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.

Soldiering Through

Well, I think I made it. I went through all my motions today–taught Pilates at the Y, did a private Pilates session, drove to Brighton and met with my Mastermind team, spent an hour of drive-time on the phone networking with my first boss, rode the bike for 18 miles at dusk in 45-degree weather, made a vat of soup, had the girls over for Stitch-and-Bitch, and cleaned up the kitchen. Consumed as much wine as possible during the Stitch-and-Bitch part, and while cleaning the kitchen, but have managed thus far to hold off the anguished weeping. I soldiered through–isn’t that appropriate for the Veteran’s Day weekend?

I was aware throughout most of it that I was putting my proxy out there today. She did a fine job–much better than I would have done. She has more experience interacting with my exterior life than I do, and I’m recognizing how often I send her out in my stead. It’s just easier.

The thing I really want tonight is to authentically connect with someone, but I’m also aware that little Lizzy is still waiting for my attention. Why am I so much more reluctant to seek her out than I am to reach out to someone–anyone? Is he a shortcut, a diversion, a distraction? I can’t fathom such things with so much wine in me.

My proxy is telling me to go to bed. Maybe she’ll get in touch with little Lizzy while I sleep.