and forcing yourself to be what you are not and cannot be—namely, straight.
The women, who are slapped with the truth at the time when it becomes convenient for their husbands to reveal this information, feel trapped in their own personal “twilight zone.” After they learn about their husbands’ homosexuality, numerous questions arise with limited resources for finding the answers that make sense.
This book has been written to help straight women and gay men understand the dynamics of their marriages by answering the difficult questions that are so confusing. These are answers based on twenty-five years of counseling tens of thousands of women across this country and other parts of the world who have been in these relationships.
Unfortunately, there is no quick fix to alleviate the pain that each woman suffers, but this book will give insight into how and why this happens. Hopefully, you will find the answers you are looking for that will allow you to move towards a happier future.
On September 17, 1982, my husband, Michael, packed two suitcases and stormed out of our home. His parting words were, “I’ll be staying with my family. I’ll be back next week to pick up the rest of my things.”
I watched him throw the luggage into the car and then pull away without turning back for a final glimpse. For a few minutes, I stared out the window, frozen in time. My mind came to a complete stop, but I was soon jolted by the screams of my three-month-old son, Alex. He sensed the tension that filled our home at that moment.
I picked up the baby, placed a bottle in his mouth, and started rocking him back and forth, cradled in my arms. I was too numb to cry, to talk, or even to whisper. I kept rocking the baby in a mechanical, steady rhythm, and I began to remember.
* * * * *
In the spring of 1978, my life was at its best point ever. At the age of twenty-seven, I was the director of a major political organization headquartered in New York City. My job was challenging and very exciting. During that year, I traveled to fifteen cities around the country, appeared on national and local television programs, and interviewed with dozens of magazines and newspapers. I moved to New York from my home in Philadelphia after a year of exhausting commuting.
My personal life had changed dramatically for the better that year. Nine months earlier, I ended a three-year marriage to my first husband, Brad, who suffered from severe depression and anxiety. It was difficult living with a man who was mentally deteriorating week by week in spite of the forced psychotherapy (at my insistence) and the daily doses of antidepressants.
Physically, I temporarily conquered a chronic obesity problem that plagued me since childhood. For the first time as an adult, I looked attractive and felt wonderful about my life. Living in New York had been my dream since childhood, and now I had a chance to live out that dream. My life was almost complete—a great job, wonderful friends, and a nice apartment. The only thing missing was a man.
My attitude about men was typical of other women who grew up in what I refer to as the “Cinderella Era.” I was born in 1951 when the social climate expected young women to marry shortly after high school or risk being labeled an “old maid.” As a child, I was inspired by the fairy tales with the “happily ever after” endings. I was a gawky, overweight teenager whose ultimate goal was to find a loving man who would fall deeply in love with me and take care of my emotional need of being loved unconditionally.
In my desperate attempts to find this love, I began repeating a pattern of entering into destructive and disastrous relationships. My low self-esteem made me an easy target for men who were the takers in life, not the givers. Even though my first marriage failed, and in spite of other previous bad experiences, I was determined to find my soul mate.
When Michael walked into my office in June of 1978 asking to volunteer some of his time to our organization, I sensed there was something special about him. His charismatic nature, comedic wit, and handsome looks intrigued me. He was six feet tall with a shapely muscular body, long chestnut brown hair, and dark green eyes. There was an air of mystery about him that attracted me even more. I invited him to join me for dinner, and he graciously accepted.
We dined in a popular restaurant on the Lower East Side of New York and exchanged our life stories. Before I realized it, three hours had passed and the restaurant was closing. I apologized for taking up so much of Michael’s time, but he said that it was the best evening he could ever remember.
As we parted, Michael promised to meet me at my office the next day after work. I went home thinking only of him. I had a strong premonition that this man would be my future husband. He had all of the qualities that I was looking for in a man—strength, intelligence, warmth, compassion, and humor.
Michael kept his word, and the following evening, appeared at my office. He offered to take me to a movie, but I was in the midst of a major advertising campaign and couldn’t spare the time. He stayed in the office, making himself useful by answering telephones and greeting other volunteers. By 11:00 p.m., we called it a night and settled for a late night cup of coffee.
Michael and I started spending our free moments together, and several days later, I began falling in love with him. I had always been a romantic, and I convinced myself that our meeting was more than chance—it was destiny. On an impulse, I agreed to move into Michael’s apartment four weeks later.
The idea of marriage came up in our early conversations, and once the words were spoken, it seemed to be the natural course to take. We picked a date three months later in September, and we quickly found a hotel for the affair. In the confusion of the wedding preparations, it was easy to overlook some of Michael’s imperfections that were becoming more apparent. There were some inconsistencies about his life that I questioned, but I accepted his explanations, wanting to believe him and not the voice of reason in my head that kept saying, “Be careful.”
For instance, shortly after we met, I visited Michael in his office. He was employed as an accountant for a small insurance firm. The mail clerk stopped by to chat with him, but Michael never introduced me. When I asked him why, he explained that the co-worker was gay and had a crush on him. Michael didn’t want to hurt the clerk’s feelings by telling him we were getting married. I thought this sounded strange, but I also knew that Michael was a compassionate person who cared about other people’s feelings. He told me it was nothing to worry about. After all, it was the clerk’s problem—he was the gay one, not Michael. I thought this was odd, but shrugged it off.
Over the next few weeks, Michael introduced me to his friends that he had had since childhood. They all seemed excited about our upcoming marriage; however, they unanimously displayed surprise. Several of them commented that they thought Michael would never get married. When I told Michael about these comments, he explained that he had always told his friends he was a “confirmed bachelor” until he met me. When I met the members of his family shortly afterwards, they acted equally surprised, but at the same time, they gave us their blessings.
Michael was a volunteer for a local organization that mentored teenagers who were at risk of dropping out of high school. There were usually four or five of these young men surrounding us who looked at Michael as their personal guru. All of them were from dysfunctional families. Some came from homes without a father, while others had parents who were unstable due to drug and alcohol addiction or mental illness.
Between Michael’s job and volunteering three times a week, and my twelve-hour
