Rejection

Maybe I’m ready. Maybe I’m not. How much time is needed? Whose to say when I am “healed enough” to move on. The scars will never go away, the wounds have scabbed. Have they rested into scar tissue by now?

I feel small. I feel scared. I feel sad. I feel angry. I feel confused.

I went out on a date. I was shaking in nerves. Anxiety shook me. I kept taking deep breaths to stay calm. It felt kinda kick ass. Like a screw you, to the legal husband who ran out on me. Look at me, doing so well that I’m out on a date 3 months later. Now my anxiety comes back… 3 months later? Am I crazy? This can’t be normal. Maybe it is normal. The guy didn’t seem to freak out too much, maybe this is okay. 

There is a wall between me and any potential date. First is the wall of God, the strongest wall. It cannot be broken. It is made of steel. It must not be torn down. Next is the wall of recovery. This wall has become more like steel due to the recent experience I had in relationship with someone whom did not act in support of my recovery. This wall is my requirements of my partner. This wall is requirements of an alcohol free home. This is the wall of a dry wedding. This is the wall of a partner whom only drinks one or two drinks, on occasion, less than once a week. This is the wall of the partner who does not find alcohol important. This is the wall that keeps my weekly AA meeting in check. This is the wall that creates safety for my alcoholic mind. This is the wall that loves me, more than alcohol. Next is the wall of responsibility. This is the wall that causes me to look for someone with a career, someone who holds stability. This is the wall that has a house drawn on it, showing the importance of structure. Many other small walls create the next barrier: the wall of family, the wall of children, the wall of adventure, the wall of being a home body. 

Why would anyone choose this? With all those barriers? 

I must not tear the walls down, they are there to keep me safe. More and more walls are built each minute my heart aches. 

Where do I go from here? Do I practice sitting in my loneliness or do I step out into risk? Either way I lose. Either way my heart may hurt. I wonder what my heart would look like, if it were to represent all that its been through. Would it be in a million pieces? What might the texture be? It might be hanging on by threads. Threads that have little pieces of glass. 

I’ve put back together this broken heart of mine. I have sewn it with therapy sessions, so many therapy sessions over the past several years. I have glued it with prayer, scripture, and sitting in the stillness of the Lord. I have held it together with support of my family, friends, and church community. I have medicated it with exercise, and sometimes food. I have bound up wounds with journaling, lighting candles, tending to house plants, sitting in silence, and watching various genres on Netflix. It is still my heart, though it looks much different than it did before, than it did as I inhaled breath from the world as a tiny 4.5lb baby. My heart now has layers, scars, wounds. It also has beauty. Beauty of a heart that knows what is is like to be broken and sewn back together. Beauty of love. Beauty of losing someone you love. Beauty of learning how to love itself. Beauty of togetherness. Beauty of aloneness. Beauty of strength. Beauty of transformation. 

The Lord says, He who began a good work in me will bring it to completion. I am eagerly awaiting completion of this broken season. I am waiting for my firm rock to stand on. Maybe it has been here all along, it is He, and He alone. Might my heart come with me to believe that?