Oh, dear God, it’s another heavy one. How in the world do you people put up with me?

It’s a beautiful, sunny, rainy Tuesday. I have no work and a hair appointment for cut, color, and highlights at 11am (first time in four years!). I should be relaxed, chilled, and content.

Instead, upon opening a work email inviting me to a dinner with coworkers on my birthday, I’m sitting on my couch, crying.

Listen, I’ve had a lot of loss in my life. A lot of you know that. My mom died when I was thirteen. My sister (and truly best friend) died when I was 27 and pregnant with my oldest daughter. My brother Mike was shot and killed by my then-husband in my driveway as my brother was attacking me. That created a rift in my family that still feels like betrayal to me. (No, I won’t ever go into the details of that night. All I will say is the Grand Jury decided my then husband acted in self-defense. I completely agree.) After that, the divorce happened. Of course there were already problems before the shooting, but that chasm between my family and my husband was not crossable. Then, most recently, my on-again/off-again five year  relationship ended when I found out that he had been seeing a TWENTY THREE year old woman for the past year and was also “exclusive” with her. More betrayal. Tastes a lot like vinegar and horse-shit.

So why would I cry about an email inviting me out to dinner on my birthday?

It’s taken me 44 years to admit this, but I want someone to love me. I want someone to care that it’s my birthday. I want someone to think that I’m pretty awesome. I want someone to trust me, believe my words, and hold me when I need to be held. I want someone to be excited about the fact that I’m alive. For forty-four years, I’ve tried to convince myself that I don’t care about that stuff. That I don’t care if I don’t hear from family on my birthday. That I don’t care that no one came to my college graduation or nursing school pinning ceremony. That I don’t care that my family was actually glad that I divorced instead of realizing how painful that was. That I’m strong and independent and I don’t need anyone or anything to complete me but me.

I suppose it’s true, you know. I do have to be complete on my own. But the wound of my mom’s death and all the subsequent loss/betrayal has opened up this infected wound that I’d honestly thought I’d healed. It’s taken my breath away to realize how much pain is left behind. It’s also made it clear why I hold everyone at arm’s length. I’ve tried the being close thing. I’ve gotten betrayed (whether intentionally or not) time and time again.

The thing about the wounds is that, whether intentionally inflicted or not, they still wound. They still leave scars. They still require healing. I’ve been able to radically accept all these things that have happened to me, and I thought that was enough. It’s not. Somehow, I have to figure out how I heal from each one. Since each subsequent loss/betrayal has never been truly healed, I’m now facing one giant infected mess of a soul. I’ve used some coping skills that have kinda been like putting band aids on these deep wounds. Sure, they may keep the ugliness covered and even forgotten for a time, but it’s time for a deep debriding.

 

de·bride·ment

diˈbrēdmənt/

noun

Medicine

1. the removal of damaged tissue or foreign objects from a wound.

 

It’s going to be about facing all this pain. I think I have, at different levels, at various stages, done just that. My mistake was thinking that I’d completed the process. My psychologist is talking to me about “Core Beliefs” (mine most likely being, “I’m not good enough to be loved”) and how, even if I’ve done tons of therapy and am MOSTLY feeling healthy, these core beliefs can become activated and bring an avalanche of out-of-proportion emotion/pain. Another great psychologist friend put it to me this way: my issues are like the helix of DNA. I’m still dealing with all the same issues as I move up the strand, but I’m dealing with them from a different level. There’s comfort in that. At least I’m not still at the beginning.

I’ve always said that dealing with this kind of pain is like being stuck in a rowboat in the middle of the swamp without any paddles. You can either sit there and wait to be rescued, or you can dive into the muck and make your way to shore. You’ll be a mess, and it won’t be pleasant, but otherwise, you’re just stuck forever in the middle of your muck. At least by diving in, I’ve got the potential to make progress and make it to shore.

There is a silver lining in all of this. Since I found out about the other woman, I have not had one single, solitary, even fleeting thought of suicide. Trust me when I say that’s a significant victory for this girl. I promised myself long, long ago that I’d never try suicide again, anyway, but the fact that the thought hasn’t even entered my head as a knee-jerk reaction is astonishing. And wonderful. And I’m grateful for the work I HAVE done.

There will be more betrayals. There will be more abandonment. That I know.

But there will also be healing. Not always easy. Never painless. But at least it’s possible. And in the process, there will be a strengthening of my resolve, my character, and my ability to trust my gut when she whispers and sometimes screams at me.

It’s time to do the work. It’s time to wash the taste of the vinegar and horse shit from my mouth and soul. It’s time to clean out the wounds and heal, not superficially this time, but deeply and as completely as possible. Scars will always remain, but they won’t hurt; they will simply serve as reminders of my journey.