It is possible this post might ruffle a few fathers, but unintentionally so. I’ve never been one to hold back how I’m feeling about something, and I’m not afraid to say something controversial, so long as I agree with whatever it is that some might perceive as contentious. I don’t mean to sound malicious, but self-pity is a practice that is no exception to my own personal mantra, and if you’re wondering my thoughts about it, I find it to be absolutely and completely useless.
If you’re not entirely sure as to what exactly self-pity consists of, its meaning can be identified within its name. It involves feeling sorry for ourselves and, arguably, additionally wanting the pity of others, and it is something I have despised for as long as I can remember.
I am a firm believer in the ideology that we are responsible for helping ourselves. If we aren’t happy with something in our lives, whether it be physical, mental, work-related or materialistically, it’s up to us to do something about it. I don’t think we should allot blind faith towards the notion that help will always be available (not that there is anything wrong with genuinely asking for help) and should, therefore, do our best to hold ourselves accountable and put the work in.
I will stipulate, however, that there are instances in which no matter what we do, or no matter how hard we try, we are not always able to fix or improve something. These situations are nothing short of simply cruel, and they are ones I am far more sympathetic towards if self-pity presents itself.
I figure if we have the time and energy to feel sorry for ourselves, we have the time and energy to make an effort to improve upon whatever it is that has us feeling down. Or, at least, try our best to. We’re human and imperfect, and I catch myself heading down the path of self-pity, too, despite my hatred of it. But when I recognize I’m going in the wrong direction, I remind myself that things, no matter how shitty, could always be worse.
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash
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