The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

Sep 22 2011

UPS Man, Investment Banker and a Condom

With my husband in Spain, I immediately felt more productive.

I met my friend, Curt, for lunch one afternoon at Spitz in Eagle Rock. He and his beautiful wife, Kathy, were one of five couples in our Bible study group. We all had formed the group in 2004 and dubbed it “Jequila”. Jesus and Tequila. Yes, please.

Curt sat and listened to me recount highlights of the past month’s struggles and asked why I wasn’t taking the time to heal, myself.

“I believe God wants to redeem my marriage,” I explained.

“Leslie, God wants to redeem YOU,” Curt offered, matter-of-factly.

Oh. I actually hadn’t really thought of that.

He suggested allowing Kathy to list the house for lease (conveniently, she is a realtor). He then offered me a room in their gorgeous home in Pasadena. I left lunch that day, inspired. I could rent out our home for six months and not have to worry about a mortgage payment. Maybe even separating from my husband for a while would be the best idea. Anything was better than the situation that I was in at the moment.

Trouble was, even after all we had been through, I still loved my husband and wanted our marriage to work.

Yet the thought of starting over was exciting. I was at least doing something, moving forward. I was so tired of waiting around for something to happen. Kathy came over, breezed through the house and gave me suggestions on how to prepare it for a tenant. Repairs were badly needed. I hired her handyman to do the work. I blindly started packing, and prayed for a good tenant.

I also continued to attend marriage counseling, until my counselor suggested a different therapist. Not much you can do in marital therapy when your spouse is out of the country, I suppose. I started seeing my current therapist, who initially encouraged me to write down my negative thoughts. (I think I’m still writing them down, just in a different, more public fashion).

In the midst of my focused frenzy, my friend Andrea was moving into a new loft downtown. I was helping her unpack one afternoon, when there was a loud knock at the door. I answered it. It was the UPS man, delivering a package for the neighbor. He needed someone – anyone – to sign for it.

I stood there, in old jeans and a bulky T-shirt, messy hair and no makeup. As I signed my name on the chunky electronic device, he suddenly said, “You’re really cute. Are you married?”

I looked up at him. “I don’t know, “ I blurted. Honest answer.

He grinned. “Can I give you my phone number?”

I hesitated, but then offered, “Sure.”

I took it. As he backed down the hallway, the UPS man told me he’d take me to lunch, or to the movies, or on a hike or a bike ride or even a motorcycle ride – whatever I wanted. I was flattered, and immediately wished that my husband could be that enthusiastic about me.

I never called the UPS man, but it felt really good to be noticed. Especially when I wasn’t trying. Hmmm.

I continued to do hard work around the house, preparing it for potential lease. One of the harder things I had to do was to find a new home for our 14-year old cat. We had rescued her from an organization five years earlier. I never really wanted an indoor cat, but my husband liked her because she “looked like a pirate”. She was a sweet animal, and I felt terrible that I was tossing her aside. I drove her back to the organization from where she came and sobbed like a mother who had just lost her child. The cat people tried to calm me down but I was inconsolable. It felt horrible to leave her there, in a cage. She was terrified, and I abandoned her. She didn’t do anything wrong; she didn’t do anything to deserve that kind of treatment.

I prayed for my cat.
Oh, Lord, I hope she will be OK. I know she’s just a cat but she was part of our family, and now our family is so broken.

What was left of our family was me, a part-time dog, an outdoor cat, and two chickens.

And so, the days passed. I hadn’t heard from my husband at all, until I received a text one evening.

Zzz.

Seriously? That was the best he could do?

The next morning I received an email from him, saying that his phone had been stolen. He asked me if I would call AT&T and sort it out. I complied. Sure enough, hundreds of dollars in international phone calls had been charged to the account in a matter of a few hours. I suspended his phone line. Problem solved, except that I now had no way of getting in touch with him.

So I emailed.

So odd that your phone got stolen.What are your days like? Ahhh, beautiful Spain — wish I could go.
I read your story… It was really good.
I will admit your use of the present tense in the sentence “my own cheating heart” made me sad.
I love you. I would say I hope you are having a good time but I am sure you are.

He replied, almost instantly. He told me he loved me, and that the line I worried about was just a song lyric. And then he told me to not worry about the investment banker.

My heart almost stopped. I immediately scoured the internet for his latest writing. Sure enough, my husband detailed this “investment banker” as his travel companion. She was a lovely, young woman who drove a BMW.

FUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKIINNNNNNNGGGGG SHITASS MOTHERFUCKING LIAR SONOFABITCH CHEATING ASSFACE DOUCHEBAG !!!!!

And then, the phone rang. It was a guy in his 20s trying to purchase one of the items that I had listed on Craigslist: my husband’s 1968 Honda Café Racer. The motorcycle was cool, but it didn’t run. It just sat in the garage and took up space. We were desperate for money (still), and this kid wanted to buy it. He was coming by to look at it in a few minutes. The only problem was that I couldn’t find the key to the dang thing. I swallowed the immediate pain of the investment banker and emailed my husband back, asking him where the keys to the motorcycle were. He said to check the glove box in his truck.

I scurried down the cement stairs to the 1997 Nissan pickup truck that was parked on the street. I dumped the entire contents of the glove box onto the bench seat, and started sorting.

There, I saw it: a single, neatly packaged condom. It was at the very bottom of the sandy glove box. I jumped back in horror, and squeezed my eyes shut. When I pried one of them back open, that cheap condom still lay there. I could almost hear it laughing at me.

My husband’s voice echoed in my head: “It happened just ONCE.”

All of those horrible feelings of betrayal, on top of the new information about this “investment banker” that was “part of the story” flooded back. I felt incapacitated, discovering more lies, deceit, and actual evidence of it all.

I ran back upstairs, fingers flying on the keyboard:

Where are the keys to the motorcycle? All I found was your condom stash in the glove box of your truck.

He denied it and stopped emailing for the rest of the day.

I had to keep it together. I had to keep packing. I had to get out.

Sep 21 2011

2 Comments

F Bombs, Hanging On, Sex

Sex & Spain

Two days later, we had sex.

It was carnal, short, traumatic, unsatisfying (for me) and completely emotional. I quietly sobbed the entire time. All I could imagine was her, despite his calm reassurance that he was thinking of me. I really felt the loss of connection between us. That is something that you can never, ever, EVER undo. The trust and – dare I say – innocence of our sexual connection had been obliterated. It HURT, deeper than any other pain I had experienced in my life. I was needy, though, so I threw myself at him. I was grateful that he finally took the bait. It was an oddly comforting place to be, considering the fact that my previous attempts to seduce him were met with disgust, or comments such as, “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

I figured I could keep him interested in me if I offered my body to him. And he finally responded. He wanted me. PTL (Praise the Lord)!

Yet, for the first time, I experienced “meaningless sex”. I felt used. I was so insecure about the way I performed, or what he (now) liked. He had new “tricks”, and he seemed more interested in doing kinkier things with me. For the most part, we had always had good, inventive, crazy, fun (and sometimes dirty) sex. Sex was safe. I never had to worry about STD’s or emotional baggage in my marriage. It was fun to explore. Ironically, I never worried about another woman in my bed: emotionally, physically or even mentally.

This “new” sex disgusted and saddened me, and made me feel like absolute, complete, utter shit. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t safe. It was “just sex”.

As if that weren’t enough, after our physical reconciliation that October afternoon, my husband announced that he was going to Spain.

Pardon the expression, but WHAT THE FUCK??!?!?!?

Throughout the duration of our marriage, my husband traveled extensively — to Egypt, Jordan, Yemen, Lebanon, Somalia, Australia, Japan, France and Hawaii, to name a few. He pursued danger, and wrote about it. He was also pursuing a career in writing, and had increasing opportunity to publish articles about his adventures.

I edited most of those articles.

It was a slow fade, but his stories started getting darker. Rather than being centered on the particular subject, person or tournament he was covering, his writing became more about himself, fashion and image. Then it shifted to parties, women in his industry, and sex. (I would later find pages upon pages of explicitly written encounters entitled, Leave Them Wanting Less. I burned them.)

It was almost as if my attractive, fun, sweet and loving husband had morphed into your typical 20-something, amoral, douchebag bachelor. At least that’s how he portrayed himself in his writing, and his readers lapped it up. He was able to charmingly convince those of us who were concerned that the questionable content was just “an element of the story”. After all, he was a married man who loved Jesus and his wife. He could just “flirt” with danger but not ultimately be affected by it.

Ha.

Back to Spain: this particular job opportunity required him to travel on his own dime to cover a sporting event. He would then sell his stories to a couple of different magazines. Unbeknownst to me (except in that post-coital moment), his parents had purchased his plane ticket and encouraged him to go. They hoped that his new efforts in his writing career would bring stability and finances to our broken home.

He was leaving in two days, and would be gone for two weeks.

What choice did I have? We had no money. I was working every possible odd job I could find. I attempted to sell our clothing, furniture and vehicles on Craigslist to get some extra cash. I canceled cable. We even met with two different realtors to discuss the potential of leasing out our house. So, how could I say “no” to a promising job opportunity? I was constantly reminded of how I had just spent six months in New York, pursuing my dream. I had to let him pursue his.

I asked him what he would be doing, where he would be staying, who he would be seeing. He mentioned that he was going to be picked up from the airport by a young woman that drove a BMW. Apparently she was a promoter of the event, and a fan of his writing.

“NOPE,” I felt my fists tighten, and a surge of endorphins pulsed through my veins.

He calmly explained to me that he had a wife and the woman had a boyfriend. He didn’t know how else he’d get from the airport to the hotel, but I really didn’t have anything to worry about. He promised he’d check in with me every day, and blah, blah, blah. He wasn’t going to cheat again.

I held my ground.

“NO. Don’t even go there. Don’t even tempt yourself. There are a million different options for transportation and lodging. I’m sure you can figure something else out.” I couldn’t even believe we were having this conversation.

He finally agreed to avoid the BMW woman, saying he understood how it “might look bad”.

I felt uneasy.

He is packing, I wrote to myself, the night before his plane took off. Freshly shaven. Leaving. I feel sick…who knows if he’ll come back. I hope he gets in touch with his “wrecked” heart while he is in the beauty of Spain. Ugh.

He says he’s sad, doesn’t want to leave, but cannot tear himself away from the computer. I just don’t believe him. I don’t trust him. He is incapable of feeling anything. He leaves tomorrow and will go with his parents’ money and the potential of $1,000.00, but that is to cover his expenses there. The “potential” of making more money, but not immediately.

Running. Running from me, his responsibility, his lover. Or to his lover, who knows. He leaves me no assurance, nothing.

That’s fine. Go. Go, run, hide, find something (or someone) better. I’ll stupidly hold down the fort, and you can come back at me with something to the effect of having had to do it for the last six months. You had to work and pay the bills and support me. But I was gone so you found someone to meet your needs. And you “fell in love”. And don’t love me anymore. You feel “bad” for me. That’s not love. I don’t want pity. I want a husband. What’s more, I want a MAN in my life, not a child.

Early the next morning, he was gone. I found a note on the kitchen table.

It was from my husband. He told me he was sick at leaving, would be praying every day, and thanked me for my love and understanding.

He also said that he didn’t deserve anything.

But the part of the note that gave me hope — that helped me to hang on — was that he said he was sorry for everything that had happened.

He said he loved me. Deeply. And when he returned, he hoped he could love me how I needed to be loved, every minute of the day.

Sep 20 2011

5 Comments

Hanging On

I Trust You

I wouldn’t end it, just yet.

My husband returned home two days later, late in the evening. I was sitting on the couch, reading my Bible and praying my guts out, desperate for answers. If ever I were a lazy Christian or missed some Bible time over the duration of my life, I was certainly making up for it now, in a few days’ time. God was all I had. I felt I couldn’t count on anyone else, and I needed direction and answers, fast.

I scrawled out verses in my now-worn prayer journal:

What strength do I have, that I should still hope? What prospects, that I should be patient? ~Job 6:11

My tears have been my food day and night…why are you downcast, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him, my help and my God. ~Psalm 42:3

Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. ~Psalm 51:12

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me into the way everlasting. ~Psalm 139:23

In addition, I screamed, “SPARE ME, LORD! RELEASE ME! HELP! HELP! HELP!” In due time those prayers would be answered. But all I believed at that time was that God wanted me to stay in my marriage. Marriage was good. Marriage was holy. God could, and would, redeem my marriage. God would change my husband. He’d see the light, the “scales” would fall off his eyes and he’d realize how great I was, repent of his stupidity and love me again.

Right?

As I sat on our custom-made blonde leather couch, finally feeling somewhat peaceful in my prayer time, I heard a noise at the back door. My heart started pounding as I entertained thoughts of someone breaking into my house and violently assaulting, then murdering me. Excited and terrified, I jumped up and ran straight to the back door to face the situation (and culprit) head-on. If I were going to die this way, I’d do it with dignity. I did not want my body to be found in the back bedroom, the most obvious hiding place. Cowards ran and hid. I was a badass. I also didn’t really care if I lived or died at that point. Maybe, just maybe, if something bad happened to me, my husband would finally notice me.

With purpose and determination, I opened the door. To my surprise/shock/disappointment/horror, my husband stood there, fumbling with the keys in his hand.

“I couldn’t see without the light on,” he murmured. “Can I come in?”

I glared at him, turned on my heels and marched back to the living room. He followed me. I re-assumed my position on the couch, crossed my legs up underneath one another, Indian-style, and folded my arms.

He carefully sat down on the black leather loveseat across from me. Our 14-year old cat eagerly greeted him. He dutifully patted her and then pushed her away. This moment felt all too familiar. Just weeks prior we were seated in this exact same position, as I listened to his guilt-free admission of a physical relationship with his 24-year old student. I swallowed hard and tried to ignore that fresh, painful memory. The sickening feeling of rejection welled up inside of me. It tasted like bile.

We stared at each other for a few moments until he finally asked, “Do you want me back?”

I couldn’t find the words. I honestly didn’t know. I gawked at the blue leather cover on my Bible. Engraved on the bottom right corner was my maiden name, Leslie Spencer. I shifted my cold feet further underneath my body as I searched my heart for an answer. I was hoping God would open up the heavens and angels would sing.

But the only thing that felt eternal was the silence. I finally looked up and said, “Yes.”

Without blinking, my husband immediately started to make demands on how the relationship was going to be, moving forward. I was not allowed to bring up the affair. He promised he would end it the very next day, and that would be that. It would remain as if it had never happened. I told him that someday we would have to address it, but I would let it alone for the time being.

I then asked him if he’d continue to accompany me to marriage counseling. I had nagged and dragged him to one session thus far. Our marriage counselor was, in fact, one of the two ministers who had married us, just one month short of ten years earlier. The session had lasted two hours, wherein my husband declared that the 24-year old “held the manual to his happiness”, and he didn’t believe that his affair was a fantasy, as our counselor had gently described. Exhausted, we all agreed to give him a week to figure out what he wanted — marriage or affair?

He chose both.

Yet, there he was, sitting before me, saying all the right things. He truly wanted to end the affair and be my husband. I started to hope again. Part Two.

I took a deep breath.

“Do you want to have children?”

He was no stranger to this question. In the wake of the crushing news, I had repeatedly asked him this one in particular. I had explained that I was 32 years old, looking to start my life over again, and I definitely wanted to have kids. His answers had run the gamut of, “Not with you!” to, “Yes, of course,” to, “Maybe just one…”

That night he stated, “I don’t know. You poisoned that ‘well’ a long time ago.”

How on earth was I supposed to respond to that? Furthermore, what was happening here? Nothing felt much different than before. Wasn’t the infidel supposed to express some sort of dramatic gesture of remorse? I actually did expect my husband to grovel at my feet, to have experienced a “come to Jesus moment” and see how amazing I was. I wanted him to realize that he couldn’t – and didn’t want to – live without me. I wanted him to choose a life with me, no matter what it looked like.

He was choosing me in that moment, and that was enough.

We continued to talk until we both grew tired. Almost on a handshake, we agreed to move forward in our lives together. After all, we loved each other, and we had a long history together. We both made mistakes. It wasn’t worth throwing everything away. I was willing to give my husband some more space to end his adulterous relationship once and for all, and he was willing to heal our heartbreak through counseling. It felt like a good place to start.

Yet, that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay next to him, on the farthest edge of our California King bed. My husband slept noisily as I stared at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering what was going to become of my future. How long would it take to heal? When would I “feel” loved again? How would I forget this ever happened? I picked up my pillow and quietly slipped out of the bedroom, down the hall, and crawled into the tiny twin bed in the guest room. I curled up into a tight, little ball underneath the covers. My tears flowed freely.

I am so broken but I know You are here, Lord, I prayed. You are with me, every step of the way. I have to give it over to You. I trust You.

Within moments, I was fast asleep.

Tagged Trying

Sep 12 2011

6 Comments

Bad Behavior, F Bombs

I Want Out

The ensuing days in the aftermath were a complete roller coaster. I had this fantasy that everything would return to normal; that my expression of forgiveness plus delusions that my husband wanted to save the marriage would “all work out”. I assumed he’d end the relationship with the 24-year old and we’d pick up the pieces. I chose to believe his “one time” story and tried to move forward in the marriage. I ordered self-help books on the internet: books on how to survive an affair, books on “Sacred Marriage” and “Love Languages”. I read the books from cover to cover. I highlighted paragraphs, wrote notes in the margins and studied like I was taking the Bar Exam. Later, every single one of these books would find a new home: the garbage can.

My emotions ran wild. I had no control over my anxiety or my thoughts. I felt ugly, unloved, stupid, foolish, naïve and lame. I also felt completely and utterly rejected. I wanted to trust him but he gave me no reason. He told me he would end it with her but didn’t want me to ask him about it. I suspected his every move. Every phone call, every text — was it her? What was he saying? Did he miss her? Did he still love her? He certainly couldn’t stand the sight of me. He wouldn’t even touch me. I practically threw myself at him.

There’s nothing more unattractive than a desperate, needy woman.

I was standing right in front of him, loving him, giving him a second chance. I wanted to take him back in my arms even after he had betrayed me and desecrated our union. I don’t know many people who would have done that, but I didn’t care. I believed we were special. Our love meant something. How do you throw away ten years of marriage in an instant?! I wanted to do everything I could to save it. I was prepared to give up my dreams, hunker down and figure this whole thing out. I had clarity, or so I thought. I blamed myself for placing my career above my marriage, regardless of the fact that we had prayed about and made the decision for me to go to New York as a couple. I also glossed over the fact that my husband had, for years, traveled extensively and sought out dangerous excursions in the Middle East with his buddies. He left me for weeks at a time without contact or financial support.

Regardless, I wanted to reverse the damage. Plus, I still loved the guy. I couldn’t shut off my heart. At the same time, I couldn’t understand how it had been so easy for him to cease loving me.

To be fair, my husband was willing to try. I couldn’t walk away when there was a sliver of hope. I wanted to see what God was going to do. The potential of “beauty from ashes” kept me going.

To compound the relationship problem, neither one of us had jobs. Our separate bank accounts were empty. We both started looking for work. Our loyal next-door neighbors came over one day and generously wrote us a check for $1,200.00. The memo line simply read, Heal. We were able to pay our mortgage that month.

And then, two weeks after the “big reveal”, I discovered that my husband had not ended his affair.

The shit storm continues, I scribbled in my worn, green leather journal.
Not only has he texted her, he’s been doing it for the past four days. I can’t take much more. He’s trying to “end it well” with her. What a CROCK OF CRAP. Why am I enduring this bullshit? God, I am LOST. I CAN’T DO THIS. PLEASE SPARE ME! RELEASE ME!
I want OUT.

He just couldn’t stop. I freaked out. I got in my car, drove to AT&T and canceled his phone service. I had to take control of this idiot situation. I got a new phone line for myself. I loudly proclaimed to the employee processing my transaction that, “MY HUSBAND IS HAVING AN AFFAIR AND JUST CAN’T QUIT. APPARENTLY 24-YEAR OLDS ARE ALL THE RAGE THESE DAYS! “

He kept his head down and mumbled, “Okay, ma’am.”

I drove back to the house, stormed up the cement stairs, pushed past my poor, sweet (remaining) dog, flung open the door and started gathering my husband’s belongings. In a rage, I scattered them out the front bay window, onto the deck. The F word was my new favorite, so it accompanied each heave of clothing, book, paper and toy. I am positive the entire block could hear my expletives. Talk about cathartic. Violence came naturally to me, and it felt good.

My diplomatic, generous neighbor came over to try and calm me down. My husband accompanied her. He had gone to her for help. Her response to him was, “Well, what did you expect?!”

Still, he stared at me with a blank, confused expression as I continued to scream like a banshee throughout the house. My exposition of craziness extended to now throwing things AT him.

Finally, somehow, my neighbor was able to get me to sit down. I think the three of us were relieved that I hadn’t quite made it to the kitchen, where sharp objects were within easy reach.

After taking a few deep breaths, I asked my husband to leave. He slowly selected a few pair of underpants, socks and T-shirts from the mess on the deck and went to stay with his parents. I needed to get away. I had friends in Orange County with a boat. They also had Jack Daniels.

When I returned after the weekend, my dog had wisely taken up residence at my neighbors’ house. I was surprised to find my husband in the front yard, weeding. He wore nothing but his favorite pair of dirty shorts and old flip-flops. His toes sunk into the dirt as he flatly spoke to me. Occasionally he scratched at his new, fresh tattoo.

He wanted to know where I had been, who I was with and what I had for dinner, I wrote on September 28^th.

At the same time, he wouldn’t tell me who he had been texting all day (HER), and then got defensive. He said he didn’t understand why I had to be so “black and white” about things.

BECAUSE I WILL NOT TOLERATE ADULTERY.

He is unable and unwilling to cease his relationship with his adulteress, therefore causing the blindness and confusion about me, HIS WIFE.

I want so much for him to wake up but he has not. After I said it was so sad that he was making this choice to end our marriage, he replied, “I ended it three months ago.”

I told him I was shocked and humiliated that he wore his wedding ring while daily committing adultery. So, he took it off and gave it to me. I asked him to leave. He did.

God, I am filing for divorce. I still believe You can intervene, but I am open to your will. He has a lot of growth to do before I can even agree to speak to him, so I pray that You would protect me and comfort me and help me move forward in life. Oh, Father. I want a loving husband and a family so very much. Why did I take _____ for granted? And why did it take this horrible tragedy for me to wake up? Forgive me, God. Forgive my years of cruel selfishness. I am so humbled and ashamed.

I went to sleep in my marriage bed alone that night, with determination. My marriage was over, and I would take the first step to end it.

Sep 10 2011

13 Comments

Dating, F Bombs

God is in Control

When I impulsively started writing this blog on Tuesday, I shared some of my personal journal entries with a few close friends. My dear friend Renee asked me if I had been crying as I published the beginnings of my journey. She emphasized that it was okay.

“You’re letting it out, you’re letting it go. You’re being healed, “ she lovingly wrote.

I was ecstatic to answer, “I’m not crying, but excited! I had to start somewhere!”

I have cried more than I ever thought was possible over the past two years.

Fuck crying. I’m sick of it.

And then, today, I cried. Sobbed. I haven’t cried in months.

I was driving back from Santa Monica, where I had just attended my “Wife’s” amazing lecture on Ornament and Crime (she is the most brilliant architect, friend and person I know). I was overcome with amazement at the people God has placed in my life. I marveled at the loyalty and longevity of my childhood best friend, Joy; I thought of the overwhelming love and support I daily receive from my close circle of friends and family – people who have walked my journey with me, and continue to do so. I really have no reason to ever be lonely or sad, because I have these incredible people, and I have Jesus.

But I don’t have a man in my life. The last relationship I experienced was my marriage. I feel like a freak.

I am a woman in her 30’s (HELLO, SEX DRIVE!). I want to feel butterflies. I want to be kissed. I want romance. I want to have sex all the time; every day. I want to get excited about seeing someone. I want to fall in love, get married, and have babies. I also just threw up in my mouth a little, typing all that. But these are desires of my heart. I have waited, ever so patiently, and nothing has happened.

It is so hard to get a date, and is so hard to keep a guy interested. I’m not good at playing the “game”. If I like a guy, I tell him. I guess I’m not supposed to do that. And, if I really like him, he usually doesn’t like me back. It is just downright hard to be single. It hurts. It sucks. It happens.

I am laughing at myself. My lament is a typical episode of Sex and the City. Or maybe I’m back in junior high?

Nevertheless, as I compose this impulsive free-write, I realize that I will probably never have all the answers. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. I’m single. I’m divorced. I’m human. God loves me. I’m still figuring it all out. I’ve come a long way, but sometimes I think I must still have a long way to go. Yet I still have human desires and needs and wishes. I am not incapable of relationship, just because I have experienced a traumatic breakup.

For crying out loud, I’ve spent thousands of dollars for two years’ worth of weekly therapy. I’m practically at the point where I’m shrinking my therapist. I think she wonders what the hell I’m doing, continuing to visit her every week. She must get a kick out of hanging out with me. I’m fun. And I pay her. Ha!

I have so much to give. I am willing to give my whole heart, all over again. I’m ready. I’m sick of waiting. I’m impatient. But I’ll continue to live my life.

And, as always, someone inevitably clucks, “It’s a process,” or “It’s a long road,” or “Maybe you’re just not ready yet.”

I want to chirp right back, “What the fuck do you know?”

I hope my story has a happy ending in the relationship department, I really do. I have actually been happy thus far being single, but there are times when I want to scream and hit things and blow up happy couples and cynically remark that I don’t believe in love or marriage anymore. Love Stinks. Love is a Battlefield. You Oughta Know.

Back to the point:
I was feeling sorry for my single, unsexed self as I curved along the 110 freeway back home to my studio apartment. I shifted gears, and my 2007 Toyota Corolla’s 6-disc standard stereo system shifted CD’s. Steven Curtis Chapman’s familiar voice rang out. I chuckled at how uncool I was for indulging SCC. But the truth pierced through, in his soaring voice and lyrics:

This is not how it should be
This is not how it could be,
But this is how it is –
And our God is in control.

This is not how it will be,
When we finally will see –
We’ll see with our own eyes,
He was always in control.

This is not where we planned to be,
When we started this journey —
But this is where we are,
And our God is in control.

I have been ready in so many ways to share my journey, my pain, my healing, joy and even my struggles. It is exciting, because it truly is my hope that it is helpful to someone – even just one person. I am being transformed and it’s beautiful, even when I throw lame tantrums.

As my tears dry on yet another Saturday laundry night, I am comforted and blessed knowing that, indeed, God is in control.

Sep 08 2011

4 Comments

Forgiveness

Forgive and Forget

September 9, 2009 was the night my husband confessed to his affair. After he announced the truth to me (sans details), he wanted to tell his parents. I drove him to their house. How I managed to stay sane and operate a motor vehicle is beyond me. I was in shock; shaking. I could only hear the sound of my own breathing as we sat in silence for the ten-minute drive. We walked into the house and sat down on the couch. I breathed violently through my nostrils. My father-in-law had to be roused from his sleep. Upon hearing the news, both in-laws let out small sighs. My husband’s mother was the first to speak up. She asked him what he was “planning to do about it.”

“Well, I am going to give Leslie the house,” my husband stated, almost too calmly.

I sprang to my feet.

“WHAT?! YOU ARE GOING TO LEAVE ME FOR HER?” I screamed. For some reason I thought he was just confessing everything – coming clean, and that he wanted to start anew. He might even actually apologize.

I took the glass of water I had been attempting to sip and threw it against the fireplace. It shattered into tiny pieces, sprinkling shards of glass all over the painted hardwood floor. My husband’s parents remained motionless in their respective seats.

I took my fists, curled them into tight, little balls of fury and started pounding on him. Everything I could muster up in strength I unleashed onto his head, his shoulders, and his back. I punched the shit out of him for a few seconds and then stormed through the open screen door. I paced the front porch, my shallow breathing even more audible. My heart – it was there! – pumped furiously inside of my chest. I wanted to go back in and kill the fucking bastard but I think I knew I had to calm down.

“I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this,” I muttered to myself, as I paced the porch, grabbing my short hair at the roots. I went back inside and announced, “I’m leaving. I can’t do this.”

So I left. No one stopped me.

I drove back to our house, which we had owned for seven years. We had recently lost two of our three dogs, so the house felt even more empty than usual. I don’t exactly know what I was thinking. Why on earth would I go back there? I suppose since I had been away from it for the past seven months it was all I knew to do.

I couldn’t face our bedroom, so I went into the guest room and lay down on my childhood bed. I prayed, cried, writhed, sobbed, screamed and cussed like a sailor.

A short time later I heard a knock on the back door. It was my mother-in-law. She told me that she was going to stay in the house until my husband came back home. After I had gone, she had given him an ultimatum. If he left me, he would be dead to the family. Disowned. He thought about it, and then told her that he “needed to return the hotel key”. Apparently he had rented a room in Beverly Hills for the evening — probably all part of his escape. Or something.

Later I realized how weird it was for my mother-in-law to want such an active part in repairing (or ending?) my marriage.

Somehow, between chokes and quiet sobs, I fell asleep. I woke up to soft, controlled voices in the living room. He had obeyed his mother and returned home. I heard my mother-in-law’s tone, full of anger. I heard my husband deliver short sentences. I didn’t know what they were saying, only because I was shocked that I had actually fallen asleep.

I heard the back door slam, and she was gone.

The door to the guest room creaked open. My husband’s tall frame stood in the doorway. He did not turn on the light and I did not get out of bed.

“Who is going to love me now?” I asked him. My life was over. I had to start all over again at 32 years old.

“Someone will,” was his response. He stood still.

“I can’t believe you had sex with her!” I shrieked, as horrible visions of their bodies entangled in lustful passion entered my mind. A wave of nausea pulsated through my body and the back of my mouth got watery. Many more F bombs exploded from my lips as I tried to verbally process the reality that was only just beginning to sink in. I marveled at how quickly a bond between two people could be obliterated, no matter how many years they had been together, or what they had shared.

“It…only happened once.” His voice stayed quiet but slightly high-pitched.

“WHEN?” My voice was loud and cold as ice.

“In…June.” I had actually been home twice that month: once for a gig, and another to sing at a dear friend’s wedding.

“LIAR.” I turned and faced the wall.

But I wanted to believe it. I wanted so very badly to believe that my husband had “accidentally” slipped his penis into his 24-year old student’s vagina just once. What is more, I wanted to believe that it didn’t mean anything to him.

I was conveniently forgetting the fact that he had confessed he loved her; that he had thought about leaving the country to go be with her. My god, the girl barely spoke English. Obviously she was out for a Green Card. This was such a joke. Wasn’t he smarter than this?

My cries of anguish continued until my husband finally slumped down on the floor next to my twin bed. He started sobbing. I was relieved that he showed any emotion whatsoever. It gave me hope. I softened.

He did speak some words of remorse. Then he crawled into bed with me. I held him. We cried together.

“I forgive you,” I said, stroking his face. “I forgive you because I want to, and because that’s what I’m called to do. “

I really, truly, deeply meant it.

Forgiveness is not something that comes easily, or instantaneously. I am not going to pretend that I conducted myself in a “godly” manner, or that I said and did all the right things. I was a crazy, maniacal, jealous wife who still loved her husband. I couldn’t see that he was gone. He had left the marriage a long time ago. I wanted to hold onto what good things we had…I wanted to hold on to the memories and the laughter and the history and the connection and the – dare I say it – holiness of our marriage. Yet, what becomes of “holiness” when someone else has entered the marriage bed? Worse yet, I was still blaming myself for the entire thing because I had gone off to pursue my dreams. Repairing a marriage after an affair is no easy task, even when both partners are willing to do whatever it takes.

Regardless, I knew in all my Christian upbringing, theology classes in college and years of church attendance and Bible study that we are to forgive as the Lord forgave us (Colossians 3:13). Somehow, God gave me the strength to express my desire to forgive my adulterous husband that evening. I truly believe we could have had a shot at making it through the storm had he wanted the marriage. What I didn’t know is that my husband had not hit rock bottom. Furthermore, he was incapable of accepting my forgiveness because he had not forgiven himself.

In his book, Forgive and Forget, Lewis Smedes says, “If you forget, you will not forgive at all…you need to forgive precisely because you have not forgotten what someone did; your memory keeps the pain alive long after the actual hurt has stopped. Remembering is your storage of pain. It is why you need to be healed in the first place.”

All I wanted that night, in that tiny bedroom in that tiny bed, was to start over. I wanted to forgive my husband and start the path towards healing; towards forgetting any of it ever happened. I wanted to forget it all, through blind, yet genuine and earnest forgiveness. I wanted to skip over the pain. I wanted my husband to hold me, to repent of his dirty deeds, to love me. I wanted him to want to run away with me.

I desperately clung to my husband and prayed for him to love me again. He did not leave me that night. I started to hope. After all, I had done the right thing.

Hadn’t I?

Sep 07 2011

20 Comments

Christian divorce, I love Jesus, infidelity, New beginnings

The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce

Two years ago, almost to the day, I discovered my husband of almost ten years was having an affair.

I will never forget that feeling. How do I describe it? Vomit. Blackness. Horror. Shock. Loss of appetite. Murderous rage. Immobility. Violence. Death.

I knew something was terribly wrong months earlier; he had become extremely withdrawn and essentially blamed me for the slow, stinking death of our marriage. I was living in New York at the time, working off-Broadway, and had left him in Los Angeles, thinking our marriage was solid. Thinking our enduring marriage would last because we had been faithful thus far; we loved each other; we had prayed together about the decision for me to go to New York – to pursue my dreams – for at least the length of my six-month contract.

I remember getting off the subway one evening about two months after I had gone, and suspiciously yet playfully texted my husband.

“What’s her name?”

His response, of which I later became far too familiar: “What are you talking about?”

What is so weird is that I knew. Even then. But I didn’t want to believe it. My whole body — my entire soul — did not want to accept the fact that a person I loved so much was so capable of such selfishness and careless cruelty.

All this is beside the point.

A few days after returning back home to a (literally) burning Los Angeles, I found enough evidence (flirty Skype conversations with a girl from Australia, and one specific dialogue between my husband and his best friend regarding his love for “UKR”) to confront him.

He confessed that he loved her, but he had not slept with her. Then he had to go figure out what he wanted to do. He disappeared for days.

I waited. I prayed. I called upon all of my Christian friends – the ones that I trusted most. My small group – a circle of all pastors, who, to this day, have remained close to me. I cried out in anguish to my friend Jenny, also part of that close-knit group, immediately after discovering the evidence.

“I THINK HE’S HAVING AN AFFAIR!” I sobbed, in utter disbelief.

I clutched my heart but it was nowhere to be found. The emptiness ached inside of my body. I writhed on the white shag rug in our living room, screaming at the single wedding picture displayed almost mockingly on the bookshelf. That lovely wedding picture, which depicted two young lovers in their early twenties, hopelessly in love and devoted to one another.

A few days later, he returned and confessed he had, indeed, engaged in a full-fledged affair.
He blamed me, and said he wasn’t sorry. He wanted to leave me for her. I wanted to fight to save our marriage.

How did this HAPPEN? How could it happen? We had done everything right. We were Christians. We loved Jesus. We went to church. We had church friends. We had saved ourselves for each other. We even were virgins when we got married. We always had a lot of sex throughout our marriage. We were a month away from celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary. We had been an example of marriage to other friends and family. People looked up to us. We were the attractive “power” couple, pursuing our dreams and able to maintain a strong marriage.

Yeah, right. Just because you’re a Christian doesn’t mean you’re actually a Christian.

I have wanted to write about my journey for quite some time. I have written many things down, mostly in my personal journal. I have talked, prayed and sobbed with my close friends, I have gone to marriage counseling and personal therapy. All the while, I have hoped that my story can help others — that my personal hell could serve as a portal to someone else’s freedom. Because, all in all, I have experienced full freedom. Besides the obvious freedom from the marriage that my husband willfully and proudly chose to desecrate, the new freedom I have found is my identity. I have found my identity apart from the once-happy marriage; who I am apart from the deceit and shackles of ugly sin, of terrible choices. I have found my identity apart from grief, shame and sorrow. I have found who I am apart from my old ideas of what a Christian, and a Christian marriage, should be.

Best of all, I’m continuing to find my true identity in Christ.

My journey is one full of searing pain, unbelievable grief and sorrow. Yet that is not all. It is mostly filled with amazing grace, love, tenderness, kindness, laughter and tears of joy. It is full of God’s goodness.

This is the Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce.