A letter to the other woman



My name is J**** L***.  I have been in a relationship with J** N******* for more than twenty years.  I love him very much.  I like walking, and reading, and films and music, and singing, and art galleries, and hanging out with my friends.  I am doing a PhD.  I am a person.  Made of flesh and nerves, and pain.  After three months I am still not eating much and not sleeping well, and I am missing the man that I have loved and do love, and in whom I had so much faith.

Who are you V***** C******?  A woman whose husband despises her.  A mother – perhaps bored and frustrated with that role.  A woman with no hobbies or interests, but who is very chilled.  Because messing around in another person’s relationship is just a hoot.  Cheating and lying and sneaking around is ok when your kids won’t know how depraved you are, and when you don’t tell your family so you don’t have to experience their shame and disappointment.  And you forget that there is a third person.  Me.  Or you don’t care.

You pursue the affair still, beyond the point of dignity, and beyond the point of decency.

I have tried to feel compassion for you.  But J** says that you are mentally stable, so I can only assume that you are contemptible, immoral, rotten inside. I can feel nothing but utter disdain for you.

On Mondays I learn guitar – I’m not very good at it, but it’s a nice thing to do.  On Tuesdays I speak to my grandparents on the phone, and  usually go out for dinner with friends.  On Wednesdays my lovely friend E**** and I play Badminton.  On Thursdays I go to a research seminar, and get drunk after with my colleagues.  On Fridays I know the weekend is coming so I try not to be in the house.  At the weekends I either try to get away and stay with friends and family, because our house feels like a prison, or I am ashamed to say I pine for my relationship.  I often walk to keep the sadness and anxiety at bay.  It doesn’t work that well, but it’s nice to be out.  I try to work on my thesis, but it’s very hard and requires mental focus, and my brain is like a bowl of butterflies, full of you and what you have done.  That’s a worry for me.

Anyway, that’s it.  Just letting you know that I bleed when I am cut, and that I wish for my own sake, that I could feel sorry for you rather than feeling hatred for you.  Perhaps that will come in time.  Given what you’ve done I am not expecting that this e-mail will move you.  But in case there is an ounce of humanity in you, I thought it might give you pause for thought.

I don’t require a reply.

Yours sincerely.


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