Wounds

I was up reading old entries in my journal from two years ago.  The words I found there transported me back to a time in my life that I look back on with great sadness and profound gratitude for God's grace and love.  The woman I was two years ago was confused, heartbroken but still trusting.  I still trusted God and my husband.  And even though my heart was breaking, at that time, I still believed that love could conquer all.

I wept for the woman who wrote those words. She was really hurting. While my days are often too busy to ponder upon the pain, I know the wounds are still there: open, bleeding, unhealed.  From the very beginning of the end of that woman I used to be (the married me, the trusting me), I had more than enough work to occupy my mind.  I work at least ten hours a day and rush home to spend time with my daughters.  Every day is devoted to them: their wants, their needs.  I have little time to think about or work through the pain that, on occasion (when I allow myself to "go there"), still brings me to tears.  But I know I have to do the difficult work of finally facing the pain and feeling it.  I know I still have to pull out the core cause, examine it  and let that open wound finally heal.  I know, in my heart, that it is necessary but I still avoid it.  There is, after all, a threshold to one's pain.

I am, by nature, reserved.  I am kind and friendly to everyone but only close to very few.  I do not allow myself to be vulnerable to emotional pain, especially from the opposite sex. I try so hard to distance myself to the point that I push, rather than pull, men away from me.  I have always been too afraid to open myself up to be hurt by a man, until I met my husband.  He pulled me out of my shell and made me feel safe enough to open myself up to a man.

My husband was and, remains, the only man I've ever been intimate with.  He is the only man I ever allowed into my mind, my heart and my being.  I lost my virginity to him at the age of 27 which, I know, is rare in this day and age.  I trusted him with everything and I loved him like I never loved anyone else.  I know I wasn't perfect (who is but God?), but I did my best to be the best wife I could be.  I didn't get upset when he went to strip joints.  I didn't complain when he spent time with his friends.  I supported him in what he wanted to do and in every way I knew how.  I defended him and only presented his best side to everyone I knew because I wanted them to love him as I did.  But, in the end, it wasn't enough. And as I read the words I wrote in my journal two years ago, I cry because I still don't know what more I could have done, how else I could have been, to keep him from falling out of love with me. I have long since then given up figuring it out; I simply want that wound to finally heal.

I have known women in my life who treat their men like crap.  I know a woman who beats her husband and another who criticize her spouse at every turn.  Yet, their husbands remain by their side. And while I know I sometimes did the wrong thing, I know I did my best to be a positive and loving wife to my husband.  And yet, it was still not enough.  I have accepted the fact that I will never know, for certain, what caused all of this to happen.  I have to live with the fact that I did the best I could but that my best was just not enough. I know some day I will look back on all of this and feel nothing.  And I pray that day comes soon. But, first, I have to open the wound, examine the root cause of this pain and make peace with what is and what will be. I have to finally heal, let go of the past and move on.