We walked arm in arm against the wind, our limbs held so tightly as if we were bound together. The sun of early May was bright in front of us, while the breeze was harsh and cold with remnants of April in its breath. He walked tall and strong, but his eyes gave away his pain. Our eyes are always giving us away.
The path we walked was muddy and worn, lined by cherry blossom trees leaving their delicate scent with us as we went. It occurred to me that this is how it has felt the past month: like trudging through thick and unrelenting earth, with moments of sweetness pulling us onward. The exposing of our core issues is good, ultimately. But it can feel like the total opposite for a time. It can feel like the worst kind of drowning, where everyone and everything you love is there waiting for you at the surface, but the darkness below is all you’ve ever really known.
I said to him, “At some point, we have to acknowledge our wounds for what they are and how they are affecting us and everyone around us. I have done this. I know. I keep doing it and still get blindsided at times. Everyone’s path is different, but for me, recovery was not only a way for me to stop blaming other people, but it also taught me to take my power back. I could see how the events of my life served me—no matter what they were.”
He said to me, “I need so much work—a complete overhaul. But then sometimes it feels easier. Sometimes it feels like happiness is a choice.”
“Yes.” I leaned in and kissed his shoulder. “Sometimes that feels too simplistic to me, though. I think healing is a choice.”
“The man you all deserve is in here somewhere,” he declared, half-confident, half-sad.
I turned to him and smiled, thinking of his path and mine. “At this point, all I know is that I am willing to learn from my life. I’m making that sound super easy and positive, but it isn’t. For me, it’s not about you being good enough for us. It’s about you making that choice for growth for yourself. I see the real you, even if you don’t. It doesn’t mean that I can make your decisions for you, though. That’s up to you.”
He nodded wordlessly and pulled me closer to him, helping me avoid a puddle.
It’s hard to believe that someone who pushes you away actually wants to be held. It’s hard to believe that love beats strong, overwhelmingly so, within a chest clenched so tight beneath crossed and defiant arms. He is no different than I. He wants love just as I do. He straddles self-awareness and fear of what healing holds. It leaves him raw and nervous and, in his mind, alone.
“I want to get better,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “I don’t want to blame.”
“That’s a choice for love, sweet man,” I uttered reassuringly. “That’s the miracle.”
We reached the end of the path, and my son ran up behind us, pointing out a busted-out stone wall to the north of us.
“What do you think happened?” he asked innocently.
Without skipping a beat, this man beside me said: “Oh, this is where I come to take out all my Hulk aggression. I use those walls like a punching bag and come home as peaceful as can be.”
My son laughed and ran off ahead of us.
I giggled too. “How sweet would that be, eh? Just take all that difficult emotion inside you and hulk it out.”
He winked. “Doll, that would solve all my problems.”
**originally written Spring 2017
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