Do You Want to Share Your Story?
On the day of my first group therapy call, I left work early so I could be home, settled, and more importantly, freshen up. I wanted to fix my hair, reapply my make-up, and put on something comfortable yet still give off a presence. Confidence. I had no confidence remaining at that point, but was still of the mindset that if I appeared put together, I would not feel and reflect the mess of a situation I was living.
I sat in the home office I had just decorated for him less than a year prior for the zoom call. I remember pulling my shoulders back and tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear as the partner cameras started showing signs of life. And it only took five minutes to hear voices and see beautiful faces for me to crack. My shoulders slumped back into the earth as the tears eased down, one by one, dropping onto his work desk beside the work phone I would sometimes screen for recent calls when he left the house. It was real. I was in a virtual circle of women who carried the same brokenness I was carrying, and it was our situation.
One-by-one, women that were far longer on the journey of betrayal trauma than me shared their story. Every few minutes I would mute and black out my screen to breathe and dissociate from the stories of lengthy affairs, broken homes, and sexual addiction. And when all but me had spoken, my therapist, the group leader asked, “Do you want to share your story?”
I had never shared my story. Was it my story, or our story? My now overly sensitive stomach started with burning and gnawing sensations. I should have prepared. I should have spoken the reality out loud prior to this call so it came out confident and flawless. As the stage fright and panic began to ensue, I quickly prayed my ingrained line for moments such as these, “God, please give me the words.” And I spoke. It was not flawless. It was not beautiful. But how could it be? How does one tell this story and make it beautiful?
The raw truth is my first round of sharing my story, even among a circle of trusted and fellow survivors, surfaced feelings of intense humiliation and shame. I wanted to yell into my microphone and the universe, “How could this have happened to me? I am the wife who chose her husband. I chose him daily. Despite all his shortcomings, and unending commitments outside our home. I chose him. I trusted him. And I believed in him.”
After I spoke and the group held for a therapeutic pause (thank you, God, for therapeutic pauses), one of the partners asked if she could speak. She was beautiful. She spoke with an empathy and connection I had yet to encounter in the world of betrayal trauma. The type of connection you experience when someone says to you “I get it,” and you believe them. We had similar and relatable stories. She spoke of personal experience with treatment options and hope for healing. Her vulnerability and courage would serve as a platform for me to chip away the shame core I had developed. The core that tried to keep me from speaking and seeking support in circles such as these. I never told her the impact this first conversation had on me, but she was entirely what I needed in this moment. Thank you, brave and fellow partner.
I would spend six months in this betrayed partner therapy group. It was the safe space that was held for me after experiencing my second affair disclosure. It was a space where I learned I was not alone. If you have an opportunity to join a partners group, consider joining. Do not hesitate to speak when you feel safe enough to do so. Do not hesitate to pause when you need to take a pause. And be brave enough to walk away when you need a break from it all. Allow resources such as these to serve their purpose. And when that purpose has been served, ask God to point you in the next direction. Ask God to use the experience for His good.
