SELF-PITY. From time to time, we all presumably indulge in this.
But how much is actually pity, empathy, love ~ the pity we might feel for relatives and partners of those killed in disasters in the news, or to the parents of young men, barely out of school, who are gunned down or stabbed in senseless disputes over nothing?
It is traditional to claim we don't want pity, as if pity were patronizing at best or a smear or slight on a person at worst.
Is not pity love? A type of love, at least. To be able to pity oneself, then, one must love oneself.
How many times do we genuinely feel self-pity? Isn't it actually self-loathing and hatred and horror and distaste we are more likely to feel to ourselves?
Or plain old guilt?
I have had flashes of self-pity. Pity rather than loathing. The kind of pity you might feel for a down-and-out on the street. And it felt like a whole new world. Like I actually loved myself. That I was special enough to care and be cared for.
Those two characters in my head who never match and meet for once came briefly to a truce.
I felt that somebody loved me. And I felt worry and concern, and wondered why I do the self-destructive things I do.
And it felt good. And it hurt.
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