Last month was, without exaggeration, brutal. It began with me getting dumped – a four year relationship ending with a seven-word-text (I kid you not) – and ended with the news that my home is structurally unsound and I must find $20,000 to repair and renovate it. In between, if there was bad luck to be found, we found it. My dog. My kids. Our cars. It got to the point when something bad happened I would just mutter “effing September” and remind myself how many days were left until I could flip the calendar page. The bar is set pretty low for October, but I’m not holding my breath.

I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. I’ve talked and prayed, meditated and journaled, my search for meaning leading me down endless rabbit holes that took me nowhere beyond the questions that started my search: What’s the point of suffering? What am I meant to learn? I’m ready. I’m open. I swear!

I don’t say this lightly. I feel very Job-like, not just because of my September or even the past five years (yeah, happy abandonment anniversary to me), but because, after all the talking and praying and wrestling and searching, I see no logic behind any of my pain. There is no meaning and I find that maddening.

At best, I am acquiring more experiences that allow me to sit with someone else and honestly say, “I’ve been there.” Or maybe my calling is to be the voice of reality in a world that seems hyper-focused on positivity. Nope, everything doesn’t happen for a reason, it just happens (and it sucks!). But none of that brings me comfort and I’m so very ready for some comfort.

I told a friend today I think I may be done with this blog. I haven’t written for two months and feel like I’ve run out of new ways to look at my woes. She said, “Maybe you’re done trying to make something of it. Maybe it’s time to do something else.”

Maybe it is.