Anna Fels
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Discoveries of such secrets typically bring on tumultuous crises. Ironically, however, in my clinical experience, it is often the person who lied or cheated who has the easier time.
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And to an astonishing extent, the social blowback for such miscreants is often transient and relatively minor. They can change! Our culture, in fact, wholeheartedly supports such “new beginnings” — even celebrates them. It has a soft spot for the prodigal sons and daughters who set about repairing their ways, for tales of people starting over: reformed addicts, unfaithful spouses who rededicate themselves to family, convicted felons who find redemption in religion. Talk shows thrive on these tales. Perhaps it’s part of our powerful national belief in self-help and self-creation. It’s never too late to start anew.
But for the people who have been lied to, something more pervasive and disturbing occurs. They castigate themselves about why they didn’t suspect what was going on. The emotions they feel, while seemingly more benign than those of the perpetrator, may in the long run be more corrosive: humiliation, embarrassment, a sense of having been naïve or blind, alienation from those who knew the truth all along and, worst of all, bitterness.
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And the social response to people who have suffered such life-transforming disclosures, well meaning as it is intended to be, is often less than supportive. Our culture may embrace the redeemed sinner, but the person victimized — not so much. Lack of control over their destiny makes people queasy.
I am so grateful I read this article shortly after D-Day. It put into words certain elements of my experience (namely, the new split-screen aspect of my memory); it clarified how important it was to my mental health to begin reconstructing my narrative; and, most importantly and uniquely, it prepared me for what would have otherwise been entirely unexpected reactions from dear friends.
The discovery of infidelity is inherently a lonely experience. First, it strikes in the most personal of places - our marriage. No one's pain can be like my pain, simply because no one's marriage is like my marriage. And no one's past is like my past. As a result, I am the only one who can ever understand the depth or tenor of my personal agony.
Infidelity is additionally lonely because people don't talk about it. At least in my socio-economic strata, it simply isn't discussed unless it is the reason for a divorce. Despite the statistics stating that it's more likely than not that someone in any given marriage will cheat, I don't have a single friend who has confessed to cheating on / being cheated on by their spouse / long-term partner.
Which, assuming my husband isn't the only person I know who has cheated on his or her spouse, makes us the outlier - we told almost all of our friends about my husband's infidelities. In part because, due to some of my own family-of-origin issues, I am all about transparency (ironic, huh?); in part because it helped my husband begin integrating parts of his character that he he had once kept compartamentalized; in part because at times we both were overwhelmed and so we overshared.
After the initial shock of unintended discovery, my husband actually wanted to tell nearly all of our friends about what we were going through. Fairly quickly, it became clear that the freedom and relief that accompanied confession and the support that our friends offered him was worth the shame of having others know what he did. Friends would be shocked - that was the most common response, as we were widely perceived as being a particularly loving and supportive and compatible couple - but the anger and ostracism my husband anticipated rarely emerged. If and when it did, it quickly evaporated. Instead, our friends were quick to turn their focus from what he did to what he could do. How he could "start anew." How they could help.
Meanwhile, counter-intuitively, I found myself growing more and more ashamed. Thanks again to my personal history, I recognized almost immediately after learning about my husband's infidelities that they had little if anything to do with me or our relationship (aside, of course, from their devastating effects). Nor did my husband ever say anything, to me or to the other women, that implied that his actions were in any way my fault - he was actually quick to take full responsibility in that regard. So, especially initially, I was fine with people knowing what he had done - to my mind, it reflected far more on him than me, and if everyone knew about it, I wouldn't have to fake being fine.
But that urge to tell everyone evolved into a willingness to let him tell others if he wanted and then into a reluctance to share and then into vetoing his requests to tell certain friends. Because, I soon found, even if I knew that his cheating said more about him than our relationship, that's not the societal story.
I'd tell a friend, and s/he would reply, "But you're so beautiful!" Which is always nice to hear, but - but it's utterly irrelevant. He didn't cheat on me because of my looks! Right? Or did he? Was it because I never really lost the baby weight? Or were the other women stunning?
Or I'd tell a friend, and s/he would reply, "But you're so chill and open about sex! And you like giving blow jobs!" Which is also true - but again, it's irrelevant. He didn't cheat on me because I was or wasn't giving him blow jobs! Or did he? Did he not like my blow jobs? Sex with me? Was I actually terrible in bed?
I think my friends were trying to be affirming in their responses - to assure me that I didn't deserve to be cheated on - because I am attractive, because I am accomplished, because I am open and sexual and fun. But no one deserves to be cheated on. Ever. It doesn't matter how talented you are, what you look like, how you act. You're a terrible person to be married to? Your spouse could call a divorce lawyer. You have communication issues? That's what marriage counselors are for. The spark just isn't there anymore? Please. Just. Talk. None of those are reasons for infidelity.
Mostly, I think my friends were just genuinely confused. Why, if I was so wonderful, if he and I were so wonderful together, would he cheat on me? And so I began to internalize the undertones - that maybe I wasn't all that great after all? Maybe I put up a good front, but behind closed doors I was some kind of monster? Frigid? Deformed? And so I began to feel personally humiliated for what he had done - not because it was actually a commentary on me, but rather because so many people whom I trusted seemed to think it might be.
Reading this article helped clarify for me where we were all going wrong. Even if we're quick to dismiss it at the intellectual level, emotionally we all want to believe that we are in control of our fates. That bad things don't happen to good people. That if we are fantastic spouses, great parents, GGG sex partners, we can avoid betrayal.
Which, of course, we can't.
That truth hits like ice water in the face.
If this could happen to me, it could happen to them.
And so, after the initial outpourings of love and support, many of my friends . . . just disappeared. Bizarrely, without condoning what he had done in any way, our mutual friends could be there for my husband in a way they couldn't be there for me. My utter lack of agency in my own life forced them to confront their own. And that makes one . . . queasy.
The discovery of infidelity is inherently lonely. And those of us who have been betrayed are subtly encouraged to keep our grief to ourselves, to look forward instead of back, to find a way to take charge of our lives and reassert the illusion of control.
But it is important for those of us who have been betrayed - particularly those who, like me, tend to have much of their lives in control - to recognize the cold truth that we cannot control everything. That if we want love and human interaction, we will always risk disappointment and betrayal. And that's ok.
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