“What doesn’t kill you,
can still make you pretty miserable.”
I’ve been smitten by physical and spiritual infirmities the past five years, smothered by fatigue and pain the past three months, and supported by family and friends throughout. The latter are the reason for fighting through the former.
But are there good reasons for sharing my troubles with others? Everybody has problems; why draw attention to mine? Why not suffer in silence or shrink away from people so as not to be a burden?
I have my reasons:
Misery Loves Company: So does happiness for that matter, and every state in between. It’s human nature to need community. Loneliness makes everything worse. Isolation kills.
I’m a Writer: “There’s nothing to writing,” said Walter Wellesley. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter [keyboard] and open a vein.” It’s in my nature to analyze, annotate and annunciate my experiences. (I have also been known to alliterate on occasion.)
I have a third reason but refuse to give it because lists with three points smack of sermons.
I would love for my story to have redemptive value, but I’ll settle for it being a cautionary tale.