I make you uncomfortable... so what?

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I make you uncomfortable... so what? That's my job. You labor under the delusion that you saved my life for me. You are mistaken: you saved my life in order to save your own. I make you uncomfortable because, in my eyes, you see the faint reflection of that which you wish you were. I don't accept the tissue of polite lies in which you drape your life and imprison your soul. The sight or sound of me might stir the shameful buried memories of the pettiness and spite and evil that lies within you. It might also stir the profound yearning for your life to be something more than an odd amalgam of Jane and Karl's. The void can be filled by gardening and spending no better than it can be filled by aerobics or alcohol, you know. I make you uncomfortable because the very idea of me reminds you that someone smart once said that an unexamined life was not worth living, and they were probably right. I make you uncomfortable because you surround yourself with people who cannot best you in any way that matters to you. I can, I have, I will again. Some of life's challenges are very valuable because they are there to keep one sharp. Most of all, I make you uncomfortable because you have yet to make your peace with me. You see yourself as having to walk on eggs around me. You fail to understand, that's a condition you created, all by yourself. You have yet to accept responsibility for your place in my life, good and bad. Why is that so hard to see? You know damn good and well, I told you so is not a phrase I favor. What is it that frightens you so? Until such peace is made, we can't be friends. No, it wouldn't be easy. Few things worth doing are. Before you run away again, though, ask yourself this: if I were the one with a brain tumor and no hair, how many of my good friends would change their appearance dramatically in sympathy and support for me?