there are so many whys that have gone unanswered for a long time, and because of them i’ve shed a tear to many.
it’s been a long and hard struggle. i seem to have the impression that if there were answers for all the questions- questions about why things happened the way it did and about fairness in life- i would feel better and it would perhaps help me to move on and recover faster. but who am i kidding? even if i had the answers, i would still be all the same. really.
i always throw these questions at the best minds- my psychiatrist, my psychologist, my psychotherapist, and even my rheumy. i throw in their faces all the whys that i know but have no answers for, and most often than not, they have no answers for me. if they had one, it would all come apart as a terrific disguise once i ponder about it. and i ask myself endlessly too, adding on to the misery. one thing that i have known for a long time though, is that life is unfair. it is, and i am painfully aware of it. (i still do it to my treatment team anyway.)
but, and there is always a but, who am i? who am i to lament and complain? most of my problems are stemmed from a desire to be good enough, to be accepted, to be validated. it is something which can be perceived as- if one wants to be harsh- indulgent, greedy, narcissistic, whatever. who cares that i have depression? and i lament about having RA. when i’m feeling bitter, i even ask why i have RA when no one from my family has it. i’ve talked about how “far” in life i’ve come, and i compare it to my siblings and peers. for everything i justify it with something, like having tried my darndest, like my dysfunctional family, like God having a say in all of these. “it’s unfair! it’s so unfair” i’d say.
again, rightfully, all of these don’t matter. and unfairness? shame on you, Steph.
unfair are the babies, children and the infirmed abandoned. unfair are the young, the debilitated and the old, hungry and starving. unfair are the innocent victims of war and terror, the violence and unjust. unfair are the less fortunate and the neglected. and even these people are capable of being happy, of being hopeful. they ask their whys, their lives still go on, but many of them can still smile and laugh. because to them having food to eat and water to drink would suffice.
so who the bloody hell am i?
who the hell am i to ask these whys and cry over them because there are no answers?
everything happens for a reason, and i should internalise that.