A legion of little sins. Not so serious, really.
But the worst thing about me, I suspect, is that I hold a grudge. In many cases, once I become angry, I stay angry. Forever.
I don't think I'm alone in this. Some of us are just grudge holders. I often read accounts famous people like this, and recognizing myself, am either strangely pleased or horrified. When John Hughes, that captain of disenfranchised youth, died last year, Molly Ringwald revealed in an op-ed piece for the New York Times that he was the grudge holding sort. She wrote:
"Most people who knew John knew that he was able to hold a grudge longer than anyone — his grudges were almost supernatural things, enduring for years, even decades."
Supernatural things. That's what my grudges are like. That's what I'm like. It's vain, of course, to compare myself to someone so beloved and accomplished, but that is not really the point. Look away from Hughes for a minute and at Ringwald herself, and the point becomes more clear. More sad. It's not what I want, but nonetheless, it is.
Often, as I nurse my grudges, stroking their little heads in the dark, I wonder how I got this way, and why I can't turn it off. Other people can, and do.
They key questions come to mind: When did this happen? How did it happen? And if I can dig up the source, dust it off, ponder the root ball and ultimately understand, will that make it stop?
I guess this is why people have psychiatrists.