I wonder regularly how I am still alive. Last night was terrible. I so easily could have been a small obituary, with two very sad children, and that was it, for this life. I don’t think I ever could have been a suicide–I steeled my mind against that long ago–but as Kurt Vonnegut pointed out there are many small ways of committing suicide slowly over time. I didn’t take care of myself very well.
But I get signs here and there, or what I take to be signs, that this life will be worthwhile, that it is worth the pain, that I have been kept alive for a reason. I am, however, going to have to fight through the hedgerows of Normandy, and make it through the winter in Bastogne.
Sometimes I am a bastard. But I do fight.