You know what really grinds my gears?
Having to say sorry for something I don’t think I did wrong.
Sorry, folks. This isn’t going to be one of those “love means never having to say you’re sorry” kind of posts. Because quite frankly? I think that’s a bunch of bull. Love means pride-swallowing. It means that sometimes we fuck up and that we have to take complete ownership of that. There will be times when we don’t think we fucked up at all but we find ourselves apologizing for the sake of letting down our guard, fighting for what’s important, and staking a claim in our relationship.
Having said that, I came across a beautifully written post this morning entitled The True Story of a Seven Year Marriage over at Softly My Love. In it, Chelangat expresses herself far more eloquently than I ever could. I love it when a blog post allows me to pause, reflect, and be a bit more mindful about my own life and relationship.
This verse in particular resonated with me: “We were careless with our love, sending out sharp words and criticisms and then rushing out the door to our next obligation. We thought we were building a life for our future. We didn’t see the cracks in what we were building.”
Spoken words cannot be undone. Hurt takes time to heal. And moments of anger can fester and become resentment over time.
Saying sorry is difficult for someone who doesn’t like to admit to wrongdoing.
I know, because I am that someone.
In the past few weeks I’ve struggled to figure out what it means to find “The One” and how unrealistic expectations can cause a relationship to crumble at its foundation. Just the other day I scribbled furiously after an argument with Bryan that sent my world into a tailspin. Though it wasn’t the first time we’d ever had a disagreement, it made me realize that I need to work on some of my coping mechanisms and also figure out a way to communicate more openly–and effectively–in our relationship. Rather than vent my frustrations to a spiraled notebook, I’ve been working on expressing my feelings to him after we’ve both had time to process everything. Isn’t that sometimes the hardest part? Giving someone the space they need to sort out the muck?
Patience is not one of my strong points, apparently.
But patience has taught me a valuable lesson: That it’s okay when things aren’t perfect. And that this doesn’t mean the end is nigh. Because what does it mean to reach the top of a mountain, if you don’t remember the journey it took to get there?