Confession

I was listening to someone talking last week and for some reason I felt no empathy for their situation. They were talking about something sad happening in their life and I found myself thinking, 'oh, just finish your story so I can say some platitude that I won't mean and I can just leave!' They carried on for another hour and a half and my annoyance turned into anger. I even resented them for using my ears for their sad story. After the whole interaction was over I had to rest mentally and find my center. And I began to ask myself, 'what was with that attitude in your heart? Why wasn't that story inspiring any empathy in you? You could have been a little more understanding.' After some time of pondering that question I have concluded that I despised them for quite a few reasons. First, because I think they've told me that same story at least ten times before. Second, because this person sounded like such a victim of their circumstances every time. Third, because this person can't even envision a universe where they might be even remotely responsible for the whole sad story. And fourth, because all the previously listed things are something that I used to do. You see, only things that we're guilty of bother us in other people. And I despise those things in myself so when I see them in others I despise them even more.

I used to tell people about my sad story all the time. Many, many times. I was oblivious to the fact that they didn't even ask. I was complaining about the 'injustice' I have suffered while growing up, or when this and that happened every chance I got. I exhausted people with my pitiful story. Thinking back now, I want to go back and slap myself for it, but alas, it's my past. It was my excuse for every bad decision that I made, every bad reaction that I had, every unkind word that I used was always excused in my mind with, 'it's because I was hurt! It's because they did this and that!'

I don't remember exactly how old I was when I decided to turn things around, but I was in my late twenties. I was talking to this person that has heard my story many times before and we were sitting there and I began to regale them with my tale of woe and I saw this person wince. Literally wince. Like their mind was in such pain contemplating the impending story that their body had reacted in anticipation of the coming pain. I see that wince to this day, because it was my wake-up call. I began to laugh like a crazy person and my friend asked me, 'what's so funny?' I told them, 'I'll tell you another time, but now I have to go home and think about this ridiculous version of me.' My friend told me later that they suspected I was on some medicine because I sounded crazy. But I went home and I had a good chat with myself.

Is this really who you plan to be for the rest of your life? You're boring even me with this whole narrative you've created for yourself. Do you want people to pity you, is that why you keep talking about it? No? Then why? Is it some secret pride thing where you want people to see how much you've overcome? But you really haven't if you're still talking about it. Are you done blaming everybody else for what happened in the past? Can you at least acknowledge that some of it was your doing? Can you at least acknowledge that even if it wasn't your doing, you picked up the pieces left in the aftermath and made a bitter little statue that you pay tribute to every time you react, or act, or speak? Are you done with this idol you've made for yourself? How long do you plan to worship God and burn incense to your idol? I know you care for it, after all it's all your pain and suffering, but are we done pretending now? Find the first hammer and smash it to pieces because this ends today!

I'd like to say that from that day on I have never thought about my little idol or never went on a pilgrimage to the place I have burned it, but that would be a lie. Every time I faced a situation where using my past as an excuse would have been so convenient, I wanted to rebuild it right there on the spot. Pathetic, I know. But that's why I can't graciously listen to someone's sad story if they feel the need to share it more than once. Because I see their idol and it reminds me of mine. 

by Cristina Pop