I read this article in the Atlantic before church. It brought up memories of the last years of my marriage to the children's father. I don't remember his using silence against me. I do remember his using talk radio to drown us all out. I don't know if he felt overwhelmed by the estrogen storms that swirled around him. He was seriously outnumbered. I do remember feeling overwhelmed by loud male voices (his hearing was deteriorating) spouting subtle and not-so-subtle misogyny. He was the king of passive-aggression. I was the queen of codependence. I know that I stopped sharing what was going on inside my head, because he was unable or unwilling to hear me or to work with me. He'd make a commitment at counseling, pursue it for two or three weeks, and then resume old habits. Call it ADHD. Call it undiagnosed autism. Call it what you will. I remember feeling excluded, feeling invisible, feeling hopeless.
Years later, after time, further counseling, and the Atonement of our Savior have all worked their magic on me I can look back on this period of my life with a measure of compassion. For him. For myself. When ghosts or memories arise, I can look at them from a better perspective, acknowledge them, and let them go.
In unrelated news, today I am masking up and attending sacrament meeting in person. I am quietly anticipating that. Taking the sacrament surrounded (at socially responsible distances) by my ward family. Seeing their eyes above their masks. Our bishop asked, several weeks ago, that those who are unable or unwilling to mask up attend via Zoom. If I see compliance, I'll keep coming back in person. Today I am feeling, not loneliness, but a deep and healthy hunger to connect.
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