Self Pity & Self Hatred

I remember a defining moment after the death of my daughter.

A moment that still haunts me.

It was an ordinary day, roughly two years after she passed away.

There's no need to go into every detail, but by that point I had developed a drinking problem.

The strange thing is, I barely drank before losing her. Alcohol had never been part of my life until grief made it one.

I had started secretly ordering liquor through Uber Eats so my wife wouldn't notice.

I would begin drinking in the morning, making quiet trips to the freezer in the garage throughout the day.

By that evening, I had finished an entire bottle of vodka, along with a few swigs from other bottles I can't even remember.

I was sitting on the couch with my wife.

Not close.

We weren't close back then.

She looked over at me with concern and asked why my skin was so red and blotchy.

I knew I didn't feel well.

In fact, I wasn't trying to feel anything at all.

That was the point.

But even through the haze, I knew something was wrong.

I walked into the small downstairs bathroom, and almost immediately I realized what was happening.

Alcohol poisoning.

My body couldn't keep up anymore.

I forced myself to throw up.

I knew I had gone too far.

As I knelt there, I became overwhelmed with anger.

A rush of emotions I still can't fully explain.

When I finally stood up and walked to the sink to wash my face, I looked into the mirror.

For the first time, I really saw him.

A broken man.

Not broken because he had lost his daughter.

Broken because he was destroying himself.

I broke down crying.

My mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but one refused to leave.

Your daughter never had the chance to live... and here you are throwing your life away.

I was furious with myself.

For so long, I had asked, Why her?

But somewhere along the way, that question changed.

It became, Why me?

Think about that.

Think about how selfish grief can become if you let it.

That was the moment my self-pity turned into self-hatred.

I wanted to miss my daughter.

I needed to miss her.

But then another thought crept into my mind.

How could I miss someone I never truly got the chance to know?

Or...

Maybe I did know her.

I knew the little kicks against my hand during those nine months.

I knew the way she moved when she heard my voice.

I knew the dreams I had built around the life we were supposed to share.

I knew how she looked when she was born.

I was confused.

I was broken.

And somewhere in that bathroom, staring at the man in the mirror...

my grief began to turn into anger.