Are you dealing with the same struggle over and over again, feeling stuck in your desperation?
Perhaps you just keep going back to that addiction. You stay sober for a week, then have a drink on a lonely Saturday night. You’ve been on track with your eating habits, then one bad day sends you into a spiral of emotional eating.
My friend, that’s called bondage. It’s very real.
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I’ve had a lot on my heart and mind these last few days. More like the last couple weeks, actually. Would you mind praying for me?
None of it’s bad. It’s all good. Even when it’s good though, sometimes it’s still really hard.
I think the reality is setting in that I’m living back in my hometown. It’s not a bad reality, it just is what it is. I’m here. For real. For the long haul.
Yesterday I had a mini meltdown. I missed my friend, Jammie. I missed our Tuesday nights, where we drank coffee or went to a movie, or laughed about absolutely nothing. I missed my other friends. I missed Branson. I missed comfort.
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I come from a family of secrets, just as most others do. Perhaps a few of those secrets should be taken to the grave. “You don’t talk about being sexually abused. You don’t talk about your addictions. Some things are just better left unsaid.”
Have you ever heard these words? Maybe you’ve said them yourself.
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When someone takes their own life, those closest to them immediately ask, “What could I have done differently? What if I did this? What if I called her more? What if I visited him more?”
There’s an immense guilt survivors feel and it takes a while to get through that grief. Then comes the anger. “Why would she do something so stupid? Why didn’t he bother to think about us before he decided to take the easy way out?” Insert your own question here.
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I’m angry. Angry that while I type this blog post, women in Africa, India, the Congo, and all over the rest of the world and United States, are being kidnapped, raped, beaten, tortured, and humiliated to think they deserve to be where they are.
I’m angry I didn’t sleep well last night because all I could think about was storming into a brothel in Kenya, Rambo style, and taking out the men committing these grotesque, shaming, hideous crimes with a smirk on their faces. I’m angry I slept in my queen size bed, snuggled up with my four pillows, while little orphans in Phnom Penh are lucky to sleep on a piece of cardboard.
I’m angry Ashley Judd’s childhood was stolen from her and I just want to hug her and say, “I know. I’m sorry.”
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The scale. My eyes met his eyes for the first time in two months after I finally broke down and bought one for my own. It’s the only scale I’ve ever owned.
I’ve determined the scale fits under the male category for two reasons: It’s easier to blame him when we don’t get the results we want, and when we see good news in the numbers, we want to wrap our arms around him and waltz across the bathroom floor. No? Just me? That’s fine.
Anyway.. back to the scale. April 1, the start of a new month. In less than five seconds, I would have to determine how I would approach the results and whether or not I would allow it to ruin my day.
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