A not-so-monumental task that should have only taken a weekend took a whole week to complete. I wasn’t prepared for how triggering it would be. As I dove into the project, I was flooded with unwanted memories and feelings left from a fifteen-year tumultuous marriage to a mentally abusive narcissist. Each step I took felt like I was peeling back the layers of a wound I thought had healed, but the rawness remained. I thought I had managed to put it behind me, yet as the waves of emotions washed over me and the memories whirled about in a perfect storm, I realized that a marriage like that is not something you can just get over. The echoes of cruel words and the suffocating control haunted me, reminding me of moments where I felt completely powerless and alone. It was astonishing how quickly the past could resurface, overwhelming me in a way I had not anticipated, leaving me to confront the complex emotions that were still very much a part of my present.
As I opened the can of paint, the smell of it assaulted my nose and my mind transported me back to my turbulent second marriage, a time when the gaslighting was so pervasive that I found myself questioning my own reality on a daily basis. In that suffocating atmosphere, I was constantly denigrated and belittled, my self-worth eroded with each cutting remark that slipped from his lips, leaving me feeling small and insignificant. The control he had over me was like a heavy weight, pressing down on my spirit, making me believe that death might be my only escape from further emotional turmoil. It was a deceptive comfort, a distorted sense of security that lulled me into submission.
The sound the roller made as it spread paint up and down the wall put me back in the car on the day before I finally left. We were driving down a busy street with my infant granddaughter asleep in the backseat, her tiny breaths a soothing rhythm against the chaos around us. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue on the asphalt, but inside the car, the atmosphere was heavy with tension. He was taunting me and calling me crazy, his voice dripping with mockery as I sat beside him, my heart racing and silent tears running down my face. Each word he threw at me felt like a dagger piercing through my resolve, a constant reminder of the emotional turmoil I was enduring. Despite my desperate pleas for him to stop, he was relentless, fueled by some unseen power to break me, as if the more I cried, the more he thrived on my suffering. I clutched the seat, longing for the comfort of silence as the world outside rushed by, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of despair. I’d finally reached my breaking point and I punched him in the face as he drove. I realized I had to get out and I packed up and left the very next day.
It has taken years of therapy to gain the ability to “handle” my triggers. So, how did I get through it? I took a lot of breaks to settle back into the present and remind myself I wasn’t living in the past. During these moments, I practiced mindfulness techniques, focusing on my breath and the sensations around me, which helped ground me in reality. In fact, there were a couple of days I avoided painting the pantry altogether for fear I would get stuck in my emotions. Instead, I chose to engage in more constructive activities, like journaling or going for a walk, allowing myself to process my feelings without the risk of slipping into old patterns. These small yet significant changes made a difference, enabling me to reclaim my sense of safety and control over my reactions. Now that it is finished, I can tell you it will be a cold day in Hell before I take on another painting project.
My Phoenix Rising 