For as long as I can remember the sting of betrayal has never waned or wavered instead it seems to bury itself deep like a squirrel burrows so too does betrayal. The hurt and dismay from this seems to fester like a sore festered by infection until it eats away at your core. There is the danger that men of weaker mettle would allow this decay to spread the rot until it becomes all consuming.
I find that the personal acknowledgement of being wronged by mankind is a healing start point. Introspection of one’s self and true grit, sandpaper grit though painful can help ease the smoothing out of our rough edges caused by dings in our armor. Though broken and battered we can still stagger on.
I have been wronged and also been wrong enough to know that the decision to allow it to make me bitter or better lies squarely on my shoulders. I find ignoring it to be but a temporary fix like a plaster that soon falls off when placed on a open wound. The ointment that truly repairs I think is choosing to be bitter or better. After all the age old adage live well it is the best revenge is most apt in these situations I find. Being bitter only poisons my pallet and my soul. Being better I find through trial and error poisons your persecutors.
Call me foolish and perhaps I am but I choose to believe we make our beds on wooden planks using soft mattresses for a reason. The planks help keep the shape though hard they are necessary.