I Wrote Nasty Comments. And I Loved It.

I was the one who wrote “well, I see it differently” under every post. I couldn't just scroll past. I had to prove I was right. Always. Everywhere. At any cost.

Even an ordinary conversation made me tense. I didn't listen. I waited for the other person to shut up so I could get my word in. I had two opinions: mine and the wrong one.

Sometimes I wrote out of envy. When someone had what I didn't. I'd see someone else's life and want to spoil it. If only with a word.

Once I stumbled on a line: “If your opponent in an argument gets personal, it means you've won.” And it made me think.

Later I admitted to myself: I don't write these comments because I'm right. I write them because something is twisting me up inside. Burning. My hang-ups won't leave me in peace. I look at what someone else has — and can't stand that it isn't mine. I can't stand that someone lives better. Or just differently.

I was narrow-minded. And that was painful to admit.

Recognizing the problem is already enough to start changing. But change comes slowly. I started taking other people's opinions more calmly. Not right away. Forcing myself.

Different opinions are normal. We're not clones. But sometimes in a conversation I get the urge to interrupt. To blurt out what seems important. I stop myself. God, it's hard.

I'm learning to listen. And to hear. And most of what I wanted to say turns out to be unimportant. Empty. Silence is stronger than endless chatter.

When I wrote a nasty comment, my cheeks burned. My heart pounded. I felt righteous. And then — emptiness. Nothing had changed. I just got emptier and emptier.

Now I feel it. And I stop.

You think this is about me? No. It's about you. You write nasty comments too. Or want to. Or you read other people's and are glad it's not you. But it is you. You just haven't admitted it yet. I have. And I feel lighter. How about you?