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Wednesday, Nov 25, 2009
Coming to terms with racist family members, dealing with the fact that you're the "other" woman, and other tales from the frontlines of marriage.
Jan 21, 2004 |
The other woman
I am not married, but I love someone who is.
I never thought I would be that girl. In my 26 years, I have toed the line, celebrated the marriages of my friends, never once devaluing the institution itself or losing faith that it is the best and highest expression of love between two people. How far I've fallen, both in love with him and from my own sense of myself.
He told me he was happily married the first night I met him, in a marathon discussion that sparked a connection neither one of us could deny or turn away from. I felt safe, as if I had the green light to spend time with this amazing person unencumbered by fear that there would be confusion about where we stood. After all, he was married.
The days and weeks that followed were the most energized and happy of my life, as I fell in love with him over dozens of lunches, cups of coffee, glasses of wine, tennis and golf outings -- we connected on every level. Our senses of humor, our political beliefs, our career ambitions ... everything merged into an undeniable chemistry that quickly moved from a fun distraction to a consuming need to be together.
Somewhere along the road to a deep and real friendship, his professed "happy marriage" lost its glossy, imposed façade, and the person who was becoming my most intimate friend told me of years of sadness, loss of passion, disconnection with his wife. He called it a midlife crisis. He longed to feel alive and in love as he once did, and he hinted at an internal struggle to remain faithful for the first time in his 10-year marriage.
And there I sat, in love with this man, aghast when he would relay to me how his wife would berate him for doing things to take care of himself, resenting his happiness as if it were a zero-sum equation she couldn't disentangle from her own consuming depression since the birth of their first child. There I sat, knowing I would spend my life making him happy if he would just let me. I cultivated a persona for him that painted me as the antithesis of his wife -- fun, young, uncomplicated, understanding, patient -- the ultimate abdication of responsibility that he craved. I loved him and wanted him to be happy. I still do.
"Don't hurry home."
"Don't worry, I won't."
Those were the last words spoken between him and his wife the night our affair began, when we crossed the line. We still don't know who kissed who first, but we know it didn't matter after that first moment. Nothing has ever felt so right or been so wrong. He kept saying, "My life is complicated." I kept saying, "I know." We couldn't stop.
Our affair lasted only weeks, ending when I had to return to school 2,000 miles away. I am still in love with him, and I was in love with him the day I ended our affair, imploring him to take the energy he'd invested in me and turn it back toward his wife and making the life he'd already chosen resemble the one he deserves.
I used to think people who had affairs were weak, that they just couldn't contain their rampant sexual impulses. But now I understand that affairs are devastatingly complicated, and that they aren't just about sex but can be the product of the even greater human need to feel connected to another person. Our affair never felt cheap. I'll be less quick to judge the other "other" women I meet, and may find empathy where I once found only disdain in my heart. I have been the woman on the other side, and it wasn't what I expected at all.
-- Anonymous
Uncharted waters
How did we get here?
My husband of 11 years was depressed. On occasion I would remark on this and try to get him to confide in me or seek counseling. Finally, last summer, after a year of severe depression, he told me that he was gay.
He was a mess. He felt guilt, shame, sadness and despair. I could see it in his face. I could hear it in his voice. And it broke my heart. For a few days, I was very concerned about his mental state. My first instinct was to protect him and our two young children. I wasn't ready for change. We still needed each other. I loved him and knew he loved me. There were many long talks over the next weeks, but it was clear that we both wanted to stay married.
We had a great marriage and were best friends. Until this depression, we communicated very well. We'd had our rocky moments but we could talk through them. I was convinced we could continue to do so. We found a good therapist and went to see him separately and jointly.
I knew that my husband desired emotional intimacy with a man. I knew that he needed to explore this side of himself. We discussed the myriad of health, emotional and practical issues involved and came to some understandings.
He met someone and began to spend some evenings away from home -- which was expected. For a while things were fine. But with increasing frequency, I found myself feeling profoundly sad. I realized I was mourning the loss of what I knew as my marriage. I still loved my husband. I wasn't jealous. I wasn't angry. We still talked, remained open and honest with each other, and did things as a family. But I was alone, even when he was home.
Last summer during the first visit to my therapist he asked me what I was doing for myself. I remember staring at him dumbly. Eight months later, I'm just beginning to grapple with this question. I realize I need to build a life separate from my husband. I told him last week that I loved him and always wanted us to be best friends. I also told him that I didn't think we could be husband and wife.
