"All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king." ~~J.R.R. Tolkien
I feel good most days. Except for the still too frequent migraine headaches, I am well. Well in body, spirit, and mind.
I do not look backward much these days. I know what is back there. I was there not so long ago, and I have no desire to return -- not even to those days I once considered "good" before all the fragile visions came crashing down around our heads.
I worked to get to this place, in this time, feeling as I do. I worked hard, enduring bitterness and rage and fear and pain. I spent hours and hours sitting with my therapist (worker of wonders and miracles large and small), while she dragged me through defining what I wanted, what I needed, what I would and would not have in my life. I read everything that I could get my hands on related to addiction and trauma and recovery and how the brain works and how relationships work -- and how they don't. I lived through a long, dry, solitary time when the relationship at the very center of my life seemed nearly moribund, and from my dryness, I cried a deep, rushing, turbulent, and ultimately cleansing river of tears. The night came to be my friend, holding me quiet and close while I pondered what had been and what was and what might yet come to be. I learned that I am fashioned of sturdiness and steadfastness and an unreasonable capacity for hope. I was not all that I would have wished to be ... I crumpled; whined; and tried to run away on more than one occasion. I found that I am utterly human: sometimes foolish, sometimes wise; sometimes strong and sometimes very fragile; amazingly bright and shockingly stupid; capable of constructing great towering, philosophical castles in the sky and prone to kicking the whole thing down as though it were nothing but a pile of child's building blocks.
I came into this part of my life, some dozen years ago, a rather jumbled up intellectual, spiritual, and emotional mess. I carried secrets, harbored doubts, defended my woundedness with blind ferocity. I wanted someone to take me in and give me definition, make me belong, and keep me safe. Even as a "mature" woman, in my late 40s and 50s, I never, ever understood that finding where I belonged and building the place where I'd be safe were my own responsibilities. I abrogated those obligations to myself, and so I laid the fire that would consume my world -- and I lit the match myself.
I should be clear that I am alone in feeling this way. My loves are not likely to endorse my Pollyanna-ish willingness to see life as good and full of promise -- and claim the right to brag and dance gleefully over the discovery. That is all me. T and Himself are at different places, and they will have to describe that if they choose to do so. I can only see what I can see of what I have come to. I want to drag everyone along to this place. I want to put my hands on my hips and push out my lower lip and stomp my foot about finding myself here without them...and then some quiet voice (my own quiet inside voice) reminds me that each of us is learning our own lessons and walking our own paths. I don't get to define what is "good" or "healing" or "best" for anyone but me.
Tolkein's words speak to me of the long view of things; of not projecting too far from here into the future; of trusting the deep roots and the strong foundations; and of believing that there is renewal of what is broken. The phoenix will rise from the ashes. "The crownless shall again be king."