When I first felt the raw, unwashed trauma of my divorce, I would direct anger and indignation towards anyone who blithely told me that time heals all wounds. How foolish they must be, I thought. They must have never been through any challenges. How could the mere rotation of a clock hand soften the shock and pain of being utterly betrayed from the inside out? I scoffed at the notion.
Luckily for me, time continued on, ignorant of my harsh view of it.
The changes were so subtle at first, I did not notice them. The improvement from one hour to the next too small to be measured. But it was there nonetheless.
As time continued its relentless linear path, my pain followed suit in an inverse relationship, although in a much more randomized pattern. I became accustomed to the things causing my discomfort, and so I was not as aware of them. The pain, once so alien, became familiar and no longer needed attention. Anniversaries came and went and I survived. I layered memories, replacing painful ones with fresher happier ones. The hardest times occurred with diminishing frequency and lessening intensity.
I still dismiss the notion that time will heal all wounds; time is no surgeon, ready to excise the malignant past. However, time does dull the knife’s edge of past traumas, lessening their ability to cause that searing pain, that sharp intake of breath when the blade pierces your heart. The pain becomes duller, more distant, more manageable. It’s as though its initial razor edge is dulled by time dragging it through the rocks lining the river of life, new experiences whittling away the once-sharp edge.
While waiting for the blade of your trauma to dull, carry lots of bandages and always be wary of the edge.