"Vengeance is a lazy form of grief"

I am away on holiday and won't be responding to comments. A good friend of the site, however, will be moderating comments and ensuring that yours get posted so please don't hesitate to respond. I have scheduled some posts. I'll be back, with hopefully a spring in my step, by March 22. 

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Everyone who loses somebody wants revenge on someone, on God if they can’t find anyone else. But in Africa, in Matobo, the Ku believe that the only way to end grief is to save a life. If someone is murdered, a year of mourning ends with a ritual that we call the Drowning Man Trial. There’s an all-night party beside a river. At dawn, the killer is put in a boat. He’s taken out on the water and he’s dropped. He’s bound so that he can’t swim. The family of the dead then has to make a choice. They can let him drown or they can swim out and save him. The Ku believe that if the family lets the killer drown, they’ll have justice but spend the rest of their lives in mourning. But if they save him, if they admit that life isn’t always just… that very act can take away their sorrow.
~Nicole Kidman in The Interpreter

We sometimes talk in code. A few other infidelity bloggers and writers and therapists and betrayed partners say things like "they're so...angry" and "they kinda scare me". We're referring to a portion of the infidelity Internet that traffics in rage, that insists on one response to betrayal, that dismisses anyone who pleads for nuance. We don't want to name names but...
"Vengeance is a lazy form of grief."
I knew I objected to the black-and-white approach to cheating. It's a blessing and curse of mine to always ALWAYS be able to see the other's point of view. And I know how infuriating that can be when what so many of us want is to be told that we're right. We're right to think he's not worth our time. We're right to throw him out. We're right to file for divorce immediately.
And, thing is, sometimes we are. Sometimes.
But "sometimes" doesn't cut it. People want absolutes, especially when we're reeling from news of our partner's betrayal. We want certainty. We want a community that will assure us that he'll cheat on us again so it's better to dump him now. We want a mob that will call for his head. Only a fool would give him a second chance. 
We want his head on a stick.
I know. I did too.
Except that I also didn't. Yes, he had betrayed me in the worst possible way, for years. And yes, there were many people who thought me a complete fool to even consider rebuilding a marriage with him. How much proof did I need that he was a cheater, destined to continue cheating? 
But...
He was the father of my three small children. He was my friend. He was my husband. 
All of that remained true, even as I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. 
It wasn't until I cleansed myself of that desire for revenge that I believe I began to heal. And healing began with grieving. 
We'll do almost anything to avoid grief, won't we? We'll busy ourselves. We'll stoke our own rage. It feels so much more productive, so much more empowering to plan a takedown of a villain than to grieve a loss. Grieving feels passive. It feels pathetic. 
And yet, I know of no other path toward wholeness and healing. 
Those who let themselves grieve eventually discover that it guides them to an exit door. Those who don't remain stuck. Ever talked to a friend whose divorce was finalized six years ago and she's still cataloguing her ex's faults? Or the person fired from a job whose hatred of his manager burns as hot as ever? That anger that feels like empowerment is an illusion. Rage doesn't fuel us, it eventually consumes us. 
None of this is to say that anger isn't warranted. Being cheated on can trigger the deepest fury. I don't think I've ever felt so angry. And, trust me, if a genie had arrived offering me vengeance, I wouldn't have hesitated.
Time, however, has tempered that fury. And, assuming you're not feeding your own rage, it will temper yours too.
Also...know this: Behind anger is usually a deep well of grief. But we're so afraid of grief that we never pull off its mask. 
Go ahead. Trust that you will not drown in grief but you might strangle yourself with anger. Beyond that anger, that masquerading grief, is peace. Reach for it.