Well, my little tantrum yesterday did nothing to serve my interests whatsoever. All reflecting on every problem in my life, at the same time, accomplished was to freak me out. When freaking out and a flare go hand in hand, I literally turn into Chicken Little. After stewing around in that psychosis for a while, it takes so much extra effort to get myself back on track, I want to scream! I thought my progress in this arena was past such blatant regression. What happened to What Is, Is? Sigh. I guess progress isn't perfection.
I have two verses from Psalms tattooed on the inside of my right forearm. It's the two verses I said while chanting my way around my rosary beads for two days in the hospital. The two days between when the doctors told me I had two strokes and was going to die, because they didn't know how to stop more from coming, and when they told me they found the cause, and I was going to live. In my heart of hearts I credit Psalms 23:4 and 118:17 for saving my life so many times since I permanently marked them on my body, it's not even funny. If even just because in my darkest times I would glance at my outstretched arms, shaking a fist at the sky as I cried out 'Why?,' and be reminded that in my most critical hour, I had hope, and faith. If I had it then, why can't I find it now?
Which leads me to the latest mantra I absolutely must adopt, if I want to move forward in life. Don't react! Because every time I do it screws everything up worst than it already is. The simple truth is no matter how unfair or unjust or wrong I may perceive my reality, the only person who is going to fight for my quality of life, is me. So yes, I'm contemplating tattooing the coveted behavior on the inside of my left forearm. But instead of tiny script, this one might be best in big, Old English lettering that the astronauts on the mission to Mars can see from space. I suppose I should ask my husband if he wants to be married to someone who looks like the guy from Memento before I do, though.
Thanks for joining,