Courage or Fear? That is Always the Choice
“Let me call him.”
My son was calling with devastating news of a family tragedy, and he was volunteering to be the one to inform my former husband. He thought he was helping me, sparing me the pain of saying the words. Or perhaps assumed our difficult past would intrude, adding unnecessary complications to this vulnerable moment.
“No, I need to be the one that tells him,” I said. My son seemed surprised by my insistence and I fumbled with words that would explain duty and obligation and fair treatment after decades of marriage, to a young man who only knew these things in theory, all while my heart was bleeding out. Whatever the words were that I used to explain my vehemence, they’ve evaporated in the grief, but the underlying importance of my need still sits with me.
As I’ve examined the urgency that gripped my heart requiring me to be the messenger of the harshest of news, I’ve realized that duty was not my foremost motivation. My urgency was about courage and about a new approach to silence.
My marital ordeal had shown me that behind my former husband’s tough facade lived cowardice. A man unable to face the ugly, damaged side of himself. He was a man who had used success and ego to pretend he wasn’t vulnerable or fearful or flawed. I see through that now even if the world doesn’t. But I also understand that my healing--I should say transformation--is about the courage to say and do hard things.
We’ve all heard the expression, “be the bigger man.” That’s what my need to say the hard thing, rather than allowing my child to take the reins, was about. It was the need to remind myself that I am better than I was before. The need to stand up and face something hard, not because I want to show my former husband that I’m stronger than he is in setting aside my ego and doing something that breaks my heart, but because I need to show myself that I can.
I made that awful call. I said the words. I choked on my tears and did it anyway because I had to.
In the days that followed as grief settled in and there were others to inform, others to face, I was reminded over and over again about the role of silence, not just in my life, but its role in trauma.
“What do you need?” “How can I help?” “Do you want me to come?”
The offers of friends and family rained down and they were questions I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know what could possibly comfort me. The only additional thing I could force into my life was my blankie tighter around me as I curled into a ball. The presence of tearful concerned eyes on me didn’t sound comforting. Hovering loved ones watching me cry didn’t sound comforting.
I suppose I should have acquiesced, as others have the need to show their love and are also struggling with the helplessness of grief. But I couldn’t, instead I chose selfishness. I stayed on my sofa crying, raging, napping, ignoring food and phones and people until the reality of the trauma forced me to do something.
And this too was a version of silence. It wasn’t the silence I took on in my marriage to protect my family from addiction. It wasn’t the silence my former husband used to avoid facing his flaws. But it was silence, and I must grapple with my self-protective tendencies.
This seems like a moment for teaching big lessons. I want my son to understand why women so often chose silence, so he can be a better partner. I want my son to understand that it’s courageous to admit you’re in pain or that you’re hurting, so he can be a better man. I want my son to understand the power of using his voice as he too processes this trauma, so that he can heal. But it’s too much, too complex of a life lesson for one conversation while in the midst of our grief, so the lesson will need to come in small bites, referred to often. Reinforced through example.
Silence is part of what brought this new trauma to our family, ending silence will be the key to healing from it. Yet here I am, unable to publicly say what happened in a forum that I call a journal.
I think for now what I need to do is view my voice as a faucet. I can no longer turn it off completely, but I can’t yet, with this particular trauma, turn the spigot full on. My voice, and therefore my pain, will need to trickle out as my heart is capable of handling it. Perhaps that trickle of my voice is the most respectful thing I can do for myself right now.