One Year

I've been meaning to write this all day, and now that I've finally managed to sit in front of my computer, I feel I don't know what to say or how to start.

Because, really, how do you even approach writing about one of the darkest days of your life? It should be ridiculously easy, really, since it's still so fresh in my memory. But... How do you put into words the feeling of knowing that the life you had dreamed for yourself is never going to become a reality? How do you articulate the pain of knowing that you gave your wonderful self, with all your hopes and dreams, with your best and worst parts--making yourself so vulnerable--to a man who completely and consciously abused your trust? How do you express the utter anguish of knowing you weren't enough for somebody, knowing that you took mockery and humiliation from loved ones to defend a vile human being, knowing he won't be in your life anymore, knowing that you've just wasted two years of your life praying and worrying and giving someone your all, even when he wasn't around?

I laid my numb body on the bed, almost as if I was outside of myself, and let the despair take over me. I shook and trembled and choked on my own tears and gasped for air. The trembling was terrible. I couldn't stop it, couldn't calm myself down. More than anything else, I felt deeply hurt and abandoned by God.

Paul broke my heart more than once, it's true. But all along, as he came and went and returned and apologized, I constantly kept looking up to heaven and asking God to guide me, to show me, to give me a sign. I asked Him to drive him away if he wasn't for me, and I asked Him to help me move on if it wasn't for me. I asked him to protect me. As I bitterly cried in my bed that day, I realized that He hadn't. He had allowed this man to come back into my life to give me the final blow. Utter desolation crept into my heart. Yet, somehow in the throbbing ache of my heart, I held onto my rosary with all my might, gripping those beads as if my life depended on it. At that point, it probably did depend on it.

It seems that ever since this day my life became just a shade darker and my cross a bit heavier. The clarity that I had had when I thought I was going to be a wife and a mother soon(ish) disappeared. The determination to do right, get my act together, be a grown-ass woman, vanished. The will to keep fighting simply died off.

Yet... here I am. Broken and missing parts and not-so-pretty. I am here. Sure, I am not in the best condition, spiritually or emotionally speaking. But this throbbing, grotesque, uncomfortable mess that I've become is, well... alive. I know now that I've probably will stay like this, on my own, for the rest of my life. I'm pretty sure marriage and a family aren't in my future. I know that I can't find enough of myself to give away again.  But, strangely enough, I am okay with that. Most of the time, anyway. Most of the time I flaunt my loneliness around and embrace the solitude along with the independence of being on my own. Most of the time I rage against a world that wants to marry me off, to lower my standards, to have me settle down with whatever I can find. Most of the time I dance around in my apartment and talk to my plants and sing along sad songs and celebrate that I can do as I please.

Once in a while, though, I don't. I feel the weight of this cross. I feel the fresh wound of disappointment. I can touch the very tangible silence. I drown in the pain of knowing that the God who promised to be my protector left me out there to be hunted. And I scream. I kick. I wail. I ask why and get no answer in return.

I don't know much  about faith these days. All I know is that I can't not believe. I can't pretend that God isn't there. Maybe if I could, my life would be easier. But I know I can't and that's the end of it. I know He's there watching, in the silence. So, since I can't do much else, I try to find solace in the psalm: "He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds." I don't know when, and I don't know how. But I have no other choice but to believe He will. That's my only life-line.

It's been a year since this man who had promised to love me betrayed me and bragged that he wasn't sorry. It's been a year since the day I finally accepted that I was in an emotionally-abusive relationship. It's been a year since I decided I would move on. I do not wish him well. I do not wish him ill. I know if life is always as it has been, he is probably much happier than me. I do not care.

Many things have happened since that awful day to keep me down, writhing on the ground. By now, I've kind of gotten really good at successfully crawling my way around.

Ultimately, all that matters is that I can look at myself in the mirror and feel no shame or guilt. I can look at myself in the eye and see all my brokenness and put my arms around me and say, proudly, that I am a glorious, mesmerizing, beautiful mess.