Hurt People Hurt People

No I didn't hit copy and paste. Though it reads like a riddle, it's the sad truth. Hurt (adjective) people hurt (verb) people. It's one of those things I came across when I was deep in my "why, why, WHY??" stage of healing. (And make no mistake, it is a stage of healing. Though it seems as if you're wallowing in betrayal muck so thick and deep, you'll never get anywhere, you really are getting somewhere...just really, really slowly.)
Hurt people hurt people. And, just like that, I got it.
My husband didn't hurt me because I was 10 pounds heavier than when we first met.
He didn't hurt me because I sometimes interrupted him when he was talking.
He didn't hurt me because I'd become boring in bed. Or I hated the movies he loved. Or I stopped shaving my legs except when other people were going to see them.
Nope. He hurt me because he was hurt. As in wounded. Damaged. A broken man.
And when we accept that truth, it frees us. It lets us off the hook (that we hung ourselves on) for his actions.
I hadn't recognized the extent of his hurt, his brokenness, and frankly didn't really want to. I wanted him to be who I wanted him to be...not who he actually was. I, who had grown up with alcoholic parents and benign neglect, was sick of taking care of everyone else. I wanted someone to take care of me. And though my husband tried over the years to get me to really see him, I didn't want to. I wanted strong. Capable. Infallible.
Not him. But the him I thought I could wish him into being.
And so he gave me that...except when he couldn't, which was much of the time. And those times he lied to me so I wouldn't see that he wasn't that person.
Hurt people hurt people.
Ain't it the truth.