In late February 2018, I caught my husband sexting with a woman. This was the second time, to my knowledge, he had been unfaithful, as four years prior I had caught him flirting in a non-sexual way with a childhood acquaintance of his. That first incident hadn’t shocked me, although I was definitely angry and it took about a year of therapy and effort from him before I trusted him again. But it hadn’t been as shocking, because it wasn’t sexual, and our marriage was going poorly at the time. I knew he was unhappy. I was unhappy.
But February 2018 was completely different. We had just had our third child. We were happy — I thought. We spent time every day just cuddling and talking about our days. He was always telling me how much he loved me — how happy he was.
I had never seen this coming.
And I had never heard of sex addiction. So what kind of man is unfaithful to his wife while at the same time acting like he’s happy and he loves her? He must be a sociopath, someone completely devoid of empathy, an opportunistic pig.
Moreover, he had used people. I thought of him as a predator, someone who had found women with poor self-esteem and used them for his own pleasure and ego-trip.
And he had done the one thing I felt certain I could never, ever forgive. He had sacrificed our children’s well-being and happiness, their ability to grow up in a loving, intact family.
I didn’t know him. The man I was married to was kind, loving, hard-working, a wonderful, attentive and engaged father who would sacrifice anything for his children. He was deeply concerned with human rights, frequently volunteering for various good causes. He was well-educated, witty, and fun. He was my best friend. He was absolutely nothing like the man I saw standing in front of me, telling me all the horrible things he had done.
My husband was dead, and in his place, all I could see was a monster.
It felt as serious a loss as if he had really died. Perhaps worse, because all of my happy memories had been turned into lies. I sobbed daily for weeks, burst into tears when I saw our wedding pictures or remembered activities we had done together only a few days before, when the whole world was a far different place. I read that it was important to grieve the loss, so I let myself cry as much as I needed to, and I wrote letters to the man I loved, the man who was, as far as I could tell, non-existent. Maybe you can relate. Maybe not. It’s still painful to remember how it felt to live through the first day, the first week, the first month.
If you’re still going through the devastation of discovery, you’re not alone. It can get better, although I know that sounds impossible. Getting “better” doesn’t mean that it will stop hurting or that your relationship will ever heal or go back to the way it used to be. But you can be happy. This does not define you.