I remember the safety of life on the other side. I remember telling myself divorce would never happen to me, statistics be damned. I remember how I’d listen to sermons about marriage, read books that seemed to have all the answers, and think it was something that would happen to “other” people. But me? I was safe.

It turns out that my first marriage was off the rails, for years even, without me knowing. And when I thought we had a chance to get better, it ended abruptly. “I love you, but we have to get a divorce.” And when I pleaded for a reason or a chance,
“It’s just not going to work. I loved her more than I ever loved you.”

It was a revelation that seared down in the pit of my stomach and made me feel unstable and anxious. But, in another way, that was that, more than a decade of togetherness down the drain. There wasn’t turning back.

For a short period, I wanted to know why and when and exactly how. And after some prodding, I eventually learned the infidelity I learned about years before was isolated not in to one person, one incident, one year, or even a single continent. And also that it had never stopped.

I’d chosen forgiveness the first time I’d found out. I’d believed reassurances. I was sure we could come back from it all. But then he chose a trip overseas, again and immediately, perhaps to escape from the consequences of it all, and I had so few calls. And then there was a deployment. And I kept all the hurt close to the vest as I lay in bed at night recoloring every memory in light of this new information. You can sure take a blow dealt at the hand of someone else and, left unchecked, hurt yourself much worse.

After the trips were done and we had precious few weeks at home, I learned that it was far too late, not just then, but probably years ago.

I still fight resentment when someone asks me to speculate about the situation. I see this version of myself in them, real or imagined, that wants to know the “why” so they can tell themselves they’re safe from that sort of hurt. I also don’t have a single prayer of answering for my then-spouse’s actions. Nor do I believe anyone has been tempted to ask him the same question. “Why did you cheat on your wife? Why did you leave her?” aren’t comfortable questions. So for some reason, people seemed to make me responsible for the answers. “What happened?” “Why?” “How could he?”

Ironically, I’d spent years taking on a disproportionate amount of responsibility. Every crisis was mine to solve. Every mess was mine to clean. The house was mine alone to repair. The bills were mine to pay.

And now it only worsened. Was it because I’d gained 20 lbs from my trim size 2? Was it because I was always exhausted after work? Was it because I was becoming anxious and lonely after years of deployments and trips and dared ask for more? I remember asking why restoring our marriage wasn’t worth one single date or gift or counseling session. For a period, what I did to “deserve” it consumed me.

I remember picturing him with other people. I remember vividly showering again and again to try to wash away the feeling of being unclean. It was beneath my skin, festering and crawling. But all I could do was sit. I remember trying to pinpoint the moment when it broke.

The truth in time has become apparent: there is not purpose for me in learning these answers. Apart from asking for forgiveness for some imagined, grave sin, there is only hurt in store.

If I was funnier, kinder, more alluring, more exciting, wittier, more talented, could it have been different? Maybe. But I don’t believe my highest calling should have been to cram myself into a mold shaped like someone my ex husband could love.

In fact, the deeper work looking back is to recognize the self betrayals of my life. And they are myriad.

I remember meekly reaching out for reassurances. Imagining I was just insecure.

I remember when things got worse and my reaching out got bigger,
“I feel like you’re using me as stepping stone.”
“It seems like you’re slipping through my hands.”
“I feel tossed aside.”
“I don’t think you love me.”

Every reassurance I received in response painted a picture for me that I must be crazy. I’d dismiss my feelings, tuck my head in the sand, and endure the pain all while pretending it was in my head.

And then, when I learned about infidelity for the first time, I only continued on my self-flagellation quest.

I had to keep it secret, of course, to keep him from looking bad.

I had to pray for restoration of the marriage and couldn’t leave, of course, because I had been told that’s what the most faithful Christians must do.

I remember the pain forming a tight knot in my stomach and never being able to shake it. I remember dreaming in my despair that I would float through the cold night and lay myself down on a highway, gently, and perhaps be hit by the mercy of a passing car.

I remember reaching out and admitting that I was deeply depressed and not getting a call or text back. Apathy. Silence.

And when he left, I tried to so hard to find forgiveness in everyone I spoke to. How could I explain it wasn’t my choice without becoming a gossip? How could I tell everyone the shiny, handsome, heroic guy didn’t actually love me at all, especially when they knew I so loved him?

I did the things you do if you’re very lucky. I spent money on therapy. I told my story to kind friends. I got honest and was loved in return.

And to my shock, no one who mattered heaped guilt on our judged me.

In fact, they shared my hurts, they lifted me up, and they told me I had been worthy all along.

And then, one day, shortly after we’d signed paperwork legally disolving the one-sided union, I felt sun on my face. I felt that rather than being forced to stay in the cage-like secrecy I’d determined was mine to bear forever, I’d been set free.

I hadn’t cheated. I hadn’t left. I was punishing myself. But I could lay that down.

I was free to say, “No.”

I was empowered to say, “I don’t like that.”

I was allowed to back away from things and people who didn’t feel good again.

“Grin and bear it” no longer had to be my personal compass.

I didn’t have to answer when he checked in.

I didn’t have to carry the weight of fixing the marriage on my own.

I didn’t even have to return a text if I didn’t feel like it.

I didn’t even have to stay angry. I could sincerely forgive through the grace of God, wish all the best, and walk forward with confidence in Christ.

I could accept the mercy of being the person who was hurt instead of the person doing the hurting. What a marvelous grace.

I have read and been told that God hates divorce. But as someone who is not a theologian, I thank Him for the mercy of mine. And I believe it saved my life.

I have sympathy for the version of me who walked through those things. I know her intimately, but I am not her any longer.

I can say what I want. I can voice my hurts. I can ask for what I need.

More than anything, I have the confidence of looking back and saying, “That thing I thought would kill me? It didn’t. I can do hard things. God will carry me again.”

I am not afraid of the next hard thing. I’m not embarrassed by what I’ve walked through. I’m not angry at the person who hurt me.

Today, I am free.