Last night, I dreamed. I dreamed of a life in which food was not my enemy. I could eat without fear, enjoy the things my friends and family raved about. My weight was not an obsession. The idea of weighing 100 pounds did not frighten me. One crack had been healed.
Last night I dreamed. I dreamed of freedom. The outdoors did not scare me. Malls, airports, and busy supermarkets were places I could traverse with ease. The idea of being alone wasn't frightening. My home could really be my home, a place where I was free of fear. Another crack was healed.
Last night I dreamed. I dreamed of self-respect. No longer did I shrink away from compliments that were paid me. No longer did I fear being someone's victim. I was strong and proud, a whole person. Another crack healed.
This morning, I woke up, crushed to discover that my dreams were nothing more than my imagination playing games with me. I'm still an agoraphobic, anorexic, sexual assault survivor. My cracks are still there, still quite easily seen. I might fool people for a little while, but it isn't long before someone uncovers the truth. I'm defined by the cracks mental illness has carved into my heart, my mind, and my spirit.
I have hope for the future. I know the effects of my illnesses. I'm aware of my fate. Still, I have hope. Maybe it's silly. Perhaps I'm drowning myself in illusions of wholeness. Maybe it's a survival skill. I, however, choose not to view myself and my situation in any of these ways. Instead, I choose to think of myself as someone who is doing the best she can with what she has. I choose to hope for the day when I no longer have to fear stepping on my own cracks, plunging myself into a world of darkness and despair.
This is my contribution to week 6 of
I apologize for not answering last week's comments. A nasty ear infection made me sleep a lot. I'm hoping this week will be better. I appreciate everyone's support.