Living in a Eulogy: The Weight of Strength
waiting for the wrong person to love you is like waiting for it to rain in hell. (~r.h. sin)
90 days. Three months. It feels so far away, and yet so close at the same time. Not just the ending. But the beginning. The brief moment before the abuse began, when love felt real, when your heart wanted to burst out of your chest, when you were drunk on affection and romance. That part feels especially far away. Like another lifetime.
You notice that, on some days, you’re doing exceptionally well. Your healing is progressing. And other days, you still get hit with waves of grief. A photo makes your eyes fill with tears, and your heart ache. Memories pound in your head with the fervor and ache of a migraine. When does this get any easier? You wonder. You get lost in the idea of one year from now, praying that it means you’ll be fully healed and that you'll forget this whole thing ever happened. If only.
“Betrayal trauma.” You collect new vocabulary words like it’s a new pastime: gaslighting, blameshifting, love bombing, trauma bond, and cognitive dissonance. The words sit side by side, like trophies on a mantle, with the painful memories and lingering wounds. Unlike “general trauma,” which occurs from a moment of “fright” like a car accident, betrayal trauma involves a pull between two conflicting needs: (1) the need to protect yourself from a threat, and (2) the need to maintain a connection with the attachment figure who is delivering the threat. Enter the tragedy that is an abusive relationship.
My thing is, I’m drawn to emotionally unavailable men. You said to your therapist recently. The two of you were unpacking moments from the abusive relationship, a core theme of late. Your therapist doesn't argue with your self-diagnosis; she stays quiet, intent on letting you unpack that statement on your own. I know that about myself. For me, I learned that love is difficult, unsafe, messy, unstable, not promised, and can be taken from you at any moment. With her help, you learned this about yourself. After a string of dates that you referred to as a never-ending trainwreck, the part you played was discovered. Men left you guessing how they felt about you, showed little interest, or had one foot out the door. You were accustomed to someone not being fully invested in you. And yet, it’s the type of guy you ended up meeting, dating, and being drawn to.
This is why there were no relationships in your life for a stretch of time. You dated, you searched, you hoped you’d find what you were looking for, someone who was sure about you and made their feelings and commitment known. You put in the time and work on yourself for several years, rebuilt your confidence, and dismantled insecurities. You were ready. You felt secure. And you desperately wanted to meet your match.
On one random fall day, you did. It felt like the stars were aligning when you serendipitously connected with him. The connection and chemistry were instant. The ease of your interactions and the feelings you shared for one another flowed effortlessly and organically. It was as easy as breathing. For years, you had been ready for another serious, committed relationship, a life partner. For years, you soul-searched and were intentional about what you wanted your life to look like and with whom you could build that life. When the two of you connected, you thought your prayers had been answered.
You look so happy! Your friends would say in those first few months, smiles beaming from your faces as you gushed about the new love you found. Thank you, you’d say with a huge grin. I really am.
You remember feeling more happiness, joy, and love than you could imagine. Your heart was bursting. You felt like a giddy love-struck teenager. And you didn’t care. You were in love. You were in deep, romantic, all-consuming, can’t-live-without-you love.
Falling feels like flying—until it doesn't. Then, in an instant, your foundation is compromised. Love seeps through the cracks. The romance ends; air is ripped out of your throat and your lungs. You struggle. You reach and fight to breathe. Your heart crumbles, your reality shatters.
I think that’s why this was so devastating, you say to your therapist. I went into this relationship differently. And he also gave me what I was looking for. It was different. It was everything I wanted. He wasnt leaving me guessing; he was so forthcoming with his affection, love, and intentions. You feel the ache in your heart get stronger as the words spill out of your mouth. You feel the tears waiting behind your eyes. I thought this time it would be different. It was so…it was so devastating.
Month three was supposed to be easier. Time was supposed to help with the healing, and the forgetting. But honestly, month three can feel heavier than month one. In the first month of grief, loss, and heartbreak after an abusive relationship, you’re still in shock. Your nervous system is still in a state of hypervigilance. And you are numb to the horror that just transpired. Now, in month three, that initial adrenaline is wearing off. The permanence of loss and heartbreak is your reality. The brain fog that has cloaked your cognition is lifting. This ending is very real. And there is no “just getting over it.” By now, in month three, this requires rebuilding your nervous system, retraining yourself not to expect danger from love. Your insides are a construction zone. You stand at the edges, taking in the ruin. There is so much work to be done.
When I look at you now, you are stronger than I’ve ever seen you, your therapist says. A smirk lifts the corners of your mouth. You chuckle. Thank you. I had to go through some shit to get here, you say, laughing. Don't discount how far you’ve come, she adds. You had to walk away from someone you deeply loved, someone you are still in love with, she reminds you. Your therapist’s words linger briefly. What you've been through, what you are still going through, it’s no small feat. And it’s a pain and strength you had no idea you could endure.
The laughter stops. Thoughts of him fill your mind once more. Just a few days ago, a photo of a couple cuddling on the couch brought you to tears. It still does. Your mind drifts—remembers the feeling of being pressed against him. Happiness. Contentment. Landing in his arms felt complete. The pain of grief simmers, and memories surface: the warmth of torsos pressed together, your head on his chest, his arms around you. How is it possible for memories to hurt this much? You wonder. You may be stronger than ever now, but there’s no denying that it’s due in large part to the insurmountable heartbreak you carry every day. I guess it’s true what they say: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly. (~Meg Ryan, You’ve Got Mail)
When someone turns your most intimate and vulnerable parts of you into warfare and uses them against you in times of anger, that is a kind of betrayal you can’t come back from. When someone takes the trust and heart you gave them out of love and hope and deliberately tears them to shreds in an intentional attempt to hurt you, that is an irreparable and disorienting kind of pain. Turns out you never knew what betrayal felt like until now. How would you describe it? Dying. It feels like you are dying. The love and air that once gave you life disintegrates like ash and becomes poison in your lungs.
Romantic resolutions are out of the question now. There is a phase of your grief that is like living in a eulogy. Every day you mourn a person who is still very much alive, still walking the earth. Except this person never truly existed, did he? At least not the version of him you thought he was when you fell in love. Whoever he was in the end is who he really was. The grief is exponentially worse. The loss is doubled. You not only mourn the man who is living today, but also the man you thought he was. How do you grieve the loss of an illusion? How do you grieve the absence of a bitter lie you were sold? And how do you grieve the loss of a forever love that was never real in the first place? This is your reality now. This is the truth you carry in the strength you’ve forged.
I don't want to be this strong. I don't want to know this truth. But what choice do you have?
