Gratitude Hurts

We were friends for only a year, but in a way, Terry was the truest friend I could have ever had. He stunk on the outside, but no worse than I smelled on the inside. His odor was nothing compared to my disdain for people lower than me, dumber than me, and poorer than me.

Not that I meant to or even realized it, but looking down on him made me feel better about myself. Even at eight years old, I realized that there were higher social circles that I didn’t belong in, but at least I wasn’t as bad off as Terry.

He only made it worse by occasionally fawning over me, thanking me for being his friend, grateful, because without me not a single person would have spoken to him except as an insult. Kids are cruel and I was Terry’s only refuge. His gratitude hurt though, revealing to me how limited my friendship to him actually was. Sure, we sat together in class and I’d take him to church with me. But it was an act of tolerance, not love or loyalty. I did it because I knew I should, not because I wanted to. It was pity, not friendship.

I feel so hollow about it now, so hypocritical. I’m glad I did the right thing. I just wish I had felt the right thing, too--had done it for the right reasons.

It’s possible to help someone and not love them, but it’s impossible to love someone and not help them. One gives charity, the other gives dignity.

Terry has helped me see the truth about myself. That‘s what a friend does.