Love Isn't Supposed to Hurt

by Paul, Christi

  And so I forced myself to say, “Okay, God, I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can do is nothing for now. I’ll let you disclose it to me . . . in Your timing.”

  I was finally coming to a place of trusting that God would take care of me.

  The third reason I left Justin was because I knew I would break if I didn’t. This wasn’t just about making a better life for myself; this was about survival.

  I reflected on those years of searching for answers and feeling as though I literally wanted to die rather than live the way I was living. But somewhere in the midst of that internal chaos, I had the wherewithal to know that wasn’t the kind of life God put any of us on this earth for. I knew I had a purpose, and I had to choose. Life or death? Truth or a lie?

  By the grace of God, I found the strength to choose life. And truth.

  Had I stayed, it would have surely killed me. If not physically, it would have murdered my soul. And that’s no way for anyone to live.

  Number four, I left because I couldn’t bring children into a relationship like that. Having a family had been a dream of mine for as long as I could remember, and I loved my children beyond words, before they were even born. There was no way I could introduce precious, innocent children into a home filled with such volatility and enmity. How could I shield them from the outbursts and destructiveness? I couldn’t count on Justin to give children security and a sense of stability when even I didn’t have that with him. And how could I have prepared my children for the real world when I was tiptoeing through my day in a mode of constant defense?

  I believe that home should be a sanctuary. A place where you’re always accepted, always safe. Not a place of fear. I believe the saying holds true: “If a child doesn’t learn love at home, she will rarely learn it somewhere else.”

  My home with Justin was none of the things I’d pictured a home, or a marriage, to be. And it certainly wasn’t a place I’d want my precious children calling home.

  Then came my fifth reason: I left because there was no hope things were going to get better.

  Again, I heard the words of Justin’s dad echoing in my ear: “Alcoholism is a disease, Christi. It’s like cancer. You can’t choose not to have it.”

  Okay. So choose differently.

  I thought about people who do have cancer and the incredible injustice of it all, the pain they experience—both physical and emotional. And yet, as I’ve attended many a breast cancer walk, I’ve seen some of the most beautiful, vibrant, bald women laughing and walking and hugging. Women who refuse to be defined by their disease.

  Yes, there is great injustice in disease. But there is also choice. If people are victims of disease, they can choose to be bitter and angry. They can choose to shut out the people who love them or lash out at the world. They can choose to shrivel up and die.

  Or they can choose to live each day as if it’s their last—loving the people close to them, forgiving what needs to be forgiven, inspiring people they don’t even know with their strength of spirit.

  I’ll never forget a woman our newscast once profiled for a story. She was a mom of four young kids, and she’d been married to her high school sweetheart for years. After her diagnosis, the family’s sole purpose became keeping her alive. I recognized her from our story when I ran into her at a health food store one day. She was truly glowing from the inside out. She didn’t have a lot of energy, but she exuded an extraordinary sort of kindness and grace that’s unmistakable. I will never forget her. She gave me hope.

  The day Carey and I went to her funeral was excruciating. I grieved as I watched her children and husband mourn this woman who had been the backbone of their family. Yet I was awed by how graciously she’d prepared her children for this day with her personal letters and songs—and most of all, her peace. She made sure they knew that her love would never leave them, that she’d see them again, and that as much as she’d miss them, she was looking forward to seeing her God on the other side.

  She was gone, but her legacy lingered with all of us who were there.

  Justin, in contrast, seemed to be choosing denial, not change. It was the same choice he had been making for four years. And let’s face it—so had I. But not anymore.

  I had given him so many chances to say, “I have a disease, and I can’t do this without you.” Or forget “I can’t do this without you”—I’d even have taken the “I have a disease” part! At the very least, a simple “I’m sorry” would have gone a long way. Any glimmer of hope that he got it—that he was willing to make a genuine effort to face problems head-on—would have been enough for me to keep fighting for our marriage.

  But no. I didn’t get any of that.

  So I left. Did I feel sad for him? Yes. Was I angry at him? Yes. But he had made his choice, and I’d made mine. We are responsible for our own decisions. Period.

  And of all the things I was sorry for, I would never apologize for not being willing to continue living that life. I would never apologize for not being someone’s emotional punching bag. That was not my job. Not my destiny. It’s not anyone’s.

  I used to think there was some guarantee that when you got married you’d never be alone. You’d always have someone to count on. Sure, there would be obstacles and challenges, but you’d go through them together.

  As I sat in my home alone, I had more peace, more joy, more contentment than I’d ever had living with Justin. I realized that simply being married doesn’t guarantee you any of those things—especially if you’re not married to the right person.

  As I rewound that thought in my head, I said aloud, “Wow.”

  This was an awakening. And it drove me back to that first question: Why did I marry him?

  I had already examined this and recognized that I was attracted to the strength, determination, and ambition in him that I felt I was lacking. But I needed to get to the core of it: why didn’t I have those qualities? Why wasn’t I okay being alone? Why did it take four years of tumult to start valuing myself—broken parts and all?

  Suddenly a memory from my angst-filled teenage years popped into my head. As if it were a scene from a movie, I saw the fifteen-year-old me standing on the front porch of my house. I had just gotten home from cheerleading practice, and the leaves were starting to change color on the trees by the curb. I was getting grilled by Eric. Yes, Eric, that old boyfriend Justin had confused with my former fiancé.

  He had just left school after talking to Felicia for half an hour. I was standing on the top step leading to our front door, and he was standing on the bottom step looking up at me. He was admonishing me for having, and being, “too much.”

  “You’ve got everything, Christi!” he said. “You’re vice president of the class, you’re on student council, you’ve got a ton of friends. You wonder why Felicia hates you? Give someone else a chance, will you? You don’t deserve all this!”

  And there it was! I gasped as it all came back to me so vividly.

  I could see that was the moment when I started believing I wasn’t enough. I had more than I deserved. I wasn’t worthy of all the gifts I’d been given. That was when I started to accept two ugly lies that would haunt me for almost twenty years:

  1. The more I had or the more I was, the more people would hate me.

  2. All the good I had was too much, and I didn’t deserve any of it.

  My playing small didn’t just start with Justin! It started years before when very real fears and insecurities began nesting inside me. As the years wore on, they became bigger and louder and more convincing, brainwashing me to believe that I didn’t deserve the good people and things I had in my life.

  A gigantic chunk of my confidence was zapped in that single conversation, which lingered with me for years and manifested itself in multiple ways, from my fear of not having enough savings in the bank to my fear of being alone to my fear of success. I worried that if I succeeded at something, either it would be taken away from me because I didn’t deserve it or people would hate me
and I’d be left alone. I suppose that’s why I looked for men with those traits—the charisma, the confidence, the ambition I was lacking. And Justin seemed, at the time we met, to be one of those men.

  Tears were streaming down my face by this point. This time they were tears not of sadness but of freedom. At least now I knew where some of my warped thoughts and insecurities stemmed from.

  It was finally happening: the codependency I’d lived with was starting to evaporate. One by one, each layer of insecurity was peeling away.

  I was discovering that being alone was okay. In fact, it was better than okay. Sometimes it was necessary.

  I glanced at the list I’d made:

  Why I Left Justin

  1. I left because there was still too much lying and deception to heal all those broken places between us.

  2. I left because I was finally learning to love and respect myself again.

  3. I left because I knew that if I didn’t, I was going to fall apart.

  4. I left because it was such an unhealthy environment that I couldn’t bring children into it.

  5. I left because there was no hope that it was going to change or get better.

  6. And perhaps most important, I left because I realized I’d rather be alone than be with the wrong person.

  Chapter 13

  Be Still and Know

  The next evening I sat in the stillness of my bedroom, listening. I’d heard a song the other day that said, “In the quiet, love is reaching. . . . Be still and know.”

  I prayed, “God, am I doing the right thing?”

  Silence.

  Then I heard something, although the words weren’t audible. Never fear. I have much planned for you, and you will serve me much better in another place.

  Was this in my head, or was this God? I started to talk out loud, just saying whatever was on my mind.

  “I know I’m not my best with Justin.”

  More silence. Then I sensed this response: Joys are unfolding. You will be loved.

  Okay, I still didn’t know if this was my subconscious or God Himself, but I felt a calmness come over me, washing away my anxiety. I could only do what was in my power to do. I couldn’t control how Justin would react, and I couldn’t change the fact that leaving felt like the first thing I’d done right in a long time.

  Those last words brought peace, but they also brought some questions. Loved by whom? And how could I trust that I’d be able to recognize that love when it arrived? After all, I hadn’t done such a bang-up job of that up to this point.

  But I truly felt a revival rumbling inside me. One thing I knew absolutely: if I could survive this marriage and divorce, those years of abuse, and my own insecurities, I could survive anything.

  Of course I had to keep telling myself that, because it was the eve of “it.” The one-month mark. The day I’d tell Justin I wanted a divorce.

  That night I went to a going-away party for one of the photographers at work who was moving to Flagstaff for a new job. Everyone was laughing and joking and celebrating with her. When people asked me where Justin was, I simply said he had other plans. I didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t very well blurt out, “Oh, he’s not here because we’re quits! Kaput! He’s in my rearview mirror, and I have no idea where he spends his time these days.”

  At the end of the evening I walked out to my car and just stood there looking at the house. It was dark outside, and there was a cool breeze blowing. I watched everyone through the window for a moment, realizing that this was it. This was the last night anyone would look at me as Mrs. Justin Barnes. The last night anyone would connect me to him as his wife, as opposed to his ex-wife. The last night I’d be seen as part of a couple. After that night I’d have a whole new persona to those coworkers—and even to myself.

  That’s one of the hardest parts of a breakup. You’re used to being seen as part of a couple. It has been part of your identity all this time, and suddenly the way you look to other people—and the way you look to yourself—changes. It’s hard to reconcile the person you were with the person you’ve become.

  We think we have a good picture of who we are. But then, when we’re standing in that picture all by ourselves rather than beside someone else, it feels lonely.

  But sometimes that’s just how it has to be.

  I got in my car, and as I drove away, there it was again. The stinging in my eyes. The rush in my chest. The gush of tears.

  I didn’t have an ounce of doubt about what needed to happen the next day. And in my gut I was sure Justin knew what was coming. But as I drove away from the gathering, I realized something else that was going to be torturous: telling everyone else.

  Would people be shocked? Would they think I was a horrible person? Would they take sides? Team Justin vs. Team Christi? I could already hear the whispers, the speculations, the criticisms.

  I took a deep breath. Hold on, Christi. You don’t know how anyone will react. And you don’t know that everyone will blame you just because Justin does.

  “God, please help me say the right words tomorrow,” I whispered aloud. “Please let Justin accept my decision with peace. And help him reach out to Dr. Anderson to make it through this. And please forgive me.”

  I’d been selfish at times. I’d been angry. And I’d built up a wall that Justin probably would have needed a bulldozer to barrel through. But I knew one thing for sure: I had really tried. I had given this marriage all I had for as long as I could. I had exhausted every resource available in an attempt to remedy our issues. That gave me assurance as I followed through on this heartbreaking decision.

  When I got home, I remembered an assignment Colleen had given me in a recent e-mail. She told me, “Write a letter to yourself from God. Imagine what words God would say to guide you through this whole mess. You might be surprised at what you find.”

  It was a bizarre concept to me, but on the eve of declaring my divorce official, what did I have to lose?

  So I sat down and started typing.

  Dear Christi,

  I am with you. You’re not alone. I’ve been with you the entire journey, and I’ll be beside you every step of the future. And I’ll be with Justin, too. I won’t abandon him, and I’ll help him in ways you simply cannot. I know this has been torture for both of you. I know how guilty you feel for hurting him, and I know all about his pain too.

  But there are better days ahead. I promise. Don’t think I haven’t seen what has been happening. I want to assure you it’s not going to end this way, though. I know it’s frightening, but My hand is on your shoulder and My voice is in your heart. You’ve done everything you can to fix this. You have to trust that I know what’s best for you both, even if you don’t.

  Put your faith and trust in Me, dear child. You are My child. And My love for you and Justin exceeds all you could ever imagine. I’ll never leave you. Go forward in strength and courage. Keep your eyes on Me, and I’ll lead the way. We’re in this together. We always will be.

  I love you.

  God

  I think I finished the letter in five minutes. There was one thing in particular that struck me when I reread it: I couldn’t believe how much compassion and love exuded from the words. It had to be God’s voice, because it was an entirely different tone from what I heard when I talked to myself.

  When our inner voice speaks up, we often hear words laced with cynicism, admonishment, and shame. But when we get quiet, when we choose to be still, the verbiage changes to a firm but gentle instruction. The tone is caressed with tenderheartedness, understanding, and promise. Hope punctuates each sentence. Empathy seeps from every phrase into our weary souls. The words are gentle, but they are powerful enough to move our spirits. To soothe our wounds. To reshape our warped visions.

  It was jolting to consider the disparity between the words Justin used toward me and the words contained in that letter. In the last four years, the words that had moved me were ones that moved me to tears and anger. I didn’t want to do
that to anyone else. I wanted to be firm in what I said but still communicate in a considerate, thoughtful way. I was learning that sometimes the gentlest words have the most power, and I was eager to put that lesson into practice.

  I knew that tomorrow I was going to get that chance.

  The next morning my phone rang early.

  “Christi? It’s Anna,” Justin’s mom said.

  After a few pleasantries, we got down to the nitty-gritty.

  “We’re just wondering if you can let us know what you plan to do today so we can be prepared,” she said.

  I took a deep breath. “Anna, I love Justin, but I just can’t take this volatility anymore. I can’t live like this.” My throat started to close up, and my voice was trembling now as tears started streaming down my cheeks. I couldn’t disguise my angst.

  “I’m just so, so sorry,” I whispered. It was all I could get out.

  I heard her sigh. “Christi, you’re the daughter I never had. . . .” Her voice cracked. “I know you’ve tried very hard to make this work.”

  “I wish I could have done more.”

  “Well, Justin is expecting to hear that you’re going to ask for a divorce. In fact, he’ll be heading home tomorrow to spend some time with us so we can work through it all.”

  A wave of relief swept through me.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. He’ll listen to you and Dad. It will mean so much that you’re there for him.”

  There was an awkward pause. I knew we had to hang up.

  What made it so hard was that I knew that very well might be the last time I spoke with her. I mean, when you get divorced, I don’t think you get to “keep” your in-laws, do you?

  “I love you, Mom, and I’m so grateful for everything you and Mark have done for us,” I said. “Thank you. You always made me feel like a real part of the family. I know this has been hard on all of you, too. Please give Mark and Jeff my love.”