Read Being The Other Woman: Who we are, what every woman should know and how to avoid us Online
Authors: Micalle A. Culver
One evening, we found another interesting place to dine in the row of shops and restaurants built on a bridge across the Bosporus. The waiter arrived with freshly slaughtered fish (eyes and all) lying across a platter and asked which fish we would like to eat. We pointed to our best guess, and later our fish stew arrived (not what we had guessed) accompanied by a group of men carrying acoustic guitars and xylophones. We left in the “spirit” and as we walked along the moonlit bridge, we noticed that some of the shops were vacant and exposed to the elements. The moon was full, into the river. We crept into one of the vacant shops, climbed a spiral iron staircase and began to make love in the little hiding place we found at the top. The romantic scene was like a movie, and it became one of a different sort as I turned my head and was instantly transported into a Humphrey Bogart film. A man in a top hat was standing beneath a street light, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and watching us. As we scrambled to grab our laundry, the man began to yell at us to not be bothered by him but to pay him to watch for the police. We ran down the spiral staircase as fast as we could and along the cobbled bridge with him chasing after us yelling, “Policia! Policia!” I stepped into the path of an oncoming cab and when he screeched to stop, I grabbed the door handle and we jumped in. I do not know what the laws are in Turkey, but rumors of Turkish whores being beheaded were worth the risk of a broken leg.
One of the studies that Blake and I made together was on Homer’s
Iliad
. It was only right, therefore, that we took a tour to what may be the site of the Trojan War. To our surprise, the cheap tour consisted of our own Mercedes bus with a personal driver and also a private tour guide. We visited several ruins, had lunch, and stayed overnight in a town called Assos. Actually, many of the places we visited by chance seemed to have double meaning and correlate to our studies, even as far back as our initial meeting. (Funny, but I just realized so did Assos, pronounced the way our Mexican friend Alex said assholes.) This we took as a divine affirmation from the universe that we were meant to be together. After our visit to Troy, we stopped at the edge of the Black Sea for lunch and I began to get acquainted with our tour guide on a more personal level. We spoke of his Muslim upbringing, his culture, political passions and his life. He shared with me a story of old Turkish women and their belief in reading tea leaves. His grandmother had taught him how to read them himself. I decided to test his fortune telling skills and ordered a cup of tea. After finishing my tea, I was instructed to turn my cup upside down on a saucer, spin a penny around the top and then flip it right side up again. When I turned my cup over, the image inside looked like a man with a hunched back slumping over a cane. Behind him, was a depressed blob resembling a woman with long hair and three small remnants of sludge were behind her, as well. To the other side, the man with a cane faced something that looked like a shapely woman standing tall with visible breasts and holding her hand out, cupping a ball. It looked like she held the world in her hands. “It looks like three people.” The tour guide said. Blake and I looked at each other with freakish shock and decided it was time to move forward with the tour. To this day, I can still see with clarity the vision in that tea cup. I have always wondered which of us is the woman who held the world in her hands.
Assos was just across the ocean from Greece. It was a stony little town and we felt we had stepped back in time. Our bus hurled down a dirt road and, seeing us approach, a woman scooped her child up along with a handful of rocks to toss at the sheep blocking our path. We drove up a mountain side to something resembling a bar, passing old men sitting in rocking chairs, smoking pipes and playing backgammon. We also passed a man pulling his donkey with straw piled on its back. When we arrived at our hotel we found another mesmerizing, romantic scene. We sat overlooking the ocean just in time to watch a Mediterranean sunset. In the morning, we dined outdoors by the ocean and watched the Greek Air Force fly drills across the waters. Feral cats surrounded us, taking grabs at our fish breakfast. One actually bit Blake’s finger in retaliation for his attempt to scare them away with hissing.
We walked through many bazaars while fighting off venders who would yell “Hey you, American!” while promising “Special price for you today.” Broadening my cultural understanding, as well as paying money for each square of toilet paper at potty time, bonded me with Blake in many humorous ways. Every day in Turkey was a life-changing experience and to this day we remember each minute of that trip with humor and nostalgia.
After we left Istanbul, our flight laid over for one day in London, a perfect place to acclimate ourselves for our return to America. As we walked the busy city, looking for a place to dine, Blake suddenly dashed into a shop. Confused by what had startled him, I followed after him, and he informed me that he had spotted the same man he had seen in the Seattle airport three weeks before. I had just spent three weeks having the experience of a lifetime, falling in love, believing a home was being built for me, buying Turkish items to put in that home, and being told and shown that I was “the everything.” I had not a care in the world as to the disagreeable details of our relationship. Yet the moment that he saw someone who knew him, he hid in fear of being found out. I said not a word while I digested this brutal reality.
We ate dinner in silence that night, then decided to lighten up at a nearby pub. It seemed to me that American girls receive a lot of attention in London. Perhaps it was only this one particular pub, but the men all seemed to be sure that I was Sandra Bullock, Courtney Cox, or some other actress with dark hair. The absurdity of it flattered me and lifted my spirit, but Blake became very insecure and jealous and attempted to drown his feelings in cocktails. This did not relieve the internal chaos already churning inside us, and during the cab ride back to our hotel, our tension ignited as we argued over the directions to give to the cabbie. Adamant that I was right about how to get to our hotel, I got out of the cab and walked there. I fell asleep leaning against the door while waiting for him to arrive back from his long detour. I awoke as he slipped the card in the door and pushed it open, breaking my back support. I looked up at him from the floor and he made a snide remark (something about having a key in my purse) that caused me to react stubbornly and grab my luggage. I headed for the “tube” to return me to the airport and was halfway to the train station before Blake caught up with me. I saw that he was crying. “Is this how you want this to end?” he asked. It stole my heart in an instant. That night, as Blake confessed his undying and hopeless love for me, I sank like lead to the bottom of our delusion, the delusion of a powerful love.
Arriving home from our three-week vacation would give me another dose of cold reality. Blake was scheduled to leave the following morning for Hawaii with his family on their annual trip. After all we had just shared, I was devastated that he would be leaving with his wife. According to him, he was, too. But refusing to go and dropping such an unexpected bomb on his children would only hurt them unfairly. He was gone for two weeks, which I spent remodeling my home and keeping my mind occupied and my broken heart safe in hiding. Each time logic told me that the situation I had allowed myself to enter was ludicrous, he would phone or send an e-mail or text message. There were even handwritten letters in my mailbox almost every day. He did everything he could to show me that being away from me was a living hell for him. His anxiety engulfed him when he realized he was coming home a day later than he thought.
I
am
so
ready
to
feel
you
, he wrote,
and
hold
you
and
kiss
you
and
just
be
with
you
that
it’s
making
me
crazy.
When
I
discovered
that
I
had
another
day
away
from
you,
I
lost
all
blood
pressure
and
nearly
passed
out.
This
has
been
a
rough
two
weeks
for
both
of
us.
I
was
able
to
deal
with
the
few
hard
days
that
we
had
earlier.
That
was
nothing
compared
to
having
to
deal
with
being
stuck
away
from
you
for
one
more
day.
It’s
like
being
stuck
on
a
Bosporus
tour
and
the
boat
driver
doesn’t
speak
English.
I
want
to
get
off
of
this
boat
and
into
your
arms
for
it
is
you
for
whom
I
am
truly
heartfelt
. The night he flew home, he drove straight to my house with anticipation and stayed the night with me. We felt like long-lost lovers finally reunited. His ability to be front-and-center enabled me to trust that his marriage was not at all a connected one and convinced me that neither husband nor wife cared much for the other.
Things continued between us as they had in Europe and, having had a taste of freedom, we soon found ourselves forgetting to be careful and beginning to behave as a normal couple would in public. His desire to include me in his life brought introductions to friends we naively thought would accept our relationship. Our naïveté helped me to sell myself the fantasy and forget that a real marriage existed. Blake’s wife, Beth, was a figment, a bothersome backdrop to the play that was
my
life and what was otherwise a normal partnering.
A month after Blake’s return from Hawaii, I flew to New Hampshire to be with my sister as she gave birth to her son. Most of my family had also flown in for the event, but instead of spending time with them, I spent most of the visit in a withdrawn and somber state of mind in the spare bedroom, reading the books Blake had given me, or calling him or sending him poems in e-mails about vacationing in a little town I called Norman Rockwell hell. I was miserable without him. I wanted him there with me, enjoying my family and my events. After being swept off my feet by romance, I was beginning to see some of the shortcomings of a relationship like this. Depression overtook me.
Shortly after my return home the holidays began, and now I learned more about why an affair leaves one so lonely. I spent Thanksgiving with my family as Blake spent it with his. I understood this, of course. The children, the in-laws, his parents—none of them were ready to be affected by what we had created in darkness and family holidays were certainly not the right time to “out” our affair. Nonetheless, my own holidays were miserable, lonely and empty. We sent beautiful letters to each other each night we were forced to be apart, longing for one another and anticipating the time when all of this would be behind us, when we would be free to openly be in love. We were eager for the day when we would be able to comfortably express our love to others and walk arm in arm in public without second thought. Stuffing reality to the back of my mind didn’t help me. No matter how much I tried to enjoy those days with those closest to me, inside I was dealing not only with pain but also with shame as I looked at those I loved and knew that I was hiding an ugly truth from them. Though a part of me was happy and very much in love, a larger part of me wouldn’t shut up about how wrong the whole situation was.
Blake’s wedding anniversary was also near the holidays
.
In effort to prove to me that the date was not significant to him, he spent the day with me, until it was time for him and Beth to go to dinner together. I was assured that she had made the reservations without his knowing. But what was he to do? To reassure me that nothing physical would transpire between them, he made love to me before he left and called me several times from the restaurant bathroom. He sent text messages from his phone he held under the table while they dined speaking of how much he missed me at that moment and expressing all of the love he held in his heart. After he got home that night, he went right to the computer and stayed there until well past three a.m., sending notes to assure me again that he had never climbed into their bed.
We just had to get through the holidays. Then we would talk about the next step.
As I write this, a key moment of total and utter self-disgust for the situation I had allowed into my life strikes me. One evening, my friend Sasha shared with me that one of her male friends had reacted in surprise that I, of all people, would allow myself to be involved in an affair. I realized then that others thought more highly of me than I had thought of myself. I resolved to end things before more people learned what I had been doing. In fact, I intended on ending things almost every day for the first six months of my involvement with Blake. I am not a hypocrite so I resigned right away as the fourth-grade Sunday school teacher at my church. After going to one of the ministers privately to speak about the circumstance I had involved myself in, I quit attending church altogether.
I had also placed the college courses I was taking on hold to fly to Europe. When a paperwork error caused my student loan to be called in, I stopped taking classes at all. I was not this person, I told myself. Why was I handling my life this way? Why, when I knew this affair was completely wrong, did I continue to stay in it, as if I were not in control of my own person? I began my collection of the Barnes & Noble self help section and read everything that I could about affairs. I wanted to understand myself. I wanted to understand Blake. I wanted to understand what we were doing. In a sick hope that together we might figure out the twisted psychology of our relationship, I even began to share with him my findings as to why he was involved with me. We would actually lie in my bed at night discussing various types of affairs, the dynamics of each type, and the effects an affair has on each party, that is, the affects for the husband and the wife. I was finding a serious lack of information for the woman in my position.
I suffered much difficulty in trying to let go and simply walk away due to the fact that we shared such immense joy. It was beyond chemistry, beyond addiction. There was a unique like-mindedness between us, a fascination with the same topics and intellectual stimuli. We laughed constantly and developed our own private language so that almost every word we spoke had double meaning that only the two of us understood. Our communication resembled, in fact, those high school crushes that had kept me on the phone from three in the afternoon until I was forced to hang up at midnight as my father screamed, “Get off the damn phone!”
Nothing was left unspoken between us. We shared the same passions for travel and adventure, the same hunger for constant new experience, the same fascination with the same things. Almost every day was filled with fun, excitement, exploration and entertainment. I had never experienced someone so into me. It was as if I were in his constant thoughts. I was the girl he had always dreamed of but had come to believe never truly existed. It was as if at my arrival he woke up from the dead. Even his jealousy flattered me because it appeared that he thought everyone else might discover his find and might steal me away because he was already married. So he responded in desperation, so much that I wondered if I had missed some secret power I possessed within myself, a power I believed he found in me. He seemed to be consumed by me, and thus he consumed my life. I had idealized him and thus I spent most of my time thinking of him and reminiscing on all that we shared. He became a top priority to me in every way. I wanted to make up for everyone who had left him feeling abandoned and hurt. I wanted to make him know that he was loved for exactly who he was.
As ridiculous as this may sound, I loved him most for the family man that he was, how naturally playful he was with children, how relaxed and understanding he was with the chaos of family drama, how warmly he accepted life’s little imperfections. I remember being on the phone with him during his daughter’s birthday party. His yard was filled with children. I could hear them screaming in the background as he bombed them with water balloons. Blake was a big kid. He hadn’t forgotten how to be a child. He loved to do fun things with children and watch or make them laugh. As a single mother, I have found it highly difficult to meet a man with a love for family, a man who would comfortably and naturally blend into the sort of atmosphere I desired. His affection for children was one of his most enduring qualities. It was what made him most unique and irreplaceable. I felt that I could be myself with Blake, that I did not have to maintain perfection. At the same time, however, there were certain areas where I feared I might fall off the pedestal, and so I fought to keep up with what I believed his expectations of our love was and all of the ways he told me he was impressed with me.
There is a unique passion and perceived honesty that encumber an affair, an intimacy at a level unexplainable to those who have never experienced being in one. I became the one to whom he told all his secrets. He shared intimate and finite details of his marriage with me. As he searched within his own confusion, he laid his vulnerabilities and emotions before me. I knew about every lie he had ever told Beth, perhaps his previous indiscretions, too. Feelings he had, feelings he doubted—they were all laid bare. Deep emotions that he refused to share with his wife for fear of upsetting her spilled from his lips, along with his compassion and fear for any hurt that I might be feeling while in “this mess.” But his honesty only made me love him more. I become his counselor… with the added bonus of having a vagina. Believing that we were best friends, I took his need of me as deep intimacy. He needed me, and the feeling of being so deeply needed was powerfully addictive to me. He shared how he met his wife, how he came to marry her, how she changed. He was sad and hurt. He felt neglected, unappreciated and rejected. She was cold and didn’t seem to need him enough. He was brow beaten, abused and (in my own opinion) constantly manipulated.