Therapy
I hadn't written much over the past two years because I didn't want what I was living to be documented. Or rather, I could have documented it and gone to the police, but I didn't. I just left.
A lot of you know what happened, some through the grapevine and some from the original sources. Basically, I was in an abusive relationship and now I am in a happy one.
August 2016. An empty shell with long sleeves and a scarf to cover the bruises, I walked into the University of Utah's Counseling Center. I knew I needed to get help. I was ready to end the pain at any cost, so I filled out the questionnaire. I was on the life or death end of severe situational depression. She asked, "What reasons do you have to stay alive?" I said, "Bella." She asked, "Who can help you stay alive?" I said, "Lauren." She made me pinky promise that I wouldn't kill myself over the weekend and I held on to that pact until the next meeting.
I spoke with this third party human. The one who didn't know me, or him. One who wasn't going to manipulate me in order to prove that they were right. Nope. She just wanted me to stay alive. I talked. Told her everything that I couldn't admit to myself. A few meetings more and I realized that it wasn't okay. None of it was okay and I left him in January.
I spent the time with my siblings that I had been deprived of since it started. How I had missed them. They noted how I had lost 20 pounds. How I didn't laugh anymore, didn't smile. They pointed out how jumpy I was, recoiling from any touch or loud noise. They knew what was going on, but couldn't force me to make the decision.
I decided to go back.
I had to know that I had done everything I possibly could. I prayed harder, cried louder. Knelt longer, retreated deeper into the closet whose wood floor was not dry of my tears for months on end. I spent more time in the temple, more time crying myself to sleep as silently as possible as to not wake the light sleeper next to me. I read my scriptures more, alone. I made us go to marriage counseling, the arguments got louder and more sharp. I spent more time preparing lessons for my sweet eight-year-olds who taught me that The Spirit was the one who reminded you to go to your parents so that they could hug you and make you feel better.
His parents heard every wail, every screaming argument and advised me to just stop crying. "You wouldn't want your children to hear you crying like that, they would be traumatized." they said after I came back. I apologized for leaving. In the kitchen shared between the three twisted families his sister-in-law said, "I cried every day for two years straight, but then I stopped because my crying would just make him more upset." That was the future available to me. Hardening the empty shell so that there were no cracks big enough to release a teardrop from my eyes.
Driving back after work or school was the hardest. I could have been going anywhere else, but I chose to drive back to hell.
Until I realized that I didn't want my children to have this future. I didn't want my daughter to go through what I was going through. I didn't want my sons to become like him.
I decided to leave for good in June.
I heard myself laugh. It surprised me.
I heard myself sing. Something I couldn't bring myself to do for two years.
I danced around my sister's kitchen. I saw my cousins again. I started wearing makeup again because I knew I wouldn't cry it off.
I had meals with old friends. I learned a bunch of legal lingo that granted me freedom. I gained 10 pounds in the first two months away because I could finally leave my room without mascara dripping or bruises showing or gasps escaping from the broken shell and simply---- eat.
I smile now.
And I'm now at the lower end of mild depression. Almost as good as new.
I never doubted Heavenly Father's love for me. I've seen too many miracles and received too much forgiveness to loose faith in His love. I now know that the Jamaica juice accompanying midnight tacos tastes so sweet after the bitter cup runs dry.
If I could run back in time to the broken me, I would lift her head from kneeling in a ball in the corner of the closet and look into her eyes and say, "It will be okay."
"Oh little broken me..." I would say, "There is a God in heaven that doesn't want to see you suffer. There is a little baby with chubby legs and frilly tutus that wants to play Ring Around the Rosy with you as many times as your patience will allow. There is peace to be found in your heart through forgiveness and the atonement of Jesus Christ. There is someone waiting for you that will tell you that you will be a great mother one day, and means it. There is a home for you in the hearts of friends, family, coworkers, leaders, teachers, advisers, and more."
"There is healing to be found." I would tell her as I hug her close, holding the deep sobs that I remember could not be contained until it was past nine and I wasn't allowed to cry anymore.
I would give her the strength that came from family and friends who I know love me, even through my brokenness. "Oh darling broken me... just hold on a little longer. Wait a little bit more and you will see. You'll see how happy the sweetness will be."
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete