Envy Ruined My Life

About a year ago, my dear friend Lois died. She was a terrific person, the author of numerous books; a professor who inspired generations of students; a social activist who involved herself deeply in several causes, and she was just a wonderful human being. Someone to whom I could turn when I needed support professionally or personally.

Yet I’d only known Lois one year when I could have known her ten years, if professional envy hadn’t held me back. I’m a writer, too. And an author. I don’t have as many books in print as she did, however, nor are my books as widely received. So I envied her; I didn’t care to even meet her, etc. etc.

Envy is a common thread in my life. There are many individuals who I’ve never attempted to meet. Or when I do meet them, I behave in a snotty manner because I’m jealous of their success compared to mine. Oh yes, I’m always making comparisons. And making comparisons is one of the most invidious and counter-productive sins in existence.

Yes, envy is a sin. Or should be. It’s evil — it feels bad to the person experiencing it. And it’s a non-starter as far as a career goes. Yet, it’s been part of my repertoire of emotions as long as I can remember. I recall an incident when I was only ten or eleven years old. I was shopping with my mother and she asked me which of two dolls I thought would be the best gift for my young cousin. I chose the lesser doll because I was jealous of the attention my mother was giving my cousin. When Christmas arrived, it was that doll, the one I’d chosen, that was wrapped up and given to me. My mother smiled. “I fooled you in order to know which one you’d like best.” She had no idea of my real feelings.

I tried to smile back but instead I felt rotten. I knew I’d selected the lesser doll for my cousin and now it was mine. That lesson could have been the end of my jealousy. I could have learned at that early age. But I didn’t — not at all. As the years progressed, my envy grew and grew. I was jealous of girls who were thinner, prettier, or more popular. I was jealous of the girls who made cheerleading when I didn’t.

Later on, I was jealous of women who I believed were more attractive than me or more “successful” in their careers. I was envious of anyone who’d written a book on the best-seller list or who had won any sort of award for her writing. I wouldn’t even read these books. Or if I read them, I’d pan them, finding every fault. I was consumed by professional and personal envy.

I knew my feelings were awful. I didn’t want to feel them anymore. But I didn’t do anything about the emotion until Lois died. Hearing of her passing felt like a dagger in my heart. Attending her memorial service on Zoom (it was during Covid) was even worse — there were literally dozens and dozens of women heaping accolades on Lois — all of them expressing how much she’d meant to them in every way possible.

I knew that could have been me, too. Yet I only had the slimmest slice of the cake. A mere year of knowing her and she was already ill with the disease that eventually killed her, so even then her time was limited. Learning of her death, I cried buckets because I knew how much I’d miss her. I knew how much I’d lost. I’d lost time with her, talks with her, I’d lost her support of my work and her affection of my being. I’d missed out on all that because of my own attitude, because of my envy.

I knew I had to turn around. I had to do things differently. I had to quell the envy in my mind in order to save my soul. Recently I spied a book by another female author who I’d also eschewed because she’s so very popular, so very successful that I could barely bear hearing about her, much less reading her. Yet now I immediately picked up the book, I quickly started reading it. And it was obvious that I had much to learn from this writer. I had much to gain from this woman whose experiences were so entirely different from mine but whose writing is honest, deeply felt and perceptive.

I can’t afford envy to permeate my being any more. I need to recognize it as the destructive poison that it is. I see the huge damage it’s done to me over the years. How corrosive it is, how damning. Yet seeing and acting are two different things. The first is passive, a first step, while the latter is active and requires energy and premeditated action. Getting rid of my envy is a process I need to engage with. But it isn’t only a question of purging it from my body. Something needs to fill the gap — I need to accept my self, my own work, my originality, my perceptions, my skills. My work may or may not be as widely popular or praised as someone else’s but it’s mine. It’s what I have to offer the world. By being more secure in myself, I can more easily dislodge the envy that’s corroded my essence all these many years, these decades.

It’s devastating to realize that I could have done stopped being envious when I was ten. But I didn’t, so now is the time. ##