My Marriage Ended Two Years Ago. So Why Am I Still Scarred?

When you experience trauma in relationships, it doesn’t end just because you got out of the relationship. Even when you’ve had loads of therapy and can (mostly) understand why you feel the way you do, there are still lasting impacts. Trauma — even little t-trauma accumulated over time — carries an echo.

Every relationship has challenges and my marriage was no exception. It started off hopeful, as most do, but somewhere along the journey, the way we interacted changed.

By the time we finally divorced, the people we had been at the start of our journey were completely unrecognizable.

I was no longer the hopeful girl with hearts in her eyes who relished spending time with him — even if all we were doing was sitting on the couch watching tv. Again.

He was no longer someone who was curious about the world around him, who wanted to travel and experience new cultures, meet new people, and evolve. Or at the very least, go out to dinner at a new hot spot.

The relationship wasn’t all bad, of course it wasn’t, but shortly before the very end, we’d fallen into toxic patterns with each other. He would orate for nearly a half-hour on topics he felt passionate about — without checking in to see if his audience was still listening and engaged, something he’d done before we married too — but now, instead of trying to follow along with his story, I would just shut down and let my mind wander. I would express interest in an adventure I wanted to take with him, and he would wave his hand in the air, blowing past my suggestions, but never offering up any of his own. I became bored and frustrated with his resistance to trying anything new. He became annoyed with what he called my irrational fears and anxiety.

And though we had many conversations about our relationship and how we could improve things, we seemed not to understand each other. By the time we separated, our patience with each other and our ability to be vulnerable were both nonexistent.

Around this time, I stumbled across an article that listed 10 signs that you’re in a relationship with a narcissist, and perhaps it was just the hurt and pain talking, but in that frame of mind, how I experienced him checked off nine of ten signs.

Thinking back, I’m not certain he actually is a narcissist — or at least not NPD (clinical narcissistic personality disorder); It seems far more likely that his narcissistic patterns and traits are the result of his unknown illness. Whatever the cause, I struggled on the other end of his changing whims, grandiose visions of his capabilities, self-pity that other people didn’t accept him or want to spend time with him, and dismissiveness. It wasn’t a rapid change, more like a slow slide into the unhappy and unhealthy dynamics. But it affected me all the more for that steady devolution. I couldn’t understand how we’d gotten so far away from where we’d once been. I couldn’t wrap my head around the distance between us.

Though it’s been over two years since we split up, I still catch myself in the middle of some of the reactive traits I learned while with him:

I overapologize for expressing my needs (or even having needs) or am hesitant to ask for help. I also overexpress gratitude when my boyfriend lends a hand.

I overexplain my emotions, often dismissing the impetus. Yesterday, I caught myself telling my boyfriend that I was probably just feeling less resilient from the pain in my broken arm and that it was causing me to be over-emotional. The emotion I was experiencing? Sadness about the pandemic and how it has changed everything, and how I feel disconnected from the people I used to call friends. Especially since I can’t drive with my arm and haven’t left the house in three weeks unless he’s driven us.

I still feel occasionally angry with my ex — but more so with myself. Why did I allow things to get so bad? Why didn’t I speak up sooner, or louder, or more frequently? Why didn’t I insist he try to figure out what was going on with his health? Why did I take it personally when he alternately pushed me toward more business success and silenced me when we were talking in group settings? Why didn’t I call out his dismissiveness or gaslighting as it was happening? Why didn’t I recognize his dismissiveness or gaslighting as it was happening?

Why wasn’t I stronger?

Why did I tolerate the unhappiness for so long after I became reasonably certain the relationship wasn’t going to make it? Why did I give up trying to connect with him emotionally? Why did I mentally check out of the relationship long before we separated physically?

I think I know the answer though.

Somewhere inside, I was still trying to hold on to the glimmer of hope that things would be happy and loving like they once were. But after everything that had happened between us — the near-constant rejection, the belittling, the lectures — I also felt like I needed to protect myself from him and the inevitable end.

You cannot have a happy, loving, successful relationship while holding back. There is no such thing as one foot in; you have to commit with your whole body and soul.

And I was no longer able to do that.

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Previously Published on medium

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