Grieving

So I just popped onto Facebook, in the spirit of procrastinating.

I’m good at that.

I discovered a post from another colleague from my master’s degree program, a colleague who has already published a darn good fiction book. He was promoting the release of a book by a different author. I glanced at her name, the details he provided, and quickly suspected it was another student from that same program. A quick search on Amazon confirmed: North side of Chicago, the beautiful girl with the amazing proposal story and equally amazing ring, the one who came from money, who bought her own condo on a teacher’s salary when I was struggling to pay rent, the one with the custom-made purse from a boutique in Chicago that I was, admittedly, jealous of for YEARS. Yes, that one.

Jealousy sucks, friends.

It might be more than jealousy in my case. Yes, it’s hard for me to understand why she was earmarked to enjoy the same things I do, but who was also given the bank account to do it. Why she was devoted to have a good time and got to continue doing so, while I devoted years to service and got to be someone’s slave. Why do I have these desires, if they’ll never be realized?

That just sounds frivolous and materialistic, but there’s another layer in my heart. Why did she get earmarked for good love, for a community that cares for her, and I apparently get decades of abuse? Why does she get to realize her dream, while I’m here trapped by a family court system without a heart or a brain and years of wasted potential?

I was right there with her…my writing was lauded and encouraged in the program. Why do I get to be the failure?

And then, I peel back another layer of the onion. At the core, I’m really mourning the loss of my youth. Of the good years of my life, of the potential…of joy. Truly admitting what is happening in my marriage means accepting tremendous loss. Tremendous waste. Almost 15 year now…in the dumpster.

Where would I be if my spouse encouraged me instead of mocking me? Where would I be if I had a partner in parenting? Where would I be if someone spoke God’s love into my life, instead of hurt?

Was there a way to learn what I know about God without the pain of the last fourteen years? Maybe not.

But if so, why was I earmarked to be unloved, unseen, and unremarkable? Why was my potential wasted and hers was fulfilled?

Of course, midway down this incredibly unproductive road, something stops me. When you live with a narcissist, even self-pity is difficult. It’s the cornerstone of the narc’s very existence, and one of my great fears is adopting the traits I despise in him.

But still, at the end of the day, I’m grieving. I’m grieving the experience of having real, good love. If I ever manage to extricate myself from this, I realize the likelihood of dying single is quite high. I have to be OK with that.

I’m grieving the girl I was, and the youth I wasted on a man who couldn’t even appreciate what he was given.

I’m grieving the chance the grow old with someone who looks over and still sees the girl I once was, wrinkles and grey hair and all.

I’m grieving the family I wanted to build, and the life I hoped for. I’m grieving the freedom I handed over for a diamond ring.

I’m grieving the childhood I hoped my children would have, and their chances of growing up healthy and whole. I’m grieving the life I might have had, if I’d made better choices.

It’s a lot of loss for one person to process, and I’m not there yet.

In this month of Thanksgiving, I should write a companion blog post about how God has been faithful in spite of the crap. About how I’ve had breakthroughs in the past two years that I never thought possible. About the growth that’s occurred. About how I’ve changed.

But right now, I just want to grieve. Is that OK?