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The email from Twitter this afternoon shocked me. The subject line said, “Your Twitter account has been locked.”

Why?

The email said I had violated Twitter’s “rules against glorifying violence.” What? Me? That’s not possible. But the email helpfully included the tweet in which I had allegedly glorified violence. What terrible thing had I said? It was a reply to a friend’s tweet about the Kyle Rittenhouse trial.

“Agreed on both counts,” I replied to this friend. “Rittenhouse was no hero, but what he did wasn’t murder and he’s not the monster some want to make him. I would’ve been happier if all the people involved that night had had the good sense to stay home and out of harm’s way.”

And that — in the eyes of Twitter’s platform monitors — is enough to conclude that I’m “glorifying violence.”

I angrily shot an appeal back to Twitter, hopeful that someone will be smart enough to reverse the suspension. But the incident is another reminder that we are slowly handing over control of public discourse to social media platforms — and we’re left to pray that these reckless people will stop being so reckless.

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All my life, I’ve been in search of the ideal. Perfect people. Flawless performances. And a perfect romantic partner.

I wouldn’t have admitted this for a long time, mostly because I didn’t realize it. I told myself I had high standards — for myself and others — but I didn’t understand for years how much I was communicating my disapproval to others. I didn’t realize that I was silently telling others, “You’re not good enough for me.”

I had a long conversation late Saturday night with a woman who I used to spend a lot of time with. We were friends, but we never had a romantic relationship. When something came up about the fact we had never dated, she told me something surprising.

“I didn’t think I would ever be what you wanted in a woman,” she said. “You told me all the things you were looking for — and I didn’t think I’d ever be good enough for your standards.”

Was she right? Have I been focused on an unattainable ideal? Someone who doesn’t exist? Am I alone because I wouldn’t accept “almost perfect” when I had the chance?

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All I want and all I need
Is someone who believes in me.
— Reese Roper, “Suckerpunch”

I’ve never felt as loved and understood as I felt when I read her email that night.

It was years ago, and I hadn’t thought about what she wrote for a very long time. I thought the memory was safely packed away in my unconscious — in a box marked, “Dangerous: Do not open.”

The box opened all by itself late Friday night and memories came tumbling out. I have no idea why. I can’t explain it. But for the last 24 hours or so, I’ve been filled with memories of feelings which are awful and terrible and painful — but also sweet and loving and healing.

I honestly can’t say whether this is good or bad. I just know the memories hurt my heart, but they also remind me so much of what I long to feel again.

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