Sigh. I recognize some of that narrative. People read my writing and they think they know me. But the person they know is one they construct from the parts of the writing they like and agree with.

I guess they push aside the rough edges and flaws and downright festering wounds I’m honest enough to display sometimes.

Then they get angry and bitter because I am who I am.

Well, I never pretended to be anyone else.

It’s exhausting enough that I’m weary of it.