The 10 year trial Conclusion
how could I not know? (I’m psychic ffs!)

Two years ago we went to Puerto Rico. It was our first trip post-pandemic. I let the kids know by buying each of them a new piece of carry-on luggage. We’d all lugged through the pandemic and this was just what the doctor ordered. Lots of sun, fun, good food, and rest.

I’d hoped, my husband and I were in step. I’d hoped this was a re-kindling of sorts. We kissed a lot. We took lots of cute pictures, creating hope-filled images. We were intimate in a way that I always longed for and asked for. I continued to hope that this surge of intimate energy would pervade our bedroom and our lives in the time to come. After years of 24/7 relentless parenting, and care of neighbors and friends through the pandemic, the gruel that is chronic illness…this could be it, this could be Our Time.

But, alas, hope is not reality. Hope is what we do to stay in a self-constructed fantasy. Hope is what we create so we can ignore our awareness of what actually is. I was completely, totally, and irrevocably invested in this fantasy. I didn’t know, cognitively, that it wasn’t the truth. I didn’t know to acknowledge what wasn’t working. I didn’t know to acknowledge that a one-off vacation would not make up for decades of a dead bedroom. I was so feverishly caring for others, for years, that I had no idea to acknowledge me.

In the two weeks after the truth of my husband's lies, secrets, and double life were revealed I pivoted pretty quickly to myself. What did I know and when did I know it? I sat myself down for a thorough accounting. It was not comfortable. What I could acknowledge is that I had about 4 pieces of hard evidence: out-of-character behavior, videos, photographs, and sex toys that I found that never seemed to make it into our bedroom. My discovery of the toys didn’t show up till the very end gratefully. He temperamental behavior? He was above self-reflection. And the hard evidence, when confronted, he unsurprisingly lied about their origin. And when you’ve got a home, three kids, chronic illness, and are financially dependent upon your spouse for shelter and healthcare, you chose belief over awareness and carry on, naturally.

But the mental accounting exercise didn’t end there.

There was more, a great deal more. By the end of it, I forced myself to reckon with 44 other suspicions. They didn’t all track to: Your Husband is a Lying, Cheating Piece of Shit. No, these were much more subtle and insidious. These were the types of suspicions that have you doubting you. Suspicions that take you out of your own knowing. It’s these suspicions that I seemed to tolerate so well. I suspect it’s because the thinking mind never holds more than three suspicions at a time, thereby making it much easier to deny the rest. Ah yes, the mind of the abused is a wicked co-conspirator of the abuser.

So, could I have put it all together if I’d had the courage to do so? Sure, I suppose. But I know in my heart how incredibly unlikely that was. I was a true believer! I had hope! Ultimately though, what I was all too willing to ignore was my own sex and intimacy needs. And that is the hardest most tender and vulnerable truth, that I abandoned me.

Next week I’ll begin to unpack the reasons why.