I Cheated On My Husband
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Words by Anonymous
My marriage almost ended before it even really began.
It's not the matrimonial foundation I pictured as a little girl fantasizing about weddings and getting married. What makes it worse is that the fault was mine and mine alone. It's hard to look yourself in the mirror when you know you are consciously choosing to fuck up. And you keep doing it anyway, learning to avert your eyes from the pain you are causing. If you don't see it, then it isn't happening... right?
It started a few months before my wedding. It wasn't necessarily cold feet. I did want to get married. I did love my fiance. But I also had undiagnosed mental health issues and a burgeoning drinking problem and doubts about "forever" since both of my parents have been divorced and remarried many times. Not that these things were excuses by any means. Just the landscape of my poor decisions.
I went out to a bar with a couple of my girlfriends from work. I lived a very sheltered life in my youth, so going to a bar for the first time at 24 was an eye-opening experience. There were people everywhere. The music, the energy, and feeling seen... it was intoxicating. I spent most of my life trying to hide from people, but I found myself enjoying the attention I was receiving. It was like electricity crackling every time I felt eyes on me.
We started out going every Friday. Then every Friday and Saturday. At some point, it became every single night except for Mondays because there weren't really any drink specials/events on those nights - and we all needed a break. I showed up to work hungover every day, bags under my eyes, trying to hold it together until the evening when I could drink my life away.
Someone from work, an older man with a beautiful smile, heard from mutual friends and coworkers that I wasn't as quiet as my work persona would lead people to believe. He started showing up and hanging out with us. It was fun - he was always the life of the party. One night, after loads of drinking on both our parts, I looked over and he was staring at me. The look on his face was hunger. Pure and simple. I looked away... at first. I was uncomfortable but also excited. After a lifetime of being the "good" girl and always doing the right thing and whatever was expected of me, I enjoyed being this new person. One who flirted dangerously with fire. One who people wanted to hang out with and thought of as outgoing and fun.
Every night, he sat next to me, really close, finding reasons to whisper to me or touch my hand. Even now, over a decade later, I can still remember the way he smelled - a particular mixture of cologne, Marlboro cigarettes, and Bud Light. One night, I accidentally left my sweater at the bar when I left with my friends. He brought it to me the next day at work and it had his smell on it. I didn't wash it for weeks because I'd wear it, smiling secretively, and be reminded of him and the danger he represented.
I'm sure you can guess where this was going. For five months, we had a very tumultuous affair. Arguing, making up, drinking too much, being more and more careless with being seen together, and sending romantic text messages. The alcohol helped me feel confident and sexy. He knew I was engaged (and then later, newly married) and he didn't care at first. But after awhile, he wanted us to be exclusive and talked about moving in together. The fun began to dissipate for me quickly after that. The whole attraction for me wasn't him personally - it was the danger, doing something completely out of character. I wasn't in love with him and never would be. I was in love with the alcohol and the false sense of sophistication it gave me, but mostly I was in love with being someone else for a few hours each night.
My husband eventually found out, of course. And when he moved most of his belongings out and went to stay with one of his friends, reality hit me: I was going to lose the one person who mattered to me. For what? Alcohol? Some loser from work? Being the "fun" girl? None of it mattered anymore.
As I sat staring at the empty half of our closet, ignoring text messages from my girlfriends about going out, I wept uncontrollably. What had happened to me? Why did I do those things? I had no one to blame but myself.
Thankfully, after many conversations, and apologies, and promises, and sometimes begging on my part, my husband moved back home. I knew I was lucky that he gave me a second chance. And I wasn't going to take that for granted. Ever.