For reasons I won’t detail here, I am terribly frustrated.
Frustration is an interesting concept. It’s a horrible state to be in because, at least momentarily, a person decides that conditions around them are unalterable. “There’s nothing I can do,” I say, “Nothing to be said, no one to turn to, no answer in sight.”
Hence, frustration.
I thought about calling a couple of you folks tonight. But it’s getting late — and I’m not sure that I have a right to be frustrated. And in all likelihood, you would tell me that everything will be all right. You’d offer consoling words, perhaps a prayer, and you’d tell me that you were sorry that I’m frustrated. All in all, great responses and appropriate behavior on your part.
But honestly, it doesn’t help me. You see, I don’t want to be frustrated. Nor do I really want to be comforted in my frustration. I want to be angry and justified in my anger. I want things to be different. I want other people to act differently.
But I’m frustrated because the only person I can cause to be different is me. Remember I said that frustration results from the belief that things are unalterable. Maybe that’s not entirely accurate. Maybe frustration arises when the only thing that can change is me — and I don’t want to.
So I type. And, I suppose because you’re hoping that I’m eventually going to make a point here, you read. Funny, now we’re both frustrated.
Sorry. That “misery loves company” thing was working on me.
I think where I was going with all of this was that, in times like these, we often just need to let loose with some words. And it just seems right when the words land someplace.
Thanks for letting my words land at your place. Frustration is lifting. Fingers are tiring. My world . . . is . . .at peace . . . again.