Self-Pity

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A bird will fall frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.

— D. H. Lawrence, Self Pity

‘Abba, Father!’ he said, ‘For you everything is possible. Take this cup away from me. But let it be as you, not I, would have it.’

—Mark 14:36 (NJB)

Is there more “mad eros” (N. Cabasilas, Vita in Cristo, 648) than that which led the Son of God to make himself one with us even to the point of suffering as his own the consequences of our offences?

—Benedict XVI, Message for Lent 2007

Jobs are scarce. Rejection notices keep pouring in. This upcoming fall is looking bleak. I make noble excuses. I say that I just want to provide for my family—nothing more. And I do. But the deeper truth is this: I feel sorry for myself.

Sorrow for self, self-pity, is a strange form of grief. It is rarely honest. It can be paralyzing. It is both humbling and firmly rooted in pride.

My own self-pity can only be overcome momentarily. Then, like the low-tide, it comes again.

To some, I am pitiable and they commiserate. To others, I am pitiable for being pitiable and they tell the truth.

A dear friend of mine—who has been in and out of work for over a year now—once told me the truth. He pulled me out of my self-pity by showing me how he saw my supposed “predicament.” He said something like this: “Hey man! You’ve got all the training and education in the world. You might have to wait for it, but, at some point, you know that you’re gonna get a job—a good job. At least you know that much.”

He’s right. To complain about joblessness while about to receive a doctorate is not only predictable in the current academic job market, it is also calloused and shortsighted of the suffering of others. 

So, instead, I try to project my self-pity to those close to me who seem to deserve it more than I do: My two boys. But they are as happy as can be! Highly inconvenient.

Self-pity is not something we can overcome altogether, I think. It might be what Michael Jackson called Human Nature. Jesus seemed to suffer at least a flash of self-pity in Gethsemane. But, like the sparrow, that wild thing who knows no such thing as self-pity, we must hope—even as we die.

My own pathetic excuse for “misfortune” is a reminder to myself, and to you, that we should avoid self-pity for this reason: We are loved. In the mystery of that love—even amidst the real pain it can bring—we might find the wildest thing that can never be tamed or domesticated.

We find the “mad eros” of the Cross.