NEVER abandoned Stephen--nor has he ever left my heart. But Life isn't always conducive to our passions. Real Life shit hit me, and hit me hard. Going homeless will do that to you; living impoverished and without even medical insurance because your employer schedules you only enough hours so that you're slightly above the income cut off for State medical insurance, will do that to you. Which, by the way, is why my health devolved to the point of congestive heart failure; the symptoms were building for six months plus, but I never connected them or ever consulted a doctor because I couldn't afford to.

Caught constantly living in what my brother eventually explained was survival mode, is it any wonder my passion to write ANYTHING dried up? I tried my best to continue, I hated leaving my WIPs lingering unfinished! I actually felt GUILTY about that, until my brother's wisdom released me from it! Not only could I not write, I'd lost my ability to IMAGINE. That wonderful thing that people here indulge in all the time, use to help them fall asleep at night. Use as distraction and comfort in difficult times. And my imagination was once so strong and so fertile it sent me to make Theatre my course of college study. Can you see now that I never abandoned Stephen? Can you IMAGINE how painful this was?

And then, out of the blue and beyond any expectations I ever had, a beautiful bolt of lightning hits me and I can imagine again. I feel passion again. I can write. Rusty and nowhere near the way I did in my 'glory days', but still with a heart full of love for The Character and for the writing craft. Can you, Anon, take a moment even to imagine living through any of this?

You can revile me however you wish--your prerogative, right?--but if you've a scrap of empathy, perhaps you can grasp why I'm such a desperate ass, seeking some recognition for the work that I've finally managed after four fucking years in the desert.

I’m not angry because I was verbally insulted. I could care less what people think of me. I’m better off than 90% of the people you know. I can’t be bothered by what people perceive of me. Perception is NOT reality. That’s just judgement and often times, it’s poor.

Example: you see a man approaching people for change in the street. Poor Perception : poor man begging for money Reality: man in need for a change to catch a ride home because he lost his phone and wallet and is desperate.

Early judgement is an ugly quality, one I refuse to be associated with.

But why I’m angry is because you don’t care I was insulted. You didn’t care that your actions hurt me. You weren’t sorry that your words making me feel unloved. You spent your responses justifying how you felt at the time of the post, reassuring me no one even knows it’s about me. That I haven’t been featured on your page since March, so no one knows I’m the trash you recycled. But not once did you acknowledge my pain, my feelings or how your referral to me as “trash” might had made me feel.

“I’m sorry, that’s how I felt at the time”

BULLSHIT APOLOGY

Here’s how you apologize like a man

“I’m sorry I said that and posted it publicly. It was immature of me. I don’t truly feel that way of you and I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I was just upset with the situation and vented poorly. I’m sorry”

At 25 years old, you shouldnt need a play by play on how to apologize.

Anyway, I don’t care if people know it’s about me or not. I care that you are evil and nasty enough to post something like that about someone you said “I love you” to a few days prior. I care that you have it in you to consciously announce to 12k follows that you “recycled your trash” as if you gained some satisfaction by bashing me. (to me, bashing on social media is the highest form of immaturity. Literally people who do that have developmental issues and are still stuck in their teen years.)

I care that you have enough hate in your heart to say nasty things and not feel any sense of remorse. I explained how I felt over and over. When I repeat myself, it’s not because I am trying to prove my point, but it’s because I’m buying time and giving you a second chance to come around and realize that you were wrong and seriously hurt me. It’s me hoping you go back, analyze and lead with love. Because I had faith that you’ll open your eyes and see the pain you instilled in me. Because I’m willing to forgive as long as I hear the magic words “I’m sorry for hurting you” But in order to do so, you need to know how to love. When you’re filled with such anger misery and negativity, it’s almost impossible. So that’s when I gave up on second chances. And Now I come first. You don’t.

I’ve spent the last year putting others before my needs. Stepping on eggshells to cater and comfort others. I’ve been taken advantage of over and over. People take and take but don’t give. I can only hit the gas for so long before I run out of fuel. And if no one is pumping my gas, and refilling my tank, then I have to start economizing. Less for them, more for me. I come first. My feelings come first.

At the end of the day, you missed out. You lost an amazing person in your life. You lost unconditional love. You lost a support system. You lost a cheerleader. You lost a friend. You lost a lover. You lost me.

I lost a barrier. I lost a block in the road to happiness and now I will NEVER look back.

Shall I compare you to my lovers past? I seek a certain comfort in this slight: Stripped back to fault-lines, you are no prophet Who warrants this aching, this helpless fight.

The quiet theft of thoughts while they were young Consumed me, like winter takes the season. But now that I have chosen to forget, Memory still robs me of all reason.

Unshackle me from this depraved limbo Where lust holds me, a pathetic prisoner Robbed of sense, of will, of conscious aim And left a husk, a hollow-eyed wanderer.

Your disregard is but a temporal wound-- I fist the flimsy cotton of my dress And run through bleak hedge-mazes of regret: I wasn't good enough, you did confess.