My attempt to save my marriage.  A story.

We had a marriage that other people envied.  We were best friends.  We had a great family.  We laughed a lot. We never argued.  Like most marriages, it wasn't as picture perfect on the inside as it looked on the outside, but it was good. Really good. 

I thought.  Like so many, I didn't think an affair would happen to us.  I was wrong.  Really wrong.

When DDay hit, I was in the maelstrom of shock, hurt, and anger.  I was humiliated when I learned that it was someone I knew, and that it wasn't exactly a secret from others.

He was desperately sorry.  He begged me to forgive him, told me that he loved me more than anything in this world, that he couldn't go on without me.  It was easy to believe, because I felt the same about him.  But I hadn't had an affair.  What had happened here?

He began individual counseling, treatment for depression, and marriage counseling for both of us.  I listened to explanations of sexual compulsion, low self esteem, and midlife crisis.  I never once considered leaving him.  I wanted him to be healthy, and then we could be healthy again, too.

The friends that knew were sympathetic.  They were shocked, relieved that we were staying together, and supportive. 

For my own well being, I wanted a clean slate.  I wanted to know everything so I could process it and go on.  I asked questions, and they made him really uncomfortable, but he answered them.  My own emotions were too much for him to handle, and I tried to "save it for the counselor". 

Months went by.  Marriage counseling didn't seem to be helping, and it seemed that he needed to spend more effort on his own counseling before he could concentrate on the marriage.  That made sense.  We decided we'd both do individual counseling for the time being.

We weren't having sex.  One of our "less than perfect" situations before DDay was that we didn't have sex often.  It had just faded away.  We didn't talk about it much, and I figured that maybe that's the way it was after 10 years.

It's not.  If you're not having sex, there's something really wrong. 

The next blow came when I learned that there wasn't a clean slate.  There had been more affair partners than I had known before.  It had gone on longer than he had admitted.  When I confronted him, he was again terribly apologetic.  He had told me all the major instances, but the more he told me, the worse he felt, and every word he said made him feel like he was hammering one more nail into his own coffin.  He couldn't stand to see the hurt on my face.  He cried.  He begged.  I believed it.  I believed him.

It felt like DDay all over again.  I started taking antidepressants.  He didn't want to talk about it.  It made him feel bad.  He couldn't stand how much he was hurting me.

It became too uncomfortable to see our friends that knew.  We stopped going out with other people.  Neither of us was good company.  Our families didn't know what was happening. 

We still weren't having sex.  He couldn't.  I was desperate to "reclaim him", as pitiful as that is to admit.  But it wasn't just a lack of sex.  We din't kiss.  We didn't cuddle.  At one time, he flatly stated that even if we had sex, we both knew it wouldn't be as good as it used to be.  Ouch.  We were both wounded, and we couldn't help each other. 

And then it happened again.  Another affair.  And another.  And....yeah.  Emotional affairs, physical stuff, sneaking, etc.  Confrontation.  Apology.  Back to treatment.  Wash, rinse, repeat.

Individual counseling for me was a bust.  I somehow thought that IC would give me guidance on how to repair the situation.  It doesn't.  It can't.  I wasn't in control of what was happening.  I was only in control of my own actions, and I had dug in my heels on being supportive, getting him healthy, and getting our life back.

Tidy little solution.  It's broken.  Let's call in the experts, fix it, and go on.

It didn't work that way.  I brought up marriage counseling again, and he wasn't interested.  I pouted about that for awhile, then decided I needed to go to marriage counseling alone.  I found a therapist in a town I traveled to regularly that seemed to be a straight shooter.  I didn't need someone to nod at me and ask me how I was feeling.  I needed perspective so I could have a plan.

Be careful what you wish for.

Somewhere around year five of post DDay, I was sitting in the therapist's office, despondent.  He loved me, he wanted to stay in our marriage, but he continued to act out.  He was angry over what he viewed as a lack of privacy, apparently forgetting that transparency was supposed to be the new norm.  He didn't want to hear how I felt, because it made him feel bad.  He accused me of making myself miserable by dwelling on both the past behavior and the present suspicions.  I asked the therapist point black how long this was going to last.

The therapist looked at me, and I knew he was choosing his words carefully. 

"It's not going to stop.  He has no reason to stop."

WHAT?!?

"You haven't held any boundaries.  He hasn't suffered any consequences.  Even the very basic consequence, of helping you heal and facing the reality of the pain he's caused you, you've not required it.  You asked for full disclosure.  He didn't give it.  You demanded the behavior stop.  It didn't.  You asked for transparency.  He found new ways to hide things and lie.  For all of those things, there has been no real consequence.  Why would he stop?"

I didn't say anything.

"Now, I'm going to ask you.  When is it going to stop?  When will you decide that this isn't acceptable, and separate?  When will you risk the loss of the 'relationship' by telling him to get out until he can commit to you?  When will you stop enabling him?"

I didn't have an answer.  I still don't have an answer.

What I realized at that moment, though, was that he was never going to fight for me.  He was never going to do whatever it would take to win me back, and become my partner again.

That was the moment of real heartbreak.  I wasn't worth it.  I wasn't worth the pain of fixing it. 

This isn't a story about how the light bulb went on, and I gathered my strength, and kicked him to the curb.  Nope.  This is the story about what happens when you hang on to hope for too long.

First, I think, is shock.  Next is shame.  Then, something akin to acceptance.  Not total shutdown, though. There's still that ping of hurt when he has to step outside to take a phone call, or the late night notifications of a text message, or I see a comment on his Facebook from one of his affair partners.

The biggest problem is with myself.  I've stopped caring about...well, just about everything. 

I feel entirely repulsive, physically and sexually.  The repeated rejection, coupled with a really vicious voice that lives in my head, has shut down my self esteem.  I don't try to be attractive any longer; not for him, not for myself, not for anyone.  Forget hair, makeup, clothes. 

I don't talk to ANYONE about it.  From the start, only a handful of people knew what had happened.  I have been extremely protective of our privacy.  The family suspects all is not well, but they mind their own business.  The friends that knew don't bring it up, and neither do I.  I'm not sure, honestly, if I'm still protecting him, or if I don't want to admit what a chump I am.

I don't have enjoyment.  I don't care about my job, even though I'd always been a 150% kind of employee.  Now I'm phoning it in.  I don't care about my house, which used to be an incredible source of pride.  I don't care about holidays and family get togethers; I go through the motions, and do what needs to be done, but it means nothing.  I don't have hobbies.  I don't make friends.  I've stopped volunteering for things. 

I know that eventually this will end.  Most likely it will be when he finds a replacement for me:  someone he can be with that doesn't have the history of this trauma, someone that he doesn't have to feel guilty about.

It's too late for me.  I let it go too long.  I am too broken to be repaired.  Don't do what I did.  Don't lose yourself.