A Guilty Pleasure

I love the word "Schadenfreude"

(Before you jump on my misspelling, I looked it up, and there are six or seven ways to spell this word. I split the difference.)

Anyway, I love the word. I love the idea that there is actually a word for the feeling of joy you get from other people's misfortune. I love that the word is German, which seems particularly appropriate. I love that I'm not the only one who gets this feeling.

I just wish there was a word for the guilt you get from taking pleasure in the misfortunes of others. Let me give you an example, as it's been on my mind a lot lately.

My mother died in 1991, and my father died in 1993. I was 21 when my father died, and one of his last wishes was that I adopt my youngest sister, Ella, who was nine. Needless to say, this required a lot of changes in my life, but it was my father's wish. Anyway, family is family.

So, long story short, Ella and I chugged along fairly merrily for nine years, until she graduated from high school and went off to study Art at a University in Richmond. There were some difficult times along the way--we were homeless for a brief time (we stayed with a friend of mine), and I had to drop out of school to work a few jobs while I got our situation stabilized. At any rate, though, we made it.

One of the down sides to being a 21 year old male taking care of a nine year old girl is the various disturbing conclusions that people draw about the situation. This made me a bit paranoid. It didn't help that I had a strained relationship with my eldest sister, who was about two years younger than me and married. It really didn't help that her brother-in-law, John, who I knew quite well, took it upon himself to report that I had bought a keg for my youngest sister.

This, by the way, was the product of a joke. When I was 27, and our situation was completely stable, I hosted a graduate student Halloween party at my house. Given that the English Graduate students were a bunch of total lightweights, most of a pony keg that we had purchased was left over after the party. A week later, when my brother-in-law came to visit, the keg was still there. He asked about it, and Ella and I joked that I had bought it for her. Given that she suffered liver damage as an infant, it was pretty obvious that this was a joke. Added to this was the fact that I subsequently told him about the Graduate Students' party.

ANYWAY, John decided to tell my conservative sister that I was buying alcohol for my underage, liver-damaged sister. This would have been funny had my sister decided to talk to me about it. Instead, she kept it secret while she tried to decide who to report me to. When I found out about the whole situation, I went ballistic. After an extended e-mail exchange, I severed contact with my sister. I also confronted John and subsequently severed contact with him. After a year, I reestablished my relationship with my married sister. I have never reestablished contact with John. While I (intellectually) recognize that my scorched-earth policy was a little severe, I felt that I couldn't risk endangering my situation with Ella. Had my sister called her mother-in-law with John's story, Ella would have been taken away, and I would have been presumed guilty until proven innocent.

Part of my anger came from the fact that John discussed this behind my back. Part of it came from the fact that he was high-handed when I confronted him about it. My biggest problem, though, was that Ella and I had taken him under our wing. Although he worked in our town, John lived about an hour away, and his wife was on rotation in another city. We often put him up, made dinner for him, and visited him at work. In other words, we treated him like family, which made the whole situation particularly painful.

At any rate, my eldest sister and I now have a pretty good relationship, and she occasionally gives me updates on John. Recently, I found out that he now suffers from crippling depression. It has caused him to miss a lot of work, has put a strain on his marriage, and generally seems to be making his life hellish. He has tried a lot of different drugs, individually and in combination, and still hasn't managed to regain functionality.

Now, generally, I have a warm spot in my heart for the needs of every living being, etc., etc. However, in the case of John, I make a huge exception. In spite of myself, I can't help but rejoice in his misery. Every time I think about his situation, a grinchy little grin creeps across my face. I feel somewhat guilty for the warm, fuzzy feeling that his torment gives me, but I can't overcome the actual joy I feel. More to the point, I can't escape the words that keep floating through my brain:

"That's what you get for fuckin' with me."