Dear Vindictive Me: When Being Mean Feels Easier Than Being Hurt

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Have you ever felt like you had to get back at someone who hurt you?

It could be the smallest thing.

Something that probably does not deserve much attention.

But letting it slide feels like a great injustice.

Today has been rough.

I have taken things personally.

Internalized them.

And made them more than what they were.

Taking Offense Before I Understood Why

It started with a comment someone made earlier today.

It was not a big deal.

The person was simply letting me know something.

The comment was not rude.

It was not inaccurate.

But the fact that they felt the need to tell me made me angry.

I took offense immediately.

I did not stop to question why it bothered me.

I just decided it did.

Then I moved on with my day.

Everything was fine.

Or at least that was what I kept telling myself.

Taking the Back Roads Home

On my drive home from work, I called my friend.

We were talking about the route I was taking.

I decided to drive home using the back roads.

That is not something I typically do, but I have been enjoying it lately.

I had nowhere I needed to be.

I had no reason to rush home.

So I took the longer route.

During the conversation, he asked why I was taking the back roads.

I explained that I simply felt like it.

Then I made a comment about my car being low on gas.

I said that if I disappeared or my car broke down, having my location would not really matter because he could not do anything about it.

It was a joke.

A flippant joke.

That is typically how I talk to him.

But I could tell he became upset immediately.

He did not say he was upset.

Instead, he said:

I guess it does not matter if I have your location.

I could just delete it.

I ignored the comment.

I did not see a reason to acknowledge it.

He has my location.

We both know that.

Realistically, he lives an hour and a half away from me.

He does not drive.

There is not much he could physically do if I became stranded.

He could call the police.

He could give them my last known location.

Obviously, that would be helpful.

That was what I meant.

But that was not how I said it.

Apparently, the Conversation Was Not Dark Enough

We continued talking.

Then I made another comment.

Would it be weird if you could hear me die?

What if you were on the phone with me while I was dying?

Apparently, that took a dark turn.

He asked why I was being so morbid.

But I did not feel like I was being morbid.

It was simply a random thought that entered my head.

I was smiling when I said it.

He could not see that.

I had never really thought about being on the phone with someone while they took their last breath.

What would you do?

What could you do?

It was a genuine question wrapped inside my strange sense of humor.

He did not receive it that way.

Suddenly, he said he was going to get off the phone.

He told me to enjoy my drive home.

I said okay.

Then we hung up.

I Knew Something Had Changed

I gave it a few minutes.

I knew I was feeling some kind of way.

I did not want to overreact.

So I waited.

Then I sent him a message.

Do you want to tell me what is wrong?

Or are you planning to pretend I did not notice the switch-up?

Because there was an obvious switch-up.

His tone changed.

His energy changed.

The entire conversation changed.

He told me the conversation was starting to annoy him.

Before he became fully annoyed, he decided to get off the phone.

But he was fine.

Okay.

You are not fine if you are annoyed.

Those are not synonyms.

So I asked him why he was annoyed.

He explained that he did not like the conversation about listening to me die and his having my location being pointless.

I said:

So you did not like what I was saying.

He corrected me.

He did not like the conversation.

Tomato.

Tomato.

The things I was saying were the conversation.

He did not like what I was saying, so he ended the call.

He Had the Right to End the Conversation

He had every right to get off the phone.

Logically, I understood that.

He did not like the direction the conversation was taking.

He felt himself becoming annoyed.

Instead of allowing the situation to escalate, he ended the call.

That was his right.

I knew that.

But emotionally?

It upset me.

It felt like I had been slighted.

It felt like I was being rejected for sharing the thoughts passing through my mind.

And my immediate reaction was vindictive.

Let Me Fix the Problem You Have With Me

My first thought was:

Fine.

If that is how he feels, I should delete his location.

If that is how he feels, maybe I should stop talking to him.

If sharing my thoughts annoys him, maybe I should stop sharing anything with him.

That is my go-to response.

When I feel rejected, I try to protect myself by fixing the problem someone has with me.

And I fix it in the most extreme way possible.

You do not like this part of me?

Fine.

You will never have to deal with it again.

You do not want to hear what I am thinking?

Fine.

I will stop telling you anything.

You do not think having my location matters?

Fine.

I will remove yours too.

I take one uncomfortable moment and respond by trying to destroy the entire connection.

Not necessarily because I believe it will hurt the other person.

In my mind, it protects me.

Vindictiveness Feels Like Protection

I came home with all of those thoughts running through my head.

I sat down to prepare for the podcast.

I knew I felt vindictive.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

The feeling had been there all day.

I started thinking about how I wanted to address it.

Then I decided to take a step back.

Let me process this before I jump off the deep end.

Let me make sure this is not a passing feeling.

Let me figure out whether I am truly angry or whether something else is happening underneath it.

Naturally, instead of doing that immediately, I distracted myself.

Because that is what I do.

I picked up my phone.

I started scrolling through social media.

A great distraction.

Or so I thought.

The TikTok That Broke Me

I came across a video from a couple I follow.

They live here in the Missouri area.

They were expecting a baby, and she was about to give birth.

The video followed pieces of the entire experience.

Her contractions.

Getting ready to leave.

Driving to the birthing center.

Preparing to have the baby.

You could see how excited she was.

Nervous.

Happy.

Ready.

It was so cute.

I was genuinely happy for them.

They deserved that moment one hundred percent.

I watched them arrive at the birthing center.

I watched pieces of her labor.

I watched her push.

Then they showed the baby lying on her chest while she talked to her.

That was all it took.

I cried.

They Were Not Happy Tears

They were not happy tears.

They were jealous tears.

They were:

That will never be me.

I will never have that.

I am not worth that.

Those kinds of tears.

And suddenly, I was sad.

Really sad.

Instead of processing it, because apparently that was too much for one day, I messaged my best friend.

I just cried on TikTok.

She was giving birth.

I hate it here.

She reacted to the message.

She told me she was sorry.

She said it made her feel bad because she wished she could do more to help me.

But it was not necessarily something she could help with.

It was the weight of realizing I may never fulfill a dream I have always had.

I Was Happy for Her and Sad for Me

The video reminded me of when my best friend was pregnant last year.

I was with her when she first suspected it.

We bought a pregnancy test.

We went back to her house so she could take it.

She was excited.

Nervous.

Hopeful.

I could not have been more excited for her.

I knew this was something she wanted.

She took the test.

She was pregnant.

She was excited.

I was excited.

I watched her try to figure out how she would tell her partner.

We talked.

We laughed.

We started making plans as we went.

I was genuinely happy for her.

Throughout her pregnancy, I continued showing up.

I helped take her to doctor’s appointments.

I helped her get out of the house.

We went places.

We did things.

I tried to remind her that she was still a whole person.

I was excited for her.

But even in all that excitement, jealousy sat quietly in the background.

Jealousy Does Not Mean I Wanted Her to Lose

It was not the kind of jealousy that wanted what she had taken away from her.

I did not hope anything would go wrong.

I did not want her happiness to disappear.

I did not resent her for being pregnant.

It was the kind of jealousy that whispered:

She is so lucky.

I wish I could be her.

I wish I could have that.

I wish someone loved me enough to give me that.

I wish someone wanted me enough to give me that.

There is a difference between wanting someone else to lose and desperately wishing you could win too.

I wanted her to have everything she dreamed about.

I also wanted it for myself.

I Want Someone Who Genuinely Wants Me

I already know the response some people will have.

I love you enough to give you that.

No.

No.

That is not what I mean.

I want someone who genuinely wants me.

Not my body.

Not what I can do for them.

Me.

Just me.

I do not know whether that is possible.

Because in my mind, the person who truly wants me is willing to talk to me.

They are willing to work with me.

They are willing to process things with me.

They can hear what I am saying.

And when I am wrong, they are willing to correct me.

Those things are important to me.

Vindictiveness Was Easier Than Sadness

I have felt unbelievably sad today.

And the easiest way to deal with that sadness was to become vindictive.

It would be a lie to say I do not know why I am sad.

I know.

I know why I am bothered.

The TikTok video was a huge reminder, but there was more to it than that.

It always circles back to the same thing.

Wanting a family.

Wanting children.

Wanting an experience I have dreamed about for most of my life.

I do not know how to give that dream up.

I know I may have to.

I know it may not be achievable for me.

I do not have the opportunity or the chance to try.

I understand that.

I Knew What I Was Choosing

I chose my partner.

I knew what I was choosing.

I made that choice.

But knowing I made the choice does not stop it from hurting.

Sometimes I wish it hurt him the way it hurts me.

That is another vindictive thought.

I wish he understood the pain I carry.

The tears I cry.

The grief that appears in random moments while I am scrolling through TikTok.

He has a child.

He will always have his son.

He will always have the experience he shared with his first wife.

His ex-wife.

He got to go through all of it.

He got to experience all of it.

He loved her enough to give her that experience.

She loved him enough to give him that experience.

And I am just here.

Would I Even Be a Good Mom?

I have questioned myself a lot this week.

Would I even be a good mom?

Yes, I have taken care of children.

Yes, I have helped raise children.

But somehow, the deciding factor in my mind is whether I would screw up my own child.

I hope I would not.

I hope I would do better than what I know.

But I will never know.

That is the part of me that will always feel like she failed an exam she was never allowed to take.

The Child Looking Through the Window

There is a part of me that feels like a child on Christmas morning.

Standing outside.

Looking through the window.

Hoping someone remembered her too.

Hoping there is a present for her.

But there is nothing under the tree with her name on it.

That part of me is sad.

Lonely.

Jealous.

And sometimes mean.

Because sometimes it is easier to be mean and keep everyone away than it is to let my heart break again.

Something Is Looming

Today was uncomfortable.

The next week is probably going to be uncomfortable too.

There is something looming in the distance that I have to deal with.

I am not ready.

I am afraid it will not go well.

And I do not know how to prepare for it.

I do not know how to plan for it.

It is stuck in my head.

Playing repeatedly.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

And every time it plays, it reminds me:

I am not a mom.

I may never be somebody’s mom.

I Know I Have My Kids

I do not mean that in an all-consuming way.

I have my kids.

I recognize that.

They are not less important because I did not give birth to them.

I hope they know that.

I hope they understand how deeply I love them.

Because they are not less important to me.

That could not be further from the truth.

But they also have moms.

Or they do not want moms.

And that is okay too.

I can be a mother figure without being their mom.

I can be one of their mother figures.

I can be one of their moms.

Sharing that title does not take anything away from it.

And sharing it does not make me sad.

I just wanted the experience too.

I wanted to experience it firsthand.

I Can Feel Vindictive Without Acting Vindictive

So I am sad.

And vindictive.

I am not acting on the vindictiveness.

But I know it is there.

I know I can want to do something and choose not to do it.

I can think about deleting the location.

I can imagine cutting someone off.

I can rationalize why it would protect me.

And I can still recognize where it would be wrong.

Not every feeling has to become an action.

Not every impulse has to become a decision.

But choosing not to act vindictively does not remove the sadness.

It does not close the wound.

It does not make everything underneath the anger disappear.

Vindictiveness Is a Slipping Band-Aid

Vindictiveness is a Band-Aid at best.

And the Band-Aid keeps slipping off.

For a moment, anger makes me feel powerful.

If I am angry, I do not have to feel rejected.

If I am planning how to pull away, I do not have to admit that I am afraid of being left.

If I am deciding how to punish someone, I do not have to acknowledge how badly I want them to choose me.

But eventually, the Band-Aid slips.

The sadness is still there.

The loneliness is still there.

The wound is still open.

Sitting in the Feeling

Sometimes I simply have to live with it.

I have to sit in it.

Stress about it.

Overthink it.

And keep processing until I can work my way through it.

One bite at a time.

Or, apparently, one butt at a time.

That is what came out of my mouth.

And honestly?

Maybe that is what I need today.

One butt at a time.

Whatever gets me through it.

I Am Not Fine

I know I am sad.

And it is okay to be sad.

I am allowed to have big feelings, even when they are unpleasant.

I do not have to hide them.

I do not have to erase them.

I do not have to keep telling everyone I am fine when I am not.

I am not fine.

I am sad.

That happens.

Sadness is a feeling like all the others.

It will not last forever.

It will not stay exactly this heavy forever.

But it is okay to sit in it for a while.

It is okay to wallow in it until I figure out how to pull myself back out.

Eventually, the Self-Help Will Kick In

Eventually, my self-help will kick in.

Maybe I will put on my headphones.

Blast some music.

Sing away the sadness.

Dance away the blues.

Maybe I will curl up in bed with my blankie and stuffed animal.

I might watch a romance movie and remember that love is possible, even if it does not feel possible for me.

Or I can watch the ID channel.

Solve a few mysteries.

Who did it?

Maybe I will take a bath.

Read a book.

Do something for myself.

This is when self-care becomes necessary.

This is when I need to have an honest conversation with myself and understand what my feelings mean.

The First Feeling Is Not Always the Real Feeling

The emotion at the surface does not always explain what is happening underneath it.

Today, the surface feeling was vindictiveness.

Underneath it, I was sad.

Lonely.

Hurt.

And alone.

That was what was really happening.

The urge to punish someone was easier to face than the fear that I may never have what I desperately want.

Big Feelings Do Not Make Me the Only One

And that is okay.

It is okay to have big feelings.

I am not the only person who has them.

I am not the first.

I will not be the last.

There are people who feel the way I do.

I will find my tribe.

I will talk to my tribe.

And I will work through this.

I know I can.

Sometimes it may happen overnight.

Sometimes it may take a few days.

Either way, it will happen.

One butt at a time.

And I get to remind myself of that.

I Get to Decide How the Story Ends

My story is far from perfect.

But I am willing to keep writing it.

Starting over.

Redoing parts.

Trying again.

At the very least, my story is worth telling.

Even when I am only telling it to myself.

I may not like the main character very much today.

She is sad.

Vindictive.

Jealous.

Angry.

And hurting.

But I know she is going to do great things in this story.

I am writing it that way.

That is my choice.

She is going to win.

I am going to make sure that, in this story, she wins.

My Bite of Pie

My bite of pie today is not acting on my vindictiveness.

It is knowing the feeling is there and still telling myself:

I am bigger than that.

I am better than that.

Just because I am hurting does not mean I have to hurt someone else.

My bite of pie is acknowledging that I am sad.

Not pretending.

Not hiding it behind anger.

Not insisting I am fine when I am not.

I am not fine.

I am sad.

And I am allowed to be sad.

I am allowed to have big feelings, even when they are not pleasant.

I do not have to hide them.

I do not have to erase them.

I can sit with them until I figure out how to pull myself back out.

Maybe I will listen to music.

Maybe I will dance.

Maybe I will curl up in bed with my blankie and stuffed animal.

Maybe I will watch a romance movie.

Maybe I will solve a murder on the ID channel.

Who did it?

Maybe I will take a bath.

Maybe I will read a book.

Whatever I choose, I will keep reminding myself that this feeling will not last forever.

My story is still being written.

And I get to decide that the main character wins.

Today is another page in the story.

It does not have to be perfect.

It just has to be written.

Before you close your journal tonight, ask yourself:

What was your bite of pie today?

Until tomorrow,

Love you loud.