So, why?

Why does one get stricken with depression? Why does someone faithful to the benevolent God get blown out of commission, Elijah like?

Why the Prozac? Why the Xanax? Why the six weeks less authentic sleep, the perennial weeping  before two bewildered children and a loving wife and Mom now burdened by a third? The lullabyes not so much to comfort the baby but sung and snuggled to comfort me? The womb-like pulse of the rocking chair?

Why the reaction to Welbutrin, the diagnosis hidden from potential employers and friends, the dreams replete with a gun held to one’s head, the horrible idea of daughters dying, Dad’s inability to provide?

Why the transient jobs, the grad school incompletes, the contracts not renewed? My wife’s mounting anxiety, and the move away from my world to the support of her parents?

I used to think it was God’s way of humbling me, of disarming my intellect. I’d always thought I could control or redirect any part of my life. My academic performance suggested I’d always be able to reason my way to the bottom of things, pare onions down to their cores. But I couldn’t do that with Y2K. I’d worked in markup languages, knew too much and read even more about computing and embedded processors, and could see, clearly, the ugly possibilities.


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