Ever since I was a child I’ve been a champion for the weak. My sense of empathy seems to be a bit overdeveloped. Seeing any creature in pain tears me apart.
I know I’m a strong person, so I’ve never thought of myself as a victim.
Even now, when I live near a secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bully.
Yep. This man has gotten it into his twisted little brain that I’m a ready target for his bullying. He thinks I’m the victim type.
Well that certainly shows a lack of intelligence on his part!
For more than six years every wave, every smile, every offer of friendship I’ve sent his way has been rebuffed. Usually with a sneer.
He makes friends with the other neighbors, waves merrily and says a chatty ‘hello’.
But me, I get a sneer.
Secretive! No one else in the neighborhood even suspects his true nature.
Maybe he doesn’t like blondes. We are rather scary, after all.
He’s demonstrated his bully tendencies on multiple occasions, when he’s ambushed me in the driveway to yell about imagined grievances. I’ve noticed that he choses his time wisely. He never attacks when my husband is at home.
As a matter of fact, he’s never said a single word to my husband, or subjected him to a sneer.
The chicken hearted bully!
For the past six years he’s run an “irritation campaign” against my family. He has a whole series of inconsiderate things he does on a regular basis, all while we’re not looking.
Most–like letting his dog “go” in our yard, parking one foot too far so there is no place for us to park, and letting his bushes grow over so that our shared driveway becomes unuseable–could be mistaken for accidents.
But I know these things aren’t accidents because during one of his rants he told me that he did them intentionally. He actually bragged about it, with a smirk.
Frankly, I wish this bully would drop the secretive, creepy part and just stick to the yelling. I could handle out-and-out confrontation much better, since the ammunition he tries to use against me is as fragile and insubstantial as those cheap bubbles they sell at the dollar store.
Pop. Pop. Pop. He’s yet to get the upper hand in any of our direct confrontations.
His problem is that he doesn’t think things through. Anger bubbles up from a volcano hidden in his spleen and bipasses his brain completely.
So pop, pop, pop and all his ammo is gone.
I’ll admit that having a bully so close makes my life more stressful. Home should be a peaceful place, a sanctuary where joys are embraced and trouble forgotten.
But it is what it is. I’ll do my best to ignore the miasma of poison he sends my way and enjoy the home my husband and I have worked so hard to create.
And if he ambushes me again, I’m ready. I’m always ready. I’m not a victim, I am a fighter. Usually I fight for the underdog, but hey, I’m sure I’ve got a little scrappiness left over to fight for myself.
Because if the last six years are any indication he’ll throw his abuse my way again.
It’s what all secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bullies do.