It’s another cold and dreary day here in the Midwest. And again, I’m sitting here wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
I once described my life as a thousand balls of yarn. Unraveled, tangled, matted together. Twenty years worth of personal issues that I feel compelled to tug at and unwind. In frustration to throw on the floor and angrily stomp away from. Always drawn back though, to sit and contemplate, pulling a string here here or there.
If I’m lucky, occasionally I’ll free a strand, and lay it out lovingly to admire. Proud of my small accomplishment, I will smile and stroke it and give it a place of honor. And then I’ll look back at the rest of the mess, and my heart can’t help but fall. In loosing that one strand, I’ve tangled the knot tighter — and worse — I’ve left a mass of other strands exposed, taunting me. Tempting me to pick and pull.
I’m screwed up. My issues have issues. You’ve heard it before from a million mouths, spilling through ten million fingers online. Why is my mess so special? Cuz it’s mine. It’s mine to poke and prod. To kick and hold. To ignore, to abuse, to love.