Author Information
Father
My father feels very sorry for himself. I didn't see it before, but I see it now. I used to think "My father is an angry man," and "My father is a sad man," or "My father is a bad man."
But I was wrong.
There is nothing wrong with him.
He is not bereft of sorrow, no one on this earth could be, but his life has been far to easy, and his chances for success are unlimited.
I noticed it in him after I saw it in myself: I thought I was broken down by this life, I believed myself to be downtrod.
I was not.
I just felt really sorry for myself.
I used it justify every misdeed, every bad thought, I used my pity to tell myself things that were lies and believe they were not.
And finally, on accident, after a harrowing year, I realized that it was MY fault I felt so bad.
The men who had raped me and left me, that one time I overdosed, that other time when my car got stolen... it wasn't my fault. Really. It was just some shit luck that kept on coming.
And I think I could be forgiven a little time off for the horrors that had unfolded but weeks became months became a year and soon I was fat and docile and afraid of the world.
I woke up hating myself and hating the people around me. I woke up angry and scared. The hurt of those grievances perpetrated against me lessened, but the rage inside me only grew. No, not rage. The whining.
And finally, I saw it for what it was: whining. I was at fault, not for being a victim, of course not, but for pitying my own victimhood. For feeling so sorry for myself. Compassion, empathy, understanding: these things come from others and bring peace and healing.
Self-pity is rooted in self-loathing and only brings more pity and loathing.
So I quit smoking. I started running.
My skin looks so much better already (sorry to brag, I'm just so proud). My stomach pooches out, but I can live with it for now. I went straight from being a teenager to being on meth, so this is the fatteset I've ever been before. I don't like the way it looks, but I'm pleased with what it means for me: sober, growing up.
And that, of course, leads me back to my father.
Once I saw the self-pity, the self-loathing in myself, I saw it in him.
It surprised me (well, not really, after I thought about it).
He is not a rich man, but he does not work hard.
His life is not bereft of sorrows, but it is not devoid of joy or meaning.
He simply believes that he has been wronged, by everyone.
By his parents.
By his god.
By me.
By my sister.
He seeks to be elevated, raised up.
But he hates himself.
He thinks he is the sorriest, saddest man who ever lived.
I've read his journals (I know it's wrong, but the curiosity was overwhelming!)
He uses this great 'sadness' to justify what he does, and says.
But I think it is just self-pity.
And I think I am sad for him.
Or maybe I hate him?
Or maybe I'm afraid of him.
