How I Love a Cheater

Some people see the world in black-and-white. He-done-me-wrong-and-I'm-outta-here kinda thinking. Carrie Underwood "Next Time He Cheats" kinda thinking.
There have been plenty of posts on this site, and corresponding comments, revealing that many of us thought we'd respond that way. But when it actually happened to us, suddenly the future wasn't quite so crystal clear.
And, frankly, I think that black-and-white, if-this-happens-then-I'm-gone thinking doesn't always serve us well.
Syndicated sex columnist Dan Savage (he of the wonderful "It Gets Better" campaign) puts it bluntly in his book American Savage: Insights, Slights, and Fights on Faith, Sex, Love, and Politics where he writes, "Only someone obsessed with sexual fidelity to an unhealthy degree places a higher value on preserving the ideal of a monogamous marriage over preserving an actual marriage."
While I don't always agree with Savage, I do here. Absolutely there are cases where the only sane response to a spouse's cheating is to get the hell out of the relationship. Yet statistics indicate that 80% of people who divorce after betrayal regret that decision.
I suspect I would be one of those 80%. Which is why, when it happened to me, I waited.
I've often wondered if my ability to see both sides of a story is a blessing or a curse. I can't quite imagine doing what my husband did...but I can imagine how HE did it. I get how he deluded himself into believing it was harmless in the grand scheme of things. He never felt it threatened our marriage. He never believed it changed his love for me.
Clearly the guy had issues. BIG issues. A lifetime of unhealthy relationship issues.
But I had chosen him for clear-to-me and, no doubt, sub-conconscious reasons. And he was the father of my three children.
He needed my help.
He had made choices that had begun to disgust even himself, who was so adept at rationalizing his behaviour. Like most addicts eventually do, he was approaching bottom. He didn't want to be that person anymore. In hindsight, he had never wanted to be that person.
I offered my help.
At first that was all I could offer. I certainly couldn't promise that our marriage would survive. I had no idea if I could ever move past so much betrayal, so much lying, so much recklessness where my physical and emotional health – and that of my children – was concerned.
What I saw was someone incredibly sorry for the choices he'd made and desperate to find a better way. I saw my children's father. My best friend.
That was six years ago.
In that time, we've both fought our way back from hell.
He's had to face some truths about his family that he'd spent a lifetime denying.
I had to face that I still had serious issues around trust. That I really didn't know what a healthy relationship looked like as I'd never had one and never seen one up close.
And I've certainly thought at times that it would have been so much easier to just walk away and start over.
This was HARD work.
But I've come to realize it's work I would have had to do anyway if I'd hoped to have a healthy relationship in the future. And it struck me as prudent to try and create that healthy relationship with the father of my children. The guy who shares my bank account. The person who sleeps beside me.
But, some people cry, he's a cheater. He lied to you. How can you ever trust him again?
And the thing is, they're right.
Semantically speaking, he might not BE a cheater, but he WAS a cheater. He lied to me. How can I ever trust him again?
I can't.
But I also understand that I can never totally trust anyone ever again. I never could. People behave in all sorts of strange ways under different circumstances. Frankly, we don't even really know what we're capable of until put in that situation.
That said, he put himself in those situations. He sought out those experiences.
So yes, I can never totally trust him again.
But I have learned that I can trust myself. Not to always behave in ways that I think I'll behave (this point became clear to me when I was jet-skiing with a friend in Thailand. I had always believed myself to be an altruistic type. And yet, when we both fell off the jet-ski into waters rumoured to be popular with sharks, I practically clawed over my friend to get back on the jet-ski. So much for altruism!). But to respond in ways that are the best for me.
And frankly, if I thought he would cheat on me again, my marriage would be over.
So while I don't know if he'll ever cheat again, I believe he won't.
I also believe our marriage is stronger. I believe we have a far deeper understanding of each other, which has given us a deeper appreciation for each other. Our marriage is something we've chosen to rebuild. To create something that will never be as shiny and promising as it once was, something that shows signs of struggle, but that still stands firm and likely will for decades more.
I've learned to respect my husband for the battles he's waged and lost, not just the victories.
I've learned to see the pain that drove the choices he's made.
I've learned, contrary to anything I could have ever imagined, to love a cheater.

How to Avoid Rehearsing Tragedy

Frequent visitors to this site know I'm a big fan of Brené Brown, author of the most recent Daring Greatly. Brown is a researcher on vulnerability and shame and much of what she says is soothing balm to the betrayed wife's soul. It also sheds much light on the behaviour of cheating men (and women!).
But a recent letter to this site by a woman contemplating suicide in the conviction that her spouse was cheating on her (though she hadn't confronted and he hadn't confessed) got me thinking about one of Brown's own admissions. That she "rehearses tragedy".
We rehearse tragedy, Brown explains, when we don't allow ourselves to fully enjoy a moment because in the split second we allow ourselves happiness we also allow in fear. Fear that it won't last. Fear that tragedy will strike and we'll lose what we love.
Think about it. Have you ever lain in your loved one's arms, feeling content and at peace only to suddenly wonder where was last Saturday night when he didn't respond to your text? Have you ever tucked your child in at night, gazed at her gorgeous sleeping face and then been seized by the terror a life without her should she get hit by a car, or contract meningitis, or..., or..., or...
What about getting a job offer and then, seconds later, anticipating failure at this new job?
That, my friends, is rehearsing tragedy.
And we betrayed wives often become very adept at it.
In our defence, tragedy has struck. The foundation upon which we've built our lives has crumbled. So it seems only reasonable to us to anticipate tragedy striking again. We become hyper-vigilant  to signs of impending doom. We'll be damned if we're going to be caught off-guard again!
The thing is, by rehearsing tragedy, we're missing out on those moments of joy that can save us. By living in a constant state of anticipated doom, we eclipse our current peace.
As one master rehearser said, "You sacrifice joy, but you suffer less pain."
Is that the life you want? One with less joy and less pain?
Probably not. But even if you want more joy, our ability to tolerate the uncertainty in life is severely compromised. We tried that. And got knocked down so hard we wondered if we'd ever get back on our feet.
The key, says Brown, is gratitude. She put it this way: "I learned the most about gratitude practices and the relationship between scarcity and joy that plays out in the vulnerability from the men and women who had experienced some of the most profound losses or survived the greatest traumas."
When you've lost so much, you often gain something incredible. The knowledge that you can not only survive but be grateful for what joy you have in your life. And guess what? The times I worried about losing my mom (she had a longtime lung disorder), didn't lessen the pain I felt when she died. It simply diminished the time I had with her when she was alive.
And here's another thought, courtesy of Eat, Pray, Love author Elizabeth Gilbert. She recently reported that she'd sought help from her therapist because of recurring fears that she'd get divorced. Her marriage was solid but that didn't prevent her from rehearsing the tragedy of divorce.
Her therapist reminded her of something important. She'd gone through divorce. She'd experienced the tragedy. Most importantly, it was over.
Too many of us, post-betrayal, life a sort of half-life where we're so fearful of experiencing that pain again that we try to pre-empt it. Less joy but less pain becomes our motto.
But let's try another way. Let's try gratitude. Allowing ourselves to fully experience what joy is in our lives, no matter how small. A good cup of coffee. The warmth of a friend's support. The delight of a child's laugh. Fitting into our skinny jeans. Whatever joy is in your life, count it. Use it as guideposts to take you to healing.
And remember: It's over. Being hurt again is possible. Our marriages might not survive. But for now...it's over. And you're here.

Let's start a list of things that give us joy. Perhaps we can inspire each other to acknowledge that it is the small things that can save us. Please share yours... 
I'll start: The joy of a quiet house so that I can finally write a post without being interrupted. Bliss.

What Strength Has Been Unleashed in You?

Lilacs in September

Shocked to the root
like the lilac bush
in the vacant lot
by the hurricane–

whose black branch split
by wind or rain
has broken out
unseasonably

into these scant ash-
colored blossoms
lifted high
as if to say

to passersby
What will unleash
itself in you
when your storm comes?

-Katha Pollitt


It's been just over six years since I lost my mother, who died less than a month after D-Day #2, when I got the whole story of my husband's infidelities. All I could do during that emotional maelstrom was curl into myself and ride out the storm. I felt small and lonely. I felt abandoned.
But with my mother gone, without that person who fought for me, I had to learn to fight for myself. In many ways, without her voice outside of me, I carry it inside. I stand up for myself when before I would have backed down. I've learned to respectfully disagree instead of swallowing my words. I've finally understood what she meant when she urged me to "just show up." It took a time when showing up was all I could do. In the days following her death, just showing up felt Herculean. But it was enough. I was enough. All those years of thinking I had to perform or achieve to earn people's love or admiration or respect...when all I had to do was just show up.
It's a lesson I try and teach my own kids. That they're enough simply because they are. And I hope when the storms come their way, they'll wonder what strength and beauty will be unleashed in them. 

How Secrets Silence Us: How to Find Your Voice After Betrayal

“The worst part…is imagining how alone he was. This is the most poisonous thing that secrets do to us – they isolate us from everyone around us and make us feel even lonelier than we are already are.” –Tim Kreider, from his collection of essays We Learn Nothing

"We're only as liberated as our secrets." —Oprah

Affairs thrive in the shadows of secrecy. The secrecy fuels the feelings of urgency, of excitement, of longing. But while that secrecy withers in the cold light of recrimination and obligation, that's not the secrecy I'm talking about.
What I'm referring to is the secrecy that we feed after we find out. The secrecy that forces us to smile at our kids' teacher when our hearts are broken. That prompts us to offer a halting, "I'm just not feeling too well," when a curious friend asks what's wrong. The secrecy we wrap ourselves in that leaves us feeling alone. That isolates us from those two words of comfort: "Me too."
Not all of us opts for secrecy, of course. Some of us scream their pain from the rooftops. They unleash cries of rage. They broadcast their husband's transgressions to anyone who will listen...and even some who'd prefer not to.
I envy those women. I envy them their weightlessness by refusing that heavy load of silence. I envy them the commiseration from others. I envy them the authenticity with which they can move forward, no masks, no pretence.
That, however, is not me.
I opted for secrecy for a number of reasons.
•Shame. I was, frankly, embarrassed to find myself married to someone who would do this. But deeper than that, I didn't completely believe that his behaviour wasn't a reflection on me. As the child of alcoholics, I had a long history of carrying others' actions as my own shame. So, at least at first, I defaulted to "don't let others know what's really happening."
•Co-dependence: I also had a long history of protecting others from the consequences of their actions. While my husband had to face a boss and a lawyer in order to remove the OW from his employ, I didn't put him in a position where he had to face his clients, his own family or our friends. To a degree, I protected him. But I was also protecting...
•Financial stability: My husband's job depends on the trust of his clients. And though he'd been deceitful with me, there was no indication (indeed he insisted) that he'd ever been deceitful with his clients. Without any evidence that he'd actually done anything wrong where his clients were concerned, doing anything that might negatively impact his income seemed like cutting off MY nose to spite HIS face. It would serve nothing, except a desire for revenge.
•My children: More than any other reason, I opted for silence out of protection for my children. They love their father, which is as it should be. Yes, I could argue persuasively that he hadn't acted very loving toward them by jeopardizing their mother's emotional and physical health. But, honestly, did they need to know this? What would be served by informing young children of their father's idiocy? The pain it would cause them, the confusion it would engender...and for what? So I kept my mouth shut, though I did explain my tears and general sadness by saying that Mommy and Daddy were having "problems" but that we were working on them.
Most of the time, I'm glad for the path I chose. I'm glad that the world doesn't know exactly what my marriage looks like on the inside. I'm glad I don't have to reassure people that I'm fine. That we're better.
Still, there are times when silence weighs heavy. When, as Oprah points out, I don't feel as "liberated" as I'd like to feel.
It took me many years (decades!) to speak openly about my parents' alcoholism. Now, those who know me well and those to whom I'm a new acquaintance are just as likely to know my history. An offhand comment about my childhood, or a reference to my mother's years in AA make it clear that I have no secrets where that's concerned.
And I suspect the day will come when I'm (almost) as candid about my husband's infidelity. Even now, the circle of people who know is growing. My children are still unaware, but I wonder if even that day will come. I won't lie about it...so if ever my kids ask me if infidelity affected their parents, I'll come clean.
What silence have you chosen? It's an important question. Who are you protecting? What are you hiding from? The answers can give you insight and help you move forward in healing.

In Praise of Confusion

I recently met a woman about whom I was writing a profile for a magazine. Her life was rich and interesting, full of political intrigue and forging into new territory. After a few hours, she lamented the fact that she was single. She had, she admitted, recently ended a relationship with a man whom she discovered was cheating. She loved him madly, she said. Why did you end it, I responded. She was shocked. She had to end it, she said. How else could she regain her dignity?

I understand her mindset. She wasn't married to this man. There were no children whose psyches needed to be considered. And, from what she told me, I'm not sure this was a guy who deserved second chances.

Nonetheless, I always feel slightly sad for people whose behaviour is dictated by some set of social or cultural rules. If she still lived in her Middle Eastern place of birth, she wouldn't have the luxury of leaving a cheating husband. But she absorbed her culture's rules around cheating -- by women -- no second chances. Rather death by stoning.

I'm not an apologist for giving cheaters a second chance. What I am suggesting is that you make up your own minds about whether to stay together or not. I wonder how many of us default to our position because of preconceived notions of what we "should" do. And also, I believe, because living even temporarily in a state of confusion is excruciating to humans.

Yet the state of confusion is usually where we find ourselves after D-Day. Our brains and hearts hate confusion. Sitting with it is terrifying. So we cling to our "rules". I love him...but cheating is a deal-breaker. I hate him but must stay because of the kids. I would forgive him if it was just a one-night-stand. We cling to the rules as a way to find solid footing in quicksand. And yet it can  be within the confusion that we find a lasting clarity.

I lived with confusion for more than a year (or longer!). My feelings about my marriage shifted daily, sometimes even a dozen times within the same day. Not knowing what to do was supremely uncomfortable, especially for someone like me who likes to feel in control. I clung to my conviction that I shouldn't make any sudden moves until I was sure. With three young children, I used them as my shield against storming out the door. I knew my greater responsibility was to their sense of safety and stability. And so I waited for the confusion to lift.

It did. In its own sweet time. And when it did, I was able to recognize that within all that confusion a clear desire was taking shape. I didn't want to leave but the gnawing feeling that I should want to leave left me paralyzed. So by waiting until the anger had subsided and the pain felt less raw, it became more clear what my actual wants were. Not what I thought I should do...but what I actually should do.

Try not to fear that place of confusion. You don't want to live there forever but sometimes it's an important place to stop.

More Words on Forgiveness

"Forgiveness does not equal forgetting. It is about healing the memory of the harm, not erasing it."     ~Ken Hart

My High School Reunion: Facing a Friend Who Betrayed Me

I recently attended my 30th high school reunion. I was nervous. So nervous, in fact, that I had decided not to go. High school wasn't a laugh-riot for me though I wasn't bullied. My marks were good. I had friends. 
Sadly though, one of those friends betrayed me. After two years of being with the first boy I'd said I loved, the first boy I had sex with, we broke up when I went to school in another city. Days after we broke up and just days before I left, I went to a party. There, on a couch sitting on my now-ex's lap, was my friend.
You could say that what she did was fine -- after all, he and I had broken up. We weren't technically going out. That's essentially what she said.
But I know better.
Friends don't do that to other friends. There are enough guys in the world that, unless you're convinced this one is your soulmate and you're willing to sacrifice your friendship for that, you can obey the law of the sisterhood. She and he broke up a month or two later when she started dating another guy. 
It took me years to get over my anger. Her name made my blood boil. The thought of her having any measure of happiness in life seemed like a bad karmic joke. Eventually I got past it, though I've nursed a simmering resentment for the decades since.
So when she was one of the first to RSVP to the reunion, I decided to just stay home.
At the last minute, however, I changed my mind. 
I'd had a mind-shift. I remembered back to what I knew of her before she dated my ex. She craved attention from men. She was self-absorbed. Almost childish at times. With what I know now, it's easy for me to recognize that she desperately needed validation from others (men!) that she was worthy. She's now on husband #3 so apparently she's still looking.
But I was able to recognize that her dating my ex wasn't about trying to hurt me. It wasn't about me at all. Surely she knew that my still-aching heart would be a casualty of her choice. But obviously I didn't matter more than her need to have someone pick her.
I decided that I would attend the reunion and that I would let go of 30 years of bitterness. That I would note the fact that all of us had undoubtedly changed in three decades, including me. 
So I did. 

She sought me out. Not to apologize – I doubt that even dawned on her – but simply to catch up. In the course of our conversation she made note of another event, when she'd suddenly quit a job that I'd got for her. A good job. I had thought it was because I'd been promoted and she was jealous. Turns out she quit because when she asked for an upcoming night off to attend a school dance the supervisor said she could have it off...if she gave him a blow job.

I was stunned. I'd had no idea.

I realized how often we make assumptions about others' actions based on a piece of information, not the whole story. I asked why she'd never told me what happened. "Because I thought I'd done something wrong," she said. Instead, without the maturity or perspective that comes with age and confidence, she quit.

What my friend did to me still sucks. It's still something that I hope my daughter never does to a friend. But the bitterness has, for the most part, evaporated. I feel sorry for her. For her unquenchable need to be adored. For her own inability to admit her shortcomings. For her continued quest to fill from the outside what can only be filled from within.

She recently had a health scare and she told me that when her third husband came into the hospital where she'd been taken that the look on his face – total panic – made her finally realize how much she mattered to him. In that instant, she said, she realized that this was truly the man for her. Her marriage, she said, changed. It became a priority. 

I was glad to hear. Finally.