Update: This post was written in my journal and old blog (lifewithoutmykids.com) years ago. I’ve moved it here and still share it because I know you’re feeling or have felt the same emotions and frustrations.
My ex-husband, his wife and I have since reconciled our friendship. Like, we’re literally friends now and, even though not specifically prayed for and definitely not expected – it’s one of the greatest miracles I’ve experienced throughout my journey. We no longer hold any anger or resentment towards each other. Forgiveness is truly free. So please keep that in mind as you read this post.
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Today, I asked for words but God gave me poison instead.
It’s 7:36 pm on a snowy Saturday night in December. It’s been 6-1/2 years since I was branded and I still find myself screaming passionately in His face, “Stop already! I can’t write anymore. I’m done with this healing. I’m done. I’m done. I’m done. I’m so OVER it, God, I am so O-V-E-R it!”
You see, I just asked for His help, to give me words to say to each of you, to reach into the depth of your spirit, to grab you and pull you closer, to get you to understand the things I have come to understand so purely and intimately.
He did as I asked, immediately. Problem is, now that I have the words, I don’t want them, and I’m desperately trying to push them as far away as I possibly can.
There is this powerful force within me that threw up a sympathetic shield of protection:
- to keep all these feelings inside so no one has to hear them,
- to keep all this hurt bottled up so no one has to feel it,
- to keep all these tears to myself because I’m so very tired of giving my tears away, only to cry more.
This writing hurts. This healing hurts. Because for me, writing is my healing. It draws out things within me that I’ve never seen, and sometimes things I don’t want to see, like these tears.
It’s like drawing out poison from a snake bite. The drawing out can make you weak and even fearful, especially of the unknown, but the only way to heal is to let the process continue. If you stop midway through, you won’t heal completely and you will eventually succumb to the poison.
Writing draws out this poison within me. If I don’t release what’s inside, I’ll never fully recover. I’ll never be the mom my children need. I’ll never be the wife that my future husband will need. I’ll never be the person that I dream of being.
So bear with me as I cautiously lower the shield and draw out my poisonous words, slowly and with purpose.