|cristee 12 (Flickr)|
It started weeks ago, a quick harsh word said to me. The word itself was not harsh, I don’t even remember what it was. But my body jumped up as if burned. I walked away not wanting to disrupt the event with my anger, my hurt. I must have though, with my absence, because he found me.
He does not want to hurt me, I know. And he must have been at a loss for why I left so quickly. But I don’t know what he thought, because we never really talked about it again. Our son was playing a hockey game and it was not the time or place for the conversation. As a child, my parent’s drama overshadowed anything and everything. I do not want that for my kids. I am a grown up. I can wait to have an argument.
And then later in the car, I did talk a little about why I was upset. But I don’t think I ever really got to the heart of the pain I experienced in that one quick moment—pain that was absurdly out of proportion to what had occurred, pain that was not about what had happened at all but about a deep rooted belief that I am not loved.
I know that my husband loves me, his wife. He is loyal and committed and honorable. But I often wonder if he loves me, the real me I am today …
Because can anyone really love me?
Instead of just talking to my husband about all this, I stall. I wait for a better time. Eventually, I share a little bit but then, when he didn’t respond the way I expected, I shut down again. I got angry that he didn’t care about how I felt, but I wonder if I even gave him a chance. And instead of just saying that, I keep quiet. I move about life. We talk about the kids and life and work. I think, “Tonight after the kids go to bed I’ll say something” …
But I don’t …
Because, what if it’s true? Or what if he thinks I am being silly because, of course, he loves me? What if he is too tired to even listen? What if he just wants me to let it go?
What if … I kept hoping it would go away, but it doesn’t. Instead it just keeps digging deeper into me, because now I think, Why talk about it all? Why bother him with it?
Where does that come from … the idea that he wouldn’t want to know my thoughts?
Somewhere along the way while growing up, I was taught that what I said didn’t matter.
Somewhere along the way I learned that I talked too much, that I was too emotional.
Somewhere along the way I learned that my thoughts, my feelings did not matter because there were bigger more important things going on in our family.
Somewhere along the way I decided to not be my parents, to not have to dissect every feeling, every conversation.
Somewhere along the way I decided to let things go.
But I worry that letting it go ends up with two friends sharing two separate lives together, not two lovers becoming one. I am not sure I even know how to do that, how to really love and be loved.
But I want it.