Sometimes you read a piece written by another survivor that triggers you. It's not billed as "one of those" but the deeper you sink into the format, the language, no matter how veiled, it speaks to you plainly, because you understand the value of veiled phrases, and gently eloquent wording. This method of writing and speaking has become second nature. It is a means of discussing the horrific realities you have lived with in the past, without traumatizing the person you are sharing it with. Somehow it puts a smooth coating on the meaning to make the poison more palatable to ingest, sweetening the flavor, until their intellect fully processes exactly what it is you have said, and the horrifying comprehension of those soft and eloquent words blooms behind their eyes, too late to un-hear their truth. It is a piece not written for shock value, but as an alternate conclusion to the one you are living. You see yourself in it, and you see another path you might have chosen to travel, if not for serendipitous circumstance, and the championing support of other people in your life. As you think about it, you wonder if it is the need to project that recognition, which has you writing in a second person point of view.
Whatever it is, you have gone through several days of pondering life, and the very different paths everyone takes in it. You had the privilege of hearing someone else's truth, not sure what to do with the gift they gave, because it was a hard truth, and one that reflected pieces of yourself you would rather ignore. Indubitably, you mishandled this gift, offering advice and comfort where none was requested, unwittingly belittling the strength, independence, and wisdom the person offering has with which to cope with their truth. All they needed was for someone to hear it without shying away from it. You offered empathy, where no empathy was wanted. And when you received resistance, you shut down, uncertain what you'd done to aggravate the gifter.