I’ve tried to consider things from your point of view. Here a man walks into your life that is in town temporarily for work. He sees you. You see him. He tells you he’s married, and that he lives with his wife and 2 babies out of state. Or…so he claims he told you.
You watch as he does nothing to protect his vows, protect his wife, or protect his kids. I say again: you know all of this. And, according to him, you even know that I’m in the dark about his sudden ‘unhappiness’. Note: yes, those of us who trust our spouses when they tell us every day that they love us tend to be ‘in the dark’.
So, you take his word for it that he’s stuck in some miserable marriage. You let him into your bed, never once considering that men have been saying things like that since the dawn of time to be let into beds. Then, you hear my voice. He even said you sat in the background and had seen my face and the faces of my babies on Skype. You inserted yourself where you didn’t belong in a profoundly inappropriate way, and I don’t even know it yet. I’m blissfully unaware of your existence. I’m on the phone with my husband talking about diapers and Curious George and missing him, and you’re there, what? Rolling your eyes or asking him to come back to bed? Whatever the case, you’re dead inside.
You stick around. You make inappropriate bonds and connections with someone you know to be unavailable. You know this man only from what he’s told you. Biased and skewed and geared, as I said, to be let into your tacky red and black Marilyn Monroe themed bed.
I’ve taken everything into account. I’ve weighed the facts, I’ve given benefit of the doubt where there’s any gray areas, and after a thorough analysis, I’m pretty sure that I’ve finally got you figured out. I’ll warn you, it isn’t pretty. Here goes.
You are a heartless, ignorant, and unethical sex trade worker, disguised as a soft-hearted, misunderstood, and wounded-by-men victim. You can crap in a box and call it a guarantee, but in reality, you’re largely responsible for the death of my beautiful young family.
And you damn well know it.
However you wish to sell yourself, you’re a horrible salesman. And I’m not buying it. The ‘hardened by this cruel world, but deep down I’m a softy who just needs a hug’ line of b.s. may work on the revolving door’s worth of men in your life, but not on me. So don’t even try.
Do you even realize that you sold your soul to get my husband into your life? That’s because you knew encouraging him to destroy his marriage to be in your life robbed me of my husband and two brand new babies of their father in their life. You live 2,300 miles away from them. Therefore, the man in question would have to give up raising his own children (married to me or not) in order to pursue a relationship with you.
Does it need to be said that this tells me practically everything I need to know about your character?
That you would accept that, knowing the damage that divorce and fatherlessness does to kids, tells me I’m dead right about you. And if I had my way, I would make sure with every last dime in my possession that my lovely, innocent, and beautiful children would never be in your presence. That your filthy hands would never touch their beautiful, clean faces. But I have no control over that. That’s just life for me now; forever dealing with the trauma and fallout of your inexcusably selfish choices.
I will say, you’re somewhat pretty on the outside. But to me, because I know the truth about you, you’re the single ugliest human being I’ve ever looked upon other than my husband. Your soul is black, and it shows. I see it in your dead, cold eyes in every one of the 783 duck-faced selfies you post online.
Like I said. I’ve tried to consider things from your point of view. At first, in those early days, I thought ‘She must be amazing. A great person. How else could he do this?!’ Nope. Turns out, it was the exact opposite, to my relief. Thank God it was a downgrade. It makes things much easier on me. And if you were to judge who I am, let’s say, based on the content of this letter, I think I’d agree with you that I seem like a snarky, sarcastic bitch. But you know, HomeWrecker, betrayal is a funny thing. It does things to a person. Unhealthy things. Cruel things. AWFUL things. ‘Why should I apologize for the monster I’ve become? No one’s ever apologized to me for making me this way.’ Ring a bell?
You may dismiss me because of my rage and disgust towards you. In fact, I expect that you will, because that will most certainly assuage you of your guilt in this matter. If I’M the problem (because of my fury over what you have done to my family) then you don’t have to hear a single thing I say. That’s like stabbing me, and then pointing at me and going ‘See? She’s so unreasonable.’ as I’m bleeding and hurling curses at you from the ground. Your role reversal on victimhood is not lost on those who see me bleeding out, though, sweetheart. Out here, where banjos aren’t playing in the background, we’ve all got your number.
You have an over-sexualized personality (perfect for my closet sex addict husband). Everything with you is about eroticism and f*** me shoes and stripping and T and A. But at some point, just like everything else, that won’t be enough for him. You won’t be enough for him. Sexual addiction (Honey’s sudden self diagnosis, not mine) is characterized by an increasing desire to go to the next level of depravity. One woman’s not enough. Soon it’s two. Then orgies. Then weird crap I can’t pronounce. Then clown cars full of sexual partners. Still, it’s not enough, and he will have to take it to the next level. Have fun joining him in that quest, or have fun being left behind. Either way, you’re both disgusting, and deserve whatever you get.
It takes intentional act after intentional act for me to be sure of your depraved indifference towards the damage you have done to my family. What I see from here, aside from a certainty that I’ll eventually see you two on Springer, is that you flat out stole from me and from my children. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want what you took: it’s dirty and all used up. But I AM out for karma to do its thing, or for justice to prevail. I won’t have to do a thing, nor would I. What does justice look like in this case? I don’t know yet. But when I get it, I will be Jack’s smirking revenge…and there’s not a damn thing you’ll be able to do about it.