and relax for a few moments before the party started. Ben had been drinking and smoking pot all afternoon. I remember standing with some people in the yard taking photographs when Ben popped his head out of the upstairs bedroom window with a lost look on his face.
“Honey,” he hollered out toward the gathering below, “come help me.”
I looked up and raised my voice so he could hear. “What is it?” I asked.
“I need help. Can you come up here?”
I headed upstairs. When I walked into the bedroom, he was trying to change his trousers. In his inebriated state, he could not get his legs into his pants.
“You’ve got to save me,” he said. “That bridesmaid—she’s
out to get me. She’s giving me the eye,” and then he pointed to one of his eyes.
“You’re wasted right now.” I told him. “Do you realize that? It’s embarrassing.”
“Ah, c’mon, honey. I’m just having some fun. Don’t be such a drag.”
I left him there in the upstairs bedroom and returned to the party, determined not to let his ridiculous behavior ruin a wonderful evening.
The next afternoon we all gathered at Jeff and Cathy’s house again, this time for a brunch-style meal where the bride and groom would open their wedding gifts. Our four kids were running about the house, playing with the other kids. Every once in a while they’d tear through the living room where the adults had gathered for the gift reception. Lo and behold, there sat my husband next to the woman who had been the bridesmaid the night before. It was noon, and they were already drinking and giggling with each other.
“Ben,” I said two or three times, trying to get his attention. “Can I talk to you for a second out on the porch?”
“Sure,” he said.
Once outside, I asked him in a hushed whisper, “What the hell are you doing? You’re drunk and stoned already and you’re making a fool out of yourself with that bridesmaid from yesterday. What do you think you are doing, acting like that?”
“You’re overreacting and paranoid,” he said. “Nothing is going on.”
He turned and walked back into the room as if it was his day and his party. He slid right back down in his seat next to the bridesmaid. I watched them through a window from the porch as they giggled and whispered into each other ‘s ears. I was too humiliated and angry to return to the party.
When the two of them stood up and started heading for the stairs, my heart started pounding. There they were, wading through friends and family—including their own children—and heading upstairs for God knows what. I followed them and halfway up the staircase, I stopped them.
I did not want to cause a scene so my voice was very low, but very deliberate. I said it directly to my husband—I could have cared less what that bridesmaid had to say.
“Where do you think you are going?” I hissed.
“We’re just going into the bathroom to get high,” Ben answered.
“Oh, no you’re not,” I said. “We are leaving. Now. Let’s go.”
He gave the bridesmaid a little shrug, we collected the kids and we left the party. I was devastated. Alarm bells were going off in my head, and I knew then that something was horribly wrong between us. I wrote off some of Ben’s behavior to the alcohol, pot, and his need to blow off steam after months of long hours at the hospital and office. But there was plenty of serious doubt left over. I was still upset the next morning when we went for a long run on the beach at Torrey Pines. I could not stop crying. My journal entry surrounding this day follows.
July 10, 1997
…Ben acted so embarrassing and humiliating with a cosmetically altered mother of three—in front of his own parents and sister and me, not to mention his own four children. For the first time in my life I was truly disgusted with him and wanted nothing to do with him. The pain he causes me now is greater than the joy he brings me.
On our flight home from California we were sitting together in first class and our kids were safely out of earshot in coach. Something had snapped deep in my soul. I told Ben that he had two weeks to find himself a serious therapist and get help or he had to move out of the house. I do not know where I came up with the two weeks. It seemed a reasonable amount of time for him to find someone and commit to working on himself. I also think I was trying to buy myself some time too—to be comfortable with the ultimatum I had just issued.
The ultimatum appeared to sink in, because Ben immediately started seeing a therapist, Harold Brown, Jr. His credentials were impressive; he is a Licensed Professional Counselor, a Masters Addictions Counselor, and a Certified Sexual Addiction Therapist. After Ben’s session with Harold, describing the events of his behavior at the wedding, this therapist scheduled a joint session to discuss general issues surrounding our marriage, the wedding, and a course of action for the coming months.
I readily agreed to go although I was feeling very nervous being in a therapist’s office. I sat down next to Ben on the therapist’s green leather couch. Harold got right to the point and started asking me a series of questions. “Maurita, I want you to answer the following questions for me with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer. I just ask that you answer as honestly as you can.”
“OK,” I said. But I remember thinking that my husband’s therapist looked so young. What the hell is he going to know about life and what is going on in our marriage?
Even at thirty-five, Harold looked like he was in his late twenties, as if he’d just walked off the beach with a surfboard under his arm. His eyes were a piercing blue, and he looked as if he’d just shaken the sand from his hair.
“Do you trust your husband with credit cards or your family checkbook and finances?”
“No,” I answered.
“Do you trust your husband when he calls you and tells you where he is or who he is with?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you trust your husband alone, when you are not around or out of town?”
“No.”
“Do you trust your husband to watch out for your kids when you are not around?”
“No.”
“Do you think your husband has cheated on you?”
“No.”
“Are you happy with the way things are going in your marriage?”
“No.”
The questions went on for a while, and the number of times that I said “no” over the next few moments started to echo in my mind. Later, Harold’s questions lingered in my head when Ben and I went to dinner. We waited for a table at a restaurant called Collector ‘s Café.
“I’m glad this is your problem and not mine. I’d be fine never seeing that guy again,”
