I have a confession to make. At first, when my graphic-designer son urged me to start a blog, I thought I’d make it about my writing. I’m a diarist and aspiring novelist at heart, so that would be the most logical theme, I reckoned. But lately my thoughts have been hijacked by this daily, unrelenting question that keeps hammering at my head every night when I go to sleep and every morning when I wake up:
What do you do when you find out your husband is having an affair?
So now it’s a bit more complicated. You see, the ugly theme of Betrayal has barged its way into my writing. At least temporarily. Until I calm down.
How do we write about emotional wounds that are so deep, they hijack our entire life?
So now I’m putting myself to the test. As a passionate and dedicated writer, can I pour salt into my own wounds in order to heal them? Or should I just get on with the revision of my latest novel in the hope that next time round, my agent won’t leave me in the lurch again?
But never mind agents. For now I just want to get this blood-sucking leech off my chest. Bare all. Call it vengeance if you like. Or just letting off steam. Stretching my honesty to the absolute limits. So here goes.
What DO you do when you find out your husband is having an affair?
Well, I guess there are several options.
- Harbour thoughts of easeful death – to cease upon the midnight with no pain.
- Don’t tell anyone about it. Not a living soul.
- Tell everyone about it. Every soul in the universe, living or dead.
- Write a novel about it. Make it a Gothic horror story, with Hubby as the villain, and you as Damsel in Distress. To get your own back.
- Have an affair yourself. To get your own back.
- Tell yourself that you’re better off without him; after all, he was a critical so-and-so most of the time, apart from those first few years of true love and desire and happiness …
- Believe in future love, even though his own love, after 21 bitter-sweet years, has metamorphosed into an insidious, agonising mockery. But hey, there are plenty more fish in the sea. (Oh, for fuck’s sake.)
- Take a deep breath.
Deeeeeeep breath … Right. I’ve taken one. Five, actually. Can I go on now?
- Kindly ask Hubby to move his things and himself out of the house. (Done.)
- Take sleeping tablets. (Done.)
- Try not to get addicted to the above, despite sleep being so much nicer than wakefulness.
- Cling on to the hope that Hubby will beg to come back home, regret his foolishness, proclaim his renewed love, swear upon oath that he doesn’t want our marriage to end.
- Stop asking the question, which has become your mantra every morning when you wake up: what do you do when you find out your husband is having an affair?
Well, Hubby didn’t beg, regret, proclaim or swear upon oath. He just did as he was told, like a good little boy, and moved out. I suspect he’s quite happy now, with his ‘other woman’, analysing everything with his Oxford-educated philosopher’s brain as usual, putting it down to: Ah well, Wendy and I were drifting apart; it would have happened anyway, even if I hadn’t met S …..… blah blah bloody blah.
Why has my philosopher-husband turned into a walking talking cliché? The very thing he himself scorned!
The body-snatchers have taken him away. That’s my only comfort. He’s lost his head, which has tumbled into his dick. Yep, he’s lost his head and changed beyond recognition, sincerely believing that well-meaning hugs and crocodile tears will make it all better. Oh, for a glass of vintage … That would make it a damn sight better than well-meaning hugs and crocodile tears! Before The Change, hubby was never into hugs. But change is the spice of life, right? Or is it variety? Well, he’s sure got his fair share of change, variety and spice! The spice of deceit. Does it intensify the sex, my darling? All that below-the-belt subterfuge? Is it kinky? Can I call you my darling now, seeing as your body-snatched brain seems to have remoulded all your linguistic rules and beliefs?
Where has your ethical, deep-thinking, analytical, righteous brain gone? YOU, my once-beloved, amazing philosopher with the scary blue eyes and shocking white hair, prematurely white even when I first met you – yes, YOU, with the fierce expressions and mind, the power to change my life all those years ago when we first met and fell in love … where have you gone, my sweet?
One thing’s for certain. Wherever he’s gone, I don’t want him back. The beginning of this new chapter in my life starts with the words: THE END.
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