It’s a hard thing, starting over. Especially the second time. Especially when you have been married for more than two decades to a controlled, closeted, but caring and good lesbian with whom you share four children. When I finally recognized the madness of the marriage – her gayness, the way I let my confusion control and manipulate me, the way I gave in on everything to try to make things right – I was bewildered as to how to proceed. I was lost in the desert without a map.
And that’s when I met her, my Angel. An amazing straight woman who is loving, intense, funny, open, sexual, and all-in when she loves. We started slowly as email correspondents separated by 600 miles, but over the first year our feelings grew until one morning, her birthday as it turns out, I awoke with a poem about her on my lips. I wrote it down and sent it to her, risking opening my feelings. She reciprocated. We talked of everything, love, sex, our bewilderment, how hard we tried and tried in our marriages. The common themes in our situations were stunning. And we were both still married. Her husband left for another state and a new job. I didn’t, either for fear of hurting my children or out of just plain fear, I don’t know. When I finally admitted I wanted to be with her, it took another six months to tell my wife I was done trying. And six more months to tell the kids, a few more months to semi-separate (nesting, it’s called, a subject for another post), and another four months for me to really separate and start the divorce process in earnest. By then it was too late. She had given me everything of herself and I gave back what little my fear and bewilderment allowed.
I know it was somehow too early for me, and too late for her, but I will always regret the fear and angst that kept me stuck, lost me a beautiful woman who loved me dearly, and set me here, starting over, again.