Something that my wife said yesterday (inquisitiveness/curiosity, not malicious) stuck with me. It kept me up for a while last night as it swirled through my already rough brain. She asked me why I talk about the world doing this to me, why I feel like this is more outward than inward.
I got upset at the beginning, as it seemed like an abdication of responsibility. I will no doubt agree that some of this is inward: the distress I feel about eating and food and restriction and sitting down, the constant need to be doing what’s right or worthwhile, the never-ending lights and catastrophic darkness. I will take responsibility for these, but this is the blackness, the thing that creeps in when I am weak.
I will take responsibility for these, but not for the cracks and scars that let the blackness creep in this time. I was left alone and had to become my own advocate (this is probably the reason why my wife feels I talk about what was done to me, because someone had to). I don’t deserve to put these things on myself, not do I deserve to be alone in pulling myself out of it. As I’ve said before, I could, I know that. I could decide that I will look at the world differently, through glasses fitted for someone else, through coping mechanisms that are cold and inhuman. I could decide to be self-reliant, be self-sufficient and in doing so, be by myself.
So I will suffer through, waiting for the extended hands to help me up. I have glimmers of them, some in small doses and others in undependably sporadic large doses. But they are there. There is enough hope in these to keep me suffering, to keep me deciding to ask for help, to help me keep the faith. There is a house not in New Orleans, but one on this path of recovery that I want. My dream house is not a physical entity, but one of love and compassion and support. My dream house is out there, and I will wait for it, because I didn’t deserve this hole, didn’t deserve these cracks. I deserve love. I guess I’m still a little upset.