Weary but solid. 

Is it possible to be weary and solid at the same time? I think yes, it is.

I am doing better than earlier this week when I told The Player he was too fucked up. This was too hard. Waiting for him to fix himself sucked. I told him, “You’re too broken.”

I’m growing resentful I didn’t create any of this bullshit, yet the fallout is mine to deal with. After all, he had some warning he was a lying, cheating asshole and I did not. He didn’t have to adjust and recover from the shock. Then the pain.

He explained – which is really just another word for defensive – that he was doing a lot! He is in at least six hours of therapy/sex addict meetings at week!

I said, “What? Do you want a goddamned medal?”  I think The Player is not ammused that I am not ecstatic about the work he’s doing. Because, my friends, why can’t I see how hard he is working?

What? Oh yes he the fuck did. I missed it completely in the months and months since I learned the truth. I didn’t realize along with his pretend life getting adoration from worthless, whoring “friends,” for the last 20 years, he was also smoking crack.

Edited: he doesn’t smoke crack…it’s a saying like he must be crazy to think I should recognize him for all the hard work he’s doing. He must be smoking crack to think that. 

Porn and Masturbation vs. Fucking Other People

What about chronic porn watching and masturbation? It’s all lumped in there in the pot of “sex addiction” from at least the sex addicts. The Player says, “We are all there for the same reason.” I feel strongly that while I am positive porn and masturbation can be destructive to a marriage with a partner who completely shuts themselves off from their spouse and intimacy. I feel that chronic betrayals of fucking other people or working continuously trying to fuck people or continuously getting some ego stroking by various empty, sad, pathetic women who easily spread their legs open. I know that’s bad too. I do however, feel like emotional and especially physical affairs take on an entirely different dimension with the “sex addict” in how they impact a marriage another human.

The Player courted other women for the entirety of our marriage to fill a void in himself.

The Player disregarded me for two decades by collecting women and whores who met the needs for his agenda of Self.

The Player had an enormous amount of regard for himself.

The Player fucked other people for two decades.

The Player somehow hung onto the whores even when he stopped fucking them. They remained devoted to him.

The Player was systematic in making sure he always had a fuck interest, someone to at least fantasize about if not go after.

The Player had multiple emotional and physical affairs over 20 years because he only thought about himself.

I am fairly sure I’d be able to work through porn and masturbation addiction because it does feel solitary to me (exploitation not withstanding). The fact that his “addiction” involves other people it seems, I don’t know, more risky for “slips” and “relapses.”

The differences are discussed here:

Communication with Wives and Whores

As I’m pulling back from my relationship and husband, I am thinking a lot about what I want from him and if I think it’s possible he will provide. I guess only he really knows that, right?

I think a lot about the emails and text messages between he and his affair partners I have recovered since I found out about the affairs. I found some 3000+ messages. I know behavior is different with wives than affair partners (Fantasy!) because well, new romance is different than long-lasting love. It just is. That’s why affairs look so good in the beginning and why people who leave their marriages for affair partners often regret doing so. Real life can never live up to what they had when they had during the affair with no children, no household chores and responsibility and less time around each other.

He spent all day and night communicating with the last affair partner. He doesn’t do that with me. In fact, comparing his behavior on a recent trip with me and previously with this last affair partner, it was a lot different. Calls and texts to her non-stop (remember I have phone logs, text messages and emails) and barely calls to me, with very little contact with calls. His contact with me was lackluster, at best. I don’t give a shit if you are “going to dinner.” I want to know you’re thinking of me, not just doing the obligated check in.

The content of his communication is also a factor. I realize he was caught up in a whirlwind and trying to entice her into fucking him and then to keep fucking him and it wasn’t real (emotions) with the whore, but I do compare. I just do. I don’t need him to contact me all day and night (fuck that would annoy me) when he’s out of town, but something above a “I’m here” call or text.

Is it fair to compare? I don’t give a fuck if it is or isn’t. It counts to me.

Dear Affair Partner

Hi Affair Person,

You don’t know me, but I know you really, really well..  How weird is that?

I’m WH’s (wayward husband’s) wife, xxx, and I want you to know that this week-end I asked WH to move out.  You’re probably thinking that this has nothing to do with you, well you’re wrong.  This has everything to do with you.  For the last 8 years I have tried every single thing in my power to get over your affair with WH and I can’t.  I want you to know that.  

For the last eight years you have been living inside my head making me feel useless and ugly and sad.  For the last eight years everytime I am happy for a moment your voice inside my head reminds me that WH slept with you.  Everytime WH touches me I have the image inside my head of him touching you.  Everytime he has sex with me your voice inside my head tells me you are so much better at it than me.  Everytime he tells me he loves me, I imagine him saying that to you.  Everytime I look in the mirror you are there telling me I’m not thin enough, or pretty enough, or sexy enough.  Everytime he tells me he is sorry for sleeping with you, your voice whispers that he actually enjoyed every minute of it.  Everytime he goes to work I picture him flirting with you.  Everytime he has to sleep away from home I imagine him sleeping next to you.  And it kills me, or rather I wish it did, because I would rather be dead than live like this.  It sucks every bit of joy out of my life.  So finally last week I realised that I couldn’t go on like this, I realised that the pain of living with WH is probably worse than the pain of living without him and this weekend I asked him to move out.

You’re probably wondering why it took me 8 long years to figure this out – it didn’t, in fact it took me exactly one second to figure it out.  The very moment that WH admitted that he had slept with you I knew that my marriage was destroyed, but I stayed with him and I tried so hard to fix it, to put all the broken pieces back together.  Why?  Because I wanted my daughters to have the lovely, happy family that I never had and because I love the stupid man.  I genuinely love him.  He may not be “hunk of the month” and he may be the most unromantic man that ever roamed the planet, but I love him and I dreamed of getting old with him.  Not going to happen.  Not only did you steal all those nights with him, when he slept in your bed instead of mine, you stole my future with him.  And I need you to know that.  

What you and WH did destroyed my dignity, it stole away my self-esteem and it made my children more miserable than I ever wanted them to be.  You have to understand that.  

After the affair, when you moved on I stayed right there, stuck in that moment, picturing my husband having sex with you.  And I’m still there and you know what?  I will always be there.  My marriage will never recover from what you and WH did to it and I will never recover from what you did to me.  I will never be truly happy ever again.  So I hope the sex with WH was mind-blowingly orgasmic.  I hope it was the kind of sex you will never forget.  Because I never will.  I hope that sex was worth every single moment of pain my daughters and I have had to go through in the eight years since then and will continue to go through forever.

So why am I sending you this email, what am I hoping to get from it?  I certainly don’t want, expect, or need an apology.  You are not a very nice person, so I don’t believe you are sorry for what you did. I don’t want, expect, or need a response to this email, because nothing you or WH ever say or do can erase what you did.    What I am hoping is that the next time a married man asks you for sex you will take a moment to think about it, you will remember this email and you will say NO.

~~~

This is the first letter as part of a series of letters from betrayed spouses to affair partners and submitted for publication. Here is information to submit a letter to be published. 

Unwilling or Incapable

In those early days after I found out about the first affair when he was saying one thing and doing another I had a feeling. Just a gut feeling when he wasn’t doing everything he could to heal me. He was sort of going through the motions because he was confused but he sure wasn’t letting the Ground Zero Whore go, as I found out. I remember telling him several times during that period that it appeared to me like he was unwilling or incapable to doing things I needed.

I had that same feeling on a recent business trip of his. This trip was a huge trigger, because there was a cornucopia of pussy there, old “friends” and new ones to conquer and time on his hands. He knew what I would need because we talked about it in therapy a few days before he left.

Again, I’d argue, this list wasn’t complicated.

– I’d need more contact. I’d reasoned that with Ground Zero Whore he spent a lot of time juggling working and staying in contact with her day and night. I needed him to check-in with me often. It didn’t have to be a phone conversation but it did need to be frequent.

– I needed to know he was thinking of me during those points of contact.

– I’d need to confirm his whereabouts every once in a while. We have technology to see each other easily via video calls and GPS.

– He would let me know if he got into any situations that were considered “dangerous” or “triggers” for acting out behaviors.

That’s pretty much it. Honestly, just that when he was thinking about me and more contact than in the past on his trips. Not complicated. I honestly think any Neanderthal could do what I’m asking. Looking back I can see that he got off the hook a lot with me and contact at home. I had a very “hands-off” approach, always with complete and utter trust.

What a fool.

The Big Reveal

Fucking “full disclosure.”

I hate those two goddamn words. I will never hear even the word disclosure and not think about sitting on the comfortable couch in the pleasant room with the genuinely nice and capable therapist. Spread strategically were boxes of tissue, for waiting spouses whose lives were about to change in ways they don’t even fucking realize. Like sitting ducks, knowing shit is getting real, but unable to move out of the way of the blasted shotgun.

I’d only been in the room a couple of times before this day. It’d been over a year since he was busted by me on cheating with Ground Zero Whore and admitting to a one night stand some years earlier. Yeah. No condom. Fucking brilliant, the one I married, no?

In a flash of doing something positive and right my cheating liar, asshole husband called my therapist to ask for a recommendation to a male (Male, obviously, duh. He even figured that out all by himself!) counselor for him. He told me he wanted to maybe just find someone to talk to and so if things got stressful, he’d already know someone to whom he could see.

It is a complete fluke that he ended up with this guy. I know my cheating ass liar husband is doing some hard work, but the therapist might be the reason it was possible to survive this, if we do survive this. He’s really that good. I don’t know that my liar husband knew he was entering into a relationship with a therapist that would help him become wide open to the shame and pain, but that is what happened.

It was only after a month or so of seeing this guy that my husband wanted to do full disclosure. Granted, I’d found a little more evidence, so my liar husband knew I knew there was more – mostly because I was saying “Listen, I KNOW there’s more – but I believe his therapist helped him see that in order for us to have complete balance with each other and a true and honest reconciliation, he had to tell me everything. Every little, nasty pussy, whore, shameful detail.

That he did.

He started with some bullshit about how he loved me and knew all I wanted was honesty, but he couldn’t give it to me the past year, because he even couldn’t admit and face the shitty things he’d done. He mentioned something about how he wanted to do this because he wanted to come clean so we could eventually reconcile long term and if that wasn’t possible he wanted to have a good relationship with me to co-parent our kids. He wanted to change, he wanted to become the man I thought he was.

Then he started. He was reading off of a list in a black leather portfolio, well planned from first to last. He named them. I even knew some of them, lucky me. Date ranges, the where and how. The therapist checked in with me to make sure I’d have support later in the day and encouraged me to stop and catch my breath. He’d seen this before, but maybe not two decades’ worth to witness. I honestly think he was horrified for me. I took two or three breaks to step outside and I felt nauseous, threw up once and gagged once. It was a grueling 1 hour and 45 fucking horrific minutes.

But it was done.

And I never fucking want to hear the words “Full” and “Disclosure” ever again.

A Demoralizing Walk

The morning started out like thousands of others. I go through the routine of waking and telling various children to take showers and eat breakfast. Check your backpack. Here’s money for lunch or snacks or for the walk to the store after school with friends. I drive them in at various drop off times and head back home. It’s just like any other morning. Very nearly like any other morning.

I am drinking coffee on this morning. I needed to help myself wake up because I spent some time, like I do every night, crying myself to sleep. Last night it was a “good” crying night, I only cried for an hour before my body and my mind gave out. The husband left for a trip the day before this morning and I didn’t mind it this time. I’m tired of talking about “it” and “us” and needed a break from looking at his face and wanting him in that moment to die a horrible death.

I pull back into the driveway to get ready for my day. I clean the kitchen, start some laundry, pick up towels from the bathroom floor. Feed the cat. Pour some more coffee. I am feeling more like normal this morning, not my normal but the new normal I am now because my life is so very fucked up. This is my Fucked Up Normal I declare to myself.

I leave on time because I’m like that, I like to be on time. I don’t want to cause problems for anyone else, or upset the apple cart for the day. I park my car, check my phone for messages. There are none. I realize I don’t have any because no one knows I’m here. I’ve told no one I’m here.

In fact. I’m a number. I absentmindedly forgot the piece of paper I printed out before I left this morning that had my number printed at the top. Luckily I have an email on my phone with my number. It’s the same number I will use today, two days from now and a week from now. I will not say may name to the the people I see today or speak to over the next week. I will only use a number.

Last night before I cried myself to sleep I ordered a complete STD panel for myself to the cost of over $200 and ordered it with the confidential protection of being referred to as a number throughout their process. I ordered it as my children slept upstairs and after a phone call from my cheating husband. He’s trying to call more, he’s being a “good boy” and he promises. He says he knows I won’t trust him for a very long time, but he’ll wait.  I don’t tell him about the STD tests I’m going to have. I want to find out and deal with the results and then deal with the fallout with him.

There is no way I haven’t acquired a disease from one of the whores and my muther-whore-fucking husband. I already know what the tests are going to say. I’m prepared. I want to call my mom and talk with her about this, but this conversation might even be above her pay grade as a mother. What mother wants to get a call like that? I don’t want any of my kids to ever call me with this news.

I walk through the door of the facility near my home. I am in the waiting room with people there for job drug testing. I go to the window and say I have orders but not a copy, I signed up to come to this particular lab. She looks at me with what I considered a brief look of pity. She knew why I was there. She knew I had ordered my tests off the internet. “I have it right here, honey.”

The woman who prepared the vials didn’t know it was two decades worth of exposure to the vaginas (and dicks those vagina owners sucked or fucked) of countless men and women. My fucking cheater husband never used a condom. Not once.

The vial preparer didn’t know that my years before last would have never hinted that I would be walking through a door like theirs with a number to identify me. She tries to make me feel at ease. She draws my blood and sends me to the bathroom with a cup. She apologizes for their being no running water but they can’t have that in there because of drug tests.

So I pee in a cup, screw the lid on tight, hand over the container to the tech and wash my hands. I see her finishing up the paperwork with my ID number. I leave the building much with the same attitude that I arrived with and that is pure and utter disbelief. I can’t believe this is my life.

I get an email that some of my tests are in and I can call. I am alone in the house when I call. I provide my ID number and am put on hold by the nice receptionist. I am as surprised as anyone the husband and the whores didn’t pass anything on to me. After all, it’s been two decades of chances to give me something. If the whores are fucking my husband a few times here and there at conferences and business trips, there’s a good chance they are fucking other dicks. Like I said, stunned.

Worse than walking into the building from the Internet STD panel testing is the fact that I have to, but honestly, I’m still so crushed that my husband put my life at risk. He put my kids’ mom’s life in danger, “How could you put me at that kind of risk? What made you think you could do that to me?” and without a second thought really, he admits, “I really didn’t think about you at all.”

No matter what happens to us in the future – work it out or not – there is some pain I won’t ever be able to let go and him risking my life without a second thought is at the top of the list.

The Reality of Setbacks

Early on when I found out about the first affair my cheater husband gave me some line about how “It just happened.” He stated how it was just something he stumbled upon. All of a sudden he was at a work meeting out-of-town, in a bar after the meeting, his meeting attendee just having left, having had a few cocktails and flirting to the point getting a whore’s phone and texting a message to his number so he could reach back out to her. He reached back out to her an hour or two later inviting her back to his room. Sure, that just happened.

During those first few awful weeks after discovery when my cheater couldn’t let his Ground Zero Whore go (even though he had neglected to tell me that) I had been reading a lot, devouring anything and everything that could give me answers to the fuckedupness of my life and my cheating husband. I’d read a lot where the delayed “no contact” is a pretty regular thing, so while I fucking hated him caring more about her feelings (which really was about caring more about himself and not wanting to let “it” go) I understood it. I even expected it. That’s why he sat on our marital bed and cried and I comforted him. I knew it wasn’t about the whore. It was the whore represented and to him it represented his escape and his confidence. If he wasn’t going to get it from whores, who the hell would he get it from?

Like I said, I understood those first few times of not letting her go. The third week. The sixth week. The tenth week? Not so much. In fact, he – well, we – are still paying for the damage he did during those last few months of seeing her. He will tell you at the time he felt “drawn” to her and that he didn’t know why he couldn’t let her go, he “just couldn’t.” If I can pinpoint anything that stopped progress, I will tell you that those weeks of continuing the affair after the affair had come to light.

Look, I can get over the actual dick in vagina act with time and remorse and redemption. It’s the deception and the further deception as well as making me think I was crazy at the time I had a feeling something was still going on.

The damage was done.

It set me back months all the way back to me not working on reconciliation because who wants to reconcile with a man who can’t make up his fucking mind? Some other stupid person. By the time he did figure out he wanted me and his family it was too late.

The damage was done.

Just existing together with him working on himself hoping it would eventually help me and us.

Another year passed and I found another clue. The gut feeling worked out well and led to finding something suspicious and it was then that my cheater had started to work with his CSAT and I started discussing him taking a polygraph. His fucking lying, cheating, whore worlds collided. He had to come clean because his sorry ass had been backed into a corner. We scheduled an appointment and the long list of affairs dating back almost two decades was finally out in the open. This was a year later. A YEAR. He’d waited another fucking year to tell me he had been cheating since almost the beginning of our marriage. I had begged him to tell me everything so I could move on and start to heal a year prior.

He finally told me.

Then I told him.

“The damage is done.”

The Unfortunate Case of Meticulous Records

When my cheating husband gave me a full accounting of the multiple affairs and timeframes (the aspects he could remember) he didn’t realize I’d be able to match up those times with what was happening back at home while he was out wining, dining and fucking other people.

This was unfortunate for him because no one was as surprised and unprepared as he was that I was able to tell him two of our kids had their well visit at the pediatrician on the same day he met and first fucked one of the whores. Luckily I was also able to share that while he was on a three-day trip with another, I was back home taking one of our kids in for a pre-op appointment. While he was whopping it up and buying drinks and dinner with one of the first whores, I was schlepping our kids to school, soccer, tutoring and probably picking up the mutherfcuker’s dry cleaning after making sure I had his favorite kind of coffee and fresh oranges waiting for him at home.

One of the (many) horrible things is realizing someone you trust with all you are is treating you like a fool with women who also think you’re a fool because you don’t even know the dick you’re married too.

It’s brutal.

I don’t know how I’ll ever be at peace with these facts. I suspect it’s one of those things you hear about from people who’ve had to live through horrific events, that they just learned how not to succumb to the tragedy under a pile of grief. I imagine its a powerful undercurrent in daily living and then the pile just rests at your feet and having it there is just the new normal. Some say they also remember and feel the pain but it becomes something that is just a part of you and your history. They say you just learn to “live with it.”

If by “live with it” they mean I cry everyday, am experiencing PTSD-like symptoms often, feel like my soul has been shattered, feel like a world-class fool and think I’ll never feel balanced with the world around me, then yes, I guess I am “living” with it.

The Whores He Played

Let’s talk a little bit about the type of women my husband was interested in. Well, really only one thing is paramount.

They adored him.

He’s an adoration whore. He feels so badly about himself he noticed the women did something for him, even just the flirting and feedback. They adored him. He could make them laugh and they were willing vaginas. Those are the three main things he has determined since doing some self reflection.

They all adored him. I mean adored him. He, apparently, could not do anything wrong to them to stop them from adoring him. He loved that about them. Interestingly enough, they aren’t necessarily attractive (except the stripper-who-looks-like-a man-dressed-as-a-woman maybe). If you looked at them, you’d probably agree. So, I know for a fact he didn’t have super sex with super hot models.

He collected them, too.

Two of them he knew for two decades, the others between four and ten years. The one who got him busted just under six months before I found out and three months after I knew. He even was able to fuck them and remain friends with them without continuing to fuck them. He sort of just stopped doing it with them. No discussions about ending, except for one married one who felt guilty. After months of fucking my husband, she felt guilty all of a sudden. Good for her.

He moved on from having sex with them but still remain friends. Like I said, he was a charmer. I’ve got hundreds of emails of his keeping them on the hook by making them feel great about themselves, desired, attractive and themselves, charming.

They are sad, in a pathetic whore way, you know? One of them is so pathetic she just allowed herself be used rarely, on and off, over a 12 year period. Who the fuck signs up for that?

That’s exactly what I asked her when I called her, as I did all the women I could contact. Along with recommending they get STD testing because they weren’t the only special butterflies, I asked, “Why the fuck would you be a cumdumpster for my husband, or any man? Have some fucking respect for yourself.”

She was pretty speechless at that point.

That was a really good day.