Some people retreat to the garage. Others to the gym or the wide outdoors. You’ll find my sister-in-law in her “she shed” quilting. Plenty of people crank up the music. There are all kinds of outlets for mulling over problems.

I write. It clarifies the issue to face the page and be direct. Words sit there in plain view and say what they say. No corners in which to hide.

What I’m asking myself is why did I do it? The universal question. Those whys pop up like weeds in a corn patch.

All I did was finish a selection for this month’s reading group. Usually a pleasure. But from its opening page this book was a total assault on anything good. Stomach turning sick. And it got worse when I didn’t think it possibly could.

What did I do? I kept reading right to the end. Sucked in to the chase. Who was committing the atrocities; how would they get found out. That sizzle to know — to see if I could solve the mystery before the author did. Even at the cost of feeling degraded by what was going into my mind. When the mind can’t just spit out a bitter taste.

Life has a plethora of costly lures. Or maybe allures is more apt. Some are going to get us — with our consent. And that’s the reduction sauce. It is not somebody else’s fault. The Adam and Eve scenario didn’t fly then, and it doesn’t now.

If I want to stop being a repeat offender in these crimes against myself I’ve got to admit I tanked. Then ask a few whys — and come up with truthful answers. My go-to book says, “If God be for us, who can be against us?” A great bolster knowing I have a God who is fighting for me when I’m confronting where I went wrong. Working my way through. Trying to get it right.

I stopped by the library yesterday and dropped that book through the disappear slot. It’s gone — like a load off.