August 26, 2018 

Two years ago I woke up to my wedding day. Today I woke up in Lake Chelan on a vacation with two friends. I’m sitting on a cement slab looking out over the lake, with the sun shining. It’s breezy, and I can hear the wind in my ears. Today I woke up single. Last year I woke up in Mexico on a trip celebrating our anniversary.

I wish I remembered how I felt that morning I woke up. Prior to that my stomach churned and my heart told me don’t go through with it. 

I remember wanting it to fit with this image I had in my head. An image of happy ever after. A image of redemption.

It turned into an image of betrayal, pain, and separation to never be seen again. 

I listen to the song By The Streams by Jonathan Ogden….

Your Word is water to my soul
Your Word is life to me

So plant me like a tree by the streams of living water
Plant me like a tree by the streams, by the streams

There has always been healing and freedom in the water, in the mountains. 

I woke up yesterday full of freedom. Full of cheerfulness. Then I began thinking about the torment that was my life for 3 years. My soul of freedom vanished and a dark cloud took over. My smile washed away. My energy gone. Replaced by a heaviness and seriousness I couldn’t jump away from. 

We went kayaking , I paddled and paddled, waiting for my heaviness to fly away. It didn’t go in an instant. But minute by minute bits of it fell away. Once I got out of the kayak… my soul came alive again. I ran and jumped in the water off the dock. Again and again. Posing as I jumped off. Laughing. Swimming. There I am again. 

Darkness once filled my soul.

I had no more left to give.

I hung on, but life was pulling me down.

My grip slipped.

Life crashed.

My lifeless body revived, bit by bit.

First on my knees. Finally on my feet.

My head once dropped, stood up.

Movement. Rigid, slow.

As my heart healed, movement fluid.

Over time, I started moving my feet, then my arms, my hips, and face.

Soon I was free, dancing.

Freedom, who are you?

Are you my soul put back together?

My body prancing around.

Movement to the music, which I’ve never done.

Chains rip off the more I glide.

My heart sings with joy.

I feel my soul, I am alive again.

My lifeless reflection- only that, a reflection.

I was filled with rage hearing conversation at the coffee shop.

Then talking to coworker about work issues. Bubbling up.

I could snap. Throw this glass or turn around and scream shut up.

My body is filled with energy.

I want to scream, which usually means I want to drink, which usually means I want to feel out of control, without impulse control.

I want to run in the street and visit that crazy 20 year old. Why did she have to die? I need her.

I want to go on a run, drive fast. Listen to loud music.

That book. Brought emotions. Thinking of that person. Who is my ex husband. 

Where it all began, where it all went wrong. Down the drain. The marriage, my heart. Engulfed with flames. That 23 year old never expected. She would have screamed for the 20 year old to come back. But she is gone, not completely, but sleeping. Forever. Maybe.

But now I’m 27. Where did those tears go? Everything falls away. My hat says responsible. Adult. What? Therapist. Responsible. Controlled. 

I tense my legs as tight as they can go. Anything to release this. Pain? Anger? Energy?

I want to stuff it down. With white wine. With beer. Sometimes I dream of it. I have the beers I rarely drank then. The bottled ones. Not the cans made of cheap. But I’d take any of it. Maybe I’d order a cocktail. I’d chug it from a straw. Until I felt it moving through my veins. Through my blood. Then I’d feel free to… scream. Destruct. My hat would no longer say that. Now it says party girl, friend , though not really because I scream at my friends, put them in danger. That’s ok, right? Because this is all out of fun. Everyone is doing it. 

My name is now….. she can hold her alcohol. Alcoholic? No. Well that’s what my alcoholic mind says. No, you could drink again. You could have one.  I want to drink a thick, dark beer. Who knows what that’s even called. I don’t recall the name though I can see the bottle in my mind, I can taste it going down my throat. I can feel twisting off the cap. Peeling the label off. Reaching in the box or fridge for more. 

Why do they still get to drink? The ones who stood next to my 20 year old. Didn’t they black out, too? Didn’t they puke? Didn’t they drink and drive? Didn’t they yell? Didn’t they reach for more? And count how many were left? That wasn’t just me, I know it. I remember. Or do I?

And here I am. Getting to my sisters after the chiropractor. Responsible, remember. My neck hurts. Where is the weed to ease the pain? The alcohol to make it better. Watch a Christmas movie. Then go to bed. 27 year old is here. 20 year old is breaking through, opening my ribs. Screaming to come out. My 27 year old pushes her back in. Though her arms were already reaching out. She is pushed down. And 27 year old goes on like nothing happened. 

Anytime I see him. Photo, in my mind, driving in his car in Seattle… my stomach drops, immediately I feel sick. Sometimes worse than others. Last night worse than others, last night it became what it felt like those nearly 8 months ago. It felt like a mixture of the flu with my insides about to explode in sadness and anger. Like my heart could throw shards of glass outward. I want to scream. Scream for the pain to stop. Will it ever stop? Will it ever really go away fully? I never thought the pain would end or get better in the beginning, and it did, eventually. A few weeks later, a month later, two months later. I found myself again. The crying stopped, I no longer felt sick to my stomach. I began to see glimpses of hope. But last night, seeing those pictures, because he unblocked me, brought it all back. It brought back the pain, the missing, the anger, the sadness, the confusion, the disbelief, the shock, the blaming of myself. My confidence and serenity, gone in a flash, replaced by lies and confusion.

Lies that say… he looks awfully happy, maybe it was your fault he wanted to die. 

Hes hanging out with his dad again, so it must have been you that made that so bad. 

He bought a new car, and has a new job, so you must have been too controlling when it came to money.

Hes hanging out with his friends again, so he must not be depressed anymore. 

He’s going on outdoorsy outings, so he must be active again. Then it really was your fault since he was active and not depressed before you met him.

My coworker, my past intern, says I am believing lies again. Is that true? Or are my thoughts in that moment true? What even is true? I don’t know anymore. This is all a nightmare. My worst nightmare, that has come true. And then I just have to keep moving, keep living. Keep working. Keep showing up, hiding, pretending everything is all okay.

The next morning, I sleep in 30 extra minutes. Thats my way to give myself grace. Only 30 minutes. Of course I can’t call out. 

So i put on my clothes, do my hair, put on my makeup. And drive to work. People ask me how I’m doing, “I’m alright”…. none of them know that I cried myself to sleep last night and I have a headache because of it. 

Why did my husband have to leave? Why did my husband have to turn out to be abusive, angry, mentally ill? 

Why is her husband normal? Why does she have kids now? Why did this happen to me? WHY DID HE DO THAT? How does he not even have remorse? or if he does, why didn’t I ever get an apology? My heart hurts. 

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?

The beach is full of broken pieces. Sea glass lies hidden within sand and rocks. Pieces that have been passed through the water, sand, rock. Pieces that once held sharp edges, now smooth. Pieces that once were not looked as prizes, now beautiful.

Pieces of glass, pieces of broken glass. I walk, look out at the sea, the calm water, hear the waves crash in and out, and look for these beautiful pieces. I come to realize, these pieces are me. Pieces of my life, I am picking them up one by one. My heart, my home, my marriage, my self-esteem, my desires, my dreams. What will hold these pieces together? Is there anything out there big enough for these tarnished, sharp pieces, filled with so much pain?

Two pieces of sea glass, came together, sewn together through vows, commitment, and love. Now they are torn apart. 

I’ve been married to pain for the last year and a half. As we file for divorce, that pain is ending, and a new pain is beginning. I question what the purpose of all this pain has been. My mind wanders, filled with so many questions. 

To an outsider looking in, my life looks full of promise, full of joy. Inside, it is empty. Inside, the walls are torn down. Inside, there is mold. 

A marriage full of tropical travels, perfectly molded photos, job promotions, loyalty. Torn apart by infidelity, lies, and despair. 

My seemingly perfect reality is unraveling, leaving me surrounded by pain, and boxes full of our separated belongings. 

I was once full of dreams, now nightmare. Nightmares come and go when I sleep.

The first few days, my body reacted in anguish, despair, anxiety. My heart ached, my body restless with pain. I wanted to jump out of my body, get away from the pain, escape. I stood sober, present, waiting, hoping. My hope was torn not once, not twice, but three times as I gave my best shot at renewing what we once had, love. 

My days now are present with pain, though glimpses of hope shine through. What might my life be like now? I anticipate the excitement of what might be to come. 

The Lord says, “though pain may come in the night, joy comes in the morning”. I am resting on God’s truth that joy may follow this painful season.