My therapist pointed out to me today that I seem to have an attachment to suffering. Suffering is familiar to me and therefore oddly comforting. She didn’t go so far as to say it’s like an old friend, but we’ve had that conversation about Depression before. This isn’t virgin territory or a new idea; my attachment to suffering is something I’ve been aware of for a long time. Which just makes it all the more maddening that I can’t seem to shake it.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life making the harder choice for myself. Choosing the road that is guaranteed to be fraught with difficulty so I can continue to have something to complain about and some way to feel righteous and better than my non-suffering fellows.

I resent people who talk about their experience of a spiritual path or practice, or their perspective on life in terms only of love, unity, light, connectedness, calm, bliss, and gratitude. It makes me want to scream. Why? Because this is not what I know. It is not my experience. I suffer and the truth is that yes, I put value to that.

(I also watched a few episodes of Dawson’s Creek today, got sunburned taking my dog on a long walk midday, and ate more than one half gallon of ice cream. So, how much am I really suffering? I suppose that would depend on your opinion of late 90’s teen melodramas and getting fat.)

The truth is, I don’t know what’s real anymore, and I don’t have any fucking idea where I go from here. I do not want to spend the rest of my life choosing suffering so that I can point to it, puff out my chest, and feel mighty for having constantly overcome. It is not noble to survive what is of one’s own creation. It’s just stupid. And a gigantic waste of time.

I’m also not really a butterflies, rainbows and hugging the world kind of person, but I’m sure there’s middle ground somewhere. I’m less sure of how to find it.