When Time Pulls You Back

This week my ex texted me news of someone’s death—someone we had known in our teens and early adulthood. He was thirteen years older than me, which doesn’t seem like much now, but back when we were young it was HUGE!  In the summer he managed the camp where my ex and I met. The rest of the year he was in town running the youth center. 

A flood of memories came out of nowhere. I thought they were all washed away by the PTSD that stole so much of my life. But not all of them, I guess. Mostly the memories were feelings. I remembered feeling hopeful for my life and the future. I felt enthusiastic about life. I felt trusting of those who talked of God and faith as if those could really help you make something  of your life.

But already, I was learning to understand that message as one “overhearing” the exciting possibilities for people who had penises, but not for me. Even still, I couldn’t quite shake all the enthusiasm away that I felt about my own life—that there must be something for me, too.

Hopeful.

Trusting.

Enthusiastic. 

The man who died was a good man. And he had the love of a great woman. They adored each other. They were “for” each other. Neither met the test of being particularly good-looking on their own, but to see their eyes meeting with that love seem to help us all see she was truly beautiful, and he was handsome. I think they were the first married couple I ever saw “up close” like that. Hearing that their life partnership was now over broke my heart. I took a long walk down my hot and dusty dirt road to have a good cry. 

As these things go, I soon realized my grief was not just for his wife whose sorrow would be great. It was also for being at this end of my time on this earth and knowing than unlike his wife, I’d spent the goodness of my love on someone who lied right out of the gate and never stopped lying for over three decades. I would never have the rich grief of knowing all my love and all my commitment had given me decades of wonderful memories and meaning to my life. Instead it left me nothing in the end. It was empty grief. Empty. The worst kind. And after decades in ministry I really do know the difference.

Looking back I wish a hundred things that could have made a difference. But right now, all I have is the truth of my life. And the squandering of three decades is just part of it, now.

Sometimes wives and partners of men called sex addicts (really just covert and overt abusers tarted up for marketing “treatment”) are so cavalier about time. They may imagine a never-ending supply of it—and no effect on their bodies and abilities as it passes! This is not so.  Our years are numbered. Our bodies are both wondrous and limited.

I wish a hundred things that could have made a difference for me. In the end, I had to face a devastating truth, grieve the emptiness and walk away in order to save some time left for the possibility of my healing and happiness . It was a herculean piece of work. I am very proud of myself for rescuing me and letting me have joy and safety and beauty again. I no longer wish for anything to make that difference. I did it myself.

But I wish one thing for you, my reader:

I wish that you would be a faithful steward of your life as you journey in time.

Don’t squander more of your adult life than what you save. I’ve managed to cobble together something here at age 64 that is a million times better than the abuse I endured from my ex and his mother for most of my adult life. If only I had been able to save more life for this time. If only.

I wanted to be like my old friend who is now grieving in the rich sorrow of over five decades of two lives shared with mutual love, respect, joy, commitment and passion. I wanted to finish the story like that. But it could never have been. Thank God I escaped before wasting another two decades of my precious life trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

No, what I live now is not a perfect life. It’s just a real life. No lies. No abuse. No servitude to the sick perversion of my ex’s covertly incestuous relationship with his mother. No more participation in the religious oppression of keeping secrets for abusers. I know what they are now. I use the correct vocabulary. And all that hard work put me back into my own life where hope, trust, and enthusiasm are possible again.

And it’s never too late.

Never too late.

Never.

With you,

Diane.