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 can give. Surrender is the ability to step aside quietly and graciously when we feel we are due something, to allow someone else to shine. And we will only hand over to someone we trust.
Life sometimes asks us to open our fists and let go of what we thought was ours. Death is one of these occurrences, and so is divorce. And 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 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 both sewn into meant tearing myself. 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 also a lumbering beast locked in an awful circumstance and striving to break free. I gave in solely because he wanted to be free of me, 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 to explore the globe. He adored ladies in the same way a painter would appreciate 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 his 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. The more I tried, putting more effort into resolving our issues, the farther 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 and consistently that I realized I had nothing to do with his deep-seated desire. Perhaps it was God's grace, but I was able to distance myself from his triumphs long enough to notice the emptiness within him and his juvenile fascination with the feminine form.
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 boyish charm. In such a terrible scenario, what else could I do but surrender my little boy?
People do things for unfulfilled, generally unconscious reasons, because their formative needs were unsatisfied. Some individuals still long for attention, while others seek a sense of power and control...there are many psychological requirements that people attempt to satisfy. Sometimes it's just for the excitement 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 realized 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 bedrest all became too much for him, so he went wandering again. I divorced him the second time, knowing it had been 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 vengeance sex. You might say my heart wasn't in it, as I never lasted with anyone for long. There wasn't any adhesive there. Diego had used all of the 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 the heart? It was evident that I had to open it, but I refused. Instead, I took medications and booze in a lethal combination since life had become a nightmare for me. 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 he is found, and my heart would not accept that it would be empty of him forever. I turned away from that truth. And all along, there was this 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 inform me in their own manner, but I did not listen. So, I hid the sadness, like a mother might conceal the face of her deceased child. Our love was a corpse, but I refused to look at it to realize it had died.
If I had taken the leap of surrender, the outcome would have been better. It matters how we end our lives. If we are capable and psychologically well enough, we should make peace with the aspects of ourselves that require repair. We may be unable to change either the circumstances or the other person. However, we must tell ourselves the truth. This final cleaning stage, facing our heartbreaks and failings, is crucial. Surrender can be a daily practice, not only a pre-death phase. Take an inventory of what you are fleeing from, every day. Inquire: What is ailing me? What exactly am I terrified of? What is leading me to worry? What is making me depressed? Search your heart on a daily basis, and you will no longer need to run. Perhaps you cannot undo what has occurred, but that is beside the point. Simply give up the hurt, fear, anxiety, envy, or whatever is bothering you. This is the only way to avoid becoming trapped in addictive cycles since the suffering always demands to be acknowledged.
I told you that surrender is a terrible topic. It can also save you. 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 stop. Admitting it is like cleansing the 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 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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