Open wounds

The pain feels as raw as it did on the day it happened.

Last Saturday, I was sweeping the outdoor play area and before I realised it, the repeated friction of the broomstick rubbing against the side of my thumb had peeled away the top layer of skin, leaving the tender flesh underneath exposed. Every small movement and touch of water or light touch on the wound stings. It's been several days and the wound doesn't feel any better than the first day.

The pain feels as raw as it did on the day it happened. These are the scenes that replay in my mind, as the blisters on my heart throb with pain...

Fourteen years ago, I laid in bed feeling completely raw and exhausted a couple of days after giving birth. Baby Nathan was nestled in his cot next to me. The stitches of my epiosotomy were burning. My nipples felt sore. My eyes were bleary from lack of sleep. The hubby was bustling around in the kitchen trying to get dinner ready. Mum was not due to arrive for another week. I had borrowed a book of confinement recipes from a friend. A few days earlier I had bought all the ingredients for the selected recipes I had bookmarked with post-it notes. I had handed the book to the hubby and told him all the ingredients I bought were already in the fridge. The bustling noises from the kitchen grew louder. A few minutes later, he stormed into the bedroom. His frustration exploded out at me as he raged about not being able to find the ingredients or figure out which recipes to cook. As he raged on, I soon found myself breaking down in tears. I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled painfully out to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pointed out the chicken and herbs on the shelves. The hubby continued berating me for my poor preparation and listing down all the things I should have done better. I felt so abandoned at that moment when I was at my most vulnerable.

Seventeen years ago, I sat at my computer reading a message from an old buddy from my hometown. He was getting married and would like me to be there if I can. My heart was still grieving my recent miscarriage. All I knew was that I wanted to go home. I wanted to hug my mum and see my old childhood friends. I was ready to book the flight ticket home. The hubby clamped down on my request for the funds to purchase the ticket. No. We should not indulge every whim and fancy that pops into our head. These things should be thought through and planned well in advance. I persisted in my request. The exchange became increasing heated as the argument escalated. There was some pushing and shoving involved. My arm was locked in a firm grip that left dark ugly bruises that could not be hidden. Finally he conceded to my request on one condition—that I would pay back every single cent, but not from my normal salary. I had to find another way outside of my regular income to earn the money back. I bought the ticket and flew back anyway. I bore the shame of suspicious eyes staring at the green and purple bruises along my arm. I did find solace and healing in the kindness and tenderness of family and friends back home, but the dark cloud of this debt and shame has loomed over me all these years.

I bear this pain and shame in silence. No one else (apart from the hubby) knows the truth. It's a secret pain I will carry with me until the day I die.

I feel so alone.