Sticks and Stones

We all know how the rest of the little ditty goes - may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. At first I have to laugh to myself because it's been so long since I heard someone say it. And then I have to laugh again because really it's such a crock! I suppose that was the bandaid people used back in the day to make things seem all better. I vividly remember multiple occasions where my great grandmother recited it to me.

I suppose it could just be that I'm a little overly sensitive, but I don't buy into the whole, ". . . . names will never hurt me." It seems too that the people with whom you are closest are the ones who manage to hurt you the worst. Of course that's due in part to the fact that they probably know you quite intimately, leaving you totally vulnerable. You've laid yourself wide open, all your weaknesses exposed, just waiting for someone to take a stab at you, which unfortunately is bound to happen eventually.

It's easy to be mean to someone, whether you like them or not, or even whether you love them or not. It's much easier to think of something hurtful to say to someone. Insult is easier then affirmation. And it's only natural that the vindictive part of our soul is enlarged.

Over the last few weeks I've really got my feelings hurt a couple of times. I still can't say for sure whether it was intentional or not. I like to think that it was just an overreaction on my part, but then I look at how well these people know me and reason that surely they would know that what they said or did was going to hurt me.

I know that I have a tendency to be a little thin-skinned, but compared to years past I'm much better. It seems my problem is that I let myself care too much. I let myself care about people too much, which really is a guaranteed ticket to getting yourself hurt. It's inevitable.

About a month ago there was a quote on the pull off calendar at the nurse's desk, it said, "Sometimes people care too much. I think they call it love." - Winnie the Pooh. I peeled it off and took it home with me the next morning. It's tucked away inside the one drawer in my kitchen. I look at it often. Pooh had it right, and that's exactly my problem.

Now that the hurt is wearing off, I feel more or less angry. These last few days especially, I've been stewing. Part of me would just love to retaliate and throw daggers at these individuals, because like I said before, it's easy to be mean. But really I'm not that kind of person. I guess what it all boils down to is that I would like them to know that I'm hurt. I want to know why they said what they said, or did what they did. Was it all just a joke, or am I justified in feeling so hurt?