Netjer, 
In terms of her privacy vs. your voice - 

This is your story.  It belongs to you.  

After my XH came out as gay, and I started telling people, I was truly blown away at the love and support from other people.  Also stunning was how often the person I was telling knew another straight spouse! We're everywhere, it seems. 

Pride Month is a lot for someone fresh to this experience - I'm sorry you've had to face so many rainbow flags so early in your journey.  When my XH first disclosed, there was a part of me that felt bad for him, and put him first as I told the story: good that he gets to finally be himself; good that he gets to live his best life.  Centering him.  I learned later that this is called Rainbow-washing, where the emotional pain of the straight spouse gets lost in celebration of someone newly out.   I think it's probably more common in circles like yours (and mine) that are highly accepting of LGBT folks. 

It took me a few months to get a handle on my own story: he had taken advantage of my best qualities as I nearly lost myself trying to make him happy.  An impossible endeavor, when his unhappiness was stemming from him denying his true nature and and him being unwilling to look within himself.    

Those of us high in empathy do seem to be a magnet for partners who exploit it.  I'm working on better boundaries, not losing my warmth and generosity.  

The post-disclosure time was a real roller coaster of emotions for me.  Among them, quiet as it was sometimes, was relief that there was a reason for the difficult marriage, and relief that I didn't have to work so hard just to keep the peace. 

Glad you're in therapy - that was a real blessing for me. 

 

Blackie563 wrote:

My friend - very similar. When I did the work, I realized that all the way back to HS, every girl I dated for an extended period of time cheated on me. Not with other girls, but in general. Why? Because thats exactly the type of woman I subconciously sought out. I, without realizing it, was attracted to girls/women that were "damaged" and needed rescue. The more daddy issues they had, the better, because I could "love" them enough to be the person they always dreamt of. The problem? You control other people and I was doing this at my own sacrifice. 

No surprise I married this type of woman and repeated the pattern. The universe will repeat the lesson until you get it. I finally got it. Having completed all of the work, I had made a specific decision to not date, didn't really care and did not need to save anyone. It was at that point I met my current fiance. I was more confident with her than I was with my ex wife while we were together, simply because I no longer needed to do things for others and my happiness was coming from me. Apparently thats an attractive trait. The rest they say, is history.

You aren't alone. Many of us "nice" guys get trapped trying to save others because we dont believe we are worthy of unconditional love. In my case, I felt I had to earn it, which is why I chose broken people because I could earn it all day every day, only I never received a return. I continued to give more until there was nothing left. Hard to see now, but this is a blessing. You build from here!

@blackieThank you for this—and for sharing your story. It really helps to know I’m not alone, and more than that, that there’s hope on the other side of all this.The dark, intrusive thoughts—the ones about not being enough or being unworthy—they’re real for me right now. And when you wrote about giving everything until there was nothing left... that hit hard. That’s exactly how I feel. Empty.I gave everything to this—honestly and wholeheartedly. And the hardest part is knowing that I did, and she didn’t. That’s a wound I’m still trying to wrap my head around.But I appreciate your reminder: maybe this really is the beginning, not the end. I’m still in the storm, but hearing from someone who’s been through it gives me a little more footing. Thank you.

freedmyself wrote:

Netjer, 
In terms of her privacy vs. your voice - 

This is your story.  It belongs to you.  

After my XH came out as gay, and I started telling people, I was truly blown away at the love and support from other people.  Also stunning was how often the person I was telling knew another straight spouse! We're everywhere, it seems. 

Pride Month is a lot for someone fresh to this experience - I'm sorry you've had to face so many rainbow flags so early in your journey.  When my XH first disclosed, there was a part of me that felt bad for him, and put him first as I told the story: good that he gets to finally be himself; good that he gets to live his best life.  Centering him.  I learned later that this is called Rainbow-washing, where the emotional pain of the straight spouse gets lost in celebration of someone newly out.   I think it's probably more common in circles like yours (and mine) that are highly accepting of LGBT folks. 

It took me a few months to get a handle on my own story: he had taken advantage of my best qualities as I nearly lost myself trying to make him happy.  An impossible endeavor, when his unhappiness was stemming from him denying his true nature and and him being unwilling to look within himself.    

Those of us high in empathy do seem to be a magnet for partners who exploit it.  I'm working on better boundaries, not losing my warmth and generosity.  

The post-disclosure time was a real roller coaster of emotions for me.  Among them, quiet as it was sometimes, was relief that there was a reason for the difficult marriage, and relief that I didn't have to work so hard just to keep the peace. 

Glad you're in therapy - that was a real blessing for me. 

 

Thank you for this. Your words mean a lot, especially your line: “This is your story. It belongs to you.” That’s something I keep forgetting—because even now, I’m still being trained to put her needs, her coming out, and her healing first—because that is how society has trained me to respond to people coming out. But I also realize that this has been the pattern for years: minimize myself to preserve her peace.

She came out—softly, hesitantly—after years of what I now see as half-truths and emotional distance. And yes, I felt sympathy at first. Relief, even, for her. I thought, Maybe now she’ll feel free. Maybe now she can live authentically, without shame. I tried to celebrate her bravery. I tried to stay kind.But the more I sit with it, the more it guts me.She talks about how “light” she feels now. That her depression has lifted. Because she no longer feels the pressure of sex or intimacy with me. Because she no longer has to pretend.Let me translate that: My touch—my love—was part of what made her miserable.

That’s not liberation for me. That’s annihilation.And yet I’m still supposed to center her?She says she’s not ready to label herself. That it would be “appropriation” to call herself gay or lesbian. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in the ambiguity, unable to grieve fully, because even the truth is half-delivered. I’ve begged for scraps of clarity, and she can’t—or won’t—give them. But her relief? That, I’ve received loud and clear.

We’re still living together. Raising our kids. Sleeping in separate rooms. She’s finally breathing, and I’m still gasping for air.And you’re right—Pride Month hits different this year. The flags, the slogans, the joy. I want to feel supportive. But there’s something cruel about watching someone else’s celebration while you stand in the midst the rubble and wreckage of what their liberation destroyed, unacknowledged and unseen.This isn’t just about orientation. This is about the lie I was made to live. The puzzle I spent years trying to solve, thinking if I loved harder, communicated better, fixed my flaws, maybe then we’d find our spark again. But the truth is—she was hiding the missing pieces. The ones that made the puzzle impossible.

I’ve asked for so little. A conversation. A podcast. A gesture of understanding. And even now, there’s deflection. Minimization. Rewriting. “We both made mistakes.” Sure—we did. But only one of us built a life on a truth they wouldn’t share.She says she made a commitment and thought she had to “lay in it.” But she didn’t just lay in it—she buried me under it. A thousand rejections. Decades of emotional starvation.

I’m in therapy. I’m journaling. I’m angry. And yes, I still love her, somehow. But I’m also beginning to love myself enough to name what happened: My life is being erased to protect her story; a passenger on her journey of discovery and self-awakening.

My pain doesn’t vanish just because someone else’s freedom is being celebrated. There should be room for rain, even in a sky full of rainbows.

Last edited by Netjer (Yesterday 10:03 am)