Thursday's Thought

 

No, your suffering isn't noble nor is it meaningful. Unless we make it so...

It’s a very narrow-minded idea that comes out of religion, that all suffering has a purpose. Suffering is just suffering. And after you’ve been through the suffering, perhaps your relationship to the world is changed, and perhaps it isn’t; but suffering shouldn’t be glorified. 

~Andrew Solomon, From The Pause, On Being with Krista Tippett

I've been thinking and writing lately about platitudes, about this idea that suffering has some sort of higher meaning. It's tempting to believe that our pain has a purpose. To accept that sometimes bad things happen just because is to accept chaos in the universe, which means that it can happen again.

I confess I used to believe that, because of childhood trauma, I had somehow met my pain quota. Surely only good things would happen to me because so much bad already had. I had a vague sense of some universal ledger that kept track: good things on one side, bad on the other, until everyone had achieved some sort of balance.

I blush now at my hubris. At my ridiculousness. I mean...the Holocaust! Car accidents that wipe out entire families! Childhood sex abuse! How does any good balance out those horrors? It's nonsensical. And yet, we still want to believe that our pain has a purpose, that our suffering contains something of value.

And perhaps it does. 

But only if we transform it.

The suffering itself is just...suffering. And no amount of good will erase it or balance it out. But though I wouldn't wish it on anyone, it can illuminate our lives. It can, if we let it, give our lives a meaning we might not have considered.

That's not to say we need suffering to make our lives meaningful. Not at all. It is to say, however, that those who've known suffering often find a way to use what they learned in that pain to help themselves and others. It is to say that suffering can become a light we shine forward.

I had a conversation with a friend this morning. Her son, a beautiful boy who'd been abused by his father and became addicted to drugs, continues to live on the streets, usually in a state of psychotic delusion. Nothing will erase my friend's suffering. She continues to ache for the boy she loves. What she has done, however, is extend compassion to other people on the streets. She gathers clothes and food. She supports organizations that offer outreach and medical care to drug addicts and those without homes. Her suffering didn't generate her empathy but it did direct it in a way that helps others and offers some soothing to her own broken heart. Does her suffering have meaning? I don't think so. How can watching a promising child abandon everything to a need for drugs offer meaning? But she has found a way to use her suffering to shine a light forward. She hopes others will do the same so that her son might one day benefit from their kindness.

There is no great meaning to why my husband cheated. He was in pain and he transmitted that pain, hurting so many. He made a stupid stupid choice.

But my own suffering, which I couldn't have imagined when I only heard of others going through infidelity became a light that I could use to shine the way forward for others. There seemed no point to my pain so I made a point of using it, of transforming it. I know so many of you have done the same, from creating local support groups, to reaching out to someone on Twitter who is hurting. It is comes from the same fountain of suffering transformed.

Suffering is just suffering. There are times when we can release it. And there are times when we can put it to work. But it should never be glorified.

Afraid of Being Afraid

To release this terror, we must stop pretending to be unafraid, and confront the terror from within. We need to first unmask the fear; we need to let go of pretending we have no fear. In my own experience, once I understood that it was okay to be afraid, the healing began. The wisdom in my bones came alive and I became aware in the midst of fear and anxiety that the mind and body were begging to purge the terror within. With this awareness, the waters of my mind stopped whirling and I could at last begin to see my reflection.

~Zenju Earthlyn Manuel, from Ten Percent Happier

It started with tingling hands. From the tips of my fingers to my arms to a flood throughout my body, I would be engulfed by it. Fear. Terror. What I was afraid of wasn't always clear to me. Just...an uncertain future. Just...a misunderstood past.

The fear fed on itself. I became afraid of being afraid. I carried around a bottle of anti-anxiety pills that I was afraid to take. I felt debilitated. Unfocused.

What Zenju Earthlyn Manuel learned, and what she tries to teach us, is that trying to outrun the fear only exacerbates it. Refusing to acknowledge it only increases its power over us. As most of us should have learned by now, only by looking the monster in its face can we overcome it.

Manuel learned to do this through meditation. "To release this terror, we must stop pretending to be unafraid, and confront the terror from within. We need to first unmask the fear; we need to let go of pretending we have no fear. "

We can't eliminate it all at once, she says. I'm reminded of the Wicked Witch in Wizard of Oz. She melts rather than vanishes. When gripped by fear, Manuel tells herself, "I am in the past." We might try the same. It's sometimes as accurate to say, "I am in the future." Where we are not is in the present. And that's where refuge, counter-intuitively, is found. In the now. "Right now, I am fine."

That became my mantra. "Right now, I am fine." Fine was open to interpretation. It didn't necessarily mean that my husband wasn't again cheating. It didn't necessarily mean that my marriage was okay. What it meant was small and simple and profound: Right now, I am fine. Alive. Breathing.

Perhaps you're afraid too. Betrayal is frightening because it reminds us that we control so much less than we thought we did.

What's more, at this moment in history, so much is frightening. Our vulnerability is laid bare, our need to take care of each other has likely never been so important in our lifetimes. I've been feeling that familiar fear begin to creep back. I notice it. I acknowledge it. And then I remind myself that fear catapults me back in time or forward. But right now, I am fine.

Thursday Thought

When Rah-Rah Isn't Reality

A woman responded to a post today with words that made my heart ache. She'd been reading all the stories of healing and moving past and rah-rah cheer and even though she was doing everything she could to try and grab on to a piece of that positivity for herself, she just couldn't. It just wasn't her reality.
Not right now.
And that's okay.
If there's anything worse than feeling like you're in the darkest place of your life, it's feeling like you're in the darkest place of your life and you should be able to fix it.
And yet, you haven't a clue what you can do. And even if you had a clue, you aren't sure you even want to fix it. 
You're tired.
You're defeated.
You're paralyzed.
So...
What do you do when none of the so-called solutions fit right now?
What do you do when others' stories don't match yours? When your husband isn't following the script? When you're exhausted from sleepless nights? When none of his promises mean anything? When none of this feels like it could ever turn out to be even remotely okay? When none of your so-called choices are good ones? When you're left with bad and worse? 
What do you do?
Nothing.
Doing nothing can feel radical. It can feel dangerous. We're a culture that rewards action. That rewards badasses who scream like hell about injustice, who take no prisoners.
Where's the glory in pulling the sheets over your head? Where's the power in curling up on the floor with the dog and sobbing into his neck?
But, even though it might feel counter-intuitive, even though it might feel scary, like if you loosen your grip for even a second any forward momentum you might have achieved will vanish like smoke, even though...
Nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing.
Doing nothing is doing something. It's letting yourself rest. It's letting your poor overworked brain stop trying to brainstorm your way out of this. It's trusting that you can loosen your grip and regain some strength. 
Glennon Doyle puts it this way: First the pain. Then the waiting. Then the rising. 
Waiting can feel like hell. But it's a crucial part of this. 
So, my dear wounded sister, everything in your response tells me that you're in the waiting period. The fallow period. When seeds are being planted but you don't yet see what's growing because it's deep in the ground.
Trust that you are healing. And that when the time is ready, you will feel stronger and clearer. None of this is easy. Hard news but the truth. But when it feels impossible, that's your cue to...rest. To wait.
And then, when you're ready, to rise again. 

How To Grow Your Own Heart

Would you erase your memories if you could? Not all memories, of course, but painful ones?

There was a time when I would have signed up for that without hesitation. I longed for some sort of lobotomy that kept me functional but stripped of trauma. Or a fall that would render me amnesiac, like a soap opera character. 

However, with technology on the horizon that promises (threatens?) to do exactly that, I find myself far more ambivalent. 

Do I really want to forget everything associated with my husband's infidelity?

I'm far enough out from D-Day (closing in on the 13th anti-versary) that the sting is long gone. I sometimes have trouble remembering the OW's name, a name I thought was seared into my brain. 

Sometimes, when one of you amazing warriors shares your story, there are details that make my own heart quicken, my stomach sink and my eyes well. I'm right there with you and, oh man, it hurts like  hell.

But mostly, I'm left with the life I've built since that horrible day, the lessons I've learned, the appreciation I've gained. 

And I wonder, was the pain the price I had to pay to get where I am? 

I hope I don't sound cavalier. Because I know just how acute that pain is. I have some sort of muscle memory that takes me back to the hyperventilating, the bizarre sense of falling without a net, the abject terror of another day in which, it seemed, anything could happen but it would probably be bad. 

But I've got the long view now. It's a view I never imagined. So intense was the pain of betrayal that I couldn't conceive of it ever receding. Dulling perhaps but persisting. Like an arthritic knee on a rainy day.

It isn't like that, at least not for me. It's more the memory of pain than pain itself. Like a diary in which you know you felt that way – after all, it's right there in your handwriting – but it feels like someone else.

How did I get here?

Good question. Because I certainly didn't have a plan, nor a map, which is what I wanted. And which is why I wrote Encyclopedia for the Betrayed because if there's a shortcut, a blueprint for getting the hell out of the darkness even a tiny bit faster, then bring it on, right?

But it began, honestly, with growing my own heart large enough to include myself.

Simple, huh? 

Not for me. So deep was my own shame that learning to make space in my heart for myself felt Herculean. It felt selfish. I didn't deserve it, I was certain. My lack of caring for myself left me particularly vulnerable to the pain of betrayal because somewhere, deep deep down, was the belief that my husband's infidelity was almost inevitable. I was fundamentally unlovable.

I had covered it well for a lot of years. 

But betrayal stripped me of my armour and laid my heart bare. And it held no room for me.

"When we feed and support our own happiness, we are nourishing our ability to love. That's why to love means to learn the art of nourishing our happiness. Understanding someone's suffering is the best gift you can give to another person. Understanding is love's other name. If you don't understand, you can't love."

Those are the words of Thich Nhat Hanh. 

"To love without knowing how to love wounds the person we love," he says.

Sound familiar? It's a paraphrase of something else we say often on this site: Hurt people hurt people. 

And though it usually refers to the betrayer rather than the betrayed, I've come to understand the ways in which I hurt myself because I was hurt, the ways in which I shrank myself to accommodate others, was quiet when I should have been loud, accepted crumbs because that's what I'd been taught to accept. 

All of which is a long way of saying, I'll keep my memories. Yes, they were excruciating. But within them is the memory of a me who deserved my compassion but received my scorn. A me that I can retroactively nourish and a heart that I can continue to grow to make room not only my own flawed self but the flaws of those I continue to love, suffering I can much better understand. 

Thursday Thought

Thursday Thought

Are You Willing to Learn?

If you are not willing to learn, nothing can help you.

If you are willing to learn, nothing can stop you.

These are the words that Samuel, who works with Overcoming Infidelity, posted on his Twitter feed. It was one of those things that underscored an earlier conversation I'd had with a friend. You know how once you notice something, suddenly it's unavoidable?
My friend and I had been talking about her husband's refusal to better learn how to speak with their teenager, instead descending routinely into anger and blame, which, not surprisingly, was shutting down conversation altogether. My friend was frustrated. She wanted her husband to have a better relationship with their son, a good kid who was doing little more than following his own values, not just his father's. And his own values included a piercing. Her husband, this boy's father, simply couldn't – or rather wouldn't – acknowledge that yelling at a kid wasn't going to change anything other than further damage the father-son relationship. It certainly wasn't going to un-pierce his ears. 
I get it.
For years, I couldn't – I wouldn't – stop going to my family cottage even though I knew the weekend would consist of too much drinking, total chaos, and, occasionally, some violence. I had a therapist who, increasingly exasperated, would ask me why I kept putting myself in a situation that I knew was harmful to me. My answer sounded weak even to my ears. Translated into plain English, it amounted to this: I didn't know what else to do. And so I did what I'd always done. Even in the fact of evidence that what I'd always done wasn't working for me.
You too perhaps?
Perhaps, despite a partner who has lied to you, who has betrayed you, and who refuses to take steps to remedy the damage he's caused, you're unable to take steps to protect yourself. Perhaps you've been told to seek therapy, or to set boundaries, or to file for separation.
But you don't. Your reasons sound weak even to your own ears. Thing is, you're doing what you've always done because you don't really know what else to do. It requires skills that we don't yet have. Skills we'd need to learn.
I eventually learned those skills and you know what? It wasn't as hard as I'd always thought. There was no secret code I needed to crack. There was discomfort. Horrible discomfort. I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. If I wasn't at my family cottage to prevent catastrophe, then...anything could happen. And that felt terrifying to me. But me being there hadn't prevented chaos. It hadn't curbed the drinking. It had only made me witness too and sometimes victim of it. It had only harmed me.
So...I sat with the discomfort. I distracted myself from the discomfort. I did what I could to ignore the discomfort.
I learned to do things differently.
The sky didn't fall. Catastrophe might have occurred but I wasn't there for it. I discovered it wasn't my job to protect other adults from the consequences of their choices. It was my job to protect myself from the consequences of their choices. My only job.
Yours is to protect yourself from the consequences of your husband's choices. To learn better.
If you refuse to learn, nothing can help you through this.
If you are willing to learn, nothing can stop you.
It's not easy to unlearn old ways of doing things. Those habits have worn deep treads in your brain. But my guess is those old ways of doing things aren't exactly making life great. My guess is those old ways of doing things long ago stopped working for you and now, possibly, are actively hurting you.
If your husband wants you to consider giving him a second chance, he's going to need to learn new ways of doing things. That's his job.
Yours is to do the same. To set boundaries. To demand transparency and respect and kindness. To take steps to only allow people into your life with whom you are emotionally and physically safe. To sit the horrible discomfort of making these changes, knowing that discomfort is just part of the process.
If you do that, nothing can stop you. I promise. 

When We Shift, When We Become: Infidelity Through the Lens of Trauma

We experience a subtle spiritual awakening the moment we see that life goes on, even after our life has been ripped apart by loss. However unimaginable, life goes on even when we don’t recognize it as our life. It’s absent of the familiar people, places, or things we previously used to navigate it, and it’s without the tenuous threads we used to bind it together. When a relationship so central to our life proves unreliable, we might wonder what is real.

~From Lion's Roar

It's a feeling familiar to anyone who's experienced trauma. "We might wonder what is real." Is this really happening? Will I wake up from this nightmare? Can I step out of this back into my life?

We're jolted from our comfortable lives (or even from our uncomfortable but familiar lives) into something that feels unreal. Wrong. Like we've been cast in the wrong role in the wrong play. This isn't where we're supposed to be. This wasn't supposed to happen.

And then, compounding our incredulity, the sun comes up again the next day. And the day after that. The earth continues to tilt on its axis. The tides rise and fall. The bills come due. The fridge empties. The laundry piles up. Life, even if it's a life we no longer recognize, goes on. 

And that realization creates a barely perceptible shift, an understanding that though nothing feels the same and reality itself feels like an illusion, the laws still apply and, wonder of wonders, we're still here.

How is this possible? We look in the mirror. Except for some dark circles and, perhaps, a skinnier frame, we look the same. But we're not the same. We're not the same at all. Everything has changed. Why doesn't the world see that?
A lot of struggle with seeing infidelity through the lens of trauma. I did. A friend of mine, recently struggling with her husband's emotional affair, is beginning to recognize that what she's experiencing now is trauma, but it has taken her two years. Part of it is that the word trauma feels so...dramatic. Like we're making a big deal. We weren't raped, we think. We haven't returned from a war zone.
But let's consider what trauma does. It leads us to wonder what is real. It creates hyper-vigilance. The world feels unsafe. We don't trust anyone. 
Sound familiar?
Thought so.
It was when I began to allow myself to use that word – trauma – to describe my own experience that things began to make more sense. My responses didn't seem crazy, they seemed to fit right in with what therapists expect with post-trauma. 
I gave myself permission to sit with the pain. I took tentative steps toward healing. I rested when necessary. And slowly, I rose. 
You will too. 
I promise.
But first, you hurt.
And that hurt goes deep. That hurt is, often, traumatic.
That's not drama, that's truth.
Seek help. Let others hold you. Let the light of those further ahead on the path to healing guide you.
Learn to trust yourself again.
You are shifting inside. No matter that the world seems the same, you will never be. And that's okay. You are becoming...

Why I Love Betrayed Wives Club

I've been busy. Which means that I haven't been responding to comments with quite the speed that you're probably accustomed to. By the time I post my once- or twice-weekly blogs, as well as select my Wednesday Word Hug, it's time to close the window on my computer and move on to other work. But I think of you all so often. "Haven't heard from Dandelion in a while. Wonder how she is," I'll think to my. "LilyLove hasn't been posting so often, nor has LLP. Hope everything's okay with them." And, as you all know, the list of BWC members goes off. Sometimes, searching for an old post to link, I'll notice a comment from a name I haven't seen in years. I'll smile because they don't need us anymore. That's cause for joy. 
What's also cause for a deep joy in me is something else that happened this morning. I was clicking publish on the comments that didn't involve trying to scam you all into hiring hackers or spellcasters and I noticed a response to some comments I'd missed responding to on one of our Just Finding Out threads. I often miss those comments, tending to, most often, respond to comments on recent posts. The others, unfortunately, tend to get lost to time.
But Heartfelt was compelled to respond to Emily with a story of her own trauma and an assurance that everything Emily (and her spouse) were feeling was perfectly normal and also assurance that these feelings would pass. That time (and therapy) would work its magic and life would once again feel more stable. That wounds heal. That our hearts can remain open to love.
And watching this simple gesture – one heartbroken woman reaching out to a stranger via a computer screen reminding me why I continue to run this site, even as life tries to crowd it out. It's because of all of you who, over the years, helped each other heal. Lots of women who came here won't read this post because they're long gone. They're like me. Life has crowded out Betrayed Wives Club. And that's a wonderful thing. We should all hope for that day.
But that Heartfelt, who hadn't herself been here in a while, took the time to wrap another in a word hug, made me feel, yet again, so lucky to be among you. 
We all get busy. And reaching out can sometimes feel scary. Sharing our stories can make us feel vulnerable and raw. None of us is under any obligation to write anything. This site is like a buffet -- take what appeals, leave what doesn't and don't feel as though you need to bring a dish. There's plenty to go around.
But for those who have made this site part of their conversation, please know how grateful I am for the role you play. Betrayed Wives Club wouldn't work without you. There would be no buffet if, to butcher this metaphor further, there was only my single casserole sitting there growing cold. 
You all remind me, every single day, of the good that came out of my heartbreak. I confess I wasn't a huge fan of the sisterhood. Too many betrayals by too many sisters.
But you've restored my faith. You've taught me the power inherent in women helping women. We often say this is the club we never wanted to join. I can't say that anymore. Cause this club is one of the best things that's happened for me. 
As Viola Davis says above, I didn't set out to save you guys. I set out to save myself. And it was you guys who saved me. Thank-you. 

Wednesday Word Hug

Wednesday Word Hug: Anti-versaries

Credit: @introvertdoodles

You are lovable, you are enough, you are more than just a Hallmark Holiday

Get yourself a miniature horse! Better than the ass you married. 

I woke up to this beautiful note from StillStanding1 today. It was so sweet and thoughtful that I wanted to share it here because I know that a whole of you struggle with this day.

Here it is:

Good morning lovely people, I just wanted to send you a quick note on this day, which can be a difficult day. I wanted to remind you all that you are loved, that you deserve kindness and care, and that there are amazing people out in the world who value and respect you right where you are.

Today is probably a day for radical self-care, if ever there was one. 

Let’s break out our revenge ponies (or tigers) and ride (well maybe not the pony and tiger groups together. I have a  feeling that might end badly)!

I hope you'll all recognize the truth in SS1's words and take her advice to heart. Radical self-care. Deep self-love. Revenge ponies or tiger-riding (take your pick!!). 

Love,

Elle

Wednesday Word Hug

Wednesday Word Hug

RIP Mary Oliver

Guest Post: "No" to Resolutions. "Yes" to Me.

by StillStanding1

It’s a new year and, traditionally speaking, an opportunity to start fresh, reinvent, set resolutions, fix yourself, make a new you. There are tons of messages out there promising us weight loss (so, so many), healthier lifestyles, better organization skills, fuller lives if only we do all these things, buy all this stuff, resolve to fix what is wrong with us.

I, however, am saying “no” to resolutions this year. And here's why.

Resolutions and all the surrounding crap leverages internalized messages about how we don’t measure up in order to get us to spend money. The “fix you” industry extracts billions of our dollars. It's more to-dos on an already overwhelming list of to-dos. It sets us up for failure with unrealistic promises and for self-recrimination and guilt when we inevitably don’t succeed. 

It pisses me off. 

Instead of new year, new me, I’m saying new year, same me. The me that survived 2018 is worth celebrating. The you that survived 2018 is worth celebrating. The you that is here reading this post has braved some tough shit and YOU, as you stand in your socks and PJs (or suit, or Lycra), right now, deserve to be celebrated. That’s right. You. 

You who somehow made it to this day. You who packed school lunches when you wanted to stay curled on the bathroom floor. You who showed up for work with a smile, when inside you were dying. You who made the tough choice to leave or stay. You who have no idea whether you're going to leave or stay. You who had to take a day off, call in sick, sit down, cry because you just couldn’t handle any more. You who have had to breathe through triggers. You who have had to help yourself through the pain when your husband couldn’t face it. You who have had such difficult conversations. You who wishes you could just lose that last 10 lbs. You who is chugging Ensure to get some calories in you. You who have spoken truth to bullshit.  You who have dealt with ambivalent husbands who aren’t sure what they want. You who have had to stomach the “I love you but I’m not in love with you” crap. You who has dealt with crazy Other Women and crazy exes. You who is surviving but not sure you can get through another day. 

You who has laughed and for a split second forgotten the pain. You who has enjoyed the snuggles and hugs and successes of your children or grandchildren. You who has noticed the sunshine for the first time in months. You who realized you went a whole day without thinking about your partner’s betrayal. You who fought the urge to stalk the Other Woman’s social media. You who started a new job, a new class, a new side gig. You who opened up and asked for help. You who is starting to see the pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel. You who is starting to believe you are worth it. You who can breathe again most days. You who has extended help and hope to others.

You.

You are a warrior. You deserve a standing ovation. A statue in a city park.

And that is why this year I am resolving to make no resolutions. Instead I am making commitments. 

I am committing to self-care. This does not mean spa days and vacations. This means boundaries, listening to my body and fundamentals such as sleep, water, food, moving my body and seeking healthy human connection. This also means putting my needs first. Ahead of work, ahead of kids, ahead of most things most of the time.

I am committing to showing up. As much as possible, every day, as just myself with my imperfections and being there for the people in my life, showing up for both joy and pain. Doing my best, whatever that is.

I am committing to doing things that scare me. Like trusting. Like letting my guard down, setting my armor aside, admitting I need help, letting people help me, admitting I’m scared, being vulnerable. Like letting go of people, things, ideas and attachments that no longer serve me, despite being familiar.

I am committing to compassion for myself and others. This means accepting me and everyone exactly where we are, as just where we are meant to be, and good enough in all that. Recognizing that others have their struggles that I may not see and they deserve my patience and kindness, just as I deserve my patience and kindness.

I am committing to honesty, with myself and with the people I care about, even when it is hard.

I am committing to growth. Not changing myself. Not fixing myself. Simply growing.

I am committing to remembering who I am: a kickass warrior, a caring, kind compassionate person, a woman with history, heart and lots of love, a person who deserves respect, honesty, compassion and love. 

All paths will take you forward. The trick is remembering who you are.

Wednesday Word Hug: The Smallest Step

From the Vault: The Desperate Plain

"A friend once called this sense of being too alone "the desperate plain," the looming desolate stretch of ground, no trees to shelter you, no water, no way to escape, nowhere to hide or find comfort, strewn with rocks and a few random snake holes. You are stripped down existentially, you are naked, you are nuts."
~Anne Lamott, from Small Victories: Spotting Improbably Moments of Grace

We've all been there, haven't we?  What Lamott's friend calls "the desperate plain". It's terrifying. We can't remember having ever felt safe. We can't imagine ever feeling safe again. Everywhere we look, we see threats. There is nowhere to retreat. There we are: naked, nuts.
I'm there right now. My youngest child is struggling with obsessive-compulsive disorder and I feel as though I'm in enemy territory. She becomes someone I don't recognize when she's having an episode. She screams that I'm "dirty". She won't touch certain items because they're "contaminated". She rails at me for "not helping" her and won't let me hug her because I'm "filthy and "something bad will happen."
And then, when the episode is over – 10 minutes if we're lucky, an hour if we're not – she's contrite. She sobs with regret, begs my forgiveness, says she wishes she could kill herself so that she didn't have to deal with this. She's 11 years old. A baby. My baby.
It's breaking my heart.
And though it has been a long time since I was in that barren wasteland – that desperate plain – I know that so many of you are still there. I'm back.
I'm reminded just how terrifying it is. How alone you all feel.
But I know that it is then, when we look over our shoulder and beside us and – oh no, did something move over there? – all around and see nothing NOTHING that can save us, that we need to say, in a squeak or a roar:

Help. 

We need to say "help". We need to say "help" to anyone in our lives who can offer it. We need to say "help" to someone who can take your kids for an hour so you can close your eyes or go for a walk or see your therapist. We need to say "help" to that therapist – who can give us a place where, for an hour a week (or more!), we can lay our heart bare to someone with compassion and experience who can help us mend it back together, stitch by stitch.
We need to say "help" to the women on this site, who've been where we are and can join us in solidarity or gently remind us that we won't always be in this place. That despite everything we feel right now, there is a place to move into that does offer safety and respite. That we'll get there if we can just hold on. If we can just trust that this desperate plain isn't a destination but a phase. A place we need to endure. A place where are not, in fact, alone.
Enduring can feel like surrender when it's actually a sign of incredible strength. And asking for help can be the most courageous thing you do today.
Right now my daughter needs my help. She needs me to remind her that she can endure. That this desperate plain isn't where she will always be. That she is brave and loved and suffering. But that she isn't alone.