More Article: A Straight Woman’s Worst Nightmare Your Husband Is A Closeted Homosexual.

Midlife crisis: My husband is gay

By:

Gerty Shipmaker

Before and after

My husband of 19 years sat across from me in our bedroom, holding both my hands in his. The kids were in bed; he had put on soft music and poured us a glass of wine. Things were looking good — I was getting my hopes up. Instinctively I knew we were in that place that would be forever known as “before” and “after.” For two years now, our marriage had been unravelling, and it looked like tonight was going to be the night when I would find out what demons we were dealing with and we could start the process of healing.

“You’re going to have to be strong,” he began, and I eagerly hung on his words, knowing I would be anything he needed me to be to get our relationship back on track and our marriage back to what it used to be.

He was my best friend. John and I had begun dating almost 21 years earlier and after that first evening together, I knew I was going to marry him. Our courtship consisted of hours together talking, going for walks, and planning our future together.

We married in May 1981 and shared almost all of our non-working moments together. We rarely missed having breakfast together at the beginning of each day, and never went to bed without the other at the end of it.

The perfect family

By our 10th anniversary, we’d added four more people to the world — three daughters and a son. Our lives expanded to revolve around us being a family. Every Sunday we went to church; in the summers we went camping, winters we skied and tobogganed. We created family traditions such as breakfast in bed for birthdays, Mother’s and Father’s Day. Every Valentine’s Day John would send each of the kids a carnation and me a rose; at the end of the day he and I would make the dining room into some ethnic restaurant and would serve our children and their special friends. I was always the crazy cook and he the bantering waiter.

John was an attentive husband and a good father. He never shied away from bathing the kids, reading them bedtime stories, or doing homework or dishes with them. For our 15th anniversary, he stole me away for a long weekend on the ocean, back to where we’d had our honeymoon. It was one of the most romantic times of our marriage.

In January 1999, I began noticing changes in John. At first he just wanted to spend more time alone than usual. Then he began pulling away from me, not wanting to talk, becoming rather despondent. Shortly after that, he went on a business trip for five days and when he came home, he was completely uninterested in me sexually. Two weeks went by and I began to worry. I found a marriage support website and emailed for help, describing the change in my husband.

It became obvious to me what the problem was: John had turned 40 the year before, and was now simply going through a midlife crisis. I was so excited that I could put a label on him. Now I knew what needed to be fixed.

Ever try to fix a man? Just for the record, most of them are “as is” models, and if by some fluke they are of the changeable kind, trust me, it cannot be done through crying, pleading, nagging or cajoling.

I know that now.

That year I realized the need to care for myself, to pay attention to me. Perhaps it was a survival instinct — who knows? But it dawned on me that I was a mere year away from turning 40 myself, so made the decision to give myself a gift: For my 40th birthday, I would run a half-marathon. I had never actually run a step in my life, but it was something I wanted to do. Following the instructions in a book, I began a training program.

The month before I turned 40, I ran my one and only half-marathon. I was in the best shape of my life, physically. Sadly, by that time, John and I were no longer making love. The possibility of his having an affair entered my mind, but I was hoping that any day he’d notice me again and snap out of his crisis.

For my 40th birthday, five of my close friends surprised me with a weekend away. It was quite the weekend. My brain was constantly flipping from “affair” to shopping with girlfriends, back to “affair,” then to dinner out with girlfriends and back to “affair.”

As soon as I returned home, I confronted John.  He denied having an affair, and I believed him…but I was still suspicious.

My journal entry one month later reads: I am living in a nightmare. A hell. It’s like my husband has died and I need to mourn and grieve. Except that he keeps showing up again and no one else knows he’s dead.

The final straw

Christmas 2000 found the kids and me decorating the tree alone while John read a book and napped on the couch. Traditionally, decorating our tree was a family event and party. Not that year. The evening ended with me taking off my wedding ring and giving it to John, asking him to keep it and give it back to me only when he was willing to make a commitment to me for the rest of his life.

Three weeks later we faced each other in our bedroom, hands held together as he said those words, “You’re going to have to be strong…”

I expected him to tell me about his struggles, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d get the ring back and we’d begin some sort of healing journey.

What I did not expect was his next sentence: “I’m gay and I think I am leaving our marriage.”

Uh, pardon me? You’re what?!? What do you mean, gay? Okay, I know what you mean, but…gay?

Next day’s journal entry: It’s over. The proverbial fat lady has sung. He’s leaving…. It was supposed to have a happy ending. It’s not. After 20 years, John has been completely honest with me. He has lied for 20 years. Last night, however, we spent hours talking. He still is my best friend. He just can’t be my husband.

The crushing pain that followed that announcement was astronomical. Not only had I suddenly lost everything I’d ever known, but I wasn’t even sure it had ever existed. John said he’d always known he was gay, and had married me because I was his “salvation,” his way out. What did that mean? How could he have loved me when his desire was for men? Did he think of men when he made love to me? What kind of woman did that make me? What did I do wrong in our marriage that, had I done right, he might have been able to deal with his homosexuality in a different way?

And how could I not have known my husband was gay? Did I miss the clues?

My marriage was over and my husband was gay. I didn’t even know anyone at that point in my life who was gay. But because this was my best friend, we talked about it. Not all that evening, but as the weeks went by and we prepared to separate. That was a mistake, allowing him to tell me about his journey. Watching his face light up as he told me about the men he’d met, the man he was leaving me for, the community that now embraced him. A world I never knew existed, that my husband had been slowly stepping into for over a year.

Two things held me up in those dark days: my faith in God and my friends. There were times when not even an hour went by without a phone call or an email or a visit. One day I’d receive a bouquet of flowers, the next day I’d open the door to a girlfriend who just stood there holding out a bucket of Haagen Dazs. (I ate that right out of the bucket with my girls by candlelight that night).

Running and pamerping

One friend in particular would push me to continue running. And on those days when life was unbearable, that’s what I would do — run. With each step I pounded down, I felt a part of my load was left behind.

I continued to take care of myself. Along with my running, I pampered myself, keeping my toenails painted, moisturizing, etcetera. I needed to remind myself that I was still an attractive woman. Just to feel that way. I began an incredible journey of learning to trust my judgment, allowing myself to make choices and live with the fallout, if necessary. I made myself available to my children, who were then 17, 15, 13 and 10. We continued the traditions that were part of us and made new ones just for the five of us.

Sadly, John and I are no longer close. My belief is that we were meant to be married, and I just couldn’t adjust to being a friend (it hurt too much to make that change). After many struggles, all the kids have a relationship with their dad, although it will never be as strong as when we were all together as a family.

And me? I survived. Each hurdle, and there were many, required a little more faith, a little more running, a little more ice cream, and a lot of girlfriend time.

I wouldn’t wish my journey on anyone. Except me. It has made me into a stronger, more capable woman.

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