The Kind Point February 18, 2025

Doom Commenting

Hi! I'm Jeff, if you're reading this, it's because I view you as someone I'd want to sit down over matcha and chat about life with. I'll be sending this newsletter out every few weeks or so. If it's not your jam, feel free to unsubscribe, I won't be offended!

I’ve often wondered if there’s a moment right before drunk texting when people think, "Hey, let’s not do this. Let’s put the phone down. We can review the words tomorrow after some sleep and acetaminophen. This is probably not a good idea to message our boss/our ex/the hot cashier at Safeway at 3:52 am on a Friday night...err...Saturday morning. Whatever day it is."

I’ve never drunk texted. Not because of any stellar moral fortitude. But because I’m old, and texting was invented in my early forties, well after the cycle of partying to hangover to “I’ll never do that again” was a thing of my past.

But I have doom commented.

I did it last Sunday.

A feed popped up on Facebook extolling a political idea to which I am diametrically opposed. I could have told myself, “It’s Bob’s feed (not his real name), his right of free speech. Just move on, Cupcake.”

I didn’t do that. I didn’t run the numbers and come to the rational conclusion that posting the comment was not a great idea.

I was mad. And scared. And hurt. In big, global, all-encompassing ways.

Creepiness was descending from the White House at breakneck speed, and the folks in the thread were celebrating it with likes and heart emojis.

My first mistake wasn’t commenting or even reading what they’d said. It was opening Facebook on my phone in the morning. I removed the app years ago, so any time I do look at it on my phone, I have to do it via the URL, where the print is small, and typing is wonky.

But here’s my real failure. Instead of recognizing that I had a lot of big emotions and could tend to them in a more self-respecting way, I walked into Bob’s camp and shared my thoughts with him and the people who agree with him.

Like walking into a vegan picnic and asking the people to sympathize with me because I burned my steak on the grill.

Wrong crowd.

In previous newsletters, I’ve talked about clarity as an element of kindness. Within clarity is the concept of boundaries. There are boundaries you maintain with yourself and boundaries you maintain with others. Twin guardrails to keep your car on the road.

A boundary I have with myself is that my emotions are not someone else’s business.

Last Sunday morning, I failed to take a walk and get right with myself. Or cry. Talk to Terry. Journal (which I hate doing but, sheesh, it still might have helped). Or simply ask myself what was up. And then listen.

The stink of it all lingered throughout the day, not really lifting until Sunday night. It affected my day off, my time with Terry, and my rest.

I understand why I did it. I am not trashing myself for it. But I know better. In my personal history of doom commenting, the number of times I’ve hit 'send' and then said, “Now that was a really great idea” two weeks later? Zero.

I can’t make the current administration do anything. I certainly can’t word a perfect comment on Facebook, expressing my long-held beliefs in a way that would make someone else change their long-held beliefs.

Throughout this week, I’ve firmed up my boundaries with myself. With both compassion and rigor.

Doesn’t mean I won’t do it again. And it certainly doesn’t mean I won’t comment here and there. But my tip to myself from the other side of hell is to tend to my emotions when they’re big and hairy rather than try to outsource them to strangers on a social media site.

Take the tip if it helps, or share any others you’re picking up along the way during this time of chaos.

And now, it's time to sign off.

Maybe I’ll go check Facebook.

KIDDING!

Something Kind

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