Thou Art Sick

The Sick Rose
William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

I spent two months with my husband trying to convince me - and trying to believe - that he had "just" been dabbling in erotic chats and phone sex with two women. Which was betrayal enough, to my mind. But I tried to understand how he could see these non-physical relationships as a grey zone, as not really cheating. 

Then, through some further sleuthing - thanks, Google Chrome, for saving search history even when used in Incognito mode! - I found searches from his secret account for "where to meet for an affair," "how to have an affair hotel," "ashley madison promo." Among other things.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. And yet my first urge was still to talk to him . . . well, talk and scream and insult and (unsuccessfully attempt to) slap him in the face. 

I didn't find out everything that day, but I found out most of the worst. The man who had been unable to comprehend why I was so upset because he hadn't "really" cheated had created an Ashley Madison profile a year and a half earlier; had numerous women with whom he had exchanged erotic chats, emails, phone calls, photos, videos; and had been having oral and vaginal sex with other women at an ever-increasing rate over the last three and a half years of our marriage.

That night, I went to Crazytown. As the mother of a toddler and one-month-old who breastfed every three hours, I was already in the near vicinity. I lay on my bed, reciting The Sick Rose over and over as a kind of manic mantra, while he lay on the floor, listening. 

As with many Blake poems, the words are simple, the images powerful - which was pretty much all my mind could manage at that point in time.