Domestic Violence

During August and September of 2016, Demi and I came into physical conflict several times. Don’t get me wrong: I never raised a hand to her. I am a muscular 220-230 lbs., and she is lucky to weight in over 120 lbs. on her most bloated day. However, she knows I won’t hit her, so she feels free to get physical. She has fist-punched me in the face several times, but with no really serious results.

During the summer, I discovered that she had a second telephone that she was using to communicate with J*** O***. I found it hiding on a closet shelf, and snatched it. I was reading the messages on it when she saw that it was in my possession. She flew at me, jumped on my shoulders from behind and attempted to take the phone from me. I “set her down” on the stone floor of our entryway. It wasn’t a throw-down, mind you, but she did acquire some bruises from it. It’s a travertine floor. It’s hard. She later threatened to call the police about it, and I dared her. She took pictures of the bruises—mostly on her arms from my grasp, and on her legs from her landing—but she never did anything about it. Nonetheless, she keeps them on her phone and every now and then waves them at me condescendingly.

On September 2, 2016, the Friday of Labor Day Weekend, at 2:30 in the afternoon, I received a text from my wife: “I’ll meet you at the restaurant tonight.”

We had arranged to meet three other couples for dinner that evening, and I instantly knew what Demi’s message meant—that she had other activities planned between the time she was to leave work and arrive at the restaurant at 7:00 pm.

As expected, she was late. She arrived hammered. Demi stumbled in at 7:15, sat at the opposite end of the table from me for the entire evening, and continued drinking. By the time we finished dinner and were all ready to depart, one of the group members, D*** pulled out a small keychain breathalyzer and passed it around for fun. No one laughed when Demi blew a .16. In fact, by the time we’d gotten down to the sidewalk, some members of the group had expressed dismay that she intended to drive herself home. One of our friends, K***, entered her car and removed her keys from the ignition. That sent Demi over the edge. I was standing a short distance away. She became very loud and combative. She came at me and slapped me firmly across the face, causing our friends to gasp. I’m still not sure what provoked her to assault me, since I was a mere observer and had spoken to her very little that entire evening.

Demi then ran off into the downtown Portland area, and our friends fanned out to find her. One couple did manage to find her in a doorway, and spoke with her briefly. She was drunk. She had also managed to find a second set of keys in her purse, and so she ran back to her car, started it, and roared off into the night. I placed a 911 call, concerned for her safety and the safety of others on the road, but the police officer informed me that they would not “hunt” her.

I didn’t see her again until the next morning around 9:30 or 10:00, when she called me wanting to have breakfast. I met her with the boys. She acted as though nothing had happened; as though nothing were wrong. She spent Saturday on the couch, hung over and passing kidney stones. I knew she was in pain, and I pitied her.

By Sunday, September 4, she was back in working order: she was gone “walking” for most of the day and returned in an inebriated state towards evening. She made herself another drink—a triple Ketel-and-soda. When the boys went to bed, we began arguing about her behavior Friday night, and her likely whereabouts most of the day on Sunday. I was drinking red wine, and the alcohol didn’t help with controlling my emotions. By eleven, we had gotten quite nasty with each other. I said something truly vile and went off to bed. A few minutes later, she entered the bedroom and slapped her hand down over my ear so hard it made my eardrum ring. That pissed me off, and I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

Three sheriff’s deputies arrived within minutes. I was taken outside while they interviewed her in the house. Shortly thereafter, they brought her out and took her away. She spent the next two days and nights in the county jail. I was heartbroken—I expected the police to help us cool down. But instead, she was carted off and charged with Domestic Violence IV, a serious misdemeanor in Washington.

I had second thoughts about that night. I began to feel the charge was unfair. It was an argument that just got out of hand. Wasn’t it? It should have been kept personal. I questioned myself deeply: had I simply overreacted? This was the mother of my two sons. I love her. She didn’t deserve it. Did she?

I worked very hard lobbying the prosecutor both in writing and in person over the next few months to try to get her to drop the charges. I wrote an impassioned plea, expressing my desire to have her back as my wife and mother of my children. The decision wouldn’t come until December 17, when Demi and I were sitting with our boys at a restaurant in sunny Puerto Vallarta. By then, she had hired a local defense attorney, and had paid him $5,000 to arrange for a lie detector test (!), preventative drug testing and certain, “psychological evaluations” to use in her defense. (Once when she was drunk, she spilled that her psych evaluations would make me look like the abuser. They would indeed, I thought, if being adept at catching a liar was any measure. I wished her luck with that strategy.)

In any case, we both hoped for a good outcome, but separately, and for separate reasons. I excused myself to go to the restroom. By chance, while I was up, the prosecutor’s assistant called me and informed me that her office was dropping the charges, and that they would be signed by a judge on Monday. I instantly knew my hard work had paid off. I returned to the table and didn’t tell my wife.

With an hour, she received a call from her defense attorney telling her of the news. After hanging up, she became incredibly cocky about the whole affair, telling me how proud she was of the job her attorney had done. I kept my mouth shut, and let her have her pyrrhic victory. There was no victory here. What I didn’t know yet was that that afternoon would bring still another untoward event into our marriage.

Stay tuned.


My Truth…

My idea for this article was to examine and reflect upon myself as a cause for the breakdown of my marriage—to take some ownership for its failure.

I will begin with this: I have not always been as fiscally responsible as I should have. I had a period in my life about eight to ten years ago where I accumulated some debt, and my wife helped me with that. I was very grateful.

Second, I became a stay-at-home Dad by default, really. It was the recession, and the economic downturn was killing many of my paying clients. That’s also what helped me accumulate debt. So I focused on the kids. Health care insurance costs were skyrocketing, and our youngest was still a toddler, so it made some sense to let go of my struggling business. That had an effect on me over time.

I became intellectually bored over the next few years, and quite depressed. I think I was a little embarrassed about being the stay-at-home parent. I became less active, which made me gain weight. I drank a little more, I ate a little more to sooth my embarrassment. While I stayed active with a couple of remaining clients, having the charge of such young kids made it tough to expand my business when the economy began to improve again—I couldn’t promise anything to anyone, because the kids came first. They had to come first. That was my job, and I treated it as such. By that point, they were both in school (Sam for half-days, requiring pick-up before noon) and Leo was getting into sports. I gave them my all.

Third, I probably should have become more proactive again once the kids started full-day school, but I didn’t because I wanted to use the time to hone my skills as a writer and copy editor, and begin to make a career change. That was a mistake, in retrospect.


No matter how hard I looked for excuses about me and my actions, I found that there was no cause, no reason, no train of logic that could be used to excuse what my wife chose to do. NOTHING. NADA. ZERO. ZILCH. НИЧЕГО.

I’m paraphrasing what a lot of other writers have already said when I say that cheating is simply a despicable act which is based on a foundation of lies. The lies cause nothing but PAIN and AGONY. In fact, it is a tsunami of misery and destruction: huge, catastrophic waves radiate out from the center and reach surprisingly distant shores, in their wake destroying all trust, and forever changing the course of our children’s development and their relationships with us, their parents. It’s pain, agony, and nothing else but that.

I’ve watched this carefully: my wife has gotten some twisted logic into her head that makes her believe she’s entitled to cheat. Just like nations do in wartime, she has had to demonize me as an enemy in order to help her feel better about the pain she knows she’s causing. As you read my account, you will learn that there was a period of time (I call it the Process of Discovery), when I did indeed embark on checking up on what she told me—seeing where she was and with whom. She was caught at nearly every turn. Now, if I so much as roll an eye when she’s telling me where she’s going to be, I get called a “Controlling Tyrant.” I’m not that, of course. I admit that there was a time in the spring and summer of 2016 when I might have been characterized as that, but not since the fall—and certainly not in 2017. A new year. A new approach: I have ceased paying attention to her random comings and goings entirely. Still, she’s angry—angry mostly, I believe, about the fact that she was ultimately unable to conceal her defilement of our marriage and our family. She has always lived a highly-compartmentalized life, and I’m sure she thought that if she could keep her worlds separate, she would get away with it. (But that’s not what happened. Read my article on D-Day!) Maybe I shouldn’t roll my eyes. I dunno.

I can’t imagine the stress she’s under. She’s managing more people at work than she’s ever managed before (she went from zero to more than twenty in one job change); she’s under pressure to turn her part of the business around, stop it from shrinking, and keep it profitable; and she’s got to be constantly worried about hiding—hiding her illicit relationship from her coworkers, from me, from her children, and from the few friends left who haven’t found out. Even when she thinks she’s gotten away with something, I’m sure she even worries about whether she’s hidden things well enough. (She hasn’t done a very great job of it.)

The bottom line here: what happened wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me at all. It wasn’t my fault. It’s only about herself. I can’t imagine what happens when she reflects on her own integrity, her own actions, her own lies. Imagine this: last summer, she went to one of her friends who was going on vacation, told her she needed a place to stay for a week for her “personal safety,” and then used that friend’s house to entertain her boyfriend! And what about when I took the kids to the midwest for Thanksgiving 2016, and she invited him into our home? Into our bed? What kind of person does that?

It’s a person who needs help—help with the deep scars her aloof and selfish parents caused many years ago, help with the profound sense of abandonment during childhood and again when each of them passed away suddenly in separate accidents. She needs help with her drinking, and help with relationships and intimacy. She needs help with her medical issues—things that I believe are part of the reason she’s become such a fatalist. She needs help finding her way back to being a role model, and she needs help looking me in the eye again. Cheating provides only a temporary respite from her issues and maladies—it’s a feel-good moment that ultimately destroys her in the end, because it destroys the closest relationships she has, and forever changes the way those people look at her… yes, even her children. And maybe I should say especially her children.

The day I finished this article (Sunday, Jan 29), she was so angry that she raised a fist and swung. I caught her arm. Then she spit in my face and called me a “worthless piece of sh!t” in front of our children. That was wrong in so many, many ways.

Betrayal Story

This is a particularly poignant and well-written account about betrayal and the damage it does.



Saw this quote, and I read it. Then I read it again.

Then I read it again…and again…and rolled it around in my brain, in the way-beyond-just-the-glance-and-yeah-that-is-true part of my brain. I began to reflect on this journey of cheating, of being a betrayed woman, of realizing how lies had permeated the majority of my 27 year marriage when the truth began to unfold. And then the steps in to healing.

It’s going-on-three years: two years, seven months and 14 days to be precise since I had the full picture of HUSBAND’s deception laid out before me. Not that I am counting, although I guess I am. When I reflect on this time, I see some things that I don’t think I could until now. It is likely this process will continue throughout my life…actually…I hope it does, so all this pain can always be moving toward something better and…

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Returning from a Break

Merry Christmas, readers. I’ve taken some time off since just before Thanksgiving, and I think I’m ready to resume the story. I spent Thanksgiving in Michigan with my kids (without my wife), then nine days in December in Puerto Vallarta (with kids and wife). I’m tanned, but miserable. Can’t wait to have more time to put it all on the screen. No one – and I mean no one – deserves to be treated as badly as I have, under any circumstances. I saw somewhere that “surreal” has been chosen as the word of the year. That word describes this portion of my life perfectly. Stay tuned.


D-Day: March 20, 2016

March 20th is a day that will forever live in infamy. It was D-Day, or “Discovery-Day,” in the language of the world of infidelity.

The night before, Saturday, an unusual number of text messages were coming across Demi’s phone. I paid no attention until the hours after midnight, when I was awakened by them. I got out of bed and found her phone in the dark, hoping to mute it.

There, on the screen, I saw a banner with the name “Eli James.” I instantly knew something inappropriate was happening. She continued to sleep. I went to my computer, logged into our mobile carrier’s web site and retrieved the source number that the messages were coming from. It was a Portland cell number.

I confronted Demi when she rose at 5:30 am.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “It’s a guy I met in Nashville. I made the mistake of giving out my number. No big deal.”

“Why is he texting you at 3:00 am?

“Probably drunk,” she said reassuringly. “It’s nothing. There’s nothing to worry about. He lives out of town—”

Oops. I already knew it was a local number. The love of my life had just lied to me. Not a little lie, mind you, but a huge, ugly, and obvious lie, the kind that’s alive with wriggling worms, crawly bugs, and lots of sticky slime. I quietly accepted her explanation and went on with the morning.

The next week saw a flurry of discovery activity.

I was a Cold War intelligence specialist who spent a ton of time in the Soviet Union plying my trade in both human and electronic intelligence. Я даже говорю по-русски свободно и почти без инностранного акцента. (I’m fluent in Russian, of course.)

I researched the phone number I’d obtained, and traced it to a name and P.O. Box in Portland. I found the person, his age, date of birth, ex-wife, an address, and discovered that he worked at the same agency in downtown Portland where she did. He was also a producer trainee, and she was on the management team—very dangerous territory from any HR person’s perspective.

By Wednesday, March 23rd, I had enough information to confront Demi about the first lie. So I did. Demi was sitting on the sofa watching TV when I announced that I knew.

“You know what?” she said.

“I know who it is.”

“Who what is?”

“Eli. Eli James.”

“How can you? I told you he’s just a guy from out of town. It’s no big deal. You’re spinning this into something bigger than it is.”



“His real name is J*** E. O*** and he works in your office, in the commercial department. He’s a trainee there.”

I’ll never forget the look on Demi’s face that evening. She sat back into the sofa, her eyes glazed over, her entire face flushed red, her cheeks sunken. She was busted.

“You’re wrong,” she said calmly yet defiantly.

Then I saw her “tell”—lips pressed tightly together, pursing upwards. I would see that tell many, many times in the coming weeks and months.

At that moment, my world crashed. My worst fears were true. This couldn’t be happening. I have small children. This wasn’t what I signed up for. One thing was very clear at that moment: Demi was not going to be honest with me under any circumstances. The breach was exposed, and she was going to continue trying to conceal it with lies.

I should have told her right then and there that her efforts would be entirely in vain. But I don’t think she would have believed me. To this day, I believe she truly didn’t know what she was up against.

I needed to know what was going on, so I planned and initiated a thorough and wide-ranging discovery operation that would have made a Langley controller proud. I can’t describe the details of the operation here because of two pending court cases, but suffice it to say that I obtained every single piece of critical information on my checksheet, and then some. It was very, very painful. All of it. I loved this woman, and yet I had now discovered a second identity—a second life she was leading. My heart bled, for myself and for my children.

Stay tuned.


Narcissists: It’s All about Fuel

Don’t take it personally. The problem isn’t you—it’s them.

Infidelity is virtually guaranteed when one of their kind captures your attention. It goes with the personality type. Having said that, between you and me, as a writer, I realize that people are more complex than our caricatures of them, and that “personality types” fail to encompass all of a person’s idiosyncracies.

The Mayo Clinic defines Narcissistic Personality Disorder as a mental condition in which a person has an inflated sense of their own importance, a deep need for admiration, and a lack of empathy for others. Behind this mask of ultra-confidence, however, lies a fragile self-esteem that’s uniquely vulnerable to the slightest criticism. I see many of these qualities in my wife, and she has always been very sensitive to criticism from me—until now, that is, because I’m being discarded.

Narcissists will betray you the moment it suits them to do so. It may take some time, however. In my case, it took 20 years (I hope). I know this because when I met Demi, she was already a cheater. She had left her first husband, and was cheating with another man when I came along. Looking back, I think I was sufficiently different than anyone she’d ever encountered in life. I was more educated; I was well-traveled and internationally experienced; and I spoke several languages besides English. I was also not as accessible as the other men in her life because of geographical distance, and I think she found that challenging, so I captured her focus.

At the time, I lived in Columbus, Ohio, with a twenty-five-year-old foreign girlfriend. I had a destroyed, childless marriage that had not yet ended formally. It was the summer of 1995.

My girlfriend, Valeriya K., was gorgeous, athletic, extremely intelligent—like “higher-math” intelligent—but she was also rather immature. I met her in 1994 through an acquaintance in Tula. By 1995, she was in Columbus working on a Master’s in Economics. It became a romance, and by summer, I knew she was either going to stay in my life, or she had to return to her native Russia as planned when she finished her degree. That choice was up to me. I procrastinated and used government connections to extend her visa after her coursework was over.

I met Demi in a Compuserve chat room in late July. By September, we were chatting often. It wasn’t yet daily chat, but sometimes it stretched late into the night, which began to make Valeriya suspicious because I was neglecting her. It made her sexually more playful and aggressive, which wasn’t necessarily bad—Valeriya was provocatively sexy in ways I’ve never experienced from an American woman.

Sometime in September, I made the decision that Valeriya should return to Russia, and that our relationship should come to a close. With tears, she flew home in October. We spoke many times while she was resettling herself in Moscow, and she begged me to come see her, but I was already thinking of other things. She was too young for me, I thought (by eleven years), and too emotionally immature. Incidentally, returning to Russia was good for Valeriya—today, she is a well-known economist and advisor to the Russian government. In the months she was with me, I’d been fulfilling a father-figure role for her—I took care of her, and handled all of the logistics necessary for her to live and study in the US. Once, when I discovered she’d ignored a bill she’d received, she reacted like a confronted child who was expecting a spanking. She needed more maturation.

After Valeriya returned to Moscow, I turned my attention to Demi, and flew to Portland in November to meet her face-to-face. We had fun in each others’ company, and “did the book” after our first day together. Thus began a year-long, long-distance romance. She later admitted to me that during that year, she had returned sexually to her first husband, Bob, as well as to Kent, the man she’d been cheating with when we first met. I waved it away. That was a mistake. I should have been alarmed.

I took a huge risk with Demi, but she made me feel good. She was different than anyone I’d encountered. Serious, yet playful and childlike, and we shared a lot of interests. She made me feel good, and I started to love her company. In October 1996, I had the opportunity to make a big change in my life, so I abruptly relocated to Portland. I thought about it a long time—a year, in fact. I had to be with her. Demi and I had joked about it many times by then, anyway. “Just get here,” she’d said.

One day, I did just that. I got rid of all of my furniture and loaded my Audi with whatever it could carry. The drive from the Midwest took about forty hours straight through. I had no idea what I was getting into, but that was part of the excitement.

When I first arrived, Demi had a one-bedroom apartment, a black-and-white cat, and a decent, but fairly low-paying insurance marketing job. She also lacked self-confidence. She felt inadequate because she’d only gone to a community college, and never finished that. She did like my company, the laughs, and the sex, however. It was at that time that I began building the home support structure she’d never had as child. Her confidence grew dramatically over the next few years, and she upgraded her job significantly. I wonder now whether her career success is ultimately what ruined her. She has a certain annoying cockiness about her now, like someone destined for a fall. More on that later.

A narcissist thrives on whatever fuels them. For Demi, her fuel is people and things that make her feel good, or feel more important, or sexy, or desirable, or make her feel successful. In two words, it is recognition and adulation. That is her currency. Somewhere along the way, I must have unwittingly stopped fueling Demi, and she reacted predictably, exactly as a narcissist would. She found herself a new source of fuel, then viciously turned on me and our children.

Twenty years into our marriage, she knew that I would be repulsed by the infidelity; thus it became a weapon. Her weapon. Although I’m not religious, my moral compass has Roman Catholic roots and is very strong. I am now the father of two young boys, and I need to maintain a strong moral compass. I take that responsibility seriously. She knew that, and banked on it. I recall her confessing once, after I knew about her infidelity, and had embarked on my own revenge mission, that she didn’t expect me to have reacted the way I did, but expected me to take it, and silently remain with the kids.

Throughout the years, I was a good husband and decent in my treatment of Demi, and I placed considerable belief in the concepts of marital trust and monogamy. I did have certain times where I was financially irresponsible, but those will be covered in the post on My Truth. All in all, people who’ve found out about our current problems are shocked, and would’ve said that we had an unbelievable level of trust between ourselves, and a beautiful relationship.

Phase I. Demi chose to hurt me. In the course of doing so, she explained one day that it was because she hated and resented me. I believe she did resent me, particularly after she was laid off from a work-at-home job, and had to take one with a commute and more stress. I was still the stay-at-home Dad, which worked well through the recession. I believe Demi’s issue began as a case of resentment, as she said, plus the stress of a new job, plus heavy alcohol use, plus the onset of menopause.

But no matter. Demi knew the breach of trust would cause me the greatest amount of pain, and she chose it anyway, because that’s what she sought to do: cause pain. She was sloppy, and when I discovered her infidelity, I shall never forget the way it made me feel, both physiologically and emotionally. I was devastated. She didn’t care. At first, she seemed remorseful, but ultimately, as I discovered more and more of her actions, her words meant less, and she appeared as cold and emotionless as a snake slithering toward its prey—no empathy whatsoever. A classic narcissist.

In March 2016, Demi had gone on a business trip to Nashville and another man, a coworker, J*** O***, apparently fed her enough of the fuel she needed that she went for him. I sometimes refer to him “Beavis.” I don’t believe it was sex that motivated her—the promise of sex was only a tool she used to seduce Beavis. From her perspective, sex had always been a tool—or a weapon—that could be used to procure fuel, to control, or to punish.

In my world, sex has always been equated with passion, love, affection, and physical attraction. I would describe myself as a “giver” and a “romantic.” I remember Valeriya telling me that it was what she loved most—how my attention made her feel. I have always tended to put my woman on a pedestal and worship her—mentally, physically, and emotionally. Throughout the twenty years we have been together, I have been faithful to a fault. (Well… but that’s another post’s topic.) The physical act of sex is important, but for me, it is never selfish or self-serving. I like to give pleasure. For me, that’s what it’s always been about.

For Demi, sex is a means to get what she needs. I’ve always secretly questioned Demi’s true interest in sex. As a man who, over the years, has been with a number of women, I can say that she was different. I was always struck by something that was a bit odd about her sexuality—she was neither an initiator nor a “giver.” In contrast, Valeriya was constantly concerned about being “pleasing” to me, and she always surprised me with something. I don’t think Demi’s issue was about me. When we first met and began having sex, she was vocal about the multiple orgasms she attained, saying she’d never experienced that before. Perhaps. But still, she was never concerned about my pleasure. She simply liked to lay there and receive, and then roll over and go to sleep when it was done. She was never enticing, and only playful and adventurous at the very beginning of our relationship. She never complained about the quality of our sex; in fact, that was one of the few compliments she paid me, even in the midst of the discard process.

Demi pursued her infidelity with Beavis as a classic narcissist. I’m quite sure she used her sexuality to seduce him as a new prospect for additional fuel. I believe she intended him to ultimately replace me. Initially, her infidelity was covert—she clearly didn’t want to damage having me as the primary fuel source and caretaker of the household and children.

Phase II of her narcissistic process—devaluation—was unexpectedly accelerated by my discovery of her infidelity. When the devaluation phase began, she became incredibly abusive. I emotionally abused her in return, but that’s a topic for another post (I think I must have promised three or four now).

In Phase II, Demi became far less covert about her extra-marital affair and appeared not to care if I knew or not. I remember the look on her face when I confronted Beavis and Demi at Crackerjacks, a local tavern—it was a look of being caught red-handed, but it was also a flaunting look. She flaunted her affair partner right in front of me in order to hurt me, to make me try harder, to provoke me into producing more fuel, albeit negative fuel. Beavis, her next victim, hurriedly left the bar in fear of me; Demi soon left in anger, being sure to announce that she was “gonna go get laid.”

So now, we still live with our kids under the same roof. Demi currently has a pending criminal misdemeanor charge against her (another post), and I’ve evolved rapidly in seven months.

She is unfaithful several times a week now. There’s even a pattern to it. She’s still investing her time in seducing Beavis, her next conquest, and is in the process of devaluing me. I will be discarded at some point, although for her, it will be very costly because of the children.  She has withdrawn sex from me, although she still walks in front of me unclothed—flaunting. Occasionally, she tries to make me feel like there is hope—she becomes friendly and talkative, and gives me a short “Golden Period” for the purposes of extracting further fuel. There are other times, too, when she tortures me by making sure I know when she’s going to Beavis. I’m sure she has assured Beavis that we don’t have sex, are sleeping separately, etc. In fact, I’m sure she’s bemoaned the fact that I never have sex with her in order to draw his sympathy as the new prospective victim. As of now, I’m not having sex with her, but there was a time early on when she had us lined up back-to-back. No f*cking conscience. None at all.

Let me return to my statement that I have been evolving rapidly. It’s true. My stomped manhood has healed, and I see clearly again that I am an attractive, intelligent, and sensitive man. I am getting attention from women who are younger, prettier, and, at least in one case, financially more successful, than Demi. It would irk her if she knew. She did know about one that happened in the late spring and summer, but that will be a topic for another post. I promise.

Demi now believes that she has constructed a triangle, with herself at one corner, and Beavis and me in the other two. She makes sure I know when she is going to engage in adultery in order to further the hurt. I can only wonder how she manipulates Beavis. Her rationale: monogamy is for “the little people.” Adhering to social standards and norms of behavior would make her less special. She seems to believe, based on whatever grievances against me that she can invent or emphasize, that she is entitled to seek sex outside of our marriage. It is part of her image of her own inalienable right to obtain her fuel any way she can. She has no guilt, no remorse, and she respects not a single vow or promise of faithfulness. Her actions have shown that she has no conpunction against coupling with someone else when she feels like it. The problem with Demi’s little triangle is that it doesn’t exist. I’m formulating other plans, and not thinking about her.

So what have I done up until now? For months, I’ve scrutinized my own behaviors…

I’ve done nothing to deserve this. Nothing. This situation exists because she’s handling stress and aging both inappropriately and in a perverse way. The only reflection on me is that I’m not fueling her any longer. It’s not a reaction to what I look like, what I do, who my friends are, or what my interests might happen to be. If I attack her for her behavior, as I have many times, she responds with blame-shifting and other classical passive-aggressive behaviors.

A narcissist counts on their subject’s addiction to them.

The assumption goes like this: the subject (me) will attempt to improve themselves in some way because he wants to salvage the relationship. He has hope. Demi counts on me not wanting to let go of her. She knows I am hurt and offended by her infidelity, but she counts on me to try to fix it. Here’s the testable part of this proposition: if Demi’s infidelity shows any risk of causing me to depart, she hastily reinstates the Golden Period, to prevent me from departing. I’ve run this test numerous times, and each time, it’s confirmed.

Initially, I blamed myself and tried to patch things together. I tried all kinds of things—anger, confrontation, even tolerance of her infidelity. Nothing worked. Demi wants me to prove that I’m better than Beavis; she wants me to fight to retain us and see that our relationship triumphs…

And that, my friend, was a dire miscalculation on her part. I have fought, but in ways she saw as dangerous and confrontational, perhaps even to Beavis. I’m done now. I’ve withdrawn.

I am taking the kids to the Midwest for a week at Thanksgiving without Demi. I can virtually smell her level of concern. And there’s more.

Infidelity is bad in a “normal” relationship. In a relationship with a narcissist, infidelity is guaranteed to happen, happen with many people, and will do so repeatedly. It is a black flag of abusive behavior.

I’ve realized that I’m living with an abuser.

Stay tuned.


For more on narcissism and narcissists, see this site: Knowing the Narcissist. It’s where I learned the concept of the “Golden Period,” which is spot-on.

POSTSCRIPT: a new Golden Period has begun, triggered by my actions with regard to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. We also have ten days in sunny Mexico in December, already booked and paid for. She needs me to participate now. Best sure to visit the Knowing the Narcissist site if you suspect you have one in your house, too.

Infidelity for Dummies

I really liked this succinctly-written piece, so I’m re-blogging. Advice to an infidel.



1. The first step is stepping out of denial. Don’t rationalise. Don’t justify. Don’t try to pin it down to your partner’s inadequacy or flaws. Because you signed up for it when you both got together. Accept that you are a low life vermin that has no concept of commitment.

2. Don’t say it happened accidentally. What, your tongue ‘accidentally’ slipped in someone’s mouth? You have to realise that you are just a little being governed by its Love Chemicals. No one hates on rabbits, you know? Work that tushy.

3. After stripping away yourself of all shame and guilt, step forth. Infamy awaits.

4. Sooner or later, you will get caught. An alien stench, a cute love bite dancing across your neck or perhaps your credit card records. Have some sense and pay in cash for all your illicit outings. Mask unknown fragrances with a routine smell. And the…

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