Circles

It's interesting that when there's an obvious villain involved, a story, fact or fiction, seems to have direction and impetus. When the "villain" is humanized, suddenly the motion stagnates. There seems to be no point in continuing.

My story has no villains, only victims. Each character nurses pain and suffering equal to or greater than my own. It's difficult not to fall prey to cynicism which dictates that the struggle will never ease and each story continues to circle back to the beginning, only to repeat once more.

There is something about realizing one's limitations which brings a sense of futility to life. I'm not one to bow to fatalism, but coming to recognize that I am, indeed, vulnerable to the actions of others does not make me feel empowered in the least. In fact, it has increased my sense of wariness in all my relationships, and I find myself trusting less than ever before. Conversations which stray into my personal life create stress and uneasiness. Even though I know it will not happen, I'm certain I will be taunted, attacked, hurt in some way.

Interestingly, the one who seems most sensitive to this, the one who can comment, lend support, and allow me to retreat and regroup, is Sully. He offers empathy and help, but does not press me. He isn't hurt if I don't immediately respond. I would never have expected this of him and I'm fairly certain it's not contrived, but rather a natural response stemming from the length of time that he's known me and the different roles we've played in each others lives. Regardless of the reason, when I leave him I feel calmer, almost normal. We manage to have an equal exchange in which we confide thoughts and feelings, ask opinions, and show that we love and value each other. I don't feel I'm a burden in his life--and he is definitely not one in mine. I suppose this is teaching me, if nothing else, that there is value in allowing friendships to continue, even when they are as unlikely as mine and Sully's.

Of necessity, my journey has become increasingly spiritual. As I realize no matter what I try, nothing actually changes, it is obvious that catharsis can be achieved only through a power greater than my own. I have moved from feeling powerful and capable to understanding I am simply, feebly, human. It's a frustrating revelation for me, but one causing me to seek for help in any place it might be offered. As I seek among my human companions it becomes rapidly obvious that what I'm looking for is above and beyond what they could possibly offer--and I am wrong to seek it from them. I know the source which can grant me help, but there is something comforting in the flesh and blood of a loved one, and I lack the faith necessary to look to God and live.

Each day seems increasingly more difficult. My eating disorder is once again ruling my life. There is something terribly distressing about knowing I am a victim to something which seems to have an obvious answer, and sort of embarrassing to understand that I, with my music degrees, finance business, and other various abilities, cannot eat. I have said in long ago posts that in the past I was able to control the disorder and I was in remission for quite a few years. What I have not admitted is that it took more than seven years to achieve remission. Seven years. That's a long time.

Tonight is a difficult night for me. I said once I no longer believe tomorrow will be better. But I want it to be. I need it to be. I want to believe it again. Is it trite to say, "Help thou mine unbelief"?