I recently found out my husband of 25 years had a mistress for around 15 years of that marriage.
Boy was that an eye opener! The bastard was basically living a lie with me and this left feeling paralyzed. Five months have passed since. The funny thing is he felt no guilt, sorrow, remorse, the only thing he felt was ‘How did I get caught’.
I caught him messaging his mistress. The messages were so intimate, like THEY were husband and wife. In the messages it disclosed that he was regularly bringing this women to my home when I wasn’t there.
Chump Lady… I just can’t get over this! How low can you go! I am constantly eating myself up about this. I just feel as though burglars entered my home. Whatsmore, this woman is married with children of her own and is also a grandmother. How do people do this? I am so hurt at what he has done. He is of course a Narcissist and after finding this out I bought your book. It changed my outlook on my situation completely. I thank you so much for every ‘spot on’ sentence you wrote.
However, how can I erase the fact that he brought her to my home without the blink of an eye? Narcissists are truly not worthy of breathing on this earth.
Make him your ex-husband and get a new home that’s not polluted.
I know that’s not fair and I know that’s not the advice you were hoping to get. I’m supposed to have some sort of magic elixir that removes painful associations from household objects. It cleans! It disinfects! It deodorizes!
You could spend years in aversion therapy, trying get used to visual reminders of your husband’s perfidy. Every. Single. Day. On Every. Single. Surface.
Or you can burn the motherfucker down and start over.
(I’m speaking metaphorically. Please don’t torch your husband. Let the lawyers do that with summons and discovery. It’s a slower burn.)
how can I erase the fact that he brought her to my home without the blink of an eye?
You can’t erase facts. They’re pesky that way. They remain facts. What you can do is learn to live with the facts, and learn to live without fuckwits.
What they did was a horrific violation of your sense of personal safety. Home is a refuge. A bulwark against the outside world that doesn’t love us. It’s our earthly reality, the homey everyday objects we wake up to, a grandmother’s quilt, a favorite mug, an inherited table. The importance of stability and belonging is understood as essential to human well-being. We explain away societal ills with “broken homes” and homelessness.
To learn that your home — for what? All 15 years? 15 months? 15 days? — was their personal fuck nest, while you went about your life unknowing — is to be complicit in your humiliation. Conspired against. Your chumpdom gives your husband a hard-on. It’s the frisson of naughty that infuses his pathetic hook-ups with more edge, more danger.
And I’m convinced that despite all their conniving and schedule coordinating, they don’t think much more about it than that. Are your children in the next room? Is your wedding picture on the mantle? Is that your favorite pillow? They don’t care. It’s there. Beyond the naughty factor, using your home is just a prop in their fantasy. It’s cheaper than a Motel 8. Nothing has real meaning. They don’t ascribe meaning, because they don’t DO meaning.
How could he? He couldn’t if he cared.
You can’t be married to a disassociated monster who gets off on humiliating you. (I mean, you CAN, but you shouldn’t. You can also drive nails through your feet. You shouldn’t do that either.)
Things can be replaced. If the bed sheets feel defiled, burn ’em. Things can be repurposed. Did she wear that sweater? I know a hamster that needs a new cage liner. Things can be fought for. Grandma’s quilt is MINE, goddamn it and my associations will be of Mee-Maw ONLY.
Dump the husband. Figure out the stuff. Enjoy a much-improved new life.