First post of the year

Sorry it may seem depressing.

When I returned home about 6 months ago I had a sense of optimism despite the fact that I knew I would be choosing a fairly limited sort of life.

I still want that life, or part of me does. I dream of a quiet, safe, clean home. I want friends who I trust and who relate or inspire me. I want time to practice my hobbies, to get lost in them, to watch Netflix or whatever. I want a partner. And financial security and all these white picket fence dreams... 

But when asked what I lost last year, my answer was my sense of purpose. And though I want those other things, I'm wondering if I've given up far too much by not pursuing purpose rather than self protection.

I realized this morning that I'm not just cynical, I'm angry. I am angry that there are a world of problems out there with simple solutions that we don't choose. That there are ways to make life better for other people, and we collectively choose not to. That we hide our heads in the sand when facing environmental catastrophe. That we make it easier for people to self protect, miserable and lonely and selfishly, rather than reward those who choose to make life better. 

I spent 6 years trying to make life better and burnt out. Despite being surrounded by lovely people who cared deeply about me, it wasn't enough. The burden was too much and I felt it slipping further each day and lost my confidence in both myself and the system to hold it up again. And I'm not just dissatisfied with that, I'm hurt by it, and I'm angry about it.

I'm angry at our society which chooses death over life. Chooses the easy choices which devastate, over the difficult one which could heal us. I'm angry at individuals who live the way I'm choosing to right now, like there isn't something better, like caring is too hard. I'm angry at myself for wanting it all, and for needing security, for needing healing, for needing the things the system chooses not to share... And I'm angry at God, or the universe or whatever... Not because it makes us selfish, but because it makes us care and doesn't provide the solutions. The breakthroughs.  Gives us huge hearts and not enough string to stitch them back together after each and every moment of heartbreak. 

It would be ok if we were all poison, if the human race was the virus that needed to be wiped out, if we were evil monsters, sociopaths who didn't care about anyone but ourselves... But we're not. 

We're beautiful, loving, creative and compassionate... And so deeply wounded, so deeply convinced the world is sorrow and pain, and not worth the effort. 

My response was to write. I know I need to write... I want to write. 

But I also want purpose.  I want a heart that reaches instead of always hiding. I want reassurance that it matters. 

I've lost it, and I'm waiting, not patiently for it to come back.