There is a lot that is wrong with me, a host of conditions and calamities. Yet I believe I have not descended into bitterness. Ever. Self-serving? Probably. True? Maybe, though I can come dangerously close. I have offered about 170 posts, each drawing robust reactions and responses. I am trying to sort through perceptions of all that you have offered and I have read.
You often seem beleaguered, living in a state of siege. That does capture a difficult reality. Truth is an absolute defense. Many seem resigned. Who among the chronically ill does not go there? Chronic conditions by definition arte incurable. We are signed up for life. I think I detect anger a lot. So? I like anger. Good fuel for the fight.
But bitterness? Not really. Few among us seem to have crossed that river. I think that bitterness starts out as hurt. A relentless enemy we cannot see stalks us. And why is this happening? Why me? That is the poison pill when coping. I have pushed that question out of my head for years and had a better life for doing so.
I raise this subject because I am juggling a lot. Our burdens are cumulative. Baggage piles up. I worry about slipping into the quicksand of self-indulgence. The issue is not what I say to others. My mask stays firmly in place. I worry about what I scream to myself in the middle of the night, knowing that silence enhances deniability. I didn’t hear anything. Did you? Do I get to keep my martyr merit badge if my lips silently move? In the end, we play to an audience of one. I am my toughest critic, which is as it should be.