15-05-2021-052358It-Ends-with-Us

“When you ran after me last night, I swear I had no intention of
hurting you. I was upset and angry. And sometimes when I feel that
much emotion, something inside of me just snaps. I don’t remember
the moment I pushed you. But I know I did. I did. All I was thinking
when you were running after me was how I needed to get away from
you. I wanted you out of my way. I didn’t process that there were stairs
around us. I didn’t process my strength compared to yours. I fucked
up, Lily. I fucked up.”
He lowers his mouth to my ear. His voice cracks when he says, “You
are my wife. I’m supposed to be the one who protects you from the
monsters. I’m not supposed to be one.” He holds me with so much
desperation, he begins to shake. I have never, in all my life, felt so
much pain radiating from one human.
It breaks me. It rips me apart from the inside out. All my heart
wants to do is wrap tightly around his.
But even with everything he just told me, I’m still fighting my own
forgiveness. I swore I wouldn’t let it happen again. I swore to him and
to myself that if he ever hurt me again, I would leave.
I pull away from him, unable to look him in the eye. I walk toward
my bedroom to try and take a moment to just catch my breath. I close
my bathroom door behind me and grip the sink, but I can’t even
stand up. I end up sliding to the floor in a heap of tears.
This isn’t how this was supposed to be. My whole life, I knew
exactly what I’d do if a man ever treated me the way my father treated
my mother. It was simple. I would leave and it would never happen
again.
But I didn’t leave. And now, here I am with bruises and cuts on my
body at the hands of the man who is supposed to love me. At the
hands of my own husband.
And still, I’m trying to justify what happened.
It was an accident. He thought I was cheating on him. He was hurt and
angry and I got in his way.
I bring my hands to my face and I sob, because I feel more pain for
that man out there, knowing what he went through as a child, than I
feel for myself. And that doesn’t make me feel selfless or strong. It
makes me feel pathetic and weak. I’m supposed to hate him. I’m
supposed to be the woman my mother was never strong enough to be.