I believe that it's safe to say that infidelity arises from damage. I believe I can say this, from both sides of the fence.
I don't speak about my side of the fence too often on SI, which has, at times, felt disingenuous and intellectually (and perhaps even emotionally) dishonest.
But, in the end, this is not The Court of SI. What matters is how my husband and I define our history and our choices.
I will now speak as an Almost Wayward, as someone who was so strongly tempted and got so close to crossing that line that it's uncomfortable to remember, and to discuss.
I will tell you how I got there, and how and why I stepped back from the line.
For the first several years of our relationship, through college/dating, through early marriage, through having babies, through the early years with kids, my husband and I had the most normal and happy of intimate lives.
Husband's indiscretion happened smack dab in the middle of an otherwise healthy and robust young sex life- which made it all the more confusing to me, but simultaneously facilitated the subsequent rug sweeping by both of us. *Everything* very quickly went back to 'normal' between us, courtesy of Husband's much sanitized narrative (I didn't really have to look at the thing) and that proved that we were fine. Right? Right.
Somewhere in my husband's/our mid-ish thirties, our intimate life went off the rails. I mean, it literally evaporated overnight. In what felt like a matter of months, our sex life disintegrated into a dead bedroom.
We limped along.
Neither of us had ever heard the term "dead bedroom" and we had no concept of the definition of it.
If his dick worked at all and we had sex even rarely then it didn't count as 'no sex,' right?
If we'd known how and when and to whom to reach out for help, then we would have *clearly* seen that we were in a textbook dead bedroom situation. We were in the deadest of dead bedrooms, no doubt about it.
As it was, I knew *something* was very, very wrong. I just didn't know what to do about it.
At first I went down the obvious checklist:
Were we healthy? Check.
Physically active? In good shape? Check.
Diet/exercise? Check.
Attractive? Both of us? Check.
Signs of 'other people?' Negative. (I honestly did not and still do not suspect extracurricular involvement on Husband's part during this time. Didn't feel that way, didn't look that way, no 'red flags,' etc.)
So of course I took what I would call 'the Redbook Approach':
Worked even harder on my appearance.
Worked even harder on my physical fitness.
Was more meticulous about my grooming and maintenance. (This from a woman who shaves all of her bits and pieces EVERY. DAMNED. DAY. OF. HER. LIFE.) (You get the picture.)
Was up for anything in the bedroom.
Problem being... no interest. None. Zero zilch nada.
So I began to introduce 'new things.'
I introduced so many fucking new things that I began to feel like some sort of perverted party clown.
It's actually somewhat squicky but also somewhat darkly, ironically humorous to look back at it now.
And then I started to feel, desperate. Frenetic. Trying too hard. It shouldn't be this difficult.
In the meantime, my husband is sliding into the clutches of full blown workaholism. We both recognize it now as clearly as writing on a wall.
Not too much earlier in this timespan, there was a merger of two separate corporate entities within the same company. Teams collided.
Husband's boss sat his team down and told them that company culture was changing, and that this was intentional.
It was no longer enough to 'do a good job.' Not even enough to 'do an excellent job.' In order to remain employed and to have a long term career with this company, one had to make oneself indispensable.
Great motivator, that.
These were already highly skilled, highly trained, highly motivated, *very competitive* people, without pitting them against well-matched others and lighting the cage on fire.
I honestly now wonder if there were even more nefarious and intentional manipulations afoot: pairing people who were competitively well-matched, too well-matched, up with each other, throwing them into the cage, and watching them work themselves and each other to death- while continuously lighting the cage on fire with drop dead deadlines, etc.
It became brutal, but at that point the pot was just beginning to simmer. Both of us are self-starters and hard workers and highly skilled and in demand and a simmering pot??? Pffffbttt, what else you got?
But it was more than the workload- it was that mandate to become "indispensable." That got lodged in Husband's brain as a mantra for survival. And it got reinforced by TPTB.
And we were young enough and stupid enough and naive enough and idealistic enough and over confident enough not to recognize the teeth of the meatgrinder into which we'd just been thrown.
And of course, most of us here are of a certain age- we recognize the mandate to become "indispensable" as utter bullshit- but not when one is young and omnipotent, right?
So our married life, our intimate life, our entire family began to operate on the basis of project schedules. We just needed to get through Husband's current project.
And then the next one.
And then the next one.
Wash rinse repeat.
We maintained the household, we raised our children, we kept the budget on balance, we saved for the future, we did all the right things, we kept up appearances,
but the pot was continuing to boil and the pressure kept mounting and our intimate life totally evaporated. *Poof!* gone!
In the meantime, I noticed that Husband had developed this sort of free floating anxiety which tried desperately to attach itself to something, anything.
I began to shift my focus from superficial things like appearance and appeal and sexual party tricks to more substantial things like our finances, the daily operation of the house, etc.
Husband was raised in a home where Mother didn't work, and when Father wasn't out on contract, he was at home by This O'Clock every night. He came home to a hot dinner on the table. Ergo Husband took a hot dinner on the table and the family there to eat it together quite seriously as a measure of success.
So I doubled down on this effort, despite having *a far different life* than my mother in law. TRUST ME, I WOULD HAVE LOVED TO HAVE HAD THE JOB OF JUST GETTING A DAMNED DINNER ON THE TABLE BY 6PM AS THE SOLE FOCUS OF MY DAMNED DAY. But that wasn't my life. We owned a home, we had kids, we needed my income, and my chosen profession and professional training prepared me and required of me far, far, far more than 9 to 5. Evenings, nights, wee hours, weekends, holidays, call, you'll leave work when work is done with you, etc.
And in the middle of all of this, I'm either getting a hot meal on the table every night, or I am providing the where with all for that hot meal to get from the fridge to the table with minimum effort in my forced absence. Insult to injury, I might never see that damned meal myself. I'd go without.
I began to think that Husband was stressed about finances- so then I began to work on the household budget and operations. I tightened belts and streamlined and learned all sorts of large and small cost cutting skills.
No doubt those skills had an impact, small and cumulative, or large and life changing, and they continue to this day. I am grateful to have learned them.
But at that time, did removing even a modicum of stress change anything in our intimate life?
Nope.
I was simply not omnipotent enough to remove all of the stressors from Husband's life.
Bedroom still as dead as ever.
So now I'm this 30 something year old wife and mother who is going to the gym, running, still rocking the tiniest bikini on the beach and rocking it *very well,* shaving her bits every day, applying make up every morning, keeping up with the hair and eyebrows and as much as feasibly possible considering the work environment, nail maintenance, keeping a clean enough home (without outside help) that her mother in law is threatened by it and pokes fun at it, grocery shops every week, hangs laundry on the line, cuts three heads of hair (Husband's and the kids') at home, sews her own clothes, cooks at home (many of my coworkers flat did not cook period and made no bones about that) home cans food, keeps a budget tracked by financial software, plans family vacations, has an impressive lingerie and sex toy collection and is not afraid to use both (IN FACT WOULD LOVE TO USE BOTH) aaaaaand, nothing.
The whole 'make yourself indispensable' combined with other aspects of FOO modeling just totally screwed with Husband's head. It created a free floating anxiety monster that ate our lives- and neither one of us had a clue about what we were seeing, experiencing, living.
I could have left.
I offered to leave- many times.
I offered the simplest, cleanest, most equitable divorce possible. Just let me go. I won't screw you over, I promise- just tell me it's over, and let me go.
At those moments, Husband bled- he sincerely bled- he did NOT want a divorce.
He had *no clue* how to be married, but he adamantly and sincerely did not want a divorce.
It was quite genuine and believable.
Add to that- I was the product of a spectacularly broken home and then my father's equally spectacularly bad second marriage OMG.
I would have, I did, walk through fire to prevent that from happening to my own children.
When I considered divorce, I considered two possibilities:
1. That my husband and I would divorce, and that he'd subsequently find his Angel, the woman so fucking heavenly that she inspires him to be present in his marriage. He will be utterly devoted to her and so enthralled with her that he will actually *be married,*
or,
he would have been bitch slapped enough by the divorce that even if the next wife was a mere mortal (God bless her! <3) my now 'woke' ex husband would *actually show up and put in the work,*
Either way,
because we have children together, I will be by default forced to sit there and watch *her* have the husband and the life for which I had worked so hard for so long, which would cause me to want to eat my own eyeballs,
and of course since my husband was now 'showing up' and it was an overall happier life, my kids would of course love her more than me, because, happier!
or,
2. My now ex husband, who has *no fucking idea* how to be married (obviously) will fall victim to the first manipulative sociopathic bitch who shows up and slaps a convenient bandaid on his divorce wound. Cue hell for my kids. I know, because I lived that in my father's second marriage.
No way, no how.
So I sat there, in the pressure cooker.
As I've said before on SI, there were always 'bids' in my direction.
After all, look at the existential dump I typed up there:
I was showing up every day as a female who shaved her bits, took care of the hair/eyebrows/nails, ran miles, lifted weights, wore makeup, provided herself with well fitting clothing, was competent in many areas, generally had her act together.
I was also, under that surface veneer, totally and completely exhausted.
Weak? Hardly. Fucking hardly.
Tired? Definitely.
Frustrated? LIKE. YOU. WOULD. NOT. BELIEVE.
It was probably my first real life lesson in, 'There Are Just Some Things That You Cannot Fix.'
My husband was working out his own script, handed down from The FOO, that had little to nothing to do with me- except I was providing comfortable infrastructure while he worked it out.
Yeah, I wasn't weak,
I wasn't 'broken,'
but I was fucking *exhausted.*
Think about PTSD. Think about the definition of PTSD. One of the colloquial, anecdotal definitions of PTSD is not that it's a sign of weakness, but more that it's a sign of courage and bravery against overwhelming odds. It's not that one is weak, it's that one has been too strong for too long.
I'd fought off so many superficial 'bids' for so long in the face of this situation that it was laughable.
I'd fought off 'forced bids' in which I was (almost quite literally arm-twisted) into 'getting with the program.' Trust me, going along to get along in some environments would have made (unfortunately) my work life easier in the short term. I had absolutely *no interest* and that made that particular portion of my life much, much more intensely uncomfortable in fits and starts.
And now I'm exhausted. And starving. And out of fuel. And long out of fucking ideas for dealing with the hand I've been dealt (fair enough, I didn't bring all of this to the table) and with which, for various reasons, *I chose* (on me) to continue to play.
Only I wasn't choosing those reasons all for my benefit. Sure, there was some benefit for me, and I'm reaping it now, years later, in terms of financial (and even marital, my husband does recognize loyalty) security. Mostly, I was choosing the reasons that benefitted our children, and even my husband.
Although I was emotionally and sexually starving at this table, I recognized his hard work- and I did get the sense that his neglect was the result of devils chasing him down the road.
But anyway, into this vignette walks a guy. Just a guy. He's a dude.
He's OK enough.
We have enough overlapping interests and points of reference.
He has enough bona fides to make him appealing enough.
He's not physically repulsive. He's enough 'my type.'
But most of all, he's just, there.
He's available, but just *removed* enough.
It could work.
We could hit that shit up, get it done, and walk away. Nobody would be the wiser. If nobody knows, then nobody would care. I'd get a precious little of what I need, what I'm starving for, and nobody else would get hurt...
Right?
And the dude is saying and doing *all of the right things.* Not too much, not too little. (No doubt not his first rodeo.)
I don't believe a goddamned thing that he's saying. No, I do not. But that's not the point.
Because, ultimately, it's not about him.
It's about *me.*
I am ashamed as hell to say this,
but at that moment, if I'd made a random, remotely acceptable dick hard, it would have been enough. I was that fucked up and starving.
So did I not care about my husband?
Did I not see that he was suffering too?
Sure I did.
But I also saw that I'd thrown *everything I had* at trying to help- and my husband, due to his own damage, due to his own script, was pulling himself in another direction.
My help wasn't what he needed. It was there- he just didn't want it, not at that time.
So what kept me from falling over that precipice?
Honestly, pure practicality.
I'd love to tell you that it was all because I Loved My Husband.
I did, I still do-
but imagine offering, bringing, *throwing,* burning your love on a pyre every fucking day, and having your intended respond with,
"Ah yeah OK wait a minute..." endlessly,
or not responding *at all.*
Or, better yet, being pissed because you bothered them. Again.
No, I didn't fall off of that precipice for *the purely practical reason* that at a visceral level, I realized that I'd only be adding shit to the stack.
So I settled myself down, buckled down, sublimated, and GOT THROUGH LIFE.
... and as you can now see, this is where a LOT of my psychological damage emanates: I got through life, only to find out that my husband had walked himself off of that cliff years before. WTF.
And that's a LOT of what I *screamed* at Husband immediately following the actual DDay a couple few years ago,
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY TIMES I'VE SAID NO???"
Now, intrinsically, the two situations are different:
Husband really *was* mindless and careless and immature and honestly, stupid as fuck. (Sorry, Husband, but you were.)
If I'd stepped off of that cliff, it would have been *a far more deliberate choice,* and honestly, IMHO, a far more serious comment on the state of our relationship.
I will NOT say that it would have been a far more serious offense, BECAUSE IT WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN,
but it would have been a far more serious weather report.
... or,
Would it?
Interesting question.
[This message edited by marriageredux959 at 9:16 PM, December 9th (Wednesday)]