My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Sadness Tournament
A number of people are thinking their distress more unique than it is and they resent the suggestion it is not so rare. It has, it seems, become their most important aspect of self -- the defining trait. Why is that? Why is no suffering allowed equity with their own and why is the pain of anyone else so easily diminished? It seems they must always win the sadness tournament.
Labels:
comparison,
essence,
identity,
sadness,
therapy
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