Bridge to love

I find it almost impossible to express sometimes how I feel. I think it might take hours, days, weeks - and I need the understanding NOW - so I choose not to. I've tried before, and it didn't work most of the time. And yet each time I'm in turmoil, it's the people who are closest to me who suffer. My husband always asks me how I feel, and I can't express it freely. I'm used to being shut down, not listened to, ignored, told that I'm lying, called an actress (as in a ridicule for being one). Sometimes for me to express what I feel takes to time to process it first, so that I myself get it. I struggle with letting others know what exactly goes on inside, when they see pain on my face. That's why I write. It became my bridge to love. My husband asks - how do you feel? What is happening? I say - read my blog. Even saying these three simple words takes an enormous amount of effort. Hours. I lie in bed, crouching, after having cried out my soul and written it out for the public to see. I build up the courage to stand up, to open the door, to call him, to tell him those three simple words. He knows by now not to disturb me while I'm writing - to not make me slip into an even deeper and darker place. He waits patiently. Until I give him permission. It used to infuriate me. I used to say - it's public, go on and read it! He'd always say - I feel like I'm intruding on your personal diary - unless you tell me I can, I can't.

In my worst moments, all I have to utter is - I need to write it out. He understands. He gives me space and time. I write. He reads. I cuddle next to him. He sighs. He then speaks, usually telling me that now he understands this little part of me better, and now that one. I release the pain. It goes out with a breath, and we're together. When I don't have my laptop with me, I carry a little notebook. At moments, you can see me furiously writing out something - when I can't say it out loud. Then I give it to him to read - as if I'm mum, as if I've lost my tongue, perhaps because mostly the things I am writing about are unspeakable. He doesn't say those things out loud either, he simply nods. I nod. He asks me if he can hug me. This request alone make my day. I say, yes, you can. And then we sit together, for a long while, and I feel healed, in that little spot that I have written about.

We sit on the bridge. I came from one side of it, he came from another. We met in the middle. I couldn't go further without bumping into him, he couldn't let me pass, for seeing that I'm distressed. The water underneath was too cold for me to jump in. Often, I'd threaten I will jump. He said it's silly. You shouldn't. I can help. I'd say - I don't need your help, I don't need anybody's help! To me it would mean - I am weak. To him it would mean - rejection. He'd sulk, I'd get mad. And yet, he never stepped away from the bridge, never let me pass and run away. He never gave up. I came close to giving up. I did jump into the dark water once, and when I did, I swam stubbornly to the shore, then turned around and picked myself up, and, shivering, climbed back to the bridge, all the while refusing his helping hand, doing it all myself. I couldn't leave. He nearly left the bridge by then, he almost lost his infinite patience. It must be love that held us together, I don't know what else it was. But each time, we'd struggle to stay together on it, to not leave, to connect. When we just got married, he carried me over a historical bridge in Moscow, from one side of the river to the other - in symbol of crossing any difficulty together. I didn't know how truly symbolic it would be, and how real it would become. he would be the one carrying me over, broken, to become whole. I would be the one in his arms, struggling and yet happy, deep inside, hoping that his arms didn't mean any harm. That he is not the enemy. That he is a friend, and love, and all the world for me. So I let him. 

I'm happy I've found my bridge to love, my writing. In here, I feel free to say whatever it is that goes on - truly, honesty, no matter how brutal, no matter how blunt.

Photo by Eduardo Mineo.

Comments

[Kelly]

Ksenia, you are not alone in these feelings.

[Ksenia Oustiougova]

Kelly - thank you!