Dear Pneuma,

Why is it so hard to accept injustice?  What does assigning blame do?  Why is it so important for my brain to order the world in such a way that I relate to my disease as a reflection of my moral goodness or failure?  Why is it so difficult to detach my self-image from my illness?

Today has not been a great day, physically, and I spent a lot of it wondering, "What did I do wrong?  Where did I fail?  Why can't anybody fix this?  Why can't I figure out how to get back into control?"  Anger and sadness war inside me, both frustrated that they have nowhere to go, so they attack me.  They tell me I am not "right."

I want to blame my doctors.  I want to blame the technologies I use to manage my condition.  I want to blame my life.   The fact is, I have an incurable and chronic condition, that I neither invited, nor deserved.  The fact is, I can only do the best I can, and that best means I live longer, and better.  The fact is, that best doesn't cure my disease, it just makes it more manageable.  The fact is, some days I just don't feel real good.

It really pisses me off that I can't kick something in the shins and make this go away.  It really pisses me off that being good doesn't protect me from this.  It really pisses me off that I sometimes have to stop doing what I want so that I can focus on this.  It really pisses me off that even after years, I cannot seem to completely transcend this desire for reality to conform to my will and my actions.  It really pisses me off-because this disease is an injustice that cannot be justified.  It is a wrong that won't be righted.  It is unfair.

So what I want, Pneuma, is to grow into the kind of person that stops needing life to be fair.  I want to stop being so childish and selfish in my feelings on days like today.  I want the wisdom and the peace to know that death and pain are part of God's good creation-that mortality means we are limited.  I want to walk away from the idea that life, exactly as it is, whether it be full of difficulties or joys, is imperfect.  Life isn't imperfect.  Life is exactly what it was meant to be.  

Pneuma, may I release my selfish inflexibility, my prideful need to coerce and control, my insistence on an intellectual and moral perfection that leads me to view this gift of life with anything less than the joy and awe it deserves.

Cobalt Dreams