Wednesday Word Hug

Guest Post: How to make the most of your time here (plus some tech support)

by StillStanding1

Welcome to the best club none of us ever wanted to join. Many of us washed up on the shores of the BWC, after desperately searching the internet for some kind of help, hope, something or someone who was offering a lifeline, was offering something more than pure anger and loathing. Maybe we had just experienced our first D-Day. Maybe it was our 2nd or 3rd . Maybe we were months into reconciliation and we just felt… stuck. And somehow, saints be praised, we found this site, where we hear for the first time, “You are not alone. It was never your fault. No matter how things turn out, YOU will be ok.”
Suddenly, we feel like we might be able to breathe again.
A lot of us show up here and read. And read and read and read. That was me for quite some time. Devouring posts new and old. Reading comments from longtime members like LLP, Sam A, Theresa, Hopeful30, Beach Girl (and so many others). I was constantly amazed that through their own pain, they were also shining a light of resilience and compassion. I got a lot out of learning about boundaries, that the other woman has nothing I’d want, that I’d best focus on my own care and feeding and worry less
about what the Waffle King was doing or thinking. Then, as part of my journaling, I wrote a letter to the other woman. I knew I would never send it to her,
on the advice of my therapist and because I in no way wanted to invite her any further into my life than she had already intruded. But. I took a big leap and posted my letter to one of the blogs about the OW.
And Elle responded. Suddenly, I was no longer alone and invisible in my pain. I had a voice. I had been seen and heard and someone said, “I see you. You’re gonna be OK.” I can’t explain how powerful that experience was for me.
My therapist had suggested to me that I build a three-legged stool for myself; a support system built of different people and things such that, when any one leg was not available, you still had two others you could count on. I ended up building an 18-legged stool, which included my sister, a few select friends, and a variety of health-care professionals and healers. One of the main legs became reading and posting to the BWC. It has all the healing and brain-clearing power of journaling with the added benefits of being
seen and heard and getting compassionate support and feedback from people who have been or are still there.
So, to address the headline above I have some suggestions for getting the most healing out of your time here. (With the understanding that everyone has the right to know what is right for them and participate, or not, at whatever level they choose):
1. Show up. 
As Elle mentions in her post about the retreat, amazing things happen when you show up. Keep coming here and reading as long as you find it helpful. When you show up, you are not only being present for all of us. You are showing up for yourself, choosing your own healing. That’s a big deal.
2. Comment. 
A lot of you don’t comment for a lot of very valid reasons. You’re concerned about anonymity. You don’t feel like you have the time or energy. Post-infidelity regular things can seem hard and scary, let alone posting to strangers on the internet. Recently New Mom said. “I don't post here often, mostly because nothing I have to offer is even remotely as profound or insightful as what all of these other wonderful women can offer.” I think her sentiments are like many who read and don’t post (and that’s really, really okay). I’m here to tell you that this is simply not true. Each of you has an amazing voice. Each of you has something to offer the others. It does not need to be poetry, or profound wisdom, or some ground-breaking insight. It can be as simple as “me too,” “I get it,” “my husband did the same,” “I felt the same,” “this sucks,” “you will be OK.” I give you all permission today to start using your voices, to post what is in your minds and hearts without it being perfect. You are also allowed to post about your own situations and pain. You are allowed to ask for support, empathy, commiseration, ideas or simply to be seen and heard. I’d encourage each of you reading this to comment below, “I am here” and see how that feels. (Tech support on doing this safely is posted in a link at the end of this.) I think, once you start commenting and interacting, you will find your healing turns a corner and ends up on a whole new track.
3. Take what you need. 
Leave what you don’t. You are not obligated to visit and read and comment on every single post, in every single section, on every single day. We are not obligated to fix everything for everyone or hold everyone’s pain. That is impossible. I used to read everything and had subscribed to feeds for all the pages. But I found that reading the “Just found out” page posts were very triggering to me, so I stopped going there. I gave myself permission to feel no guilt about doing what was right for me. Once I knew I was on the separating and divorcing path, I stopped going so often to the Feeling Stuck page because reading about husbands who were at least trying made me very sad. Again, no guilt. I can likewise see why visiting the Separating & Divorcing thread would be terrifying if you are still trying to save your marriage. You are allowed to take what you need from this site. No requirements for visiting all the pages or making a certain number of comments or expectations of any kind other than “be kind.”
4. Ask. 
Need a space for a particular topic and don’t see it available? Ask for it. That is how the Separating & Divorcing pages and the Sex & Intimacy pages came about. Do you have a post you’d like to try and write yourself? Ask. Need virtual hugs? Ask. This is a great skill for those of us recovering from infidelity to develop: Recognizing what we need and asking for it. Here is a safe place to practice.
5. Be Kind. 
We are all going through our own things. Pain, post-trauma is magnified. We recognize here that each of us is thrashing out our own stories and paths. I’m invariably amazed at the patience and compassion I witness here.

I know some of you want to comment or leave a little footprint on the beach with us saying, “I am here” but have fears around taking that first, vulnerable step. One of our sisters at the retreat received some encouragement from her therapist to participate; to hit send. Her therapist was concerned she was further disconnecting, something we do, like wounded animals, when we’ve experienced trauma. Her assignment? Reach out. Let someone here know you need them or that they have spoken directly to you. Ask for help. That’s your assignment too. I know this community is richer for each voice, each woman who reveals herself here.
I will reiterate that no one other than you can determine what is the right level of participation for you.
If the idea of posting makes you feel sick or worried or anything, that’s okay. There’s no expectation or requirement for anyone reading this to do more than they wish. There’s no timeline.

Tech Support
I’m going to outline a few simple options for posting with anonymity and/or a screen
name. I will outline step by step and include screen shots. Because of the posting limitations, I’ve created this guide as a PDF which you can view here.  

Some thoughts on anger and vulnerability

Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. ~Brené Brown 

I run with a friend three times a week. She's dealing with betrayal. Even in her own heartbreak, she remains one of the most grounded, clear-headed people I know.

I told her about the heated exchange over on the Once a cheater... post. I was angry when I told her. Anger, as I'm so fond of reminding everyone on this site, is a mask for hurt and fear. So let me tell the truth: I was hurt when I told her. 

My friend listened to me. I told her about how betrayed I felt, about how quickly people turned on each other and me. I told her how angry I still am that women are not believed when they tell their stories of sexual assault and how vulnerable it feels to lay your heart bare. I told her how disappointing it is to have a woman, someone you thought was an ally, respond carelessly to another's pain and then, when you call her out on it, have her, metaphorically, take her ball and go home. 

My friend took it all in.

Then she reminded me that I put myself in this position. By creating this site and sharing my story – so much of my painful story, including recently, the story of my sexual assault – she pointed out that I walked "into the arena" to use Brené Brown parlance. I made myself vulnerable to criticism. I opened myself to judgement or mockery or contempt, all of which I've experienced at various times over the years of this site.

But this felt different, I told her.

So she asked me another question. Did what you wrote reflect what you believe? 

And my answer was immediate. Of course it did. I won't take responsibility for what others posted but what I posted? Absolutely. I stand by it.

Then you did what felt right for you, she said.

Yes. But it still feels yucky.

I have governed this site with an overriding principle. It is a place for women to bring their pain and to feel safe sharing it. 

If I had not responded sharply, if I had not pushed back on a thoughtless comment that put others' emotional safety at risk, then why would anyone else feel safe sharing her story?

But still. Other people's anger makes me feel small and scared. When someone is angry, my knee-jerk response has always been to assume fault for it. What did I do to cause this?

But I'm learning – albeit slowly – that I'm not responsible for other people's feelings or for their actions. Just as I've come to learn – albeit slowly – that I was never responsible for my husband's choice to cheat. 

As part of an environment of emotional safety, I don't owe anyone a platform for conspiracy theories. I don't owe anyone the opportunity to dismiss a woman's painful story, including a story that has been on the front pages of the newspaper or dissected ad nauseam on CNN. 

And let me be perfectly clear: Responding to disclosure of betrayal, or sexual assault, or anything else that's deep and private with a "not all women can be believed" response has been part of the toxic playbook for centuries to keep women small and quiet and in line. That this response came from a woman doesn't make it any less dangerous. Ann should know better. That she didn't isn't her fault but it is her responsibility. 

This is not a complicated issue. 

This is not a partisan issue.

I understand that many of the women who come here already feel victimized, to some extent, by another woman. A woman who has been complicit in her betrayal. A woman who has lied. Who has, perhaps, lobbed false accusations. I make no apologies or excuses for Other Women. 

But I have given them space when they have come here to tell their stories. Even when those stories were hurtful to us. 

I gave Ann the space to share her thoughts, even as I knew they were insensitive.

I will always err on the side of listening over closing my ears.

But I will always point out when someone is being hurtful or insensitive or when she needs to cede the floor, to be quiet and listen. Nobody gets carte blanche to give her opinion, especially when that opinion props up misogyny, without being held to account for it. 

Yes, I preach openness and honesty, as one commenter noted in what she perceives as my hypocrisy. And yes, I have long loved this BWC secret sisterhood because it is so unlike other sites out there, which descend into name-calling and mud-slinging and mockery of anyone who doesn't follow a prescribed path. 

But it was exactly my dedication to openness and honesty that made me click "publish" on Ann's comment, and it was my dedication to openness and honesty when I said that she was not only wrong about her "facts" but that her words were incendiary. She missed a chance to respond differently to others' anger, even if she needed to take a few days to lick her wounds before responding. She missed a chance to show up for others in the way that, she admits herself, they've shown up for her. 

When we are called out for behaviour that others find offensive and personally hurtful, we can respond in a number of ways. One of those ways is what I'm learning to do: To be vulnerable. To listen in good faith. To remember, that within this vulnerability, which can feel so horrible, is where all that good stuff I want is born: joy, empathy, authenticity. 

Courage.

As another friend put it, "Use your voice. You are gonna piss some people off. When you plant your flag in the sand, not everyone is going to stand with you. But you don’t want or need everyone to agree with you (or like you). You just need the people who are going to charge down the field with you."

I'll continue to show up here and hope that we continue to create a space where we charge down the field together. Where we can share our stories, trusting that others will believe us or, at the very least, listen with an open heart. 

Even when it hurts. 

Wednesday Word Hug

The Most Baffling Post-Betrayal Question: Why Do I Want Sex with My Unfaithful Husband?

Seriously, right? You've found out your husband cheated on you, maybe once, maybe an ongoing affair, maybe multiple affairs. And sure, you're angry. You could take a sledgehammer to his testicles. You could punch him in his stupid face. You're furious. You're devastated. You're...aroused?
It's called hysterical bonding. Hysterical not in the sense that you'll be clutching your belly, which aches from laughter, but hysterical as in a consequence of hysteria.
Hysterical bonding, otherwise known as "why the hell do I want sex with this idiot of a husband", is one of the weirder responses to infidelity. Not weird as in unusual. Weird as in...unexpected. Even unwanted.
I shocked myself when I responded to my husband returning home upon demand (I had confronted him over the phone and told him he either came home now to find me here or came home later to find me gone) by unzipping his pants.
That was not, let's say, my usual greeting even when I didn't want to drive over him with a cement truck.
But there it was.
Over the following weeks, of which I remember very little except that I ate about 1 1/2 pieces of toast and maybe a bowl of soup, cried despondently through the day, stared a lot at the ceiling at 3 a.m. and tried to present a somewhat sane face to the world lest my children be removed from my care, I also found my libido in overdrive.
My husband was, shall we say, pleasantly surprised. He was also as baffled by this as I was.
In hindsight, it was a valuable reconnection during a time when it was abundantly clear how disconnected we'd been. It felt like a rediscovery. I insisted he look in my eyes when we made love (it was the only way I could stop the mind movies). We talked like new lovers. What did you first notice about me? When did you know you were falling in love with me? What's my best feature? and so on.
And then, after months of daily (sometimes more) sex, hysterical bonding suddenly ended. I felt disoriented. Betrayed by my own body. Him? Seriously? What the hell??
Another woman on another betrayal web site (I wish I could remember which and link to it), wrote about her intention to make love to her husband every single day for a year (I think?). And she'd kept to it, their liaisons varying from quickies to slow and sensuous. For her, it was a way of reconnection but also prioritizing her own pleasure.
Women on this site have also written about how reconnecting sexually with their partner was as much as about valuing their own pleasure as rebooting the marriage.
And that's an important consideration. Betrayal can make us feel powerless. Reclaiming sex with our spouse can be a healthy response to that and a way of focusing on our own sexual pleasure.
But it can also be an unhealthy way of trying to lure a wayward husband back. Sex as manipulation.
What's more, it can be unsafe. If your husband has been having unprotected sex with others, you are potentially exposing yourself to sexually transmitted diseases. Even if he says he's used protected (he's a liar, remember?), get tested yourself and use protection.
Like so much of our response to betrayal, it seems the difference between whether hysterical bonding can be a positive way to reconnect with your husband or an experience of manipulation or humiliation, is to check your motives and your expectations.
If you think frequent sex will keep him faithful, you're fooling yourself.
If you think sex will heal your pain, you're wrong.
If he thinks sex means that you've forgiven him, correct him of that delusion.
But, if you each can look at sex as a teensy tentative step toward reconnection, as a way to give and receive pleasure, and as a healthy escape from almost constant pain in the early days, then have at it, you crazy kids.

Who Do We Think We Are? Let's Answer That Honestly

I built my ego on never needing help. I fed on others' praise for being so "together". Asking for help felt akin to walking out my door completely naked. Exposed. If I didn't have it all together, why would anyone want to be my friend?
Dysfunctional families teach us that the world exists on a binary. We are either good or bad. Right or wrong. Valuable or worthless. We are either doing great or falling apart. We matter only or we don't matter at all.
Enter betrayal and the ridiculous binary that our culture imposes onto it – women who get cheated on are nags, frigid, homely; men who cheat are dogs, players, cads.
If we tell anyone, we face judgement: "You're not going to stay with him, are you? or "Think about what leaving will do to your children." Or, as a friend who'd been betrayed herself said to me, "Well, I certainly wouldn't stay."
And what that judgement does – whether experienced outright or perceived – is stir up the rot of our old stuff. My old stuff included a conviction that staying with a husband who cheated was what pathetic women did. It included a sense of non-surprise. Of course, he cheated on me. After all, I was all those things that I'd heard for years that I was: too sensitive, too demanding, too selfish, spoken in my mother's drunken slur. 
I'd suited myself up in armour over the years. I'd made sure that I was fit (two marathons!), a good mother (plenty of fresh air and no processed sugar for MY children!), successful (ten books written while my children napped). That I thought that armour of faux perfection could protect me is laughable in hindsight. At the time, however, it offered the only protection I had.
Then D-Day, the metaphorical bomb that blows up our worlds.
And suddenly my armour was revealed to be as useless as it always had been. Being "perfect" hadn't saved me from heartbreak. It had only lent the illusion of protection. As Liz Gilbert puts it, "perfect is just fear in good shoes."
And my rot was stirred.
Those old messages might as well have been written on my bathroom mirror. I couldn't see past them to the woman standing there. 
"You're not sexy enough."
"You're too demanding."
"You don't make enough money."
"You don't dress up enough."
And on. And on.
It felt akin to walking out the door completely naked. Even with very few people knowing about my husband's betrayal, I felt utterly exposed as a fraud. One of saddest, most vivid memories I have about that time is my sense that everyone was laughing at me, delighting in my humiliation. 
Who the hell had I thought I was?
Which is the question that has underscored every other lesson I've learned through this.
Who the hell did I think I was?
It's the shackle that binds so many of us who grow up in dysfunction. Hell, it's a shackle that binds pretty much any woman who expects to be seen, to be treated fairly. Any time we think we've transcended the shame of our childhoods, or shed the low expectations, it's there. Just who the hell do we think we are?
Who do we think we are to imagine someone could love us?
Who do we think we are to believe ourselves worthy of a good education?
Who do we think we are to apply for that job, that promotion, that opportunity? To be allowed in the room?
Who do we think we are to deserve fidelity? To be able to age? To go grey? To grow soft?
Who do we think we are?
Who I think I am is someone who is human. Who is worthy of love and belonging, despite – even because of – my shortcomings. Who deserves a seat at the table.
Just who the hell do you think you are? That's a question for you to answer based on the truth of you, not the old stories you've been told. 
But here's a start: You are someone who did not deserve to be cheated on. After all, just who the hell does he think he is? 

Wednesday Word Hug