There was a conversation I had enabled to take place a few years back. It revolved around a picture that was circulating the internet at the time. It was a picture of a soldier giving his condolences along with medal to a young child. This young child had lost his father in battle, and was given the last item that the child will remember his father by. On this picture, there was the caption, “Your father was 360 quickscoped”.

It’s a horrible, horrible thing to have on this picture, but at the time, I did zero research into the background of the picture, and had just thought it was a stock photo with a caption. I posted this picture to social media, and tagged a few friends. From there, a verbal feud ensued, and I sat back and let it continue.

Somewhere along the line, the phrase “Have a heart” was used. For some reason, that phrase hits me hard to this day. It fills me full of guilt and anger. It can move me to tears, and spark hate deep in me.

“Come on, have a heart.”

If someone uses that phrase with me, I will politely tell them to go fuck themselves, and that I do have a heart. My heart is just buried underneath thick layers of scar tissue. With as many betrayals, breaches of trust, heartbreaks, traumas, and other emotional and physical distresses I’ve incurred, I impress myself that I still have a heart.

Just because my sense of humor is off taste, or sometimes just plain distasteful doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart or feelings. I’m just separated from the feelings in exchange for some humor. If you want me to show my feelings, let me know, or get me into a state where I am -able- to show my feelings. For that, I’d have to trust you, and that’s the hardest part of all.