Two nights in a row I have made myself exceedingly vulnerable with people to whom I have given vast control over my life and livelihood. In return I have received support, encouragement, gratitude for all I’ve done and all I do to keep the fires going; only time will tell if my honest revelations and requests will result in something different for my future.
I do not like my vulnerability, as it has never produced anything except pain in my life. But lately I’ve been reading things that say my most authentic self will emerge when I own my story of vulnerability rather than bury it in my heart. As I lay here alone in bed, thinking about all these people of the last two days who are laying in bed with THEIR own people, I begin to vanish. I erase my story, cross it out, wad it into a crumpled ball, and throw it away with all the tear-soaked tissues I have tossed on the floor. I don’t want this story. I want a different story, one where my life is not just my own, where I don’t climb into an empty bed each night. I want a story where somebody sees me, and I can’t fathom that vulnerability is its preface.
Maybe none of this matters. Still, there is a deep sense of injustice about my being all alone. How can God make me strong enough to withstand anguish and yet not strong enough to overcome the desire that precipitates it?
There are no answers and no solutions. There is only time. Time and distance and solitude. I feast on these objects of my starvation.