Day 10

4PM (recorded at 7PM):

Hope is a dangerous thing.  Resilience is also, from what I am learning, potentially dangerous as well.  I have the ability to fight through the pain, to pick myself up from some of the most devastating of circumstances (at least, from my frame of reference – deaths, injuries, heartbreaks) and carry on.  Resilience and hope keep me upright, keep me going and keep me from giving up.

But like I said, hope and resilience are becoming dangerous things in recovery, because there is a fine line between hope and delusion.  Every time I get knocked down or pushed down or ignored while I am down or trip myself so that I fall, every single time I find myself upright again.  Not always is this independently horizontal-to-vertical, but nevertheless I am standing by the end of it.  Yet, I am still writing and talking about being down, so how come hope survives?  Is it that I am so deluded?  And the biggest question, where has continuing to hope and be resilient and be potentially deluded gotten me?  There is very little logic to this hope – if I really thought about it, all evidence would point to the contrary with regards to the efficacy of what I’m hoping for.  All evidence points in the direction of another fall, another push, another trust exercise where there is no one to rely on.  And yet, hope survives and delusion does not.

Here is a sample scenario.  The world inside my head keeps spinning, through fatigue and self-imposed work, it keeps spinning.  In fact, even after a day cleaning the house, doing so out of love for my wife and believing I was doing something good, I walk in thinking about the dirty spots.  I cannot shut the part of my brain off at times like this, cannot convince myself that perfect isn’t enough.  And the worst thing is that the more worn down I get, the more my head seems to spin about these things, the more it seems to get angry and the worse every breath tastes.  Anyway, in this scenario, the latest breaking point arrives and I fall.  Those who pick me up promise the world, tell me that I will always have their hands and they will carry me to safety.  They tell me to believe in hope and their love, because these are the things that life is about.  And because I have faith, I believe in hope and love, believe that they will translate into answers and assistance and make it so that I don’t have to find solutions all on my own to the way that my head (and the world, it seems) scars as opposed to supports me.  Hope and love make me carry on, every single time.  But the cycle continues… I stand up and everyone loses the urgency.  I am patched up, but the source of the injury remains, waiting for the opportunity to break through the stitches more powerful and poisonous than ever.  At this time, everyone seems to forget that the only reason I am not bleeding due to the anxiety, the eating disorder, the perfectionism and the albatross that I’ve carried for so many years, is because of hope and resilience.  These things aren’t solutions, they are stop-gaps.  They are the bubble gum sealing the holes of my ship while I wait for the real boat to take me to shore.  Instead, I get forgotten in a few days, my head keeps working the way it has worked and in fact, has probably gotten worse because of how worn out it is from the darkness it has to call home, since that’s all it has.  My distress call gets unanswered past the initial S.O.S. and I get angrier, more tired and ever-more frustrated.

Hope makes me believe that eventually I will find quiet, that I will find enjoyment and that I will find the spark inside me that made the world shut off and allowed me to be in the moment.  But at the moment, I can’t very often find the moment with her, with laughter, with nature, with exercise, with books, with myself.  And yet, hope will come around tomorrow.

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