Read Part II
If it is possible to feel anger and gratitude together, I felt them at that moment, and something else very surprising—a deep desire for him. I think that he knew of my desire, but he did not satisfy it. I think, though I have never asked him, that he wanted me to feel the pain of being unable to express my love and gratitude and anger and frustration and desire. I couldn’t tell him, and he didn’t give me the opportunity to show him. Not that night. Eventually, I fell asleep, and woke the next morning to fresh pain. We tend to forget, overnight; we tend to wake in the morning with a momentary expectation that everything is “normal”. I woke with that expectation and then felt it quickly dashed as I realized that I was not free even to say good morning to my husband. The reality of the rest of my day quickly followed: I would speak to no one, could not answer the phone, could not email, could not write in my journal. It might sound absurd that I wondered what I would do; of course I did many other things in the course of a day. Still, I felt oddly at loose ends for a person with so many restrictions.
When Aaron left for work I was bereft. I felt newly vulnerable without my speech and entirely alone without the freedom to email, instant message, write a letter, make a phone call. I had a thousand thoughts a day and no one to share them with—or rather, no freedom to share them. I remembered Mary kept all these things in her heart, but I didn’t really know what it meant. Things didn’t settle in my heart; they ripped around my body and mind like tiny tornadoes looking for a way out. I threw myself into work around the house and by noon had accomplished more than I did in a typical day, but felt no less on edge. Finally, I went to my knees and silently poured out my heart to God—the one form of expression I was allowed. That, of course, was no accident, but I didn’t know it then. In fact, I felt a bit like I was putting something over on my husband, like I’d found a secret release valve in “talking” to the Lord.
When Aaron came home, I wanted to go to him and kiss him, but the fact that I could not greet him verbally hung between us. I did not turn from my dinner preparations when he came into the room, and when he came and turned me toward him I did not kiss him. I only looked at him with tears in my eyes. He kissed me lightly on the forehead and went upstairs to change. As he did, it struck me full force that this would be our first silent dinner. How was one to sit across the table from someone for an entire meal and not speak to him?
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