Self-pity. My indulgent sorrow. Sometimes concerning my outward circumstances when problems arise. Sometimes regarding my inner guilt about things I’ve done or said that I wish I hadn’t or things I’ve left undone or unsaid that I wish I had. And then my shame in being (once again) a guilty person.
Whenever I entertain self-pity, it is the proverbial “cheap date.” For only one guest appears. Me.
The meal? The libations of my burdens, bitter. The bread of my afflictions, moldy. The meat of my reflections, burned. And without sweetness, no dessert.
It has taken me (quite) a long time to learn to refuse my invitation. And, having learned, I don’t arrange or attend pity-parties any more.
© 2023 PRA
1 thought on ““A table for one, please.””