Lonely Memories

I find it interesting that the most unassuming things can suddenly trigger the most vivid memories of my betrayal. That has happened to me multiple times this year.

The Loneliness

Recently on my way home, I drove past the old location where my church used to meet. It was only a split second that I saw it, but suddenly seeing that location brought back at least a year of memories of how much pain I was in while we were going to church there.

My first and most prominent memory was how unbearably lonely I felt while attending our first few services there. We just moved to the area only weeks ago, we knew very few people, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to anyone there about my betrayal. I was reeling so much from the last D-day that happened. I remember sitting in the back row next to friends that my husband has known since high school, friends that knew nothing about us. I remember struggling to hold back tears while singing hymns that were supposed to praise God and uplift my soul. During the sermons that I wasn’t in any mental state to listen to, I remember praying silently to God, “Lord, I know it’s not your will for me to survive this life, but right now it’s all I can do.” And I remember feeling like a wallflower after the service, wishing someone, anyone, would walk up to my corner and ask me if I’m okay. Not a “What’s up, Wendy?” or even a “How are you?”. But a genuinely concerned “Wendy, are you ok?” with a sincere interest in my answer. I would have given an honest one if even one person took the time to ask.

Sure, I could have just volunteered that information. Sure, I could have just started opening up. After all, how does anyone know I need help if I don’t speak up? But that’s extremely difficult to do for a betrayed spouse because you don’t always know who’s safe to talk to, and who’s not. My trust was so broken, I didn’t know who was trustworthy enough to open up to. I’ve tried opening up to the wrong people before, and they’ve looked at me like I have something growing out of my ears. They weren’t bad people, they just didn’t know what to do with the information I’ve just dumped on them. They did nothing, in shock, and I was left feeling really embarrassed about the whole interaction. So that’s why I’ve felt a need to just keep it to myself until someone safer comes along. Do you realize what a difficult place this is to be? I desperately wanted to open up to someone, but I wasn’t comfortable doing that with just any warm body. Hence, a lonely place to be.

The First Boundary

Another memory I had was when I set one of my first boundaries, if this particular boundary could be called that. One Saturday night, my husband wanted to cuddle with me before bed, and he was offended when I told him I didn’t want to. After yet another night of silently crying myself to sleep, we drove to church the next morning, and parked in the parking lot of this very location. He was quite slow to leave the car, which is how he typically acts when something is weighing heavily on his mind. Knowing full well what it was, I said, with tears in my eyes, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to deal with your own feelings about last night, because I’m too busy dealing with mine. I’m still on this emotional rollercoaster right now, and I just want off.” He shed a few tears in that moment too. That preceding night might have been one of the first times I said “No” to my husband. I walked out of the car before he did, allowing him to process that alone. I remember walking up to the front door, hoping the greeter won’t notice my heavy-hearted disposition and slightly damp eyes.

The Bench

And last winter, I was biking on a nature trail, and I passed by this bench on the side of the path:

I would often shed tears over my betrayal even as I was biking. But this bench, out of the blue, reminded me of one afternoon while biking home from work. On this afternoon, I was crying so much that I had to pull over, sit on this very bench, and let the tears flow as they willed. Even as I look at this photo now, I’m picturing myself on that bench, with my bike laying on the ground. The day I did that looked much like this. It was sunny, with a blanket of snow covering everything, and the trail was as lonely as I was. Bike trails do not get many visitors in the winter.

Betrayed spouse, if you have such memories of your own, do not try to avoid them. Welcome them when they find you. Sit with them. Cry with them. I’m shedding a few tears even as I write this. Introduce them to trusted friends. If there’s anything to be gleaned by the memories I’ve just shared with you, is that the worst place to be is in the company of loneliness. Invite trusted people into such spaces, and soon the loneliness will fade away. The more you share them, the easier it gets. And one day, you’ll find that the memories you’ve shared have made an impact on someone. It may have helped someone gain more compassion for you and understand your betrayal better. It may have validated someone’s experience, and helped them realize they’re not alone. It may have even planted some kind of seed in the unprepared bystander’s mind, introducing them to that kind of pain. Either way, if you’re in this lonely place that I found myself in, I promise you: the safe, trustworthy people will come. There are people out there that can hold your pain. And God most certainly can, too.