Fears and Supplications

Last night was the second installment of TB’s ‘Life sucks and then you. . .’ Bible study. For the better half of our time together, I was in tears (may wonders never cease). We are working our way through IPeter, but also spent a few seconds on James 1:2-6. We were talking about suffering. A subject (regardless of anyone else’s views of the genuineness of suffering based on a break-up [fuck off]) that I feel more than adequate to address. Some of the messages I took away from last night (not even new messages, but ones I had forgotten or something) were that suffering leads to maturity (Yeah! Let’s get old faster) and completeness. Completeness. I think the tears began to flow with the utterance of that word. Completeness through suffering. Hasn’t my suffering made me incomplete? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I really will become more of who I truly am through the darkness of the past four months. I hope so. I long to be complete again. Maybe more complete than ever before. It was also spoken last night that the suffering will lead to us not lacking anything. How wonderful does that sound? Not lacking ANYTHING! I wish I were fool enough to simply fall under the assumption that this is in regards to my life here on Earth. I know better, but still I can hope. To not lack my companion—whether that be a someone who has yet to enter my life or the man for which I yearn currently. That sounds dandy!
I have had a new fear, which went right along with the whole suffering extravaganza of yesterday. The night before last, I had trouble even sleeping due to it. It feels (I know, overdramatic, self-involved, all-about-me attitude) like most of the things I love and depend on to be stable and whole get ripped away—boyfriend, family members dying, temporary loss of pictures, etc. I am terrified I am going to lose Dunkyn. Irrational. Stupid. Finding new reasons to be afraid. Still, I am afraid. What if he runs out in front of car? He is scared to death of other people, but seems to think it is fun to run directly at oncoming moving vans (I wish I were kidding). What if he gets sick? What if, what if, what if. . . There have been so many moments, hours, days, that I truly don’t think I could have gotten through without him in my life, without him asleep by me on the futon, without his adoration every moment he is in my presence. I know we are to be the examples of God’s love to each other, but really, I think He just tells us that to make us feel important. He really gave that task to dogs. I thought I loved my little guy before all of this—nothing compared to the love I have for him now. There is no question but that I would take a bullet for him, or run in front of the moving van. Thankfully, I don’t think my faithfulness factor is up as high in importance as dear old Job’s was, or Satan would be requesting the life of my furry little bundle of devoted sanity. Tempting fate with these words? I doubt it. I refuse to give into superstition. (Knock on wood)
I have had several people ask me about how therapy went the other day—once again, blown away by the number of you that read these words, much less care to remember and inquire. Thank you. Well, the session was fairly uneventful. My therapist is an older woman (50-60ish). I think we are going to get along just fine. It feels so decadent, even more so than my endless blogging, writing projects, etc., to take her time to ponder over the shambles left in the wake of the breakup. I need to get over that, though, and just dive in and allow more wallowing to transpire in the hopes of maturity, completeness, and the state of not lacking anything. Wow, I really was in the mood to be sarcastic and droll. I would like to smirk at my own cleverness or at least make a pounding social commentary. But, as ever, life is what you get and what you do, not what you want or what you plan. Probably a good thing. . .