Today I got tired of being strong. I got tired of being a support beam for those who I love. I’ve been the frame that people lean on, tell their secrets and struggles to, and ask to play diplomatic negotiater between. Meanwhile, termites of chronic illness eat away at the parts of me that can’t be seen. I’m not bitter. I don’t feel taken advantage of. Neither do I feel ignored. I’ve been proud of my self-imposed role of the family coordinator with a superhero complex. I only harbor resentment towards the autoimmune monster that steadily feeds decay into my mortal body. I have fought. So long. So hard. For a time I think, it was through keeping my focus on saving others that I was able to grip on tighter and hold together longer. Looking inward at my empty self, my soul feels so…thin inside. I can almost feel a malevolent wind winding through me, clawing off any part of my spirit weak enough to rip away.
I reach for the strength of my faith, but I am afraid of feeling guilt for letting go. Afraid? Well, no, that’s not quite correct. Perhaps apathetic is a more suitable term. My logical thinking mind tells me that I am squandering valuable time in this self pity participation. My sympathetic self tells me that it’s ok to feel sad sometimes. I’m not sad, though. I’m simply…out of passion…of drive. Oomph. Life luster.
I ramble.
It’s possible I’ll experience a renewed thirst for life. Or, I could drift away into the nothingness of a forgotten invalid. Who knows?
Creating Peace From the Pieces 