More About Healing from a Partner's Multiple Affairs

 D-Day 1 let me in on my husband's secret affair. D-Day 2 filled in the questions unanswered after D-Day 1. It wasn't one affair but dozens. It wasn't one woman but many. It hadn't started a few years ago, it spanned our entire relationship.

You, more than most, can imagine my shock. 

Like those of you who responded to the post on multiple affairs, I thought I was married to a monster. Who could do such a thing? Who could build their entire marriage on a lie? What the hell had I got myself into and how was I going to get myself out? 

Nights were the worst. I had no names or faces to attach to these new affair partners and so I was left with some shadowy imaginings. Of course, they were all sexy, young, vibrant. (The truth, according to my husband, is that they were all sad, middle-aged and desperate.)

As I've explained before on this site, I stayed mostly because I lacked the energy to leave. I had three young children and if the marriage was over, I wanted to be sure it was TRULY over. I didn't want to disrupt their lives until I was sure. And I wasn't sure about much in those early days post D-Day. 

But what I want to say to those of you reeling from your own discovery of multiple partners is this: Though what your husband did seems monstrous, it helps you in absolutely no way to see him as a monster. In fact, if you're even considering trying to rebuild a marriage, it will help you much more to recognize that his monstrous behaviour is the outward expression of his own pain.

Yes, I know. Nobody wants to hear that. Our infidelity culture is built on the idea that only assholes cheat. That a good guy would never do such a thing. And I have taken many slings and arrows from the chump tribe who will not entertain the notion that, sometimes, good people do horrible things. 

And though I wanted to believe that, I knew it wasn't true. I had seen good people do bad things for much of my life. I had a mother with multiple addictions. I watched her get sober. And make amends for so much of the pain she'd caused. Did I owe her that second chance? No. I don't think any of us here on this site owe anyone a second chance. Second chances are gifts. Second chances are mercy. Writer Anne Lamott puts it this way: "...the beauty of living from your merciful heart instead of your ticker-tape brain — judgmental brain — is the way home. It’s the way to peace, the way to feeling safe and connected. It’s all the things we long for.”

The way home. The way to peace. The way to feeling safe and connected. Isn't that we're going for? It requires a radical change in how we see infidelity and those who cheat. It requires us to challenge the idea that this person who betrayed us so profoundly is a "monster". That he is beyond redemption.

Mercy – a second chance – is hard. And yet, I think we're hard-wired for it. Until we become brittle from bracing for hurt. 

Our challenge, and it is a formidable one, is to remain soft in the wake of the betrayal. To not just consider mercy for those who betray us but to absolutely ensure we give it to ourselves. That we forgive ourselves for not knowing. That we remind ourselves that we are and have always been enough. That we didn't deserve this. 

One commenter asks: "How do such monsters exist and in what world can I ever have the powers to get over such a betrayal?"

To which I reply: I see his actions as monstrous, his pain as monstrous but not him as monstrous. I suspect he too see his actions and pain as monstrous. I suspect he's as baffled as you about how he was able to betray you so deeply. And it is his job to determine how he did that and to ensure he learns tools that will prevent him from ever doing it again. The power to get over such a betrayal is within mercy. It was only when I could acknowledge my husband's pain that I could begin to view him with compassion instead of contempt. It was when I could view him with compassion that I could see myself with compassion. That I could forgive myself for not knowing better, for not choosing differently.

Mercy, as Lamott says, is the way home. 

Guest Post: Life After

by Laura S., founder of Infidelity Counseling Network

I did not stay in my marriage. I am still married.

How can that be true?

The answer lies in the term “stay.” A simple word but a deceptive one. After my husband’s affair, we decided to try to mend our relationship. Mending a relationship is a journey of healing (always), pain (unfortunately), honesty (ouch), hard work, vulnerability, more hard work, more honesty, and partnership. Staying in a relationship is something completely different. If you stayed in your marriage but still feel wounded, you know exactly what I mean.

You cannot mend your marriage all by yourself. It takes both partners, fully invested in recovering from the infidelity and the destruction that betrayal pours everywhere, like seeping poison. And if your partner is not remotely interested in mending, then you have a choice: you can end the relationship or you can “stay” in it, knowing that it is injured and cracked.

So what did we do? Oh, there are zillions of books and articles and websites that give the seemingly magic recipe but truly it’s an individual path like any type of personal growth. We went to couples’ therapy. We went to individual therapy. We attended a healing weekend retreat. We learned about communication. He explored the reasons for his betrayal. I explored my own self. He tried to figure out why he hurt me. We read “The Monogamy Myth” by Peggy Vaughan and “Mating in Captivity” by Esther Perel. He saw my pain, he shared my pain, he grieved over my pain. He worked through his issues and I threw things (okay, that didn’t help). I broke things (ditto). We yelled. We cried. We yelled again. We committed to brutal honesty. We lied. We told the truth.

And above all, we agreed that we did not want only to “stay”. We wanted a healed relationship or nothing at all. I wanted his integrity or nothing at all.

I do want to be careful here about seeming holier-than-thou. Some may interpret my story this way. But the infidelity conversation has to allow for good people making hurtful choices, just as it allows for bad people making hurtful choices. And why did we try to mend? Eight years later, I can barely remember. It was a complex reason having to do with love, kids, finances, shame (if we get divorced, what will our families think?), stubbornness, hope, and 23 years of history together (good times and awful times) that were not ready to be stored away.

Three months later, we could be tentative friends again. Seven months later, he moved back in. Two years later, we had recovered our marriage. Eight years later, my friends say, “I bet you guys never fight.” Are they kidding?  Of course we do. We are imperfect. Our marriage has ups and downs, just like everyone’s.

I don’t mean to imply that some paths are better than others. There are many valid reasons to stay, just as there are valid reasons to end it or mend it. I just want to be careful about the language we use. Recovery from betrayal is both powerful and exhausting, whether by yourself or with your partner, and in that shared pain we somehow, eventually, survive.

Infidelity Counseling Network offers peer mentoring (on a sliding scale) for anyone dealing with betrayal.