My marriage was dying. It was like a slow, silent kind of dying at first, and then I nearly finished it off with what I did. I refer to that time as “the dark years.” We were out of hope, hurting and broken, living in the same house and unsure of what the future looked like.
I had once heard a radio DJ, who I’m sure got their information from somewhere reliable, say that if a marriage is struggling and can hold on for five more years, the couple will make it. But five years sounds like a thousand to someone in the middle of the journey.
But there we were, ten years into our marriage, facing an uphill battle. We both knew in our hearts that leaving wasn’t the answer, but while my husband tried his hardest to make things work, I met his efforts with complete resistance every single
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