Schadenfreude. A german word for "deriving pleasure
from someone else's misfortune." I don't think there
is a word in English that conveys the same meaning.
Glee? Gloating? No, that's not it. The emotion I am
thinking about is a lot more subtle, refined,
exquisite. Schadenfreude.
My mother perfected the art of of Schadenfreude.
I realized it only recently. I was leaving the city
for good. I was at an airport terminal trying to
re-pack my enormous bags and avoid a hefty $70 fine.
Embarassing? Frustrating? Stressful? Well, yes, you
could say that.
She was there to see me off. I looked around, but
could not see her, so I went back to re-organizing and
packing. Finally, I made it. The bags were sealed and
sent off on the conveyor belt. I left the counter with
a huge sense of relief. She was waiting for me nearby.
"I am so glad I got to see everything!" she said,
referring to my troubles. She looked so pleased. So
satisfied--as if she just had a nice, pleasant meal.
My misfortunes satisfied her, I realized suddenly. She
was feeding on them.
"To be honest, I don't understand your happiness," I
said drily. An hour later, I was boarding my plane.
Goodbye.
It wasn't an isolated incident, of course. As they say
on the Simpsons, "it's a rich tapestry."
The first incident I remember was back when I was 6
years old or so. I was taken to a doctor for a medical
test. Without going into details, it was a very
humiliating and somewhat painful experience. I left
the medical office blushing heavily but refusing to
cry.
As we were walking home, my mother informed me that I
could have avoided the procedure by lying. "But, I
know you are an honest girl, and you don't like to
lie. So I didn't tell you. I figured, since you are
honest, you can have your ---," and an obscene
reference to the medical exam followed.
Yes, I was honest. I disliked lying. She hated that
about me. She wished I would lie more.
But if that couldn't happen, she could at least enjoy
my misfortunes.
She walked slightly ahead of me, so pleased, so
satisfied, so amused by her own wit. I made a fist and
hit her as hard as I could. I don't regret it.
Sounds like your Mother was a pathological of some sort. I had a Narcissist mother... she loved to bring up 20 or 30 year old mistakes I had made as a child... in public... then coax others into laughing with her AT me.
That's not a mother.
Posted by: Barbara | November 10, 2009 at 08:44 AM