What am I now to say? “I’m sorry.”? “Out of fear, I wished to evade your love by setting up some necessity for evading your hate.”? No, I give you my blessing to hate me. That would be just. Though unrequited.
(the morning after)
Editorial notice: This site is currently at draft status. It was slapped together around the edges of a very busy time. Expect improvements.
Current content (see also the FAQ):
I here present the story of how Anita Manderfield intentionally cheated on me with Brian Taylor for the malign purpose of hurting me and destroying her relationship with me. These events are here primarily told in Anita’s own words, through verbatim quotation of her written communications to me.
In the large, this disclosure is merely consistent with the social utility of shame. In an era when Internet search engines have become a prophylactic against bad behavior by new friends and potential mates, what I here recount is what I wish I had been warned about when I met Anita. Indeed, this was not the first time she had done such a thing, as she recounted to me. And as for Brian Taylor, the same applies: He is a filthy interloper who, after I forced Anita to tell him the truth, accepts and embraces that she started their relationship by using him as a meat-weapon while she lied to both of us. Evidently, he is the sort of man who is happy with that.
And in the small, I am unburdening myself of a shame borne by me in excruciating silence for eleven months as of this writing. In secret, the disgrace is mine; when revealed, it goes back whence it came, thus that I may move on. For too long, I bore this unwanted secret. Yet eventually, after my seemingly unbounded patience was repaid only by deepening of the insult, I realized the incongruity: She relied upon my honor to conceal her dishonor of me.
I will not dishonor you. I will not, and I will that not.
(specifically in a discussion about Brian)
If Anita had stabbed me with a knife, I would have no obligation to keep that event confidential. She used Brian Taylor to figuratively stab me through the heart. Why should I be bound to silence over such a malicious violation of my trust in her?
All along, Anita knew that what she did was wrong, and did it anyway. She knew that her actions were destructive to me, and potentially to herself, too—yet she so acted anyway. She mouthed to me a thousand apologies—not only unaccompanied by any material demonstration of remorse, but delivered instead with a progressive deepening of the injury. In substantial effect, she rubbed salt into the wound, ran a cheese grater over it, and then slowly dripped on some vitriol for good measure. That is over.
...and I betrayed and insulted you.
I don’t defend my actions. I wronged you and him and myself.... This has wrecked your life and now stands to wreck mine.