You stood in the middle of our bedroom, fully dressed, wearing the coat I bought you five years ago. As you shifted from foot to foot, rubbing your forehead, looking around the room and to me in the bed, I wondered what was inspiring the nervous dance. I contemplated mentioning that next winter we should get you a new coat, because that would have been an easy thing to say. Instead I said, “Hon, are you OK?”
You replied, “Yeah.”
I said, “Are you planning on going out? I see you have your coat on.”
You said, “No.”
Your face contorted, your chin dropped, you began to cry. It wasn’t a sob. It was the type of tears that are bittersweet because from them flow both joy and grief.
You said, “I am not going anywhere. For the first time in my life, I feel like I am home. I have never felt home, ever.”
You went on to say you just wanted to sit in our house, on our couch, and that you wanted to paint.
With tears still streaming down your face, you said, “What color do you want this room to be?”
I remember early in our relationship listening to the stories of your childhood and recognizing the similarities to mine. But you were not yet at the place in your journey where you could say, “He molested me.”
Throughout our struggles as a couple, I watched you battle with allowing yourself to reveal the facts. Over the years, I listened as you added description to the details when they unexpectedly were in the forefront of your mind. And even though I wanted to so badly, I would not say it for you.
I was by your side the night you said the words. I was relieved and wanted to rush you off to therapy with my library of books on the subject of healing stuffed in your suitcase. I wanted to celebrate and I wanted to die--for you.
This is your journey. It’s beautiful. I am honored to be your witness.
Now go on and heal.