According to my husband, I spend too much money on Amazon, and for once, I had to agree. I blame it on COVID, like all the other not-so-great habits we picked up and some not-so-bad ones, too. “Since COVID, I haven’t been able to…. When COVID hit, I… bought groceries online, and now I can’t stop….started drinking more… stopped going to church… stopped exercising… started exercising more… stopped going out… started writing….” COVID has been blamed for the reason we are doing whatever we are doing.
My Amazon purchases were so bad that the driver became accustomed to delivering packages to my house; if a neighbor ordered something on Amazon, they would automatically assume it was for me. I had to constantly redeliver Amazon boxes to our neighbors because they were mistakenly delivered to my home. I do not recall ever receiving one of my missing packages from a neighbor. Apparently, karma only works one way on our street, and I just want my slippers!
One morning, after unboxing a delivery, I stepped out into the garage to dispose of the garbage. As I stepped off the bottom step, I landed right on what I thought was fallen debris, perhaps an Amazon box. It felt firm under my foot, which left me a little confused. When I turned around, I realized I had stepped onto a snake. This snake was about 3 feet long and 3 inches in circumference. It was a fatty. Later, I would learn it was just a harmless water snake. I jumped back and screamed. Remembering what my kids said about me whenever I yelled at them.
“Mom, you can’t yell, we can’t take you serious.”
Yelling and screaming weren’t things that came natural to me, and according to them and the snake, it didn’t sound right either. The snake looked confused, acting like it wanted to slither away. I stood motionless as well. I looked at the creature blocking the entrance to my door. The door was still open. Now I am afraid the dog might have heard my scream and come to see what was going on. Then I started to worry that my 14-year-old would come to investigate too.
At this point, my mom instincts kicked in, and I stopped screaming because I do not want them to be in harm’s way. I stand there, staring at the snake, it lying there, staring back at me. I move left; it moves left. I move right; it moves right. I move forward; it moves backward. It is like one of those moments when you and a stranger are trying to get through the same entrance, but neither of you is sure which way or which side the other will choose, and you keep choosing the same way.
I want to run into the house, but in front of the steps lies a humongous snake. I want to run outside the garage, but the path between me, the car, and the snake is far too narrow to chance it. So I start waving my arms in the “shooing” manner to encourage it to go outside. Instead of going outside, it decided to slither around the steps and coil up under the mop bucket left there earlier in the week to dry.
I immediately called my husband, “I just stepped on a snake in the garage, and I have my Chacos on.”
“What?”
“I just fucking stepped on a snake in the garage with open-toed sandals, and it is still in here!” I said, emphasizing each word.
He, hearing the panic in my voice, jumped in his truck, drove down from the shop, and took care of the snake.
This is one of those life-changing moments that alter the way you live your life. I’ve had a few of those moments, like when a giant wolf spider was in my slipper while I was trying to put it on. Like when there was a huge King snake on our back deck, mind you, this deck sits elevated about 8-10 feet off the ground, so I’m still trying to figure out how he got there. And then there was the time my husband found a copperhead in the garage on MY side of the car.
Fear doesn’t fix you; it just teaches you to move differently through the world. The Amazon boxes still arrive. But now I never walk into the garage without looking down. I shake out my slippers, scan the deck, and check every corner. COVID gave me one set of compulsions; a three-foot water snake gave me another.
Is it possible to have the marriage of your dreams? Are you a husband wishing you were appreciated? A wife wishing you felt loved? What if I told you that true love and soulmates can and do exist? Would you roll your eyes? That’s what I did when people mentioned it.
I remember doing a cleaning estimate in the home of an elderly couple, Elsie and Jim. I always asked our potential clients to walk us from room to room and tell us what they expect, and I would, in turn, tell them what we would do as I would reach up and rub a finger across the top of the door frame, checking to see how much dust was up there. I had a notebook and a pen, writing down each room we entered and anything I noted, and anything they specifically mentioned. It was a modest home in an older neighborhood that was once home to the upper middle class. The home’s original layout was smaller, with add-ons like a step-down den with an attached, closed-in sunroom. The trees no longer let the sun in. The furniture and decor were what you would expect for someone in their 80’s. Their house was not dirty by any stretch of the imagination, but they were not able to keep up with the cleaning, as their eyes and muscles just were not up to the task. Elsie was walking us from room to room, explaining what she expected and asking if we did certain things. She went on to tell me how she found out about us, which ensured her a discount. When we reached the formal living room, we found metal sculptures throughout the space. Unique and clearly custom-made. Elsie could see I was looking at them with intrigue. I always like creativity, and she began to boast about how Mr. Jim had handcrafted them. She was so proud of these unusual, out-of-style, out-of-character art pieces.
“Jim had a welding hobby, making ornamental iron and porch rails. Every time he would do a project, he would make me a sculpture and bring it home. I told him he had to stop making them because I was running out of room. But it sure is the sweetest thing.”
I looked up. She was right, she didn’t have room for any more. When she told me of the ways he showed her love, I had to admit I was a little jealous, seeing as I was married to a self-centered, non-affectionate man. There were never birthday cards, anniversary cards, or even Valentine’s. No, those were holidays for him to have a rage because he felt like I expected him to do something, and since I expected it, he refused. I didn’t receive anything on any other day of the year, either.
“Wow, that is so cool! How long have you guys been married?”
“Sixty years.”
When I heard those words, I stopped and felt like something pushed me back. How? That is more years than I had been alive, and I was surprised. I could not recall knowing anyone else who had been married that long. My parents were approaching 50 years of marriage. How in the world can you be with and live with someone that long? There is no way. One of us might kill the other first, and I was sure he’d be the one to do it to me.
She immediately answered without hesitation, “I married my best friend.”
That was that. Nothing more.
I hope she could not see the cynicism in my response,
“Oh, that’s awesome.”
But boy, did it get me thinking. Really? Are you telling me you guys actually like each other? That is incredible, and oh my god. We are doomed. I can’t stand him, and he can’t stand me. Friends? Absolutely not. Whenever there was a fight, he would announce, “I am not your enemy,” but it sure felt like he was. If he wasn’t my enemy, and he wasn’t my friend, then what was he? What would you call it?
We definitely were NOT best friends, and we were struggling to be friends, but more like acquaintances. I could not stand being around him; we had nothing in common. We were complete opposites. Whoever said opposites attract failed to add “misery.” Opposites attract misery. I desperately wanted to marry my best friend, but that had long since left the table. I do not remember a single moment we were friends. The closest we came was that my best friend and his best friend were siblings, and we were friends through friends.
After that meeting, I determined to do my best to make my husband my best friend. But how do you do that? Quick disclaimer: You don’t. I will spare you the sickening ways I tried because this particular article is not about my ex.
“Mom, you need to start dating.”
It was good to hear those words. I was afraid of what my kids might think when they found out that I was on a dating app. Yes, I used a dating app because I had been so sheltered that I had no idea how to meet people. And I was not interested in going to bars. I had long left the formal setting of church, and quite honestly, I was not interested in getting back into religious control. I wanted to stay as far away from “god-fearing-church-going men” (read my other memoir material, and you’ll understand why).
During my divorce, I kept Natasha Bedingfield’s songs “Soulmate” and “Unwritten” on repeat. Those were my jam. I played them over and over. They were a lifeline to me.
I purchased a membership to the Zoosk Dating App, figuring that if I used the paid version, it would weed out the guys looking for a booty call. On the app, you can check boxes of what kind of person you do or do not want. Then they would show you a photo and a little bio. It wasn’t too hard to narrow it down. I was certainly aware of what I did not like. And I was exploring ideas of what I did want. I did not want to be with someone in my own town, but left it open just in case. My parents live 2 hours away, so I was hoping for a guy nearby them.
I put in my bio that I was not looking for a marriage or long-term commitment. I just wanted adult companionship, someone to hang out with occasionally. There were two guys from Crosset. One of them had a son, and he made it clear he was looking for a mother for his boy. He was a love bomber and came on so fast and furious that it made me sick. It was too much, too soon, so I stopped conversations with him quickly. The other guy in Crosset had a working relationship with his ex and never wanted to leave her in the first place. It was apparent he was still in love with her, and I sure did not want to start a love triangle. There was the guy in El Dorado who wanted someone a little younger, a party girl. He was not my type at all. And then there was the guy who took me on my first date after the divorce. I do not remember where he was from or what his name was. I don’t recall any of their names, for that matter. Our date included Geocaching and dinner. He was a dirt bike rider, and although he was kind, we had nothing in common. We agreed to keep in touch, but we both knew we wouldn’t, and didn’t.
I did not get discouraged, as I kept seeing the face of this guy from Hot Springs. There was something about him that intrigued me; he looked like a Guru. Maybe it was his profile picture. He was squatting in a field of pansies, yet his face was fierce, not threatening. It was confident. I thought, if a man is willing to take a photo in a field of flowers, he must be pretty harmless. So we started a conversation in the app. We had several things in common, including poetry. The only thing that scared me about him was that the church still had a place in his life. I wasn’t opposed to church, but it had to be the right one.
We never spoke on the phone. Our entire conversation was via text on the Zoosk app. This went on for a few weeks, maybe a month, then he finally asked me for a date. It was arranged that he would pick me up at my parents’ house (neutral ground) while they watched my kids. I drove up after a hard day of cleaning houses, exhausted and nervous. When he announced he was on his way, I took a shot of tequila to calm my nerves.
The text came in, “I’m here.” I went outside, and he hopped out of his big white Ford F150. I had no idea what to expect. Zoosk had been our only form of communication.
Here he was, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt with boots, bald, not nearly as tall as my ex, thank god. And cute. Wow, was he way better looking in person than on the app. And his eyes were slate blue like water. His blue shirt made them pop.
I chuckled inside when I heard his voice for the first time. He had such a southern accent.
He opened my door as I climbed up into the truck. It was nice to have someone plan everything for me. I do not think I ever had that, not in the last 24 years for sure! He would not stop staring at me. He kept saying I had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
He found a parking spot downtown, and we walked to Rolandos, where he insisted we start with the top-shelf margaritas, claiming theirs were the best in town. We talked and talked. It was as if we had known each other our entire lives. There were no awkward moments of silence. Each sentence went on to the next. When we felt we had outstayed our welcome at the restaurant, we walked downtown for a bit. It was misting, so he held an umbrella over both of us while I linked my arm in his.
We decided to stop in the Bathhouse Brewery for a beer and more talk. Being with him felt right, comfortable, normal. I was so comfortable in his presence that I even set my hand on his leg while we were talking. He understood me, he listened. And I got him and hung on every word. Some would say we bonded over our similar traumas, and maybe we did. But we also had the same life goals. We had a lot in common and a few things that weren’t. But the things we did not have in common were what made us individuals. And I learned he was not as active in church as he had put on the app., which was a relief.
Since he was driving, we decided to cash out and head back to my folks’ house to continue our conversation in the driveway. I didn’t want to get out, nor did he. Since I had worked all day, I fell asleep while we listened to one of his favorite songs. He woke me, and we decided to call it a night.
He once again hopped out and opened my door, such a gentleman. When we kissed goodnight, his lips were trembling. It made me smile. He felt like such a virgin. He was fresh out of a 20-year marriage with 3 kids, so I knew he wasn’t. But his sweet innocence was a delight.
He picked me up for lunch the next day, and our conversations picked up where we left off in the truck.
And here we are, ten years later, and I can honestly say I found my soulmate and married my best friend.
It wasn’t until I went on that date with my husband that I saw a future friend. I can say without hesitation that he is my best friend. There is something so different about being married to your best friend.
You’re friends because you have things in common and can sense what the other person is feeling and thinking. You care about their feelings, and they care about yours. And if you accidentally hurt them, you will apologize. You enjoy each other’s company.
I now understand what else Elsie meant when she said she married her best friend. They’re your support system, and you’re theirs.
Reflection is resurrection!
I fell in love with a stare into those green eyes, then a smile that turned into a comfortable laugh, washing away the nerves of newness.
Then… when we danced and swayed in each other’s loving arms as we found each other.
I fell in love with the placid lake, colored blue eyes that caught my gaze, and a tender gentleness of spirit as I listened to you from across the table.
Your hand that reassured mine when I reached for your arm. The laughs and giggles… The quivering lips that kissed me goodnight.
I fell in love with a woman I could embrace with my quivering lips …
…at The Baker … you made love to me so tenderly, while looking into my eyes the entire time.
I won’t forget the beautiful woman across the table, trying Irish beers, or the face of my love, smelling the roses.
I won’t forget a man casting a voodoo wish behind a screen and kissing me in the rain.
I won’t forget us being the only two on Bourbon Street kissing, while it was raining!
I won’t forget how you held my hand the whole time when I had hurt you… Yet, you still reassured me of your love.
That’s because I’ve loved you ever since the day I said it.
I think you loved me before you said it.
And you?
I fell in love with you the first time our eyes met.
Reflection is resurrection! Plaster it on the palette of your life
Sometimes our written words pierce louder than any voice spoken.
True. Sometimes they’re easier to go back and reflect on because they are tangible.
A Poem we wrote to each other reflecting on a few memorable dates.
Beep-beep-beep-beep, I hear the constant noise of a business just one mountain over from us. We often tell our guests that sound carries in this valley, and that is no lie. Today, it seems as though the breeze is bringing the sound my way. Du-du-du, mingling with the clank-ety clank of engines pushing and scraping. Another engine chugs to life. Beep-du-beep. It’s all day long.
My view, however, is textbook. The steep, not-so-gentle slope of the hill coming off our back patio dips ever downward into an overgrown brushy area of trees and leaves where deer often like to bed down. In the distance, I hear a man yell a sound that I cannot make out. Beeping and engines continue.
In front of me, dry leaves lay fallen. Winter’s blanket for the ground, our rocky soil welcomes the nourishment, chirps and cheeps, then the dee-dee-dee of a Chickadee. Walking out, I spooked the doves, hoping they would come back when they realized I was no threat. I love when winter delays its cold slap across the cheek. Mornings like this make the season bearable.
Deet-deet-deet, another machine’s noise, but that one beep above all will not stop. I try to tune it out, trying to focus on the chickadee and the titmouse and the occasional crow with the hawk. That relentless beep with its piercing signal, I see red. I can imagine there is a red light attached to the top of whatever is making that beeping noise. The cathedral chime plays in the key of C, humming, switching octaves as the gentle breeze passes by.
Woodpecker calls to the chickadee, wondering why I’m here. I guess I came to listen to the business over the mountain, because beyond that, it’s hard to listen to anything else. The thing about the industry over the hill is that it isn’t even in my backyard. It doesn’t pertain to me. But the call of the birds, they are here, they are in my yard, in my trees. They pertain to me.
Isn’t that just like us? We want to focus on what’s happening around and beyond us, things that have nothing to do with us, because sometimes they’re louder and more evident than what actually matters. Sometimes, those things cause us more distress and keep us from enjoying the little things right in front of us. The birds and squirrels ignore the background noise; maybe we could learn from them.
A squirrel is hopping at the bottom of the hill, unfazed. Caw-caw-caw, says the crow. I hear the hum of the hot tub turning back on, working to keep the water at an ideal temperature. The breeze switches directions, proudly reminding me that it is winter, after all. Dark clouds peek over the mountain, shoving the sun to the side.
The beep of that business is the kind of sound they use to torture people, relentless, shrill, designed to drive you insane. Someone’s dog in the distance barks. Leaves rustle as the squirrel jumps, skips, and hops. What an enjoyable sight.
I take a swig of my lukewarm coffee and ponder:
If I didn’t mind missing the aviary conversations, I might wear headphones next time.
My all-time favorite vehicle does not exist. I have searched and searched and even have my search saved.
However….
My all-time favorite automobile, that I owned, was a 1958 Ford Fairlane 500. It had a white top, blue body and tires with a wide white stripes, not the skinny white ones they have on tires nowadays. It didn’t have air conditioning, and the defrost didn’t work. The high beams came on by pushing a button on the floorboard with your left foot. It was a beauty. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I was 16 years old, and ungrateful. But it’s the car I’m the most proud to say that I owned.
I don’t know when Christmas turned from magic and lights to misery and blight. I only know that one day the lights didn’t sparkle as much anymore. Shopping feels like a waste of time and a drain on life savings. I don’t see why we spend four weeks preparing for something that lasts a day and two more weeks taking it apart.
For me, Christmas starts at Thanksgiving, when our family combines the holidays. The tree goes up a week or so beforehand and stays for the long haul, like an unwanted guest. Or a fly trapped in a car. Some years, I play Christmas music. Most years, I keep playing my usual, Ozzy and the like. This year has been an Ozzy year (RIP).
I don’t know exactly when I started to hate Christmas. Maybe it was when my former husband threw a fit because I wasn’t decorating the tree the way he thought I should, or in the colors he preferred. I remember standing in the living room, feeling crushed. It was Thanksgiving night or the evening after. I had cooked all day, and the meal was devoured in about fifteen minutes. Then came the cleanup, too much for three young children to help with, while he lay on the couch and napped.
After a few years of begging to do it myself, I learned it was easier to stand by and hand him the ornaments. There was rarely a time when I was alone. He took up most of that space unless I woke earlier than him, something I trained myself to do after a few years of marriage.
.I was excited to put up the tree so the kids could feel the same anticipation we had as we grew up. We finished hanging the cursed lights you pray will still work from the year before. The last thing was the topper. No matter how hard you try, tree toppers never want to stay straight. It didn’t help that he was obsessive about details. Somehow, it became my fault that the angel leaned and refused to stay lit.
Then there was the money. I had no idea how we were going to buy presents with what little we had. He was in Bible college and believed he should not work. If God wanted him there, God would provide.
It was then that I started questioning the sacrifices we were making. We gave money we didn’t have to a church and to missionaries who earned more than we did. We decided things like toilet paper and electricity were luxuries, not needs.
How do you reconnect to Christmas after that?
When I was a child, my parents had a tradition that I could open one present on Christmas Eve. Sometimes I choose it. Sometimes they did. Now that my youngest is still at home, I understand why they sometimes chose it, because there was that one gift they dreaded wrapping.
The oversized gift hidden in my closet this year will be opened the same way, because it is simply too big to wrap.
I remember the year I received a Nintendo with a Smurf game. I stayed up all night playing. When my parents woke up, I was still sitting on the floor in front of our wood-encased television, controller in hand.
My mother asked if I had slept at all and warned that I would be too tired to open presents later. I told her I would be fine. I was twelve. Of course I was.
Every Christmas Eve, we went to my grandmother’s house for dinner and gifts. No one ever knew what to buy for my uncle, a grown man still living at home who owned every comic book printed. He usually received socks or an ugly sweater. I hated getting gifts from him because they were never helpful.
Then, one year, he bought me the entire Wizard of Oz book set. He was a reader. Once he learned I loved books, buying gifts for me became easy. That year, he earned my respect.
My grandmother made many of my gifts by hand. Stuffed animals. Dolls. Raggedy Ann and Andy. A panda bear. Characters from The Wizard of Oz, except the witch. Around that time, rumors circulated about possessed dolls. I wasn’t afraid of Raggedy Ann or Andy, but the Oz dolls terrified me. I stored them in my mother’s closet.
I was fifty-six years old when I learned the infamous Annabelle doll was a Raggedy Ann, identical to the one my grandmother had sewn for me.
Every year, she stitched us matching Christmas dresses or skirts. Mine always brushed the floor. By the time I was thirteen or fourteen, I decided that kind of outfit no longer served my image.
One year, she made me a stocking more than five feet tall. My mother filled it. Stockings were always my favorite part of Christmas. Candy and small surprises, one after another.
We used to cover the tree in silver tinsel so it looked like snow. It didn’t look like snow, but it looked like Christmas. The cats loved it too and walked around for days with tinsel trailing behind them. No one wanted to deal with that, so we didn’t.
As a child, I loved Christmas. The lights. The colors. The music. My earliest memory is of a tree in the front room and presents underneath it. Our dog unwrapped a gift I had made for my parents, and I was furious.
That same year, I wanted a necklace so severely that I couldn’t stand not knowing. I unwrapped a present early, saw it was the necklace, and wrapped it back up. When they asked, I blamed the dog. But they didn’t believe me.
Christmas stopped being simple over time; loss layered itself onto the season. One of my children is gone. A serious family rupture surfaced during the holidays. My former husband despised Christmas and made it miserable. Putting up the tree was always a fight. There was never enough money.
One year we threw the tree away, calling it an idol. I had the scripture to support it. He declared the sin we were committing and the consequences. I enforced them. Out went the tree. Out went the decorations.
Minimalism became our way of life before it had a name.
This is why my adult self does not love Christmas.
My inner teenager can take it or leave it. She once begged relatives to give her gift certificates so she could choose her own clothes. Instead, they bought things she wore once and never again. She loved shopping with her mother because she got to choose, except for the extra-tight parachute pants.
I don’t know exactly where I stopped enjoying Christmas, maybe when I got married, maybe when it became my responsibility to make it happen with people who made it difficult.
My current husband shares a similar background and the same ambivalence about the holiday. We try. We are doing fine. But Christmas is no longer all about lights. Not like when our mothers made it special.
Recently, I did something I hadn’t done in several years. I play instrumental Christmas music and turned it up. Then I baked.
Banana bread. Apple bread. Pumpkin. Gingerbread. Peanut butter cookies. Most of it adjusted to be Paleo.
All day I measured, mixed, and baked. Timers went off. Batter waited for its turn. I tasted everything.
My favorite was the banana bread sweetened only with bananas. Not overly sweet. Just enough.
The final loaf was made from leftovers. Extra pumpkin. Extra applesauce. I still don’t understand why recipes don’t simply use the whole can.
Halfway through, I remembered dinner. I pulled out the Instant Pot, added frozen meat and seasoning, and thirty minutes later, we ate.
The kitchen felt chaotic and magical at the same time, warm, messy, and smelling like Christmas.
I don’t enjoy Christmas as much as I’d like, but I am learning to find ways to make it more enjoyable.
Saturday morning, I awoke with the innocent idea of a bath. A little peace, little self-care. With just a few drops of lavender oil for calm and a touch of peppermint to invigorate the senses. Just a drop or two.
I should have known the moment I saw the crooked cap on the peppermint oil that fate had other plans. I bent down, meaning only to twist it shut, but the bottle leapt from my fingers like it had a will of its own. It hit the edge of the tub, ricocheted onto the trash can, and finally exploded onto the floor in a minty massacre. Over half the bottle spilled, its contents cascading across the tub, the floor, the trash, and into the steaming bathwater too.
Quickly, I grabbed a washcloth and wiped where I could, not grasping the full extent of the invasion. The scent was intense, but pleasant. Clean and energizing. I mistook it for a good omen.
Then, I stepped in.
The moment I slid my body into the water, my lady bits were met with an icy fire I can only describe as what I imagine happens when frostbite and cayenne pepper make love and have a menthol demon baby.
A blinding, searing chill set my nerves alight. My body seized, my breath caught, and I launched out of the tub like it had turned to lava. In a frenzy, I pulled the drain and stumbled into the shower, fumbling with the knobs like I was defusing a bomb. For minutes that felt like hours, I stood under the water rinsing my stinging, peppermint-soaked body, praying it would end.
The tingling and burning betrayed me. Every inch of my skin pulsed with arctic intensity. My toes were numb. My nether regions felt violated by peppermint’s cruel embrace. She ached with an almost comical vengeance.
The bathroom had become a cathedral of menthol. The scent, powerful and unrelenting, spread like incense across the house. Every room minty. Every towel minty. Every breath like freshly chewed gum, minty. I smelled like a candy cane, an echo of that peppermint curse clinging to the air. The house remained a shrine to my overzealous self-care.
Lesson learned: essential oils may be “natural,” but they are not gentle. Especially not peppermint. Peppermint is not your friend. Peppermint waits for a moment of prideful peace, then it strikes. Use it wisely and use it sparingly. And never assume the cap is on tight.
Let me take you on a journey through my own cycle of pain, one that might mirror your own.
For over 24 years, I stayed stuck in a cycle of pain. Not only because I didn’t know how to escape, but also because I had no idea that part of me had become used to it. That pain was my comfort zone; I needed it. That is not easy to admit, but maybe that is precisely what you need to hear.
I was addicted to pain and suffering. And maybe you are too.
Consider if your life feels like a constant storm, with relationships that break rather than build you, where chaos feels more familiar than peace.
Then I want you to consider that you might be emotionally addicted to your struggle. In the same way, someone is addicted to alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.
You don’t choose to be this way on purpose, but you can choose to stop feeding it.
How Does Someone Get Addicted to Suffering?
It might seem strange, but when survival mode becomes your norm, your body adapts to a constant state of fear, anger, and panic, as if these emotions are essential for survival. The body doesn’t know good adrenaline from bad. It just feels familiar. So if pain becomes what you’re used to, your brain will start chasing it like a drug.
I’ll be honest with you: After I left my abusive husband, I thought I’d be free. But instead, I felt lost, restless, and empty. And one day I caught myself missing the drama, missing the feeling of being needed, even if it came with cruelty.
That’s when I realized I wasn’t just healing from abuse. I was detoxing from it.
Understanding the Chemistry of Emotion
Here’s what’s really going on under the surface. Every emotion you feel, love, sadness, rage, guilt, and fear, comes with a chemical mix your body gets used to. When you feel anger or shame over and over, your body floods itself with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.
And your nervous system thinks,
“Ah, yes. This is normal. Let’s keep doing that.”
It doesn’t care if it’s killing you emotionally. It only cares that it’s predictable. That’s why breaking the cycle is more than leaving them. It’s also about rewiring your system and healing your brain. You have to teach your body that peace isn’t dull, it’s safe.
Why You Keep Ending Up With the Same Kind of Person
If you’ve ever escaped one toxic relationship only to fall into another… and another…
You’re not weak or broken. You’re still addicted to the feelings that chaos brings.
And your brain will unconsciously lead you straight to people who can give you the fix.
It’s not because you want to be hurt, but it’s because deep down, you don’t yet believe you deserve anything else.
The Good News: You Can Break Free
I won’t lie to you. Healing is hard, but so is staying stuck. The difference is that one of them leads somewhere beautiful.
Here’s how I started the process, and you can too:
1. Tell yourself the truth.
Not the story you’ve been told or the lie that “this is just who you are.”
Say the truth, you are addicted to survival mode, and you were made for so much more.
2. Decide that it ends with you.
Not tomorrow, not when it gets easier. Right now.
You don’t need to hit another rock bottom to be done.
3. Catch yourself.
When the negative self-talk kicks in or when you feel that familiar urge to sabotage yourself, tell yourself, “I deserve better.
Then, breathe, even if you don’t believe it yet.
4. Let peace feel weird for a while.
Because it will, trust me. Quiet will feel loud, and safety will feel foreign.
That’s okay. Stay there anyway. Let yourself get used to calm.
5. Give it time. Give yourself grace.
This isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence.
You’re teaching your nervous system a new language. That love doesn’t hurt, and peace doesn’t mean danger.
One More Thing,
You’re not broken. You’re not stupid for staying too long. You were surviving.
And now? You’re waking up.
Your addiction to struggle isn’t your fault, but healing is your responsibility.
You deserve a life that doesn’t hurt. And it’s waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.
My stepson invited us to play tennis with him and his family. He knew to come to me whenever Dad couldn’t commit to answering.
“Sure, I’ll let you beat me in tennis.”
I know when anyone invites me to do anything that requires physical activity, they usually need an ego boost. I am not athletic, and I have never played tennis in my entire life. Summer was over, and fall was allowing us some cooler days, so the weather was perfect for being outside
We showed up empty-handed, not knowing what to expect, and were greeted with a racket for each of us and brief instructions. I figured it couldnt be too hard, I’ve seen tennis on TV.
Our instructor-stepson gave us some pointers, and with each of his serves, he gently hit the balls our way, alternating with precision. To my surprise, I was able to hit the ball back over the net most of the time. And also to my surprise, I was having fun. I laughed at my husband when he missed a ball, and I laughed at myself when I missed an easy serve.
It was medicine for our souls to let down our guard, be human, and be vulnerable.
Maybe that comes easily to you, but for our personality types, as business owners, we are always on constant alert. And saying yes to something entirely out of our comfort zone was just what we needed, and we liked it.
My life is better today than what I pictured a year ago.
However, the year came with several speed-bumbs, road blocks, delays and detours. But isn’t that what makes our lives better? The learning how to navigate through life when faced with challenges?
I’m just thankful you didn’t ask if I enjoyed this year better than the last. I might’ve had a different answer.
Yoli's Write To Sanity 