First Response

August, 2014

I didn't talk to J for a week. As his disclosures trickled in and I began to have a clearer idea of just how dire the situation was, I agonized over how to respond. In the end, I wrote with more tenderness than I expected I had in me-- but it felt both honest, direct, and loving. It felt true. This is what I wrote:


J

After several days spent in thought and prayer, I think I've come to some peace. I'd like to share with you how I see our current situation. 

It has been a difficult two years. The struggle to trust, attach, and build a new version of 'us' has been all consuming. It's taken every ounce of energy we've had. And there have been glimpses of what we can be as 'a very effective team'. Those glimpses are incredible. They fill me with warmth and hope as I see our real potential together. 

Having seen our potential makes your betrayal all the more heart wrenching. 

Seriously, I have no words. 

(Except that, yes I do. Because words seem to be my strength at times like these. I bet you wish they weren't. )

I'll be honest, I don't know how this will end. I can't even think that far without turning into a puddle of grief. I know that I don't want a divorce. I keep seeing the last 15 years flash before my eyes like on The Story of Us and I think, how can we throw away all that history? The video that taught me to swing dance and brought us together? You teaching me to drive while we made out at stop lights? Cold showers in our first apartment? Experiencing Europe together. That awful red-yellow combination that I painted the walls (ketchup and mustard!). Riding a Vespa among red sand and arches, then breaking down. Walking through model homes on a Sunday, while C ran ahead of us in her boots-with-flashing-lights and picked out 'her room'. No one else knows what it was like the day our children were born, warm and slippery into your arms, or how thrilling it was when each of them said their first words. No one else shared those moments when we cried-- you when your grandpa died, me when dad had a heart attack, both of us when I found you in the closet, trying to compose a letter of confession. We've lost jobs, gone to concerts, tried new foods, traveled the world, watched our children learn and grow, and looked into each other's eyes and said 'let's not do that' every time we heard of another ugly celebrity divorce. Almost half of my life has been spent with you. I hardly have a memory that you don't share. 

And you are destroying that. For what? Lust? You're selling your birthright for a bowl full of porridge, and don't even seem to grasp the repercussions of it. 

This is like a nightmarish form of Groundhogs Day. Here I sit, in the peace and solitude of my parent's home, as once again you tell me that you've been lying to me. My one and only bottom line-- that I don't expect that you'll never struggle, be triggered, slip or even relapse, just that you respect and love me enough to be transparent-- and you cross it. It feels like a sucker punch. The lowest of low blows. 

I keep seeing us in bed together over Fourth of July weekend, me telling you about watching Hoarders and being so, so afraid that nothing has changed. You reassuring me that all is well. Us running and hiking together, bonding as my fears were attributed to 'self esteem problems'. I want to throw up knowing now that I was right to fear. That once again, you lied to my face, and worse, let me believe that I was somehow to blame for the distance between us. 

And then I see us in the car 2 years ago, after your inventory. I'd cried for 24 hours, and then poured out all my heartbreak to you. I needed you to feel the pain I was feeling, to experience it as I did. And you did-- we cried together, first in agony and then with joy as The Lord literally lifted the pain from us. It was miraculous, and I told you then that we could do ANYTHING from that moment on, if only you would be open with me and allow us to be a team. 

I do not know how to come back from this. 

If separation, therapy, hard work, and years of faith and prayer and outright miracles have now been brushed aside as if it were nothing-- what will it take? What is your rock bottom? And do I even have the capacity to wait for you to reach it? 

I am afraid that even if this were it-- your lowest moment--and you were completely transparent and honest and vulnerable from now on-- I'm afraid that I'd still be too broken and traumatized to ever believe it. 

I love you, but I don't know that I can ever trust you again. And the thought of living in a marriage where I'm too fearful to allow myself to be loved by you is simply unbearable. 

Is this too much talking around the issue? I'm trying to let you see my thought process and feel what I'm feeling-- the sick twist of fear and discouragement and grief-- but maybe I should just be plain:

I don't know if I can come back from this. This feels like the beginning of the end. I am honestly considering divorce, though every fiber of my being cries at the thought. 

I have to type this, because the thought of saying any of it out loud makes me sob. 

Going forward, I see two options for separation. 

1) The kids and I come home as planned, but you move out. Unlike last time, we would not have church and Family Home Evening together, but you could take the kids for the weekend so you have time with them. 

2) The kids and I can stay here with my parents for the foreseeable future. 

Either way, I would be willing to continue therapy and hold off on any decision about our marriage until the end of the year. 

Also, I think we should tell the kids about your addiction. Their lives are going to be upturned (again) and they deserve to know why. I suspect {daughter} and {son} have an inkling anyway. 

I love you. I'm devastated and have lost all faith in you, but somehow I still love you. 

Please change. Please choose me. Choose us. I just can't believe that you would allow this to be the end of our story together-- that you would trade what we have and 'return like a dog to his vomit'. It makes me think of these lines:

This is the way the world ends. 

This is the way the world ends. 

This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang but a whimper. 

If we are going to go, do it with a bang. Stand up and fight. You are worth more.

-N

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