Facing up to guilt will let the healing begin

She has guilt. She ended her marriage, and now she has guilt.

Mind you, she doesn't regret her decision. We can be sure of little enough in this life, but she is sure in her soul that she was right to end her marriage. He was small, gladless, depressed and mean. Insecure, derisive, relentlessly controlling and painfully selfish. Like some drunks, he stopped drinking but never got around to confronting the man who needed to start drinking. For him, relationships are pawns on a chess board; he places them strategically so that the king never, ever has to look at himself.

Thus the king "wins." The reward for his victory is that he gets to die alone.

No, she doesn't want him back. He was toxic for her. A marriage of "Munchausen by proxy." A subtle, slow leeching poison, dripping daily into her vitality. She, an incurable optimist, a woman whose glass is always half-full ... well, it took her 10 years to admit that her glass was half-full all right. Half-full of sludge and swamp water.

Her regret is that she ever married him at all. Because she knew. She knew she wasn't in love with him. Knew it wasn't right. Knew that she was trapped and frightened and reaching for marriage like you suddenly turn the steering wheel to the off ramp toward the convenient motel with the flashing vacancy sign and the promise of a shower and clean towels, because you're too tired, scared and lonely to continue down the highway of your authentic self.

She knew the day she stood in the church she had betrayed herself. She knew like somewhere inside of us we know we've just invited a vampire into our house. Later, we protest, "But I didn't know he was a vampire!" But we did know. Every voice inside of us was screaming. And, one by one, we ignored and rationalized every voice.

This brave woman is ready to explore just how and why it made sense to her to invite the vampire in. To have the life sucked out of her. What in her could so easily proffer her authenticity and integrity for the promise of ... of ... come to think of it, she can no longer recall what exactly she thought she would get out of settling for the masquerade.

So, the guilt she feels about divorce has an ironic edge, because, if she had it to do over, she would choose divorce again in a heartbeat.

As I listen to her, I think she doesn't so much feel guilty; she is guilty. She's not wrestling with a bad feeling. She's staring into the mirror of an objective fact. Feelings are easy compared to immutable facts.

When I remodeled my bathroom, I tore everything out. Dying toilet, curling linoleum, lavatory, cabinet, light fixture, towel bars -- everything.

The mirror was the last thing to go. No frame. Just this huge slab of mirror affixed to the wall. I was afraid to take it off. Afraid of breaking it. Afraid the falling pieces of broken mirror would chop my hand off as neatly as a guillotine.

I taped it crisscross, up, down, and sideways. I removed the clips, but it didn't budge. The mirror was married to the wall with four generous squirts of some insidious, black permabond. As I pulled, I began to hear the wall worry, then stretch, and finally to scream, rip and tear.

Oh, I got it off without losing limbs or digits. I got away with my life. But no way was my shiny new sink, light, and cabinet ever going to cover the huge hole that had been ripped in this wall.

The wall would have to be repaired. But, listening to this woman today, the word "healed" comes to mind. If the new bathroom was to truly shine, the wall would need healing.

Marriage vows bind us. Marriage is a mirror reflecting our life of "we." And, if we have a shred of integrity and self-respect, if our words and promises mean anything at all, then there is no way to remove the mirror without injuring ourselves. Without tearing open some holes that will need healing.

Not even if the divorce is the exact right thing to do.

This woman's guilt is an objective fact and a rational conclusion. And because she has the courage to tell that truth, then her guilt can be healed. She can be forgiven. She can forgive herself, be restored, and made whole.

While she might always have a slight limp on rainy days, she will be truly free.

I admire her. I'm glad for her.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at skalas@reviewjournal.com.