Life Is Hard

Regardless of where your troubles fall on the spectrum of standard to tragic, from mundane to horrific, life is hard. We only get what we're handed. I sometimes feel ridiculous being so upset about the things that have happened to me, both now and in the past, when I compare them to the things that people I know have been through. I feel stupid crying about my love lost, my fear of being alone, my resentment of my mother. I get annoyed with myself for succumbing to the pain of heartbreak and the insecurity of not having many friends. I remind myself how much worse it could be. I don't live in a war-torn country. I haven't been abused or discriminated against. I have a job. I have a place to live. I have a dog. I have the things that I need to live. My problems are pretty cushy problems to have. I get embarrassed when I think about going to a therapist and complaining about these very middle class issues.
But.
I'm reading Eat, Pray, Love right now. The author, Liz Gilbert, actually addresses exactly this issue fairly early in the book. She describes a conversation with a therapist friend who has signed up to work with refugees. The therapist friend explains to her that even with all of things that these people have seen and experienced, when she finally meets with them, they all want to talk about their love lives. Their broken hearts.
And so. I guess that is the common thread among us. We are all like this. Life is hard. Love is hard. Loving someone is hard. It doesn't always work out the way that you thought it would.
I try to remind myself of this. I'm also trying to maintain some clarity and self-awareness as I go through this time in my life, so that I don't lose sight of the fact that I've still got it okay, even if my whole life is going a different way than I'd anticipated.
Additionally, so this won't seem so cryptic, my Tony and I are no more. Six years is a long time, and I feel like I'm starting my life all over again. So. Here we go.