. . . [S]elf-pity, while pleasant enough for a time, is both exhausting and a sure way to end up not only infertile but a narcissist. You begin to imagine that yours is the only life full of disappointment. Yours the only existence defined by sorrow. You close off from relationships with other people . . . as a way of protecting yourself from debilitating sorrow. You cease praying, because the words you utter grow vapid, insipid, uninspiring. In this way, I entered into Sheol, hell itself, cut off from the land of the living. Something had to change.
via Eve Tushnet