The caring for and loving of me.
Edited; 9:45 p.m.; 2/28/09
Being sick is quite the leveler in life; a dose of reality, if you will.
After being unable to break a 102 degree temp for several days, I finally had to go on a high dose of steroids a few days ago. The doctor asked to speak with whoever was taking care of me, to explain the side effects that would come along with them. I told him I live alone, but that there were people I could call if I needed something. He seemed hesitant as he explained that they might cause me to imagine things, even hallucinate. He didn’t feel comfortable with me being on them without someone there with me. I assured him that I would be fine, paid my bill at the front desk and made the short drive home.
I underestimated the effect the pills would have on me.
For the last couple of nights, my mind has played the cruelest tricks on me. I woke up in a cold sweat several different times that first night, certain that I heard the baby crying from the empty crib that still sits in the nursery below my bedroom. I’ll fall back asleep only to wake up a few minutes later thinking he was now laying in my bed, swaddled in blankets, still crying. I stood beside my bed, running my hands through the blankets until I convinced myself of what I already knew to be true: there is no baby in this house anymore.
And then there was last night, waking up at 1 a.m. wondering why he hadn’t called to tell me goodnight, he being the last boy I dated, of course. “He always calls before bed,” I thought, confused as to how I had apparently slept through his call. And then, as I picked up my cell phone to look for his missed call, it hit me: that ended three months ago, too. Both nights it was as if I was continually waking up three months ago, back in a life that I can’t even believe I lived.
There’s nothing like having a week of laying in your bed to think about your life, to take stock of what you have and what you don’t, to find out what is important about you and what isn’t.
To find out whether you matter or not.
In some realms, I do matter — particularly Starlite, I suppose. What I do or don’t do actually has consequence, good or bad. My existence matters where Starlite is concerned, of that I am certain.
But take that away and I’m left with one very hard question: to whom do I really matter?
I think it’s fair to say that I’ve spent a great deal of the last seven years of my life pouring into other people, taking care of them, if you will. I don’t regret it; it was the life I chose. But the last few months have left me feeling shadowed by a question that I’ve been too afraid to ask God: who is supposed to take care of me?
I know this post must make me sound incredibly selfish but, if so, then that’s just how I’ll have to come across today, I suppose. Or maybe I just am selfish.
Is it wrong to want to belong to someone? I’m not even necessarily referring to a boy, believe it or not. I’d settle for belonging to a boy, of course, and happily at that. I didn’t write about my last relationship, the one that started in the fall and ended as winter showed up mainly because I was afraid that it was too good to be true. Suddenly there was someone who I belonged to, someone who wanted to be with me. I’ll never forget the first time I walked into his house to find a letter with my name on it sitting on his coffee table, handwritten words telling me how glad he was that I was in his life, in his home. “You belong here,” he wrote. And, belong I did until I suddenly didn’t one day.
Looking back, I wish I would have written about those months, just to give you a peek at what I look like when I’m loved. I think it would help you understand just what kind of effect love can have on someone’s life, mine in particular.
I’ve realized this week that some change has subtly taken place in me over the last few months, a gradual giving up on the thought that I will have a place to belong. It’s almost as if I’ve just finally turned in the towel, given up on the idea that I matter relationally to someone, anyone. I know that isn’t the “Christian” thing to say; I’m supposed to tell you how I’m certain that God has a plan, to even assure Him that I know He is has everything under control. That would be the good thing to do, the thing that is expected of me.
But that’s not what I’m going to do tonight. In a few minutes, I’m going to close my laptop and set it on the floor beside my bed. I’ll give myself the medicine I’m supposed to take and turn off the lamp beside my bed. I’ll put my phone beside my pillow, pull the covers up to my chest and ask God the question that has haunted me for awhile now.
How in the world did You forget to assign someone to the caring for and loving of me?




