Leaving the Door Open

I love this. I came across it through Upworthy on facebook. If you don't like facebook, you're using it wrong. Bored with your newsfeed? Like more interesting things. Your friends are boring you? Get new ones. Or, maybe, the fault isn't with your friends. But I'm being negative, I'm saying what's wrong with you and not what's wrong with me. There are many faults to choose from. That is one of the beautiful things about this piece. It's not about being right, or wrong, it's about being you, being honest about who you are and, hopefully, finding someone who will love you for that. And, until that happens, finding the courage to leave the door open. 

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

It started before we were married. I didn’t find out for three years. We were standing in the kitchen. She was leaning against the wall. I was over near the window, by the stove.

“How long have you been in love with him for?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Was it before we were married?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why did you go through with the wedding then?” I asked.

“What was I supposed to do? Everyone was already invited.”

She stared at the floor when she said it. There was no tone of regret or apology; there was no emotion at all. Her eyes were dark, her mind elsewhere. Still wondering, I suppose, how he could have done that to her. She had asked me that early, after the man she cheated on me with blamed her for all of it, saying that she had chased him down the stairs to his bedroom.

“How could he do that to me?” she asked.

“Are you seriously asking your husband how your boyfriend could treat you that way?”

“Yes,” she replied. “How could he do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s because he’s an asshole.”

The future I dreamed of, the children I was preparing for, with the person I trusted and loved enough to vow the rest of my life to, was gone. My past had to be rewritten. I was living with a stranger and building a life around lies. All my most insecure and paranoid thoughts, the ones she made me feel guilty and crazy for having, were the ones I should have been listening to.

Who was this person? Who was I for trusting her?

Something broke in me. I tried for a long time, too long, to convince myself that she wasn’t herself, in the things she did and said. Convince myself that if I could just reach her, touch her heart, make her jealous, make her feel anything, it might, I don’t know. . . I just wanted to see the person I fell in love with one more time.

The person I knew was the one I laughed with and shared the most intimate moments:  memories, thoughts and touches. A friend I comforted when she cried or screamed over problems within her family; who stood by me when my father was dying and who was right there when I turned around after I put his coffin into the hearse. If that person, that caring person, could hear what this person was saying in her voice with her appearance, let me tell you, she wouldn’t be happy, either.

Perhaps, she was right when she said I’m naïve. Perhaps, one day I’ll have the emotional distance to see it clearly. Or, I’ll turn it into a book and find the answers that way. It does feel like a story that insists on being told. A male version of Eat, Pray, Love. Cook, Read, Empathize.

I felt sorry for the husband when I read Eat, Pray, Love. He seemed inconsequential to the main character. If a man wrote a book about leaving his wife because he was bored and wanted to sleep with another woman and live the life of a wealthy backpacker he’d be called . . . unpleasant things. Especially if he tried to make his wife out to be the nasty one for not being more understanding about it. And if he called it a spiritual journey . . . well.

Perhaps, I’ll just do a blog entry and end it with a video that is in some small way related to what I’ve written. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

Feeling Strange

I've been feeling a little off since my last post about the emotional affair. It was so many years ago it shouldn’t matter, but it does. I know how alone I felt when going through it, so regardless of the difficulty it's important, as a writer, for me to share some of my experience—a little message in a bottle on a cyber sea. 

Still, I can hear my ex saying, "Why did you tell people about that? I don't want people to know about that." 

To which I would reply, "But you said there was nothing wrong with it and that it was my problem. So why would you care if anyone knew?" 

To which there would be no reply. 

Yes, we did have a similar conversation about another incident with another man and that's where I'm getting it from.

We all make mistakes and do things we would rather not have other people know about. That's normal. And when we do those things we admit our mistake and turn to our friends and say, "Don't say anything." And if it's a serious matter, and they're good friends, it will remain in confidence. If it's just something that is horrendously embarrassing, well, then you’re screwed. The better the friend, and the more embarrassing the incident, the faster the story will make the rounds. It keeps us humble. 

I also tend to agree with what John Travolta's character, Vincent, said to Samuel L. Jackson's character, Jules, in Pulp Fiction, "Jules, did you ever hear the philosophy that once a man admits that he's wrong that he is immediately forgiven for all wrong doings?"

Assuming, of course, that the admission is sincere and the penance is made. But that doesn't apply here, since, there was no admission of wrong doing. 

So, I think of what Anne Lamott said in her brilliant book on writing, Bird by Bird, "You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."


I try to find the courage to do just that. 

Emotional Affair

I read this article on emotional affairs that I wanted to share, because of my own experiences with one and the devastation it caused and the lingering hurt and mistrust.

The flesh is weak, but the heart, the heart is a whole other matter.

When I was in college I was in a long distance relationship for a while. She was, is, a wonderful person. One time when I was up visiting her, we had had a wonderful weekend and when I was about to go she broke down crying and said that she had been unfaithful. It was one night, she was drunk, and she clearly felt bad about it, and, most importantly, her heart was in our relationship not with the other person. I was more touched by the amount of regret and emotion she showed me than anything. Her honesty was overwhelming. All was forgiven.

With my ex-wife's emotional affair, the lies never stopped. It went on for over a year and it was "intense" in her words. She was in constant contact with him, even when we were on vacation, she spent at least two nights in bed with him (but says nothing happen) when I was out of town working and she kissed him, at least once, after the first night in bed with him. This is what I know for certain. She said she thought he was her soul-mate. He turned out to be an ass. There's more, and worse, but you that's good for now.

The thing is, she's never felt that she did anything wrong. Worse than your spouse having an affair, betraying you, you having to feel that pain and confusion, is them turning around and making it your issue. That will do your head in. And having your head messed with while feeling the pain of broken heart, that's wrong on all kinds of levels.

Having an emotional affair is very different than having a friend of the opposite sex, of which I have many, or even being attracted to a friend or co-worker. The emotional affair is on a whole other level. It's a betrayal. And it hurts, and it's okay that it hurts, if the heart and soul mean something to you then it should. It's not your issue. If your spouse isn't emotionally invested in you, or your relationship, at a level which your feelings matter to them, well that says a lot. Or, in hindsight, it should have.

Emotional Infidelity: Worse Than A Sexual Affair?

The Best, and Worst, St. Patrick's Day(s)

As St. Patrick Day approaches I think back over Paddy's Days gone-by, all the way back to marching around the school gymnasium, dressed all in green, in our mini St. Patrick's Day parade, at North Marysburgh elementary school. No beer at that one, not for the students anyway.

Then there was St. Pat's in college. In first year radio we were broke, so, we bought large, cheap, bottles of cider and filled the water cooler. Some people ate dog food and liked it, until they found out it was dog food then the person who tricked them into eating it had to run and hide. Again, I'm sorry.

Two St. Patrick's were spent at McVeigh's, Toronto's oldest Irish pub. Possibly three, were spent there, but I think the third was just a really good night in an Irish pub; I may never know for sure. One of the St. Patrick's Days, that I know was a St. Patricks Day, I got into an Irish Dance competition with a professional Irish dancer. I didn't mean to, and I didn't know she was a professional, but by the time I realised what was going on the whole bar was watching so I couldn't stop. My legs were burning so badly afterwards I couldn't climb the stairs to the upstairs bar. Two bars, two bands, one building, good times.

I've been working all day on the film script rewrite for Ed. Whenever I've worked on this project, or any of my projects before, I was always writing for my wife, and dreaming of the crib that would go into my office, when that time came. It felt strange today to not have that as my motivation. I guess it's because the script was written during the relationship, and rewritten and rewritten, and written again, that brought it all to mind. Not sure why I'm sharing this actually. But I am. And now I'm going to suck-it-up and get back to work.