From the night my husband first gave vague intimations of his sexual orientation until the moment he could verbalize and accept it himself, without deceit, excuses, or disguises, four long years had to pass.
And what drove him to make those first intimations was desperation over his own circumstances. He saw everything he had worked for about to crumble: his job, his family, his prestige, and his honor. And not because of his sexuality, but because of deceit, lies, and a double life, which was about to be exposed. “It's not what you think, it's that I felt very lonely. It was just company, you know, conversation. Not what you're thinking…With all this traveling, I felt very lonely. "
This is how I found out. Those were his words. But why did he tell me? Why did he come to me, asking to speak urgently, with a look of despair on his face?
His fling at the time, the friend who had kept him company when he was lonely, when he traveled, was betraying him. The friendship, the companionship, it was all over: his confidante was now extorting him. He wanted money in return for his silence. Otherwise, coworkers, family, and wife would hear from him.
Mr. F was paralyzed, powerless, and diminished. He did not know what to do, and turned to me as he used to in his better days. This time, however, with the threat of suicide and an offer to give me “everything.” What is “everything”? Everything that he had achieved financially in his career. That “everything” was not just his. For many reasons, not worth explaining, we had built “everything” together. But it was that “everything” that was at the root of his despair.
Of course, suicide and the offer for “everything” were out of the question. I asked him to answer for his actions like the man he was. That was my recommendation.
We exchanged a few ideas, as if we were discussing a marketing strategy or a business tactic: with cold detachment, objectively. No tears were shed, no demands were made. There was just a look of confusion: mine. It persisted throughout the conversation. Why? I had entered what is commonly known as a state of shock, where one is able to operate almost normally at a physical level, but, psychologically, it becomes impossible to deal with emotions, so we disavow them, shove them under the rug. We lose all contact with our feelings, and we grow numb. I think I went into survival mode, secreting tons of cortisol. In that state, all I could think of were my children, like an animal that protects its young from a predator. It was almost visceral. The only thing I asked Mr. F was that he seek legal help and find a solution with his partner. But no one would hurt my children.
Much happened soon after that fateful night.
Seven days later, we traveled to celebrate the graduation of one of my children. It was an occasion to be proud, happy, and to celebrate. So we did.
Of course, I realize today that several crucial details slipped my mind. A few friends were missing; family members were not invited; cards were not written; gifts were not bought. These were all things I had prepared for, but finally forgot. My mind was a fog.
As the celebrations came to a close, and I began to realize I would soon be returning home, things started to make less and less sense. Mr. F announced he would not be going back, but instead, would be traveling to Asia where he would spend a month, away from the worldly bustle. Excuse me? This left things as follows: the graduate would stay because she had a job, Mr. F would begin a journey through Asia to get away from the disaster he had created, and I was to return home, on my own. To see my children. Scared because the monster had not been tamed. At that moment, I had yet to come to an agreement with the young man.
That day, before getting on the plane that would bring me home, I felt for the first time I lacked the strength to get out of bed. My shock lasted more than anybody should bear. I stayed silent. I said nothing to no one. At times, that nightly confession would descend into oblivion, as if it had never happened. At least, that’s what I thought. These were the licenses my mind took to remain sane.
What did I expect? That things would work out? No, that was clear to me. They would not work out. There were too many red flags. I needed to process, understand. Was I in denial? Yes, in denial about my marriage. There was nothing I could do to make it work. I had just received the death certificate. There was nothing I could do to bring it back to life, and I refused to accept that reality. But I did understand why I held its death certificate. I knew the cause of death. I had to understand all those red flags: all the comments, the looks. There was so much to process.
I was sure of one thing: I would protect my children as best as I could. And if that meant that they would finish school without disturbances, then so be it. I wanted my children to suffer as little as possible; they did not have to go through this, especially not at that moment, and at that age.
Many years before, I had begun a search that led me to read widely, from self-help books to Buddhist and Hindu philosophy, to the classics: Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Plotinus and Aristoteles. I read a lot, almost obsessively. I was searching for something I felt I was missing. I was searching for answers. This search even led me to a guru who initiated me in the world of meditation and metaphysics: both became pillars of my sanity throughout those hard and long years. And throughout that whole time, I remained complicit by not exposing the fact. I remained complicit because I did not seek a separation. I could find a thousand valid reasons, or not, but I just as complicit as Mr. F for staying in the marriage.
Paradoxically, this was also my most active period. I traveled a lot. I hated planes and grew to love them. I traveled alone. I traveled with my children. I traveled. I attended classes, studied, and began to work in something I was passionate about from home. I worked all day, would take breaks in the afternoon to be with the kids, and would keep working at night. Throughout those years, I went from shock, to denial, to anger, sadness and back to denial again. It was not a linear process. At all. On top of it all, there was this as well: Mr. F had not come to an agreement with his sweetheart over the blackmail, so he gave him my contact. Mr. F was sure I would handle it well.
Imagine my surprise when that shameless bastard asked me for a sum of money through email. He provided all of his personal details to proceed with the wire transfer. He explained that he was unemployed. He needed money. Very kindly, he explained that I was being watched, and described my outfit that day. This was a terrifying experience. I was doing somebody else’s dirty work. It was hard, tiring and humiliating. Nobody should ever have to experience that, nor should they give in to the demands of an extortionist. This will be the subject of a different post.
I had no time to feel like a victim. I was in a state of alert at all times. This was tiring, emotionally, mentally and physically. Unnecessarily. Sometimes I cried while watching a movie, or in the shower, when I felt I lacked the strength to carry on. I cried when I looked at the photos and thought: when did this happen? Had it always been that way? These are questions one can’t help but ask, which lead nowhere. They will only make you more anxious, anguished and irascible.
I wrote often during that period, almost every day. I am thankful for this. It helped me put my ideas in order, if I can even use that term to describe the chaos I chose to live in. Above all, I wrote about emotions, feelings and events that I do not, or would rather not, recall today. It was a magnificent form of catharsis.
The year following the nocturnal confession, I would not leave my children’s side when they came home from school. The landline (whose number I had to change several times) became an extension of my body. While my kids studied, I would sit and read until I’d lose focus. I learned to embroider, having never even touched a needle before. This was thanks to a dear friend, who was also one of my confidantes. At that moment, all she knew was that I was juggling to keep my marriage afloat. With great patience she taught me to thread the needle, choose a design, a fabric, and to start a project. I did that for a long time. For my last project, I embroidered a Chinese icon, the endless knot, a symbol of double happiness, which means that happiness comes twice: once for the groom, and once for the bride. I learned that long after, but I must have been searching for love unconsciously. I hope that whoever received the embroidery found love.
One evening, while I lost in my embroidery, my son said to me. “Mom, you don’t look well.” I asked what he meant, trying to understand where he was coming from. “You just look sad.”
This sounded the alarms; my efforts were not paying off. Next morning, I called to ask for an appointment with a psychiatrist and personal friend: J.C. He was the first human being to hear about everything in detail. When I was through with my narration, I saw his jaw drop and his eyes pop. He looked at me with surprise and disbelief, and not without some sadness as well. He proceeded to ask me a few questions and as he grabbed his notepad and began to fill the page names of pills, he paused and asked me: “You’re not thinking about jumping off the roof, are you?” No. I laughed and answered: “There’s still much for me to do. You have the patients mixed up, the suicidal one is my husband.” He smiled. It goes without saying that he gave me his cellphone number, his home number, the number to his in-laws’, to the university were taught, to his other office and to the place where he spent his weekends. He would be at my disposal 24/7. He was a great person. But above all, I could count on his discretion. That was crucial to me.
Like all pills, sedatives, tranquilizers and antidepressants have many side-effects. They did not suit me. I tried everything the pharmaceutical industry had on offer and the only thing I got was extra pounds. On the other hand, it was helpful to visit J.C every 15 days. I had somebody to talk to. Then, at some point, Mr. F stopped playing the part of the repentant husband and turned into somebody else, aggressive and upset, like an out-of-place disgruntled manager.
When this happened, I entered the typical stage of resentment and self-victimization, obsessing over the typical questions. Why me? Why didn’t he respect me? Why did he use me? Why am I his cover-up?
He had everything. The wife, the kids, the dogs, the house, the cars, the watches, the shoes. The perfect façade.
To be continued...
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