It has been an incredible struggle for me to give myself permission to take care of me. I have always been a giver, a caretaker and in that I have failed to care for myself well or even at all.
Taking care of others has kept me going for years, in a very unhealthy way for me. It has been my escape from my own life, from my own pain. In a very twisted way it gave me purpose where I saw none in the reality of my experience. I grew accustomed to my role and apparently others have as well.
As I begin to experience the peace and pain of the healing process I am disappointed that those I have cared for for so long continue to ask for more from an empty well. It hurts and feels like despite all that has been offered, it will never be enough. I feel like I don’t matter. I feel type-cast: forever the rescuer, forever the fixer, the explainer, the hold-it-all-togetherer. I am broken and I need to be cared for for a change.
It is an uncomfortable place to be empty. It’s hard to sit and wait to be filled. I am not used to this place. Not that I’ve never been here, I’ve just never acknowledged that I am here and rested in it.
I know I am called to share my story, as we all are, but it feels so unsafe at times. Maybe some spaces are safer than others and I will benefit to learn where those are. But safe often equates to comfortable in my mind and I am wary of my comfort zone.
I’m rambling. But I’m grateful for friends who have been empty and are willing to sit with me and wait, and grieve, and hope for more for me–for those who have entered with me into my story and are touched with what my experience has been. Ah, to be known and still loved.
I am empty but not alone. God is pursing me and providing all I need for the journey. He is good.