Bullying Sad Quotes

Thanksgiving is no time for amateur hour in the kitchen, but we were subjected to this Gong Show on a yearly basis. Aunt Kathy went knee deep in her preparations where others would have surrendered.

One other thing—she was always armed. Ossie May talked about her gun even more than she bragged about her cooking. Out of nowhere, she took me to the gun range. She finished one clip with her right hand then unloaded the other clip with her left hand. I certainly got the message. She was not to be messed with or messed over. I was scared straight by this woman.

I like storms. Thunder torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

Every time you post something online, you have a choice. You can either make it something that adds to the happiness levels in the world—or you can make it something that takes away. I tried to add something by starting Girl Online. And for a while, it really seemed to be working. So, next time you go to post a comment or an update or share a link, ask yourself: is this going to add to the happiness in the world? And if the answer is no, then please delete. There is enough sadness in the world already. You don’t need to add to it.

She gave me a sad smile and did what good friends do—gave me a second slice of cake.

Without school, I could get by without seeing anyone or being seen by anyone. It was like being a piece of furniture in a room that nobody uses. I can't express how safe it felt never being seen.

Everyone I say stop bullying it is sad and tears someones heart apart and next thing they do is Suicide because they think that is the right next step! If you are a Person who gets bullied find someone who will stop this! Don't just kill yourself for the other person to be happy because you are gone! They are just jealous of you and want to start problems and make you a troublemaker! Ignore those mean cruel evil people in you life and spend time with the nice caring sweet loving angels of yours! :D Because bullying is a dumb and stupid waste of time! Try to shake it off the mean hurtful stuff and keep on doing the right stuff that is going to help you become a better person and when i say a better person i mean more than a better person! ~Skye Daphne~

Due to Mom’s condition, she would attack “The Walls” from sun-up to sun-down and day after day due to her mentalparanoia. With the death of her sister, no barrier, partition, fence, or any standing surface would’ve been safe. That kind of trauma would’ve created an endless loop of rages such as: “Oh no! Oh no! Not my sister, you Devil Ass Dawg! Oh Jesus, those Dead Dawg have come and taken my sister away! Help me Jesus! Help me get those Dawg out of my house! Lawd, I can’t take these Dawg howling anymore! Lawd Jesus, bring her back! Lawd, bring her back!

I can tell you a lot of things about bullying and what it does to a person.” Tears are forming in his eyes as he continues.”But sadly, I can’t tell you that I’ve done my part to make it stop.

Every sad thing, every loss or hurt really a challenge to love that much more, really just another of beauty's many strongholds.

People think they are all sort of things they aren't' he had sad. 'They think they are talented when they're not; they think they're powerful when they're actually just bullies; they think they're good when they're bad. People fools themselves all the time, and they don't know that they're fools

What had I done? Where was my fun? I wanted play, I wanted sun, he was the opposite —I called him Zum because he’s an un-fun, the sort of mean-fun bully on the playground-fun. Mean Mr. Zum. This was madness, this was badness this was sadness this was too much un-fun-ness.

Ahem! Ahem!” As I recalled, Aunt Kathy loved Uncle Dan so much, she went grocery shopping during his funeral and failed to attend his burial as well. Apparently, Ham Hocks, Collard greens, Chitlin, Fatback, and Hog-Head cheesetook higher priority over his Last Rites. Then the reverend proceeded cautiously as he introduced my mom. “Let metell y’all about my Ms. Liza. Sister Kathy kept this one close.” “Ahem! Ahem! Ar-choo! Ahem!” Shockingly, there was a lightening blast that rocked the building once again while dimming the lights for more than 10seconds. The crowd turned restless, took a deep breath, and then allowed Pastor Keith to resume. “I’m gonna tell y’all, they were two kernels on a cob. When you saw Sister Kathy, you saw Sister Liza. “Ahem! Ahem! Ahem!” “The two of them raised those boys from seeds to bean stalks. We helped nourish them right here in Zion Gate Union. Now they’re just ripe for the harvest. I hope some of you ladies can take a hint!” For a brief moment, modest laughter filled the church. Yet, it was needed because Pastor Keith had gone into uncharted waters. No one dared to challenge my mom. Yet, Pastor Keith was speaking glowingly about her. Only a fewwanted to see where the Reverend was going. But most didn’t care to re-open that door. Church members were so afraid of Mom, no one dared to call her by name. All parishioners would go mute and head the other way, or simply hit the exits just to avoid all encounters.

When you're little, she faxes, sadness is a kid you can kick out of your game. A simple, fast-food feeling that leaves as soon as the bully is gone. Deeper sadness gets buried into one's coastal shelf, accessible only by your adult version.

Dear Son, I would call you by name, but I’m waiting for your mother to decide. I only hope she is joking when she calls you Albert Dalbert. For weeks now I have watched your mother zealously gather her tokens for this box. She’s so afraid of you not knowing anything about her, and it bothers me greatly that you’ll never know her strength firsthand. I’m sure by the time you read this, you’ll know everything I do about her. But you’ll never know her for yourself and that pains me most of all. I wish you could see the look on her face whenever she talks to you. The sadness she tries so hard to hide. Every time I see it, it cuts through me. She love you so much. You’re all she talks about. I have so many orders from her for you. I’m not allowed to make you crazy the way I do your Uncle Chris. I’m not allowed to call the doctors every time you sneeze and you are to be allowed to tussle with your friends without me having a conniption that someone might bruise you. Nor am I to bully you about getting married or having kids. Ever. Most of all, you are allowed to pick your own car at sixteen. I’m not supposed to put you in a tank. We’ll see about that one. I refuse to promise her this last item until I know more about you. Not to mention, I’ve seen how other people drive on the roads. So if you have a tank, sorry. There’s only so much changing man my age can do. I don’t know what our futures will hold. I only hope that when all is said and done, you are more like your mother than you are like me. She’s a good woman. A kind woman. Full of love and compassion even though her life has been hard and full of grief. She bears her scars with a grace, dignity, and humor that I lack. Most of all, she has courage the likes of which I haven’t witnessed in centuries. I hope with every part of me that you inherit all her best traits and none of my bad ones. I don’t really know what more to say. I just thought you should have something of me in here too. Love, Your father (Wulf)

No, we’re not.” Sadness twists her features. “Because friends don’t fuck people who bully their friends.

Bullies sprout from sadness. Hurting others is how they get their own hurts out.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will break my soul.

When your teachers do not do anything about it—it is sad when you have to take matters in your own hands. It is scary. I was scared when I fought back, but I had to do it.

Don’t you think it’s sad some people are only remembered by the graffiti about them on the bathroom stalls?

Imagine you're evil. Not misunderstood. Not sad. But evil. Imagine you've got a heart that spends all day wanting more. Imagine your mind is a selfish room full of pride or pity. Imagine you're like Brandon Goff and you find poor kids in the halls and make fun of their clothes, and you flick their ears until they scream in pain and swing their arms, and so you pin them down and break their fingers. Or you spit in his food in the cafeteria. Or you just call him things like cockroach and sand monkey. Imagine you're evil and you don't do any of those things, but you're like Julie Jenkins and you laugh and you laugh at everything Brandon does, and you even help when a teacher comes and asks what's going on and you say nothing's going on, and he believes you because you get A-pluses in English. Or imagine you just watch all of this. And you act like you're disgusted, because you don't like meanness. But you don't do anything or tell anyone. Imagine how much you've got compared to all the kids in the world getting blown up or starved, and the good you could do if you spent half a second thinking about it. Suddenly evil isn't punching people or even hating them. Suddenly it's all that stuff you've left undone. All the kindness you could have given. All the excuses you gave instead. Imagine that for a minute. Imagine what it means.

When I was little, I learned quickly what adults expected of me, even when it felt like I was wearing shoes three sizes too small. When I was bullied, I pasted a smile on my face and told my parents I loved school. When I was sad, I rarely let my mother see me cry. If there was an award given away for acting your way through life, I'd win.

I finally understood what could drive kids to show up with guns and shoot up their schools.

I try to treat people the way I want to be treated, but sadly, they don’t do the same for me.

Bullying isn’t tied to age. It’s tied to who a person is, and sadly, these people were more interested in being ugly assholes than they were in being decent human beings.

Sadly like cancer, we may never fully find a way to STOP bullying. But we can continue to work diligently to help empower children to rise above its despair and lead them to live healthy productive lives in their future. Bullying Ben

In the earliest English, the word bully was created by borrowing boel from the Dutch language. It means lover or sweetheart. Today, it is used to talk about someone who gets off by intimidating others because making others feel inferior is the only way for them to feel better about themselves maybe. Oh, how the words have fallen – literally fallen from grace!

Today our youth is preoccupied with being rich and famous but is truly missing something. Sadly...even money won't last if you're not educated. Knowledge Is Everything!

Teachers who clocked their students’ alliances, then tried to play matchmaker, were almost as sad as teachers who let themselves get bullied by teenage girls in Nars lip gloss.

There I go When my heart all worn by grief Sinketh low. Where my baseless hopes do lie There to find my peace, go I. Sad and slow . . 

Try to always remember… In all times, Happy or Sad GOD Is GOOD

Bruises are purple. Anger is red Sadness is blue. And the black? ... That's how you feel inside When you've been bullied.

Sadly despair is usually the #1 teacher of spirituality~uniting us together in our darkness...leading us to light!✌ @800273TALK

We are not the stories that others hear about us, we are the stories that we know about ourselves

Papa says that some people seem mean, but they're just sad inside.

To have despair is human...for we all have problems that at times burden us. To rise above your trials and tribulations, sadness, suffering and heart aches is above human and quite divine!

It's time that America wakes up and take a moral stand against all violence especially that is committed against women & children. Violence is wrong and sadly will only produce more violence upon our nation and humanity.

Sadly...despair is with humanity and will affect all of us sooner or later. To accomplish the great things we were put on this earth to do...we must all reach down deep inside of us and overcome it. There is no other way.

Books teach us how to care about others. Books are filled with human thoughts and feelings. People suffering, people who are sad or happy, laughing with joy. By reading their words and their stories, by experiencing them together, we learn about the hearts and minds of other people besides ourselves. Thanks to books, it's possible to learn not only about the people around us every day, but people living in totally different worlds. Don't hurt anyone. Never bully people weaker than yourself. Help those in need. Some would say that these rules are obvious. But the truth is, the obvious is no longer obvious in today's world. What's worse is that some people even ask why. They don't understand why they shouldn't hurt other people. It's not a simple thing to explain. It's not logical. But if they read books they will understand. It's far more important than using logic to explain something. Human beings don't live alone, and a book is a way to show them that. Empathy - that's the power of books.

I believe that through awareness and empowerment of children...one day we can end bullying. The problem with bullying is that is has been here since the beginning of time (Cain and Abel was a story of bullying that went bad.) Bullying has been part of humanity for so long that it won't go away without extreme changes. But until the day it's gone, we must do our best to teach and inspire our children to rise above not only the despair of bullying but any other despair that might come their way in life. Sadly...only the strong survive. We have lost to many children to despair. Humanity can not afford to lose any more precious lives of it's children to the hands of despair. Losing one is too many. We must do all we can to help them survive and onward to their roads of destiny! www.bullyingben.com

I was a lonely nightwalker and a steady stander-at-corners. I liked to walk through the wet town after midnight, when the streets were deserted and the window lights out, alone and alive on the glistening tramlines in dead and empty High Street under the moon, gigantically sad in the damp streets by ghostly Ebenezer Chapel. And I never felt more a part of the remote and overpressing world, or more full of love and arrogance and pity and humility, not for myself alone, but for the living earth I suffered on and for the unfeeling systems in the upper air, Mars and Venus and Brazell and Skully, men in China and St Thomas, scorning girls and ready girls, soldiers and bullies and policemen and sharp, suspicious buyers of secondhand books, bad, ragged women who’d pretend against the museum wall for a cup of tea, and perfect, unapproachable women out of the fashion magazines, seven feet high, sailing slowly in their flat, glazed creations through steel and glass and velvet.

Remembering the life of Robert F. Kennedy 45 years after his life was tragically taken by a senseless act of violence. His final campaign of peace and justice (that sadly last only 85 days) still echoes true near a half a century later. His words will speak truth to the end of time: Humanity must strive to chose peace over war, love over hated, nonviolence over discord and violence. We must continue caring for those in need. Remembering that in spirit we are one. When we use our energy to destroy others...in the end we destroy ourselves and a piece of humanity in the process. www.bullyingben.com www.robertfkennedycenter.org

As ever, books remained a medium through which Theodore and Edith connected and interpreted the larger world. Like Edith, Theodore filled pages of his letters with talk of authors and their creations. He had carried Anna Karenina with him during this trip west and told Corinne that he “read it through with very great interest.” Although he considered Tolstoy “a great writer,” he found his work deeply unsettling. “Do you notice how he never comments on the actions of his personages? He relates what they thought or did without any remark whatever as to whether it was good or bad, as Thucydides wrote history—a fact which tends to give his work an unmoral rather than an immoral tone, together with the sadness so characteristic of Russian writers.

I don’t want you to go.” Waves rocked against the pier. The sun was too bright. Weathered boards creaked beneath Arin’s feet. “Only because you enjoy a good bully. Someone to make you behave as you ought.” “No, Roshar.” “You know well enough what to do now. You’ll be fine.” “That’s not why.” “Why you’ll miss me? I admit that the impending absence of my keen wit would make anyone sad.” “Not exactly.” “Now I’m getting sad, just thinking about how it would feel to be parted from my sweet self. Lucky me: I will always have my own company.” “What you said at the banquet was true.” “Everything I say is true.” “That I love you.” Roshar’s face went still. “I said that?” “You know that you did.” “That was more for the drama of the moment.” “Liar.” “I am, aren’t I?” Roshar said slowly. “I really am. Arin.” His voice roughened. “You’ll see me again.” “Soon,” Arin told him, and embraced him.

This linking of bullying to mental illness and the idea that it causes 'life-long damage' really concerns me. I fear it is the anti-bullying industry that is the real threat to young people's state of mind. Rather than reassure, it adamantly stresses, indeed exaggerates, the harmful effects of bullying. Such scaremongering is impacting on young people's coping mechanisms and possibly exacerbating the problem. As such, it actually contributes to the young feeling overly anxious, and ironically creates an atmosphere likely to encourage symptoms of mental ill health. The headline should be 'anti-bullying causes mental illness'. The anti-bullying industry has made a virtue of catastrophizing, always arguing things are getting worse. With the advent of social media, bullying experts are quick to point out there is now no escape: 'Bullying doesn't stop when school ends; it continues twenty-four hours a day'. Children's charities continually ratchet up the fear factor. Surely it is irresponsible when Sarah Brennan, CEO of YoungMinds, declares that 'if devastating and life-changing' bullying isn't dealt with 'it can lead to years of pain and suffering that go on long into adulthood'. Maybe I am being over-cynical about the anti-bullying bandwagon, and there is a danger that such a critique will cause me to be labelled callous and hardhearted. Certainly, when you read of some young people's heartbreaking experiences, there is no doubt that it can be a genuinely harrowing experience to go through. But when we hear these sad stories, surely our job as adults should be to help children and young people put these types of unpleasant experience[s] behind them, to at least put them in perspective, rather than stoking up their anxieties and telling them they may face 'years of pain and suffering'.

Although I am sure he has seen human suffering and encountered personal loss, I never saw any evidence that it shaped him the way it did Patrice and me in losing our son Collin, or the millions of others who suffer loss and then channel their pain into empathy and care for others. I learned searing lessons from being a bully and from lying about my own basketball career and seeing how “easy lies” can become a habit. I see no evidence that a lie ever caused Trump pain, or that he ever recoiled from causing another person pain, which is sad and frightening. Without all those things—without kindness to leaven toughness, without a balance of confidence and humility, without empathy, and without respect for truth—there is little chance President Trump can attract and keep the kind of people around him that every president needs to make wise decisions. That makes me sad for him, but it makes me worry for our country.

Here was an entry - a serious one - which he hadn't crossed out in years. He couldn't remember where it came from. He never recorded the writer or the source: he didn't want to be bullied by reputation; truth should stand by itself, clear and unsupported. This one went: 'In my opinion, every love, happy or unhappy, is a real disaster once you give yourself over to it entirely.' Yes, that deserved to stay. He liked the proper inclusivity of 'happy or unhappy'. But the key was: 'Once you give yourself over to it entirely.' Despite appearances, this wasn't pessimistic, nor was it bittersweet. This was a truth about love spoken by someone in the full vortex of it, and which seemed to enclose all of life's sadness. He remembered again the friend who, long ago, had told him that the secret of marriage was 'to dip in and out of it'. Yes, he could see that this might keep you safe. But safety had nothing to do with love.

Mr. Dussel has told us much about the outside world we’ve missed for so long. He had sad news. Countless friends and acquaintances have been taken off to a dreadful fate. Night after night, green and gray military vehicles cruise the streets. They knock on every door, asking whether any Jews live there. If so, the whole family is immediately taken away. If not, they proceed to the next house. It’s impossible to escape their clutches unless you go into hiding. They often go around with lists, knocking only on those doors where they know there’s a big haul to be made. They frequently offer a bounty, so much per head. It’s like the slave hunts of the olden days. I don’t mean to make light of this; it’s much too tragic for that. In the evenings when it’s dark, I often see long lines of good, innocent people, accompanied by crying children, walking on and on, ordered about by a handful of men who bully and beat them until they nearly drop. No one is spared. The sick, the elderly, children, babies and pregnant women—all are marched to their death.

I like storms. Thunder, torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought.

As we pulled up at the big school gates, I saw tears rolling down my dad’s face. I felt confused as to what part of nature or love thought this was a good idea. My instinct certainly didn’t; but what did I know? I was only eight. So I embarked on this mission called boarding school. And how do you prepare for that one? In truth, I found it really hard; there were some great moments like building dens in the snow in winter, or getting chosen for the tennis team, or earning a naval button, but on the whole it was a survival exercise in learning to cope. Coping with fear was the big one. The fear of being left and the fear of being bullied--both of which were very real. What I learned was that I couldn’t manage either of those things very well on my own. It wasn’t anything to do with the school itself, in fact the headmaster and teachers were almost invariably kind, well-meaning and good people, but that sadly didn’t make surviving it much easier. I was learning very young that if I were to survive this place then I had to find some coping mechanisms. My way was to behave badly, and learn to scrap, as a way to avoid bullies wanting to target me. It was also a way to avoid thinking about home. But not thinking about home is hard when all you want is to be at home. I missed my mum and dad terribly, and on the occasional night where I felt this worst, I remember trying to muffle my tears in my pillow while the rest of the dormitory slept. In fact I was not alone in doing this. Almost everyone cried, but we all learned to hide it, and those who didn’t were the ones who got bullied. As a kid, you can only cry so much before you run out of tears and learn to get tough. I meet lots of folks nowadays who say how great boarding school is as a way of toughening kids up. That feels a bit back-to-front to me. I was much tougher before school. I had learned to love the outdoors and to understand the wild, and how to push myself. When I hit school, suddenly all I felt was fear. Fear forces you to look tough on the outside but makes you weak on the inside. This was the opposite of all I had ever known as a kid growing up. I had been shown by my dad that it was good to be fun, cozy, homely--but then as tough as boots when needed. At prep school I was unlearning this lesson and adopting new ways to survive. And age eight, I didn’t always pick them so well.

That kid just flipped me off,” Dark said, then laughed. “I was flipped off by a loli. Awesome. I mean, you will reap the day you insulted the great lord of the dark. When I take over this world, you’ll be my footstool. Well, maybe not.” Clyde could tell he attempted an FBI check, but Tetra was already giving him the look. Dark sighed. “Never mind. Let’s get the lizard in the clink.” Alice gave Natalia a nice dose of paper fan. “Ow!” Natalia said. “Harumi—” “Don’t make such a gesture again,” Alice said. “It’s crude and beneath you. Unless you want to grow up to be an ugly savage.” “I’m not an ugly savage,” Natalia whined, eyes teary. “Good,” Alice said. “No more middle fingers.” When Alice turned around, Natalia flipped her off and stuck her tongue out. Clyde involuntarily burst into laughter, Airi with him. Harumi sighed. Alice, taking the hint, caught the loli with telekinesis. “Pardon me, while I take this one to see Grandmother,” Alice said with a nice Gin smile on her face. Natalia looked terrified. “Onii-chan, help! Harumi! Alice is bullying me.” But no matter how hard the loli tried, she couldn’t break from Alice’s telekinetic hold. Holy shit. Tear was now holding on to Natalia’s golden staff. “I’m almost sad to miss that spanking,” Tear said, then covered her mouth, faking shame.

You see people sad, negative, unhappy… Either they are poor or have been abused or they are in dead end in their life. You see someone with "bad" behavior… This person might be the victim… due to psychological warfare, bullying.

When thinking about it, it creeps me out. But that is life; I know one thing, I always try to do the right thing, because after they are gone you have nothing but sad misgivings. They're nothing more than bullies! I wish all of those assholes would have taken their belts and hanged themselves with it or cut their wrists, no! That would be too good for them… either way, justice comes with a price, and that was my fifteen-year-old girl. She lost her innocence to her bullies, and that is when my fifteen-year-old girl lost her existence in life too. All of this could have been stopped; yet after all these years,’ people still bully the weaker individuals, which they can overpower. They can fry in hell, in the eternal lake of fire! That is all I can say. Him! He would put things in her mouth, and spattered her innocents over his face and walls of the halls. He even had a life-size poster in his bedroom of my little girl, which he idolized every night, if you know what I mean; the revolting twisted freak. So now, Jaylynn clings to my ankles, as I walked to and around the cemetery as well. Yet I cannot help but say I told you so, and she says ‘I-NO-O!’ In a moaning vocal-sounding whisper! It is weird to think about but, everyone I ever loved has died, even my daughter. So, my philosophy as of now. I just chose to never love again, and I have kept that promise up until this point in my life. Things were about to change in a big way once again like always it is out of my control. All these years… I have been pining over what I cannot have, so I guess it is okay to drown my sorrows with a drink once in a while. I need one right now.

We are a Sad generation indeed. Everyday , We are entertained by scandals, gossip, rumors and quarrels. We want to argue about everything. Yet , We are senseless, careless, clueless and we know less. We are entertained by negativity . We find joy and comfort in the pain of others. We are used being entertained by negativity that if there is none, We are looking for one. We are amused by divorces, breakups, cyber bullying, retrenchment, and when others are failing. That is why ? We want those who are doing well to fall. We glamourize being toxic, alcoholics, drug addicts, adulterous, Blessers and being disrespectful. We are excited by violence, chaos and disruption. We celebrate hypocrisy and barbaric behavior. We idolize criminals and reckless behavior. We are enjoying bad news. That we surround ourselves with it. We are bewitching our minds. No good will come out of us. When we surround ourselves with bad things. We will end up being bad ourselves.

It’s like whatever spell was keeping his noble-prince persona in place is melting away, layer by layer, and now I can see him for what he really is. First he morphs into a fairy tale villain, a sneering troll under a bridge. And then a sad little boy who isn’t doing anything with his life except drumming up drama, obeying his father’s toxic wishes, and bullying everyone “beneath” him so he can feel important.

Pretty Boy Blue was my first novel. PRETTY because everyone said that I was "too pretty to be like that." BOY because although I love being a woman, I've always felt like a cocky boy on the inside. BLUE represents my sadness from the bullying that I endured.

Like a glitch in our biological software, repetition has no logical connection to truth. Yet it has somehow become a trap door to our beliefs. Sadly, governments, bullies, and leaders have used this trap for generations.

That’s what bullying is. It is people who feel worried about the brightness of their own flame trying hard to blow out yours. People who feel threatened or scared by your light and colour and brightness, trying to snuff it out to help them feel less sad and less alone.

The Golem, The Monster was in love with herself; the Goy was in love with her too. She was in love with Club Golan. A perfect storm was approaching and I could almost feel it. I didn't know what was wrong with my beautiful girlfriend as her face gradually began to look like a monster's and she started treating me like garbage. What was controlling her mind? Who was behind her, making her get so sick again so quickly after meeting some new people at the beach bar? Why did Sabrina say that I would die lonely and sad, and why was Martina's perception of me so wrong and unreal? How was their plan on track, I didn't understand while I was running after Martina and I couldn't understand where our happiness had slipped out of our hands again? I was desperately trying to figure out what had happened to my life, my career, and what had happened to my pretty girlfriend, what had happened to my baby? It was almost like my girlfriend's perceptions were all wrong somehow. She had seen me as a useless homeless bum and she had seen the only value or service in Europe and Barcelona which could make a living or money as, 'short shorts and loose legs'. I felt hopeless and I didn't understand what the spell was. How was my 'Stupid Bunny' a Frankenstein? I could feel it on my skin, and I could see it in Martina's eyes, that the criminals' plans were in play and had been working since the moment Adam arrived in Spain, or maybe even before that somehow. Before I even met Martina. Before we even broke all up with Sabrina. Before the Red Moon, the last date and before the provocation the following night. I felt like 10-20 criminals were trying to bully me and trying to woo Martina and outsmart me with her, but I was so worried for her and was so busy trying to save her every day with her on my mind, as if I too was under spells, under possession and couldn't do anything about it to help her or break the illusions keeping her possessed, even when supposedly she was, we were, rid of the bad people. I felt like I was in a screenplay in the set up stages of a drama. I felt like someone had sat down with a piece of paper and a pen, and was drawing plans against my life. I felt like someone had written a screenplay on how to play this out, how to take the club from me and Martina. Someone must have written a list of characters. Casting. I never called Sabrina a bitch. Adam and Martina both called her “bitch.” Martina said “The Bitch” and Adam said “that Crazy Bitch.” ’The Goy’ ’The Bitch’ ’The Gipsy’ ’The Giants’ ’The Golem’ ’The Lawyer’ ’The Big Boss’ ’My Girlfriend’ ’The False Flag’ ’The Big Brother’ ’The Stupid Bunny’ ’The Big Boss Daddy’ ’The Italian Connection’, etc. I was unable to break any illusion, the secret, the code; I was dumbstruck in love with “my girlfriend” (who I thought was my “stupid bunny”), being the ‘false flag’, and maybe it was actually “the bitch” portrayed by Sabrina who was my true love perhaps, putting me to the tests, with Adam and the rest, using Martina and her brother, playing with strings, with her long pretty fingernails, teaching me a lesson for cheating when I thought she was cheating too and making me unhappy when I thought she was unhappy with me. As if I knew, Sabrina had been behind my new girlfriend, Martina playing roles; I had seen all the signs and jokes. I just couldn't comprehend it having a cover over my eyes. I was unsure what should I do what would be real wise? I didn't think Sabrina would be capable of hurting me at all. Why did Martina keep saying, Tomas you are so nice and tall?

UK-based Ipsos MORI survey “Rating Professions by Trustworthiness, 1993–2015.”2 Respondents were asked to rank sixteen professions according to “trustworthiness to tell the truth.” Sadly, journalists and politicians were near the bottom

I suffer deep pain that erodes my being. Despair, the quiet inner bully, causes this anguish. Hopelessness crushes my spirit, burying joy and purpose. It is a persistent force like a dark chasm that devours light and creates a void. My physical disabilities rob me of autonomy. Once a vessel of possibility, my body is now a prison, a constant reminder of my limits. The simplest things become punishing undertakings, with each attempt failing and fueled by fury and shame. The suffering permeates my soul and covers every aspect of my being. My continual emotional tiredness saps my drive to fight futility. The universe conspires to keep me from meaningful interaction. My hopes are now dashed in every endeavor. The cycle of boredom and insignificance repeats daily without substance or reprieve. Every time I see promise, overwhelming roadblocks block it, causing irritation and despair. An overwhelming sense of deficiency replaces any sense of contribution or worth. My once-proud goods are now worthless. Thus, I fight an unavoidable darkness in a never-ending combat that leaves me wounded, broken, and hopeless. Once a canvas of possibilities, the future is a dreary, uninspired continuation of existing suffering. In this terrifying terrain, sadness rules cruelly over my lifeless existence. I am experiencing deep emotional and physical pain, and I feel hopeless and stuck. My disabilities limit my autonomy, and everyday tasks are a constant struggle. I feel emotionally drained, and my efforts seem futile. I encounter roadblocks at every turn and struggle to find purpose. Overall, I feel trapped in a cycle of suffering and despair with no end in sight.

Instead of protecting George Floyd, these officers protected their fellow officer. Sadly, the same patterns of abuse in the George Floyd case are sometimes found in the church. While most pastors are gentle, kind, and patient, others have a proverbial knee on the neck of their sheep. They’ve been doing it for years with little or no consequences. And despite the pleas of the people, other pastors and elders sometimes stand by and let it happen. They may even defend the bully pastor. In sum, the problem is not just the abuse. It’s also the larger context that allows it to continue unchallenged.

POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER. PTSD is not uncommon in cases of spiritual abuse. After fearful, dangerous, or traumatic events, people often suffer for months (even years) with the aftereffects of those events, including upsetting memories, fear, sadness, nervousness, and bursts of anxiety.6 In short, “people who have PTSD may feel stressed or frightened even when they’re no longer in danger.”7 For spiritual abuse survivors, experiences that remind them of their abusive pastor or church situation usually trigger these effects. These triggers could be something as simple as going to church, hearing a sermon, or seeing individuals from their former church. A complicating factor in spiritual abuse cases is that the abuse is perpetrated by an institution or a person the victim knew and trusted, known as “institutional betrayal.”8 Studies have shown that abuse within a trusted relationship is significantly more traumatic than abuse by a stranger. And there is a natural trust that is fostered between a church member and their pastor (and the larger leadership body). Smith and Freyd show that such betrayal has a substantial emotional impact: “Betrayal trauma is associated with higher rates of a host of outcomes, including posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), dissociation, anxiety, [and] depression.

It is incumbent upon us to list you your fears lest you forget them: that of being needy; of being clingy; of being odd; of being invisible; of being visible; of being shamed; of being shunned; of being deceived; of being bullied, of being abandoned; of being hit; of being talked about; of being pitied; of being mocked; of being thought both "child" and at the same time "old woman"; of anger; of others; of making mistakes; of knowing instinctively; of sadness; of loneliness; of failure; of loss; of love; of death. If not death, then of living - of the body, its needs, its bits, its daring bits, its unwanted bits. Then the shudders, the ripples, our legs turning to pulp because of those shudders and ripples. On a scale of one to ten, nine and nine-tenths of us believe in the loss of our power and in succumbing to weakness, also in the slyness of others. In instability too, we believe. Nine and nine-tenths of us think we are spied upon, that we replay old trauma, that we are tight and unhappy and numb in our facial expression. These are our fears, Dear Susannah Eleanor Lizabetta Effie. Note them please. Remember these points please. Susannah, oh our Susannah. We are afraid.

Before Anna’s eyes she changed from a little girl into a sombre woman. She sat staring: serious, ironical. “Don’t you see, I’ve got to think it’s funny?” “Yes, I do.” “It happened all at once, at breakfast one morning. Richard’s always been horrid at breakfast. He’s always bad tempered and he nags at me. But the funny thing is, why did I let him? And he was going on and on, nagging away about me seeing Tommy so much. And suddenly, it was like a sort of revelation. It really was, Anna. He was sort of bouncing up and down the breakfast room. And his face was red. And he was so bad tempered. And I was listening to his voice. He’s got an ugly voice, hasn’t he? It’s a bully’s voice, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is.” “And I thought—Anna I wish I could explain it. It was really a revelation. I thought: I’ve been married to him for years and years, and all that time I’ve been—wrapped up in him. Well women are, aren’t they? I’ve thought of nothing else. I’ve cried myself to sleep night after night for years. And I’ve made scenes, and been a fool and been unhappy and…The point is, what for? I’m serious Anna.” Anna smiled, and Marion went on: “Because the point is, he’s not anything, is he? He’s not even very good-looking. He’s not even very intelligent—I don’t care if he is ever so important and a captain of industry. Do you see what I mean?” “Well, and then?” “I thought, My God, for that creature I’ve ruined my life. I remember the moment exactly. I was sitting at the breakfast-table, wearing a sort of negligee thing I’d bought because he likes me in that sort of thing—you know, frills and flowers, or well, he used to like me in them. I’ve always hated them. And I thought, for years and years I’ve even been wearing clothes I hated, just to please this creature.” Anna laughed. Marion was laughing, her handsome face alive with self-critical irony, and her eyes sad and truthful. “It’s humiliating, isn’t it Anna?” “Yes, it is.” “But I bet you’ve never made a fool of yourself about any stupid man. You’ve got too much sense.” “That’s what you think,” said Anna drily. But she saw this was a mistake; it was necessary for Marion to see her, Anna, as self-sufficient, and non-vulnerable. Marion, not hearing what Anna had said, insisted: “No, you’ve got too much sense, and that’s why I admire you.

you.” As a kid, I would come up with elaborate hypotheses to test him. “What if I robbed a store or murdered somebody? Would you still love me then?” He’d say, “Absolutely! I’d be disappointed and sad, but I will always love you.” Once or twice last November, I thought to myself, “Well, Dad, what if I lose an election I should have won and let an unqualified bully become President of the United States? Would you still love me then?” Unconditional love is the greatest gift he gave me, and I’ve tried to give it to Chelsea and now to Charlotte and Aidan. Nouwen sees another

In My Life, I've Been Through Some Pretty Low Valleys & Some Beautiful Mountain Tops. Yet...Through all my happy & sad days,If I learned One Thing In My Life It's That What An A Extremely Awesome God I Serve!

You can't drown somebody who knows how to swim to bad... so sad im so sorry about your loss try to kill me another way... or fuck off... I'm so tired of people trying to bully me it might of worked when I was like 5-14 but im 16 almost 17 you're right so I'll be Harley and do whatever I want to with or without the support of my peers because I'll always have the support of my family and friends no matter what I do or say... because I am a Pierce and I won't go down without a fight so I'm ready to mix I'll destroy rebuild then destroy again... all I'm waiting on now is for one more person to say some arrogant ass remark then I'm going H.A.M. and Hayes I'm not playin'. What's good get at me? Let's see who is next? ==========

You can't drown somebody who knows how to swim to bad... so sad im so sorry about your loss try to kill me another way... or fuck off... I'm so tired of people trying to bully me it might of worked when I was like 5-14 but im 16 almost 17 you're right so I'll be Harley and do whatever I want to with or without the support of my peers because I'll always have the support of my family and friends no matter what I do or say... because I am a Pierce and I won't go down without a fight so I'm ready to mix I'll destroy rebuild then destroy again... all I'm waiting on now is for one more person to say some arrogant ass remark then I'm going H.A.M. and Hayes I'm not playin'. What's good get at me? Let's see who is next?

WAR CHILD is the true story of Magdalena (Leni) Janic whose name appears on The Welcome Wall at Sydney's Darling Harbour. The story spans 100 years starting in pre WWII Nazi Germany and ends in the suburbs of Adelaide. It's a window into what life was like for a young illegitimate German girl growing up in poverty, coping with ostracism, bullying, abuse and dispossession as society was falling down around her and she becomes a refugee. But it's also a story of a woman's unconditional love for her family, the sacrifices she made and secrets she kept to protect them. Her ultimate secret was only revealed in a bizarre twist after her death and much to her daughter's (and author) surprise involved her. A memorable tear-jerker! A sad cruel story told with so much love.

Pondering the legitimate modern day problem of intellectual bullies. Self-proclaimed smarties attacking the innocent. They revel in being politically correct, all-loving and open-minded while not applying these principles to themselves. The ultimate double standard in the name of truth and acceptance. It's sad. This is not a post about anyone in particular. This is an observation over years. Have you seen it? Call it out when you do. The offender won't know what to do because they know that you know their game.

Jesus personally responds to our fuming and sadness. Feisty Martha got to see Jesus get angry at death. Tenderhearted Mary got to see him cry. Two unique women witnessed two unique responses from their Lord and Friend. Jesus, who is the fullness of the image of God, not only sympathized with them, he did so according to their uniqueness. Jesus arched his back toward the bully for Martha’s sake. Then he shed tears for Mary’s sake. Perhaps Nicholas Wolterstorff was thinking of Jesus’ tears when he wrote this reflection in response to the premature death of his son: We strain to hear [God in our sorrows]. But instead of hearing an answer we catch the sight of God himself scraped and torn. Through our tears we see the tears of God. . . . Perhaps his sorrow is splendor.

You’re really going to kick me out?” “Yes, I really am.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook folded her arms. Jane bit her lip and bent her head back to look at the sky. Funny that it looked so far away. It felt as if it were pressing down on her head, shoving her into the dirt. What a mean bully of a sky. Much of the household was present now. Miss Heartwright was huddled with the main actors, whispering, like rubberneckers shocked at a roadside accident but unable to look away. A couple of gardeners strolled up as well, tools in hand. Martin wiped his brow, confusion (sadness?) heavy on his face. Jane was embarrassed to see him, remembering how she’d ended things, and feeling less than appealing at the moment. The whole scene was rather Hester Prynne, and Jane imagined herself on a scaffold with a scarlet C for “cell phone” on her chest. She realized she was still holding her croquet mallet and wondered that no one felt threatened by her. She hefted it. Would it be fun to bash in a window? Nah. She handed it to Miss Charming. “Go get ‘em, Charming.” “Okay,” Miss Charming said uncertainly. “If you would be so kind as to step into the carriage,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. Curse the woman. Jane had just started to have such fun, too. Why didn’t one of the gentlemen come forward to defend her? Wasn’t that, like, their whole purpose of existence? She supposed they’d be fired if they did. The cowards. She stood on the carriage’s little step and turned to face the others. She’d never left a relationship with the last word, something poetic and timeless, triumphant amid her downfall. Oh, for a perfect line! She opened her mouth, hoping something just right would come to her, but Miss Heartwright spoke first. “Mrs. Wattlesbrook! Oh dear, I have only now realized what transpired.” She lifted the hem of her skirts and minced her way to the carriage. “Please wait, this is all my fault. Poor Miss Erstwhile was only doing me a favor. You see, the modern contraption was mine. I did not realize I had it until I arrived, and I was so distressed, Miss Erstwhile kindly offered to keep it for me among her own things where I would not have to look upon it.” Jane stood very still. She thought to wonder what instinct made her body rigid when shocked. Was she prey by nature? A rabbit afraid to move when a hawk wheels overhead? Mrs. Wattlesbrook had not moved either, not even to blink. A silent minute limped forward as everyone waited. “I see,” the proprietress said at last. She looked at Jane, at Miss Heartwright, then fumbled with the keys at her side. “Well, now, ahem, since it was an accident, I think we should forget it ever happened. I do hope, Miss Heartwright, that you will continue to honor us with your presence.” Ah, you old witch, Jane thought. “Yes, of course, thank you.” Miss Heartwright was in her best form, all proper feminine concern, artless and pleasant. Her eyes twinkled. They really did. Everyone began to move off, nothing disturbing left to view. Jane caught a glimpse of Martin smiling, pleased, before he turned away. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I do hope you will forgive me.” “Please don’t mention it, Miss Heartwright.” “Amelia.” She held Jane’s hand to help her descend from the carriage. “You must call me Amelia now.” “Thank you, Amelia.” It was such a sisterly moment, Jane thought they might actually embrace. They didn’t.

The bottom of the bathtub was grimy and sticky because the water took forever to drain. The hot water made me feel cold and then warm. Soaped up my chest and stomach and face. Got soap in my eye. Stung. Imagined the rabbits the Johnson & Johnson people tortured Clockwork Orange-style with soap just so they knew you couldn’t go blind that way. Soaped up my pussy, legs, and ass. Wished I had a cock. I had to rub myself on stuff. Bet it would be fun to jerk off in the shower. Took the razor and put my leg up on the side of the tub, shaved, and then shaved the other one. My sinuses started to clear. I blew snot out of my nose. Shaved the outside of my pussy, covered my clit with a finger and shaved inside at the top where there was always hair and inside the lips and then all the way through the middle and then all inside the ass. Kept feeling with my fingers for those stubborn hairs I had to keep going over. The water felt like someone spitting at me. The bikini area was a bitch. Ingrown hairs or razor burn. Those lucky bitches back in the seventies could let it all grow out into a giant bush. Sometimes the present seemed just as dumb as the past if you imagined what it would sound like in the future: In ancient times, the female would rub a bladed tool over her genitalia to slice the hair growing from the body even with the surface of the skin, from where it would grow again. I plugged in the laptop and brought it from the coffee table to the couch to watch porn. The way they characterized the women like different breeds. Black bitch. White cunt. Asian slut. The line of spit from the cock to the woman’s mouth. A woman blew two guys. When she took them both in her mouth at the same time, the cocks touched. I wondered if that made the men feel a little gay. A gangbang scene. The men looked pathetic, jerking off as they waited their turn, and then this one dude rubbed his cock in the woman’s hair and then wrapped some of her hair around his cock and jerked off with it. Men are so weird. A girl swallowed and then opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue so you could see she really did swallow it all. An asshole, a wrinkled, gaping hole spitting back the come like an awful little volcano, and you thought to yourself, Why would anyone on Earth want to see that? And yet there it was. Someone on Earth wanted to see just that. The men were bullies. Pulling, slapping, ordering the women around. I put the throw pillow underneath me and started to fuck it. I liked watching the scenes where the women really didn’t look like they wanted it. Like they were just doing it for the money or drugs or whatever. When I came, I came wanting it all. In one way or another, I wanted to be the men, and I wanted to hurt the woman. I wanted to hurt like the woman, and I wanted to hate the men for hurting me. I wanted to be the man at home jerking off wanting to be the man wanting to hurt the woman. And then I wanted to hurt more. Isn’t it a little sad we can’t do a little of everything there is to do? I’ll never know what it feels like to jam my cock into a tight little asshole.

I leaned my head against the warm red rock and closed my eyes. 'One day, Perseus, as I was walking through my village, my legs gave way, I literally couldn't walk. I'd become so exposed, so sad, so desperate to press away the creeping conviction that i was doing something wrong, that my legs refused to work. The villagers made a crescent round me, but not one of them came to my help. My sisters were still out in the water gathering their nets. I wanted to be a fish. I wanted to be caught and grilled by my sisters, then eaten to tiny bits inside their stomachs. Hidden forever, never to be me again. But despite the villager's bullying, and Poseidon's pestering, no: I never went in the water.' 'You were brave,' said Perseus I thought about this. 'I would have bee just as brave as a person even if I'd given in.

Bullies sprout from sadness. Hurting others is how they get their own hurts out.

And yet I’d read only recently how their generation were riddled with self-doubt and the pressures of social media. How they worried about everything, the planet, global warming, their relationships, money, war, cosmetic surgery. Were their bottoms too big or not big enough? (Thanks Kardashians.) How very sad. So perhaps the perceived advantages between ‘us’ and ‘them’ were not quite so one-sided as I had thought. I couldn’t remember a single occasion when I had worried about photoshopping or being ‘beach ready’ in January. I’d only had my top lip waxed once – never again. And never any other bit of me either, for fear of the pain (if the lip experience was anything to go by). We hadn’t grown up with so many gadgets or television channels as the younger generations. Which in itself was a blessing. How many crime dramas did we actually need to watch, how many reality shows, how many un-funny comedies? We’d had to do our research in libraries, but now they had limitless information at the touch of a keyboard. In my day, if the school bullies had wanted a target, they did it out in the open. These women had to deal with faceless trolls. They had security worries, all sorts of privacy issues. So who really had the better experience of being a woman? Or had it always just been difficult for everyone? And what about men, come to think of it… If one believed the newspapers, it seemed half of the human race was being summarily dismissed as idiots or fiends.

Henri was distraught, and his heart felt so sad. If nobody liked him, did it mean he was bad? He stared at his reflection. "I'm a Pig Dog!" he exclaimed. He should have known sooner. He felt so ashamed.

I wonder, if I count long enough, whether I can go back in time, all the way to the beginning of eighth grade, before I was weird and before anyone noticed me and before I opened my mouth and talked to Roamer and before they called me "freak" and I was awake all the time and everything felt okay and somewhat normal, whatever normal is, and people actually looked at me--not to stare, not to watch for what I'd do next, but looked at me like, Oh hey, what's up, man, what's up, buddy? I wonder, if I count backward, whether I can go back and take Violet Markey with me and then move forward with her so we have more time. Because it's time I fear. And me. I'm afraid of me.

Ijime is an issue that is, unfortunately, entrenched in Japanese schools. A study in 2013 by the Tokyo Metropolitan School of Personnel in Service Training Centre had found that 66.2 per cent of the 9,000 children surveyed had been victims of bullying. Almost half of the respondents – 46.9 per cent – claimed they’d experienced both suffering it and inflicting it. These statistics are hugely worrying, but sadly not difficult to believe.

And just like a bully to think that his sad background gives him an excuse to be a jerk.

Even though the largest percentage of bullying today takes place in the workplace, no one ever wants to talk about it. It’s the big secret corporations don’t want revealed. The number of workers bullied on the job is staggering. The incredibly sad part is: no one seems to want to do anything to address this crisis.

Slowly, tears began to tip over again from her swollen eyelids, leaving sad, pale trails in her ruined makeup, and as always when he made a witness cry, James felt uncomfortably like the school bully.

When you’re little, she faxes, sadness is a kid you can kick out of your game. A simple, fast-food feeling that leaves as soon as the bully is gone. Deeper sadnesses get buried into one’s coastal shelf, accessible only by your adult version.

The choices– that led to the needle in her teenage arm, and the decay that followed– were there ever any? For one, with such a sad seed sown in her bones so very young when a different sort of needle, equally evil, penetrated her skin against her will, how could a complete ability to trust and therefore choose have possibly blossomed after such an excoriation of her most vulnerable parts. Without trust it is impossible to choose in the sense that others do, as choice is by definition a free act, a decision, and one cannot decide unless they are confident in people and outcome (even a poor or uncertain one). Perhaps this explains why a raped woman was to be killed in certain ancient cultures– to save her from a tortured life. Secondly, even prior to that taking hostage of her virgin choice with her years still countable on one tiny hand, the irreversible neglect of spirit had already happened: the repeated absence of reliable warmth (of love), telling a child they must already be as good as dead even though their longing-to-blossom-soul has not yet had any chance to draw up to the sun as every soul must. Later, feeling herself to be worth less than dust even though gold stars ran effortlessly through her veins, she was targeted by rapists, bullies, and other malefactors who sought to dim the shine even further (but could not). This is when God must step in, in order to renew life and avert an irreconcilable tragedy. And thank God that He does and that He did. Not only that, and that is indeed a lot, but one day, before God, the elect will be freely given a standing immeasurably more than all they could possibly ask for or imagine, and the truly wicked, those people who cannot come to repentance, will be forever guilty. Forever guilty– which may actually be the most terrifying part to us thus far, even though it is perfectly just and absolutely loving, as God Himself is.