lint on the lens

Sometimes, lessons aren’t learned until the mistake is repeated over and over like a cup of morning coffee–bitter yet soothing at the same time. I went back to the same situation that has caused me so much confusion this past nine months. I justify that I want to be loved, want to be held, want someone to run with through the trails of life. I want to be challenged and supported. I want to be heard and I want to listen. Drawn in once again through social media, “Why you blogging my shit, why won’t you say hello at the grocery store? You can at least be civil.” Seeing him sends my heart right up to my throat where my words are suffocated and my chest collapses as my rib cage and my backbone disappear.

We ran around 15 miles in the short lived four day attempt at normalcy. Parked at town hall we made promises I knew I couldn’t keep. I wrote letters filled with lies to keep the pain around one more day–self harming of the soul. He wanted to warm up for a run and I suggested a mile approach to a hill. We started off and I could hear his feet clomping in Chacos wearing my too short running trunks and a long sleeve shirt smelling of strong sweat and cinnamon. Breath pumping out the lungs and legs tired for the first half mile then feeling my flow as the steps sync into three per breath–my sweet spot. That flow was not shared, the sweetness lost and later I was called out for not being an expert, award winning runner who has never completed an ultra. Always less than.

The demands began the third day where he was frustrated with friends, frustrated with me. I imagine going back to someone who you painted to your friends as a villain would cause discord. The same thing was happening in my life as I avoided my friends and sister too scared that I was wading in toxic sludge. The sludge became thicker and thicker as I was told to apologize for threatening to report child abuse. I wasn’t even entirely sure when this threat occurred outside of naming my observations of developmental delays, selling drugs, alcoholism. Who am I, anyway. I’ve made these mistakes but without children forever frightened to fail as a mother and acutely aware of my own faults at potential parenting having this deficiency used against me in the bitter fights.

There’s always moments that I cling to, when he cried and said he wants help to stop being an abuser. When he apologized and expressed shame for being a narc. But, this came back to him. He was sorry about what he had done to himself and his image as someone who tells on people, unconcerned about the effects of going to my employer and how that might play out in my concerted efforts toward professionalism. I’m towing a thin line, must remain at my best, must be the mandatory reporter, and slowly realize how very much he puts me at risk. At risk to be hurt by him. At risk to get caught up in the drugs and boozing. Smiling and trying to show interest and support of a booze infused river trip. Giving a judgmental glance when another party story is recounted.  Shame, confusion, disappointment.

Get out. Get out. Get out. My heart would beat quickly to these words when the fights ensued about my failure to grovel on my knees to make his life easier. Fights about how knocking on the door for twenty minutes shows care and concern and is completely reasonable and prudent. Fights about missing running, missing my writing group, driving 25 minutes to stare out the back deck at Pagosa Peak asking the mountains to tell me where is my mind in all this. I was too hurt to forgive, too eager to point out how prior acts were emotionally dismissive. Then, I’m attacked for being inadequate, unable to act in a submissive manner. “You know, I just realized we are not equals. You can discipline your body but you can’t discipline your mind.” I’ve got degrees like coats hanging in the closet with other accomplishments that mean nothing in this world. And I feel ridiculous clinging to my past goals.

“You are such a negative bitch. I can’t stand you.” This time the word bitch meant nothing to me. Just another rage fest where projection would be the trip leader rowing down a whitewater river with pour overs, strainers, all kinds of obstacles with potential for danger. I become the bearer of uncomfortable, embarrassing, and annoying emotions. I need to apologize for being negative as I’m told I’m not equal to others. I’m a horrible runner when I crush the hill I’ve been running for weeks. I’m weak in my mind when I’ve achieved a masters–like 8% of the population. There is truth and confusion in everything that it said. I start using manipulative tactics and digs to recover myself and then I question my body, my mind, my heart. I see clearly that I’m wanted for control, to augment something that is missing–compassion, empathy, regret?  And I see clearly how I react in error projecting my own shortcomings–I don’t know much about rivers.  I don’t know much about being in a marriage.  I have my own struggles deep in my heart that were put on blast.  Always a good way to invoke change.

I trace my fingers on collarbones and hip bones. I take in a big whiff of sweat and the subtle smell of wind rubbing shoulders and calves. I came back for this. I came back for vulnerable tears and talks of the future with gardens, rivers, trails, supporting me in my PhD, supporting him in his education. I’ve done wrong by reflecting the behaviors–blaming missing my run on another, refusing to apologize and admit faults, using sharp jabs and questioning every thought and act. I watch my friendships improve, I watch my job performance improve, I watch my trailrunning improve, I watch my yoga following grow. But I can’t seem to get this right. I can’t seem to change in the moment when I’m scared, frustrated, lost in love. And so he left. And so this is a blessing.  I can use my anger as fire to cleanse my own hard stuff.  I can use my negativity to become critical and engaged and I can use my body and mind to climb out of that hole like a crab from a bucket.  And the claws of that other crab can no longer reach me. I am free.

“YOUR ABUSIVE PARTNER DOESN’T HAVE A PROBLEM WITH HIS ANGER; HE HAS A PROBLEM WITH YOUR ANGER.
One of the basic human rights he takes away from you is the right to be angry with him. No matter how badly he treats you, he believes that your voice shouldn’t rise and your blood shouldn’t boil. The privilege of rage is reserved for him alone. When your anger does jump out of you–as will happen to any abused woman from time to time–he is likely to try to jam it back down your throat as quickly as he can. Then he uses your anger against you to prove what an irrational person you are. Abuse can make you feel straitjacketed. You may develop physical or emotional reactions to swallowing your anger, such as depression, nightmares, emotional numbing, or eating and sleeping problems, which your partner may use as an excuse to belittle you further or make you feel crazy.”

― Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men

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