The Part of my Divorce Story Where I Talk About the Really Hard

 I have been quiet on my blog for awhile... because here I am a few years removed from divorce and I still feel bulldozed by how hard things are. In my mind, the level of hard I have had to grapple with over the last several months seems to scream at me that I haven't dealt with the really deep wounds that left me years ago careening down the hill in a runaway trolley frantically looking for a place to jump.

See, the last several years I have been working through the steps of "moving on," but mostly, I have just been in survival mode. I didn't realize that one of the consequences of becoming acclimated to single parenthood and finally finding some emotional stability in my life, would mean that I would come to a place where my body would let me know it was time to face the darkest demon from my marriage. And that requires acknowledging the level of injury I suffered from someone who had promised to love me.

Even now, it is scary to type these words. It is much easier to describe around them then to actually say it, but here it goes. I am a domestic abuse survivor. That term is a loaded one, and one that I refused to use for quite some time, despite its truthfulness. It is also a term that for me carries with it quite a bit of shame too.

I am a very independent free-thinking person. So for years I wasn't forthcoming with that information about my marriage when people would ask, because how could a strong woman like myself allow that to happen? How did it happen? Or, like my sister asked once, did you ever fight back?

The truth is, an abusive relationship can be anyone's reality. And IT happened in my case, by degrees. And that is exactly how I plan to heal. By degrees. Divorce was the start of that healing process for me, but it in no way was the finish.

So, let's understand something right now. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, just "gets divorced." As an influencer I follow on Instagram said about divorce, "It's not like a microwave breaks and so you abandon the whole house, unwilling to fix it. It's like the whole house is burning down and you're standing with buckets of water, trying to manage the smoke and flames, and finally, finally, you get yourself and your family outside before it engulfs you too." @thebirdspapaya

And so, I want to write an apology letter to my still-married self for those years when I was trying my best to keep marriage together and my children happy while carrying buckets of water to douse an inextinguishable fire. I want that person that I was then to know what I know now. That she was trying her best, that she was doing what she thought was best, and that she did her best to try to shield her kids from it...even though more often than not, she couldn't. I want to write a letter to the woman who promised herself she would never get a divorce, and to the one who was given an ultimatum and left without another option.

I see you. I see you struggle as you endure heartache after heart break. I see the endless nights where you quietly cried asking heaven to fix this.

I see you after another hurtful or cutting remark made quietly by your spouse that leads you to lash out publicly in anger. Only later to be told by well-meaning eavesdropping family and friends that "you need to treat your husband better. "

I grieve for you who was constantly told how sensitive you were and how emotional you were after you dared let a tear escape after an intense and angry blow up.

I understood why you felt the only option for saving your marriage was to try to save your spouse, so increasingly you took on more and more responsibility.

And I get that your attempts to fight the fire and try to extinguish it seemed to only blow up in your face. It wasn't you.

I remember your child's therapist talking through making a safety plan...and the bag she suggested you pack for when you needed to take the kids and get out fast. And I remember a kind bishop who cried and lovingly said he would put your family on the church prayer roll...but did so anonymously. Because even then, this was a secret nobody knew.

And then I remember when you finally separated and that separation was made public, well meaning individuals offered to pray for you and your husband, while others, more curious, asked you what happened.

The word "abuse" wouldn't form on your lips, it couldn't, because it wasn't supposed to be this way, and like my mother-in-law realized, it is kept so hidden, that even she didn't see it despite us living in her home...so who would believe me anyway?

It isn't your fault that you are sharing this now, three years after the divorce. You don't want to disparage anyone, and you certainly don't want to dig up a past that you have shamed yourself for having, but you have come to a crossroads.

I have come to a crosswords. I have come to a place where I can be brave and say, this is what happened, this shouldn't define who we are now, but this is still part of the story. And to pretend that it didn't happen would not only negate my kids' lived experience, but it would be ignoring a very deep part of soul that is desperate to be healed. But you cannot heal something unless you voice that it is there.

And why share this all publicly? Because at the end of the day, there might be some that read this that need to be seen in this way too. And I write this for others. The ones that knew but didn't know. The ones that have asked or wondered, "How did this happen?" or "Did you try to work it out?" To those of you I write. Because abuse thrives in a place of hiding, a place where no one is supposed to see. To those, it isn't your fault. You didn't see me with buckets.

And to those suffering silently, quietly, and whose married life wasn't supposed to be this way, I want you to know that you are seen. You have a safe place here, and a place where you can confide, and cry. Because I see the buckets that you carry, I know they are heavy, and I don't judge you for how long you carry them. I want to be next to you. Urging you on, telling you that you are loved, and catching as much water as I can. So you have plenty. Because we all have fires to extinguish, but not everyone as enough resources to fight them on their own.

Love,

Madeline