He was punching holes in walls and I was making 911 calls.
(We were holding hands and making jokes and cooking casseroles.)
He swerved off the road screaming "I oughtta kill us both!"
(He massaged my aching neck when we got home.)
There was cursing.
(There was loving.)
There was abusing.
(There was loving.)
There was hurting.
(THERE WAS LOVING.)
There was choosing.
(And I know he chose wrong.)
But it's so confusing.
(My enemy held me all night long.)
And I'm still losing...
(I'm still fighting a war that can never be won.)
But I still love love.
And love is never done.
Reading those words today sends a gross wave of nausea over me.
And also, relief.
Because HOLY CRAP have my feelings changed!
I don't want to invalidate all the heartbreak that 2016 Sarah was feeling in the immediate aftermath of abuse. I don't want to disagree with the fact that she DID feel love for this person who wrecked her life. But, having two years time and the Blue Ridge mountains in between he and I, my approach to the past has changed.
I want to throw up anytime I see the word "love" remotely close to his name.
That was not love.
No matter how many tender moments existed within the chaos - that was not love. He did not love me.
Did I love him?
The answer to that question no longer matters at all. Because I no longer have room in my heart and mind for that question to nestle, like a little bug chewing on a leaf.
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