In some of my softer moments, when I’m feeling extreme empathy and compassion, I actually find myself feeling sorry for my husband.
That’s right. I said it. I feel sorry for my husband. I, the betrayed, actually pity the man who – while we were newlyweds – went to an ATM and withdrew money, so that he could share his body with another woman. (Because, let’s face it – nobody in their right mind would do that)
My quiet, well- mannered husband solicited a prostitute. I still have a difficult time processing this. No matter how many times I say it, it never gets easier to swallow.
Although it never really gets easier to digest, my perspective has changed. I no longer take this personally. This was a problem he and his insecurities caused – not me.
The day everything shifted for me is when I suddenly found myself realizing what kind of darkness my husband must’ve been carrying with him – for perhaps, maybe his whole life.
Only someone who was self-destructive and believed they were unworthy of good would behave in such a manner as he had. I began to cry – for a man who betrayed me, not because of his betrayal to me anymore, but the betrayal to himself.
Why else would you wait three decades to get married and start a family, to indulge in something so sinister?
Imagine I waited years to build this beautiful new home and get it decorated just how I want, every door facing, every wall hanging, all the walls painted with carefully selected coordinated palates. Then, one day I pour gasoline all over it, step outside, smoke a cigarette, and proceed to drop the lit cigarette next to it. Would this not be foolish if I wasn’t trying to intentionally set my home ablaze? I couldn’t rightfully expect my house to not burn after such a self-destructive act – knowing good and well that little cigarette could lead right back to my perfectly adorned home, destroying my dream in a matter of hours.
You’d say I never cherished the home, but what if – somewhere deep down – I felt like I was never worthy? Would that change what I did? No, but it changes the motive. Sometimes we do foolish and harmful things to other people not because we don’t love them, but our lack of self- love.
This is the way my eyes were finally opened. When I was able to visualize the entire picture and what has happened – not only then, but since then – given my husband’s behavior of consistency and love he has demonstrated in the years since his night with the prostitute, I know this to be true. He was a different man when we married.
Had he confessed 10 years ago what he did, we would not be together today. I would not have had my own battles that helped me to change my point of view. Thank God for my own mistakes that humbled me and taught me extremely difficult lessons. What blessings they’ve become.
It does feel sometimes like our lives burned to the ground, but the beauty is that what the devil intends for evil- God can use for His good, and we are rebuilding our home – satan be damned.
My husband slept with a prostitute, and yes – and I’ve made peace with that (pretty much 😉)