Recently, a friend who has been through the pain of betrayal sent me a message that said:
His choices were about him, they are not a reflection on your worth or beauty and they do not define you, no matter how much you loved him.
I read that statement over and over. Although I have not the ability, yet, to absorb or understand those words, someday I will.
But in my current state of anger and pain, I twisted those words and spent the day separating the boxes of stuff packed up in the garage. I laid everything out on the floor, divided our belongings into – his and hers – boxes and set them on opposite sides of the garage. I was careful to keep only things that had nothing to do with him. If he so much as admired a painting of mine, it stayed on his side, for fear that one day I would remember he admired it and the memory would plunge me into the deep waters of pain and despair.
Once I was done, I looked at both sets of boxes and felt good for a minute. It was the visual I needed, the image of us being separate beings, that I am my own person and yes, even though our lives are intertwined he does not get to define me.
Out there in the garage, I found an old poetry book titled, Hawksley Burns For Isadora, written by Hawksley Workman. In it he writes:
You tear the curtains from the windows to fashion a wedding dress. It may be midnight, but we will be married. We’ll remarry every night for a thousand years or more, just as we’ve done so many nights ’til now.
That is how I felt from the moment I met my husband until August 26, 2016. I would have torn down the curtains to fashion a wedding dress. I would have remarried him every night for a thousand years, or more.