Once We Repaired Things – Part 3

The Peace Before the Unravelling

A moment that felt like peace - before I understood what was underneath it.

 

After that frightening Sunday afternoon — the shocking, destabilising phone call that left me shaken to my core — he called back.

 

Paul had calmed down. He had reflected. And he admitted he had overreacted.

It was a huge overreaction. At the time, that acknowledgment felt like maturity. It felt like strength. It felt like a good man taking responsibility for losing control of his emotions.

I forgave him. 

I was actually proud of him for reflecting and realising that it was an overreaction. 

I believed him when he said he had strong feelings for me. I believed him when he said he had reflected. I believed him when he returned calmer, steadier, aware.

I told him we would take it slowly.

I said we needed quality time — real time — to talk about things. Not surface things. Not reactions. But the deeper things.

Our fears.

Our goals.

Our values.

Our dreams.

I remember saying gently, “I don’t know if you have fears. I know I have fears. What are yours?”

He said, “Oh, I have fears all right.”

He feared ending up alone.

He feared dementia — after witnessing his father’s diagnosis, his deterioration, the gradual loss of himself.

They were human fears. Natural fears. Vulnerable admissions.

I listened carefully and I held that gently. I respected it.

I was treading carefully because I was scared.

But I was hopeful.

It was my last hope.

⸻

I didn’t know how I was supposed to be.

In this society, the burden so often seems placed on women — on me — to respond perfectly. To be gentle but not weak. Honest but not confronting. Forgiving but not foolish. Strong but not intimidating. Authentic but not “too much.”

I am flawed like everyone. But I am a good person. I care deeply. I am sincere. I do not need to announce that I am authentic — I live it.

And yet I have tolerated behaviour I should never have tolerated. Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t.

But in that moment, I felt peace.

In my heart, I forgave him for what I believed was a one-off overreaction. I thought: Let’s move past this.

I did not respond to every accusation he had made in that earlier call. I wish I had. Later, I would try to explain — because some people say they’ve overreacted, but they don’t truly release what they said. It lingers. It resurfaces. It becomes a quiet ledger.

It’s strange how some people cannot tolerate being treated with even a fraction of the intensity they themselves unleash on others.

But at that time, I felt relief.

I thought:

A good man reflected on a mistake.

A good man realised he had strong feelings for me.

A good man came back.

I felt validated.

Or so I thought.

⸻

At the same time, something extraordinary happened in my professional life.

After decades of hard work — since 2001 — I received news that I had earned a promotion in a restructure. A role based on merit. On contribution. On respect. On what I had given to my university community over many years.

It was not charity.

It was not favouritism.

It was earned.

For a brief, shining window of time, everything aligned.

A relationship that felt restored.

A career milestone long deserved.

A new chapter unfolding.

Life felt stable.

Life felt good.

I felt peace.

⸻

My birthday was approaching. Then Christmas. Then New Year.

It was going to be a fresh start. A hopeful start.

After everything I had endured — including the devastating loss of my father, who would never walk me down the aisle, never meet grandchildren, never see the fullness of my future — I believed that perhaps goodness had finally found me again.

I had dreams that still had the potential of being fulfilled.

I was dating a man who said he had strong feelings for me and had reflected on his mistake.

I was stepping into a new professional role that would challenge and grow me.

I was looking forward to a year filled with possibility.

For the first time in a long time, I felt peace in my heart. I am emotional even writing that now, because it was real.

The relief was real.

The hope was real.

The gratitude was real.

But what I did not yet understand was that peace built on unresolved patterns is fragile.

What I believed was a mature one-off overreaction would later reveal itself as something deeper. Something repeated. Something more serious than I could see at the time.

It was not simply an overreaction.

The man who feared ending up alone would later create the very loneliness he said he dreaded.

And I am alone now.

And I too feared ending up alone.

That is the part no one sees.

When he spoke about that fear — about watching his father decline, about not wanting to end his life alone — I held that gently.

But I had that fear too.

I just didn’t weaponise it.

I didn’t let it justify destabilising someone else.

I didn’t let it excuse words that would fracture trust.

I carried it quietly.

And now I sit in the very loneliness we both said we were afraid of.

That is the irony.

That is the grief.

⸻

And today, I am alone, because of the consequences of his actions and his words — and the humiliation that followed, which I have not yet written about.

There were moments when the grief — the Trauer — was so overwhelming I felt like I was losing my mind. Not because I am unstable. But because repeated destabilisation fractures something inside you.

There is something I understand now that I did not understand then.

When someone repeatedly destabilises you — when hope rises and then collapses again — the nervous system does not feel peaceful.

It feels unsafe.

Relational instability does not land lightly. It lands heavily.

Peace is not absent because I failed spiritually.

Peace feels absent because my body and heart have been through prolonged unpredictability.

That is human.

And I need to speak.

Because I never really got the chance to speak.

Writing is the only place where I can finish a sentence without interruption. The only place where I can communicate the truth — not only to him, but to myself.

For a moment, I felt safe.

For a moment, I believed everything was finally good.

It was a false sense of security.

And I would soon learn the cost of mistaking temporary calm for lasting change.

To be continued…

See also : January 2017 - I felt peace that all was finally well in my life - it lasted only 2 weeks - http://mystory-myvoice.blogspot.com/2025/01/january-2017-i-felt-peace-that-all-was.html