Letter to My Husband

Letter to My Husband

If you're reading this, it means you exist. And that my absolute disbelief in soulmates—or even the idea that someone would sign a piece of paper to build a life with me—was wrong.

I want to tell you something important. I can bear exhausting myself, but I can’t bear the look in someone’s eyes when they realize they’re done being exhausted by me. I wouldn’t survive the shame of that moment. It would send me into a two-day depressive episode, where I’ll be clinging to the thought that the world isn’t ending, and I have to get up again.

There will be days I’ll collapse, triggered by a memory I’ve buried: the fact that no one protected me when I was sexually assaulted as a child. Most times, I’ll trace it all back to the relationship with my mother—the way I keep trying to mother everyone around me, until they walk away. And maybe you will too.

You’ll see me having intense cleaning sessions, lost in daydreams that distract me from reality. It’ll break my back, and I’ll complain about it to you. Some days, I’ll try to fix everything, even when nothing’s broken. I’ll look at your face and mistake your silence for resentment. I’ll panic, convinced I’m a burden—even to you, this stranger I’m supposed to trust.

I will probably need constant reassurance—every day, at any time—that you’re not done with me, that I don’t need to keep performing just to be loved. Because most days, I feel like I’m performing. And I’m not sure there’s anyone in this world who would make me feel safe enough to strip off the colors and show my black and blue.

I will try too hard in everything, just to pretend I’m a normal person who can defeat her damaged mind. And even then, I’ll hold myself back from trusting you fully, afraid that whatever we have—us, our relationship—might be real only to me.

I will be harsh. Angry. Closed-off. Loud. Confusing.

But I’ll be there.
I swear I’ll be there.

I’ll be the shoulder you cry on. I’ll carry your pain in my bones. I’ll beg God to help me hold on to you. I’ll do everything in my power not to ruin this, and I’ll keep trying, over and over again, until my last breath. I’ll get help when I need it. I’ll make sure our children never go through what we did.

Even if I believe I’m too much to be loved, I still carry an ounce of belief that love exists—because I am full of it. I see it in children’s laughter, in the eyes of the elderly, in the quiet prayers of the people around me.

And maybe this time, I’ll hold on to that tiny hope.
That maybe you exist.
Maybe in this lifetime.
Surely in the afterlife