The Letter I know I Shouldn’t Write, but I’ve got to get it off my chest

Yes, I called you Stalker.  Yes I was serious.

I could go look up the definition of stalker, but there are so many and they are so vague.  But Merriam-Webster defines it as to pursue obsessively and to the point of harassment  And that’s where you were.  I felt it was harassment.

You told me that Chris Coleman, the man who KILLED his wife and two sons for his girlfriend had the right idea.  You left comments here bashing your wife.  I told you I would contact you when I wanted to talk to you.  The fact that I didn’t should have told you I had no desire to have any contact with you.  You continued to text me, and leave comments here.

The final straw?  Showing up at my work.  Sitting downstairs, where I would be forced to face you and acknowledge you should I ever go downstairs.  So, for hours I stayed upstairs in my office feeling like a prisoner in my place of employment.

I told you as nicely as I could that I didn’t want to talk to you.  I told you point-blank that your treatment of your wife was deplorable, despicable, and unacceptable to me.  The way you talked about her make me sick and made me hate you.

I know that writing this now if pointless.  I know that now that you have ‘deleted my text number from your phone” chances are good that I won’t hear from you again.  But I can’t take chances.  I have taken all possible actions to guarantee my safety.  I don’t care how offended/hurt/upset you are.  This isn’t about you, your wants, your fantasies, this about my life, my safety.