Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts
According to my ninety-two-year-old grandmother, forty isn’t old. When I went to visit her on my birthday this last year, she sweetly told me that forty was without a doubt her favorite decade.
“Forty is perfect because you’re not too young anymore and you aren’t too old yet. It’s a sweet spot,” she said in her familiar and sometimes comical German accent. As a new trip about the sun began, I tried desperately to feel the comfort in her words, especially as I faced a few new health problems and loads of parental trials. Two healthy teeth needed root canals after biting on a carrot too hard, my TMJ became a chronic nuisance, and I got the flu, all within a few months. Not to mention, all three of my children were facing countless emotional tests that brought them knocking on my bedroom door for frequent chats. I tried my best to look at these new life experiences positively, knowing many more people are dealing with far worse circumstances.
Meanwhile, as my children grew older, it dawned on me that parenting them wasn’t getting easier than expected. Sure, they are more capable and don’t need constant monitoring, but the emotional needs they bring to the table sometimes feel suffocating. I’m trying my best to raise children who share openly with my husband and me, which means they do come to talk to me. Intentionally sharing in their trials comes with carrying the emotional loads they wrestle with right alongside them and if I’m honest, that’s a tiring task!
After weeks of battling a constant low-level cloud of sadness, I went to see my therapist for a little help to discern what tool to take out of my counseling toolbox. After a fifteen-minute comedy routine about how I’ll likely be fifty and have no teeth left, I wanted to make sure my therapist understood that I could see the bigger picture and knew there were millions of people suffering from much worse than I was in that moment.
“Knowing that other people are also suffering doesn’t mean you aren’t still carrying a lot as well. It’s like you’re suffering death by a thousand paper cuts,” she said calmly. Her metaphor hit home.
Turning forty wasn’t hard because of the number itself or because I’m unhappy with where I am in my life, quite the contrary. Hitting this decade was hard because I realized that my youthful notion that life only gets easier and more fun with age isn’t true. God doesn’t promise us perfect teeth or anxiety-free children who won’t also face challenges. Life often feels like death by a thousand paper cuts, where we don’t feel the deep ache of one or two of the challenges, but as the individual slices build-up, everything suddenly becomes excruciating. The OCD I suffer from often causes me to inspect each cut well beyond what’s helpful which can prolong reaching acceptance.
I wish I could say I’ve completed the processing part of my mid-life, for lack of a better word, crisis. I can confidently say I’m still very much a work in progress and I think that’s the point. The sanctification process is a long one and as I’ve written about before, it’s tiring, but we must continue to trust that it’s worth all the discomfort because He is with us through every single challenge. God uses every hard circumstance, no matter how small, to bring glory to Himself and use it for our good. I still marvel at how God uses my own story of anxiety and battle with OCD to bless me, especially when so much of the suffering is unseen by the world. Forty, so far, hasn’t been my favorite, but I walk into every day praying God will make things make sense. As I look back on each cut slowly healing, I see Him doing exactly that.
