(Ed – written 4 years ago as the introductory chapter to my so far unfinished/unpublished book Lover Not a Fighter)
Choose to end my marriage was probably the most difficult and conflicting decision that I’ve ever been faced with in my 35 years. It’s been six months now. Some days I feel it like a blunt knife to the heart; remorse so raw it consumes me. Other days, when our rare conversations degenerate into a barrage of slander and deeply personal insults I hate him. Hate him for continuing to have the power to hurt me. Hate him for never being able to love me enough. Hate myself for needing love, more than he was capable of giving. Hate him for not being the everything he’d promised to me on our wedding day. Hating that I still cared with sorrowful ferocity about the hurt I’d inflicted, regardless of the angles I could justify my actions.
He’s moved on. I’d destroyed his life by taking everything he loves away from him. Obviously not that damaged, as he was officially Facebook re-relationship-ed after two months, with a woman 10 years younger than us, with three kids of her own. I didn’t care who he fucks. I know that sounds harsh, but I left him. I was prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for him to be so soon playing Dad to someone else’s kids, while barely sparing a couple of hours on the weekends to see his kids.
That hurt. That is betrayal for me, more so than sex. Peter wouldn’t agree. He would say infidelity is the worst pain a person can inflict on their spouse.
I am a cheater. I’m a liar. I could have been stronger and ended the marriage before I let another man fill the void. No pun intended. My husband wasn’t keeping his end of the bargain, so why should I?
I tell myself that human relationships are not black and white. I tell myself that I believe in monogamy, but that’s my innate optimistism. Monogamy is a pretty flimsy ideal coming from the mouth of a Cheating Wife. Perhaps I’ve become so accustomed to lying that Ive managed to convince myself.
I’m Kim, 35 year old piano teaching, single mother of four daughters, with a boob job and a love hate relationship with vodka at any given time. I think I’m driven and ruled by some kind of destructive sexual-attention seeking disorder that festers inside me. I don’t think I can fight it. It’s who I am. I want to learn to control it. I think when I can properly pinpoint where the insecurities are embedded, I can finally redirect the source of my gratification into a proper, honest relationship.