Spring Cleaning

The ancient desk had to go. Years ago I had rescued it when my dad casually mentioned that he was planning to pitch it. It had been in my house my whole life, and I couldn't bear to see it go at the time. So it lived at my house for the past ten years or so.

But now it was time to pitch it. It was big and bulky, too large to make a good computer desk.

We are not in a place of hanging onto the past.

Sifting through the mountains of paperwork stored in that old desk, I came across a file folder. In it were printouts of my old blog, posts made in depression and anguish and searing loss, while I tried to figure out why I was in love with a woman that was not my wife, and why it hurt so bad to be prohibited from seeing her. Painful writings. Hurtful writings.

In the folder were also stacks of other evidence that my wife had collected to bring to her lawyer, when all hope of reconciliation had ended. In it, I think (though I didn't verify) was the CD containing every Instant Message and email that I exchanged with the other woman.

The summary of my sin and shame.

I handed the file folder to the Lady. "I, um, don't know what you want to do with this."

She took it and glanced through the contents, recognising it instantly. She was silent for a long time. I puttered around in another pile of papers while she thought.

Then: "I suppose we should pitch this," she said quietly.

"I'm very okay with that, Lady," I said. "But I don't have the right to make that decision."

She was silent for another long time. I kept working, pitching some papers, filing others.

Then she came to me and looked into my eyes, folder in hand. She waved the folder vaguely and said, "you're not this person anymore, are you." She said it like a statement, not a question, but her eyes pleaded with me to answer correctly.

I looked deep into her eyes and gently grasped her shoulders in my hands for added emphasis. "No," I said firmly. "No, I'm not. Never again," I added, referring both to my years of depression and the affair.

Her eyes searched my face. "Never again?" she queried.

"Never. Again."

"Then put it in the trash," she said.

"You're sure?"

"If you're sure that you will never be that person again."

I took the folder, containing the evidence of my infidelity of heart, and put it in the trash bag. I tied it closed and took it out of my wife's presence, out of my house, out of my property. I placed it at the curb with the other trash.

The evidence is gone. But I will never forget, because I will never allow this to happen again.

God vs Man

It was the pain, you see, that inspired me to write all those years. I write far less now, because I am free of that pain.

I was in love with another woman. I had felt so worthless, so incapable all my life. I never ever felt as though I could make it. Not emotionally, not occupationally, not sexually. I didn't believe I could succeed as a human being, much less a man. Even married, even with children, I didn't believe I could even survive. I prayed constantly for death.

And in the middle of this desperation, I fell in love. And suddenly I wanted to live.

Here before me was the promise of all the advertising, all the television shows and movies, all the popular-culture novels, all the multigazillion-dollar pornography industry. The promise of unattached sexual experience, without consequence, without responsibility. The promise that a beautiful girl would look on me and see a god, dazzled by my sexual prowess. I would be Eros, god of erotic love, worshipped and adored, and never asked to change a dirty diaper or take out the garbage. Any romantic gesture would be a mind-blowingly wonderful bonus, not looked for, not expected. There would be no expectations whatsoever, except another sexual encounter.

And because she was a virgin, having never even dated, I would have been uncompared and uncomparable, until it was all over. And I would be forever remembered as her first.

Oh, the temptation.

The promise of godhood beckoned me for years, as I slowly walked further and further into my trap. Her liquid eyes bored into my soul, promising me immortality and worship. "I will give you the world," she said silently, "if you will let me bow down and worship you. You will never need to balance my chequebook or pay my bills or sweep my floor. Just come to me in secret and be my sex god."

But incredibly, as I moved towards her promise of godhood, I became less a man. I became secretive. I was too distracted to lavish my love and romance and affection on my devoted wife. I spent hours communicating with the girl instead of with my wife and children. I sacrificed them for her. I failed in my responsibilities and duties to them, because godhood didn't require that I be a man, but only a god. And so I failed completely as a husband, and as a man.

And, of course, the promise of godhood was only ever a lie to begin with.

Sure, I could have had sex with her. I could have given her orgasms and revelled in her praise and adoration. I could have drowned myself in her body and exulted in my sexual prowess. I am good in bed; I could have given her amazing introductory experiences.

Thank God I didn't. It nearly killed me to give up that dream before it turned to shit in my mouth. What would it have been like if all I had taken it any further, and completely ruined my hopes of returning to reality?

The dark promise of godhood still beckons sometimes. But I recognise it for what it is --- a cunningly constructed lie, prettily wrapped destruction. Pandora's box, containing all that is evil inside myself.

And I look, instead, at my beautiful wife, still timid and cautious, still testing, still shy to give herself completely to me. And I delight in the responsibilities of manhood, knowing now that I can do them. I can be a man. I do not need to be a god, because I finally realise I'm capable of being a man. Better a real man than a false god.

I am happier now than I have ever been. And that is why it's hard to feel compelled to blog the way I used to. That driving pain no longer dominates my life.

It's pretty damn nice.