Mamacita says: My adored Tumorless Sister was attacked by a drunk wielding a vehicle the other day, and I am struggling, struggling, with the intense and immense hatred I feel for this driver. I hate it that he has made me hate him. I hate the helpless feeling hatred gives me. I feel that I could change it if I tried, but the truth is, I hate this man so thoroughly that I don’t feel he deserves any other emotion from anyone.
Condemnation is God’s prerogative, not ours. But for perhaps the second time in my entire life, I hope someone burns.
It’s not the addiction that makes me frantic with dislike; I understand that. Addictions can not always be helped; decent people strive mightily to overcome them. The weak merely indulge themselves. I have beloved, BELOVED, friends who struggle with addiction, and I admire their tenacity in TRYING more than I could ever convey to them. I love them. I support them. I will help them in any way that I can, and gladly. I am honored to help them. But they do not indulge their addictions and then get behind the wheel. This is where the line is drawn. This marks the difference between a decent, struggling person and weak scum.
To get behind the wheel of a potential weapon and start waving it around the neighborhood . . . . how is that any different from putting one’s hands on a loaded gun and waving it around a McDonald’s during a child’s birthday party? I see no difference at all.
My sister is a musician. Pianist. The drunk and his lethal weapon broke many of the little bones in her hand. The drunk used his vehicle to break her jaw, and to fracture her right eye socket. Is he sorry? Does he even remember what he did? I don’t care. I loathe him. The drunk was weaving down the street, too out of it to even see her. He didn’t target her, except that a drunk behind the wheel is actually targeting everybody in the world unfortunate enough to cross his path. A drunk driver always hurts the innocent. Sometimes, the drunk driver murders the innocent. It’s murder. The same murder that the person waving the loaded gun at the birthday party commits when he pulls the trigger and blows someone’s innocent little child away.
“He didn’t know what he was doing.” “He didn’t understand what he was doing.” Blah, blah, blah, cry me a river.
Don’t anybody dare rationalize the actions of a drunk driver to me. Life is full of choices. This man chose to be destructive. He chose to be a taker, not a giver. He chose. We all choose. Addictions are overwhelming, but that’s not what I hate.
It was the decision to get behind the wheel of a large, heavy, weapon that I hate.
I am not ordinarily a hater. Just the other day I was wondering how someone could possible HATE another person. I’ve disliked people, but hate? I know now that I never HATED anybody before. I know this because now I know what hate is.
I really don’t care what caused this man to get behind the wheel while he was indulging his addiction. I really don’t. I care only that somehow he is prevented from ever. so. much. as. touching. a. steering. wheel. again. Ever. I thought for a while that it would make me happy to know he was behind bars for the rest of his life, but quite frankly, in the mood I’m in, I begrudge the air that he breathes and I certainly do not want to pay for the food he eats or the clothes he wears.
He attacked my innocent sister with a huge, heavy weapon. He crossed the line. He is scum.