I saw my therapist after work and she wanted to know the story of how my husband and I met, and how I felt about him then. The how I felt about him thing stumped me a little-- because it's honestly gotten foggy. I'm so clear about how betrayed and hurt I am now that it's hard to remember how I felt before I knew what he was doing. It's like remembering how I felt when I believed in Santa Claus. So I described it as best as I could, through tears. How I loved him--how he was smart, funny and so sweet to me. How I was only 22 when we met and so niave.
Then tonight, I started (and am still avoiding) a cleaning rampage because the landlord wants to show the apartment tomorrow.
The breakdown started when I decided to clean out the dresser-- because it's hard to see his clothes in it, every day. Moving a sweater, I found a 60-day chip. It shocked me because it is so sad. I immediately started sobbing and what-ifing in my mind. Because I know he isn't sober now, despite how normal he may try to sound. I know him too well. And to see that fucking chip-- a--even after discovery, a life together was still possible reminder-- just broke my heart.
So then I started spiraling. I dug out the old love letters from the time we were planning on getting engaged, as soon as he had the money saved up to buy the ring. We were living two thousand miles apart at that time and so broken up about it.
I. fucking. adored. him. I could not have offered him more love if I had slit open a wrist and let it run dry. Letter after letter, card after card, I detail how right he is for me, how much I admire him, how I need him to take care of himself because I can't be there and how sad that makes me... how he is so smart, so kind, so wonderful. How I can't wait to start my life with him. I send letter after letter counting down the next time I will see him. Detailing what it's like when I'm not. Talking about the future-- referencing our standard argument at that time-- would we have two kids, or three? Calling him my pet names for him. Wishing him sweet dreams. Saying I couldn't wait to kiss his forehead again. Copying down poems and sending them. Writing about how I knew he was depressed, being away from me (um, he was acting out then, by the way--that's the shift I really felt, but didn't) and trying to cheer him up.
Then I pulled out the few letters I have from him. He wrote how he couldn't wait to move with me to XX state, where I'm from, and settle down. And have three kids. And that he missed me and couldn't wait to cuddle with me before going to sleep. And he sprayed his cologne on the letters. Then he said something weird about me being able to trust him when his phone is off-- something I don't remember even being concerned about at the time, but apparently, I must have mentioned. Then going on to say how much we love each other and how we are so right for each other. How I make him a better man. How much he loves me and thinks of me all the time.
I'm really, really sad right now. Therapy worked-- I remember! I remember how much he meant to me. How much love I offered him, and with such a pure heart. It was like offering a golden pulsing soul on a platter. That's what he meant to me-- and that's truly what he meant to me, even after we were married. I would still write him love letters-- that he didn't think to save. When he traveled for work, I would write notes and sneak them into his suitcase, so he would be reminded of my love when he unpacked. I used to run to meet him at the door-- or already be standing there--- whenever he came home. I lit up when I saw him. He meant the world to me. Being together, just taking a nap or snuggled up on the couch-- was my idea a perfect day.
You know what? I finally just realized on top of it all, I'm losing my best friend too. He knows so much of my life story. And I know so much of his. How do I just let that go?
And now, I'm looking around at my things. Things. And thinking-- what happened? How is it that this is all I have left of this life we started together? We wrote of neverending love and how we couldn't wait to start our lives together. Now I have a fucking painting I like and a broken heart. A cat, and years of my life I can't get back, as well as a career I need to restart, after loving someone who never showed me all of himself. Yes, I know that kind version exists, but now it's so deep inside him that he actually told me the last time we really talked about our relationship-- that I had always loved him more anyway. As if he was just dragged into it. As if he hadn't pursued me. As if we hadn't both loved each other, a lot. As if the words we wrote on those pages meant nothing. As if the feelings behind them never existed.
*poof!* there goes a marriage. Only the other partner has amnesia-- and I'm the only one that remembers.
7 comments:
Hi Bernadine,
You've been doing some really hard honest work on yourself. It is painful stuff. I'm glad you found the letters so you can grieve properly. Your therapist sounds wonderful and like she knew just what you needed by asking you that question. Being authentic helps you get to the other side. All the things you describe are the signs of grief and it's so normal. Keep giving yourself permission to be at whatever stage you are at.
Bernadine, I feel every ounce of this post...your honesty and integrity just come right through.
It is true that we have both lost "husband and best friend" in one felled-swoop. It is so sad and it is so hard to comprehend.
I have not had time to write my experience and hope lately, probably because my hope is a bit lacking. I get this...how I felt before I knew...I feel as though my whole foundation has been taken from me and now I have to build a new one...but this time it's me building it...which is just as scary.
I send you love through the words of this and please know I am there with you...
Love and Light
Gabi
This is all part of the grief process. Losing a spouse, a best friend, to addiction is like a death. I promise you it will get easier. You have to go through this step though. It is all part of mourning and moving on. I know that I have just started down this road, but I began mourning my loss last year when it really hit me how serious my husbands addiction truly was. It hurt, it was hard, but after a few months I was able to move on to acceptance and dealing with the issues at hand. Hang in there. You have all of my love and empathy.
Bernadine--I don't think you're "losing it"--it sounds like you're gaining insight and being true to the grieving process by feeling both the love and the anger, by acknowledging what your husband once meant to you and trying to find a way to integrate that into some sort of new meaning, even without him. It was so weird to read this post because this is along the lines of what I was talking about in my response to your comment on my blog the other day--acknowledging the love at the same time I'm setting boundaries.
I also think that these feelings could offer insight into your husband's lie that "you always loved him more." Feeling the love makes it that much more complicated and painful. By feeling only the anger and refusing to acknowledge that the love is there, he doesn't have to deal with grief, he doesn't have to feel the soul-searing pain, he doesn't have to ask himself the hard questions. At the same time, that's very, very dangerous--it keeps him active in his addiction and keeps him from truly living. Because truly living involves feeling the full range of emotions and asking the hard questions.
I hear you struggle with where you are and I just want you to know that you are not alone. Even if you are no longer married, you are never alone.
These are all lovely and very insightful. Thanks guys, for taking the time to say my grief is valid and normal.
Margaux-- I think you're right on, as usual, about him hiding behind a lie to maintain his addiction and not feel the sadness.
I felt this so strongly that I had to put my hand to my forehead and close my eyes before I could continue to read. I fortunately wasn't married, but to give your heart to a man who is too sick to cherish it . . . such pain is almost unbearable. But we're bearing it, and will continue to do so. This too shall pass.
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