Now! How easy is it to wallow in self-pity, to etch your victim story when life’s handed you a handful of lemons? It is a temptation, yes, most indeed. Common. And instinctive. To tell your stories, your way. In which you are the hero in it, and you the means and the end. And if you have been unhappy, that was their doing. There they were, doing things to you to make you feel that way. They owed you light and sunshine, did they not?
In several of the social forums while discussing issues around emotional abuse and midlife depression, I have often stopped midway and wondered about a question that raised its head above the righteous proclamations floating in the air. I have often asked: is it really a one-way traffic, this unhappiness? This prey and predator relationship - who does it begin with, and how does it snowball? How can we tell a case of incompatibility from a case of suffering, and a case of suffering from a case of abuse? Why do we stereo typecast so much, well knowing inside our hearts that, that quite is not the whole truth, that there is another side to every story?
