Love Isn't Supposed to Hurt

by Paul, Christi

  As I turned the key, I braced myself. But as I pushed the door open, I saw the living room was empty. Something seemed different, although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  He’d obviously done some cleaning. It smelled nice, like a candle had been lit. And there was a note for me on the kitchen counter:

  Christi,

  Here are the keys. Dr. Anderson told me it would be good for me not to be home, so I’ll talk to you later.

  Justin

  I was stunned. He’d talked to Dr. Anderson! Was he actually making an effort? His words contained no nastiness, no insult, no anger. I turned the paper over. Was I missing something? But no, the back was blank.

  I looked around the apartment at how beautiful and comfortable it seemed. I loved the way the city lights glistened outside the windows at night. It felt peaceful—at this instant, anyway. I stood there for a moment, taking it in. A moment was all it took before I snapped out of it. I wanted to get out of there before Justin returned, and I didn’t know how much time I had.

  After throwing a few more things in my bag, I grabbed the car keys and walked down the stairs. It was then that I looked more closely at the keys in my hand. I couldn’t believe it! He’d left me the keys to his car—the one that was not nearly as nice as mine. Oh yeah, he’d taken my car. Go figure. I knew that note was too good to be true! This was his way of getting in another jab at me. I felt like he was saying, “Do what you want, Christi, but I’ve still got control here!” I fumed for about fifteen seconds, but then I smiled. Who cares! He can have the car. I’ve got my freedom.

  I drove to Carey’s and let myself in since she was on a date. I went to my room and noticed she’d made up the guest bed and left a sweet note for me. She had laid out books and magazines on the nightstand, and there were fresh flowers on the desk. Bath towels were neatly folded on the counter in the bathroom. This was truly the Carey Resort!

  I turned on the TV to watch the news. I had to know what I’d missed since I’d been gone . . . but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t help feeling totally displaced.

  As beautiful and welcoming as Carey’s home was, it wasn’t my home. In fact, I felt homeless. Like a vagrant. I was suddenly enveloped by this unsettled, awkward sensation. Where was I? Obviously, I knew where I was physically, and I was incredibly grateful for a place to stay. But I no longer had anywhere to belong. No home base. No place to call my own. I hadn’t been prepared for how much that would rattle me.

  I was feeling the amputation like never before. It made sense, I suppose—everything I’d known to be my life for the past four years was disintegrating. And perhaps even more than the loss of home, I was realizing that I’d spent the last four years feeling like I had no emotional home base. Sure, I’d always had a place to hang my hat but no place to rest my heart.

  Seriously, Christi! What do you want? I began to berate myself until I realized it wasn’t my voice I heard badgering me. It was Justin’s.

  At that moment I knew the luggage at the end of the bed wasn’t the only baggage I was carrying around. I may have physically taken myself out of the situation, but emotionally I still had a long way to go.

  It was time to get back to work, but it wasn’t the distraction I hoped it would be. Justin was calling me at night, giving me grief about our separation. He vilified me for leaving, accusing me of being selfish and apathetic. He kept badgering me about money—what was his, what was mine, what we needed to sort out. It was exhausting.

  I sat down with Dr. Anderson that week and told him I was ready to file for divorce. He urged me not to go there yet.

  “Let’s give you a little time to settle into where you are before you make any permanent decisions.”

  “But I do feel like I’m ready,” I told him. “I don’t want to drag this out. I know I can’t go back to him. Not the way things are.”

  I took a breath. “I really want to do this with integrity and honesty. I want to be as gentle as possible with Justin, but I don’t want to lie to him either. I just don’t see this going any further. What do you think I should do?”

  Dr. Anderson reminded me how raw my emotions were at this point, and he recommended that I not make any quick decisions I’d regret later. He also told me Justin wanted to work things out, although he was still being irrational.

  “He’s dealing with a lot too,” Dr. Anderson said. “I think you should tell him at this point you want to continue the separation. Let him get used to that idea before we broach the idea of divorce. Let’s give him some time and see if he can step up and change.”

  “The funny thing is, I heard our wedding song on the radio the other day,” I said. “It only made me cringe. Aren’t I supposed to be feeling some sort of regret over this separation? I’m sad, of course, but that’s just because Justin is hurting. Not because we’re apart.”

  Dr. Anderson looked right at me. “You know, Christi, at some point you’ll feel it. It might not be a special song you shared or an image of him. I don’t know what it will be. But eventually something will prompt a twinge of regret, and you won’t be able to deny it. That doesn’t mean you’re making a mistake by separating. It just means you’re human and you still care about Justin’s well-being.”

  I wondered what would prompt that hesitation, if it came at all.

  A couple of nights later, I found myself sitting in Dr. Anderson’s office with Justin across from me.

  “Okay,” Dr. Anderson started, “how are you feeling about things, Christi?”

  “Well, I’m frustrated because there’s so much hostility.”

  “Of course there’s hostility! You left!” Justin snapped.

  Dr. Anderson intervened. “Let’s talk about where we go from here. The fact is, you’re separated, and Justin, you’ve indicated to me that this isn’t working for you. You need to have some certainty as to where things are going, but I know Christi can’t give you that certainty right now.”

  Then he suggested that we continue the separation and set a time frame for when a decision would be made. “How much time apart do you think you need before you can have a clearer picture?” he asked us.

  We both just sat there like children in a time-out. We didn’t say a word because we didn’t have a clue.

  “Okay. How about one month?” he asked. “Does that sound good?”

  Justin shrugged his shoulders. “I guess so.”

  I, on the other hand, caved. I felt like I just needed out. I wanted some closure. But I heard the word okay come out of my mouth.

  As Dr. Anderson and Justin talked about what this separation would mean, my head was screaming, No! No! Let’s just get this over with! Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to say the word divorce. I was afraid of hurting Justin even more. And I was still dealing with the guilt I felt over leaving. Dr. Anderson’s words echoed in my ears. I had to be patient here. I had to give Justin time to get used to the idea of our not being together.

  Justin looked at me. “How do you even feel, Christi? Where’s your head?”

  “I have to admit I’m not hopeful at this point. I do love you, but I just can’t live with all the tumult and belittling anymore.”

  At that point Dr. Anderson stepped in to mediate. “Okay, we have to set some ground rules. Justin, it’s clear Christi needs some space. If you really want to salvage this marriage, you need to let her be. Let’s agree to just a few conversations a week and limit them to business—finances, insurance, work issues. But no heavy conversations about where your relationship is headed.”

  We both agreed. We also agreed to keep our separation quiet and not announce it to our friends and work colleagues. Justin didn’t want to deal with the scrutiny, and since we worked opposite hours, it wouldn’t be that difficult to pull it off. Although my head was screaming to let it all out, I relented.

  I felt like I’d spent so much time living a lie. I didn’t want to lie to anyone anymore! I didn’t think there was any chance for reconciliation—though I’ll admit
there was a razor-thin sliver of me that was watching him, wondering if he’d make any real effort to remedy this. And when I stepped back, I could see Justin’s perspective on wanting to keep it quiet. In the end, there were a few select people who knew—people I could count on to listen to me and give me advice. I had to be content with that for now.

  The restrictions Dr. Anderson put on my communication with Justin didn’t really help matters. Justin was calling me regularly, arguing about money and asking why it was taking me so long to make up my mind. He kept telling me, “I don’t know how long I can take this, Christi. I don’t think I can last a month.” I was riddled with guilt, but simultaneously exasperated. This wasn’t what we’d agreed to! And during that month, I’d hoped that he would be doing some soul-searching of his own.

  There was something else about his words that struck me. In all our conversations, I never once heard him say, “I want you back. I want this to work out. I’ll do whatever it takes.” And certainly his actions weren’t communicating to me that he was willing to do whatever it took. A few times when he called me, it was apparent from his slurred speech and malicious tone that he’d been drinking. These conversations only reinforced to me that there was no way I could go back to him—not if he couldn’t face his alcohol issues and agree to the terms we’d set up, even for a month.

  The day after our session with Dr. Anderson, I was turning the key to my new town house. It was in a gated community, which I loved for the sake of its security, and it was just the right size for me. There was even a fireplace that gave me an immediate sense of warmth and comfort.

  You should have seen me! I ran around from empty room to empty room, jumping up and down like an immature teenager. I laughed at myself.

  There I was, with no furniture, no television—not even phone service yet. I had nothing but my own air to breathe. But that was enough.

  Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I purchased some furniture and met with Dr. Anderson a few times, once with Justin there. I told him I’d gotten my own place, and we started talking about what to divvy up. Although we still had a couple of weeks before we’d sit down and face the divorce decision head-on, there were a few things at our apartment that I wanted to pick up: the rest of my clothes, some books, and some dishes. We agreed I’d get them while Justin was at work.

  It was cloudy and chilly the next afternoon when I walked up the steps to our apartment. When I walked in, I felt like a visitor. I suppose I was. It wasn’t my place anymore. It felt cold and foreign. Memories of the threats, the yelling, and the crying seemed to hang in the air. If those walls could talk, they’d tell a story I’d never want to relive.

  I got to work making trips from the closet to the car, then moved my way to the kitchen. I took a painting off the wall that I’d worked on a couple of years ago. Next I took down a picture my aunt had given me of Lakeside, a little community on Lake Erie. My family had had a cottage there for as long as I could remember, and we’d spend time there every summer. I had fond memories of playing shuffleboard and putt-putt and swimming in the lake.

  There was one particularly memorable night when my friends and I were jumping off the dock during a huge thunderstorm. Our fun was interrupted when a police officer came and ordered all of us out of the water. We thought we were such rebels! We had no idea how tuned in Gram was to everything that happened there until the next morning. When we woke up, she said casually, “So, I hear the police had to haul some kids out of the water during the thunderstorm last night.” She didn’t even look up from her paper. It was just her way of saying, “I know what you did, and don’t do it again.”

  I stood in our living room, staring at the picture of the Lakeside dock. It was taken in the evening, just after the sun had set. The dark blue sky in the background was illuminated by lights that were strung along a white Adirondack chair.

  Isn’t it funny how one picture can give you so much comfort? The image took me back to a time when things were simpler, more secure. It was a reminder of how beautiful this world can be.

  I packed up the picture with the rest of my things, knowing it didn’t mean much to Justin. He probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

  I grabbed half of the dishes in the kitchen. I’m not kidding. I stood at the counter and literally counted six of everything—six plates, six forks, six spoons, six glasses. I didn’t want to be accused of taking too much or being unfair to him. I left the china and crystal untouched. I knew that was something that would have to be negotiated. I looked at the clock and realized I’d been there for two hours. Justin could be coming home any minute. I scurried out with my arms full of one last load and hopped in the car.

  By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, drops of rain had started pelting the windshield. As I looked at these belongings piled up in my little car, everything felt odd. I couldn’t decide if the pouring rain was cleansing or if it was a dark reminder of how sad this situation was. I felt guilty when I imagined Justin walking into our closet and seeing it half-empty. Would it be the jolt he needed to make the necessary changes in his life? Would he finally face what he needed to face? Or would it just enrage him?

  The whole drive home, I was enveloped in an ominous cloud. I didn’t feel guilty for leaving him. I knew that had to be. But I did feel guilty for hurting him.

  Twenty-five minutes later I pulled up to the gate of my new complex, and I felt like my life was in front of me now, just waiting for me to grab it and run with it. I parked in the garage and started taking armfuls of things into the town house. This would be my first night there since I’d left. I locked the door tight behind me. As far as I knew, Justin wasn’t aware of my location.

  I walked into the bedroom and looked at my new bedroom furniture. My first solo purchase. It was exactly what I’d always wanted—but it was bare. It was nothing fancy—just a set of sheets and two pillows. No comforter to dress it up. No big pillows to sink into. It was as plain as could be. But it was mine. I smiled, ran toward the bed, and took a flying leap onto the mattress. Then I spread out on my back, as if I were getting ready to make a snow angel.

  After a couple of minutes I walked around the house and envisioned how in time I’d make it my own. Right now it was empty—no furniture, nothing on the walls. But eventually I’d hang pictures, find candles for the mantel, buy a new coffee table, and get a bed for the guest room. For once the silence and emptiness didn’t feel lonely; it felt peaceful. I didn’t care that I had nothing else to my name at the moment. I was standing in my own place, truly on my own for the first time in a long time.

  And it already felt like home.

  After organizing the kitchen and talking to Nanette and Jen on my cell phone, I crawled into bed around 11 p.m. I lay there looking out the glass doors that led to the patio. It was almost completely dark, but I could make out the bougainvilleas climbing along the wall. I breathed in and exhaled big. What was most beautiful was that I felt no fear. No fear that Justin would come in late and rip the covers off me, screaming. No fear that he’d hurt me. No fear of his tirades or accusations. I closed my eyes and fell into a restful sleep.

  For about thirty minutes.

  That’s when Justin called my cell phone, enraged at what I’d taken from the apartment. He said he knew I was taking clothes and some dishes but not pictures off the wall. I told him I was sorry, but the two pictures I had taken had no sentimental meaning to him that I knew of, so I didn’t think it would matter to him. Then he started pushing me for an answer about what I wanted to do. Did I want a divorce?

  “I don’t know how long I can do this, Christi. I don’t want a divorce, but I can’t handle this.”

  It was the first time since I’d left that he said he didn’t want a divorce. But he still wasn’t telling me he’d do whatever it took to make sure that didn’t happen. He didn’t take any responsibility for his anger or addiction. I never heard him say, “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s just give it the time Dr. Anderson s
uggested, and we’ll go from there,” I said.

  We met with Dr. Anderson the next day and discussed furniture. We agreed that I’d take the second TV, the one that had been mine when we got together, as well as one of the couches and the small dining table that was a family antique. It had been my grandmother’s, then my parents’, then mine. I was surprised at how agreeable Justin was about everything.

  A couple of days later I was standing on the porch of what was now solely Justin’s apartment. The moving guys came and took the couch, TV, and dining set. Justin and I actually laughed and joked around a bit. There were still some things to go through, but we could do that later. I left feeling really good.

  For as volatile as things could get between Justin and me, we also had some really good times together. He had a quick wit and sharp mind, and I liked to engage that side of him. I held him in high esteem for his thoughts on current events and the news biz. It was refreshing to have a meeting that wasn’t characterized by animosity or arguing.

  That night I was sitting alone at home feeling—for lack of a better word—funky. As happy as I was to be on my own, I was beginning to absorb the gravity of what was happening. And it was sad. That was the only word to describe it. Sad that it had to come to this. Sad that Justin was hurting and that the good parts of what we had were crumbling right in front of us. The positive times we had together, like earlier that day, only amplified the sadness over what was left.

  What was blatantly clear to me, however, was that I was sad because of how it ended, not sad because it ended. There’s a big difference. No part of me wanted to go back to Justin. It was glorious to wake up each morning without the fear of being judged or criticized or ridiculed. From the moment I got up each day, my feet were planted firmly on the floor, no longer tiptoeing around, trying to avoid the land mines that could blow up in my face if I said or did the wrong thing.