Letting Go of Love

*Please keep in mind that this is only one side of the story. I write this not to demonize Stephen, but rather to express my own feelings and pain. He hurt me, but I have hurt him too, and I don't pretend to be perfect or totally innocent in everything.*



How?

How am I supposed to do this?

How have I been doing this?

Just over 8 years ago, I made what I thought was the second-best decision of my life. I decided to say yes when my best friend asked me to marry him.

I had moments of doubt. Lots of them. Heart-wrenching uncertainty. Fear.

But also comfort. Someone who was there in a way no one had been before. Someone who saw me and wanted me. Someone who sacrificed happily for me. Someone who made me feel like my wants and needs weren't silly or obnoxious. Someone who made me believe I was important after all. Someone who wanted to give without seeming to ask too much in return.

And then there was God. Some quiet voice in my soul told me that marrying my best friend was right. I believed then and I believe now that it was God. But why?

Just under 8 years ago, I made what I thought was the best decision of my life. I decided to say yes when the sealer in the temple asked if I would promise to love and cherish my best friend forever.

It didn't take very many months for Fear to creep in to our marriage. It reared its ugly head in the form of verbal and emotional abuse - from him and from me. Who were we? Were we the same people who had promised to love and cherish each other always? What were we doing?

We tried to forgive, to heal each other's hearts and heal the relationship. But with each unkind word, each physical blow, each little betrayal, we developed another crack in our confidence. We doubted each other a little more. We doubted ourselves a little more. Sometimes we managed to fill those cracks with Love and began to heal. But there were always more cracks. Fear filled so many of those cracks. We each always kept a part of our heart guarded, pulled back a little. It seemed one or both of us was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Just over three years ago, my best friend made what I thought was the second-most heartbreaking decision of my life. He left the church I loved, the church I thought he loved. I told myself it didn't matter that much. He wasn't antagonistic about it - most of the time. It could definitely be worse. I buried it and didn't let myself cry about it much. It had been coming on for a long time anyway. I couldn't say I was surprised. No whining, Kara. He still loved me, and that's what mattered.

"When we got married, I made promises to you, not to who I thought you would be. I'm not going anywhere." That's what I told him when he expressed concern that I might leave him because he left the church. I believed it. I felt that was absolutely true. I loved him, not just who I hoped he would be. 

We moved to a nice apartment. He had a job he was excited about. We had two beautiful children and some good, solid stability. The frequency and intensity of our fights decreased noticeably. That was one of the best years of our marriage. Then he got a new job and started traveling a lot. We moved to another apartment, not as nice. It seemed like things started to break down fast. 

He was irritable, disconnected, resentful. He had started telling me, "I'm not here for you. I'm here because we have kids together, and I don't believe in divorce." That cut. Deep. But the next day, he would try to be sweet again, and I would tell myself not to dwell on it. 

Christmas night, we had a fight. He left. For days. While he was gone, I got my own bank account and accepted student loans for the next semester. I had a feeling I would need it. 

While he was gone, he spent lots of money, some of it on things that he knew would hurt me. He came back, half-heartedly apologized, and we tried to move forward like nothing was wrong. I tried to be happy for him that he'd gotten some new shiny toys he was excited about. I tried to ignore the hurtful things he had spent money on. Don't complain, Kara. He's still here. He's still trying. Things will probably get better eventually. Don't dwell on the bad. Focus on loving him and keeping everyone reasonably happy.

But as time went on, loving him and keeping everyone else reasonably happy didn't seem to be enough. Maybe the missing piece was me - maybe I needed to insist on taking better care of myself. So I did. I asked for more help with the kids, with the household chores. He didn't like that. "Why don't you ever appreciate the fact that I'm financially supporting our family? I work hard." I felt guilty. But part of me was still resentful. I was working hard too - just because I wasn't earning money meant that I didn't get the same recognition, respect, appreciation? I didn't get to sleep in or do fun things for myself without having to fight tooth and nail for it? Why not? 

One day, we fought. He hurt me. I told someone. There was an intervention. I demanded he go to therapy or we were done. He went, but he was not excited about therapy. He felt bad and made all kinds of promises with sweet words and good intentions. I thought maybe this time things would really change. 

Two months later, he was back in his resentful, irritated, avoidant mode. I was frustrated. One night I told him off. I insisted that he stay and listen to my complaints. The next day, he went to therapy. His therapist said I was emotionally abusive. Two days later, he told me he was thinking about divorce. And he told me about the girl at work who had expressed interest in him. My heart felt shattered. It was hard to breathe. What was happening?

I tried to listen without interrupting. I tried honestly evaluating how I had hurt him. I acknowledged that to him. I cried for how I had hurt him. I apologized. He seemed only a little moved by it. At one point, I took off my wedding ring and told him to give it to the girl at work. He didn't know what to do with that.

A few days later, after a few more discussions, I asked some friends to pray for me, as I was trying to make an important decision. As soon as I finished asking the question, it hit me. Divorce was the right answer. No. No, no, no. Why? How? What?!

I thought about it more and more. Thankfully, both my kids were napping at the time. My heart broke again as I looked deep inside myself and knew the answer was, once again, coming from God. "You need to get divorced. You cannot do the work I have for you to do - not while you're married to him."

I sobbed. I knew it was right. I knew it without a doubt. But it still hurt. He had been my home, despite all we had put each other through. We had belonged to each other for years and we were supposed to belong to each other forever. How was this the right answer? 

That night, we talked calmly and rationally about it. We both felt it was right. But I started thinking that maybe we could try one more time - we could try to heal ourselves while still married, and then, once we were healed, we could decide whether it was still right to be together. He listened, considered, but didn't commit. 

The next day, he came home from work. I tried to kiss him hello, and he sort of shrugged me off. My heart sank. I started shaking a little. "He's decided. No..." We talked again that night, and eventually, I said something in anger. He responded with, "Yeah, we're done..." I asked if he meant that he wanted a divorce. He looked at me, thinking for a moment, and took a deep breath, just like I had the day he'd asked me to marry him. "Yes," he said. "I want a divorce."

Exactly six months ago, today, my best friend made what I thought was the most heartbreaking decision of my life. He told me he'd decided he was done trying to repair our relationship.

Here, in front of me, was someone who looked as angry, confused, and possibly as broken as I felt. Someone who was overcome by fear. Someone who felt that I was asking too much. Someone who had seen everything I thought I had to offer and was turning all of it down. Someone who seemed to feel that I was a burden more than anything else. Someone who had promised me everything and was now taking it all back. 

My face crumpled. The tears flowed. I took a deep breath and told him that, if there was nothing else he wanted to talk about, I wanted to go visit my mom. I would be back later that night. He hesitated for a minute and then said that would be fine. I got a few things together and left. 

I sobbed all the way down there. This felt like the end of everything. But it wasn't. I got texts from my mother-in-law telling me that he'd talked to her. I still had to tell my mom. I still had to tell my whole family. I had to figure out where to live. I had to figure out what to do with my kids. I had to get an attorney. I had to brush my teeth, go to sleep, get up in the morning, take care of my babies, act like things were fine - or at least, fine enough. There would still be hundreds of tomorrows and millions of little and big things to worry about. My life wasn't even close to over. 

On that dark drive down to my mom's house, though, it felt like it was. For a few years, I'd been slowly losing sight of love, but clinging to it desperately all the same. Now it was finally time. 

Time to start letting go of love.