Do You Want to Share Your Story?

 On the day of my first group therapy call, I left work early so I could be home, settled, and more importantly, freshen up. I wanted to fix my hair, reapply my make-up, and put on something comfortable yet still give off a presence.  Confidence. I had no confidence remaining at that point, but was still of the mindset that if I appeared put together, I would not feel and reflect the mess of a situation I was living. 

I sat in the home office I had just decorated for him less than a year prior for the zoom call. I remember pulling my shoulders back and tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear as the partner cameras started showing signs of life. And it only took five minutes to hear voices and see beautiful faces for me to crack. My shoulders slumped back into the earth as the tears eased down, one by one, dropping onto his work desk beside the work phone I would sometimes screen for recent calls when he left the house.  It was real. I was in a virtual circle of women who carried the same brokenness I was carrying, and it was our situation. 

One-by-one, women that were far longer on the journey of betrayal trauma than me shared their story. Every few minutes I would mute and black out my screen to breathe and dissociate from the stories of lengthy affairs, broken homes, and sexual addiction.  And when all but me had spoken, my therapist, the group leader asked, “Do you want to share your story?”

I had never shared my story. Was it my story, or our story? My now overly sensitive stomach started with burning and gnawing sensations. I should have prepared. I should have spoken the reality out loud prior to this call so it came out confident and flawless.  As the stage fright and panic began to ensue, I quickly prayed my ingrained line for moments such as these, “God, please give me the words.” And I spoke. It was not flawless. It was not beautiful. But how could it be? How does one tell this story and make it beautiful? 

The raw truth is my first round of sharing my story, even among a circle of trusted and fellow survivors, surfaced feelings of intense humiliation and shame. I wanted to yell into my microphone and the universe, “How could this have happened to me? I am the wife who chose her husband. I chose him daily. Despite all his shortcomings, and unending commitments outside our home. I chose him. I trusted him. And I believed in him.”

After I spoke and the group held for a therapeutic pause (thank you, God, for therapeutic pauses), one of the partners asked if she could speak. She was beautiful. She spoke with an empathy and connection I had yet to encounter in the world of betrayal trauma. The type of connection you experience when someone says to you “I get it,” and you believe them. We had similar and relatable stories. She spoke of personal experience with treatment options and hope for healing. Her vulnerability and courage would serve as a platform for me to chip away the shame core I had developed. The core that tried to keep me from speaking and seeking support in circles such as these.  I never told her the impact this first conversation had on me, but she was entirely what I needed in this moment. Thank you, brave and fellow partner. 

I would spend six months in this betrayed partner therapy group. It was the safe space that was held for me after experiencing my second affair disclosure. It was a space where I learned I was not alone. If you have an opportunity to join a partners group, consider joining. Do not hesitate to speak when you feel safe enough to do so. Do not hesitate to pause when you need to take a pause. And be brave enough to walk away when you need a break from it all. Allow resources such as these to serve their purpose.  And when that purpose has been served, ask God to point you in the next direction. Ask God to use the experience for His good. 

The Truth About Truth

The best advice I received from my CSAT was about cooking. “What is the one ingredient that can make or break a recipe?” she asked, as we opened our session. I let out a slow sigh as my eyes drifted away from the zoom screen. I had done so little cooking since disclosure, and I pictured myself in my kitchen with a cup of coffee and all its natural light while doing Sunday meal prep. Life looked so different now. She undoubtedly saw my digression and kindly answered for me. Salt.

 My CSAT was helping me unpack the latest rabbit hole I went down that week. The hole I dug so deep, that I finally found a picture of my then husband’s affair partner. Which led to seeing a picture of the affair partner on our boat with her small child; her leopard print towel hanging in the background.  I saw various other images and glimpses of the life I now know they had spent together for six years. I had been inescapably ruminating on all of these images for several days. My therapist, breaking my trance, continued on to explain that salt is a lot like truth. Add just a little, taste, and you can always add more. Add too much, and there is no going back; it will never taste the same.

 Truth is like salt. If you are like me in the early days post disclosure, there is no stopping and tasting; you likely want all of it. Every mind-blowing, where did it happen, when did it happen, how many times, level of truth-bombing details. The truth about truth though, is once you hear it, and once you see it, you can’t go back. There is no rewrite for the pain and anguish your brain will be fueled to ruminate on for weeks, to months, to years.

 The truth about truth, is you get to decide how much or how little you want to know. You get to decide what boundaries you want to have in place, for the level of details you will not be able to unsee and unhear. My best advice is to be intentional with your truth.  Here are a few questions to use as a guide:

· Is this helpful information for my recovery?

· What is my goal for knowing the answer to this truth?

· What will I do with this information?

· Is this truth necessary to keep me safe?

· How will this truth impact my recovery?

It was helpful and imperative for my healing, that I could put a name to a face for my then husband’s affair partner. This information was helpful for my recovery, because this woman lived roughly 15 minutes from my home. My goal for knowing what she looked like, was to alleviate the anxiety I was experiencing at our local grocery store, over a woman I thought might be the affair partner. I felt emotionally prepared when I stepped outside my doors, into my church, a restaurant, a coffee shop, and the walking trails I frequented with knowing this truth. This truth did help me feel safe. And eventually, it did become a positive step forward in honoring my needs and having healthy boundaries within those needs.

I encourage you to work with your therapist, a trusted friend or family member to decide what truth is important to you and your recovery. Write it down. Honor it with grace and patience. Practice forgiveness and self love for the moments you blow through the boundaries you set. 

The truth about truth, is you get to decide.

May we be intentional with our truth, with the ultimate goal being to serve and not hinder our healing.

Dear Betrayed Partner

I wrote this journal entry shortly after my third D-Day.  With three disclosures under my belt, I felt equipped to put pen to paper and capture what a partner could expect in the early days of betrayal trauma.

12/29/2022

Dear Betrayed Partner,

In these early days, you fade in and out. Quickly. The flashbacks are intense. What you read, what you saw, what you heard, comes into your soul quickly and then leaves. Your new reality of before you knew, and what you now know, intertwined. 

The denial is real. You pinch your eyes closed and open, closed and open, to try convincing your brain it never happened. It was a mistake. You hold your body tight. You forget to breathe. And then you breathe what feels like your first breath in days. You are in too much shock to cry. That will happen later, and it will happen. But for now, save the time to grieve for a later day.

You begin looking back on several moments that were lies. Your brain fires off glimpses of stories they told, and the imagery they used to hide the truth. Who you thought they were is slowly overshadowed by truth, and it is all too much to handle in a single moment.

You begin to recall moments you questioned things, even if you didn’t understand. The lying has been slowly impacting you. It has left holes, that you inherently filled with coping mechanisms and trauma responses to keep yourself safe.  

There are many directions your brain and heart will travel in these early weeks. Here are a few recommendations I learned from lived experience, that I hope you find comfort in knowing for the coming weeks:

·        Cover yourself in truth.  Be conscious of what you expose your brain and heart to in these early weeks. The music, television, food, and people you expose yourself to, all have the potential to impact and influence how you will heal.

·        Share your new reality with a person or people who truly know and love you.  I recommend keeping the circle small.  You do not know it yet, but everyone will process this new reality differently, and their opinions have potential to profoundly impact you during these early days. An immediate need, truly, is for your trusted people to love you unconditionally.  You have tough days ahead, and your primary goal right now is to feel safe and loved.

·        Remind yourself daily, this is not your fault.  If you saw red flags and were not equipped to honor them, it’s not your fault.  If you unknowingly exposed your family, and your innocent children to the chaos of deception, it is not your fault.  You will feel like you cannot trust yourself, your judgement, or your intuition, for quite some time.  But that will pass.  I promise, it will pass.

·        Do what brings you joy.  When you are able, for five minutes or for five hours, do something that brings you joy.  The more you expose yourself to joy, the more those trauma holes are filled with positive, healthy experiences.

·        Therapists are an outlet. A place to get your words out.  I suggest therapy in those early months to get your words out. To identify your triggers. To navigate moving from the initial shock, to anger, to grieving.  You will want to be your own advocate.  When you find yourself sharing the same stories, receiving the same feedback, feeling like you are out of things to say or tired of living and being chronically reminded of this space, give yourself permission to take a break from therapy.

·        Be honest with your boundaries. Tell people what you do and do not want to discuss. Tell them when you need space.   

·       Stretch and move daily. We hold our bodies tight. Our jaw, our shoulders, our back, clenched and hyperreactive. Take a few minutes of intentional time to move your limbs, touch your toes, reach your arms into the air, whatever feels safe and good to open your body to healing while releasing the tension that accumulates.

·       You get to decide what is enough for today, dear partner. It may be a new pair of pajamas or clean sheets, or a shower only to put back on the pajamas and climb into clean sheets. You get to decide for today, what feels good and what feels safe.

Breathe… this is Trauma.

Breathe…I see you.

D-Day

The months leading up to D-Day were long and exacerbating. I saw things. An unknown address on a box with his name.  Unusual text conversations with a woman and child unfolding when he did not know I was watching. My then husband walking into our home after a work function in gym clothes and explaining without my questioning why he was in gym clothes.  Impromptu work trips and late-night work calls.

My body knew something was very wrong. I stopped sleeping. I could not focus on work or performing simple tasks. My brain was constantly searching to make sense of what I saw, and to process the responses he would tell me when I had enough nerve to ask for clarification. His moods were erratic, his emotions wildly unpredictable, and his presence in our marital home had become fleeting to non-existent. 

A dear friend died unexpectedly that same week on vacation with her family.  A young, beautiful, vibrant life, gone.  She was a wife and mom of two small children.  It was the pain from her loss that had me take a hard look at my own life, and my own marriage.  I called my then husband on my way home that Friday to tell him I was leaving him.  I had no words, no explanation, nothing concrete to support this sudden and impulsive choice.  I had no plan, no exit strategy.  I just knew I needed to get out.

Saying the very words, “I’m leaving you,” sent me into hyperventilation and panic.  By the time I arrived home, panic was replaced with an irrevocable fear.  I would need to face him.  I stepped outside for air, of which, there was none.  It was a stifling, humid July evening.  We would sleep on it.  He would go to a hotel and meet me at our home in the morning for my final decision.  Another sleepless night.

Morning.  You do not forget mornings like this one.  You could see the sun breaking between the summer bloomed trees that coated our backyard.  It was my favorite time of day in that house.  My eyelids lathered in dried tears and two hours of sleep were slow to open. It did not take long for my brain to register the morning ahead. I showered, applied make-up, dressed, and ran out for coffee. I made it back just in time for his car pulling into the driveway.

We had a beautiful screen porch that overlooked our wooded property. I spent many mornings on this porch snuggled up with a cup of coffee and our dog. But not this morning. Even the dog felt tension in the house as she and I both sat upright on the edge of the couch, the summer sun already beating through the screen. He walked in moments later.  And over the next two hours my life would be changed forever.

On that beautiful porch, my coffee would go cold.  My phone would go unanswered. I told him my decision remained the same. I would be leaving him. He paced the house, angry and demanding to know my exit plans. I lingered, tracing an imaginary outline of his footsteps with mine. Eventually we met, our bodies facing each other with a tension that still sparked that butterfly dance in my belly despite the adverse atmosphere. He took my hand and told me he needed to tell me some things. We resumed sitting on the porch, me upright on the edge of the couch, he slumped over, now remarkably with no words. 

Secrets eventually surfaced out of a great depth; from a place I had never been.  A place as his partner of fourteen years I desperately wanted to go to but had never been invited. I hold so much grace for younger me, as I listened patiently and self-controlled to a life I knew nothing about. My then husband spoke of his childhood and glimpses of memories too painful for details in this moment. He spoke about an addiction, and his attempts and failures over the years to heal from on his own. All of this made sense based on his erratic, unpredictable behavior, and frequent absence from our marital home, and I was oddly relieved. But my body knew there was more, and my brain in-between consoling him registered I needed to ask the one question that remained unsurfaced. There had to be an affair. The behaviors I experienced in the months leading up to this day would be clarified. I would finally have all my answers and validation. And without hesitation, I asked, “how long?”. I held my breath as I prepared myself for six months, maybe a year at most.  I would survive; we could survive infidelity.  His eyes met mine, lips trembling and soaked with tears, as he replied. “Six years…”

Hours later I would sit on the dog’s bed, on the hard, cold kitchen floor. This felt safe. My ears were ringing. He was talking but the ringing was too loud. A bottle of wine caught my eye from our wet bar that read, “and truth will set you free.” A newlywed cookbook sat collecting dust on the shelf above our desk. Our kitchen sink held cold cups of coffee, and remnants of tears when my face would hover wondering what time he would be home.  There was no freedom. I was a wife in a story I did not know existed.