Yes, yes, I've been doing this a lot lately, and perhaps this new blog is a way to cope with that self-pity, or maybe it will even be a way for me to remind myself that there is very little for me to be pitiful about.
I've found that, in times of desperation or need, writing has been entirely soothing. It allows me a chance to talk about my problems, write something down, then erase it immediately, with no judgment and no consequences. In fact, this abstract thing we call writing has become somewhat of a friend to me. It is somehow personified through letters and words, combined to make thoughts and ideas, and a traceable mark of my past--the person I was at those small moments when I sat down with my coffee to write.
So this is who I am today--a bit self-piteous, but feeling more appreciative with every second for the things that I do have. Today's "traceable mark" will be on self-pity, and when I read this back over in a few months, or the next time I'm beginning to feel this way (Let's be honest... tomorrow), I'll remember that I truly have nothing to be pitiful about.
This idea first came to me a couple of days ago as I was driving home. I was listening to Michael Buble in the car, meanwhile letting my anger and sadness manifest itself through rivers of salt water that flowed out of my eyes. Truly dramatic in every sense of the word. I was singing at the top of my lungs, letting the past week's events run through my mind: how horrible of a teacher I was, how upset I was about the ending of my long-term relationship, and how helpless I felt because my grandpa was dying of cancer.
I looked at my face in the mirror. The circles under my eyes seemed to be inflated by swollen tear ducts and melancholy, while my eyes twinkled, soaking wet with grief. I continued driving through Evanston, being reminded of how soon I will need to be on my own, figuring my own life out. The tears continued flowing unscrupulously until I stopped at the next stop light.
I hung my head to the side and, by chance, turned past my neon orange stereo and my bright yellow dashboard--over my firmly pressed khaki pants and my tired button-down shirt, over my leather heated seats and out my freshly cleaned car window. What did I see? A man, with stringy hair and tattered clothes, standing staring down into a garbage can. His eyes followed his hands into the garbage can and out came a box, which looked like leftovers--someone else's leftovers. He opened the box, reached in and found a fork, and began eating.
I thought about myself, the amount of energy I'd spent feeling sorry for my beyond lucky self--twenty-four, with a stellar job and too many blessings to count, excellent friends, clothes on my back, and a warm meal (if I get off my ass to make it) every night.
No, I am not pitiful, and I refuse to pity myself. In fact, none of us do, even the man I saw on the corner that night. We cannot be pitiful; we cannot be self-loathing. We can only promise ourselves that we are going to do better next time.
I'm going to do better next time.