As part of my healing, I have to share part of my story.
My loss of innocence came when I was twenty and still a newlywed. My husband, Doug ("Doc"), a combat medic, was killed in action in Vietnam in September of 1969. I was not able, or I didn't know how, to put into words what that was like, even to those closest to me.
Several months passed and whenever I needed to talk about how I felt and brought it up, I was gently encouraged to “let it go” and told “it was time to move forward, get back into living”. Looking back, this would have been the time to get therapy. Instead, I was constantly burying my feelings and emotions.
More months passed and eventually, I took everyone’s advice and refused to face my feelings at all. I wrote letters to airlines and was accepted by TWA as a flight attendant.
I moved from the safety of my family’s home and Ohio hometown to San Francisco. I think part of me thought by moving away, I could escape the pain I was unable to cope with.
For a while, I continued to wear my wedding ring, which often brought negative questions and comments from those I met. So I took off my ring and locked it in a jewelry box —I learned not to talk about him, or about how I felt, because it hurt too much and because no one wanted to listen, especially anyone who was anti-war.
One night I had even given up hope. I was feeling really low. I hurt inside and I decided I didn't want to feel anything, not ever again. I drove to a beach, parked my car, and calmly walked out into the ocean.
A couple walking on the beach saw me and dragged me out of the water. They refused to leave, until I had stopped sobbing. They made me promise to get help in the morning and they watched as I drove away.
I knew I wouldn't be able to talk about it, so I ignored the promise. I wouldn’t talk about this again to anyone — ever. Later that same year, I met a Marine Lt. freshly home from Vietnam. His MOS had been transportation, but what he had experienced in country disturbed him.
While we dated, I encouraged him to talk about his tour in Nam and I listened as it all poured out. I could easily relate to much of what he shared: the anti-war atmosphere, the memories, emotions, and the loss of several brothers in Nam (survivor guilt).
Later we were married, but I learned soon after it was a mistake. I also needed to talk about the worst experience in my life. He saw my need to talk differently. He said he wouldn’t compete with a ghost. I assured him I only wanted him to be there for me, to listen to what I had been through and how it had affected my life. But he refused.
Though I knew in my heart it would never work, I wasn’t raised to be a quitter, so I set my jaw, determined to make it work. I stopped bringing up my issues and did my best to bury them. I knew I was distancing myself, I could feel it. And although I hid everything, it was still there -- I could feel that, too. Whenever it came to the surface, I shoved it back, and each time it came again, it was worse.
By year seven, I was raising three daughters, ages 1, 3, and 5. They were the light and the entire focus of my life and I poured my love into them.
One night, I had a dream:
The doorbell rang. I opened the door and Doug was standing there, a tan jacket over his shoulder, and the teasing smile I loved so much to see.
"Hey, Babe. C'mon, you ready? Grab your jacket, let's go."
I remember no hesitation in the excitement of seeing him. I threw my arms around him in a hug and as I turned to get my jacket, there were my three little girls, looking up at me in wide-eyed innocence. Like a knife in the chest, I felt pain and an overwhelming sadness.
As I looked from their faces to Doug in the doorway, then back at them, I woke up drenched in sweat.
The dream haunted my days and intruded into my nights for months, until I finally broke down and told my husband about it. He said I was crazy, or contemplating suicide. I wasn't sure myself what the dream meant, only that I would never choose to leave my daughters -- him maybe, but them, never.
During the next nine years, I distanced myself further. I stopped talking about the dream. It was buried with everything else I wasn't supposed to feel, or talk about.
Then something happened that broke me. My mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She and daddy were the life anchors I always thought would be there. Mama's diagnosis weighed heavily on me, until my fiercely guarded control finally unraveled.
When my husband came home from work that evening, I was unable to speak, or do anything, except shake uncontrollably. He was shouting that I was crazy and I was in the middle of a nervous breakdown.
The next morning, I found a therapist. Over the next year, I had two sessions per week, and I learned I wasn't crazy. Through therapy, I broke down the walls I had built for self-protection. I learned you can't run away from grief. You bring it with you no matter how far you go, or how deeply you bury it.
To heal, I had to face my fear of feeling. In the therapist's office, I found I could safely talk about everything I had buried for so long with no repercussions, and no fear of judgement.
I was encouraged to vent the anger I felt guilty about; anger towards God for allowing this to happen; anger towards Doug for leaving me; and the burgeoning rage at my present husband for not allowing me to talk about my own PTSD.
Most important of all, I learned it was okay to have those feelings. They were all normal and necessary stages of grief that I had not gone through when I should have --and until I did, nothing would change.
I also learned it takes two people to make a marriage work. I could set my jaw with all the determination in the world to make it work, but unless both people are willing to do that together, a marriage cannot survive.
We were like oil and water. Each is good separately, but put the two together and they will never mix.
After twenty years, I filed for divorce.
CJ, you are truly a Writer of the People. Practically everything I've read of yours has struck a chord or rang a bell of remembrance within me. This most recent poignant story of love and loss, unexpressed grief that never goes away until dealt with properly...all brought home yet another memory for me. Back in 1988, I was sitting in an empty Burger King near my Chicago Apt., having coffee and studying for a massage therapy anatomy exam when an elderly woman in outdated clothing walked right past me and said hello. So, of course, I said hello back. She stopped and we got to talking while she remained standing. I don't know if it was the way she dressed, but I had a feeling she was living in her own "other world" that was quite far away from the reality that surrounded her. She said she was widowed and the way she spoke of her husband and their relationship, I could see that they'd had a long, happy marriage, and it was still very much a part of her daily consciousness. Finally, I asked her when her husband died and she said--"1945, just 3 months before the damn war ended. He couldn't hold out for just 90 more days." Now I could see why she looked so tired and "shopworn"--she'd been carrying a very heavy load of grief for 43 years and thought of it as natural as carrying a sack of groceries 5 miles home from the store. ~~ I'm very happy that you were not so terminally afflicted as that poor woman and wish she could have gotten the clinical therapy and support that you were able to finally find for yourself after 20+ years. I think the insensitivity you found from so many people is due to the simple fact that the kind of love you and your husband shared (which I read about in a previous post) is quite rare, indeed, and went way beyond what most people are satisfied to think of as "love." They put themselves in your shoes but with their much smaller horizons and can't understand why someone would "carry a torch for so long when you are so pretty and so many fine young men would be...blah-blah-blah"