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Partners
Also read part One and Two.
I decided to move into my parents place temporarily while I figured things out.
I distracted myself by turning my mom’s spare bedroom into a little haven for myself. I know it sounds crazy – but I loved that room. I got to pretend to not be a grownup in that room. I got to watch Disney movies and read until 3am. It was kind of wonderful.
My dad was worried, and even though he spent my entire marriage feeling awkward around my husband whom he had nothing in common with, he tried his best to encourage me to try again. It was sweet. He wasn’t pushy, just helpful.
My friendship with my ex became toxic though. I used him to bawl and vent and freak out. I used him to hug and draw comfort from. I used him. And if there is one thing in my whole life that I would give anything to change, it would be what I did to that boy.
I let him think there was a future for us. I let him think that I was going to leave my husband and walk off into the sunset with him. I let him fantasize about our future, our home, our children. I let him have hope because I needed someone to talk to. It is the single most selfish thing that I have ever done. I have still not forgiven myself for it.
It didn’t take long before I got cold feet and realized that I did not have the guts to get divorced, and I certainly did not have the guts to jump into a new relationship. I kept waiting for my husband to make a move. To touch my hand. To tell me he loved me. The more space he gave me, the more I realized that I didn’t want space. We were in a marriage for heaven’s sake! We were supposed to power through this kind of thing and move on. So why wasn’t he trying?
After a polite interaction with him one day I remember breaking down in the kitchen with my mom and wailing about why he wouldn’t fight for me.
I broke off the weird relationship that I had with my ex. He was devastated. He tried to fight for me. He begged and pleaded and said all the right things. All the things that I wanted to hear from my husband.
Eventually my husband started making an effort. Perhaps it should have been me making the effort. It was I, after all, who had cheated. I should have begged his forgiveness. I should have made impossible promises. I did none of those things. They would have been lies if I had. I was not sorry for cheating. At least I wasn’t sorry in the way that I felt that I should have been. I was just sad.
The most confusing part was that my heart kept jumping between feeling devastated that my marriage might actually end, to being incurably angry at my husband for how he continuously made me feel so goddamn inadequate, to feeling obligated to give things another try. Nothing felt like the right decision. Nothing let me breathe easy.
By the time my husband asked me to come back home, I was so exhausted that I just gave in. I told myself that this trial would be a catalyst to better things. We would learn from it. It would make us stronger.
It did not.
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I decided to move into my parents place temporarily while I figured things out.
I distracted myself by turning my mom’s spare bedroom into a little haven for myself. I know it sounds crazy – but I loved that room. I got to pretend to not be a grownup in that room. I got to watch Disney movies and read until 3am. It was kind of wonderful.
My dad was worried, and even though he spent my entire marriage feeling awkward around my husband whom he had nothing in common with, he tried his best to encourage me to try again. It was sweet. He wasn’t pushy, just helpful.
My friendship with my ex became toxic though. I used him to bawl and vent and freak out. I used him to hug and draw comfort from. I used him. And if there is one thing in my whole life that I would give anything to change, it would be what I did to that boy.
I let him think there was a future for us. I let him think that I was going to leave my husband and walk off into the sunset with him. I let him fantasize about our future, our home, our children. I let him have hope because I needed someone to talk to. It is the single most selfish thing that I have ever done. I have still not forgiven myself for it.
It didn’t take long before I got cold feet and realized that I did not have the guts to get divorced, and I certainly did not have the guts to jump into a new relationship. I kept waiting for my husband to make a move. To touch my hand. To tell me he loved me. The more space he gave me, the more I realized that I didn’t want space. We were in a marriage for heaven’s sake! We were supposed to power through this kind of thing and move on. So why wasn’t he trying?
After a polite interaction with him one day I remember breaking down in the kitchen with my mom and wailing about why he wouldn’t fight for me.
I broke off the weird relationship that I had with my ex. He was devastated. He tried to fight for me. He begged and pleaded and said all the right things. All the things that I wanted to hear from my husband.
Eventually my husband started making an effort. Perhaps it should have been me making the effort. It was I, after all, who had cheated. I should have begged his forgiveness. I should have made impossible promises. I did none of those things. They would have been lies if I had. I was not sorry for cheating. At least I wasn’t sorry in the way that I felt that I should have been. I was just sad.
The most confusing part was that my heart kept jumping between feeling devastated that my marriage might actually end, to being incurably angry at my husband for how he continuously made me feel so goddamn inadequate, to feeling obligated to give things another try. Nothing felt like the right decision. Nothing let me breathe easy.
By the time my husband asked me to come back home, I was so exhausted that I just gave in. I told myself that this trial would be a catalyst to better things. We would learn from it. It would make us stronger.
It did not.
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