So tonight, as I packed my lunch for tomorrow, I packed a fear food. Tomorrow for lunch I will eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I can tell you exactly how many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I’ve had in the last twelve months: one. It was my lunch the day I hiked almost 14 miles. I had “earned” it.
But tomorrow, I won’t “earn” it. Tomorrow, I’ll eat peanut butter and jelly simply because I want to. Because I, as a human being, am worthy of food. So I will eat my sandwich and think of the far-away brother who sent the peanut butter, who loves to cook and share food. I will eat and imagine the day when I am recovered, or at least more recovered, and can visit and partake in his cooking and care again.
And maybe that thought, and the knowledge that I am loved by One who calls me beloved daughter regardless of my mistakes will be enough to keep me from having a panic attack. But if it is not, then there is the knowledge that I am headed to an internship at one of the few places in my city that I can call “safe” even in the worst of times. Headed to an internship that was offered to me during the same conversation two months ago where I admitted I hadn’t eaten in two weeks. Because this pastor believes in my gifts and call, even when I’m struggling. And she listened and laughed along with me today as I described the past two weeks, the struggles and eventual triumphs.
So I guess what I’m saying is that tomorrow I’m going to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And maybe I enjoy it and maybe I don’t. And maybe it blows up in my face and I completely freak out.
But the point is: I am trying. Fighting. Hard. Because this thing does not get to rule me anymore.