Artistry

(Written over the course of several days in May)

How?

How did this happen?

How did I let this happen in my life?

One of the most challenging questions I dwell on is 'How did I let him make me believe that I was less than I am?'

Finally one night I asked the question out loud and rather than try to answer it, get upset or become angry- I was still and silent.

He was a sculptor. He took the piece, flawed, but whole, and began by sanding the edges. There were new grooves and fuzzier corners, but the piece remained easily distinguishable. Hammer to scalpel, he slowly removed splintered chinks, one by one. Where there once was a unique flaw, a void remained after his handiwork, but the actions to get there were so minute it was difficult to see the changes from day to day. After many months, the piece was small and insignificant.

I was small and insignificant.

My confidence was gone and I thought I was alone. I thought I was trapped. I feared I would live for years among the put-downs, the yelling, the silent-treatment, the raging temper, the secrecy, the isolation and the manipulations. I took my vows seriously and that I was living in the "for worse" portion of those vows. It meant "for better" was attainable. I wanted the "for better."

I thought I was dealing with someone in a valley of mental illness. I thought he was self-medicating. I thought his self-medication was interfering with a prescription. I thought he wanted to get better. To be better.

I thought wrong.