I’m aware now, to an extent it was impossible to know before, for reasons I could explain at length, of a type that is truly incapable of emotional growth. They are also unable to be honest, which is a big factor in their inability to grow, mature, to evolve into better, wiser people as they go through life. They were brutally crushed at a young age and their entire personality is an exercise in never being hurt again. They can be charming, generous, funny, gracious, hospitable, helpful, sympathetic — until they can’t be any of these things.
The crux of their situation is that they were humiliated, early and often, their noses rubbed in their powerless to do anything about it but suffer. They grew up in frightening circumstances with no loving adult to look to for protection. They remain hypervigilant against anything that can embarrass them, make them look bad. If they are confronted with something hurtful they did, no matter how gently the point is raised, they react with fury. They are always one twitch away from a disorientingly familiar, bloody war to the death that they are bound to lose badly. They fight with childish desperation.
I’ve known a variety of this type over the 68 years of my life. They come in several variations. A common trait is an inability to see things from someone else’s point of view. They tend to be judgmental, too. They often have a reflex to piss on other people’s parades.
The adult daughter of one of these tragically deformed souls wrote recently online of always being amazed, as a little girl who grew up in the suburbs, by the thought that every giant apartment building in New York City had a thousand windows, with a unique life and universe behind every one. She eventually, around six, managed to express this to the adult driving the car. She referred to this person as “the adult” and later used the person’s pronoun, “she”. The response of the adult, a woman I know very well, is a perfect illustration of this kind of crabbed, damaged, damaging personality.
She told her six year-old, marveling at the variation of human experience, “that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.” Crushing the little girl in the back seat, as this type does in order to feel superior, and therefore not subject to the agony of their own emotional limitation.
I am not a man given to hatred or motivated by revenge. Revenge is in my heart lately, directed toward a small intimate lynch mob of my once good friends. I understand and forgive myself for the impulse, though revenge is not something I’m enthusiastic about in general. I’ve never been a hater. But, in a real sense, I hate this little girl’s soul crushing Nazi of a mother, eternally reserving her right to hurt anyone she feels like hurting, because she’s entitled to. And because she’s terrified in her stunted soul, as all such empty human shells are.
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