As I went through the victim stage, I began to question Mr. F about his parallel life. I wanted to know every single detail. It was masochistic. I asked him about his childhood, his school years, the priests at his school, the Scouts. Everything that I could possibly imagine. And instead of having a civilized conversation, he answered angrily, as if I had offended him. Although he swore he had stopped having company, I could tell from his attitude he hadn’t. There wasn’t just another one, there were many others. I never checked his phone or his computer, or his shirts. That’s not my style, it never has been. I think somebody who’s doing wrong has enough on his conscience already.
But the questions about affairs had actually started after 10 or 15 years of marriage; his attitude had changed, there was almost no intimacy and not even he believed his own excuses about stress. At the height of cynicism, we visited several doctors.
All throughout that time, my health had not been great. Among other problems, I was diagnosed with and had surgery for human papillomavirus. I had never been with another man; he had been the first and the only one. Now I understand many things. I even understand why he got angry when he found out I was going to have the procedure. He was angry at life. I was worried about my health, so I didn’t pay much attention to his obfuscation. When the surgery was over, the doctor went through all the indications and asked if he could have my husband come in. I said yes, and he relayed the information to him. At that point, under the effects of anesthesia, I gave free rein to the pent-up anger and asked the doctor: “Hey doc, did you clean out all the cobwebs you must have found down there?”
The doctor looked at me and chuckled. Mr. F, instead, turned around and left. I did not see him again until they brought me out in a wheelchair. He walked me to the parking lot where the driver was waiting for us. Then, as we came up to a ramp, he let go of the wheelchair, but not without giving me a little push before. I could feel his rage. The driver thought it was a game, and he caught me on the other end. Mr. F was furious. We got home. He opened the door and then left as if he had just delivered a package. That’s what it felt like. He did not help me get up the stairs. I was coming out of general anesthesia. I was in pain. He did not care. He still surprised me. This was about kindness and compassion. I am absolutely sure his attitude would have been diametrically opposite if an indiscreet witness would have been watching the scene.
I know that some women are willing to negotiate to keep their marriages. They promise, offer, concede. Nothing like that crossed my mind. I was already too disappointed. I knew I could care for my children alone. I had always done so. And I was not afraid of solitude. We were friends, and we enjoyed each other’s company.
When I entered a depressive stage and began to question my worth as a woman, the marvelous little phrase – “you do not attract me as a woman”– had already been let out. It delivered a blow to my self-worth and self-esteem, both of which were tied to sex. I ended up seeing even less of my friends. I was isolated from them, and from life in general. I did the bare minimum. I was in autopilot mode. I did not smile. I couldn’t take it anymore.
My parents and my siblings looked at me critically. They questioned my long face. My friends censured me because I stopped attending events. I’m thankful for my friend Anita, who never gave up, and managed to get me out of the house. That dear friend took me to the theater, the movies, and out to eat. She went with me to pick up my children from parties at midnight. We walked together several times a week and talked about everything, from the most trivial and banal things to how we would save the world. Anita, however, did not understand why at a play where everybody laughed hysterically, I would sob uncontrollably. It’s the body that looks for ways to release tears, to keep from bursting. A body will swell up if one doesn’t cry, and I felt like I was going to explode. The tears would come streaming down in the most unexpected situations.
I don’t know what I would have done, what would have happened to my already damaged mental health, if it weren’t for my friend Anita and her antics.
People have no idea what others are going through. They only judge our reactions, our faults, and our bad moods. We never stop to think about what lies behind all of that.
I had everything to be happy, and it was my duty to be so. Whims? Really? Nobody ever came up to me to ask if something was wrong.
Of course, I never said anything.
No, all I heard was you never go out, it’s impossible to be around you, you spend the whole day sulking, your husband will get tired of you. Really? Or was I tired of him? Or is that not possible in a sexiest society?
One becomes more and more isolated. Maybe there’s shame, guilt, a mixture of feelings, often contradictory ones.
There came a point where my dogs became my closest companions. They did not ask or judge; they were simply there, providing love.
In little time, my children, who were probably tired of having an indolent mother, sounded the alarm bells. I could not wait any longer. I spoke to my children and my parents and then asked Mr. F to leave the house. He did not want to. He stalled. He tested my patience until he had no choice but to come to terms with his only option.
It was not any day. No, things are either done well or they’re not done at all. He left on Father’s Day, after lunch, so that his children would never forget. He left saying that I lied and that he was not gay. That was the cause of many issues I had with my younger daughter, who, a few months later, accused me of lying. Mr. F had told her to look him in the eyes, that he was not gay, and her mother was not telling the truth. I explained calmly that there was no need to lie. I knew that time would eventually prove me right, and I could wait.
I can’t understand why he put his own daughter in such a situation. I don’t understand what he was trying to prove.
Everything happened very quickly. After a few months, I was about to leave the house where I had spent most of my life, I had become an empty nester, the divorce was underway, and my father was in the last weeks of his life. It was a difficult situation, that’s true, but I felt lighter despite the circumstances. I found the strength to keep going on. I began to smile from the inside, to smile for real. No, it wasn’t that hard anymore. Today, having gone through all kinds of therapies, coaches, gurus, books –having done everything possible– I must confess that the anger still returns, depression makes me stumble.
I no longer pay any attention to the people who say I have to move on. I once felt the need to be well; now I understand that everybody takes their own time. No, this is not a competition. There are no deadlines, and there isn’t a time limit. We don’t just mourn our dead, we mourn whenever there’s loss, and we have losses of every kind. It seems to me that we have a right to mourn however we see fit. Whether that means mourning the loss of something we had always dreamed of, a marriage that is ending, a plan that does not come to fruition, or a phase that ends. There are no set times. Mourning is personal, and it is not linear. It’s a process, just like everything else in life. Plus, there are a thousand factors at play.
Sometimes, I wonder what I would have done differently if I could turn back time. In truth, there are many things that I would change to make the process a little easier, a little less toxic.
First, I would look for a person I could trust, somebody who’s discreet and levelheaded, one of these wise people we all have around us. A special person with whom I could vent. They’re not there to solve anything, just to talk and lend their ears.
Second, I would look for a support group. Nothing is better to help us feel understood and heard than other women who have gone through a similar situation. Not even the best therapists, and I say this with the utmost respect, can be as empathetic if they have not themselves gone through such an experience. Talking is important. It is crucial, I will not tire of repeating this.
Third, I would inform myself about the many situations that can arise in a marriage of this kind. Educate yourself. Read. Ask. I did not find much information. Thus the blog.
In fourth place, I would look for help and help myself, not as an option but as an obligation. There are activities that we can do on our own, like going to the movies, watching the sunset, getting coffee, watering the garden, or writing. Then there are other activities for which we depend on others: going to therapy, looking for a coach, and treating ourselves to a massage.
After changing my perspective, or widening my lens, as one of my great teachers put it, and casting aside self-victimization to take responsibility for my own life, I came to understand many things. The healing process accelerated, and I understood what it was I had to learn. I became aware of that too– that I had to learn and keep learning. I would also have to develop strategies in the process.
I am doing my homework and have made significant progress. The best thing about this attitude is that it seems like the Universe responds by sending you the right people at the right time, setting off a beautiful process of alchemy.
I feel so grateful to all the people I’ve met in this journey, who now have a very special place in my heart.
Like Robert Schwartz, I sometimes think: What if I chose to take on this task before I was born?
I feel very grateful. But there is still much road to tread. However, the one thing I do not regret is having waited to tell my children, who may have suspected it but of course, never knew for sure. How would I explain something I myself did not understand fully? How would I explain something I couldn’t put into words?
When the moment came to tell them, I was devastated but also somehow prepared. I knew a little of what could come, although no one can really know what will happen. Why did I wait? Because I needed to overcome the shock, the sadness, the delusion, and mostly, I wanted them to grow up a little bit. Also, it meant the end of the marriage. There was no going back.
With the benefit of hindsight, we are all armchair generals. But in the thick of it, we are only soldiers, and we fight with whatever weapons are given to us. I say this in response to all the comments and criticism I’ve received. Phrases like “How did you last that long?” “You could have died?” “What if you contracted HIV?” “He took you for a fool.” And so on. At any point in time, one does their honest best. It’s true, many of other things could have happened. But I had enough already with what I went through.
Knowing how the movie will end, it’s much easier to make decisions. When there is uncertainty, confusion, ignorance, surprise, delusion, responsibility, it is much harder to take the “right decision,” especially if we have children.
Today, I am proud to be the woman I am, and I see this as an experience I had to go through to grow as a human being. Above all, however, I am grateful to the Universe for the wonderful children it gave me. These children were, and continue to be, the best support that a mother can have, and an example of maturity and integrity.
I dreamt of giving them a happy and stable home. I did all I could. And I think I am correct in saying that deep in their heart, they know it.
