Not Quite There, But Not Where I Was

I’ve been really struggling to get my mind situated to write lately. It’s funny — with the Coronavirus, losing my job has provided me with unlimited amounts of time to do an untold amount of things, including write; but I’ve been wrestling with this massive sense of writer’s block in and amidst the waves of angst, sadness, depression, and moments of fear that seem to sweep through us all right now. But I need to write — I need to get these thoughts and feelings out of the recesses of my mind and on a page.

There’s something comforting about not being the only one privy to the goings ons in the back of my head and the depths of my heart. Somehow there’s peace in being understood; even if the people reading don’t really understand the things I think or feel. It’s an effort, at least, to express myself without apology. Once it’s out there, though, there’s no defense; therein lies the danger of emotional vulnerability…you’re vulnerable.

The Persistent Hurt

I refuse to live my life as a victim. Victims are defined by what happened to them. They’re the byproduct of someone else’s sin; something injurious — some sort of egregious violation of their personhood or space that leaves them broken. We’re all victims at some point. I’m not denigrating people who are genuinely hurting. You can’t heal until you realize you’ve been hurt and somewhat take the time to self-analyze your pain, what got you there, and how to identify the wounds long enough to treat them. But some people stay victims. They’re forever defined by their brokenness. They shape their world around what hurt them. Everything they do, think, say, or feel is defined by their gaping, festering wound.

For me — that’s not an acceptable outcome.

I’d rather be known as a survivor. An overcomer. Someone who can claim victory over past defeat. Someone who is healed and whole. Someone anchored in the love of what God took so much care and time to handcraft and create — my own soul.

For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

-Psalm 139:13–14a ESV

But I’d be lying if there wasn’t this persistent hurt deep in my chest. And if I’m honest, it’s been there for years and years; my divorce has just exacerbated and brought it to the surface — maybe even reinforced some of the things I’ve believed about myself for a very long time. There’s an ache, and almost always has been, for a level of acceptance and understanding that seems to have eluded me for my entire life. It’s a haunting feeling that comes and goes as it pleases; but when it comes it turns me into this embarrassingly needy version of myself or a self-isolating hermit that avoids all contact with people for a day or two at a time. I’m not okay with that, but it’s there.

What’s worse is being fooled by how far along I think I am. I get lulled into a complacency or false confidence, only for the monster I call hurt to rear its ugly head again. Something like that happened recently — a seemingly innocent phrase that echoed something my ex-wife said about me shattered me into a million pieces. First it was the walls inching in — then came the shortness of breath, then the uncontrollable weeping, then the panic that it was happening in real time while on the phone with a girl I really liked. How incredibly embarrassing. How terrifying. It was there that I realized just how deep and penetrating the trauma really was. I’ve been walking around with PTSD from my past marriage and its ending…but not just from there, but from as far back as I remember in my childhood.

The Grace and Curse of Time

That said, I don’t remember ninety-five percent of my childhood. There are some things I’ve simply forgotten…good and bad. There’s also a lot that I’ve tried hard to forget. The problem is that forgetting doesn’t heal anything — it’s just a bandage over a wound so you don’t see it; but everyone else does because the blood is seeping through. What I do remember is being under constant stress and fear. I remember hardly going a night not hurting inside, and not really having anyone I could go to and talk about it. I remember a continual feeling of failure and persistent anxiety.

Being the constant subject of someone’s anger or disappointment really does something to the heart. That may not even be the whole truth — but that was my truth, because that’s all I could hear; that’s all I ever did hear. No amount of “I love you’s” can cover the deep feeling of insecurity in a home rife with verbal and emotional violence. Nobody is equipped to handle those things as a child, or how to identify those feelings, or how to find someone who can isolate those emotions for you, or how to express them safely without destroying the relationship you have with parents you deeply love but are equally deeply hurt by.

By the way — I don’t write this to tear them down. They did everything in their own power they could to love me, my sisters, and each other the best they knew how. To my mom and dad — if you’re reading this, I forgive you for all of those hurts, perceived or real — and if it hurts you to read these things, I’m sorry; that’s not my intent…but to be silent only serves to maintain the hurt and not heal from it, and I MUST heal. I must. And this is my way to healing.

But I carried that pain into my first marriage. Untreated wounds. A deep brokenness that left me with needs that could not be met by my ex-wife; most certainly not with her own untreated wounds. A neediness that is unbearably burdensome for a spouse, no matter what their mental and emotional health may look like.

Time does not always heal always wounds. Pithy platitudes fail even the simplest of complexities when it comes to human existential pain. The truth is, sometimes time only puts a little distance between you and the pain for just long enough for you to become comfortable before it destroys another relationship, another life, another childhood. Time plus work — real deep soul and heart work — added to prayer and brutal honesty with yourself is what leads to a true understanding and love of yourself. That’s what leads to healing these wounds. Anything less only leaves you open to more hurt and damage.

All of that said, I still have a long way to go. I’m getting there. Things are getting better; maybe slower sometimes than I’d like — but I’m committed to the process of grief. I’m married to healing this hurt. In the end it will make me a better man, son, brother, uncle, husband, father, pastor…whatever. The road is long, but the walk is worth it and I won’t turn back. In the meantime I’m trying to be kind to myself — I still hurt, and I will for a while.

But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities;upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.

Isaiah 53:5