When I’m having a particularly tiresome moment of barring all the grey matter between my ears from jumping the barbed-wire, Prozac-tinted fencing the doctors and I have so carefully erected and lickety-splitting into Panic Land, I can’t help asking myself “Why?”
No. Not “Why bother?”
Never, ever “Why bother?”
That answer is very clear. Panic Land is a bad, bad place. Avoiding it at (almost) all costs is mandatory.
Got it? Good.
But that still leaves the “Why?”
Everything happens for a reason. I believe that passionately. I must. Some days that’s the only way to get through.
So, when I find myself in a bloody skirmish at the weakest points of my aforementioned fence, I ask myself, “What’s God got up his sleeve now?”
Or at least I try to. Sometimes I’m so busy feeling sorry for myself, I forget to ask until the smoke has cleared and the bodies have been removed from the battlefield.
Well, it’s one of those mornings when the smoke is still hanging low in the air and the Red Cross is still busy at work in my head. So, when I woke up today and asked the belated “Why?”, the only answer I got was this post.
Admittedly, that’s a rather lame answer and one I could very well be making up in my own war-weary head, but I’m going for it.
So, I hope this little bit of emotional gutting helps someone out there to realize that they’re not alone.
Hang in there, my friends.
Chloe, the far from battle-hardened