I saw a nice lady for consultation a few years ago. She was distraught, wanted help in rebuilding her life and her emotional strength. Her husband, age 54, had, after an evening of good sex with her, informed her that he had realized that he was gay, and needed to leave her to pursue a gay life style because he did not want to deceive her or betray her.
They cried together and held eachother. She cried for two weeks. After that, she began having panic attacks. He moved out, and the legal aspects of the divorce proceedings had been easy and mutually agreeable.
Six months had gone by and she still felt shattered. The reality of her life had been exploded. I told her that grief takes at least a year. Mind you, this was a sophisticated urban woman who had once been in the fashion business and who assured me she could readily identify gay guys at a distance. He had always been a loving, sexy, loyal husband with no hyper-macho ways, and no stereotypical gay interests or mannerisms. Good father, too. He worked in finance.
In the six months apart, she told me that he had seemed to transform himself from an ordinary fellow into a flamboyantly gay man who drinks too much, dyes his hair, spends weekends in Provincetown and weeknights in gay bars. He told her it took him 40 years "to find his inner fag." He says he'll love her forever, support her and the kids, but now has found his real self and feels happier than he ever had.
I thought to myself "That was a real gay marriage." I also wondered whether he was Bipolar, but it didn't matter because it was over and her challenge was to write what I term "a new chapter."
I had seen this a number of times before, in mid-life men and in women too. I can't say I understand it. Nobody really does, but I do understand the grief. Agonizing. I also understand the horror of wondering whether much of one's life has been fraudulently-lived in a fake reality.
In my line of work, I encounter plenty of people who live in fake realities of their own construction, but it's not ordinarily about sexual matters. It's usually about other things. I carry the burden of a thousand stories in my soul, but don't feel sorry for me. It's a privilege, and I get paid to carry them.
(nb: real details of this story are totally altered and combined - fake but true)
