After Betrayal: Facing Down Fear

I was recently interviewing someone for a story that had nothing to do with infidelity or betrayal when my interviewee said something that virtually made me gasp:
"Everything I want to do lies on the other side of fear."
She was referring to people who fear whitewater rapids or climbing shear rock faces or jumping out of planes.
But she was also, whether she knew it or not, talking about me.
Everything I want to do lies on the other side of fear.
How true is that for you?
Would you leave him if you weren't afraid of being alone? Afraid of the impact of divorce on your children? Afraid of the financial hit you'd take? Afraid of what people would say? Afraid you'd never find someone to love you again?
Would you stay and work it out if you weren't afraid he'd cheat again? Afraid that you'll never be able to forgive him? Afraid that if people knew he had cheated, they would think you're a doormat? Afraid that you'll never get past the pain?
Fear drives many of our choices in life. But are they truly "choices" if they come from a place of fear?
Is it a "choice" to stay in a miserable marriage or is it inertia?
Is it a "choice" to leave if we're afraid to deviate from a cultural script whereby women who are cheated on are expected to toss the bum out?
Fear is an impulse, a way to avoid judgement or anger or loneliness.
Fear is avoidance.

Most of us have become adept at pretending we don't have fears.
We can sometimes admit macro fears – losing our child or parent, getting a terminal diagnosis.
But can we also admit the micro fears? That we're afraid of opportunity because we might fail? That we're terrified of being alone? Of rejection? Can we face our deepest fear – that we're unloveable?

We rage at a partner's betrayal. But what is that rage really but a fear of abandonment? A deep fear of being found unworthy? We are social beings. Feeling rejected is tantamount to fearing for survival.
Betrayal triggers so many of these micro fears, this tiny voice that whispers our secret: that we're not good enough.
These fears are real. And we must examine them if we're to find what's on the other side.
Instead, we dismiss them. We rationalize them. We hide them.
We can't, however, eliminate them except by pulling them into the light and exploring them. Turning them over and discovering that what we most fear is what everyone fears. It's part of being human. And that by acknowledging that, fear loses its power over us. Our more rational brain can then make choices rooted in our values instead of acting on impulse. A dark impulse.

I mentioned in a recent post that my daughter is struggling with OCD. In the past few weeks, I've felt completely on edge. Furious. It's not like me to feel such free-floating anger. I decided our world was stupid and cruel (I mean, c'mon. ISIS? WTF?). I hated everyone who seemed to be blithely going on with their lives – shopping, driving to work, planning vacations.
I snapped at my kids. Barked at my dogs to shut up. I was an absolute bear.
And then, when my daughter was having an OCD episode (her first in seven days! Yay!), it hit me. Though I know realistically that we're handling this well, have great support and all indications are that she'll emerge from this wiser and stronger, I'm nonetheless terrified because I remember all too well my mother's stays in a locked psychiatric ward. My anger isn't really about ISIS and animal cruelty and idiots who cut me off in traffic (though...seriously? This world needs a makeover). My anger is the outward face of my abject terror that my daughter is slipping down a dark hole.
It's a long-held fear (based on childhood experience) that mental illness will take away someone I love.
It's not, however, a rational one.

What's on the other side of fear?
Hope is on the other side. Realistic hope that we're all learning from this. That it's making us more attuned to our daughter's struggles, and also to the struggles that so many people experience around mental health issues.
A better me is on the other side of fear. A me who recognizes that I can't control other's behaviours. That there are many things I can't change.
A life lived more consciously and gratefully is on the other side of my fear.
What's on the other side of yours?

What does an affair feel like?

What does an affair feel like?
I know most of us on the betrayed side of the affair think it must have been passionate. It must have been exciting. The sex must have been mind-blowing. It must have been so incredible that it was worth betraying us.
Unless we've had an affair ourselves, we'll never really know what it feels like.
We might, however, notice in hindsight that our husband was pretty jumpy. Or that he seemed stressed. Maybe he seemed agitated, impatient with us.
Here's how Wendy Plump in her book Vow: A Memoir of Marriage (and Other Affairs) describes an affair:
"An affair is not fun. It is like a bad habit. It is like addiction. You do it all on the sly, and you steal from your own cupboards to cover the cost.... You act on reckless impulse and hope to unscramble the consequences later on."
When her husband "forgives" her ("forgive" being a euphemism for sweeps it under the rug), without really expecting anything more of her than she stop, this happens:
"I looked back and saw that nothing all that terrible had come of it. Our marriage was intact. Bill seemed to have forgiven me...And so I concluded that nothing all that terrible was going to come of my having another."
Plump's book is painful to read and not just because she seems to lack her own moral compass. To say that Plump is immature seems obvious. She also has a lack of empathy for her husband's pain that's staggering. She twists words and metaphors to somehow pull us into complicity with her adultery, making me want to shower after each early chapter.
But then she discovers that her husband has not only been having an affair, he's been living an entirely separate life with another woman and child. Shockingly, she's shocked at his duplicity. She's brought to her knees. Nothing about her own betrayals of him has in any way prepared her for the agony of being betrayed herself.
Whether to be the betrayed or the betrayer? Here's what she says:
"I spent a lot of time examining the differences between having an affair and having one foisted on me. If one was better than the other. In the end, this was not true for me. The conduct of an affair was only marginally less miserable.... I do not know that deceit and happiness can co-exist."
Whether any of this sounds familiar to you, it certainly did to me. So many husbands, it seems, feel almost relief at being found out. Finally, the charade is over. But that's the thing with affairs. They're entered recklessly. People are seduced by the fantasy of escape. Fascinated by the image of themselves in another's adoring eyes. Like Narcissus who can't tear himself away from his reflection, drowning in his own vanity.
All of which is to say that affairs are highly misrepresented in our culture. Instead of steamy and alluring, affairs are messy. Exhausting.
There are many cautionary tales to take from Plump's published one:
•Nobody wins when somebody's lying.
•"Forgiving" an affair without doing the hard work of figuring why it happened in the first place is dangerous and simply postpones further pain.
•It's possible to spend years in therapy and learn pretty much nothing.
•Affairs aren't nearly as fun as they seem on TV.

Betrayal and Puppies: Nothing (and Everything) to Say

by Steam

I am one year and counting (or actually not counting!!) after D-Day.

I have little to say.

Really.

I can't find anything compelling to share.

Not a trigger that I faced and conquered or brought me to tears.

Not a stand-off with myself about snooping one more time.

Not a depressing day in bed.

Nothing.

Can you believe that? With just a little more than one year under my belt?

It was my husband's birthday yesterday.

I remembered how hard his birthday was last year. It came within a month of D-Day and although we were already in therapy and in the process of starting over, that birthday was a tough one.

Last year I bought him something on sale for $12.99 because a piece was broken and another piece missing. Nothing I would ever have done before. But last year it was "What to buy the man who's had everything (on the sly)?" He didn't deserve much of anything, in my opinion. I stayed. That was a huge gift already. Something broken and cheap with a missing part seemed to be appropriate, even thought it was quite beautiful.

But that memory I had yesterday of last year's birthday – and it was a true and real memory – didn't taint this birthday. Shocking huh?

Instead we laughed.

We laughed when I mistakenly called the ice cream scooper a "schtooper" and for the next half hour we said everything in a stupid and bad German accent.

Not even the word “schtooping” gave me anything but the giggles.

We have laughed a lot over the past few months. We are genuinely funny. At least we think so.

To add to the hilarity, we have been a bit under the weather for the last week or so, and Husband came down with some sort of of bug yesterday just in time for his birthday so the two of us have been schlubbing (or last night "shloobing") around in our robes. We were laughing at what we have become, which is entirely comfortable in each other's presence. At all times.

         

For his birthday dinner, since I was unable to run to the store and actually cook something, I heated up some frozen tamales and canned chile. I am not proud of that lame effort but it was surprisingly good for someone who needs three hours in the kitchen to offer anything resembling a good meal (H is the brilliant cook of the family).

We got into bed with our bowls of dinner and binge-watched The Good Wife until one of us would fall asleep and then the other had to wait or nap while the other got caught up.

It was one of the most intimate and comforting nights I can remember of the last few years. Rain was a nice that touch nature added.

It's probably my favorite birthday of all time.

Between the napping and the laughter, I realized that prior to D-Day we had not been laughing much at all. We were calm, I thought. And I told him nightly "you are my favorite place to be," which was the truth.

But the reality is we weren't really talking. We weren't laughing.

And in life, there is so much to laugh about.

We have added a new puppy to our already big brood of five pets. The puppy, even with her pee pads completely ruining any remaining aesthetic we have in our much-too-cozy (read: small) house, and her constant retrieval of things lost under beds and couches for years – lip balm, half-eaten rolls of Rolaid's and packs of gum, shoe liners, bras, underwear and socks – makes us laugh  all the time and we don't think of the dumping ground for lost dust-covered items our living room has become.

She found the rolaids when we were looking for them. 

So she's some sort of magic creature, obviously.

Or maybe just a puppy.

She is an endless source of entertainment but there is more...

It's the LOVE she has for our entire menagerie that is almost too much to bear, even though two of them are just not that into her. 

She is a reminder of optimism and fortitude and sweetness and pure joy of life and never giving up even when you are occasionally rebuked and feel unloved. 

She has eventually won over everyone with her persistence and her oh-so-ernest "I love you" face.

My therapist once reminded me that giving my husband a second chance showed that I was capable of “so much love.”

Sigh.

We are not idiots for staying. 

We are capable of love and are full of compassion and fortitude.

We must remember that. 

So why do I say all this, when I said I had nothing to say?

Because it CAN get better. Not that it necesarly will for everyone, only you know if this is the path for you. 
But it can.
With a willing husband, a willing you and a willingness to take this on together, without shortcuts and, in our case, with a brilliant therapist, I swear it can get better.

So much better than that horrible memory of that awful time. That memory can remain and take up just enough real estate in the brain to remind you of what you got through and where you are going.

That clearing of our heads leaves room for so many other good and wonderful and new things, things that push old crap out of the way, so you can have something so much different, and so much better.

Had you asked me if I thought, a year ago or even six months ago, this was possible, I would have given you a tearful, trembling but resolute "no, no never. No way in hell." 

It has never felt so good to be so wrong.

Funny Friday: How to Support A Betrayed Mom

In the absence of a "sorry Dad's an asshole" section of greeting cards, a compassionate son found what he wanted in the "terminally ill" section. Hey Hallmark? You're missing an opportunity here!

"The Desperate Plain": What to Do When You're Feeling Crazy

"A friend once called this sense of being too alone "the desperate plain," the looming desolate stretch of ground, no trees to shelter you, no water, no way to escape, nowhere to hide or find comfort, strewn with rocks and a few random snake holes. You are stripped down existentially, you are naked, you are nuts."
~Anne Lamott, from Small Victories: Spotting Improbably Moments of Grace

We've all been there, haven't we?  What Lamott's friend calls "the desperate plain". It's terrifying. We can't remember having ever felt safe. We can't imagine ever feeling safe again. Everywhere we look, we see threats. There is nowhere to retreat. There we are: naked, nuts.
I'm there right now. My youngest child is struggling with obsessive-compulsive disorder and I feel as though I'm in enemy territory. She becomes someone I don't recognize when she's having an episode. She screams that I'm "dirty". She won't touch certain items because they're "contaminated". She rails at me for "not helping" her and won't let me hug her because I'm "filthy and "something bad will happen."
And then, when the episode is over – 10 minutes if we're lucky, an hour if we're not – she's contrite. She sobs with regret, begs my forgiveness, says she wishes she could kill herself so that she didn't have to deal with this. She's 11 years old. A baby. My baby.
It's breaking my heart.
And though it has been a long time since I was in that barren wasteland – that desperate plain – I know that so many of you are still there. I'm back.
I'm reminded just how terrifying it is. How alone you all feel.
But I know that it is then, when we look over our shoulder and beside us and – oh no, did something move over there? – all around and see nothing NOTHING that can save us, that we need to say, in a squeak or a roar:
Help. 
We need to say "help". We need to say "help" to anyone in our lives who can offer it. We need to say "help" to someone who can take your kids for an hour so you can close your eyes or go for a walk or see your therapist. We need to say "help" to that therapist – who can give us a place where, for an hour a week (or more!), we can lay our heart bare to someone with compassion and experience who can help us mend it back together, stitch by stitch.
We need to say "help" to the women on this site, who've been where we are and can join us in solidarity or gently remind us that we won't always be in this place. That despite everything we feel right now, there is a place to move into that does offer safety and respite. That we'll get there if we can just hold on. If we can just trust that this desperate plain isn't a destination but a phase. A place we need to endure. A place where are not, in fact, alone.
Enduring can feel like surrender when it's actually a sign of incredible strength. And asking for help can be the most courageous thing you do today.
Right now my daughter needs my help. She needs me to remind her that she can endure. That this desperate plain isn't where she will always be. That she is brave and loved and suffering. But that she isn't alone.

My Heartbreak, My Rules

In a recent comment related to her post, Steam wrote four words that have resonated with so many readers. In her effort to give all betrayed wives the permission to insist upon what they need to heal, she wrote that each of us gets to declare "my heartbreak, my rules." Now she tells us how she came to understand that.

by Steam

So many things we share are universal.

The shredding of our souls.

Our trust. 

The entire life we thought we were living that now feels one big sham.

We don't understand.

We don't feel loved.

We are sad.

We are angry.

We come to know our bed, our pillow, the floor very well.

We become one with the tears and the despair.

We feel helpless.

But of of this there was one other thing that I found.

Resolve.

Although my husband has never in his life uttered an unkind word to me, he did have issues – a drinking problem – and for years I had made false threats (which felt real to me despite me using them repeatedly for seven of our 15-year relationship). 

I was going to kick him out, I had had enough, blah blah blah. BLAH.

But when I found out about his betrayal? Everything changed. No longer were my threats false.

I did not know at the time that I would have "rules". I didn't know I was allowed to have any.

But when I got off the floor after D-Day – and I really was on the floor – I said:

Write her an email NOW, tell her it's over NOW or just fucking GO to her. NOW.

And I meant it.

Thus, my first rule. And I didn't ask anyone permission to have it.

Something PRIMAL just kicked in.

You go to her or give her up NOW. Rule number one. 

Not so extraordinary right?

Next, I didn't ask for, I demanded the passwords to all of his e-mail accounts, fake and real. And later his bank and Amazon and Paypal accounts.

Part of me felt hopelessly needy for wanting these things. I felt bossy and controlling. 

I demanded them anyway.

That was rule number two. I was making up rules as I went along. I just knew what I needed to have to survive

Later I learned that I did the right thing. I needed that information to build trust again. He might have needed to give it up to stay honest.

Had he refused, he would have been gone.

He knew that this time I was not toying with the idea of kicking him out.

My foot was poised.

I had hit my limit.

My heart had been shattered into a million pieces.

I had my heartbreak.

I could also have rules.

My heartbreak, my rules.

Growing up in a repressed household where "what do you have to be depressed about?" was a family mantra, admitting all these years later that I needed constant reassurance was not easy.

Admitting that I needed some (but not all)  details of his encounter was torture.

Admitting that I felt weak and needed help was excruciating.

But finding out through my therapist that everything I wanted was reasonable was a game changer.

I could have rules!

I could have boundaries.

I could ask him – even demand – that he give something up (the women and the drinking and the deception).

Yes I could! 

To find that out was astounding.

I could say "screw this 'free to be me' bullshit.

If you think you are free to sleep with others – well sure but not while you are with ME.

To find I could ask him for support and reassurance and demand passwords was a revelation.

To find out that I was not completely off the mark was shocking.

To insist on talks, walks, dates, time, time, time, help, talk, reassurance, touch, talk, listening, help – 

NORMAL.

To find out that feeling needy or crazy wasn't unusual, these feelings after betryal are almost  universal.

That needing support wasn't weakness – it was normal.

That wanting proof and the truth was not out of line – it was necessary.

Asking for complete transparency was not being selfish.

To not just find this out but believe it was empowering.

Healthy people, I came to understand, lived by these rules every day. They just  often don't have to spill them or write them down. Healthy people just know!

I often say that had my husband not been remorseful, honest and incredibly sorry I don't know where "we" would be today.

But he was, and we are doing remarkably well and maybe it's because he didn't run and I didn't run.

Instead I immediately put my foot down, firmly in place and firmly grounded, asked if he wanted to work this out, and if he did I proclaimed in my heart and later aloud "my heartbreak, my rules."

Check out "Books for the Betrayed"...and Share Yours

There it is, ladies. A library of books that balm for the betrayed heart.
Click on the bookmark at the top of this page and make your suggestion.
We'll crowd-source the best books to guide us through this particular hell...and emerge triumphant.