Healing From Betrayal: When He Won't Talk About It

To this day, my husband gets quiet when I bring up his affairs. Not always, but often. And by "often", I mean more than half the time. It's relatively rare that I bring up his cheating these days. It happened more than a decade ago. We've moved on. Still...
And I'll tell you: Every single time he goes quiet, it hurts. Every single time he chooses not to meet my pain with compassion but rather to prioritize his discomfort, it hurts.
Every single time.
I bet it hurts you too. And there are a lot of you struggling with this, judging by what you say when you come here. By what you say on Twitter. Even the "good" guys, the remorseful ones, the ones who hate what they did and are doing everything they can do ensure they don't do it again, even they go silent.
So what's up with that? Why is it so hard to talk about this gigantic thing that's happened? And what can we do when they won't?
Let's start with the shame. Cause that's something a lot of people, particularly the "once a cheater..." crowd won't acknowledge. A lot of guys who cheat – not all but many – stew in shame. Plenty feel it before they cheat. In fact, it's part of what makes them vulnerable to cheating. When you believe you're not much, you're susceptible to anyone who thinks otherwise. It's like a drug. 
But after you've cheated – and you've seen the damage your betrayal has caused, you've watched the light drain from your wife's smile – that shame is excruciating. You know you screwed up. You're an idiot, you admit it. But, seriously, do we really need to talk about it again? Are you ever going to get over this?
What he's thinking is that this stupid thing he did is going to hang over him like the sword of Damocles for all eternity. What we're thinking is, I need you to know that I'm hurting right now. I need to know you will never hurt me again. 
My husband was shocked when, sitting with our counsellor, I told him that I do NOT want him to feel shame every time I mention his betrayal. I'm open to him feeling a bit of guilt, sure. But not shame. Cause shame is crippling. Shame drives us into the shadows. Guilt, on the other hand, encourages better behaviour. Guilt is about behaviour. Shame is about character. What I want from you, I told my husband, is acknowledgement and assurance. When something has reminded me, or I'm feeling vulnerable and I say something like, "I found a photograph today of me at my mother's 70th birthday and I was so skinny. And it made me feel really sad for myself back then. I was so scared."
What I want to hear from him is this: "I'm sorry. I know how awful that time was for you. And I don't ever want to hurt you like that again."
My husband has responded like that, oh, once or twice. It was glorious. I swear I could hear the angels join together in a chorus of Hallelujah, with a few high-fives. This boy has got it, they rejoiced. He's figured it out.
Unfortunately, their celebration was premature. Because despite the fact that our conversation about his cheating was pretty much done at that point – no need to finger-point when he's pointing his own finger at himself – plenty of other times I've brought up what is euphemistically referred to as "that time" and he has simply gone mute. Cat's got his tongue. 
Do I respond like a mature adult who understands what's going on for him, and say something like "I'm sensing that you're feeling ashamed right now. Is that why you're quiet?"? Of course not. His silence pushes some deep button in me that says, in a voice that sounds like my critic, that my pain doesn't matter. And so I'm ignited with simmering fury. I might not erupt in the moment but it's coming. Mark my words, it's coming. 
When it does come, when I do eventually erupt, it's all but impossible to have a reasonable conversation. The molehill has become a mountain and I'm at the top of it hurling rocks. And so my husband learns, again, that "talking about it" involves him feeling horrible and abused. And I've learned that "taking about it" is all but impossible.
So I mostly don't.
But that's not okay, either.
There's a crucial middle ground, where I can have my feelings acknowledged and be assured that I am safe with him. Not then but now. 
We're working on it. But his shame runs deep. When I make any reference, no matter how oblique to "that time", what he all-too-often hears is "you horrible scumbag of a cheater". His words, not mine but they're not entirely wrong, are they? But he isn't a horrible scumbag of a cheater. What he did was horrible. But he isn't. Sounds like semantics but it's a necessary distinction. I can hate what he did while loving him.
And he can hate the reminder of what he did and hate that he can never un-do it and hate that I will occasionally bring it up while nonetheless loving me and loving that I gave him the chance to do better. And knowing that talking about it, openly, is part of healing. Part of supporting me. Part of loving me.
But so much of that gets lost in our respective pain. 
Our work continues.
I'm hopeful that the day will come when we can speak of "that time" casually. The same way we talk about that rainy summer vacation, or that cramped apartment we had, or that coach who yelled at our kid. Crappy memory but part of our life together. And, therefore, worthy of discussion.