There are words that form in my mind and travel to my mouth, there they morph into something akin to ash before I can force my mouth open. Once open, they fall silently in invisible shards to my lap then slide to the floor below me. The clutter of them has grown round about my knees. This is how my hurting love drenched in confusing hatred tumbles out of my tormented mind in sharp shards. This is life after divorcing a narcissist.
I am now standing in this place where I am alone. There are sweet friends and family nearby, trying to reach me. But there are all those unsaid words lying like rubble on the ground around me. Even if they wanted to touch me, they have sharp debris to scale. They will be cut with each inch they endeavor to cover. I have no wish for them be pained for me, and I try to reach out. We all end up with cuts and are no closer than when we began.
Is there a way to share what is left of my heart and not betray his? Is there a path that can show me how to tell my story and not tell ours? Is there a way to share my brokenness and not be disrespectful to his privacy? Though he may not care, I do. I always have.
Writing is a way to process the shards weighing down my very soul. There is something to putting words on page that helps them taste less like ash and even elevates some of their weight. Some weight, not all. In this process of trying to un-weight myself with as few deep scathing cuts as possible perhaps I have produced something that can be beneficial to someone else who intimately knows the taste of ash. In no way do I want to bring him into this or defame his name. I have held fast to that from the first time I asked for help. He is his own person and undoubtedly has his own ash to chew. Coming from the same fires, his ash and mind likely taste very similar; but you would have to ask him.
Tasting Ash
Have you ever cleaned out a fireplace? A fire pit? A charcoal grill? If you have, you have tasted ash. What a singular flavor. It dries all moisture from your mouth while causing you salivate uncontrollably. There is an overwhelming smell of old smoke and an urge to remember what exactly was burned in this place.
Emotional ash is very similar. It comes from a place within you that has been burned to nothing and you are trying to clean it out. There is near vomiting experience of both the body and mind. The overwhelming aroma of the past experience that stings your eyes and compels you to relive each moment, each word spoken before it was burned to ash.
The very first Sunday I visited my church, I ate mouthfuls of ash. A sweet woman was merely trying to be polite to me by inquiring about my career and if I had children. For some reason, that day, being asked about children brought ash to my mouth faster than I could swallow. In the space of a few seconds I relived every fight we had ever had about children. I relived single line pregnancy tests. I relived every broken promise. I relieved the day he told that he was never going to let me be a mom. So much ash was choking me. The poor woman in front of me had no idea what I was trying to swallow. Her question was so innocent.
The first time I head our wedding song. Ash. Piles of ash.
The first time turned to ask him what he wanted for lunch, and my passenger seat was empty. Ash filled my mouth and the floorboard of my car.
The first time I reached for him in my sleep and sat up to check on why he was not sleeping next to me. Ash fell from my mouth as I tried to form the words.
The first time my grandma asked me how I was. She is the singular person I can claim to whom I have never lied. I can still claim to have never lied, for when my mouth opened, all that fell in the silence on the couch between our breaking hearts was his flavor of ash.
The first time I saw my Dad. The pain of disappointing this man, this man who is a monument to marriage and being there for your spouse, was gut wrenching. I strangled and gagged on the ash.
The first time I went to a family function, it was only a simple meal at a Mexican Restaurant, but it was so difficult. There were so many inquiring eyes. They all want what is best for me and love me deeply. But all I could produce on my plate next to the rice was ash.
It is the firsts that produce the most ash. As the waves of pain and alone crash over your ears it washes away the ash. One day it is gone. I am not to that day, yet. But I am surrounded by much less ash than I once was.
Ash does not produce a precious gem like coal produces diamonds, however I do feel that I am transforming into some regal creature. I hold my head a little higher, know I am braver. My arms are stronger, having held me together through storms of a magnitude most could not even imagine. My legs are thicker, having held me up under the torrent of pain that crashes in waves higher than any surfer would dream to hang. My eyes are clearer, having seen me though the arrogant, unforgiving and ever-passing calendar. This mythical, regal creature I am becoming is a version of myself I need. I need to know that I can. And this creature, she can. She can face whatever comes and she will withstand, with beauty and grace. All that is missing from this creature is her soul. It is her one flaw. She has allowed it to lie dormant within her chest. Her God aches to carry the loads and deflect the blows she has become so proud to endure. She must wake her sleeping soul, for the true beauty and strength lie with it.
I typed these words slowly over the course of the first 3-6 months after my divorce. They are as raw as my heart once was. And I am honoring the woman who wrote them by leaving them un-edited. The verb tenses are mostly incorrect, now and I have traveled paths of healing I did not even know were possible at the time.
If you find yourself here – know that I was…and I am here now. If you ever need someone who knows the taste of ash, you can always contact me. We can rinse our mouths and hearts together.
Teaching Hands 