Читать книгу The Gay Husband Checklist for Women Who Wonder - Bonnie Kaye - Страница 8
ОглавлениеOn September 17, 1982, my husband, Michael, packed two suitcases and stormed out of our home. His parting words were, “I’ll be staying with my family. I’ll be back next week to pick up the rest of my things.”
I watched him throw the luggage into the car and then pull away without turning back for a final glimpse. For a few minutes, I stared out the window, frozen in time. My mind came to a complete stop, but I was soon jolted by the screams of my three-month-old son, Alex. He sensed the tension that filled our home at that moment.
I picked up the baby, placed a bottle in his mouth, and started rocking him back and forth, cradled in my arms. I was too numb to cry, to talk, or even to whisper. I kept rocking the baby in a mechanical, steady rhythm, and I began to remember.
* * * * *
In the spring of 1978, my life was at its best point ever. At the age of twenty-seven, I was the director of a major political organization headquartered in New York City. My job was challenging and very exciting. During that year, I traveled to fifteen cities around the country, appeared on national and local television programs, and interviewed with dozens of magazines and newspapers. I moved to New York from my home in Philadelphia after a year of exhausting commuting.
My personal life had changed dramatically for the better that year. Nine months earlier, I ended a three-year marriage to my first husband, Brad, who suffered from severe depression and anxiety. It was difficult living with a man who was mentally deteriorating week by week in spite of the forced psychotherapy (at my insistence) and the daily doses of antidepressants.
Physically, I temporarily conquered a chronic obesity problem that plagued me since childhood. For the first time as an adult, I looked attractive and felt wonderful about my life. Living in New York had been my dream since childhood, and now I had a chance to live out that dream. My life was almost complete—a great job, wonderful friends, and a nice apartment. The only thing missing was a man.
My attitude about men was typical of other women who grew up in what I refer to as the “Cinderella Era.” I was born in 1951 when the social climate expected young women to marry shortly after high school or risk being labeled an “old maid.” As a child, I was inspired by the fairy tales with the “happily ever after” endings. I was a gawky, overweight teenager whose ultimate goal was to find a loving man who would fall deeply in love with me and take care of my emotional need of being loved unconditionally.
In my desperate attempts to find this love, I began repeating a pattern of entering into destructive and disastrous relationships. My low self-esteem made me an easy target for men who were the takers in life, not the givers. Even though my first marriage failed, and in spite of other previous bad experiences, I was determined to find my soul mate.
When Michael walked into my office in June of 1978 asking to volunteer some of his time to our organization, I sensed there was something special about him. His charismatic nature, comedic wit, and handsome looks intrigued me. He was six feet tall with a shapely muscular body, long chestnut brown hair, and dark green eyes. There was an air of mystery about him that attracted me even more. I invited him to join me for dinner, and he graciously accepted.
We dined in a popular restaurant on the Lower East Side of New York and exchanged our life stories. Before I realized it, three hours had passed and the restaurant was closing. I apologized for taking up so much of Michael’s time, but he said that it was the best evening he could ever remember.
As we parted, Michael promised to meet me at my office the next day after work. I went home thinking only of him. I had a strong premonition that this man would be my future husband. He had all of the qualities that I was looking for in a man—strength, intelligence, warmth, compassion, and humor.
Michael kept his word, and the following evening, appeared at my office. He offered to take me to a movie, but I was in the midst of a major advertising campaign and couldn’t spare the time. He stayed in the office, making himself useful by answering telephones and greeting other volunteers. By 11:00 p.m., we called it a night and settled for a late night cup of coffee.
Michael and I started spending our free moments together, and several days later, I began falling in love with him. I had always been a romantic, and I convinced myself that our meeting was more than chance—it was destiny. On an impulse, I agreed to move into Michael’s apartment four weeks later.
The idea of marriage came up in our early conversations, and once the words were spoken, it seemed to be the natural course to take. We picked a date three months later in September, and we quickly found a hotel for the affair. In the confusion of the wedding preparations, it was easy to overlook some of Michael’s imperfections that were becoming more apparent. There were some inconsistencies about his life that I questioned, but I accepted his explanations, wanting to believe him and not the voice of reason in my head that kept saying, “Be careful.”
For instance, shortly after we met, I visited Michael in his office. He was employed as an accountant for a small insurance firm. The mail clerk stopped by to chat with him, but Michael never introduced me. When I asked him why, he explained that the co-worker was gay and had a crush on him. Michael didn’t want to hurt the clerk’s feelings by telling him we were getting married. I thought this sounded strange, but I also knew that Michael was a compassionate person who cared about other people’s feelings. He told me it was nothing to worry about. After all, it was the clerk’s problem—he was the gay one, not Michael. I thought this was odd, but shrugged it off.
Over the next few weeks, Michael introduced me to his friends that he had had since childhood. They all seemed excited about our upcoming marriage; however, they unanimously displayed surprise. Several of them commented that they thought Michael would never get married. When I told Michael about these comments, he explained that he had always told his friends he was a “confirmed bachelor” until he met me. When I met the members of his family shortly afterwards, they acted equally surprised, but at the same time, they gave us their blessings.
Michael was a volunteer for a local organization that mentored teenagers who were at risk of dropping out of high school. There were usually four or five of these young men surrounding us who looked at Michael as their personal guru. All of them were from dysfunctional families. Some came from homes without a father, while others had parents who were unstable due to drug and alcohol addiction or mental illness.
Between Michael’s job and volunteering three times a week, and my twelve-hour workdays, we had little time to spend alone. There always seemed to be people surrounding us, but I convinced myself that this would change after we were married.
Three weeks before the wedding, my friend Zack called me at work and said it was important to talk to me privately. There was a sound of urgency in his voice, so I arranged to meet him later that morning. Zack told me he had a lengthy conversation with Michael the night before. He came to our apartment not knowing that I was still at work, and Michael invited him in for coffee. From the hour conversation they had, Zack believed Michael was “at least bisexual if not homosexual.” As soon as the word “homosexual” was spoken, my stomach tightened and my heart started to palpitate. I angrily told Zack that he was mistaken— there was no way Michael could be gay. We had spent numerous nights together making love. Zack meekly apologized for upsetting me but refused to change his story. I asked him what Michael had said that could possibly make him draw this mistaken conclusion. Zack replied that Michael directly told him that he had gay encounters in the past and claimed there was nothing wrong with it.
I wanted to forget this conversation, but I wondered how Michael could tell this to someone who was like a younger brother to me and a close friend. I called Michael at work and told him I wanted to meet him for dinner that night somewhere quiet because I had something I wanted to discuss with him. He sounded worried and repeatedly asked me what was wrong, but I assured him that it was nothing important. I tried to hide the anger in my voice, but he instinctively knew that I was upset. I didn’t want to forewarn Michael because I needed to see his facial expressions when I questioned him about his “confessions” to Zack.
Later that evening, we sat down to order dinner with the usual pleasantries, but now forced on my part. After ordering, I told Michael about my conversation with Zack and asked him for an explanation. His face became red and twisted with anger. He was so infuriated that I was afraid he would knock the table over. As I calmed him down, I told him that I wasn’t making accusations—I just wanted to know why he would give someone the impression that he was gay.
Michael responded by saying that Zack had started to talk to him about a sexual problem he was having with his girlfriend. Michael could see that Zack was troubled and suspected that the problem might be homosexuality. He didn’t want Zack to feel embarrassed, so to ease his discomfort and win his confidence, Michael told Zack that he, too, had engaged in homosexual experiences in the past. He said that he felt bad about “lying,” but he wanted Zack to feel that he could relate to his problem. Michael begged me not to repeat this to Zack because it would mean that he betrayed my friend’s confidence.
Even though the story was strange, I eagerly accepted Michael’s explanation. I was in love, and my wedding day was only a few weeks away. I was not about to risk losing him because of the sexual problems of my friend, and I dismissed Zack’s accusations. When Zack called me the next day, I thanked him and told him not to worry about it—everything was under control. We never discussed the conversation again, and Zack quietly disappeared from our lives.
Of course, once the thought of homosexuality was in my head, it was hard not to think about it, but I kept telling myself that I was being ridiculous. Over the years I had been friendly with a few gay men, and they certainly weren’t interested in women or marriage. Michael and I had sexual relations two or three times a week, and although he wasn’t an expert lover, he was typical of other men who didn’t know everything that pleased a woman. This didn’t indicate homosexuality—just inexperience.
Michael showed me pictures of women whom he recently dated, and he also had close women friends. Why would a gay man be involved with women? It didn’t add up, so I started to feel better. The fact that there was nothing effeminate about Michael also helped ease my fears. He physically appeared to be a man of strength and was nothing like the weak and fragile images associated with homosexuality. I erased these thoughts from my mind and replaced them with our upcoming marriage.
The wedding day took place three months after we met. We had 150 guests who joined us to celebrate. It was a beautiful event, and I felt hopeful that our future would be as wonderful as the wedding. Neither one of us had the energy to think about anything sexual that evening, but we promised to make up for it the next day.
We left for Florida the next morning for a seven-day honeymoon. I was thrilled to be away from the crowds of people that surrounded both of our lives, but specifically the young men Michael played “Big Brother” to who constantly interrupted our free time together with visits and phone calls. Although Michael’s volunteer commitment was officially two evenings a week and Sunday afternoon, some of the guys showed up almost every day. I asked Michael to limit these visits because we needed more private time alone, but he brushed me off by saying that I was “overreacting” or being “too possessive.”
Our vacation gave us time to talk and to know each other better. During one of those conversations, Michael said he had done some things in the past that he wasn’t proud of, but he did them to survive. I tried to get him to talk about these “things,” but he refused. My past was far from unblemished, so I disregarded his confessions and wrote them off to his unstable past. Michael was raised by parents who were not equipped to do so. His mother mentally and verbally berated him by calling him obscene names; his father physically abused him. That’s why he claimed to be so devoted to troubled youth—he had been one of them. These stories of abuse made me love Michael even more because when he told them, he seemed so vulnerable reflecting the pain he had grown up with.
Every evening during our week away, we made love before going to bed, no matter how tired we were. Michael kept saying that he wanted this to be a week we’d always remember, at least sexually. Sometimes he made sure that I was satisfied, but other times, he pleased himself only, leaving me frustrated. On those occasions, he consoled me by promising to “make it up to me next time.”
I have never been assertive sexually, and it was difficult to discuss my sexual needs. I felt it was humiliating to keep reminding Michael that sex was for two people’s pleasure, not just for one. In the beginning, Michael was a willing sex partner, but he made it clear that certain things about sex were unpleasant for him. He believed that a woman could be satisfied strictly by the act of intercourse. After our first few encounters left me frustrated, I cautiously explained my need for other ways of sexual stimulation. Michael became defensive, claiming that every woman he had sex with in the past was satisfied with his lovemaking. To give credibility to my point, I provided him with several popular books on the market about women’s sexual needs. He eventually conceded that each woman had different sexual desires when I read him selections to emphasize my point. After my campaign for sexual awareness, Michael tried to accommodate my needs at times, but he made it clear that he was doing it for me even though he didn’t enjoy it.
This attitude prevailed throughout our marriage and took most of the pleasure out of having sex. I felt as if our sex life was regulated by the “orgasm bank.” When Michael didn’t bother to satisfy me, he would always say he “owed me one.” This was balanced in his mind by the times he satisfied me, but was unable to reach an orgasm, which meant I “owed him one.” His debits always outweighed his credits, but I became tired of complaining and keeping score.
When we returned from Florida, I resigned from my job. The position required ten to twelve hours of work a day and extensive traveling. I didn’t want to start the marriage with those kinds of demands on my time. Although I firmly believed a new couple needed quality time alone together, Michael felt differently. His group members invaded our home almost every evening for hours. I tried to be patient and understanding, but I resented it. They made me feel uncomfortable, as though I was intruding in my own home with my own husband. When I told Michael that I wanted him to put an end to this chaos, he yelled at me, stating that I was acting “pushy and possessive.” I was constantly reminded that I was his wife—not his boss or mother.
I became depressed. We were living in a suburb of New York, far away from the friends I knew and the city that I loved. We moved there following the wedding because Michael started a new job, and this was a more convenient location. I felt an emptiness in my life when I left my job and friends, and the isolation only intensified the void. Overnight, I went from being a person of semi-celebrity status to the wife of a man I hardly knew. I remember walking in our door one day several weeks after our move and thinking to myself, “How did I get here? Six months ago I didn’t know this man and now he is my husband.” There were still the constant interruptions in our life, leaving little time to build a relationship.
I aired my view to Michael that a marriage needs time and work if it is to grow and survive. I went through a bitter divorce and knew how difficult marriage could be. Michael strongly disagreed—he believed that as long as two people loved each other, this was enough. I tried to win Michael over to my way of thinking, but he kept verbally beating me down with his tongue-lashings. I usually gave in just to keep the peace.
By the sixth month of marriage, our sex life deteriorated rapidly. I felt as though Michael were making love to me more out of obligation than desire. As the months wore on, the frequency continued to decrease. Our sexual activity was reduced to once or twice a month.
When the pattern of diminishing sex started, I spoke to Michael about it. He replied that we were no longer newlyweds, and that married couples don’t have sex all of the time. He suggested that something might be wrong with me—perhaps I was a “nymphomaniac.” I snapped back that wanting to make love with my husband two or three times a week did not classify me as a sex maniac, but Michael ignored my words. On several occasions, when I brought up our sex life, he became defensive, saying that his lack of interest was due to various pressures, such as financial problems. At other times, he lashed out at me, claiming that my pushiness was a “turn-off” to him. It was difficult for me to think that wanting to make love with my husband was “pushy,” but psychologically, his rejection took its toll on me. By the end of our first year of marriage, I learned to keep the thoughts about sex to myself, not wanting to turn Michael off more than he already was.
Between the lack of privacy in our home and the lack of intimacy in our bedroom, I became more depressed. Michael found quality time for everyone else in his life, from the members of his group to his family. Their problems always became his priorities. When I brought up the idea of marriage counseling, he refused to consider it. He claimed that if there were problems in our marriage, they were my problems. He was content in the marriage and didn’t need counseling.
At the end of our first year of marriage, we moved to an apartment closer to the city. The move seemed to do miracles for our marriage. Michael became attentive to me for the first time since our courtship, and I felt that our marriage was becoming solid. Our sex life didn’t improve, but I hoped that it would if given some time. “Don’t push,” I told myself. “It will happen on its own with time.” People often commented that the first year of marriage is the most difficult, and I was determined to make our second year a better one.
What really made me optimistic was the news I learned a week before our anniversary—I was pregnant! We were so excited, each for different reasons. Michael’s family life had been unstable and having children represented the security and sense of belonging that he wanted. Michael believed a child would be someone who belonged to him. He wanted the chance to give his own child the love and security he missed growing up.
I desperately wanted a child because I thought it would bond our marriage and give Michael the stability he needed. I thought that a baby would change Michael’s need for his group and instead allow him to focus his energies on his family.
Two months before the baby’s birth, I convinced Michael to move from New York to my hometown of Philadelphia. My family lived there, and I wanted to be near them when the baby arrived. This would be the first grandchild in our family, and I wanted my mother and younger sisters to be able to enjoy the baby. I also knew that a hundred-mile move would end the continuing intrusions we had from Michael’s youth group members.
For the next few months, I felt that my decision to get married paid off. Michael treated me with the love and affection that had attracted me to him when we first met. I knew how important the baby was to him because he was willing to uproot his life in New York and move away from all that was important to him. Part of his change in attitude for the better was also the fact that our sex life was non-existent during my pregnancy. I had some early complications, and we both decided not to take a chance of a miscarriage by any sexual stimulation. This took the pressure off Michael. When our daughter, Stephanie, was born in 1980, I felt our family was complete, and I was finally at peace.
Michael was a doting father from the first day. He would rush home after work to feed Stephanie and rock her to sleep in his arms singing lullabies. Michael went to bed early so he could take care of her 6:00 a.m. feedings before going to work. He carried her pictures everywhere and brought home a new toy every day for months.
Unfortunately, my false sense of security diminished as the months went on. Michael was overly gregarious, and within a short time, he became the local pied piper and attracted a small group of local troubled teenagers to mentor. Several of his New York members started coming in on Sunday mornings and stayed for the day, invading our new home. Once again, I started to feel like I was living in a teen-age youth center.
Michael made sure to distance the members of his group from me, forbidding them to tell me anything discussed during their sessions. If I asked them how the meetings went, they made it clear that they were not allowed to give any information to “outsiders.” They were polite, but made me feel unwelcome in my own home.
Michael’s new group consisted of adolescents in their late teens. They all had certain characteristics in common, such as a lack of self-confidence, unstable family lives, poor grades in school, no concrete future aspirations, and an unwavering state of devotion to Michael. I started to view this group as a mini-cult because Michael was involved in all decision-making in their lives. Even though Michael was an excellent mentor, it didn’t seem reasonable for them to be this dependent on their leader.
Some of the member’s families were annoyed because they seemed to have lost control over their own children. Michael wasn’t fazed by the criticisms. He justified it by stating that the parents were to blame for the problems that were there. He believed he was changing their lives in a positive direction because he was able to give them the care and guidance their parents didn’t give them. Part of Michael’s success was making these teens feel as though each one was the most important part of Michael’s life. He spent hours with each one, individually and in the group, talking about life, philosophy, and future career goals. The only thing he asked for in return was loyalty. Michael made the rules, and anyone who questioned them was immediately dismissed. When Michael dismissed a member of the group, the other members also had to turn their backs on him.
By the time of our second anniversary, our life was more chaotic than ever. Michael started a retail clothing business and used the group members to help him run it. Between the business and his volunteer work, our home was constantly overrun with intruders again. When they weren’t there in person, they were on the phone or in our discussions and arguments.
At times when my frustration became overwhelming, I would sob hysterically. Michael became alarmed and the daily visits would temporarily stop. But within a few days, they gradually started again always with some excuse of urgency. Before long, things were back to “abnormal.” I was not strong enough to give Michael an ultimatum. During our arguments, he was clear that if I made him choose between his life or our family life, our family life would lose. Michael claimed that he would never allow anyone to control his life or tell him what he could or couldn’t do. No one had that right, not even his wife. The fact that his activities controlled my life was no concern to him.
I tried to analyze Michael’s need for this adoration by others and concluded that he needed to overcome his own insecurities by elevating himself to a role that people admired and looked up to. I worked to overcompensate in our marriage by giving in to almost every demand, hoping that someday my love and acceptance would suffice. I was only kidding myself. On some level, I knew it was a losing battle, but I refused to accept it.
In the later part of our second year of our marriage, a young man, Jimmy, joined Michael’s group and became a constant visitor in our home. Even though he was almost 18 years old, he refused to make any decision in his life without consulting Michael. Jimmy scared me because his behavior was typical of the cult mentality. He had a glazed blank look in his eyes, and his speech pattern was monotone and deliberate. Michael was spending more time than usual with Jimmy and laughed at my warnings about his mental state. He bragged that since Jimmy joined the group, he left the delinquent crowd he had been part of and stopped taking drugs. When I pointed out that Jimmy had replaced this with an obsession for Michael, he shrugged it off and told me that I was imagining things. Jimmy gave me a very eerie feeling. There were days I would look out my window and see him standing there just staring. Michael blamed me claiming that I caused this by not allowing him in the house whenever he wanted to visit.
Four months after I started complaining about Jimmy, Michael started acting differently. After several nights of restless sleeping, pacing back and forth, and unresponsive conversation, I asked him what was bothering him. I assured Michael that he could discuss anything with me without my getting upset. He was still reluctant, but finally started to talk.
He told me that I was right about Jimmy and his obsession for Michael. He decided he had to do something because Jimmy had become much too dependent on him. I felt a strong sense of relief that Michael finally saw things from my perspective. I told him that the only logical solution was to ask Jimmy to leave the group. Michael said this was impossible to do. He started to list a number of reasons why, such as his concern that Jimmy would go back to drugs and destroy his life. He then casually threw in that something had happened between them during a “moment of weakness.” He kept on talking as if nothing out of the norm had been said, but I no longer heard the words he was speaking. I felt a strange fuzziness in my head as if someone had just hit me with a hard object. After that moment passed, I asked Michael what he meant by a “moment of weakness.” He refused to reveal any details, assuring me that it was nothing to get upset about. I asked the question again, but Michael told me that my imagination was playing tricks on me.
I stayed awake that night, trying to understand what was going on. If nothing had actually happened between them, then why was Michael so afraid to break his ties with Jimmy? He did tell me that he was afraid that Jimmy might go to his parents and they could “misinterpret” the story, making it into something that it wasn’t. He said that he had to keep seeing Jimmy because this was the only way he had some control over the situation.
I pieced together different incidents that made me uneasy during our marriage and a picture began to form. I remembered Michael’s statements about having to survive by doing unmentionable things he wasn’t proud of. He always quickly added that he did these acts as a teenager and only for money, so I didn’t dwell on it. Several times when we were having financial problems, Michael mentioned that he could earn money quickly by dancing in clubs. When he added that it would be an all-male club, I angrily told him it was out of the question. I assumed or maybe hoped this was what he alluded to in his past that he wasn’t proud of, but now I wasn’t so sure. Other hints started running through my mind.
When we lived in New York City, we often dined in a restaurant located in the gay section of Greenwich Village. Michael told me he spent a lot of time in this area when he was younger. Once we went to a movie theater in that neighborhood, and we were the only male-female couple there. All of the other patrons were men, and many of them were gay couples openly displaying affection. I felt uncomfortable there, especially when some of them were eyeing Michael up and down. When I expressed my discomfort, Michael said I was paranoid. After all, he was a married man and wore a wedding ring to prove it.
Michael pampered himself and looked into the mirror countless times, admiring his good looks. He often remarked that gay men would tell him how handsome he was, and if a gay man says it, you know it is true because they only complimented good-looking men. I thought this was odd, but I assumed his ego needed constant reassurance, and he was not fussy about the source of compliments.
Michael would throw “gay” into our conversations frequently, whether as a joke, an observation of a stranger, or a mocking imitation of the stereotypical movements of an effeminate male’s hands and walk. One day we passed a blond teenage boy riding a bicycle, and Michael explained that in the gay world, the boy would be called a “cutie pie.” He was annoyed when different coworkers occasionally asked him if he was gay, and he always let them know that he was a married man with a child. However, I remembered the famous quote about protesting too much. I started to feel that my daughter and I were a shield for his denials when someone made this accusation.
When I thought about all these things combined with my friend Zack’s warning before the marriage, I concluded that my husband had homosexual tendencies, and might, in fact, be “bisexual.”
The next day, I sat Michael down for a talk and stated that I thought he might be bisexual. I didn’t ask him directly because I knew he would lie. After the words were spoken, there was neither confirmation nor denial. I quickly added that I could accept that he had “bisexual tendencies.” In fact, if once every six months or so he had to go away for a few hours, and I would never have to find out about it, I could live with the situation. And if, by chance, I did find out, I only hoped it would be with a consenting adult and not a teenager. I had the situation all wrapped up neatly under acceptable terms that I could live with. I became sick to my stomach when I visualized Michael with another man, but I was counting on never finding out if it happened.
I understood very little about homosexuality. If I had known more, I would have realized how ridiculous and unrealistic my terms and conditions were. I should have considered that Michael’s approval of this plan was just a tactic to placate me while giving him the green light to continue cheating on me.
I also demanded that Jimmy be removed from our lives, no matter what the consequences were. It was Michael’s word against his, and who would believe an unstable teenager over a married man and father? Michael finally agreed, and I started to feel as if I could still hold the marriage together and survive emotionally. I also thought that my extreme generosity would make Michael love me more.
The next few months were calmer. Michael assured me that Jimmy was gone, and he made a sincere effort to keep the other group members out of our personal life. He moved their sessions out of our home and into the store we rented. This made my life much easier because the group had outgrown our home, and I was forced to leave it whenever the meetings took place. This put added strain on me, and made me feel like an outsider in my own home.
Michael started talking about having another child, claiming that a son would be the fulfillment of his lifetime dream and change his focus. He never explained what he meant by his “focus,” but I assumed that he meant he would cut down on the time he spent with his group and his “bisexual thoughts.” In my desperate attempts to make my marriage work, I manipulated our limited sexual activity to my most fertile days.
A month before our third anniversary, I conceived, but I had mixed feelings. After the initial excitement wore off, I didn’t feel the same sense of joy that I had with my first child. Early in the pregnancy, Michael became involved with someone he hired named John who was 19 years old. When I confronted him with my suspicions, he claimed once again that I was crazy and paranoid. By then, I was familiar with his behavior patterns and knew something was going on between them. When I watched Michael get dressed up and put on expensive cologne when he went out, I knew he was feeling an attraction.
On the evening of our third anniversary, Michael told me that he had to do something important and would be home shortly. I prepared a special dinner that sat warming in the oven until he quietly unlocked the door at 3:00 a.m. I was sitting on the living room couch staring blankly at the walls. I didn’t say a word while I listened to his explanation. Michael coldly stated that he was trying to find a place for John to stay because he had been kicked out of his house for doing drugs. Michael had the gall to blame me for his absence on our anniversary because I refused to allow John to stay with us.
Up until this point, I never threw the issue of homosexuality in Michael’s face, but now I found myself bringing it up in every argument. I distrusted him so much that I suspected him of doing wrong daily even when he wasn’t. I began watching the clock every time he left the house, calculating the minutes until he returned. I searched his pockets when he slept, hoping to find evidence to confirm my suspicions. I became a person totally alien even to myself. The worst part was knowing that I was too weak to do anything even if I did find proof.
What I originally saw as strength in Michael was a misconception. He used his strength to bully me, mentally beating me down through verbal abuse. He robbed me of my self-esteem that took years to build up by berating me privately and publicly. He kept telling me that without him, I could never survive alone, and eventually I started to believe that I was helpless. He criticized me daily, finding fault with my parenting skills, housekeeping, family, and friendships. I began to eat to compensate for my unhappiness, and as I gained weight, he said that my size was the cause of his lack of sexual interest. He repeated over and over that no man would ever love me as much as he did, and without him, I would be condemned to a life of loneliness.
I became a prisoner of my own insecurities. I was afraid to leave my home, fearing Michael would bring someone into my bed. Friends who had known me for years questioned what was happening to me. I told my family and closest friends about the problems, and although they were sympathetic, they didn’t really understand the situation or have any answers. Michael did his best to distance me from the people I was closest to at the time by starting fights with me in front of them and making them choose sides. My family and friends stopped coming over and instead met me away from home on those rare occasions when I left the house. Michael strongly warned me that he would leave if he ever found out that I discussed his secret with anyone. This included talking to a marriage counselor, even though I pleaded with him to go with me for help. He also threatened that he would not leave alone—he would take the children and I would never see them. With nowhere to turn and living with constant fear, I was left to deal with our problems alone.
When our son, Alex, was born in June of 1982, we were in a state of financial disaster. Our business was quickly going bankrupt, and there was virtually no cash flow coming in. This put additional strain on our marriage, making each day unbearable. I still had moments when strong feelings of love would surface, but they quickly faded underneath my stronger feelings of resentment and hatred. I also despised myself for being too weak to take any positive action. Michael and I had little communication except when we had to discuss something about the children or the business. Most of our conversations were in the form of an argument.
Our marriage had become one of existence—there was no tenderness, intimacy, laughter, or friendship. Our sex life was non-existent, which was fine with me. There was no way I could be aroused by a man who was making my life a living hell. I started to fantasize about ways to kill Michael because I didn’t see any way out of the marriage if he was alive. Although it is easy for others to judge a situation and say “walk away,” for the person living it day to day, it is never that simple.
Three months after Alex was born, and two weeks before our fourth anniversary, things came to a head. One evening when Michael went to sleep, I saw his wallet sitting on the kitchen table. There was a lined piece of paper conspicuously sticking out. I removed it. When I opened the paper, I saw it was a letter and my eyes immediately skipped down to the signature, which read, “Love, Jimmy.” As I went to the top, I read the words that gave me the proof I’d been waiting for. The letter stated that Jimmy still loved Michael even though he had chosen to stay in the marriage. There were two recent occasions mentioned when the two of them had been together even though Michael swore to me that he had never heard from Jimmy again.
After reading the letter, I ran to the bathroom to vomit. When I finished, I woke Michael up and confronted him with the letter. He became enraged and shouted that I had no business reading his private mail, and he was sick of my invasion of his privacy. I told him that I was not giving in this time. He could no longer continue to lie to me and expect me to accept it. He claimed nothing had happened between him and Jimmy, and their encounters had been only by chance. I wanted to believe him, but I could no longer live in a state of denial.
For the next two weeks, we fought constantly, calling each other terrible names and making terrible accusations. Finally, after one very heated argument, Michael packed his bags and left for New York. The marriage was over.
Michael returned a week later with his suitcases in hand, knocking at the door. He decided “to give me one more chance.” By this time, it was too late. During the one week of his absence, my mental strength had returned, and I told him that he was not welcome back. Michael was in shock and didn’t believe it. He asked me if I was willing to break up a family for my own selfish reasons, and I said, “Yes, yes, yes!”
