Anatomy of My Affair, 2000s, by ReBeliever

From MemoryArchive

Who: ReBeliever
What: Anatomy of My Affair
When: 2000s
Where: USA

Writing about My Affair

My affair ended several years ago, but I still feel its deep emotions and am reminded daily of the many ways it changed my life forever. Why am I compelled to write about it now? Because I understand the torment that others go through. Because I wonder if what I know now might help someone else. Maybe my story will mean something to the one caught in a love that pulls away from vows previously made; to the lover who is unfairly judged; to the betrayed spouse who struggles to understand why; to family and friends who don't know what they should do. Perhaps the only one who will read this is me. Perhaps that is enough.

This is my story. I won't pretend to speak for others, but I will commit to telling the truth about my experience. No whitewash. No easy answers. Let me write exactly what happened, as best as I can remember... recalling the thoughts, feelings, and choices that led me down unexpected paths. Because I want to protect others who are part of this story (but may not wish to be known), I am going to change the names and a few of the identifying details.

Unexpected Unfaithfulness

Before I ever met the woman I eventually married, I use to dream about that future... Who would she be? How many children would we have? Where would we live? What would be the story of our life together? In all my fantasizing, I never once imagined that I would cheat on her.

My upbringing instilled some rather traditional values: "till death do us part" means just that; divorce is never an option; adultery ranks among the big sins that are sure to ruin your life. I never planned on having an affair. In fact, if you had told me, even just a couple months before it happened, that I would be involved with another woman, I would have sincerely denied the possibility. But when the conditions were just right, every conviction flew out the window. Even now, looking back on all that occurred, I am amazed at how easily I moved into the affair.

Several months down the road, a man sat across a table from me and exclaimed in no uncertain terms, "I might be guilty of a lot of things, but that is one thing I could never do." It may have sounded like conviction, but I sadly recognized his proud naivety.

A Vulnerable Marriage

When I met Anne in college, I was instantly attracted. Other men were, too, and so I spent the next three years winning her love. Despite gentle warnings from our parents, who noticed differences between us that caused them some concern, we were married soon after graduation and continued to grow our family with three beautiful children. Did I love her then? Yes, as much as a 21 year old is capable of loving.

After 2 or 3 years, our marriage settled into a "routine" and lost some of its luster. It wasn't wonderful, but it wasn't bad, either, and we witnessed enough really unhappy relationships to know ours was better than most. But is that really enough? Don't most people desire love that is deep, intimacy that is authentic, and sex that is (sometimes, at least) passionate?

Anne and I both wanted a better marriage. Periodically, we would make a special effort to heat things up: read a book, attend a seminar, join a support group, go on a trip, or become a bit more sexually creative. These sparks would temporarily warm the fire, but we inevitably settled back into the more common lukewarmness of the relationship. For the most part, I simply accepted the fact that things would probably never get better than this.

In some ways, it was enough. We experienced the comfort of familiarity; we provided a caring and secure home for our children; we enjoyed a strong network of family and friends. Like most other couples, we learned how to maintain our relationship. But in the deepest part of me, I wasn't satisfied. And I wasn't alone. Every time I shared these feelings with guy friends, they admitted to experiencing the same tensions. I guess most people just learn how to live with their disappointments.

This disappointment alone wasn't enough to lead me into an affair, but I think it at least set the stage for what would eventually be played out. My marriage became more vulnerable when I started to do these two things:

[1] I began focusing on what was lacking. When I thought about our relationship, I tended to think more about our differences than our similarities. I mourned our weaknesses rather than finding joy in our strengths. Under this judgement, affection began to wither. My love for Anne became one of choice, not passion. It's easy for me to play the martyr and shoulder all the blame, but I know Anne also made choices that pushed us apart. She put more energy into being a mother than into being a wife. She affirmed me less and criticized me more. I think we both began to sadly accept the belief that this is as good as it's ever going to get.

[2] I began imagining something better. I found myself thinking about women who seemed closer to "my type." I didn't become romantically involved with them (and even flatly declined some offers to do so), but I did feel the emotional draw. Sometimes I thought about what it would be like to be in love with someone else. Each time I did this, I think another stone fell from the wall that guarded my commitment to Anne.

What happens when love begins to lose its heart? When feelings diminish and duty is left to pick up the slack? I longed for something more. After enough failed attempts to find it in my marriage, I entertained the thought of finding it somewhere else.

The Right Conditions

An affair requires two things: opportunity and willingness. During my first 12 years of marriage, there were opportunities, but never the willingness. That doesn't mean I had no curiosity. Dissatisfaction with my marriage sometimes led me to wonder what it might be like to be with someone else. But thoughts never turned into action because I valued faithfulness and feared the consequences of infidelity.

Once, during the first day of a week long conference in Atlanta, I was placed in a discussion group with a woman who was very attractive to me, both in appearance and behavior. She enjoyed my company, too, and occasionally spent time with me during the week. Eventually, I had the distinct impression that I would be welcome to spend the night in her room; all I had to do was ask. I didn't ask, but at the end of the conference she gave me her address, asked me to come visit her, and hugged me good-bye. I never contacted her again. In fact, when I returned home, I told my wife all about the encounter.

My response to that incident, and a few others like it, convinced me that I would never give in to the temptation of an affair. But although I never acted on the temptation, I thought about it. Months after that event, when feeling distant from my wife, I wondered what it would have been like to spend a night in the other woman's arms.

That's as far as my unfaithfulness would have gone, I think, if everything in my life had just remained steady and predictable. It didn't. The company I worked for began experiencing tremendous growth, which required extra time at the office. As hard as I worked, the CEO never seemed to be quite satisfied, so I doubled my efforts. Work kept me away from home and my wife became increasingly frustrated and critical. I had also recently come to some conclusions about "God issues" over which I had struggled for years, and was left feeling spiritually empty. It seemed I couldn't quite match up to anyone's expectations.

During this period of personal turmoil, I was asked to partner with Linda, a business acquaintance, on a company project. The time was ripe for an affair. I had opportunity: working with Linda nearly every day, often alone. And I finally had willingness: ready to explore a relationship that would make me feel appreciated and loved. Within two months, the affair had begun...

The Other Woman

"Why her? What does she have that I don't have?" Those were the questions my wife would eventually ask me--questions I've since heard repeated by many betrayed spouses.

What was it about Linda that made it easy to develop a relationship that led to an affair? Initially, I was most attracted to those qualities in her that were, in my opinion, lacking in my wife. When I became disappointed in my marriage, I found it easy to focus on Anne's inadequacies. I realize now that she still possessed all the qualities I had originally loved, but the years of familiarity had made it easier for me to focus on our differences... on the ways we failed to connect with each other. Of course, once I was convinced of these areas of incompatibility, I was also apt to pay more attention when I observed other women who seemed to be missing these flaws.

It wasn't about physical beauty. Linda was cute, but I think many would have considered my wife better looking. No, it was her confidence, professionalism, articulation, and life goals: these were the things that drew me to her. This attraction alone, however, would not have been enough for me to open the door to an affair. Her admiration accomplished that. I wanted approval. I wanted to be valued, appreciated. Because I was going through a discouraging time in my life, I felt an especially strong desire to hear someone tell me they believed in me.

Anne never did this very well. Maybe it was because of her own insecurities. Maybe it was because I didn't show her enough appreciation. Maybe it was a mix of both. Whatever the reasons, that kind of affirmation didn't come from home. But it came from Linda.

Linda often complimented me on my work and abilities. These remarks were genuine and, at first, probably innocent. I was thirsty for them and so I looked forward to each day of work with her: another opportunity to take a sip. At some point, I think, she realized my need and willingly gave me more of what I wanted. We talked and joked and laughed and shared stories about our lives. I began to think of Linda as someone who naturally connected with me--a soul mate. I started finding reasons to spend more time with her and thought about her constantly, even at night while in bed with my wife. For the first time in many years, I felt alive and hopeful. Even at this point, I can think of a number of events that could have intervened and kept me from having an affair. But I didn't want to be stopped, so I kept everything private. Even my closest friends didn't know where I was headed. The only thing I wasn't sure about was whether Linda shared my feelings. I decided to find out.

Crossing the Line

Some might argue that my relationship with Linda became an affair the moment I responded to her with thoughts or feelings that should have been reserved for my wife. I disagree. There is a distinct difference between an idea and an act.

Yes, my growing preoccupation with Linda was inconsistent with the promises I'd made to my wife. I understand that. My thoughts about her were pushing me closer to an act of infidelity, but I had not crossed the line.

There was a line. I saw it. For me, the line was that moment when I would, in some way, declare my feelings to Linda. It could have been with a look, or a touch, or a word... anything that let her know I was interested in moving our relationship beyond the realm of friendship. Stopping anywhere short of that line would have avoided harm to others. But I was drawn to the line.

At first, I really didn't want to cross it; I simply wanted to get as close as I could--right up to the edge--to see what the other side looked like. For a while, I just stood there. My guess was that Linda was willing to step over with me, but I wasn't sure. What if she didn't feel the same way? What if she was appalled by any suggestion that we be something more than friends? What if she told her husband (or my wife) that I made a pass at her? Fearfully, I hesitated. But there's something about standing at the line: you can't stay there. You either have to back way up, or step on over. The tension was too great to just do nothing, so I decided to risk placing my foot on the other side.

Of course, I opted for plausible deniability. If she took offense at what I said, I wanted to be able to claim innocence. And so, one afternoon as we sat talking in an otherwise empty office, I confessed to her, "If we weren't careful, this relationship could farther than it should." She paused, flushed, looked at me, and mumbled something about us needing to be careful about making any regrettable mistakes. She left for the afternoon, but later delivered a 3 page letter admitting her feelings for me. There we were, standing together on the other side of the line. There could be no going on without some consequence, but I didn't care. At that moment, I wanted nothing else besides experiencing this budding romance.

Our words became kisses, and kisses turned to sex. Within a week, I was making love with Linda. I did this with little hesitation, and with no plan for stopping. It felt like I'd finally found what I'd been looking for all my life.

Rediscovering Sex

In 12 years of marriage, I had never been unfaithful to Anne. But once I opened the door to a romantic relationship with Linda, I knew things were likely to change.

At first, we made weak, insincere attempts at setting physical boundaries. We tried fooling ourselves into thinking we could enjoy the thrill of our emotional connection without letting it become physical. Even a kiss, we said, would make us feel too guilty.

I quickly learned, however, that passion has a way of shoving guilt aside. We started with "just one kiss" that turned into long, passionate kisses shared in every secret space we could find. Still, we both held to the belief that things couldn't go any further. We didn't want to jeopardize our families. But once the train was moving, it gained a powerful momentum. There was no stopping. A little more than a week after our admissions of affection, Linda came to my office after hours. We held each other, kissing in the dark, and moved without hesitation to the couch where we made love for the first time.

I always thought that if I ever had sex with another women, I would be immediately crushed by guilt. I wasn't. In fact, if I felt any guilt at all, it was overcome by the pleasure of that intimate moment and by my desire to be with Linda again. Prior to this affair, sex had always been a bit of a disappointment to me. My wife and I had both grown up in traditional, conservative families that taught us to save sex for marriage. Somehow, we managed to make it to our wedding day with our virginity still intact. But to my disappointment, I learned on our honeymoon that Anne's view of sex was quite different from mine. Even though she soon experienced orgasms, she tended to view sex as a duty, or as a means to building a family. She rarely initiated sex in our relationship. It became a source of tension.

I remember a few times when Anne tried to be sexually creative. I appreciated these attempts and enjoyed them, but was saddened by the fact that they were made because a book or a friend told her it was good for a marriage, not because she had any personal interest in experiencing a kind of intimacy that was more pleasurable for both of us. Sex, I was told, was more of a "guy thing" and women usually did not enjoy it very much.

Linda, however, did enjoy sex. She demonstrated a kind of passion and pleasure that I had never experienced with my wife. We made use of every possible opportunity to share another sexual encounter, even if great risks were involved. The risks, in fact, only added to the excitement. I began to feel a new kind of tension. I still did not want to lose my marriage or ruin my family, but I was beginning to wonder how I could ever let go of Linda.

Emotional Affairs, Sexual Affairs

No two affairs are exactly alike, but all of them fit into one of these types:

• Emotional Affairs: with emotional bonding, but without sex.
• Sexual Affairs: with sex, but without emotional bonding.
• Emotional-Sexual Affairs: with both emotional bonding and sexual expression.

When people say "so-and-so is having an affair," they usually mean that Person A is having sex with Person B, and at least one of them is married to somebody else. Without sex, they assume, a relationship hasn't quite reached the level of a genuine affair.

But if that's true, then why do most women, when asked whether they would rather deal with a partner caught in an emotional relationship or in a sexual relationship with someone else, say they would prefer to struggle through the aftermath of a sexual affair? Maybe they believe that the betrayal of man giving his body, as painful as that may be, does not cut as deeply as the betrayal of a man giving away his heart. Maybe they know that it's much easier to stop having just-sex with someone than it is to stop loving them.

An affair that is primarily sexual can be ended relatively easily. An emotional affair is much harder to stop. When both are combined, a bond is formed that resists every effort to break it. That was the power of my affair. It started with the meeting of emotional needs (mine and hers) and was sealed with the giving of ourselves to each other in the most intimate act we could share. We began depending on each other to fill in all our empty places.

As others would eventually learn, our relationship was not one that could be severed by reason or argument. At some point, we had stopped loving our spouses and now were caught up in the thrill of a new kind of love. We wanted each other... needed each other. It was intoxicating.

Taking Risks

Once my affair began, I was obsessed with Linda. Adjustments were made to my schedule so I could be alone with her. We met in secluded areas of local parks, drove out of town for private meals, invented excuses to be absent from our families, and even went to each other's home when spouses were away. I did not expect to be caught and so didn't spend much energy worrying about discovery or considering the consequences of being found out. The affair was an addiction; all I cared about was getting my next fix with Linda.

Our desires were greater than our caution. We began taking bigger risks: closing ourselves in an office room even though we knew it might look suspicious; stealing quick embraces when someone was just around the corner; calling each other when our spouses were home. Some affairs are kept secret for years and others are never uncovered, but our recklessness was bound to betray us.

I am normally not a reckless person. Perhaps that was part of the thrill of the affair--doing something I would have never risked before. It was a new kind of rush and I wanted more and more of it. Of course, the more risks I took, the harder I had to work at keeping my tracks covered. Prior to the affair, I had always valued the truth and held integrity as a personal virtue. Looking back, I am amazed at how quickly and easily I turned to dishonesty. In an affair, deceit becomes a basic tool of survival.

Lies, Lies, Lies

An affair needs to be hidden. I camouflaged mine with lies. I created fictitious appointments away from the office, told my wife about out-of-town meetings that never took place, and excused myself from my children by telling them I needed to go to an important something-or-other. Later, when friends confronted me with direct questions about having an affair, I offered a convincing story of innocence that they believed.

This easy embrace of dishonesty would puzzle people after the affair become public. Because I had lied so much, those who knew me wondered about the "real me." Was I the trustworthy, honest guy they'd always known? Or the habitual liar that had just been revealed? Unfortunately, in the legalistic environment I'd been part of, people found it more comfortable to reach a black-or-white conclusion rather than allow for any gray. From that moment on, many labeled me as a man with a critically flawed character that had finally been uncovered.

I had changed. Lying had never been natural to me, but now it became necessary. I was caught up in the passion of an affair and there was nothing more important. I was willing to make great compromises just to be with Linda. Of course, managing so many lies required a lot of work. I had to remember what story I'd told to whom, making sure all accounts remained consistent. Occasionally, I'd slip, but people didn't expect me to be dishonest so I easily recovered. Still, the amount of energy required to maintain my stories was exhausting. It became was easier to avoid people than to risk adding another lie to the list. As I continued opening myself to Linda, I began shutting others out.

The Signs

Anne did not suspect that I was having an affair, but there were indications that something was going on. Specifically, I had changed in these ways:

• I was gone from the house and office more frequently.
• I spent an increasing amount of "work time" with Linda.
• I was more irritable at home and less patient with Anne (as I privately compared her to Linda).
• My communication with Anne diminished. I became more secretive.
• My interest in sex with my wife changed. I understand that some men bring the sexual experiences of an affair into their own bedrooms, often wanting to try "something new" with their wives. This was not true of me. There was little logic to my mixed standards, but although I did not hesitate to have sex with another woman, I could not bring myself to pursue sex with two women at the same time. I did not want to have sex with Linda while I was intimately involved with Anne, so I stopped pursuing any kind of sexual contact with my wife.
• I became emotionally detached from my wife and children.

Anne didn't see the signs because she wasn't expecting to see them... because she didn't want to see them. I was living a double life and she had no idea that the other one existed.

Getting Caught

Every new day brings with it the possibility of unexpected blessing or trouble. On this particular day, as Linda approached me in the office hallway, I anticipated only good things--more opportunities to be with her. But something was wrong; I could see a hint of panic in her face.

She slowed enough to say, "He knows," then walked on. That's when I noticed her husband, Ron, standing at the end of the hall with Mike, a mutual friend. My vision narrowed and all thoughts fled into hiding except one: How was I going to survive this?

Mike approached me with a look of concern. "Ron asked me to come with him. He wants to talk to you." I managed a smile. "Sure. Let me take care of something in my office. I'll meet you in the conference room in 5 minutes."

Everything around me shifted to slightly out of focus as I slipped into my office and shut the door. There was no time to find Linda; no time to question her or to get our stories straight. My best chance, I thought, would be to find out exactly what her husband knew and simply deny everything else, hoping that Linda had not already confessed.

The two men were seated at the table when I walked into the conference room. Ron was on the verge of rage; Mike simply looked worried. The accusations started to flow and I felt my world begin to crumble. He knew too much. But was he guessing? Or did he really know? I just listened, trying to find an escape.

When it was my turn to speak, I attempted to present a confident denial, hoping to call his bluff. That's when he mentioned the video evidence. Video? How could he have video? It sounded like something he was making up. Besides, we had been too careful, hadn't we? I tried to deny the possibility, but as Ron described the content of the video, the facts became undeniable. I had put my hand in the cookie jar and he had the full-motion proof of it.

I was stunned. Silent. Now what?

"People are going to know about this," he told me. This news would likely hurt my career, since I held a high-profile position at a family-friendly company. But that wasn't my concern at the moment. I could only think of one thing: What would this news do to my family?

"Have you told Anne?" I asked them.

Both of these men knew my wife, but had said nothing to her. "Please let me tell her before you do anything else," I begged. Ron pointed a hard finger in my face. "You stay away from Linda." Mike simply looked at me with an expression of both accusation and pity as they left the room. In less than 30 minutes, my world had been turned on its head. I sat alone, attempting to make some sense it all... trying to predict what might happen next.

My life was officially fucked up.

I finally picked up the phone and called home. Anne answered. I hesitated, then said, "We need to talk."

My Wife Finds Out

Anne sat across the kitchen table. I could tell she was concerned, maybe even frightened. I'd called to tell her I had something important to talk about and had made arrangements for the children to be gone. Whatever she was about to hear, she knew it was going to be big.

I can't remember a word I said, but somehow I managed to tell the main details of my affair: who was involved, what we had done, and how long it had been going on. What I do remember was my complete lack of feeling. I sat there, watching my wife's worry turn to confusion, then sorrow, then rage. Through her turn of emotions, I felt nothing. Nothing.

I remember thinking, "You should be showing some emotions. Make yourself feel!" For her sake, I wanted to feel something--anything to show that her pain hurt me; that I was sorry for what I had done. But no feeling came and no tear fell from my eyes. All I felt was numbness.

I probably felt nothing because I was not truly sorry. My confession came out of necessity: I had been caught in an affair and had to break the news to her before she heard it from anyone else. She deserved at least that much. But what I was sorry for was that I had been caught and that there would be consequences. I had not reached a place of genuine sorrow over the affair. That kind of sorrow would have led me to end the affair even without being caught. That kind of sorrow would have looked different, and it would have been more deserving of trust. The truth is, even as I sat there making my confession to Anne, I thought of Linda.

When I finished talking, I endured Anne's rage for a while. She needed to express it and I deserved receiving it.

She finally told me to leave the house--to get away so she could think. I packed some things, called a friend, and left to spend a few days away from home. As family and friends heard the news, I was asked to explain what had happened and what I was going to do next. I had no idea, but ended up telling people what they wanted to hear: I loved my wife; I loved my children; I wanted to put our family back together again.

All that was true, but it was only part of the truth. Another part of the truth--the part I kept hidden--was that I was grieving the loss of Linda and wasn't sure I could keep from seeing her again.

No Contact

Linda, the woman with whom I'd had an affair, immediately quit her job and I lost all contact with her for a while. Any knowledge of her location or the state of her marriage were kept from me. (I later learned that she temporarily lived with friends while her husband filed for divorce.)

I know I deserved little sympathy, but it might have helped if people tried to understand the desperation I was feeling. Yes, I brought it on myself. Yes, I was acting recklessly and selfishly. But even though I understood those things on a cognitive level, my heart was breaking. I was being torn between my desire to salvage my marriage and my longing to be with Linda again. This inner conflict drove me to tears, anger, and depression.

It was good that Ann, my wife, didn't see all of this inner turmoil (although she did see some); it would have hurt her even more. When I said I wanted to put my family back together, I was telling the truth. And yet, I had let another woman hold my heart... hold my body... and I didn't know how to reclaim them again.

This is why the NO CONTACT rule is so important if a marriage is to have any chance of surviving an affair. This is especially true when the affair involves emotional attachment. I am convinced that a couple who is caught in an emotional affair (whether or not it also includes sex) will almost certainly renew their relationship at the first opportunity. There is simply too much power there. It might require some drastic decisions to help assure that contact is severed, but I believe it is necessary (although the cheating spouse will no doubt try to downplay the need for this).

It was helpful to not know how to contact Linda. For all I knew, she had left the city and had no interest in seeing me again. In time, I think, the power of my ties to her would have diminished.

The Betrayed Wife’s Pain

I had never witness such pain, despair, sorrow, and rage in my wife, but with the knowledge of my affair, these poured out on me in waves.

I wish I could have been strong enough to stand against them. I wish I could have supported Anne. But I was damaged, too. Neither of us could give what the other needed, so we withheld ourselves. Anne was never sure she would have my devotion again. I was never sure I would have her forgiveness.

Our attempts at reconciliation were too weak and always out of sync. I had the sense that my failure would always be held against me and believed there was nothing on which to hang hope. She probably believed the same. The longings I experienced before the affair--wanting to be appreciated and loved--returned with even greater urgency. If all Anne could offer me was accusation, I wasn't interested. After a couple months of constant conflict, she asked me to move out. At that point, I simply wanted to run back to a place of comfort. I wanted to be with Linda again.

Secrets All Around Me

News about my affair quickly became public. One thing that utterly surprised me was the number of men (many of whom I'd known for years) who came to me privately, telling me about their own affairs. Some affairs were in the past; some were in the present. Some had never been confessed, even to their wives. I could not believe how many stories I heard.

They didn't come to me for help--my own brokenness prohibited that--but perhaps to encourage me in some way (You're not alone!), or perhaps because they knew I provided a safe place to lay their burdens. And if so many men were willing to tell me, how many others kept their secrets?

Affairs seemed to be much more common than I would have previously imagined and I've since learned to not be surprised when hearing that "the last person you'd expect" was involved in one.

A lot of men have affairs. In some places, people still judge that with unique severely, condemning the whole man for his act of infidelity. From personal experience, I can tell you it is very difficult to realize your whole character has been redefined by your affair. It's like wearing the scarlet A. But whether or not a man has committed adultery is not the final measure of the kind of man he is.

I don't excuse my affair. It's a choice that could have been avoided. Certainly, there are many good men who have never cheated on their wives. But there are also bad men who have never cheated, and good men who have. It is unfair and unhelpful to villainize them for the mistake they made.

My choices hurt a lot of people. But there were reasons why this happened and it would have been more beneficial if patient people had worked at understanding rather than trying to make sure I felt the full weight of my sin. Eventually, a man like me will bring upon himself more punishment than anyone else could inflict.

Back to the Other Woman

It had been over 2 months since my affair was uncovered. Because I had a very public position in a well-known company, the news spread quickly and widely, changing with each new telling. The simple truth of my story should have been interesting enough for gossip circles, but each version that came back to me included its own unique embellishments. I was accused of leaving the state, fathering other children, having multiple affairs, and even stealing money from the company. I constantly wondered what people had heard--what they believed about me.

My shame made it difficult to face the "outside world." The simple act of going to the store became an emotionally draining event. Even the people in my social circle weren't sure how to act around me anymore. Many of them didn't know what to say and may have been afraid of having to take sides in the conflict of my marriage. The scandal presented a problem for my employer, a family-friendly company. Honestly, I had no interest in working there anymore. We were all uncomfortable. When they offered me a 3-month severance package, I accepted it.

My wife, Anne, remained hurt and angry. I did not deserve grace or forgiveness from her, but I wished for it. A deep part of me wanted my marriage to survive. I wanted to believe I could love my wife again, but our constant fighting kept pushing us apart. If there had been no emotional ties to Linda, perhaps I could have stood strong through all this. Maybe I could have endured months or years of Anne's anger and unforgiveness. Maybe I could have held on until my public shame diminished. Maybe I could have hoped in something better for my family. But my heart was still pulled toward Linda and I did not know how to quickly sever the ties.

Smart people, who understood the power of this kind of relationship, worked to keep us apart. I had not seen or heard from her during all this time. The details of her circumstances were kept from me so that I would not be tempted to contact her again. With time, I think, it would have become easier to let go of these feelings. But time never had its chance.

During a conversation with a former coworker, he inadvertently mentioned the name of the family with whom Linda had been staying. He did not even realize what he had done. In that instant, I had been given two dangerous facts: (1) Linda was not living with her husband, and (2) she was staying in a home less than a mile from mine. If an affair is like an addiction, I had just been told where to get my next fix.

The urge to reconnect with Linda grew with new strength. A silent but terrible battle raged in me... wanting two things... afraid to move toward either one. I finally made a choice.

A few days after learning of her location, I called the house. Linda answered. We talked and then met. The affair was rekindled. For the next 18 months, we would swing back and forth between heaven and hell.

Pulled in Two Directions

During those 18 months, I lived between two choices. I could end the affair and try to salvage my marriage, or I could end my marriage to Anne and try to build a new life with Linda. If this decision had been merely cognitive--if simply deciding something could have been the end of the matter--then I have no doubt the affair would have ended. Such simple choices may have been possible at the beginning, before I crossed the line into the affair. But once my heart was involved, emotions became entangled with my will and choices were conflicted.

I was not a helpless victim. My turmoil was a consequence of choices I had made. But regardless of how I got there, I found myself in a place where I was constantly being pulled in two directions. If I could have flipped a switch to turn off my emotional and physical desires for Linda, I think would have done it. But I couldn't switch them off. I didn't know how. I couldn't "just say no" and forget about her.

I tried. I "ended" things with Linda many times, but always came back to her again. What were the things that pulled me in both directions?

What Pulled Me to My Family

• My children. My strongest motivation during these times was the love I had for my them. Yes, yes... I've heard the accusations--How could you really love your children and stay in the affair?!--and I have no easy answers for that. I didn't love them as well as I should have, but I did love them deeply. Thoughts of my children were what led me most often to tears and anguish.
• A sense of duty. I'd always believed in the permanence of marriage.
• A sense of shame. Other people's opinions had always been important to me--too important, many times. I sometimes made choices based on what I thought other people wanted rather than what I really wanted. In this matter, I did not want my friends and family to view me as the one who finally ended the marriage. I wanted them to believe I was trying (even during the times I truly was not).
• A faint hope. I no longer loved my wife, but I'd heard stories of couples at the edge of ruin who somehow found their way back together. Men who believed they could never love their wives again were able to rediscover their passion for them. To be honest, most of these accounts were in books I read, not in experiences of people I actually knew. But there was still a small part of me that clung to the possibility that Anne and I could eventually come out of this with a renewed love.

What Pulled Me to Linda

• Affirmation. Even before the affair began, Linda made me feel appreciated and valued.
• Connection. I experienced a kind of "chemistry" with Linda that was unique. I could talk and laugh and dream with her in ways I had not been able to do with my wife. Of course, I realize now that we never experienced REAL LIFE together. We never moved in together or shared the long-term, everyday ups & downs that bring a sense of reality to a relationship. When our relationship was "on," it was like living in a wonderful fantasy.
• Comfort. When I spent time with my wife, I only experienced her unresolved pain and hurt turning into anger and accusation. This may have been what I deserved, but it was hard to embrace it when Linda offered the opposite. I realize this is a comparison that my wife didn't deserve. It would have been very hard for her to win in these circumstances. But I was drawn to where there was peace.
• Sex. As I've written before, I had never experienced the kind of sexual freedom and passion that I shared with Linda. She enjoyed sex and pursued it as much as I. This was new to me and it held a lot of power in the binding of our relationship.

But I couldn't stand in the middle forever; there was no balance there. The world in which we all lived was spinning more and more out of control. Something had to give.

My Children, My Affair

This is the one thing I can hardly write about. I had been a creative father, loving my children and building a family full of good memories. My affair confused and hurt them. I became a father so different from the one they'd always known. No matter how well everything else might eventually turn out, I cannot deny the pain I caused them. They were witness to my lies and my leaving. Their lives were changed.

I have had to work through different issues with each of the children. Through it all, they keep loving me; they keep forgiving me. In return, I have become a father who is quick to offer grace when they stumble. In some ways, our trials made us stronger. But my children lost times of joy and innocence that I can never give back, and they were injured. When I see their scars, I ache, knowing that most of those marks came from wounds inflicted by someone who should have loved them better.

Dreams and Dumpsters

For a year and a half, after stepping back into the affair with Linda, I constantly wavered between wanting her and wanting my family. I was no longer living at home (my wife, Anne, had asked me to move out) and so had more opportunities to be with Linda. Anne suspected I was seeing Linda again, but I continued to lie about the extent of our relationship. I was still unsettled in my feelings about my marriage. I wasn't quite ready to burn all my bridges.

With Linda, I was always honest. She knew I struggled with leaving my family, especially my children. We talked quite a bit about the future of our relationship and tried to be optimistic about the possibilities, but I often confessed doubt as to whether my children or my parents would ever truly accept her. There were periods when I stopped seeing Linda while attempting to mend things with my family. But my encounters with Anne always ended up being ugly. Her trust in me had been so broken that even when I was truly trying to get it right, she doubted my intent. Sometimes, Linda simply waited for me to come back. Sometimes, she actively pursued me. Either way, I inevitably ended up at her door again.

Trying to hold on to Linda and my family at the same time couldn't work. They were moving in opposite directions. I knew I'd eventually have to make a choice, but I didn't want to face the pain of letting go of either one. In my indecision, I began to lose both.

The split between Anne and me continued to widen and deepen until it became a chasm. We tried to cross it. Anne took tentative steps and so did I, but never at the same time. It seemed that whenever one of us was reaching, the other was pushing away.

Linda, who had always encouraged me to be more hopeful about our chance of a life together, began to doubt that I would ever be able to make a commitment to her. We started talking more about what her life might look like without me. For months, we discussed this, and finally concluded that we should stop seeing each other. One afternoon, we said our goodbyes and then she left. There was a feeling of finality that had never been there before.

I searched through all my possessions, gathered up every reminder of Linda (pictures, letters, cards, keys, gifts), and drove to Applebee's where I threw them into the trash. This was not an act of anger, but of sorrowful resolution. I believed my best hope for moving past the loss of Linda was to let go of everything that had been a link to her.

Our favorite stories tend to be the ones where we get what we wished for. I danced between two desires and lost both of them. Linda was gone and Anne filed for divorce. A couple more futile attempts were made at rescuing our marriage, but they didn't work. She blamed me... I blamed her... the attorneys did their thing... our marriage was over. Not a happy ending.

Two years previously, in that empty office where I dared to hint of my feelings for Linda, all I could see ahead of me was the hope for good things that might come from being with her. What if I could have had a glimpse of two years into the future? What if I could have felt just a little bit of the pain that would be poured out on all of us? What if I could have seen those dreams stuck to the bottom of an Applebee's dumpster?

But I'd made my choices. Now I had to find a way to move on, even if I was dragging along a big ol' bag full of unresolved issues. And so I did, until a seemingly normal event delivered a blow that stopped me dead in my tracks. We usually have to be hurt before we can be healed.

Brokenness

When I became a father, I couldn't stop imagining what life with my daughter would be like. I wondered how we would share all the important moments: first steps, first words, first day at school, boyfriends, birthdays, holidays, family vacations, driving, graduation, wedding.

The celebration of her sixteenth birthday wasn't quite what I'd imagined. I sat in a house that wasn't my home and tried to ignore the uncomfortableness of being in a room with former friends and in-laws. Even though my affair had ended nearly two years ago, there was still an awkwardness in many social settings. People who use to enjoy being around me weren't quite sure what they were suppose to say. I became an observer, watching as people moved in and out of rooms and conversations, and realized that I felt less like a family member and more like an invited guest. In years past, I would have been fully engaged in such a special event, injecting my own mix of creativity and surprises to create a special memory for my daughter. My responsibility this year was to bring the chips.

I left the party, but couldn't shake the feeling of loss and regret that had settled in me. As I drove home, I began to cry. I don't remember much else about that night. I welcomed sleep as an escape from my sadness, but I couldn't get away from it. When I woke in the morning, I was still crying. The tears turned to sobs--the deep kind of sobs that pounded at grief buried deep inside me.

It was nearly an hour before I could maintain even a little control. I reached for my phone and called Anne. Between sobs I managed to tell her how sorry I was for the promises I had broken, for the lies I had told, for the pain I had caused. My sorrow was genuine, coming from a deeper place than it had ever come before. Anne needed to be a witness to it. I knew it would help in her own healing.

This brokenness did not restore our marriage. Our lives and circumstances had separated enough to prohibit that, but it did clear the way for us to begin treating each other with respect, and even a kind of love, again. Anne is remarried now, but we enjoy a kind of unique friendship that I value. The pain of the affair and divorce will never be completely gone, but grace is able to cover so much.

Haunted by a Promise

Years before the affair, my two oldest children returned from grade school one afternoon and asked Anne and me a question that was obviously worrying them. "Will you ever get a divorce?"

"Why do you ask?" we wondered. They had never expressed this concern before.

My daughter answered, "Because Chrissa just told me her mom and dad are getting a divorce. Her dad's not living at her house anymore. Will you ever do that?"

They wanted assurance in the security of our family. They wanted to believe things would never change for us. We took them into the family room and they sat together on the couch. Anne and I kneeled in front of them and I said, "Look at me. Every family has problems. Moms and dads sometimes argue. Even your mom and dad sometimes get angry with each other, but we always forgive. I promise you that no matter what happens in this family, your mother and I will never get divorced. You don't have to worry about that."

I still flinch at the thought of that broken promise. It hurts more than the breaking of my marriage vows. When I said "I do" to Anne, she was an adult; at least some part of her understood that well-intended promises are sometimes broken. But the trust of my children was pure, untouched by betrayal. My words were a magical guarantee that they eagerly grasped and never asked the question again.

Perhaps it was a rash promise, given out of a sincere desire to assure my children. At the time it was spoken, I had no doubt that it was true. I was absolutely certain that nothing would break my marriage apart. That promise still occasionally haunts me.

In My Children’s Words

When my affair started, I believed I could control it... keep it private and undiscovered. I gave little thought to its effect on my children because I never expected them to know about it.

Even before they knew, however, my children were affected. They saw less of me. When I was with them, I was often distracted. I was pouring most of my emotional energy into Linda and my family got whatever was left. I understand that my affair was not directed at my children.

I did not intend to harm them, but the news of my affair was like a bomb, sending shrapnel into their hearts and minds. Subsequent conflicts between me and Anne continued to inflict wounds. Children are unintended victims.

Last year, I asked my children to tell me what they remembered about the affair and divorce. With permission, here are their words.

From my oldest child (daughter):

The memories I have of our family are the memories that make my heart ache because I long for just a moment of that back...

Some of my favorite "event memories" are: Family nights... the many evenings when the smell of moms supper filled the house while her music was playing, and I knew you would be coming home soon... just the feeling of when you did get home from work in the evenings.

I know it sounds funny, but I remember always being excited for the time when "dad got home from work." It just felt better knowing you where there.

I remember the stories you used to make up for me, that I would love. The holidays were so much better as a family... I know that during the years right after the affair I put on myself the burden of taking care of my younger brothers on the nights that my mom locked herself in her room and I would be left to play her role, figuring out supper and ways to entertain and keep their minds off the hell that was going around them. I remember I would always try to be the one who would make life a little better. I felt like it was my job...

Sometimes it's hard to be around families that have both a mother and father and not miss that. There have been a few times since the divorce that you have been over, and all of us have been playing games, talking, and just having a good time... but when you leave there is this sinking feeling I think in everyone because we know that the happiness we just had is how it was SUPPOSE to be, and we loved it that way.

From my middle child (son):

I never saw mom or you fight, so the thought never really entered into my mind that anything could happen between you. I remember going on a lot of trips with you and I loved those, and the times we went on vacation as a family were always fun... All the things I think of before the separation were good; I can't really remember anything bad...

When you and mom separated, I remember a lot of confusion. At times I didn't know whom to believe, because I would get different stories about what was going on from mom and you, and I wanted to believe you were both telling the truth. I remember how hurt I would get when I would come home and tell mom how you were doing good, but I could tell she never believed it, and sometimes she would tell me something I didn't know, and when that stuffed happened it really hurt and confused me... The worst was when yours and mom's stories didn't agree, and then you and mom found out about it and would argue in front of us, and start yelling at each other...

Something I never forgot was during the whole divorce process, it was my birthday, and all that happened was when I came home there was a card from mom and a book from you, and it made me feel really unappreciated at the time, like everyone was too busy with their own problems to worry about my birthday...

I believe I've just gotten used to the fact that my parents are divorced. It does worry me a little that I don't have parents that I can model my own marriage after, and I wonder if that will affect my marriage in any way, but I hope it doesn't. But the fact that my parents are divorced really isn't a big issue in my life right now... I try to look at the divorce now from a positive side. I feel that I grew so much in my faith during those years, far more than my friends did, and I also believe it has matured me a lot in ways.

I sometimes wonder, if I had never gone through this, that I might have ended up having an affair of my own, because I tend to struggle with the same things. But I don't see how I could ever do that now, because I know all the consequences...

From my youngest child (son):

When you and mom separated, I remember everybody crying, never knowing what was going on, you and mom always fighting, having pretty much one parent... It's stupid we all have to pay for something we didn't do, but that's what happens sometimes... I don't know if I have been affected and I don't know if I am different because of everything that happened. How would I know?

Was It Love?

One message I consistently heard from friends who wanted to distance me from my affair and help restore my marriage: "What you experienced wasn't really love." This opinion was also shared by the counselor with whom Anne and I met for a few months.

Had I simply become attached to Linda out of need? Had I become dependent on the powerful, sensual experience of a secret sexual relationship? Was it a form of addiction? Or did I love Linda?

Discussing the love between two people is always difficult because everyone tends to define love in their own terms. To those with a thinking perspective, love is primarily a choice they make--a commitment to someone. To those with a feeling perspective, love is a romantic desire or a passion that is often out of their control. To those with a biological perspective, love is sex. And to those with a spiritual perspective, love is a mysterious connection they discover with someone who is (or becomes) their soul mate.

My understanding of love is holistic--a mix of mind, emotion, spirit, and sexuality. The best kind of love, the kind we truly long for, includes a level of loyalty and integrity that allows trust to grow, experiences moments of romance and desire, and expresses itself in whatever forms of physical intimacy circumstances allow. And, yes, it is also wonderful and mysterious.

When I was first drawn to Linda, it was out of emotional need. It was too selfish to be genuine love. Once we became sexually involved, our encounters took on a new level of intimacy that felt like love, but we were both still motivated more by getting than by giving. When I later returned to Linda, however, the relationship started to grow in new directions. I began to discover the depth of the qualities that had initially drawn me to her. I shifted from wanting to have Linda to wanting to give myself to her. I fell in love with Linda in ways I had never loved before. That is a danger of flirting with an affair: you never know whom you might begin to love.

I have not seen Linda since that last goodbye. She is remarried and has children. I don't know what she thinks of me... if she thinks of me... but for my part, I would be a liar if I ever denied the love I had for her. Yes, I understand the destruction it caused. Yes, I know my choices destroyed my marriage and, as I have already written, damaged my children and others around me. Those are my regrets. I also understand that some people want to hear me admit that it was all foolishness; that there was no measure of genuine love between Linda and me. But those are the people who need to see everything in black and white. Real life has many shades of gray.

I realize not every affair is held together by love. I also understand that just because someone feels like they're in love doesn't mean that they actually are. But during the two years I knew Linda, I did grow to love her.

Here's something you must realize: If you know a man who is in affair and he believes he is in love, the surest way to have him stop listening to you is to tell him he's not. He'll believe you don't know what you're talking about and will stop hearing your advice. It would have been so much easier for me to hear the counsel of someone who could have said to me, "Yes, I know you love Linda. Help me understand the way you love her, and let me help you think through the choices this love will force you to make." I would have talked. I would have listened.

If I Could Go Back

What if I had the chance to choose all over again? What if I had the opportunity to wind back the years and return to the day I first started working with Linda? And what if I could do this while retaining the memories of our affair? If I could face her in innocence while knowing all the passion and the pain I would experience if I chose to pursue her again, what would I do?

I have little doubt as to what my choice would be. If I could go back, I would not have an affair. I wouldn't even go close to the line.

But I'd like to think I would make other choices as well. Instead of just accepting the state of my marriage, I'd want to be more honest in dealing with its problems--no longer pretending my disappointments didn't exist--and work harder at understanding how I contributed to the condition of our relationship. I'd want to put more effort into salvaging my marriage instead of escaping from it. And if it could not be salvaged, I would end it in a more respectful way. My wife deserved that from me. And if I accept responsibility for the wellbeing of my children, I know they deserved more from me as well.

Pure romantics would damn duty for the sake of the heart, believing we should treasure the experiences of love whenever and wherever we find them, even if it requires secrecy and deceit. I have to admit, loving Linda felt wonderful, but our affair required me to live a dual life, and that is what began to destroy me.

I've learned that I need to ask myself an important question: Am I living authentically?

When my life lacks authenticity (genuineness, honesty, transparency, truthfulness, trust), I lose respect for myself and start becoming "undone" (a state of decline from whole, healthy living). When I violated my own moral values, I started living a life of contradiction that almost guaranteed an unsatisfying ending. Even when I tried to convince myself that my values had changed--that I no longer believed the affair was necessarily wrong--my lies and shame demonstrated a lack of true conviction. I'm not trying to preach. I'm just trying to tell the truth about myself. I can't change the choices I've already made, but I learn from them; I work at becoming more authentic; and I hope for love.

Words I Never Heard

Let me make this clear: I do not blame Anne for my affair. Sure, she shared responsibility for the problems of our marriage and would have had to acknowledge her part in order for us to put our marriage back together in a way that could have survived the aftermath of the affair. But the affair was not her fault. It was my choice when there were other choices that could have been made.

That choice, of course, caused significant damage to our marriage. In telling me what I ought to do next, most people had this advice: "You created this mess; now you have to clean it up." Well, yes, in regards to stopping the affair and cleaning up the aftermath, the responsibility was mine. But rebuilding our marriage was a different story. No matter who caused the damage, it would take both of us to rebuild our home. That was something I could not do alone.

Perhaps the majority of the work, especially immediately following the affair, should have been mine. Anne was in too much pain to be constructive, and I had to allow her the freedom to feel and express her hurt. But if we were to have any chance of survival, I needed something from her that I never received. Forgiveness.

I did not expect her to dismiss the affair--to somehow pretend like it had never happened. Healing required honesty, not denial. But what I needed to hear from my wife was something like this: "You have hurt me more deeply than I ever thought possible. You broke your promise and violated my trust. I need you to understand my pain and help me move through it. But I still love you. I still want you. If you will commit yourself to never seeing Linda again, and working with me to discover how we can make something better out of our marriage, then I will not hold this affair over your head. It will take time... it will take work... but I will give you a fresh start. I will forgive you."

I never heard words like that. Though they come from my imagination, they have enough power to bring tears to my eyes even now as I write them. How powerful would they have been if they had come from Anne in the months following her learning of my affair? Would they have drawn me back to my marriage? Back to her?

To be honest, I can't know for sure. But I do know this: words like that, if sincerely spoken, would have been more likely to impact me than anything else Anne could have said. My wife's forgiveness was not something I could require from her. I don't think any person caught in an affair can demand it from their spouse. It is a gift that some give, while others do not. Without it, though, the wounds of an affair are not likely to heal.

Rebelieving

Writing the story of my affair has been somewhat painful. Wounds have been exposed again, but I think there has been some fresh healing, too, and I am thankful for that. This is only one perspective of one story, but I've tried to tell it honestly, hoping others might learn something from it.

I have purposely said little about one factor in my life that also impacted the choices I made. Earlier I wrote: "I had also recently come to some conclusions about 'God issues' over which I had struggled for years, and was left feeling spiritually empty." I haven't said much about that simply because it was not the purpose of this blog. I was trying to explain my affair, not my faith.

The truth is, the condition of my faith helped contribute to the emptiness in me--the emptiness I tried to fill with Linda. But my faith continued to crumble and, eventually, I stopped believing. I lost belief in love, in loyalty, in friendships, in God. I lost belief in myself, too, finding it easier to focus on my failure--my "fall"--than on the potential of the man I was meant to be. I'm thankful for grace. I'm thankful for people who have given it to me through the past few years. My children have done this best of all.

I find myself growing again, embracing a new understanding of faith... a more authentic kind of faith. I've become a rebeliever.

Republished with the author's permission from Anatomy of My Affair.