Winter's Hold

He was, for a time, everything I was, too, and for that, I resented him more than I had hated anyone else before. For him, I held such a hatred in my heart that soon became consuming, whether I knew it or not.

I had been watching him closely, even without realizing it. Every day, that hatred would change. Sometimes, it would become a morbid curiosity. Sometimes, it dulled to become a lingering distain, hanging over me like an afternoon sun, blinding a corner of my vision, but not doing any real harm. Hanging there just in sight enough to inconvenience me.

I would often think of the things I hated most about him. One day, I watched him run all around the city in service to others. In itself, that seemed noble. I thought so, at the time, but watching now, I can see how it affected him. He had told me it would be worth it in the long run. I believed him for a while. He said if he has the ability to help others, he should do it. He called it a responsibility and an obligation. He would never call it noble, though, even if others might. In his mind, he was saving a life. He was helping someone move on from their past. He was turning a bad day into one worth remembering. When I think back to the day he told me this was all necessary, I hated him for believing that because he, himself, had not had a moment to rest and, despite my protesting, he insisted he was doing okay and that he'd take the night to himself, but I know through the bags under his eyes and the extra effort to hide them even days later that the problems of everybody else weighed heavy on his mind.

And the longer it continued, the more I grew to resent the mindset. One day, though, that hatred turned to pity. One day, I saw the help he was offering firsthand, and though noble, I hated the consistency in his generosity. To everyone, he would offer a piece of himself, and not even a meaningless piece. He would give such a large, passionate piece of himself that anyone else would probably miss with all their heart, but he had convinced himself that he didn't need his. Others deserved his heart and his passion, he told me, others need it more than he did at that moment. But I saw it. The lack of appreciation in the eyes of those on the receiving end. It was as if his heartfelt actions weren't favors. They were obligations. They were expectations. He was expected to give such large chunks of himself to others and they wouldn't even thank him for it anymore.

"They wouldn't do the same for you, you know," I told him one day.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "If I can make their lives worth living, I don't need them to do the same. I'm happy to do it."

To me, that felt like the biggest lie anyone could tell themselves. But everyone believed him. In time, even his closest friends stopped worrying about him. In time, only I knew the weight he carried, and I soon came to resent it. And, soon, I felt that he, too, felt the hidden resentment, and he began taking it out on those he had been trying so hard to help.

One day, he lashed out. It was as if the hatred I had felt began pouring out of him. No warning. No reason, even. Someone had simply asked a small favor, adding such a small amount of weight to that which he already carried, and he treated it like he was handed another village to carry. Suddenly, the weight collapsed, and he snapped. Suddenly, he began to resent those who had handed him the weight to carry in the first place.

It wasn't until I began to wonder why I hated him so much that I realized the weight wasn't theirs to begin with. It was his. I begun realizing he hadn't ever been forced to take on anyone's burden, but instead, he had added it on himself.

"Why?" I asked him. But I didn't get any response. "Why do you do it to yourself?"

"I don't do it to myself," he said. "I just need time... then I can start again."

When I realized he didn't need to start again, I felt something shift. The hatred hadn't left, nor had it changed, but instead, I soon began to see it for what it really was: a different form of love. I hated him for killing himself with the burden of others because I loved him too much to want to watch him go through that. I hated his attitude toward the world and his generosity because I knew without stopping and without taking care of his own problems, he would burn out. I hated him because I didn't want him to feel any bitterness or resentment toward the world he had decided to help. And I hated him for the fact that he knew he wanted to help, but he didn't know how.

Now, I look back on those memories with love. I try so hard to love him. I try hard to love the person he was and love him for his efforts to love everyone else but himself. But now, I feel it is not hatred, but a kindness to tell him I wish things had gone differently. With love now, I tell him he didn't need to take on the burdens of others. I approach him with a gentleness so as now to frighten him. And I imagine myself caressing his face and telling me what I wish I knew back then. You will get there in the end.

It was hard not to hate him for being different than me after that. He became the one who looked back with that same hatred while I looked at him with love. And I resented him for being so hateful. I hated him for putting himself down. But I caught myself this time. I now knew why he saw himself with such contempt. And I knew if I broke the cycle, if I looked at him with the same love I give to everybody else, he can finally grow into who I am today, and I, too, will become who I've always wanted to be. For he is me, and after so many years, I've finally come to accept that.