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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Sleeping with the enemy
While I'm planning security for the IMF demonstrations, my husband is getting thrown in jail. He better not ask me for bail.
By Lisa Guide
[04/24/00]

Born to pop pills
I have a well-chosen capsule for every occasion.
By Elissa Schappell
[04/20/00]

Our town
The place I share with Timothy McVeigh.
By Mark Phillips
[04/19/00]

Baby barf rules
Take the hit, then reach for the tequila.
By Jonathan Kronstadt
[04/17/00]

Of football and flamenco
A coach's kids flee sports for the wussy arts.
By Kerry Madden-Lunsford
[04/14/00]

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There is a canned epistle of hope for virtually every episode of despair. Mostly they deal with relationships and breakups, but there are plenty of generic "I'll Always Be Your Friend Even Though Your Life Is an Incomprehensible Mess" ones to choose from. These are the kind of cards that arrive at my doorstep -- prepackaged missives designed to cover the vast landscape of life's tribulations in the vaguest language possible.

I'm not knocking these cards, mind you. In fact, I rather enjoy getting them. I've got quite a collection. There's a perverse gratification that comes from knowing that friends agree with my brooding assessment of my current circumstances. But I do have one complaint -- there is no card for my specific situation.

You see, after eight years of marriage, two children, one mortgage and a rather hapless attempt at pet ownership, my husband told me he is gay. Immediately thereafter he got a telephone-book-size listing of support groups and an entire community ready to embrace and congratulate him. I got nonspecific greeting cards promising me that the storm will soon pass and the clouds will lift.

I was sure I was alone in my ordeal. I convinced myself, selfishly perhaps, that the circumstances surrounding my marital breakup were unique. Research taught me otherwise: It happens that there are legions of reeling individuals out there, dealing with the emotional ramifications of discovering that the people with whom they planned to live happily ever after were harboring profound secrets and leading double lives.

I discovered my cohorts online. It was an eerie revelation. Their stories -- our stories -- are surprisingly similar, most often involving years of inexplicable neglect and intellectual dissembling followed by emotional chaos. We thought we were crazy, we were told over and over again by our spouses that our instincts were off the mark and then -- slam! -- we learned the truth.

These people, their stories, gave me purchase in a peculiar situation, something I couldn't find in traditional therapy. At first I simply lurked and cried out loud at the amazing parallels in our experiences. I read postings about "Gay Hubby's Excuses for No Sex" that were both agonizing and liberating. I read stories about how angry some gay spouses became when confronted with "The Question," and how helpless and withholding they could be with information and emotional support.

When I finally had the courage to post a message myself, I titled it "New to This" and briefly told my sorry tale. I was with my husband for 10 years, married for eight. He was my best friend and, for a short period of time, my lover. We had two children, a home and so much in common that most people assumed we were a perfect match.

But something was amiss. He became increasingly indifferent toward me, unaffectionate and quick to erupt in anger. My struggle with him was private and sensitive, a conflict between intimates in which one party refused to communicate honestly with the other. I had a nagging feeling, so went digging for answers myself, like an archaeologist searching for a lost city. That's when I unearthed the photographs -- homoerotic memoirs of my husband's sexual adventures prior to our marriage. I was paralyzed.

It took me a long time to mention the photographs to anyone, including my husband, because I so desperately did not want to believe what I thought they might be telling me. So I crawled into the cave of denial with him and stayed there for years.

Next page | He was finally free