The Self-Help Books Are in the Trash

When a problem pops up in my life, I'm the type of person Googling answers, checking Web MD, reading books, or calling family and friends for advice.  If it's a big problem, I try to find "expert" advice before I rush in to fix it.

(I mean, I did watch Suze Orman obsessively when we were trying to plan a budget.  If sitting through hours of THAT doesn't prove my dedication to "professional opinions", I don't know what will.)   

So, at this critical juncture of my screwed up life, I took my virtual arm to the Amazon.com super store and swept it along the shelf.  I knocked each and every "Affair Recovery" book into my cart and proceeded to the checkout.  (Super Saver Shipping is evil and makes me buy way too much, because, hey!  Free shipping!  Who can say no?!?)

My bedroom became the place where all Ph.D. theories on infidelity came to torture, harass, and generally beat the crap out of me.  My nightstand was covered in stacks of open books, journals, old wine glasses, used tissues, and my cell phone. (And dust, because who can CLEAN at a time like this?!?!)  I made a nest of misery in my bed and tortured myself until early morning with every respected Dr.'s opinion on why my marriage bit the big one and why my husband did this to me.

Uh....it was NOT helpful.

I read example horror stories that totally confused me, and chapters that addressed issues that didn't pertain to my situation.  I started to believe that my husband was like the jerks in the examples.  I ignored everything that I knew to be true and listened to the self-help books instead.

They clouded my vision, lowered my self esteem, empowered the voices in my head, and even worse--got me so screwed up that I thought about hurting myself.

(I think that's called hitting rock bottom.) 

Tonight I packed up all the affair books and dumped them in the trash.  I don't think they are bad or evil books--I think they aren't right for me.  They can't specifically address what's going on in my life because each affair is different.  I can't handle learning all about every aspect of affairs and try to figure out which parts pertain to me...I get bogged down in the hideousness of it and get lost.  I'm not strong enough to go down those paths.   

There's only one Book that I can turn to right now that will support me with Truth.  There's only one Book that is going to give me hope in something even better than a restored marriage.  There's only one Book that is going to give me peace that transcends all understanding.

If I want to climb the corporate ladder, find the perfect breed of dog, or know the difference between stocks and bonds--then I'll whip out Google or Amazon or....if I'm really desperate...  

But when it comes to problems this big, there's only one expert opinion I need.

A Few Don’ts (For Future Reference)

I received many caring, supportive e-mails from blog friends and complete strangers who just want to let me know that they are praying for me…or that they’ve survived an affair themselves…or that they are thinking of me and hoping for the best.


(THEY are the people who prove the internet is more than just porn, U-Tube videos, and Facebook hook ups. The blogosphere needs more people like them.)

But what blogger’s life would be complete without rude comments? Even with my most sensitive posts—the posts where I’m being really vulnerable—nasty trolls attack in full force.

(Ahhhhhhh….I love blogging!)

I like to believe people are basically good, so I’m going to assume that most of these trolls are just talking out their ass in ignorance. So, here’s a little list of Don’ts (a la Glamour magazine) for talking to your friend when she’s really upset about her husband’s affair. (You can thank me later.)

WARNING: The following is bitter and angry, so read at your own risk.

1. DON’T diss the spouse or push her to leave him.
Remember in high school when you made fun of your best friend’s ex-boyfriend, and then 2 days later they were back together and it was all weird between you guys? Yeah. Multiply THAT times 20 and you have the awkwardness you’re going to feel when your friend decides to reconcile. Save the zingers for the divorce after-party a few months from now—you can even compile them into an awesome Jaggermeister toast.

2. DON’T, for God’s sake, DON’T say “You need to look at your role in this.”
Okay. If I wrecked my car and my child died, would you come up to me at the funeral and say, “I’m so sorry for your loss, but you were driving. You need to accept your role in this.” Uhhh…no. That would make you an insensitive moron. FYI: Even if your friend is Rosanne Barr raging on PMS each and every day, she didn’t drive him to an affair. Yes, she had a role in undermining her marriage, but the affair is ALL ON HIM.

3. DON’T assume only assholes cheat.
Good men and good women in good marriages cheat, too. It’s not just those rednecks on Jerry Springer or Cheaters. Most couples usually hide it as the dirty family secret—or even worse, the unfaithful spouse never comes clean with what they’ve done and the marriage continues on with a huge elephant hanging out in the living room.

4. DON’T smugly tell yourself this will never happen to you because you “work” on your marriage.*
Statistically, you are more likely to cheat or be cheated on than you are to get divorced—and we all know the divorce rate is about 50%. So save your self-righteous bull shit and hope it never happens to you. *golf clap for the blogger who trashed me and thinks she has the affair-proof marriage crap all figured out

5. DO show a little sensitivity.
Do you really think your friend isn’t already beating herself up over this? Do you think she hasn’t already thought all those nasty comments you want to make? Sit down, shut up, hold her hand, and tell her she’s pretty. Bring lots of wine. Just listen and hand her tissues. (Good tissues, like Puff’s. No Great Value crap.) That’s really all you need to do.

Well, that and offering to kick him in the nuts with your pointy-est toed hooker boots. A little humor never hurt anyone.

Hey, I Know You

In a drunken rage, I threw a wine glass into the bedroom mirror (it was a "fat" mirror, so the only real loss was the wine glass) and threw most of our framed wedding pictures into a basement wall (proof that I'm somewhat rational while toasted and didn't just go hog wild in the living room--yes, I'm a considerate angry drunk). I also texted ridiculous, hateful, incoherent messages to my husband and one long, screaming voice mail.

Even worse, I did all this on a night when I promised myself that I was going to read my Bible and pray. Instead I downed 3 glasses of wine, because that's how classy I am. Needless to say, I was completely ashamed of myself by the next day and got ready for work while stepping over large hunks of glass and a broken mirror.

When I got home from work, the basement was cleaned up. Kevin came over while I was gone and picked up most of the damage--and stacked all the broken wedding pictures neatly in a pile on the floor.

I cried. After all the crap I said to him, and with all the evidence of the rage I felt toward him lying broken on the floor...he loved me enough to clean it up...he loved me enough to try to fix it.

I dug through the stack of broken frames and tried to save the wedding pictures. They've been enshrined in our living room for 5 years--I've stared at them every day. Even though I know it's me in that white poofy dress and up-do, I've felt for a long time like I was staring at pictures of a stranger in a costume. That girl doesn't even look like me. I don't know who she is.

In my drunken fit, I grabbed a stack of frames that I never got around to hanging in our new house. I knew there were more wedding pictures in there, and I didn't even bother to look at them before I threw. But in between the shots of a stranger in a gown, I found this:

It's our Christmas picture, taken one month after the wedding--AND I KNOW THAT GIRL.

That girl worked her ass off pinching and saving for 6 months to save enough money to go back to school--and trusted the love of her fiance so much that she spent her savings on a wedding gown and a honeymoon instead. That girl had been burned by lots of guys--and even survived a rape--yet willingly risked her heart again because she believed that not all men were bad. That girl laughed and no one called her a cynic. That girl truly believed that life could be perfect if she just worked and loved hard enough.

That girl had confidence (and thought her hair was amazing) and knew her husband was lucky to have her. She felt loved, and cherished, and prized, and said exactly was on her mind.

That girl would never understand how I got so disconnected from who I was.

I propped this picture up on my night stand last night. I dug my Bible out and read it. I prayed. I journaled. Most of all, I remembered who I used to be.

That girl is still in me. I still have that confidence--I just have to find it again. I still believe not all men are bad, and I'm still willing to risk my heart again.

Most of all, I still don't regret spending my savings on marrying a good man.

Even So, It Is Well With My Soul

I wish my title described the state of my soul right now. Sadly, it doesn’t.

But, I’m working on it. I’m unplugging from blogs, friends, TV, radio, and everything distracting for a few days. I’m going to spend some time in prayer, study, and meditation.

After three weeks, it finally hit me that I am in the worst disaster of my life. Short of losing a child, I can’t imagine going through anything worse. For me personally, with my history with men, this is the ultimate betrayal.

I am in the dust, and I feel like I am being spiritually attacked. (For those who aren’t Christians, I’m sure this sounds ridiculous. Three weeks ago, even as a Christian myself, I would have scoffed. Now? I’m not laughing.) The thoughts running through my head are awful. I’m beating myself up—tearing myself apart—and generally living in my own mental torment.

Couple that with society’s view of “once a cheat, always a cheat” and “only the weak stay after an affair” and my head is spinning. Add in well-meaning friends who manage to upset me even more by dragging their own baggage into their advice…and a vindictive blogger who knifed me in the back by discussing how weak and stupid I am on her own blog…and inappropriate e-mails from an ex-boyfriend offering “support”…and the exhausting task of getting through a normal work day and mothering a 3 year old…

I can’t take anymore. I’m unplugging everything. I’m not coming back until I can say, “It is well with my soul.”

(Comments are off.)

Go Ahead, Switch the Style Up

…and if they hate then let ‘em hate and watch the money pile up…

I don’t know about the money piling up—but how about a giveaway?

Back before D-day, I had a giveaway planned for earlier this month. Then…you know…

Shit happened.

(Hmmm…I need to get out of my funk and remember that I didn’t want this to be a cursing blog. Bad Jaci! Bad!)

Back to the giveaway…the Fed Ex fairy sent me two copies of the brand new book If Your Kid Eats This Book, Everything Will Still Be Okay: How to Know If Your Child’s Injury or Illness Is Really an Emergency. I took a copy and flipped through it while soaking in the bathtub and shaving my legs.

(I’m a multi-tasker.)

Basically, it’s a reference book written by that one cool doctor in the emergency room who’s laughing and joking with their patient and totally setting them at ease, while you’re stuck in the corner with the mumbling foreign doctor who gets pissy every time you say, “What? I didn’t catch that. Can you say it again?”

It’s full of all kinds of advice meant to keep you from running into the emergency room with your feverish baby at 3 am only to have the nurse give her a dose of Motrin and send you on your way 3 hours later and $50 lighter (ahem—yes, that happened to me).

It’s also sarcastic (hello lover!) and made me laugh while soaking in my bubbles and adding more hot water by twisting the faucet with my feet. How can I not endorse a book that describes a baby as being fine after a fall if “she cries, wails, moves her limbs, and looks at you with evil in her eyes.”

(Hee. We all know THAT look.)

So, I’ve got that extra copy that I did not flip through with wet fingers—anyone want it? Leave a comment for an entry, and I’ll randomly pick a winner on Saturday. (Make sure you leave some contact info! An e-mail address, blog link, something. You can’t win if I can’t get a hold of you.)

See? Wasn’t this a nice break from the depressive rants? I thought so.

A Depressive Rant

Do you know what I hate the most about all of this? (Besides the agony and misery and wondering if I'm trapped in a really bad nightmare.)

I hate that my eyes have been opened to the reality of...marriage? Adult life? Human love?

There is no happily ever after.

Not that I was ever a sappy, emotional woman who cried at weddings...or doodled guy's names on my notebook...or giggled about finding "The One". I wasn't one of those idiots with a Cinderella Princess themed wedding.

I'm a realist. I'm sarcastic. I've been burned in the past. I know the way life works.

But deep down? I'm still a woman. I still thought I could inspire a man to love and cherish me...just me...forever. I thought I could always count on my husband to think I was special. And lovable. And perfect. I still held on to the dream of romantic love.

I was wrong.

I hate that I can look around a room and see other couples happily together. I hate that there are women who aren't as pretty or witty or funny as me--and yet they have devoted husbands standing by their sides. They are loved and cherished.

What's wrong with me? Why couldn't I inspire that kind of love?

We're trying to reconcile, and the other woman is gone--but all the "I love you's" are hollow. Vows are broken...trust is shattered...I don't know who he is anymore...and I'm floundering.

My eyes have been opened to the dark side of marriage, and I would give anything to live life blindly again.

I don't want to know that happily ever after is only for a precious few...and somehow, I didn't make the cut.

Surviving the Affair

It’s been two weeks since D-day. Let’s recap all my phases, shall we?

Phase One: Total Hysteria and a New Level of Crazy (i.e., Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale)

Nothing was set on fire in my home—but I did completely trash a room in rage. And throw a phone into the wall. And slam a glass into a kitchen sink and shower glass everywhere. And snap a cell phone in half. All in all, I think I handled that pretty well.

Phase Two: Cold Anger

Also known as “independent woman” stage. This is when I gathered evidence, researched PA divorce laws, contacted lawyers, and wrapped myself in what was left of my pride. Then I’d feel nauseous at the thought of living in a shitty apartment as a lonely single mom with a $10 an hour job and ooze tears of weakness and despair. Then I’d remember that I actually love my husband and cry even more at what a mess my life is.

Phase Three: Wavering

Here I felt hopeful that we could make it through this with a lot of work. We love each other, right? It was all a mistake. A bad choice. It’s over, right? He loves me…he’s doing the work…we can come through this! Then I’d remember all the evidence I gathered and feel like I was getting played—AGAIN. How can I trust that bastard? I deserve better than this! No, I love him….this will work. No, I don’t even want to look at him… No, he loves me or he wouldn’t be here trying to work this out…

(You get the picture.)

Phase Four: Depression

And here we are. Two weeks later the adrenaline is gone, my body is shutting down, my mind is exhausted, and my inner Daria is stepping forward to say, “Who gives a flying f---?”

I took a sleeping pill last night, pried the After the Affair self-help books out of my fingers, and chemically turned off my mind. It must have been one hell of a sleeping pill, because it sapped all energy out of me and left me feeling like the sad white blob in the Zoloft commercials.

I’m here at work in my former fat jeans (now they are my Look Ma! I can de-pants myself! Jeans), a black hoodie, uncombed hair and my glasses. I’m torn between wanting to go back to bed, wanting to drive around aimlessly (and maybe pull over somewhere and just sleep in the car), and wanting to get a tattoo of a lion’s head on my left shoulder blade.

(Yeah, I don’t know where the tattoo thing is coming from either. I wonder if the guy would care if I slept while he did it?)