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I have never felt there was any reason for anything that has ever happened to me. I can barely register cause and effect sometimes in the abstract, let alone some purpose for my life.

I don’t think I got sick for a reason any more than I think there was one in me getting better and not dying. I don’t think I was “saved” by anything more than medicine and technology. And not for any reason other than that I was lucky enough to afford it and living in a time that offered it.

I am starting to be able to see the beginnings of all the threads that have led me to where I am now. I can see all the good things that have come out of all those bad things. I can even see more threads in front of me, leading down the path I want to go.

But I don’t feel any sense of meaning in any of that. Sometimes people tell me that I am alive for a reason. That god had a plan. And all I can think is that it would be nice to believe that.

But I just don’t. I can’t. I’m no more deserving of life than someone else is deserving of death. Because that is what these people are saying to me. That when my friend SL died of a heart attack, he wasn’t as deserving of life as I am. That I am somehow more important than a husband and father of two.

I guess I have just experienced so much in my life that seems so arbitrary.

I think we have to create our own meaning in life. It’s up to each of us to decide why we’re here and if there is a greater purpose. For some it’s religion. For others, it’s their family.

Some people never seem to figure out what they need to be their purpose in life. And those are the people that seem kind of sad and lost.

I don’t really know what my greater purpose is. Right now I am focusing on getting better. And that’s a big enough project for me for right now. It’s enough to occupy my time and energy. But I know it’s something I’m going to have to figure out someday, though.

I’m starting to think it might be writing. I have been journaling for the past 20 years. It has helped me through some hard times. I write a lot. Almost every day. And I don’t stop at journaling. I also write fiction, which is surprisingly helpful when you are trying to figure things out.

But it is so different to put all these thoughts and feelings out into the world. Even if I only had one reader, I think it would still have helped me. Maybe even if I had none.

I feel that every post I write is a weight lifted off my shoulders. I used to imagine my baggage as the weight of the world, something I carried wherever I went. Like Atlas. And now I feel I am unburdening myself with these words. It’s almost like all this stuff is evaporating into the atmosphere.


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