Surrender is an awful word. However, it is an essential issue since it permits us to trust the process. Surrendering is the act of offering one's own will on an altar. Our own wills are the only genuine gift we have to give. Surrender is the ability to step aside quietly and graciously when we feel we are due something and allow someone else to shine. And we will only hand over to someone we trust.
Life may ask us to open our fists and to let go of what we thought was ours. Death is one of these occurrences, and so is divorce. This is why surrender is such a terrifying issue. I am not really prepared to provide counsel on surrender because I fought back when the divorce papers arrived. I resolved to cling ever closer to what was mine: another human being. Not any human, but my beloved husband. He was mine in the same way that my face, ideas, and emotions were. To rip him from the garment we were sewn into meant tearing myself in half. It felt as if I'd been handed a pair of awful sheers and told to skin myself. I had no idea where to begin, because letting go was not an option for me. It was not possible. I cared about and loved my animals, and I saw my husband as a lumbering beast locked in an awful circumstance and striving to break free. I gave in solely because he wanted to be free, not because I wanted to be free of him. To tell the truth, we were both caught and unhappy.
He had a roaming urge to make conquests much as an explorer must leave the protection of his home and explore the globe. He adored ladies in the same way a painter appreciates a naked lady posing in his studio. He yearned to run his hands over their contours and touch something secret and forbidden. These longings contradicted his duty as husband; therefore, he wandered despite attempts to control his appetite. When he didn't come home at night, I didn't have to wonder where he was. He was exploring while in the arms of another. What should a wife do in such an uncomfortable situation? Initially, I took it personally. Was I not attractive enough, not talented enough, not renowned enough, or maybe not a more experienced lover. I blamed myself for not trying hard enough to reach him. But the more I tried, putting more effort into resolving our issues, the farther away he drifted. My arms would physically hurt at night, so I pretended I was holding him rather than a pillow. The infidelities happened so frequently that I realized I had nothing to do with his deep-seated needs. Perhaps it was God's grace, but I was able to distance myself from his conquests long enough to notice the emptiness within him, and his juvenile fascination with the feminine form.
Like an animal, he was driven by an instinctive urge. A large part of him wanted to be the spouse I needed and deserved but he simply could not resist temptation which came at every step. He had established himself as a skilled and successful muralist. Despite the fact that his face was formed of dough and his tummy was as large and inviting as an oven, women were drawn to his curly-headed boyish charm. In such a wretched scenario, what else could I do but surrender my little boy?
People do things for unfulfilled, unconscious reasons because their formative needs were unsatisfied. Some individuals long for attention, while others seek a sense of power and control. There are many childhood psychological requirements that adults attempt to satisfy. Sometimes it is just for the sake of sexual adventure itself. But his was deeper. His eyes were filled with a childlike distrust and a shyness that belied a difficult childhood. I mean, his demeanor was that of an adolescent, not a man. I saw it plainly, whilst others just saw what he wanted them to see. Because I knew him so well, he returned to me after the divorce and we were married again. We knew that we were intended for one other in a manner that only he and I understood.
He was my shy boy and I was his adoring Latin madre. I was his solace, his safe haven; I was home, where he could unwind after a hard day. But I was also a personality to be reckoned with. And my art was thriving, attracting international notice. My medical demands were significant and were becoming a barrier between us. He did not want to care for me; instead, he wanted to be cared for. The surgeries, braces I had to wear, miscarriages, and bed rest all became too much for him, so he went wandering. I divorced him the second time, knowing it had been our final attempt.
The termination of our marriage did not mean the end of our love, however. He would pay me a visit to check on my physical and creative improvement. And it always felt the same: two spirits bonded. Regardless of who he was with, the bond between us remained intact. But I wouldn't be honest if I didn't reveal the full tale of my own infidelities. I never thought of them as affairs, since, while I approached both men and women, I was always with Diego in my heart. Others, to me, were either casual dalliances or revenge sex. You might say my heart was not in it, as I never lasted with anyone for long. There wasn't any adhesive there. Diego had used all of my adhesive.
There came a point when I realized I had to let him go; my lover, my everything, my heart. How can one offer God the most valuable thing while it is still hidden in ones heart? It was evident that I had to give him, but I resisted. Instead, I took medications and booze in a lethal combination since life had become a nightmare. The physical pain was constant and relentless, and I was immobile, a prisoner of my own bed. The gaping hole in my heart shouted out his name like a mother searching for a lost child. A mother will not stop hunting until the child is found, and my heart would not accept that it would be empty of him forever. And all along there was this persistent inner voice pressing me to surrender when I didn't have the strength to. What I needed was someone to sit by me in my pain and say, "It is time to let him go." Perhaps my friends and relatives attempted to help me in their own manner, but I did not listen. So, I hid the sadness as a mother might conceal the face of her deceased child. Our love was a corpse, but I refused to look at it to admit it had died.
If I had surrendered it would have been better. It matters how we end things. If we are capable and psychologically well enough, we should make peace with the aspects of ourselves that are broken. We may not be able to change either the circumstances or the other person. However, we must tell ourselves the truth. This final cleansing stage, facing our heartbreaks and failings, is crucial. Surrender can be a daily practice, not only a pre-death phase. Take an inventory every day. Inquire: What is worrying me? What am I terrified of? What is making me depressed? Perhaps you cannot undo what has occurred, but that is beside the point. Simply give up the hurt, fear, anxiety, envy, or whatever is weighing on you. This is the only way to avoid being trapped in addictive cycles since the suffering always demands to be acknowledged.
I told you that surrender is a terrible topic. You are welcome to respond, "But Frida, if I give my pain a voice I will never stop crying." And it may seem that way. However, once you acknowledge the issues to yourself, the weeping will subside. Admitting it is like cleansing a wound, just as I cleaned my physical wounds on a regular basis. Had I healed my emotional scars, I would have been able to paint many other wonderful stories of optimism. Give up what you can't carry, what's too heavy. Remember that a bird does not carry anything in its beak that is too heavy or it cannot fly.
With Love,
Frida
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