Not once, not twice. I don't know how many times. I can't remember. I can remember all of the women I slept with, each and every one of them, but I can't count them and I can't count all of the times I slept with them. Something about numbers, so final and absolute. I was never good with numbers, unless they had a practical application, like chemistry.
Does it matter if it was just once, or only five times? Would it matter if it was once with one person, or if I had orchestrated a full on affair that went on for years? YEARS of lying and duplicity. YEARS of looking at two women, whom I loved and gave my body. Wandering into their eyes, and LYING. Would it be different if I had just had a few flings here and there, if I hadn't ever slept with anyone, but only kissed and touched, stroked and petted. And then left while she wondered, will I ever see him again? No, you won't see me again. I'm married and I'm a Douche Bag.
I'm a successful Douche Bag. I lived the American Dream, raised a family and had a successful career. I still have a successful career. Some of my patients are even what you might call famous. And they would be so very disappointed in me. Their Doctor, their light in darkness and grey. Their Shaman, their projected perfect father, grandfather, boyfriend, brother, little brother, a pervert. Well, I'm not a pervert. I'm a man. I'm an imperfect human.
Still, they have trusted me with all of their secrets and I told them it was going to be O.K. They have brought me their lovers, their wives, their husbands, and I have helped them to remain together faithfully and to appreciate each other and the beauty of monogamy, opened their eyes to the joy of spiritual connection and relationships, tried to help them admit to themselves how much they wanted to be loved and to give love. Most of them, or not most, I should say many of them considered their desire for a love a weakness.
Or, I helped them to split apart with as little damage as possible, to stop hurting, tormenting and playing power games with each other. I helped to untangle their fears, their unmet childhood needs, their defense mechanisms. I helped to disarm them, to put down their emotional and verbal weapons (in some cases physical weapons) and to walk peacefully into a new chapter. And I did it all with my voice, my physical presence, my office, my intellect, my energy, my being, my ego, my very own defense mechanisms, psyche, and neurosis . . . Or, at least that's what I would like to think I did, or that I still do.
Who knows? I've had patients come back and say that I saved their lives. I'm sure I have patients out there that hate me. They despise me. Some of them probably keep coming back and I don't even know they hate me. They tell their friends, their mothers, but they would never tell me to my face. And maybe I have failed them. I didn't listen, said the wrong thing, prescribed the wrong medication, didn't follow up enough. I was not always the best Doctor that I could have been. I was not always the best man I could have been. I was not always the best husband, or the best father, the best son, or the best brother that I could have been. I was only ever a human being. And I'm not sure if that's an excuse, or the truth.
How disappointed my patients would be that I don't have all of the answers.
Does it matter if it was just once, or only five times? Would it matter if it was once with one person, or if I had orchestrated a full on affair that went on for years? YEARS of lying and duplicity. YEARS of looking at two women, whom I loved and gave my body. Wandering into their eyes, and LYING. Would it be different if I had just had a few flings here and there, if I hadn't ever slept with anyone, but only kissed and touched, stroked and petted. And then left while she wondered, will I ever see him again? No, you won't see me again. I'm married and I'm a Douche Bag.
I'm a successful Douche Bag. I lived the American Dream, raised a family and had a successful career. I still have a successful career. Some of my patients are even what you might call famous. And they would be so very disappointed in me. Their Doctor, their light in darkness and grey. Their Shaman, their projected perfect father, grandfather, boyfriend, brother, little brother, a pervert. Well, I'm not a pervert. I'm a man. I'm an imperfect human.
Still, they have trusted me with all of their secrets and I told them it was going to be O.K. They have brought me their lovers, their wives, their husbands, and I have helped them to remain together faithfully and to appreciate each other and the beauty of monogamy, opened their eyes to the joy of spiritual connection and relationships, tried to help them admit to themselves how much they wanted to be loved and to give love. Most of them, or not most, I should say many of them considered their desire for a love a weakness.
Or, I helped them to split apart with as little damage as possible, to stop hurting, tormenting and playing power games with each other. I helped to untangle their fears, their unmet childhood needs, their defense mechanisms. I helped to disarm them, to put down their emotional and verbal weapons (in some cases physical weapons) and to walk peacefully into a new chapter. And I did it all with my voice, my physical presence, my office, my intellect, my energy, my being, my ego, my very own defense mechanisms, psyche, and neurosis . . . Or, at least that's what I would like to think I did, or that I still do.
Who knows? I've had patients come back and say that I saved their lives. I'm sure I have patients out there that hate me. They despise me. Some of them probably keep coming back and I don't even know they hate me. They tell their friends, their mothers, but they would never tell me to my face. And maybe I have failed them. I didn't listen, said the wrong thing, prescribed the wrong medication, didn't follow up enough. I was not always the best Doctor that I could have been. I was not always the best man I could have been. I was not always the best husband, or the best father, the best son, or the best brother that I could have been. I was only ever a human being. And I'm not sure if that's an excuse, or the truth.
How disappointed my patients would be that I don't have all of the answers.
So, why did you cheat? Why am I cheating. I dont even have the self-loathing. Im not really bothered by it and yes, I really do love my wife. As much as I love anyone I suppose... or understand love.
ReplyDeleteI just wanna know why I do it. Why did you do it? In my case, none of the other women ever measured up to my wife: not as pretty, not as nice, not as good at giving a bj, you name it... and yet I'd still go looking for the next one.
I just dont know why? The thrill? Confirm my ego? Because I can? No idea really, but I know there will be another. Oddly, I've even felt jealousy over these faux girlfriends... or heartbreak at one "breaking up" with me.
Thats gotta be crazy. Right? ;-)