Probably no surprise to people with brains, but that first guy was married with three kids, or pets, or a trio of something that left me too stunned to listen to his confession. I’d gotten as far as “And my wife and my three . . .” before I shut down and collapsed into myself.
So much has cascaded since then that narrowing it to a singular event might be counterproductive to the truth, but I’m pretty certain that’s how the spiral started.
When my therapist once asked how the whole attraction to the wrong man began, I described it as having happened by chance. The events that brought me down that path should never have occurred, but they did because it was my time to live in pain. My answer garnered a look that branded me as insane.
The question should’ve been a simple one, involving the recall of a historical moment that had happened not long ago. But every time I dwelled on it, it brought me nothing but sorrow. Maybe I’m a crybaby at heart, but I think any girl in my situation would’ve reacted similarly. After all, that was the day I hit my gutter—the day when I dropped my standards to the floor and swept them under the rug. Granted, I didn’t know it back then, but it sure became obvious to me as time moved on. I had fallen so hard from perpetual loneliness that I was ready to invite anything into my heart: as long as it could quench the pain. That was the point when Harry entered the picture.