Time and Healing

I am happy to say that over the past four months, my husband and I have managed to work our way back to where we left off in our relationship. We're even moving into a better place than we were in before. A new start: the passion of our dating days enacted by the more mature people we both are now.

But it is bittersweet, especially as our physical relationship intensifies (slowly!). When I hear his sincere "I love you," and respond with my own; when I see real desire in his face and feel it in his touch, the pain of betrayal pierces me to the heart again. It's not the all-encompassing greif of the early days of shock or the deep hopelessness of the time afterwards in which he still hated me. It's a poignant sadness intertwined with dual joys: the renewed passion we are enjoying in the present and the beauty of the future to which I look forward.

But for now I still grieve. And finally, I have someone to hold me while I weep--for the pain he himself caused.

Nothing Will Ever Be the Same

The worst part is losing my best friend.

For the better part of a decade now, he's been the person I turn to when I am hurt. He has also been the one who hurt me the most often. He knew that. That's why he almost didn't tell me. For someone who can't keep a secret, he managed for about 15 hours before he let slip that he had done something wrong.

It's obvious, isn't it, when a man says that. Especially if he had smelled of someone else's perfume. But I let myself hold on to the sliver of hope that he didn't "go all the way." In the middle of a day of taking a sick child to the doctor and a broken car to the mechanic, I couldn't afford to believe otherwise. I had to live through another day, emotions shut off, before we could meet with our mentors, who I will call E. and M. (him and her, respectively), so I could hear the confession with someone else's arms to cry into. I don't want to touch his for a long time.

It's typical of me to shut down, to take bad news with a meek downcast look. Not this time. I blubbered. I insulted. I threw the nearest object at hand at him, which happened to be a pillow. Fortunately I chose more suitable missiles later, my shoes. I would have loved to have had nine or ten more feet today.

Nausea overwhelmed me when I thought about it. I have never stayed mad enough not to touch him for more than a few hours, but the thought of sleeping in the same house with him made my skin crawl. I agreed to drive him to his parent's house.

After talking with M, to whom I am eternally indebted, I drove home, singing church songs to numb my pain and to keep my infant son quiet. Luckily for me the baby slept well in his little carseat even when I blasted a girl-power song while tearing the bedsheets to smithereens. Well, just the fitted sheet. I figure I'd better save the flat one for tomorrow. Maybe I'll shred the bedspread too. If I ever go to bed I'll be in a sleeping bag.

And yet I'll bet I'm the one who sleeps better tonight, of the two of us in this marriage. He's a wreck.