The Answer Is No

Several well-meaning people have asked whether it might be possible to Work Things Out with Dear Husband.

I haven't told many people about the rapid demise of my marriage, partly because I don't want to answer any questions, and partly because it's just so damned embarrassing.

Of those I have told, some have gotten the full story and some have received the sanitized version. Amazingly, everyone in favor of Working it Out has heard the uncensored story of DH's betrayal.

Aside from my mother, who has endured two extremely unsatisfying marriages over a span of 30 years and has shown that she'll put up with just about anything, I am baffled by these people. Why would I deliberately put myself back into this situation without being marched into it on the business end of a gun?

Rather than explain it to them individually, I'll list the reasons why reconciliation with DH is impossible.

1. DH has shown that he is often incapable of telling the truth. Although I'm not above telling a little fib to spare someone's feelings, I'm essentially an honest person and expect the same from others. I cannot be legally bound to someone who can look into my eyes and lie like a rug.

2. I don't have the energy to spend my life keeping an eye on DH like he's some kind of deranged toddler. I have a postcard on my fridge that says, "I wanted to have a child - *sob* - not marry one." It sucks a tremendous amount of energy to always wonder what someone else is doing. Trust makes this kind of paranoia unneccessary. But:

3. I don't trust DH, and he doesn't trust me. The reasons why I don't trust DH are obvious, but I'm not sure why he doesn't trust me. I don't think I would have been overjoyed about DH's Secret Life had he told me, but I would have been pretty understanding of the reasons he thought he needed one. He never gave me the chance.

4. It's a big, big world out there. Thanks to the Internet, opportunities for those with Secret Lives have expanded ad infinitum. For fuck's sake, who needs the internet? I live four blocks from Santa Monica Boulevard. DH would have to be locked in a crate (hmmm) to avoid temptation.

This list should dash the hopes of the Well-Meaning People, but I doubt that it will. I would like to think their optimism is rooted in the spirit of forgiveness and redemption, but they're probably worried that at my age, I'll never lasso another man. They don't need to worry - I don't want one.

Interestingly, after a few feeble objections, DH hasn't even made an effort to get back in my good graces. The last time I told DH to hit the road (when he was still Charming Boyfriend), he bombarded me with letters and flowers and good intentions. Maybe he realizes the futility of trying. Maybe a charitable transvestite hooker has taken him in. It doesn't matter. Because the answer is no.

The Cost of Freedom

Shortly after I escorted Dear Husband out of our home, the bills started to roll in.

First there's the cost of a divorce. Luckily, ours will be substantially cheaper than the norm because we have no children or property. Frankly, we've always been two paychecks away from homelessness, thanks in part to DH's low wage potential and reckless spending habits. A friend is generously preparing the divorce paperwork for just $100. The filing fee is $320.

Today I received another whopper of a bill - our share of DH's middle-of-the-night visit to the emergency room just 10 days before I discovered his Secret Life. In retrospect, I should have let that kidney stone abrade his plumbing until he produced a pearl. Amount the insurance declined to cover - $455.

Of course I will have to pay off DH's credit card to protect myself, because he's always had serious problems making the $13 monthly payment on time. Balance on the card - about $500.

These items will wipe out the meager savings I've managed to accumulate, but in the end, it will be worth it. Think about what I've gotten in return: Freedom from a spouse who had no respect for marriage, and a whole lot of closet space. Priceless.

The Treasure Chest of Betrayal

Whenever I'm feeling lonesome for Dear Husband, I take a peek into the Treasure Chest of Betrayal.

OK, it's not really a treasure chest - it's a file that contains everything I found on our computer the day I booted DH out of the house.

First, there's his noxious dating website profile - the one that describes him as a single man looking for single women who don't play games. The one where he boasts about his culinary skills. The one where he promises to cook breakfast in bed for any non-game-playing single woman who is gullible enough to take the bait.

(Yes, I realize I once fit that description, but I was younger and more trusting then.)

Then there's the profile of DH's gay alter-ego. This one contains fewer details - just his height (considerable), his age (40 going on five), and his astrological sign (do men who want to hook up for anonymous sex really care what the stars say about it?)

Then there's an email to someone he contacted through the dating site. He didn't waste time on any of the niceties - it says 'I want to git wit you.' (for the record, DH neither talks nor writes like a caveman, but that's how I prefer to think of him from now on)

Then there's an email to a woman who advertised on craigslist looking for a bartending job. Why, you ask, does DH need a bartender when he has no bar? Answer: DH believes it's better to have a bartender and not need one than to need one and not have one.

And the list goes on. By the time I finish rummaging through the Treasure Chest of Betrayal, any affection I may have been feeling for DH flies right out the window.

Interestingly, straight single DH's profile disappeared from the internet moments after he was confronted, but gay DH is still trolling the web looking for random hookups. I hope those men carry condoms.

Contact

Dear Husband arrived two hours late today to pick up some of his things.

I sat silently on the bed as he stuffed two big duffel bags with clothes. Finally, as he was getting ready to go, I broke down and pelted him with questions. Questions that DH is unwilling or unable to answer. Questions that all start with why.

He paused on his way out the door and collapsed on the couch instead.

After what seemed like hours of silence, he responded with the only answer that I'm apparently going to get.

'I guess I just wasn't thinking,' DH said.

Great, I married a guy who just doesn't think. Now, 10 months later, I'm divorcing a guy who just doesn't think.

I've tried several times to spin this encounter into something funny so I can show that I'm doing Just Fine, but I can't play it that way. This was truly one of the most painful experiences of my life. Watching him stuff his shirts into a duffel bag was like watching my plans for my life go down the drain.

However, there is one thing I know to be true. Unlike First Wife, I will not let my experiences with DH define me. FW still complains 12 years later that DH ruined her life. I won't give him that power.

Mental Health

Luckily, I wasn't raised in a house where mental health treatment was stigmatized. My mother's theory was that therapy was necessary just to survive in our family. After a couple of days of moping around the house, I decided to get some Help.

I called a place in the Valley that a friend had recommended several months ago. The woman I spoke with was very kind. She asked me a few questions, including the Big One Required by Law:

'Are you planning to commit suicide?'

That's always been my problem with taking my own life - it requires too much planning. I confessed that while I wouldn't mind being spanged by a transit bus right about now, I had no intention of stepping in front of one. That seemed to satisfy her - at least the police never showed up at my door.

After a few more questions, I started to cry. She had brushed against the edges of my crushing shame and humiliation. I, a woman who prides herself on knowing what's going on around her, had no clue about Dear Husband's Secret Life.

'Honey, you trusted someone you love,' she said softly. 'There's no shame in that.'

So I'm taking my bruised heart in for a checkup this Saturday. My experience with therapists has been mixed - one truly gifted, one very good, two that were so crazy themselves that they could only make me crazy by association. Wish me luck.

The World's Shortest Marriage

Okay, so it wasn't really the world's shortest marriage. There are lots of celebs who've been married for months fewer than I was.

But it feels that way to me. Ten months. Ten months of what felt like ecstatic happiness. Until the day (drumroll) when I discovered Dear Husband's Secret Life.

Technically, I'm still married. I just discovered DH's Secret Life four days ago. Right now I'm figuring out the legal details of divorce and hiding in my apartment nursing my wounds.

Here are the Pertinent Facts - from my point of view - the only one that's going to appear here.

1. I married late (at 37) to the only man I ever imagined spending the rest of my life with
2. Dear Husband was married once before
3. DH's first marriage ended 12 years ago because he was unfaithful
4. DH swore up and down that he had learned his lesson and was a Changed Man
5. DH never learned his lesson, and hasn't changed a bit
6. Four days ago, I learned that DH has maintained a profile on a dating website for the entire five years we've been together. His profile describes him as a single man seeking single women who don't play games
7. Straight Single DH has an even more ominous online counterpart - Gay Single DH!
8. DH has corresponded online with numerous women and men he has met through these profiles
9. DH maintains he has done nothing wrong and it is my marital duty to forgive him and move on
10. DH is living in a dream world

I should mention one more Pertinent Fact - DH is a Devout Catholic. Apparently DH's religious beliefs allow him to do anything that feels good as long as he confesses at the end of the week.

Clearly there is only one thing that is verboten for a Good Catholic - Divorce. When I informed DH that a Divorce is imminent, he flipped out and returned with a loaded 9mm handgun. He threatened to blow his brains out if I refused to take him back. After seizing, unloading, and hiding DH's cannon, I advised him that any future references to sending himself to the Great Hereafter would be met with a 72-hour psychiatric hold.

After refusing to leave for several hours, DH finally packed a bag and split. I haven't seen him since.