I hadn’t come back to this thread because I had fallen into a depressive funk and everything was triggering me - my own words especially. But I know that there’s some new betrayed and wayward members (I’ve seen new names appear in various threads on SI’s different forums).
In light of Mrs. Walloped’s bravery and openness, I thought it might be beneficial for others if some other Waywards share some more about ourselves. Because maybe there might be something in one of these stories that might help somebody else.
Many of us come here - SI - to take. That’s not a bad thing in and of itself as that’s what it exists for. For people to take in advice, to take in others’ perspectives, to take in wisdom...sometimes to take in 2 x 4’s. But my parents raise me to give. And while I do not think there’s any shame or debt incurred by being in a position where one needs to take, there also comes a time to give.
I don’t even know if anything that I have to give - meaning what I have to say - is even of any value. But maybe for someone who is hurting and in a low place something I say might resonate just a little. At least I hope...
So I’m going to recap a bit, and then once I’m done I’m going to share some good news.
First, the backstory.
I’m 29 years old and have been married to my husband, who is 30, for 10 years. We have a wonderful 9 1/2 year old son we both love dearly and we have an angel baby, a daughter that we lost at 21 weeks three years ago.
My husband and I met and married our first year of college. Other than a brief, unsuccessful stint in “real school” I, along with my twin brother, was homeschooled. Growing up very sheltered and also having Asperger’s, I didn’t have many friends growing up nor in adulthood. But I did have a best friend, someone I had known all my life. Once I got married, my best friend and my husband also became very good friends. So much so that we made him our son’s godfather.
Fast forward several years. I was having lunch at my best friend’s house as I often did. I was having a very emotional, heartfelt discussion with him about a traumatic situation I was dealing with at work, and I began to cry. My friend consoled me, and then out of nowhere leaned in for a kiss. After a stunned, frozen moment, I kissed back...and then my life changed forever.
We were intimate several times that afternoon. I had never, before that day, been with another man outside of my husband. I threw away years of integrity that day and altered my family’s lives irreparably, and I didn’t even know why.
I was aghast at what I had done. And was determined that it would never happen again. I made sure to have no physical contact for the next four months. This was very hard because I was accustomed to seeing this friend regularly and my husband, noticing his absence, mentioned a few different times that we should invite him over to hang out.
I was determined that this one-time, horrific action would never repeat itself and that I would never hurt my husband by telling him what had transpired. I would spend the rest of my life making it up to him, and I would take it to my grave.
I was firm in my decision. Yet something felt amiss inside of me. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Having lost my father suddenly a few short months before the incident, I figured maybe it was grief. I increased the number of visits to my father’s grave. But the feeling remained. It even intensified. I didn’t know what to do. I felt that I couldn’t talk to anyone about this. Not my ultra-Christian mother. Not my brother. Not anyone at work, especially since I was the head of a non-profit program sponsored by an internationally known megachurch. And certainly not my husband!
One day I went online. Searching for insight. Answers. Anything. And I found SI.
I read voraciously. Thread after thread. After thread. My heart was sickened by all that I saw. But I knew without a doubt why I had been feeling so uneasy and though I was terrified, I knew what I had to do.
The day came. The day I would no longer live a lie. I sent my son to relatives for the night, made dinner, and sat my husband down and told him what I had done.
He laughed at first. Thought it was a big joke. Me? Having sex with someone else? With my lifelong friend, our child’s godparent? My husband actually got up and walked around, looking for a hidden camera. Assuming this was some sort of late April Fools’ Day gag. Not finding it, he came back, smiled at me, and laughed some more. The expression in his eyes was so full of love and trust.
I recognized the exact moment he came to the realization that this was not a joke. I saw the light fade from his eyes and his smile slowly erode. He turned pale (something that rarely happens - my husband is South Asian and has beautifully naturally tanned skin). He tried to speak. He couldn’t get the words out. He tried again. Then he grimaced as if in physical pain, bent over, and vomited. He fell to the ground on his hands and knees. He let out the most painful wail I have ever heard, and then he began to weep uncontrollably. I was crying as well, devastated at what I had done to him. He cried and cried - the man who never cries. He looked up at the ceiling, “Oh God, no,” he screamed. “It’s not true. It’s not true. Oh Go, no. No.”
It was the most horrible thing I had ever experienced outside of burying my father and burying our daughter.
I don’t know how long we were like that. Then abruptly, he got up and left. Next thing I knew I heard him speed away. He was blasting loud music. I cried and cried. And waited for him to return. Eventually I fell asleep on the floor waiting.
At about two or three in the morning I woke up. He was back home. I don’t know how long he had been back. As I glanced up he was swigging a gulp of some alcohol. And he was clearly drunk. Extremely drunk. He was glaring at me with so much coldness and hate that I literally shivered.
He laughed. A strange, erratic laugh. Gulped down some more alcohol. Laughed again.
“They told me not to marry a stupid nigger bitch,” he said. (I’m biracial - mixed black and white.) He had NEVER called me a name before, much less a racist one. NEVER EVER. “I should have listened to them. They were all right. I’m so stupid. You’re nothing but a whore. A lying, disgusting c***. A nasty, pathetic bitch.”
I tried to choke out an apology. I was shaking uncontrollably. I had never seen him like this. It just made him angrier. “Shut up, BITCH!” he shouted at me. I stood and started to try to come over to him, to hold him. “DON’T TOUCH ME, BITCH!” he screamed. I jumped at his words. He saw my fear and then he started to cry. “No, no. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you. You don’t have to be scared of me. I’m sorry. I hate myself. I hate myself...”
The fact that he was apologizing to me hurt me even more and made me cry even harder. He came over to me and wrapped his arms around me. I clung to him like I was dying. We stayed like that for a while, crying in each others arms. Eventually he passed out.
I don’t know what triggered it next, but I became irrational. I watched him asleep. He looked so gentle, so peaceful. Yet I knew that peace would disappear the moment he woke up. I became overwhelmed with shame and regret and disgust. I wrote my husband and my son a suicide note, and I left, fully intending to take my own life...what I hadn’t counted on was my husband waking up not long afterward, reading the note, and frantically calling my brother, who was able to guess correctly from the content of the note where I might have gone to do the deed. And was able to locate me and rush me to the ER where my life was spared.
That was a dark day. But it got darker...
Having to tell my husband every sick, gruesome detail of my hours-long sexual encounter. Having to provide graphic descriptions of genitalia, body fluids, and specific sex acts. Having to see him die inside with every word that came out of my mouth.
Foolishly having an “ILYBINILWY” conversation with my husband one difficult day, and seeing him recoil from my words as if he had been shot.
Seeing my husband drink uncontrollably night after night in an attempt to cope with what had happened, to the point of losing his job.
Being told by my husband that he was going to kill me, our son, and himself (he didn’t mean us harm; he was just hurting).
Having to see my husband committed to an inpatient mental health program for a month because he was severely depressed and heavily contemplating suicide.
Having our son regress to the point of needing to wear absorbent underpants for urinary incontinence because of the stress at home.
Having to enroll my child into therapy.
Losing ~30 pounds due to inability to eat in the aftermath of the affair.
Being told by my husband to leave our home and that he wanted a divorce and wanted primary custody of our child.
Having my husband get drunk, drive to the home of my former friend, break his nose and orbital socket, and end up in jail.
We have been THROUGH it. It has been painful, excruciatingly painful.
But through it all we never gave up on God. Nor on one another. I accepted responsibility for my wrong actions. I submitted to my husband. I quit my job. I kept going to IC. I kept digging. I kept working to show my husband he was loved and to try to demonstrate my remorse through action. I kept trying to understand what I needed to do to be a safe partner, the type of woman deserving of my husband. I initiated sex - when he was ready - and in doing so I yielded fully to him emotionally and physically, making sure we both had phenomenal orgasms each time. I cooked meals for him and brought them to him - daily. I gave him space when he
I still have work to do on myself. I’m not the woman I want to be. But I’m not the woman I was that fateful day. I mean, I am, but yet I’m not. That woman was fearful and weak and didn’t understand her own thoughts nor her own strength. She didn’t think to say, “No,” to protect her own integrity nor her marital vows. She could stand up for anyone except herself. That isn’t the case any longer.
I am a woman who is working now to become whole. To heal the damage I caused, but to also heal myself. I am realizing that people don’t have a right to just do whatever they want to do to me. Whether people in authority like an employer or people in my personal life.
I am learning that even though I have Asperger’s and as such have never been the most tactful individual, that subtlety goes hand in hand with honesty. For example, there is a SCIENCE to being forthright with your husband about infidelity...do not use words such as “mind-blowing” to describe how your foggy, depraved mind perceived the affair sex at the time. Because you will forever be haunted by those words.
I am learning that even though I never in a million years thought I would do something like this, I am more than just a despicable act. I am my father’s daughter. I am my son’s mother. I am Mrs. Life - the proud wife of an amazing man who has chosen to forgive me.
And (THE GOOD NEWS I PROMISED!) I am moving back home tomorrow. My husband said it’s time. After three long months away from home, after a year of nightmares and heartache since D Day. We are stepping, in faith together, onto the journey to begin R.
Please, don’t give up hope. Some of you will D. Some of you will R. There’s no shame in either path. But just know it gets better. It won’t always be like this. I can promise you that. A better life awaits, for you, if you fight for it. Don’t give up on YOU. Your future self needs you to stay in the fight.
