Last night reminded me of three years ago when this odyssey began.

In October of 2013, a week or so after my mother-in-law died, I approached my doctor with the thought that perhaps forty-five years of taking prescription narcotics might be enough.  I mentioned the fog in which I lived, the disconnectedness which swirled around me, and the frequency with which I requested refills of Percoset and Vicodin.  I admitted that I wanted to feel, truly feel, and I did not care if what I felt included pain.

Three years later, I question my judgment on that score.  Last night double-whammied me:  Fatigue-triggered neuro-pain and aching muscles.

I tried all the tricks.  Stretching, water-consumption, meditation.  I read til midnight despite knowing that this morning would come too soon.  Eventually I fell asleep with legs twitching.  Five-fifteen slammed me with rumbling thunder, the whining dog at the foot of the stairs, and the bleating alarm.

I’m not complaining.  Though I know life is not a competitive sport, I also know that my own life could be — no , has been worse, and that what plagues me pales in comparison to starvation, death, and destruction about which the radio blares as I stumble through my morning.  So I’ll not complain.  I’ll pace, I’ll breathe, I’ll look at television, I’ll scroll through Facebook, and I’ll get through it.

It’s the twelfth day of the thirty-fourth day of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.