How many times do I need to be called a f**king selfish b*tch before it doesn’t matter? To be honest the first several times hurt like hell…then the next many times, you become numb to the cruel words. Name calling is done when an individual doesn’t have the tools to provide a better argument. Does that make it hurt less? No. Does that make it mean so little? No. Abuse is abuse in any form. How many times does it take before it hurts again. Hurt, numbness, hurt…that’s the pattern. I can let it go and numb myself to the words, knowing it is his own insecurity that allows him to be mean, but once an awhile it cuts to my core. When things have been good, it hurts more…it matters more. So how many times do I have to hear it before I don’t care anymore? I wish I knew…time will tell!
Ignorance is bless but knowledge is power. Unfortunately I am not ignorant, yet very knowledgeable. How do I achieve bliss, how do I release some power. With power comes responsibility, with ignorance comes regret. As much as I would love to be ignorant, my past has given me too much power, too much knowledge. Trust comes from where, the ignorance of what could, would, or did happen. Or does trust come from the knowledge that you can trust honestly even with the knowledge of the past. I choose knowledge over ignorance. Trust through knowledge not through ignorance.
Some people think the generational difference in my marriage may be a challenge. While other’s might think that race may be a factor in my marriage. Or some may believe our economic family backgrounds could be an obstacle in my marriage. But none of these issues are hard for me, or even a thought for me or my husband. I have fun when he tells me I have stuff in common with his mother, since I am older than him, I laugh, I don’t take offense. I don’t even think of being in an interracial marriage, I truly don’t see the color, never have and never will. Having my husband come from a background where poverty, abuse and life struggles are commonplace versus my middle class upbringing, offers us a different point of view of each and of live in general. But when I am married to a man who is broken, who is deep down insecure, who doesn’t know how to overcome life obstacles because of his insufficient emotional development.
I have stayed through cheating, lying, drinking, and verbal abuse, not because I am weak but because I am strong. I am stronger than he is, I have a healthy emotional foundation that does not shake easily. My biggest fault may be that I am unconditionally loyal. My strength within is something I have had to pull on in order to be there for a man that is not strong, he is broken.
For those who love a broken person, you will understand. From the outside, we look weak, we look like we are being walked over or taken advantage of but on the inside, I know this man holds onto me for salvation. He has messed up, he has hurt me, he has lost my trust. I still continue to be his light, his strength, his saving grace. This is loving a broken man.
Not having any more than two sexual partners in my entire life, I may be old-fashioned. I have only slept with my first husband and then my second husband. Because of this, I can’t begin to fathom the intimate act of infidelity. I have only slept with someone I loved. I did not wait on marriage for sex but I did wait on love. Is this a rare occasion? Am I to take sex lightly simply because the man I love slept with another woman? How do I tell my heart that it meant nothing to him? How do I tell my mind that it’s more normal than not. The connection through the intimacy is something to be cherished and nurtured. I have been intimate with my husband after his affair but it took many years to not cry after, alone in the bathroom, wondering how and why he would connect with another on that level. Now I no longer cry but I hold back my heart. It hurts to do both. I only exchanged one vice for another.
We were told to meet at the jail for our marriage “ceremony” because after 7pm, they send the proposed couples to the jail rather than the courthouse. It was a story to tell…getting married at the jail, having my first husband’s new wife and sister as our witnesses and then running through the Taco Bell drive through to celebrate. It was to say the least unconventional. We talked about having a beautiful wedding within the year, talked about taking a short honeymoon and celebrating together. We talked about it…
Three months later…pregnant. Talk stayed as talk. We did not plan a wedding while I was pregnant, we did not take a honeymoon during the pregnancy or postpartum stage, we celebrated by having a baby.
In need of a stronger custody case for my fiance at the time, we married sooner than planned. Advised that our upcoming marriage would benefit my fiance’s custody case for his visitation rights to his son, we married.
Since we didn’t have the funds to have the wedding we wanted, big or small, we decided on the courthouse. Not our first choice since it would be my fiance’s first wedding. Even though I had the full fledge wedding with my first husband, I desperately wanted to share that with my new husband as well. We put it on hold until we could afford to do what we really wanted…so we called the courthouse.
What I heard seemed mistaken…after 7pm, they married you at the jail across the street from the courthouse…excuse me ma’am? Yes, that’s right, the jail. So we married at the jail, with one line of people lined up on the right to visit the prisoners and another line on the left to get married. There we were…at the jail…in line to be married. Excitement still ran through my veins!
Most say WWJD (what would Jesus do)…but what if you asked, “What would YOU do?”. What would the “old” you do? The YOU before you were hurt, the YOU before you were lied to, the YOU before you resented, the “old” YOU, the core YOU, the unbroken YOU. How would that you react, how would that you love, how would that you respond? The you who loved without hesitation, without anger, without hurt. Would it be refreshing? Would it be uplifting? Would it be carefree? Bring me happiness…bring me myself again.
It came early in the morning…the text that made him run out the door…the birth of his first born child…with another woman…a piece of my heart left with him that day. Selfishly, by the Grace of God he missed the actual birth and got there hours later. I would not have survived otherwise. I would have left if he had been there holding the hand of the other woman while she gave birth to his son. It would have been too much for me to bear.
My first four children did not have namesakes except my grandfather’s name for my son. But when I envisioned children with my new man…I wanted to honor him and give him a namesake…a junior…a second. Then he shared his middle name to the other woman who was to bore him his first born son. My heart was once again torn in two. No longer will our child in the future be a namesake, a junior, a second. I will never forget where I was and how I got the news when my boyfriend called to tell me he and “her” had found a name for their child. How much pain should I take? Is this something I can really love him through? Am I open enough? Am I strong enough? Time will tell, so until then I continue to love.
This is usually exciting news….unless it’s about your love’s unborn child. I won’t ever forget the call when my boyfriend found out that the other woman carrying his unborn child…his first born child…would be giving him a son. His first born son…my heart dropped. Trying to be happy for my love while taking a piece of my heart off the floor. Love without condition I told myself…love with acceptance…I reminded my heart…Am I strong enough? Can I do this? Only thing I can do is try.