Kevin leaves the house exasperated, rubbing his hair and face dramatically, stating he would be out dealing with something. I nod my head and continue reading to Harper and Elijah. Time passes. I start looking for open positions in the Oklahoma City area, my hometown, as I feel like normal people do not live like this. I can no longer sit, waiting, on my hands for this life to change. And I am very tired of not being normal. This is the first time I have cracked in five years under the mantle of ministry and the mantle of Kevin's depression. The most core portion of my heart speaks to my brain.
If I can change our circumstances our lives will be more normal; I affirm this vision with further Google searches. I accept my broken position of failure to achieve many of the goals I have wholeheartedly clung to, knowing all my efforts have meant nothing in the context of my survival inside of a rather large vacuum. I start framing how I will tell this to Kevin.
He approaches our bedroom door and looks stressed, asking me to come sit down on the couch, my best friend is in our living room, and I am very confused. I think thoughts with a heavy Polly Anna vibe, like, has her husband died? But why isn’t she crying if something has happened to her? They direct me to the couch; I have little idea as to what is going on or what is about to happen.
As I am writing this now, I feel shaky, a deep sinking feeling wafts over my body, a pinprick of residual trauma. Kevin, shaking himself, says he has had an affair. My mind had been in a more hopeful place, I had thought our everyday circumstance was improving, but my body is bought into our new reality. As Kevin tells me what has happened, who he has had this affair with, I don’t cry and I’m not angry. I mainly feel bewildered, as I thought if I supported, and loved, and sacrificed for him, he would do the same towards me. I remember asking him if he wanted to be with me, if I was not enough for him presently, even though I had little else to put forth as an offering to make up the difference.
We all sit in silence as Kevin shakes and cries. I know my best friend well, I am grateful knowing I could say any word to her, ask of any service, and she would dutifully make moves. Kevin asks if I want him to leave, if I need some space, if I want him to stay the night at a friend’s house. These questions drain more life out of me, reinforcing my well-guarded truths. I had felt, for a good length of time, that Kevin did not want to be with me, did not want to be a husband with me, or be the head of our household. Later, after this first night ends, my heart and neck will ache and explode as a reaction to relatively normal events. But in this moment I am a stone. The stone yoke evolves as time passes. I’m no longer outwardly hysterical, but my thoughts race still, difficultly chasing a preferred peace of mind. My friend leaves us, alone I again try to find answers and connect the dots as to how Kevin could do this, to me, to our children, and to the church that had become a bedrock of our life.
The more I ask the more nauseous I feel. The pervasiveness and totality of our exchanges is overwhelming; I am stunned, I am shocked, but I am not angry. I am consumed with a million emotions bundled into one spinning vacuum. As I sit across from Kevin I see his fragility matching my own and I wonder if we will make it past this moment.
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