The Story of a Fall and the Rise

Author’s Note: I wrote this two and a half years ago, but am just releasing it now, a few weeks after the finalization of our divorce. A LOT has happened since then, for us and for the world. Another chapter for another day. This one is for all of you who may have wondered about the real story. For me, it’s a release of the truth, and an exhale, with a breath. Take it in, and let it go.

He cheated on me, in essence. But I loved him still. That was the beginning. To see that on the page is hard. I have kept our secret, his secret, for a very long time. Because I loved him. But now I realize that I love me too. I need to write the truth, my truth, to affirm this. You do not need all the eviscerating details. What is important, in order to understand me and my journey, is what happened overall. Because I am just as important as he is, both to the world and to myself. I finally decided to believe in that, which is why I am writing this. It is also why I left.

Less than a year. We were married for less than a year when I discovered his hidden truth. I discovered it, which is of the most importance. He did not bring it to me. A lie. Many lies, hidden from me. I was on a trip, and the rug was pulled by my inadvertent discovery on our mutual computer. I thought it couldn't be. He loved me, right? I had told him EVERYTHING. Good, bad, and the very ugly. I married him, thinking he loved me fully, in spite of my flaws and weaknesses. I had made myself so vulnerable, and loved him unconditionally. We had already faced a number of large challenges, and were facing them still.

But it was all built on a lie, a side of him he confessed that he had hoped that I would never discover. A side of himself he was at odds with. Because of this struggle and denial, he never wanted to bring it into the light. It wasn't the actual secret that stung the most. We all have our skeletons, our demons, our closets, and baskets full of shit. It was the decision to not share an entire side of himself with me. It was the decision to marry me with this side hidden. It was keeping this even more hidden when we had intimacy issues and sought professional help. It was having gone through counseling feeling like I was the messed up one, psychologically speaking. 

And now, with the truth scathingly coming across my table, it was the gut-wrenching, sickening decision I was to make amidst an awful conundrum. It was the very worst feeling of betrayal and being stuck. I still loved him, flaws and all. But how could I go on now knowing he could keep HUGE lies at bay and knowingly build a life around it? Deceive me and then tell me he loved me? Go to bed next to me? Work on problems and let me think that I am an equal part, but know deep down that it is he who is not facing himself? I was devastated, to say the very least. I had already been through a failed marriage. How could he do this to me, knowing that? But I couldn't leave. Because I had committed myself to this, to him. But to what? A lie. Many lies. A life built on them, around them. And who knew how many more would come.

But I stuck around. For love. For not giving up. For believing in the best of something. Because I loved him and the he that even he could not see, I think. Maybe I shouldn't have. But I did. And I couldn't see a better way through it than through. It was either giving up on love or sacrificing myself. I remember saying this out loud to him, over the phone, as I was sitting in a pullout on the way down from Hurricane Ridge. It was unfair, impossible, no way out for me. None that could be me winning. So I didn't move. I couldn’t see what else to do. It had caused me damage either way. So I let time do its thing. And, deep down, below the pain that I pushed down, down, down, I hoped.  

When I got home, we separated, in-house. He was respectful, but didn't know what to do. So he did nothing. Something I was already accustomed to from previous challenges. After a time of this, I couldn't stand doing nothing any longer, so I went searching for a way through. I found some professional advice and some self-help material, sat him down, and we talked. We read together and he, thankfully, seemed up to the challenge of facing himself, his lies, and his missteps. We worked. He even went for help, as advised by the books. I was hopeful.

We grew together, in a way. We grew close, as friends. But intimacy was an ongoing hurdle and struggle. We thought it could heal in time, and with effort. But effort is a two-way thing in love. I could have, maybe should have, thrown in the towel many times, acknowledging this. But I had always been the driver, the pusher. So I figured he would bring up the rear, eventually. Plus, he put up with me, my crazy thoughts, dreams, ideas, and adventures. Now, I can see, as much as it was "supportive," it was probably support largely fueled by guilt as much as "love." I think I knew this, even at the time, but I was unwilling to admit it to myself or to him, to see it for what it was, out of fear it would go away. I would lose "support." Or maybe I did not care. Because these crazy dreams, these crazy things, were all I had left. And Ranger, of course. Eventually, Atlas. Then Winston. My kids. My meaning. My purpose. But he was still my purpose as well. I loved him.  

We moved, hoping for renewal with change. We faced new challenges, but it was the old that was never fixed. He made promises to try, as he continually had from the beginning; but these attempts would flare, then go dark, each attempt at fixing or rekindling. I continually felt, over the years, never enough. He was okay just existing alongside me. But I was a tea kettle, inevitably going off at some point. It was always me, bringing up our unresolved rift. But from the outside looking in, we were okay. We were good at being "friends." Roommates. We had no physical relationship for years. Literally, for over half of our marriage.

We moved again. This time, into another house of our own, where the horses could be as well. A mountain of new challenges, personally and professionally. But at least I had my babies close. At least I had something to hold onto, to hug, to love me for real. We sought counseling again, this time with an interest in resolving our unresolved issues once and for all, if we could. We were nearing exhaustion, I was nearing exhaustion, of promises not kept, attempts not made, a one-sided life I had sadly gotten used to but had realized was making me die inside.

Outside romance was sickening. Movies were dead. Things I once loved no longer held magic. All I had were my babies and my crazy dreams, goals, and ambitions. And they were a constant roller coaster of inadequacy and trial. I made sickening, gut-wrenching decisions, financially, because I could see no other way but through, taking the risk, because it was the only way I felt I could tell myself I mattered. Because I mattered so little to the one I should have mattered to. And it was a mixed messy pot of convoluted meaning that went something like this in my head and to the outside world: of course I mattered, because he had the day job that was paying for my fiascos and my craziness. So, of course, he cared. Of course he loved me. So, why didn't I feel loved?

We were in counseling. Then, we adopted another pup kiddo, who was meant to be for him, first and foremost. The other three were clearly "mine," so I figured it would only be right to make this be his primary decision. I encouraged, pushed a bit as I always found I had to with anything new. But he seemed more than on board, going to meet the pup, and bringing him home. All seemed to be going okay, even with the added stress of a new little puppy. The world went a little nuts, sure. But we had our family at least. Then, post Christmas, early spring, our world fell apart. Again.

2017. Six years. I spent six years trying to fix us. To get us over and through. Over half of that, literally almost all six, was spent celibate, waiting for him to face his own personal challenges and for us to work through our intimacy issues. I loved him. He was and is a good man. I think I believed that even more than he did. Why else had I stuck it out? We were partners, best friends. He was my other half. I moved, he moved. But there was something always off. Certain things we never quite clicked in.

The obvious, our relationship, of course. But also with my dreams and crazy things. He entertained me with "supporting" me, and them, but never truly believed, I think, even up til this day. Or at least he only believed up to what he inherently could allow himself to as a realist. Maybe, in this way, he never believed in us. I don't know. 

But I do know the pain. The gut-wrenching pain. Of discovery. Awful discovery. Awful.

Awful.

A second time, six years later. The same lie. A relapse. But again, it wasn't the cheating or the secret. It was, but it wasn't. It was the lie. The deceit. The six years of a 10-year life and relationship that had already been tainted by lies from the beginning, that I tried and tried and died to fix anyway. It was loving him so much and what he was underneath but then not understanding how this couldn't be both ways.  

If he loved me the same, why wouldn't he have done anything to fix us? This, I could never understand over the years, but especially now. If he had loved me enough, why hadn't he come to me in light of his own temptation or weakness in the matter? Was I that threatening? I thought not. I thought I made it clear, over six whole years, just how much I was willing to do for us. How much I was willing to sacrifice.

And then it hit me. How much I had sacrificed. For someone I was beginning to suspect didn't feel the same. Not intentionally...or I hoped. But all the same, I had given myself up, all my wants, needs, desires, in love and otherwise, for someone who was either unwilling or unable to reciprocate. So the hard question became more about love than deception. Deception was hard enough to get around, but love was impossible to ignore. Do you love me? Seems simple enough. But it wasn't. Because the question then became, what is love?

For me, it was and is doing whatever it takes - whatever it takes - for the one you love, to mend, to make happy, to breathe. It is "you move, I move" in its truest. It is self-sacrifice, something I now know about all too well. But it is also about knowing yourself and knowing what you want out of life and from the other person. What we discovered, through the deepest of conversations, is that he does not know this. We operate differently. He is and always has been on another wavelength. He thought he loved me. But then he admitted he never really knew what it meant, what loving someone meant. So then it led to the admission that maybe he never did love me, not in the way I wanted or needed.

The rug, again.

The truth hurt. That truth most of all. Because that I could not fix. I could not make someone love me, not the way I wanted or needed. They had to feel that, to want that, to need that. That was the whole point.

Took me a while to get there, that I deserved that. The kind of love that everyone deserves. I had love. But not true love. I had bits and pieces and fragments. I had chopped up love. I had friendly love. But then even true friends don't knowingly deceive and hurt. I didn't know what I had.

I was stuck in a life that never existed. I was stuck in a lie and had based everything around that. I had sacrificed a paying career because I had wanted out, yes; I had wanted freedom to pursue my "crazy" dreams; but I did so thinking I had support for the long haul. I got horses, I built a life, we bought a farm...but none of it was real.  

Well, the horses definitely were. And they weren't going anywhere. But it was a dream life built on a nonexistent frame.

I went numb. I dulled out. I was empty and alone. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn't see any light. I almost mourned. But couldn't. I plowed on. I had started down some roads, so I tried to keep on going. I had no contribution, so I tried. I couldn't see the light, not yet. I wrote a song. And I died. Then I woke up.

When it was right, I woke up. But only when it was time. I was still stuck, but I saw glimmers, every now and again. I made stupid, crazy decisions, taking hard chances, right or wrong. It was for the message as much as for the dream. For once, I was telling myself I was putting myself first, un-consulted, unadvised. But it was doubly hard. I flew to California to record music on a dream mission, alone. A dream mission that I never wanted to be alone on. But I was determined.

The world did not explode, in good or in bad ways. Sadly, a star was not born overnight. But I kept going. Colorado for a chance. I had also started a business. And I found another pup child. My sweet Aurelia. My love. Somehow, she found me. I kept on.

I realized that, to move onward, I would have to move onward. This realization did not come easily. It meant parting ways with what was "easy." I say that in quotes because nothing about any of this was easy. We were living a pseudo life. But we had it down to an art. Living together, but not. Living around each other. Being civil. He went to work, I paid the bills (with what he made, mostly), I got groceries, made dinner, kept up the farm, the horses, the dogs. But it was driving me mad. It was oppressive, unbearable. The spokens, the unspokens. He was okay just existing. That made it even worse. And here I was, trying to make a life out of creative endeavors, all under extreme pressure because of what I had given up based on a lie. How do you do that in a house of sand? In a house of fog and dust? In a house made of brown clouds? I couldn't focus, I couldn't do anything. But I did. I kept going. For as little or as much as that was worth.

I also was searching. Constantly. For something more. For a way out. A couple prospects, then Cali. Crazy. But it was what had to happen.

I flew to California with Aurelia for both a music conference and a weird interview/trial. It felt weird. But it was something. And I so badly needed something. The other prospects didn't work out. So it was do or die. I “do-ed.”

Getting out, leaving, was hard. So hard.  

So hard.

I didn't want to go. But I did. I had to. I had to save some piece in myself that was almost dead, maybe dead already. I would only know in some other time, some other place, if that piece could ever be reawakened, if I would or could ever be who I so badly wanted to be, who I was meant to be.  

I had left a man and a life once before. Through pain, fear, chaos, and madness. But that was easier. The path was made clear once the smoke had risen. This was harder.

I had nothing in the way of firm footing. I had given away all my ground in faith of a life that never existed. But I sucked it all up, turned a flat eye to the challenge, and went. Tucked my chin, hardened my heart and stomach, and left.

He didn't fight it. Not that I expected him to. Not that I wanted him to. We had talked it out. I made it clear it was what I had to do. But he never fought it. As much as I like to think that didn't hurt, it did. Maybe most of all. Because it confirmed what I already knew. I have a hard time putting it into writing even now. He didn't love me. He maybe never did. Not the right way. Not the way I thought or needed. I am the fool. Such a fool. But oh well now. No time for tears. I was on my way to California. He drove the moving van.  

Upon arrival, it was chaos already. But I was there. I had sacrificed so much, gone so far. There was no turning back. I had already been completely eviscerated, devastated, proven wrong. Thus I was not about to give up already, having risked so much on the chance. So I sunk in.

I did "well," for the business anyway. But I sunk in further and further. There was so much unanticipated drama. So much chaos. My dogs hurt, my horses hurt, I hurt. We were living a life of full sacrifice. I tried to change it. It almost worked. But then it didn't. I was made aware of my use and value to the life I had newly chosen. I was merely a tool. But only useful at their designation. It was either that or move along for the sake and health of myself and my loved ones. So, after a summer of tumult and fire, it was time to move on.  

The experience was not without merit. I made some friends, one very lasting. At least there is reason in everything.

Also Cali was Cali. I miss it, even now. It felt better, anyway, than the fake I had left. It was something. Something mine, even if convoluted. There were times I longed for the "normalcy" and "comfort" I had left behind; but it was all a ruse. A game in my head. Nothing real. That admission and realization was near impossible to swallow.    

The decision to move on, to head north, was another gutting. It meant giving up what I had spent a lifetime intentionally not giving into. A reliance on or possible obligation to anyone in my family. I love my family. But it's complicated. Maybe not for them, but, for me, vastly so, a topic for another day. But it was that, or nothing. There was no other viable option. I would not sacrifice the happiness and health of my kiddos. It wasn't fair. They had already been through so much. And maybe myself. I was getting there in my head. It wasn't worth it.

So I gulped. And steeled myself. He flew out to help. Drove the moving van again. Everyone thought he was a saint. In a way, he was and is. He has handled all of this eloquently. Respectably. Very responsibly, in light of all. In that way, I am very lucky. But I am also unfortunate. Because I know the truth. He is a good man. But bad for me. Bad bad bad. He was the promise of good things, a life I thought I had, but then sorely lost. I still struggle with this, having few people who know me or who I can talk to who can relate about any of what I am going through or do. He is a helpful but poisonous friend, even to this day, my help, my trip-up, my weakness, my downfall.

On that California to Washington drive, I asked him if he was helping me out of care, I may have even said love. Or was it obligation to right wrongs, I think deep down hoping a last little hope that he'd make a reprisal and fight, whether I wanted him to or not or would even respond in kind. His answers was "both." It was honest. I respected that. But it also doubly, sadly, sealed the deal of what I already knew. He didn't love me. Not the way he should if we were meant to be. Awkward crackled a little in the air, then moved on.   

I am here now. In Washington. The last few months have been the hardest of my life. Excruciating. For obvious reasons, but also for reasons I am still uncovering. I have almost entirely faced them. I think, maybe, I will have, actually, with writing this. I am here. And here, I have come face to face with all sorts of demons.

Not Enough. Never Enough. They are and were the worst ones. Hit me from the very beginning. And Less Than. That's another. Crazy. That one's been around for a while. But it has sprung all kinds of new meaning with all of this. Stupid. Lost. Forgotten. Inadequate. Did I say Crazy?

Then, there were the hard middle ones. Really hard. Vulnerability. Humility. Fear. Falling Back on Old Habits, Desperation. Pain. Physical pain. Evisceration. Discouragement. Downtrodden-ness, more than I have ever felt in my life.

But those have been largely replaced. With Strong. Fearless. Gumption. Heart. And a glimmer of Hope for love. Hope for more. And, now, Faith. Fierce faith. Determination. And Knowledge. That it'll all get better.  

It is all getting better. I will love again. I will feel again. Now and soon. In fact, I am feeling. I am hurting, bleeding, but also healing. I am feeling. There is that.

And that is everything. The light is coming on.