The Bucket & The Crumbs

In the words of my best friend Kasia -

‘Love is the drug’

I’m addicted to his crumbs. Every tiny crumb of connection he sends my way, be it a text, a voice message, a photo. Every single gesture that he is thinking about me becomes my hit, my supply of endorphins.

I’m like a child with big doe-eyes clutching onto a yellow plastic bucket, following him and offering my bucket with outstretched arms, begging him with my pleading eyes to please throw another little crumb my way.

He does. He casually tosses a crumb over his shoulder. I catch it in my yellow plastic bucket and my eyes light up. My heart races, I feel like a greedy little girl in a sweetie shop. A smile spreads over my face and my whole being illuminates. Everything is OK again, life is bearable, nigh life is wondrous.

The thing is though, my yellow plastic bucket has a hole in the bottom. And, after a short time, the crumb finds its way out of my bucket through this hole. Alas, my bucket is empty once again.

My smile fades. Withdrawal kicks in. My excited heart beat turns into an anxious heart beat. Sadness creeps in which quickly turns to despair. So I run after him, nudging him with my bucket again. I feel pathetic. I feel weak. I feel needy and desperate. Desperate for my fix. I’m clinging onto his irregular and perceived finite crumbs of connection, each one superficially proving to me my value and sending me hopes and dreams of an ever-lasting connection. My worthiness wholly dependent upon his acceptance and approval of me. The emptiness that the crumbs once satiated swallows me up. It’s excruciating in this dwelling.

So I want more crumbs. I want a never-ending supply of crumbs. I want the flow of crumbs to be consistent and regular. I want to know that the crumbs will come and keep coming forever. That is my safety. Or so I once thought …

I can beg and beg and beg and plead on my knees like a neurotic and unreasonable mad woman. “Please give me another crumb, please don’t stop throwing me crumbs!” And then I pause in my tracks. As I look down at my bucket, watching each and every crumb slip away through the gaping hole, I observe the futility for the first time, the endless rollercoaster of euphoria and despair within the cycle of satisfying my addiction and withdrawal.

Then one day the veil lifts and I see clearly. The solution I’m looking for doesn’t lie in the hollow acquisition of more and more crumbs that anyway become obsolete after only a short time. No, the solution is to patch up the hole in my yellow plastic bucket so that the crumbs of connection stay with me. My bucket remains full. I remain whole. I am whole. I am enough.

To heal I MUST figure out how to patch over this hole. My work continues…

And so it is.