I realized I’d been wanting something because of injuries I sustained in my marriage. Not the “ooh, I’m bleeding, grab a tourniquet” sort of injury but the deep, feel it in your psyche for years, hidden from plain sight kind.  And don’t ask what it was I wanted because I won’t tell you. But like a sharp, searing slap in the face, it dawned on me tonight. Somewhere deep inside, I still feel the pain.

Granted, I’m over him. But when someone repeatedly, and intentionally, chooses to act in a way for years he knows is harmful to his mate, it can leave a mark on a girl. The kind that doesn’t easily scrub off. And sometimes, in just the right light, with just the right squint, turning the head just so – it’s visible. Tonight all the conditions lined up just right for me to get a glimpse of that old mark.

I don’t know if it will ever go away. Perhaps, as  already has begun, it will fade lighter and lighter until it’s barely remembered, except on hazy days when I swing on my porch drinking genteel lemonade, fanning myself like the southern belle I am talking to one of my few remaining friends, the rest whom have died out, a group like so many roses whose petals one by one slip off until just a few remain, whithered, faded but still attached.

This particular pain – this memory of what happened – rarely bothers me anymore. I thought it was gone. For good. But, like all nasty things we try to eliminate, cockroaches, yeast and soap scum, it seems like it keeps coming back. The good news is it doesn’t bother me as much. I think the last time I really really thought about it was nearly 4 months ago. So apparently my approach is working. Maybe it will be another eight before it hits me again.

The good news is, I survived. I’m not ruined. I’m not an emotional basket-case nor do I have a lot of drama. At least, not the kind a body creates for herself. And I got smarter. A helluva lot smarter. I’m moving forward and someday, I’ll have a tale to tell.

Welcome back!