A strange thing happens when you find your husband has been cheating on you. You find yourself both loving and hating them at the same time.
The reason we don’t simply walk out on their lying asses? History.
What does that even mean?
History with a person means so much when you’ve been with your partner for a while. I met my husband when I was 20. I am now 43. That’s a lot of years with one person.
When I look into his face, I am reminded of our shared history.
His face is the one that beamed when I graduated with my degree.
It’s the face of the man who had tears in his eyes as my dad walked me down the aisle.
It’s the face of the one who talks my talents up to everyone every chance he gets.
It’s the face that glowed with pride when our first child entered the world, his son.
He loved me. More than that, he adored me.
Friends would tell us we were such a beautiful family.
Now I want to take those same people and shake them until their heads fall off.
The effects of his affair have been staggering. Aside from the dramatic weight loss, there’s the shaking feeling that you will never be sane again, never love again, never trust again, never feel “normal” again.
Every day is filled with pain. Disbelief that it happened to you. A constant nagging that you’ll never get over it.
And yet, we cannot say goodbye.
I have shared life with this man. My life. Our life. Our children’s lives.
I don’t want them to grow up with a ‘weekend dad’.
I love my husband, but I hate his fucking guts. Only a betrayed spouse will understand what it’s like to be in this weird twilight zone.
To all the cheating husbands and other women (aka, whores) out there, this is the never-ending destruction you have caused with your selfish actions.
You have shifted our view of the world.
Nothing will ever be the same.