I met a woman named Eva Patterson, Thursday, not in the old way, but in the new way. She is a child of Facebook, she is not so much into community-building as she is into wounding. At first, I was angry with her. Now, I am worried about her and her dog. That’s how crazy I really am.

Eva introduced herself to me  via Facebook Messenger, as many people meet one another in our time, when friendship is awarded by tapping a key on a computer. She does not bother with social niceties or introductions, she is pure rage.

She is somewhat mysterious. Her Facebook page holds few clues as to her identity, there are only two things on it, a striking photograph of a small dog who appears to be frightened, and a vintage picture of some soldiers marching in a parade.

The dog’s photo was posted in December, he photo – it looks like Boy Scouts marching – is a year old. These are the only two posts on her page.

That photo is her profile picture. I wonder if she is marching in it.

There are no other photos or posts on the page, it is bare and without content or emotion, or the usual Facebook chattiness. There is nothing to reveal the person behind the message.

Eva seems to demand much of others, but gives nothing about herself away. I guess she is the opposite of me, I give almost everything of myself away. Fuel to someone like her. I am asking for it, say others.

I was curious to see what Eva Patterson is like, she sent a Facebook message to me. I have been online a long time, I get all sorts of messages, but sometimes, some strike me in a particular way. My feelings reveal so much more about me than about them. I saw myself in the mirror again today.

It was no Dear Jon message that Eva wrote: “I am furious. You refuse offers to place Gus in a home with people experienced with ME (megaesophagus). You refuse help from them..and then you portray yourself as the victim? Gus is the victim. Of your arrogance.”

I was startled by the message, a harsh note first thing in the morning after a hard night. I didn’t sleep well last night, I had some bad dreams that kept me awake, Gus was not in them, but he was perhaps looming in the background. I was in a bad way.

I woke up raw and full of anger, I’m not sure why. I recognized the feeling, I used to feel like that every day, for most of my life, even on the valium I was taking for 30 years. Now, whose days are somewhat rare, but they happen, they are a part of me. You can change your life, you can’t create a whole new one or become someone else.

As so many people have been telling me, I am tired and drawn, they say I am not myself. I know this is true, I can feel it.  Lots happening.

I am in the last days of my pneumonia, which lasted a long time and took a heavy toll on me, especially the antibiotics and steroids.  I am better. Then there was Gus’s death, which isn’t over until it is over, not when I say it’s over. And I have been ferociously busy.

Eva’s was the first message to greet me in the morning, just after Maria told me the new snail I bought her yesterday was dead (it wasn’t). I guess mysterious Eva must have struck a nerve, although not the one she meant to strike. It was my turn to be furious, a mood that never does much good, a mood that shaped much of my life.

We used to offer empathy for people who were down, now it is the custom to strike at them then. Another gift of digital messaging.

It isn’t so much the idea that I did poorly by Gus, it was more that Eva Patterson had entered my home, my writing space, my computer. I didn’t invite her in or let her in the door or ask her if she wanted a cuppa. She had no kind words for me.

There was a second message, right after the first, this from a teacher who suggested I was putting my friend Mary Kellogg in harm’s way by giving out her address at the Rehabilitation Center where she is recovering from a fall and a broken hip so her friends and admirers could write her.

There are dangerous people out there, the teacher said, as she always told her students, and these people could find a way to do harm to Mary. Better to keep anyone from writing her and leave her without loving and supportive letters while she healed.

To show me she was sincere, she trampled on Mary’s privacy and showed me how she had managed to look up Mary’s home address (something that it is quite simple to do with online directories and search engines, with or without my help). Another warning for Mary,  a women who defies warnings about how to live her life, as do I.

I urged her to check out the FBI’s annual crime report and tell her students they are more likely to have an airplane fall on their heads than be harmed online, or as a result of going online. Like Mary, I will not again live a life in fear.

I could have ignored this message, as I should have, but it seemed invasive to me and inappropriate. It should be challenged, that is usually my first response. I just hate the barrage of warnings I receive daily from online fear traffickers who delight in pointing out the extreme dangers of the world and sounding alarms. I’m sure some are even true.

If I listened to them all, I would either kill myself, put all of my dogs down,  or move to Costa Rica. I won’t do any of those things.

I answered this woman sharply, I was not in a good place, I went back to apologize for my  tone, but she was now also furious – Facebook loves to say how they bring us all together –  and said she had “unfollowed” me – a harsh sentence online, I guess  – and was gone. This made me feel better, I am happy to argue with people, but some people can’t.  They warn and preach, but can’t stand to be challenged.

Mary Kellogg and I are close, and woe to anyone who warned her against getting letters in rehab, or from living on her remote farm at the age of 88. Many people have, and like me when people tell me what to write, it never goes well.

I did answer Eva, I said I felt sorry for her dog, I do sincerely worry about dogs in the hands of people like her. She doesn’t sound like fun, and does not seem to be tolerant,  and she must be in her own head to  be so hurtful to a  stranger who just lost his dog. What is she like to a dog who screws up?

When my head is right, I can see things clearly.

It’s very strange, but her dog has a troubling look in his or her eyes. It keeps popping up in my head.

I asked her if she would be willing to give her dog to me or some other person who was nicer.

I thought that was pretty witty. And maybe it would be good for the dog. But that is not my business.

And about that time, I began to wake up up from my angst- ridden stupor and anger (I used to be terrified that I would never wake up from it), and I thought it was a sophomoric message. There is truly no point in responding to a message like that, it is a gift to the sender only, fuel on the fire of the disturbed.

Being a certified crazy person myself, I know the symptoms only too well, I can spot a fellow traveler a million miles away, this is what our technological revolution enables, encourages, sponsors. We have to take responsibility for our words in this world, as no one else can be bothered to do it. And I learn something about myself every time this happens. The good people have to fight for their truth.

The exchange reminded me that I am, in fact, flawed, as Eva Patterson suggested, but not in ways she could possibly know or understand. It is probably worse than she thinks. I am very good to dogs, but often fail to take care of myself or the people in my life.  I am so grateful I helped end Gus’s suffering. And have also ended much of my own.

I was on valium for 30 years, and since I went off that difficult addiction, I am still sometimes prone to an outbreak of hurt and anger, the cousin of rage.

The difference now is that I can see it, and almost always spot it right away and begin to pull back. That is not who I wish to be. For me, self-medication is so much better than pills.

I ought to be morally and spiritually advanced enough by now to smile and nod and move along as Thomas Merton might do. But even the Daiai Lama says he is angry and impatient sometimes, and I am  not nearly as spiritually advanced as him. Learn to let go, he says.

And my spiritual guru Merton could also be nasty and hurtful. When he was teaching the novitiates in his monastery, he inserted Latin curses and insults aimed at his bishop in their hymns.

He hated his bishop and feuded bitterly with him for decades. They agreed on nothing.  But Merton would sit outside of his hermitage for hours hand-feeding bread crumbs to deer. and writing the most beautiful poems. We are not one thing, but many things, that is the essence of being human, I think. We must be gentle with ourselves as well as others.

When Merton lost it, he prayed in solitude.  And returned to himself.

I did tell the school teacher her warnings were invasive and unwanted, and of course, that did offend her. It always offends people when I tell them I don’t wish to take advance from strangers on the Internet, surely not about something as personal as Mary and her safety. My role is to bend my knee.

People can say, well I’m only human for reacting the way I sometimes do, but honestly, I wish to be better than that.

We are in the next phase of our great infatuation with technology. We’ve moved from wonder to concern. Our privacy is gone, our boundaries stolen, our identity sold to the highest bidder. Broken people roam the digital plains, spreading hatred, judgement, lies and polarization.  Just like the old bandits on the prairie. They hide in the bush, and then pop out.

We are all fair targets for the Eva Pattersons of the world. And I forget sometimes to feel some compassion for them, their lives can hardly be easy or meaningful if you look at her words, and words never lie, not for her, not for me. But compassion is useless if it is only for people we like.

I’ve done this enough, I know the script. My friend Eva will never answer me, she will hide behind the image of her little dog, and seek out someone else to attack. No wonder he looks nervous.

Eva, you will run and hide, and I will have nothing to remember you by other than the frightened eyes of your dog. I am a bit ashamed to say I won’t even remember you tomorrow, when one of your cousins will send a message of their own.

My thought –  it is sincere – is that I hope you will one day give that dog to someone who is empathetic and compassionate, and knows how to talk to another human being with dignity and respect, and who has better things to do in life that be cruel and hurtful to strangers.

As for me, I went out to dinner with Maria and a good friend, and we had one of those special evenings, we talked openly and warmly and with love and interest about our lives and we told our stories.

When I left, I felt whole again myself, , and this is what crazy people learn over time if they work at it.

There is more than one me, and yes, I am  very human. I know when I stray from my life, and I know when I find it again.

I am myself now, at least for now. And thanks Eva, for making me look in the mirror and try to fix what I am seeing.

And oh, yes, I almost forget. You can write to my friend Mary Kellogg c/o the Washington County Rehabilitation Center, Route 40, Argyle, N.Y., 12809. She will be most happy to get your letters. She fell and broke her hip, she is healing well.