I was utterly disgusted, humiliated and completely and utterly alone - hours away from any friends and family who could have supported me. How could I trust any memory, when it had all been built on a lie? But at that moment, all of the memories I held of our life together were stripped away. (Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to escape the many dangers that could have caused.)īefore this, I’d actually felt pity for this man, believing he’d tried to honor his marriage vows. In one blog entry, he’d even boasted about his refusal to use condoms. He was terrified he’d be exposed as the calculating bastard he is - not simply a closeted gay man caught after a careless indiscretion. I now understood why the divorce negotiations had proceeded so rapidly. One of the most recent posts even described a threesome at our house the night the kids and I moved out. He wrote of meeting strangers in motels, convenient hookups just around the corner from the preschool (don’t want to be late for afternoon pickup!), encounters in parking lots. His post talked of getting blown by a contractor in the server room at work.įor so many years, he’d lied to me while I naively believed his stories of late nights and required weekends at the office.
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My entry was full of sunshine and roses about our baby-to-be, our wonderful life, my loving husband. I noticed that one of his posts corresponded with a page I’d written in my pregnancy journal on the same date.
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There were many, many posts spanning nearly our entire marriage, dating back to early in my pregnancy with our first child.Įverything I thought my life had been was false. He had been maintaining a blog for years about his sexual exploits, writing of his cleverness at maintaining the façade of dedicated husband and father while prowling for men on the side. The images were taken in our former home, sitting on my furniture. Though he never showed his face, it wasn’t necessary. Within a few clicks, I was staring at photographs of my ex-husband’s dick. Website? I googled his screen name.īingo. The “jailer” made reference to my ex-husband’s website. As I quickly scanned the now-familiar words, something new jumped out at me. While unpacking my desk in our new home, I came across the transcript of the chat that had brought down my marriage. We’d get a brand-new start, my children and me, away from anyone who knew that we’d once been a different, complete family. Our eight-year marriage was over before the indentation from my wedding ring had even faded from my finger.īecause I couldn’t bear the thought of enduring other people’s pity - or ridicule - and because I had two very small children to raise, I made the decision to pack up and move two states away. In the Deep South state we lived in at the time, within 30 days it was final. He was surprisingly conciliatory and accommodating in the divorce negotiations. I remember putting my hand on my chest, gasping for air, as the world I thought I knew shattered around me. When I read those words, a chat conversation between my then-husband and another man, it felt for just a moment like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. “I’ll be the jailer and you be the naughty prisoner.” This is the second installment in a new personal essay series, "Searched and Destroyed," about the unexpected lessons of the Internet.