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I’m sure you’ve all heard it said that some people see the glass as half full and others as half empty. I believe there’s a third option: some people don’t even know there’s a glass. Unfortunately, my older half-sister was one of those people most of her life.
For decades, whenever I talked to my older half-sister, she complained about our shared father, even though he’d been dead since 1961. I tired of hearing her constant unpleasantness about a man I adored yet barely knew. She’d had him longer.
I remember the day he died. That evening, she showed up, and without asking, ensconced herself in my bedroom, the one place of sanctuary in a house stuffed with people. She decided she’d spend the night. I’ll never forget the image of her on the twin bed wearing pink baby doll pajamas, her leg swinging as she said, “This is much worse for me than it is for you.”
Her comment didn’t inspire warm feelings in me. She was 26 years old while I was only 12, and our father’s death shouldn’t have been a competition for who got to suffer most.
That was the first time I felt a separation between us but it wouldn’t be the last.
No one likes to be around someone who complains all the time. Someone who never seems to take pleasure in anything, including the privilege of having children. Something was always wrong in her life and she let me know. But the worst was that decade after decade, she complained about our dad.
She never recalled anything good he did for her. Not the piano he bought her when she was a little girl. Not the beautiful red convertible. And not the wedding and extra cash for a stove. She never appreciated she had a dad to walk her down the aisle. She didn’t know there was a glass. But I did.
I’m not saying Dad was perfect. Far from it. He was a human being, and he was not just one side of awful. My half-sister didn’t see it that way.
At least not until she was in her 80s, when she said the first kind thing about him I ever heard her speak. “Poor daddy.” She finally had empathy for his leaving this life at 48, and all he had missed. She lived long enough to be a grandmother. He didn’t get to be a grandparent. He didn’t get to see his youngest daughter graduate high school or college, or ever get to walk her down the aisle.
Until I reached my thirties, I was a half-empty glass person. I focused on everything that was going wrong and allowed nothing positive to help heal my wounded spirit. This was not a conscious decision. It was the way a broken, depressed person embodies their life and views the world. And it’s a terrible way to live. Depression forced me to work hard to crawl out of the pain and get out of my own way. Only then could I begin appreciating the good things in my life.
I’m sorry my older half-sister missed out on enjoying most of her life because she spent so many decades focusing on her childhood and being angry at our father. Because something inside her was broken, I can’t blame her for her inability to see the glass. Her past blinded her.
When you’ve had a rough childhood and your family was much less than you would have hoped for, it’s too easy to let your past rule your todays. But there comes a time when we must take ownership and responsibility for our lives and our choices. Our happiness cannot be determined by something that was long ago. We must—and can—take charge and own our choices.
Once we do that, our past, while always a part of who we are, no longer has the power to wreck our todays. I’m not saying it’s easy to do, but it’s a worthwhile endeavor to learn new skills and find unique, healing ways of coping with our nows.
Life will present many difficult challenges along the road and the way we view what’s happening can make all the difference in how we cope. If you believe your glass is half empty or there is no glass, you’ll view the world as a place that never gives you enough. If you’re a half full person, you’ll believe you can handle and thrive from whatever is thrown your way.
Years ago, I was on a flight when the pilot came on to give us an update on the weather where we’d be landing. “It’s partly cloudy,” he said, then paused. “Or for those of you who prefer, it’s partly sunny.”
Will you be the person who sees only clouds when there’s sun and believes your class is half empty, or will you focus on the sun within the broken clouds and choose a life with a half-full glass?
How we live is all about attitude and its our choice.
After I wrote everything you’ve just read, I spoke to a very dear friend. Her name is Yvonne. She’s beautiful (inside and out), brilliant, and has an indomitable spirit. She’s going to be 90 next month and untreatable arthritis has left her body filled with pain. That hasn’t stopped her from co-chairing a group on Living With Loss, participating in other groups, and learning new things.
Before I met Yvonne, more than a quarter of a century ago, she’d lost her father as a child, her mother when she was in her early 20s, and buried both her youngest son and her husband, the man who’d been her childhood sweetheart. Since I’ve known her, she’s lost another husband, another son, her sister, her best friend and many other dear friends. Yet, despite this, she remains one of the most delightful and optimistic people I’ve ever known.
Yvonne shared that in a writing class she’d taken, the instructor asked them to write one word to describe themselves. It surprised her when she saw that she’d written BLESSED. I commented that she always kept her wonderful spirit, and she said, “God fit my back for my burden.”
cocoparisienne from Pixabay
When I mentioned I’d been writing about half full or half empty glasses, Yvonne said, “I see the glass half empty at first, and then I work on myself and the glass is half full, and then it’s overfilled.”
In the spirit of Yvonne, and in celebration of her 90th birthday, let’s overfill our glasses.
During those times when my glass feels half full or even less, I drill down deeply to find the water to refill and overfill my spirit.
Another wonderful article by Ginni that makes you think about life! I like to think my glass is three quarters full.