I had a very raw conversation with my husband this morning. I asked about the missing pages in my journal, showed him the journal, where the pages were carefully torn out, the time line of the missing entries. He said he didn't take them, and I believe him. I know who took them, and why she thought she was entitled to do so. I hope she finds joy and comfort in my recorded misery, as she is no longer in my life, and those pages, however dear they were to me, are all she has left of me. No, I'm not bitter, and hope I don't sound that way. When your mother betrays you, while already in the act of betrayal, what can you say? what can you do? Nothing, but wave her on. The good news is that she can't hurt me anymore. She has lost that power that I allowed her to have over me. I am happy to say that in her betrayal, the one where she was acting like my mother for the first time in my life, was a wonderful feeling for me. I at least got to know what it would be like to have a real mother, who loved me unconditionally and knew that no one could take her place in my life. It was quite an experience for me, and I am grateful. It was short-lived, unfortunately.
Back to the morning's conversation; as i began talking to my husband about those missing pages, those first epiphanies after my suicide, i found that i was able to open myself up and tell him what i had been remembering lately about my past self, from childhood, teenhood, adulthood. I let him know that i could now understand, remember that i was fucked up from childhood - socially, sexually, and all that came with it. I told him that I was already completely messed up by the time we met. I spent our marriage trying to compensate and be all the things that 'normal' people were, a good wife, mother, friend, worker, housekeeper, daughter, whatever. I was vigilant in my facade. I believed it was real, too. I had to believe in order for everyone else to buy it, i suppose.
So this morning I bared my soul and my self to my husband, talking about things he couldn't have known. I did ask him why he never questioned how i could just simply let him fuck me. i realized that he probably didn't know any better, as he was inexperienced sexually. I had lots of experience, just the wrong kind, so i could never connect with him, never allow myself to feel good or feel at all.
I encouraged him to use his therapy sessions to bare himself to the group; that it would be the safest place, as nothing from there leaves there. I hope he will find the courage to let things out, take them out and have a good look at them, finally.
I don't need those pages anymore. I can remember enough from that time. I am saddened that someone would take them, and be so deliberate about it. I am not the only crazy person in this story. I am not going to allow such an act to make me feel like a victim. I used to be a victim, with a V on my forehead. NO MORE, though. She is dead, that victim. I left her in the ambulance, or the ER, wherever it was that I flat-lined. She is dead, and I have paid for her sins and her demise. Life by suicide is not cheap. Realizing that parts of yourself are broken beyond repair, that's a hard thing to accept, and a hard thing for other people to accept, especially if it has anything to do with their relationship with you, be it past, present, and/or future.
I watch my husband, who victimized and betrayed me and who betrayed and victimized himself, as I say the things that we both have to hear and understand. as we move past 'it's broken' to 'this is why it's broken' and 'this is how it got broken in the first place'....as we try to find our places, our roles, in this new life...as we bare our souls.
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