When
I was first diagnosed, I asked my therapist what my greatest risk would be. I
expected some spectacular answer, like, 'don't eat beef or you'll run over a
cliff'...instead she looked me straight in the face and said,
"Self-pity".
Busted.
Even
if I didn't try to make others sorry for me, I often waddled in neck-deep pity
for my poor little damaged self.
No
one can blame us for sometimes feeling pretty sorry about this mess we didn't
ask for. Sometimes. But beyond that, it's like poking an infected tooth. Why do
it? Do you like pain?
For
instance, sometimes I get very boo-hooey over the American Dream as portrayed
on TV. I'll never meet that standard - I can't work enough to earn that salary.
And it's not my fault! And it's not fair! Why can't I have fashionable clothing
and a huge bank account and unlimited credit? Why can't I have a car that
reminds one of a panther and streaks along curvy shore roads?
I
have special trouble with this whenever I hit a decade birthday. I think, ‘I
should have this by now. Ordinary people do. Ordinary people can work 40 hours
a week. They can learn new skills and switch careers if they want to. Ordinary
people finish school by the time they're 30 and find a partner without worrying
about when to betray their Dark Secret.’
Well,
OK, all these things may be true (notice I said may be). I may
have spent 30 years learning to live with my disease while other people were
using that time in other ways. And occasionally this does make me sad.
But
is it true that I am deprived?
First
of all, I have never hankered after the forty-hour week and settled career. I
have always wanted to be a writer. So the chances are I would not have spent
those years climbing the corporate ladder even were I free to do so.
Secondly
- and you already know this - the advertising machinery of this country is not
a trustworthy measure of what we 'should' be, or by what age we 'should' be
there. Advertising is to make people want the product, buy the product, make
the company some profit, and keep the good old economy going. That is its
purpose. Not your purpose. Not necessarily in your best interests at all.
Thirdly,
what is the good of thinking this way? Why moan about what I've missed? If I
must look back, why not look at what I've achieved? As of this writing, I am in
my 22nd year of recovery. I am no longer afraid to go out in public, or afraid that if I don't watch out
I'll do something awful to the ones I love. I have a job that I can believe in.
I have people in my life whom I respect and love, and they respect and love me
in return. Would I really trade that in for a Lexus? And in the end - long
after anybody normal would have thrown in the towel - I actually found that
great husband and nice house in the suburbs - at 45. So you never know. Is it
really time to give up yet?
Fourthly,
and most importantly, this self-pity is based on a false premise. It assumes
that everyone without my disease is happy and normal. Or at most, they have
only minor problems that don't stack up against mine.
It's
just an illusion. The longer I live, the more I find that everyone has some
burden. Some of those burdens are incredibly awful. Just because you can't see
the crack doesn't mean somebody’s not broken. We have not been specially picked
out for grief and suffering. The human race is a sort of Special Olympics, and
everyone gets a suitable handicap. This is ours.
We
all get in this funk sometimes. It’s natural. But the best way out is to start
counting what we do have. It adds up fast. Start with being able to read, and
having access to a computer. That puts you ahead of much of the world, and
that’s just the start. Go ahead, try it, count your blessings: 1,2,3...
Deborah is a public speaker and the
author of Is There Room for Me, Too? 12
Steps & 12 Strategies for Coping with Mental Illness. She is currently
recording it as an audiobook and CD set.
Deborah has also published two romantic comedies. All three books are
available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com, Kindle Editions, iBooks, and
other major vendors; or you can order them from your local bookstore.
Visit her web page at www.lafruche.net, or see her
catalog at www.lastlaughproductions.net.
She has narrated a guided meditation CD, “Island
Journey,” produced with her husband, musician Robert Hamaker; available on
iTunes, Amazon, CD Baby, and many other venues.
