I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re going through. I don’t know what you’re suffering from. But I know you’re going through something. Everyone is.
You’re going through something particularly painful. This is not your run-of-the-mill badness. This is nuclear badness.
Nobody knows about this situation, of course. You’re pretty quiet. You’ve kept it to yourself for a long time. But even the people you HAVE told can’t help you except to pat you on the butt and pity you.
But you don't need pity. You don’t need inspirational words. You don’t need clichés. You don’t need to be told to let go and let God. Or worse: This too shall pass.
What you need is to get through this crap. You need this to be over, once and for all. You need to get back to normal life again.
Oh, what you wouldn’t GIVE to be normal again.
Maybe it’s a medical problem. Maybe it’s emotional. Maybe your kids have been taken away from you.
Maybe you’re like the woman who emailed me yesterday, whose son is going to prison for a crime he says he didn’t commit.
Maybe you’ve been told you’re dying. Maybe the doctors don’t give you a lot of options. Maybe you’re a pinball stuck in the Great American Medical System, bouncing from specialist to specialist, only to find out that they can’t tell you a cussed thing.
Maybe you’re the young man who messaged me last night, who said his father was murdered in a home invasion.
Maybe you’re a teenager, who emailed me this morning, whose parents are fighting all the time. There is a lot of screaming in your household. You can’t do anything but sit in your room, playing on your phone.
Maybe you’re in college and your girlfriend cheated on you. Maybe the adults in your life are telling you that time heals all wounds, and that you should just suck it up and get over it. Maybe you want to say to all these adults, respectfully, bite me.
Maybe you’ve been married for 25 years, and suddenly she tells you she’s not in love with you anymore.
Maybe the cancer has come back. Maybe breast cancer. Maybe, even though you’ve had a double mastectomy; even though they’ve subjected you to radiation and chemo; even though you’re eating right and exercising; even though you’re taking all the meds; your scans still came back positive.
I don’t know. And frankly, it’s none of my business.
What I do know is that it’s not over. Also, I know that there is a hidden strength, a bravery inside you which you have not BEGUN to tap into yet.
Yes, I know you think you’re sinking. Yes, I know you think it’s all over. I know you don’t think you’re able to handle this. I know you think you’re too weak to go any further.
But in your weakness, you will somehow be made strong. And in your lowest hour, there will be unseen forces surrounding you. They will lift you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone. You will see. I promise.
When you get through this, you’ll look back at your own roller-coaster-of-a life, and you’ll laugh, wondering how in the hell you’re still alive.
And then you’ll sit down and write this.
This is the first time I’ve commented but tonight’s post prompted me to do so because I want you to know how much your posts and books mean to me. You are so genuine, brilliant in ways you probably don’t recognize, hilarious, humble, and real that I’m only sorry I didn’t find you sooner. I devoured both You Are my Sunshine and Kinfolk in days after a friend recommended and I remain so grateful she did. I’ve since recommended your books and blog to countless family and friends particularly in my home state of TN (yes, I love you even though you’re a Bama fan). You are a true talent and gem whose words help so many of us find hope every single day. Thank you for that and just being the person you are.
This is crazy. I always get your column in the mornings but, instead, it came tonight. Another thing that happened tonite is I unearthed the medical sites that call my end-stage liver disease, hepatic encephalopathy, a rare disorder and I have 6 months to 2 years to live. That was a surprise.
I don’t feel sorry for me. I’m just dangling my little toe in the River Jordan. But grieving is no fun and we’re all pretty close. I hate it for them.
I’ve already lost memories and can’t seem to get started to do the things I want. But Sean, you tell it like you see it and that’s refreshing. Thank you for talking about things that nobody else wants to. Please pray that I move on hearing laughter and music on both sides. Thanks, Jan