Feeling abandoned.  Alone.  Like the world has decided that I have a target on my back.

Feeling overjoyed, hopeful, happy even.  Like maybe something could go right, if I have the courage to ask.

Feeling disappointed, let down.  Like I’m supposed to do this alone.

Feeling grateful.  Thankful.  Like somebody’s watching out for me.

All of these emotions come at once, an attack that I wasn’t expecting.  Sometimes I wish I was Vulcan, that I could suppress my emotions and appear to be unmoveable.  But then I remember that in order to have people in your life, you have to let them in.  Then I’m glad I’m not Vulcan, that I can express my emotions through words and through song, through actions.  But then I put myself out there, thinking that this time it’ll be okay.  And I get hurt.  Every time.  And I wish I was Vulcan again.

I’ve never been good at letting people in, as I’ve alluded to before.  I’m still not.  I’m afraid I’m going to get hurt, I’m afraid I’m going to hurt them.  Having CF, I’ve been conditioned to be isolated – support groups don’t exist because we can’t be in the same room with each other without extensive precautions.  I’ve been taught to go it alone, to do it myself, and to rely completely on no one but God.

Over time, “support groups” have cropped up online, chat rooms and facebook pages – but it’s not the same as being able to go out to coffee with a friend who understands what you’re going through because she’s going through it too.  It’s not the same as getting to know someone personally and feeling like you can call them up out of the blue, no matter what’s wrong.  For many CF patients, their support group becomes their family, their church, their coworkers.  But there are still times we feel like we’re alone, some of us more than others.

I think that’s the real reason that I’ve been by myself for so long – it’s programmed into me that I should do it alone, and that every time I put myself out there I get hurt, and that I should just be like a Vulcan and hide it all away.  That’s why I won’t call up the person I really want to right now, or go out of my way to find someone at church on Sunday.  Because I’m afraid that I can’t do this on my own.  That once they see the real me, they’ll go running.  That once they see how broken I am inside, but how put together I look on the outside, they’ll flee to the hills.

I need those emotions that bombarded me this week.  And I need one more (at least) to add to that list: willingness to be vulnerable rather than Vulcan.  I know it won’t happen overnight.  Or even tomorrow or the next day.  But with God’s help, I’ll take it one step at a time.