Unsympathetic

A ramble...


As the voice droned on, my mind drifted and I wondered what in this woman’s childhood had led to the outlook she had on life. Was it just that she’d never been taught to take responsibility for her own actions? Was there real psychological illness? A failure of the synapses in her brain to fire and connect? A chemical imbalance? Or was it simple blame-shifting, the disease of the 80s that had found its way, thanks to Sally Jesse, Phil, Oprah, Jerry and the rest, through to the following decades? “It’s not my fault, I had a tough childhood.” “We were poor, I had to steal.” “I was afraid, I had to lie.” “My mother was immoral.” “I didn’t have a dad.” I didn’t know whether to feel irritated or compassionate. I think it was a combination of both. Should I try to help? Should I just listen? That was hard. She didn’t want to hear it if she was wrong and I had a hard time keeping it to myself when I knew I was right.

“… and that’s why I’m miserable. I have no control over my life…” From experience, I knew she could go on for hours on the topic of herself but didn’t seem aware of the fact that I wasn’t paying complete attention. This was the umpteenth time I’d heard this speech. I must have been nodding my head and making the appropriate murmurs on cue. She wanted someone to tell her what to do, just so long as they were telling her to do what it was she wanted to do. A collaborator in her actions. Someone to blame if it was the wrong thing; someone who would remember that she had made a good decision if it turned out okay.