Tend to the Wound

Turn Your Attention to the Arrow in Your Heart
Bindu Wiles

If someone comes along and shoots an arrow into your heart, it's fruitless to stand there and yell at the person. I would be much better to turn your attention to the fact that there's an arrow in your heart and relate to the wound.

- Pema Chodron

Human nature is a curious and often paradoxical thing. We often act with compassion toward others who are suffering but never consider doing the same for ourselves. We have a compassion double standard. If we saw someone bleeding, we would jump into action to tend to the person’s wound right away. We would place all our heartfelt and focused attention on the wounded instead of yelling at the person who caused the wound. We would stay right there with them and take care of the most important thing — the wound and the hurt.

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It would be so wonderful that if the next time we felt hurt by the world, or by someone else, we focused on the arrow that landed in our heart. Instead of spending time and energy telling that person about our boundaries and what’s acceptable and how they should communicate better, and all the things we think they should do so that we can feel right and better, we could turn our gaze back to our own wounded heart, lingering there with great kindness and gentleness for however long it took to feel better.

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By looking at our past and doing our healing work, we not only free ourselves, but we free others from our entrapping projections onto them. We no longer demand that they change in order for us to feel better.

In the months immediately following D-Day, I went through hell.

And one of the weirdest aspects was that it seemed like the person who could help me the most was my husband. He was the person who had always been there for me, always supported me - but, of course, in this situation he was also the source of my anguish. And in part because he had caused it, he resisted empathizing with it. I think he wasn't willing or able, at least initially, to accept the full extent of of my pain as one of the consequences of his actions. 

For the first time in my life, I thought about cutting - in part because I wanted to concentrate and externalize my inner pain, but in part so I could show him in blood what he didn't otherwise seem willing to see.

I spent so much time trying tell him what to do to make me feel better. We talked for hours about what I needed. I wrote out lengthy emails. I found and sent articles. (To his credit, he also found and read a book on helping one's spouse in such situations.) And I expected him to absorb and adopt this avalanche of information, to immediately transform from someone who could compartmentalize away his love for me, who could conclude that what I didn't know wouldn't hurt me, who could lie to my face - in short, from someone who could pursue premeditated affairs - into the most emotionally intelligent person in the world. All while dealing with the sudden exposure of his secret life and the evaporation of his image as the perfect husband - not just to me, but to both of our families and most of our friends. All while discovering for the first time his own deepest insecurities. All while confronting the very real possibility of one of his greatest fears - divorce. All while living elsewhere. All while we parented a toddler and one-month-old.

In short, conditions were not great for the growth of his emotional intelligence. 

But he tried. And when he said or did the right thing, I felt better. When he didn't, though, I would invariably spiral deeper into despair. And often, especially in the first few months following D-Day, he didn't say or do the right thing.

Readings like this one helped me recognize how important it is for me to focus on healing myself, rather than relying on others for healing. Others can help, certainly - my two girls help more than they will ever know, my husband helps, my therapist helps, my friends help, our counselor helps, my family helps - but my healing is fundamentally my responsibility. I've realized that, and I am working on internalizing it. 

Now, when my husband says or does the right thing, I can take it for what it is - help, and a data point. And when he doesn't, I can take it for what it is - a disappointment, and a data point. And when he says or does the wrong thing, I can take that for what it is - a failure, and a data point.

It's hard to change old habits, but this is crucial to rebuilding my sense of inner strength. My healing, and ultimately my happiness, depends on me. 

And so I turn my gaze back to my own wounded heart.