There is some sense of in-authenticity which pervades the back of my mind whenever people tell me good news of their personal lives. I know it is right and kind to reciprocate with a positive or optimistic response, to verbally support them in whatever journey it is they have undergone; but I cannot help shake off that cruel side of me riddled with envy and self-pity. I cannot help but compare myself with them. I cannot help but see the lack and emptiness that pains me, causing me to pine for some semblance of the glimmer that they’ve achieved.
Maybe “cruel” is too strong a word. Maybe I simply am human to want what others have. And I know that having such a comparative view can be ruinous to my self-esteem, but I cannot help it. Or shall I say, I refuse to do the opposite. Am I a phony? What is it that I get out from all this positive reinforcements for the people around me, when I end up always feeling on the losing end? Perhaps, if one cannot be happy and content with one’s self, one can never be truly happy for the others around him.
I cannot accuse myself of over-thinking, or even over-feeling. I may be a drama queen, but my current space of unemployment and inactivity has rendered me pensive and terribly bitter.
The other part of me, that which I claim to be more generous and loving, finds my offers of buoyancy to my confidants sincere. Indeed, it is a beautiful thing when someone finds somebody special; when someone finds their true calling; when someone garners praise and recognition for their talent and achievements. I guess it isn’t cruelty really. It’s not that I wish ill of those who’d like to share their joys with me, nor am I conniving enough to aspire to covet what they have. It is the cruelty to my own self that feeds my unhappiness. Indeed, whoever that was that ruminated and said that loving one’s self was the hardest thing hit the cold truth. I’m sure he must have felt like the loneliest and most resentful man in the planet then.