Hi, my name is Bob, and I’m a struggler

I’m a struggler. I grapple with life at every turn. My philosophy, of course, is more of a “connect to ground, then let go” kind of thing. But since I’m a struggler, my philosophy is just another thing I struggle to embody. It’s a two-handed stranglehold I’ve got going on: On the one hand, I struggle to get in touch with my deepest and most authentic intentions. And on the other hand, once I do get plugged in and grounded, I have a devil of a time staying on track once the initial wave of inspiration passes and I’m confronted by the fears and distractions that inevitably crop up.

Of course, sometimes the obstacles between insight and actualization are quite real—especially when the road ahead is a toll road. Heading in a new direction always seems to require a surplus of money, which requires work, which requires time and energy, which at the end of the day or week can leave me so drained and disconnected that I’d rather collapse on the couch and watch Family Guy instead of do that thing I was going to do, that thing that was part of my new way of being, that way of being that promises to take me in that new direction, and—who’s doing what now?

The world on Monday morning just doesn’t feel much like it did on Friday night. And those best of intentions that seemed so full of promise and potential energy…? Suddenly I’m not so sure the game is worth the candle. Once the inspiration expires, apathy too often rushes in to fill the void before I can build the necessary momentum to clear the first couple of hurdles.

So I’m struggling again. What else is new. You all have your own fires to stoke. Maybe I’m just addicted to inspiration, to that adrenaline rush that accompanies a grand insight. The groundwork that follows isn’t all that much fun.

For now, though, I’ll keep plugging away. I’ll get home around 6:30pm this evening and I’ll be tired. Off to the gym for knee rehab, then dinner, clean up, and by then it’ll be damn near 8:30pm. With energy and focus, I could make the most of the hour or two before bed, but damn it I’ll be tired, and in that state whatever project I was going to work on won’t seem like such an urgent matter.

Shit, if I had kids, like most men my age, I’d be lucky to have ten minutes to myself. In a way, I wonder if that wouldn’t simplify things though, if it wouldn’t put an end to all this indecisiveness. There wouldn’t time for this vicious circle of self-absorption. Baby needs a new pair of shoes.

I used to work as an addictions counselor, and sometimes I’d get the impression that many recovering addicts missed the simplicity of their single-minded pursuit of the next high. Nothing else mattered, they did whatever it took to reach their goal, and they were driven by an intense desire that just grew stronger in the face of obstacles. Recovery, in contrast, is hard work, has to be sweated out “one day at a time,” and relapse waits around every corner, ready to pounce in a moment of weakness.

So, what if I give up the struggle? Who drives the bus then—the devil or the angel? Or does it just veer off the road and land in a ditch somewhere? Does it really matter? Do all roads lead to the same place in the end?

How many different metaphors can a person use during one train of thought and still be considered sane?