The Marriage--Part 2

August 10, 2002. The day I gave up my identity- singlehood as I knew it, my last name, my complete independence. The day I optimistically leaped into the shoes of my future as a wife. The day I went before the Lord and everyone to vow my eternal entity, an undying love and devotion, "til death do us part."

I had truly believed Steve had changed, and even in that small corner of my heart (or brain, or soul or wherever I was feeling it) I knew I had the strength to overcome any obstacles in our relationship. I could fix things, you see. And what I couldn't fix, I had the strength to deal with.

But Steve hadn't changed and it is now that I'm ultimately feeling a lack of strength in the ability to go on for the rest of my life questioning the truth in every word that comes out of my own husband's mouth. The man who is supposed to be my partner, my husband, my lifetime best friend. After all the anguish of lie after lie, I've become programmed to instantly reject anything he tells me as the truth unless I see/hear it myself. Sure, there's an occasion that I can let go and give the benefit of the doubt, but when it's the answer to something crucial--like say, "Did you make it to the bank today?"--I have to affirm the answers for myself. It is really no way to live.

The lies have been one thing, the cheating has been another. It is the one outlet I had actually hoped for about this time last year after I was fed up with another round of senseless lies. I wanted to catch him having an affair so that I'd have a legitimate reason to move on with my life. As sick as it sounds, I felt like it was the one outlet that would permit me to flee the pain of unhappiness I'd been living for over three years.

On March 30th, I got that wish. I had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Steve to get home. Around 4am, I bolted up from a dream in which I had caught Steve cheating on me. Instinctively, I crept through the dark to the kitchen, picked up his cell phone from its charger, and checked the voicemail. There was a message from someone named Sarah, saying, "I don't know why you haven't called me back, but I guess it isn't any of my business."

My instinct was to bolt into the bedroom, but I waited until morning and I called the girl myself. She said that she was a friend who had graduated with Steve. She said, "Don't worry, he's said nothing but good things about you. He's totally in love with you. We're just friends." Now, I wasn't born yesterday, so I asked her why the fuck she was calling my husband. She insisted that her son's grandpa worked with Steve and she'd taken her son to see his grandpa and they realized they went to school together.

I didn't give a shit if they were brother and sister. It didn't seem natural to me. The next morning I casually asked Steve who Sarah was and he just looked at me, bewildered, of course. He insisted for a good half hour that he didn't know what I was talking about--even though I had the evidence in that message--so I demanded he call her. He refused. So I told him that since I wasn't getting shit from him, I was going to go for a drive.

It still hadn't fully occurred to me that he had cheated or even would cheat. After all, he had (uh, supposedly) walked in on his ex wife with another man.

I knew where I was going before I put the key into the ignition--to see the man who had married us.

Tom worked with Steve at that time, even though he is also a minister. They worked on the same shift and were fairly close, so I knew if anyone would recognize a change in Steve's behavior, it would be Tom. Though I hadn't seen him in a couple years, he welcomed me with open arms. I bawled as I poured out everything--the endless lies, the suspicions, this mystery girl calling his phone--and Tom also shared with me lies that Steve had told on the job. It was fuel to the fire; all the more reason I felt like I should leave him ASAP. But deeper in my mind, I had to find out something. Wasn't sure what, but I knew there were pieces not in place.

Before I left, Tom said that he'd never heard of Steve talk about any other women. But then he said, "Let me ask you something. Does he call you every night on his breaks?" It sent a chill through my body as I was suddenly piecing it together, for Steve did not call me every night.

So I came home and cornered Steve in the kitchen. I told him I had "gotten answers," though I didn't tell him where I'd been. He immediately became indignant, hateful. So I said, "Are you going to tell me?" To which he said that he "didn't have shit" to tell me. So again, I made up a phrase: "Why do I have to hear it from other people?" His head dropped, and I knew I was getting somewhere. But he said he had no idea what I was talking about. So I said, "Why can't YOU tell me since I've heard from someone else? How long has this been going on?"

And that was when the golden egg was laid. He looked up and said, "About one month."

I melted. Crumbled. Came unhinged and yet lost my heart at the same time. I screamed a variety of questions that never got answered--oh, except that they had sex "just once"-- as he slipped out the door and escaped to work. I felt disgusted. Dirty. Trapped. Lonely. Betrayed. Pissed off beyond comprehension...The emotions would not stop. Yes, I even had that glimmer of joy that I finally had my excuse to exit the emotional abuse of our relationship.

For some reason, I immediately called my grandmother for comfort and assurance. All I got was, "Maybe there's been some mistake. He would never do that to you." So I hung up, got Clayton ready, and bolted out the door to follow him to work. (*Note, I am and was at the time quite aware I was in no condition for such an escapade.)

So I grabbed my cell phone and called up the bitch as I raced after Steve. I played the part of sympathetic wife, begging her just to give me some answers since Steve wasn't. She was shocked to discover that he had fed her a ton of lies as well, including that I had already filed for divorce and he had put a down payment on a house, etc. She also confirmed the worst.

It was even more degrading to discover that I knew her. She was a skanky drug addict who I only remember from high school because she was one of those low-lifes you can't help but pity from the sheer sight of their filth. Sometimes you recognize the nobody's as much as the somebody's merely because of their obscene presence.

To fast forward 6 months, here I am now after a summer of putting on the happy face and trying desperately to feel secure in the fact that it is all behind us now. Steve cracked that day at work and came home early, a mess. Tom called and explained how Steve had broke down right there in front of everyone at the factory, repeating, "I can't go home. I can't go home to my wife. I've ruined my family." And that he did. Even after the STD tests, the 6 months of intensive counseling, the outpour of prayers, the changing shifts and direction he drives to work, the stepping forth at church and confessing, the admittance of his "mistake" to every member of his family and mine, the continuous showering of "I love you's," the vows to never dismember himself from our relationship again, the fabulous summer of vacations, the constant giving of attention...even after all that, I will never heal.

I've forgiven, but I can't forget. I can't erase the mental disgrace, the absolute dissolution of any self-esteem I had for about 3 months. I can't help but feel that nastiness of being a 2nd choice lover every time my husband crawls in bed with me. And even if it was for one minute or one week, that's exactly what I was. Every minute he devoted to her, he took away something from me and I, his wife, was not a priority. I lied awake every night in the month of March, worried and waiting for him to come home, just to be appeased for the lame, "overtime" excuse.

So my question is, Does God believe in refunds?

I don't want monetary compensation or even an exchange of damaged goods. (Well, maybe I'd feel different about the latter later in my life.) I just want to give back this relationship in exchange for my own life. It kills me to think I can never wear the white dress again, never be somebody's first or accept someone as my first anything. I can never give someone another first child, our first child. No, even if I physically escape, I am eternally bound by the fact that I gave him me.

And then I wonder about the "til death do us part." What about spiritual and emotional death? Because if that's the case, we'd been dead for a long time.