"Lying is done with words and also with silence"
~Adrienne Rich

The trouble with a lie is not always just the lie itself; it is the immensity of the truth that lives behind the lie.  That truth is bigger than the lie, it always is.  Once you have done this thing - created this lie - you can’t ever forget that truth is lurking there.  It’s just over your shoulder, it whispers in your ear so you don’t forget.   In this way, your lie becomes a living, breathing entity that takes up far more space than you thought possible in the moment of its creation.

I think perhaps that a lie can have a more insidious effect on karma than almost anything else.  The universe knows the truth, and nothing can truly be in balance as long as the lie is an actively functioning part of your life.

I got caught in a lie last night - the secret I most wanted to keep was discovered.  My most shameful, destructive, desperate actions set free to rebalance that universal energy.  His heart broken again, worse than ever.  His pain is mine to own.  His betrayal is my responsibility.   I have no excuse for myself, nothing to say but ‘sorry’ over and over again (has any word ever seemed so inadequate and meaningless, I wonder?).

I can tell him that I was caught up in something bigger than myself.  That over 14 years of denial cumulated into a force that was so utterly inevitable that I couldn’t find the strength to resist it.  That I didn’t want to resist it, not even for him, not even for our marriage.  That once I acknowledged this, I was like a snowball rolling down a hill, picking up mass and velocity with every spin (and oh, how I felt I was spinning so fast I would surely disintegrate if it got any more intense).  That I knew in the deepest part of myself that I would not stop until I had done this. 

I could tell him that I wanted to seize this experience for myself so badly that I had blinders on.  That I couldn’t see past my own needs, that I couldn’t hear past the chaos in my head, couldn’t feel anything beyond the fire that consumed my body.  That I needed to lay claim to this part of myself in order to know if I could ever truly be whole.  That every day of NOT doing this felt like a betrayal of myself, and that I couldn’t bear it any longer. 

I could tell him that even knowing everything I know; I would probably do it again.   Not because I am a heartless, selfish bitch (although I might certainly be that sometimes) but because this need (not just the physical need, although that was certainly not insignificant) was stronger than anything I had ever experienced.  So strong, in fact, that I would likely have completely destroyed myself in order to satisfy it.  I could tell him that if it hadn’t been then, it would have been soon after.  If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else.  If it hadn’t been here, it would have been somewhere.

But in the end, what are all those words if not ultimately meaningless excuses for doing something I knew to be terribly wrong?

Since the beginning I have been living in this place somewhere between the heaviest guilt and shame and the exhilaration of finally living authentically.  Right now, all I can feel is the guilt.  All I have room for inside myself is the shame of what I have done.   Not the shame of being true to myself.  Certainly not shame for being with a woman, for I could never feel shame for something that was obviously so right.

But, I could have chosen to do this in a way that respected him, in a way that respected us.  I didn’t choose that.  I took another road - a selfish, self-serving road - and now we both have to live with that knowledge.  Not just the knowledge of what I did, and how I did it, but the knowledge that I was too weak to tell him the truth.  I didn’t tell him then, and I didn’t tell him in the millions of moments between then and now.

I didn’t do it because I was not strong enough.  I didn’t do it because I somehow convinced myself that this lie was kinder than the truth.  I didn’t do it because I was trying to rationalize my selfish desire to not share something so incredibly intimate.  I didn’t do it because I could not bear to see the look in his eyes when he realized I was not the person he thought that I was.  I didn’t do it because I couldn’t bear to own the fact that I was that person.

In the end all that matter is this: I didn’t do it.  I chose the lie over the truth – and I got caught.

And in getting caught I feel countless emotions – guilt and shame intensified beyond their already almost unbearable level.  Loneliness and emptiness and that damn numbness once again taking over my body and mind.  Most of all though, I feel relief.   It’s done now.  I feel myself slowly gaining equilibrium, even though I didn’t even understand why it had been missing all this time.  I feel some karmic restoration that I don’t think I can fully accept because I feel so unworthy of it right now.

I have no idea where we go from here.  Before this, it felt like we were finally getting somewhere, making progress, learning how to move on.  Now, because of my choices, everything has crashed down again.  And through it all, he is still this man who never ceases to amaze.  That email I shared a few days ago was written AFTER he learned the truth – and he still means it.  He still loves me, he still worries about me, he still offers me love and comfort and support.  I have never felt so utterly undeserving of anything in my life.

This truth had to be released.  I know that now in a way I could not have known it yesterday.  As long as I carried the weight of that lie, I could not step forward.   Owning that lie kept me in a place of self-loathing, and kept us in a place of distrust and suspicion.  Now it has been set free.  Now I can own the truth instead of the lie – and I can move on into this great unknown future.  Afraid still, but perhaps with my head held a little higher.

I wonder sometimes - how do I keep myself open enough to learn all the lessons this is teaching me?  How do I integrate and accept all that has been given, and how to I release and let go of all that can no longer be?  How do I balance the need to be both kind and honest in the same moment?  How do I both accept responsibility for my actions and  absolution from the weight of guilt for things beyond my control?  How do I integrate two fractured parts of myself into one person who is whole and complete?

I guess the only answer is to be found in living the truth.

"An authentic life is the most personal form of worship. Everyday life has become my prayer"
~Sarah Ban Breathnach