Archive for May 2nd, 2008

There are at least a bazillion reasons I hate to admit what I’m about to admit, all but one having to do with a tragedy my family has been suffering, but it’s been two months today and time I got this out of the way and began to prepare to move through this crisis and ahead.

Ready for it? 

Miguel was right. (Read back a few posts if this doesn’t ring any bells. WordPress has changed format lately and I can’t be bothered to figure out the html for a link right now.)

No, not about anything having to do with life in Seychelles, me as a person, or life in general, being so clearly an ageist, sexist, racist bigot who probably beats his wife, but he did nail one thing … my husband had been “hitting something much younger”.

Yes, my dear Mark, the love of my life I’d left all other lives behind for, the kindest, most gentle and honest man I’d ever known, has been having an “affair” … if that’s the right term for banging some whore during lunch hours.

Home every night, calling six times a day just to say “hi”, fully engaged as a father and husband (if you catch the drift), giving no sign whatsoever that anything was amiss, his skills at duplicity were completely unsuspected, and his “confession”, delivered on what is Mother’s Day here, the 2nd of March, shocked me to my core.

The girl is from the slums of Antananarivo, Madagascar, and came to work in Seychelles because the pittance she makes here is many times what she could bring in in her own country. Of course, it’s also much easier to supplement her tiny wage at the factory that makes tin cans in a place where professional prostitutes are few and far between, so she’s done fairly well for herself. Having broken up one marriage already … and she’s still married to that poor slob …  she’s ready to move on to fresher … and, she hopes, richer … meat, and Mark must have given the impression of one tasty chop ready for the flame.

For Mark, being a long-term faithful husband set him up nicely for this, and since the factory he works in (they put tuna in those cans) is right next door and both companies share canteen facilities, easy pickings.

Mark will be 42 this year, so fits the profile of the aging male perfectly … not as young, fit or cute as he used to be, and in a relationship that has been solid and reliable for many, many years. In other words, totally impressed by and with no doubt in his mind … or much of anything else … that blow jobs are what life is all about.

I’m sure hers are impressive, as a pro’s would be, and that she is more than generous than I have been with them over the past decade. It’s been years since I would drop to my knees in an uncontrollable outbreak of passion or as a congratulatory gesture for some slight benevolence, but I well recall those days, and remember them fondly. They were not, however, the foundation of the love we developed … more like icing on the cake, if you can forgive that image, and with two kids and hours of hard work, there’s been less time for icing.

Bestowal of such favors limited over stolen moments can only have heightened the excitement, and Mark, being a man and therefore stupid, has actually confused this for love.

Yes, he’s chucked our family life and is now living in a dirt bag hole with his dirt bag whore and thinking that all that he has lost is worth it for the sex.

The kids, of course, are impacted, and having been the child of divorce myself I know how deep and permanent the effects of such betrayal and the processes that follow are. He insists they’ll adjust just fine … but, then he would have to, wouldn’t he? He doesn’t do well with taking on guilt or facing consequences — surprise, surprise.

I have been grieving. Not only was Mark, until the 2nd of March, considered my hero, the best husband in the world, wonderful father, and so on, I had also always been under the impression that he was my best friend, and I miss all those people he used to be.

Apparently, his body has been invaded by a pod person that rather looks like him, but who I otherwise don’t recognize at all. His trail now leaves lies, disloyalty and treachery,  and his chosen path is now trashy, tacky and common as muck.

Friends and family are stunned, and we are all sad … me for so many reasons, but everyone for the loss of the man we respected and admired. Even he has the good sense to be embarrassed by how far he has fallen, but seems to be compensated by her efforts to keep him inflated.

So, like so many other women whose husbands proved not to live up to their best or their brightest, whose honor ebbed when the ego took the hits all egos do with age, I now have to leave Mark to the life he has chosen. I doubt it will be rife with engaging conversation, shared visions for a greater future or long lasting, but it’s his life now, and I need to get on with mine. 

Being a writer and a blogger of material that often included personal experiences for a long time now, composing and posting this needs to be part of my healing process, a practice in catharsis. After a two-month break in a career of prolific writing, it seems I should give some idea to those of you who read me often and have been wondering where I’ve gone. I’m sure there are some who will take joy from my pain … there are a lot nasty people out there in Blogland … but perhaps there will be someone reading who’s riding in this boat, too, and needs to know they’re not alone.

My dear friend Lisa shared with me that there is a Hebrew term: soog bet. It translates to “damaged and inferior” and has to do with an innate shallowness in men that takes little to bring out.

Not that I ever thought I would have to admit this, but now Miguel and Mark share the designation … not just as men, but as soog bet. As I said at the top, it takes one to know one, and this one was well spotted.


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