Ella, marriage is giving your life to the person. It's saying I am now living for you. Now of course you should know I don't advice that once you have been abused, but in a normal everyday marital relationship this is what is needed. Your spouse should do the same. Again romance is great it's like desert, but the meat and potatoes is the giving. The forcing yourself with your actions to think, how is this affecting my other half. When you do that you experience a much greater level of intimacy. You both become dependent on each other. This is a different kind of love then you see in romance novels and Disney. It is the kind that make you inseparable. It is the warm blanket kind of love. The concrete kind.
Think about what you just wrote. You had an affair and yet you forget about his side of the story? I think the fact that your husband has taken this so well in the long run has be detrimental to your learning about yourself. That is not a judgement on him but it is the dynamic that you find yourself in. You write a lot about you. This post is about WS as it relates to you.
Now write about the BS, I want you to put yourself in that situation, your a writing major, you should be able to do that. How would you feel if your husband were to do that to you. What healing would you need then.
Well, if he were to cheat on me, my reaction would be VASTLY different than how he must have felt or how he must feel. Mostly because his
first instinct when in emotional turmoil is not suicide. I don't know whether I would want healing from the very person who hurt me. Hypocritically, I don't know that I'm the sort to offer reconciliation. Not because Mr. Suaveterre would be a bad person, but because with as many anxiety issues as I have now
, with him being utterly devoted to me, I would be far, far too afraid to try once he'd cheated.
As to him... He was at work when he got the call from my mother that she was taking me to the mental hospital, being that it was 9:30 in the morning. That must have terrified him, being trapped at work and not having any idea what had happened. The few days leading up to my hospitalization, he knew little-to-nothing about OM, but he did know I was stressed out. I told him the night before that if I knew where to find heroin, I'd start doing heroin because it was probably the only thing strong enough to calm my nerves. So that was all the context he had. Had I actually found
heroin and overdosed? Were they sure I was alive? Did I finally slit my wrists like I always halfheartedly joked about when I was feeling low? Mr. Suaveterre is NOT the kind of person to sit and worry over anything he can't solve using binary, but I imagine he must have had a hard time putting it from his mind.
It would be Tuesday before the hospital was open to visitors, and he was there at the first opportunity. I had decided he needed to know the truth, and I told him, "I cheated on you. I'm in love with someone else." and I handed him the pieces of loose printer paper out of which I had made a makeshift journal during my 4 days at the hospital. He read everything. I wrote that I was upset that my marriage was ending, but that I loved OM, and that was the way it was. A single tear fell down his face. Every other woman he'd ever loved had broken up with him, and now this one, too. Even though I promised to heal him from all his other relationships, and until that day, he thought I had. Now he had more empirical evidence that he just wasn't good enough- rich enough, tall enough, handsome enough- to be loved forever. And why the hell was it THAT guy?? He hadn't heard THAT name in months and now his wife's in love with him?!
I asked him why he was crying. He replied, "Why do you think?" I said, "I'm not leaving with (OM'S name). The plane would have left Sunday. I'm staying with you. I'm sorry, about all of it. I wish our marriage wasn't like this." Most likely he had been 100% unaware our marriage was "like this" because it was only desolate, loveless, and terrible from my vantage point. I asked him then if he would forgive me. He said "Maybe". We sat in silence for a little while. Then, he put his arms around me and held me and said, "I hope you get better" and left. It must have taken a lot of strength to hug me then. Or maybe it didn't. Our secondary love languages are both physical touch. Maybe he was just craving something familiar, something that used to be safe. Maybe he just didn't want to make a scene in a public setting such as the foyer of the local nuthouse.
He didn't stay in the apartment for the entire week. He slept at my parents', which couldn't have been too terribly much better, because he left his home country of England to be with me. Literally everything in his world, thus, was connected to me. He probably just wanted to be in England, in his village, in the pub, at age 25 again, with no Ella at all, ever. Skip to an alternate universe where we never met and he never had to get his hopes up and have them crushed in the most unexpected and horrifying way imaginable. He might or might not have been considering buying his own
plane ticket and going the hell home.
A couple weeks passed, and his wife was home, and having nightmares about EVERYTHING almost every night, and constant panic attacks, and would occasionally just stop everything she was doing and stare into the middle distance until someone physically grabbed her shoulders and moved her along. Between this and the cheating, he must have been convinced I had finally gone truly, insanely crazy. He probably also thought that during our first six months of marriage when I couldn't stop sobbing and was summarily diagnosed with major depression, but this was different. Worse. But he's a programmer. A fixer. He takes broken things and makes them work again. It was just what he did. And what he was going to do.
BRB, I have to go hug the living daylights out of my husband.