Walter F. Is Free

My stalker got out of jail today.

It might be the first time I've ever written that specific combination of words before.

Well, I suppose there's one good thing to come of it. Instead of receiving letters in envelopes stamped "Inmate Mail," I'll get emails. This way, my mailman might stop looking at me curiously.

And the first email arrived earlier tonight.

He's worried about me because he didn't receive a single letter from me when he was in jail and because he came home from prison today to find his email inbox empty of any emails from me.

That's almost funny.

And it makes me angry. On almost every possible level. Angry at his presumption, but also angry because I do not want to feel pity for him. I can be downright old testament when it comes to dealing with those who have hurt me and mine, but despite how I might talk about ruthlessly dispatching instant karma, it's at least partly, just talk. All flippancy aside, I do not want to conduct myself as a person who lacks generosity of spirit, as a person incapable of forgiveness.

In this case, however, I don't know if forgiveness is warranted. And even if it is, there's a world of difference between "I forgive you, now please go live your life and let me live mine" and "I forgive you, now let's start dating again."

But this is moot. Whatever pity I might feel now will evaporate when he moves onto the next phase of contacting me. I give it about 3 days before I start receiving emails from him calling me a whore. It's a cycle he's been repeating every few months for the last year. But insult, I can deal with, especially from someone whose only place in my life is as the topic of the occasional blog post. It's pity that is dangerous. It's pity that could cause me to write to him and to try to explain, firmly, gently, reasonably, that I wish him luck with his life but that he needs to move on, because I have. What pity doesn't always remember is that I've tried that before and that no matter how clear I am with my communication, it is only ever construed by him as an opening back into my life.

I can only hope that part of whatever court ordered rehab he now has to undergo includes serious therapy and that it will be successful and that one day, he will finally let me be.

When did my personal life become so completely ridiculous?

You know, spite is SO much more fun. Now I'm cranky. Where the heck did my cleaning lady put my tiara?!?