Self pity

Why write about it? Who gives a shit about your woes, your mental and physical fatigue? Nobody.  He didn't like to read or hear other people's tales of woe or the things that get them down, so why would he think anyone would want to hear his?

The problem, he surmised, was his own.  He was acutely diligent in his writing, postings to Facebook, and blog to be upbeat and positive. He told himself that he tried to bring a smile to people's faces, to lighten their load for a moment, or longer.  But today he faced the truth; he did it all, not for them, but for himself.  He ways always seeking approval, accolades to prove his worth. His Facebook posts, blog essays, interactions with his patients and co-workers were meant to bring him good feelings.  Those times when the feedback was negative it hit him like the stab of a stingray. His hackles would rise in he would rebut furiously.

This week he noted a dramatic decline to zero, or nearly so, in his Facebook "likes" and favorable comments. Not that the ten or twenty likes were a majority of his 460 "friends," but enough to keep him coming back to the page incessantly for some little boost to his ego. Someone, not so insecure, might put this off to "Facebook fatigue."  But he took it as a personal affront.

It got him to thinking, for the first time in a lifelong career of caring for the sick and wounded, what's the use?  He never thought, in 52 years, that the time would come when he no longer looked forward to going to work.  Today that day arrived.  Mentally and physically fatigued, he thought; it's time to walk away from the head of the bed.

He never wanted to get to the point where he wouldn't give a hundred percent, when "they" would say, "it's time to give it up, retire." "They haven't,but he has. 

So, what's next? he thought; sit on the deck, smoke a cigar or two, drink a beer or gin and tonic and wait for the grim reaper?  Maybe, maybe, why not self-indulge, and fuck the rest.

Why not?