It'll get better

and then it'll fall apart again.

I can’t even quit. I can’t even dust my hands off and say “fuck it,” because it won’t fix anything. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

I’m still struggling. A couple nights ago, I was talking to my adult daughter, and I said, “I know it’s okay to be upset and sad and angry. I also know that I can’t stay there; it will paralyze me.” I’m paralyzed, though. I wake up, send the kids off to school, and handle whatever crisis screams the loudest. Sometimes I eat. Sometimes I just go back to bed. I’m so angry and grief-stricken that I struggle to even experience anything else.

One minute, I’m thinking how nice it will be to finish my degree without the added stress of a job and a deadline. Before I can fully articulate that relief, I’m nauseous thinking about how I’ll pay my mortgage. I won’t end up homeless. But why not? Why shouldn’t I? Just because it hasn’t happened yet? Within a breath, I remember that every setback so far has resulted in growth, and I don’t have a lot of regrets. Then the hot water goes out again, and I think that just because I’ve been lucky before doesn’t mean I will be again.

I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired. I want to take a hot shower for granted. I want to flush the toilet and trust that the shit will actually make it into the sewer.

If this is the formation that comes from following God’s call, then I’m not interested anymore. It’s been three years of crisis after crisis after crisis.

And also of miracle after miracle after miracle, and look, I’m grateful. Can I just have a straight, flat path for a little while instead of this unholy series of wild ups and downs?

And in the midst of all this, I loathe myself for my doubt and weakness. Who am I to ask questions?