Love Isn't Supposed to Hurt

by Paul, Christi

  But slowly, an uneasiness began percolating under the surface of my faux contentment.

  One thing that should have served as a warning sign was that, against my better judgment, we stopped going to counseling. After just a few months of seeing Dr. Anderson, things started evening out—the emotional roller coaster slowed down a bit, and the hills were less bumpy. So it felt safer to let go a little. And that’s what I did. At first I resisted when Justin said he wanted to halt our counseling sessions. But eventually I gave in—partly out of fear and partly because I didn’t want to seem like I was dismissing the progress he’d made. I didn’t want him to think I didn’t believe he could do this on his own.

  Another warning bell for me was an e-mail I received from my dear friend Colleen, who had just visited from Ohio. She and I had breakfast together, and seeing her was a striking reminder of what it was like to feel accepted and secure. When she e-mailed me after our get-together, her words were medicine on emotional wounds I’d been trying to ignore.

  Christi,

  Although you’re reporting current happiness, I worry about you and how it seems you’ve had some very lonely/sad times over the past couple of years. But you can always count on me. Ya know what, sometimes things just don’t happen as we expect them to. I have to tell you how much respect I have for you, C. The fact that you are going to do whatever it takes, that you’re fighting to keep this together, is a sign of your grace and strength. God is in control, as we both know, and He will never let us down. I’m so grateful to have met you on this journey. Be good to you.

  I sat at my desk just staring at her message. It pierced me. Those words grace and respect—I just couldn’t imagine them next to my name anymore. To hear that someone saw me in that light, to hear that someone was grateful to know me—it was shocking. And healing. For the first time in a long time, I felt needed. I felt humbled. And I felt loved.

  As I go back now and read my journals from that time, I see that the pages are filled with the gratefulness I felt. I was thankful for my family, for my job, for Justin’s family, and even for Justin . . . particularly on the good days. But being grateful for how God might be working through me? That was a foreign concept. After being emotionally trampled for so long, it’s hard to see yourself as more than what your husband says you are.

  About a month later I was on vacation back home and had gone for a walk in the summer sunshine with Gram. My dear Gram. She was in her eighties and still as quick as a whip. Gram and I were really close not only because I was named after her but because she also took care of me when I was little while my parents worked. She was available to everyone—anytime, anywhere. She attended every one of my basketball games, cheerleading competitions, school plays, and choir productions.

  And she had a will of steel. My grandfather died when I was four, so the clearest image I have of Gram is a woman who wasn’t afraid to be alone. That woman would not bend if she had her mind made up. Feisty? Yes, indeed.

  That afternoon she and I talked about our family, my work, her volunteering at church and the hospital. Then my marriage came up. I finally confided in her some of the things Justin and I had been struggling with in the last few years—leaving out the gory details, of course.

  I knew she had some firsthand knowledge about gory details herself. My grandfather, too, was an alcoholic.

  Grandpa was a pilot in World War II, and after he came home, he never spoke about what he’d witnessed. I know he lost friends in the war and probably saw things I can’t even fathom, nor would I want to. All those terrible images that were burned into his mind from the war—that’s what Gram believes drove him to the bottle.

  Gram turned to me. “Christi, your grandpa and I had a beautiful twenty-four-year marriage!” She glowed as she said it.

  The thing is, they were married for thirty-two years. Apparently the last eight were pretty awful. “That’s when the alcohol stole him from me,” she said. She told me he became someone she didn’t recognize—someone very mean—when he drank.

  Gram told me that for years she’d prayed, asking God what she should do. She always heard Him say, “Not yet. Stay.” Then finally one day she sensed that the answer had changed: “Now. Go.”

  It was summertime, and as usual she left for the cottage they always rented by the lake. But that summer was not like summers past. She had just prepared the paperwork for a formal separation. Knowing how much Gram loved Grandpa, I imagine that had to be the most difficult move of her life. Then she got the call. Grandpa was dead. He’d died at home, but that’s about all I know. But I’ve been told the alcohol finally killed him.

  I admired Gram for being able to look back and focus on the sweet memories and wonderful times in her marriage, despite all that had happened. I assured her that things were better on my end. She squeezed my hand and smiled. “I hope so.”

  I have no doubt Gram’s prayers for me changed that day. We now shared a common experience—one neither of us would have chosen. I can only guess that her prayer for guidance and security for me took center stage as she knelt before God on my behalf.

  I have been blessed to have a family that prays for each other. They’ve shown me that God honors prayer. That when we lift our voices to Him, even if it’s to complain or plead or tell Him we’re mad at Him, He listens. He understands. And He is willing to start the healing process as soon as we open our hearts and give Him the green light to do it.

  I had no idea that day how desperately I would need those prayers—and an open heart—in the weeks ahead.

  It was the beginning of autumn, and I was flying to Chicago for our second annual “spa getaway” with my girlfriend Rachel. As the plane lifted off, my anxiety rose too. While on the surface things had been quieter at home lately, there were rumblings I could no longer ignore.

  I noticed Justin had started going out more often after work again. When I confronted him about it, he just made excuses. We were on separate shifts, which meant I was asleep by the time he got home. So it became my fault that he didn’t come home right away. “Well, you’re already in bed, so what am I going to come home to?” he’d argue.

  Several weeks before my Chicago trip, I heard him walk into the apartment with a couple of people around one in the morning. One of those voices belonged to a woman. I knew her—it was one of his coworkers. A chilling thought ran down my spine. What if he’s cheating on me?

  I remember standing looking in the bathroom mirror the next morning wondering whether I should investigate . . . and being scared to do it. Afraid of what I might discover he’d been up to in those wee hours when I was home alone. The mere thought of him with another woman made me shiver.

  But as I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I said to myself, That’s nuts, Christi. He wouldn’t be fool enough to bring her back to our place. He wouldn’t be that stupid or that bold. But I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on while I was at home in bed.

  I wasn’t blind to the signs. We rarely are. We just choose to ignore them.

  To make matters worse, a couple of people had approached me individually in the past few weeks and confided that they’d seen Justin out with a drink in hand. Each time I confronted him about it, he accused me of not trusting him and claimed he’d been drinking nonalcoholic beer. Arguing with him got me nowhere, and since I hadn’t seen it firsthand, I didn’t feel like I had enough evidence to nail him on it. Two things I knew: (1) he wasn’t telling me everything. And (2) I was losing the energy to keep fighting.

  When you hammer and claw at a wall of bricks, trying valiantly to break it down but merely chipping away at the surface, eventually your muscles start to sputter and ache. Your fingertips get raw. Exhaustion bleeds from your bones to your soul, and you finally drop the hammer. How much more can you give before you collapse?

  The moment I stepped off the plane into the terminal at Midway Airport, I had one of those jolts of awareness that shoots through your entire body. I felt an unexpected rush of freedom, and wi
th it came a realization: I wanted to rip up my return ticket. I did not want to go back.

  The fragrant autumn air was refreshing for this Midwestern girl’s heart. It brought back fond memories of football games, vibrant leaves, and pumpkin carving. The air was crisp and cool, and the rustling trees sounded like a symphony in the breeze. But there was something deeper happening than just the weather. Being here took me back to where I’d come from and who I was. I was finally remembering the alive Christi—the person God made me to be. This was a feeling I hadn’t been in touch with in years.

  Rachel and her husband, Steve, greeted me with such warmth. They welcomed me into their home as if the room they’d prepared had been waiting for me all along. Over the next few days Rachel and I explored the city. We ate at great restaurants, got massages and spa treatments, shopped until we couldn’t carry even one more bag, and guffawed the entire time, our laughter ringing in harmony with the whirling and bustling of the city.

  By the second night of my visit, I became acutely aware of a shift in me. We all know when this happens—we just don’t always embrace it. Sometimes we even fight it because we know it means change, and change is scary.

  Rachel and I were sitting by the fire that night as the steady melody of raindrops fell outside the window. Suddenly it hit me that the shift in me was contentment. After four years of feeling unsafe, I was finally able to breathe easy. To laugh honestly. To sit peacefully. To be myself—not the suspicious, tense version of me I’d become in the past couple of years. For the first time in a long time, I felt secure.

  Encased in the warmth of Rachel’s apartment, I felt not just physical safety but emotional safety. I felt taken care of, valued. I sensed that these friends wanted me there and appreciated my company. And because of all that, I felt free. Free to be who I was without fear of ridicule or judgment, without fear of being demeaned or hurt. I could laugh as loudly as I wanted to, and no one would shoot me a glaring look. I could tell a story without having someone roll his eyes; I could make a comment without anyone shaking his head at me. And once I’d tasted that freedom again—the freedom to be myself—I realized it was torturous to consider returning to a person or a life that paralyzed me.

  I just couldn’t go back to the way things were in Phoenix. Having experienced walking on a firm foundation in the Midwest, I physically ached when I thought of returning to the floor of eggshells I’d tiptoed around each day back in the desert.

  The last day of my visit I called my dad to wish him a happy birthday. Hearing him sound so happy to talk to me made my heart skip a beat. When I hung up, I felt the tears coming.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, but gradually things started getting clearer.

  “I feel so free when I’m here with you and when I talk to my dad. Justin has never really tried to be part of my family. He doesn’t really like my dad, and that hurts so much. I sometimes feel like I have to choose.”

  “Between Justin and your dad?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah. No one has ever said it out loud, but I feel so disconnected from my family when I’m with Justin. If I had made that phone call from home, I know Justin wouldn’t have gotten on the phone to wish Dad happy birthday. He’d just make up an excuse not to talk to him, like he always does.”

  “Why don’t we go for a walk and talk?” Rachel suggested.

  So we put on our workout clothes and took a long, brisk walk by the lake. When we got to some picnic tables, we sat down. That’s when I finally said it. It practically fell out of my mouth without my even thinking about it.

  “This marriage I’m in will not last forever.”

  Rachel just looked at me, curious but not shocked.

  I took a breath and continued. “Something is going to have to change. It’s just a matter of my getting the courage to do something about it.”

  There! I’d said it.

  It was the first time I’d made a statement like that. Not just out loud, but even to myself. I’d often had hypothetical thoughts: What if this marriage doesn’t last? What if I have to leave? What if he doesn’t stop drinking or lying or being mean? But now, to be so unequivocal about it—well, I startled myself.

  I don’t even remember what Rachel said in response. I’m sure she expressed her support and said that she would always be there for me and so would my family. My mind was still whirling at the truth I’d just spoken out loud.

  Rachel and I walked home slowly as she asked questions and I opened up about this faux life I’d been living—how I’d been feigning happiness and confidence not only to fool everyone else, but perhaps even more so, to convince myself.

  Here’s what I learned the hard way: we can lie to ourselves only so long before we either break down or wake up. Sometimes we do both. We just need to have faith that the wake-up call is ready for us on the other side of the meltdown. God never leaves us broken on the floor without extending His hand to lift us up again.

  As I got ready for bed that evening, I couldn’t help but wish—from somewhere so deep in my soul it hurt—that I could just stay in Chicago. I dreamed of getting a job here, finding a little place of my own, even if it was the size of a closet, and starting over. I was desperate to feel this kind of freedom every day, to find hope again. The last four years my life had revolved around keeping the peace, trying to make Justin happy, overcoming turmoil. I believed that God intended more for my life. Could I find the courage to embrace it?

  On that final evening of my trip, I looked in the mirror and saw someone I hadn’t seen in years.

  I saw me.

  My hazel eyes were clear again. I saw a girl who had dreams. Who had hope. Who was revived and reenergized.

  And I sobbed.

  I sobbed because I missed that person, and I wasn’t sure if she’d stick around. I sobbed because I knew in the morning I was getting on a plane to go back to a life that stifled me—a life that scared me.

  How could I possibly go back?

  As I stared at myself through tear-filled eyes, makeup smearing down my face, my denial finally evaporated. Or more accurately, it blew up in my face.

  In the past few days I’d remembered my roots, and the process revealed to me something terrifying: the pre-Justin Christi was not the same person as the post-Justin Christi. Sure, there were certain elements of the new me that resembled the old. But I wanted some of those pieces back: the living-life-out-loud Christi. The Christi who believed in faith. The Christi who looked for the goodness of people. The Christi who wanted to live a purposeful existence.

  Pastor Miller’s words on our wedding day, “Remember your roots,” were echoing in my mind as I lay my head on the pillow that night. I had remembered what it felt like to just be me. No excuses or apologies necessary. No shields of protection up to deflect the criticisms I’d become accustomed to. I felt like I was standing on solid ground for the first time in years.

  The problem was, that solid ground was about to get very shaky.

  The next morning in the cab, I cried all the way to the airport as I talked to Rachel on the phone. The cabbie had to think I was a total whack job! I can imagine him getting on his phone as soon as I set foot on the curb, saying, “You won’t believe what I just had to listen to!”

  I told Rachel everything—that I didn’t want to go back, that for the first time I truly didn’t know what was going to happen in my marriage. I didn’t know if I could stay with Justin.

  I felt like I had to force myself to get on the plane—to coax myself to take one step, then another, then another until I made it to my seat. I just wanted to turn around and run back to Rachel’s.

  My head was spinning the whole flight home. Two things had become clear to me on this trip: (1) I had discovered myself again. I’d regained the freedom to be myself without fear. And (2) I knew for the first time that I did not want to stay in this marriage. Not the way it was.

/>   That realization broke my heart. I couldn’t even comprehend hurting Justin like that because I loved him. I wanted him to be happy. But I couldn’t keep holding my misery inside.

  That’s what happens when we lose ourselves, for whatever reason—whether it’s money, fame, love, jealousy, or pride. If those things make us something we’re not, if they twist our core beings into some warped versions of ourselves, we’ll feel it. Eventually our souls will recognize what’s happening and ache for our real selves to come back.

  We’re not primarily skeletons walking around armed with skin. We’re souls armed with faith. With light. With love. And the moment we let something or someone steal our personhood, our spirits start fighting to bring us back. That’s why when something is amiss, we walk around feeling anxious and empty. If we’re not where we belong, on some internal level we feel it.

  We are not just a collection of all the mistakes we’ve made, the choices we’ve botched, the consequences we’ve miscalculated. First and foremost, we’re children of God, and that is enough. He has created us to shine. It’s just that there’s part of us that’s afraid of that light.

  On the flight home, I prayed, “God, give me the strength to know what to do. I can’t do this alone. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do anymore. Do I stay? Do I go? Give me some guidance!”

  I was too scared to admit it, but what I was really saying was, “How do I go? How do I leave him?” I looked out the window at the mountains and the clouds, and I heard a voice, as clear as if it were coming from the person in the seat next to me: “Christi, I love you as far as you can see . . . and then some.”

  It was a message I desperately needed to hear. I had to know that I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t a direct answer about what to do next, but it did give me comfort. I sat back and exhaled.

  My mind replayed the trip over and over. Being with these people showed me that it is truly a gift from God to be accepted for who we are—imperfect parts and all. Our pain tells us we’re not okay as we are. God tells us otherwise. My problem was that I hadn’t listened to Him enough in the last few years. I’d been too preoccupied waking up each morning steeling myself for the next blowup.