I’m already judging the fact that my tough shit isn’t nearly as tough as other peoples’ tough shit. I’m not dealing with illness, or death, or conflict, or war, at least, not now. But my tough shit is what I’ve got, and it’s tough for me.
When the man I love wants me and also wants another, and I move into feeling unwanted, rejected and insignificant.
Now that I’m separated, knowing that I need to earn a living, to support myself as an artist, and I’m hanging on to feeling scared and not good enough.
When my back starts to feel weak again, and I begin to worry about not being able to function physically. Ever.
So, three things. That’s what I’ve got. It’s not so bad, is it? If I allow myself to get swallowed up by my fears, then it does feel like tough shit, but really, my life is pretty fucking good.
The tough shit is only tough shit because I am making it into tough shit.