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When It’s Hard to Be Vulnerable
It was a dreary Friday afternoon. Summer was turning into fall, and my mood matched the leaves outside my window; crumpling to the ground like discarded pieces no longer needed. It had been a rough week at work. I felt like a human punching bag, and no more uppercuts were available for my reply.
Sinking into the cool comforter beneath my bosom, I shuddered. My husband had asked me three days in a row what was wrong, but I kept telling him I was fine. If you’re a male reading this, you know when a woman says “Everything is fine,” it certainly isn’t. But I didn’t feel like talking. I wasn’t getting hurt. Again.
Hidden Wounds Only Fester and Grow
Earlier that week, Ben had pointed out some truths about my mental health. He felt my anxiety and depression weren’t getting any better and wondered if I should reconsider medication. I was livid. Hurt. Frustrated. Wounded. Agitated. Annoyed. Confused. Instead of listening to his gentle advice and correction, I shrank back and pulled myself within. I ignored the fact that hidden wounds only fester and grow.
Three days I’d kept my agony bottled up inside. That along with my anger. Part of me desperately wanted to tell him. My insides were bleeding. Begging to talk to the one I’d become one flesh with. But I was stubborn. Hurting. Aching. Too afraid to get hurt again. Too afraid to admit that I might really need help. Too afraid to consider that he might be right. Until that night.
