I listened to Moe Factz with Adam Curry, episode 96 yesterday, titled IDK, about 33 ways to fight a war. One of the higher ways was to attack in tiny, annoying skirmishes instead of full-on frontal assault. I thought of Satan.
Yeah, big things attack sometimes but it's the daily grind of minor irritations that derail me most effectively. The nibbling of ducks. The continually tired, sore eyes with their big-ass floaters - that's what my optometrist calls them. Constantly exhausted yet unable to sleep. Eternally waiting for the next vomit attack. Sudden bouts of nausea, anxiety and pain for no external reason because that's part of The Turtle biology for this season. All of this compounded by hormones that refuse to stop churning and seek verbal release.
Giving in to the rage doesn't help. There's no catharsis in yelling. Rage fuels rage. But there's no controlling it, either. I am constitutionally incapable of pretending I'm OK when I'm not OK.
This has been a week of pinpricks. Of chemical washes. Of plans made and scuppered. Nothing huge. Nothing that would normally cause a moment of concern. But changes are on the horizon at work and at home and all bumps are magnified into mountains that extend for eternity in all directions.
I always think I've figured out how to deal with this situation until life shows up and laughs at me. Then I have a choice. Flounder and splash and waste time railing at what I can't change, or do what millions of lives before me have done: keep swimming.
I thank God that He's already forgiven what I will do next. If He hadn't, I'd be dead instead of alive to keep sinning. I thank God that change is constant and this horrible mood will change, too. Eventually. Sometimes acknowledging it makes it better; sometimes it doesn't.
I'm sorry for everything that has and will happen, Lord. Thank You for loving me anyway.
Keep the faith.