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The Bad Days Still Hover
I used to think time heals all wounds, but boy was I completely and utterly wrong. Time may heal physical wounds (but not even all physical wounds heal over time) to an extent, but the scars we bear and face and lament over sometimes are never completely healed.
It was about this time two years ago that I started dreading life, with myself but also with my husband. He was supposed to be my best friend, my main support in life. But instead, he pursued other women — women whom I had never met in person but knew so well from the texts left behind for me to later read. I hated him so much, not because of who he was but because of who I was becoming by staying with him. I hated him because I did not hate him at all: rather, I hated myself for allowing such mistreatment, and by my own husband of all people. My security blanket. My entrusted spouse. My person. Except, I made all of those lies up about him to make myself feel better. He never changed. He was the same, self-loathing person from the time I met him to the time I left him. It was me who finally washed my eyes out from the blinding dirt of love and let myself see him for him, but also see me for me.
Ripping the band-aid off as a kid was always my go-to, a habit I learned from my Dad. “Cowboy up,” he used to say as I winced at the alcohol being poured on my bloody knees. And again when my heart was broken. The band-aid…
