·
Nina Joy,
53, had an affair twenty years ago which broke up her marriage
·
She was
diagnosed with Stage 4 incurable cancer but is now in remission
·
She is now
asking for forgiveness from her estranged ex-husband
Nina
Joy, 53, from Leeds, West Yorkshire, is a motivational
speaker and author. Twenty years ago she had an affair which broke up
her marriage to a man she had loved for 16 years. Here, in a
devastating mea culpa to her former husband, she finally wants to say
sorry.
Read to the end of her open letter, and you’ll
discover why…
Dear Gary,
Last
Valentine’s weekend you popped into my thoughts, like you always do. Your
birthday is the day after Valentine’s Day so the myriad heart balloons, red
roses and restaurants full of loved-up couples always trigger memories of you.
When I realized the date, I suddenly felt a need to do something
spontaneous — to reach out to you, wherever you are.
I logged onto Twitter and Facebook and wrote this simple message: ‘It’s
my ex-husband’s birthday today. Hope you’re healthy and happy wherever you are.
Thank you for many wonderful years together. I’m sorry. x’
The response from my friends and the thousands who follow me as an author
was touching. How lovely, they said, to send such a heartfelt message. Of
course, they wondered why I was apologizing and what for.
The answer is simple. I want forgiveness. It’s a word I’ve considered a
great deal in the last three years and I’ll explain why in a moment. But, in
essence, I hope that by saying sorry for all the hurt and pain I caused in the
past, I can convey how strongly I regret what I did — and that you will be able
to forgive me.
Can it be 38 years since I first met you? We were teenagers in 1977 — me
16 and you 18. A trained chef, you’d had enough of the anti-social restaurant
hours and were working at a greengrocer’s in Halifax, West Yorkshire, and I was
studying at college, and would come to buy an apple every lunchtime, as an
excuse for a bit of flirting.
On Friday nights, I’d make sure that our little gang of girls always
‘bumped’ into your gang of boys so we could chat. You were tall, dark and
handsome and I was smitten.
We had what I’d call an ‘on and off’ relationship for several years, but
we became serious after my 21st birthday party. You were part of my family. My
parents loved you, as did my sister and her fiancé. We’d often go out as a
happy foursome — or even six-some — enjoying meals, parties and trips out. They
were very happy times. I hope you remember them fondly, too.
Tentatively, we began talking about the future together. In a nod to
tradition, you asked my father for my hand and when you proposed to me on
Bonfire Night in 1985 ‘because you wanted to give me a sparkler’ — a beautiful
ring with nine diamonds — I was absolutely on top of the world.
Do you remember how I suddenly became all ‘left-handed’, showing the ring
off as much as I could?
We began building our life as a couple: you moved
from the greengrocer’s and took a job at an engineering firm. Together with my
wages from the building society where I worked, we were able to save up enough
money for our wedding in July 1986. It was a beautiful church wedding and the
reception was held in a marquee in my mum and dad’s garden.
I was the happiest woman in the world. Hand on heart, Gary, when I said
my vows, I meant them. I never ever thought I’d betray you as I did.
At first, married life was everything I’d dreamt of. I thought of you as
my ‘partner in crime’ and I know you felt the same way. Our house was party
central as we loved having friends and family round.
You never forgot my birthday or our anniversary, but it wasn’t about
showy gifts, it was small thoughtful gestures, too. You’d bring me cups of
coffee in bed — and with your chef’s training; you’d even slice up apples and
oranges into beautiful designs to make a ‘boring’ dessert more appetizing when
I was on one of my diets. It was so lovely. Yet, I threw it all away. How could
I have been so stupid?
Children were not on the agenda, we were far too busy having fun. I
wonder if, had we been together longer, we might have had a family. I know you
would have made a great father.
Yet it wasn’t to be: six years into our marriage, things went horribly
wrong. We moved to a bigger, better house, which meant taking on a large
mortgage when interest rates were cripplingly high. As the breadwinner, I felt
more pressure, but I knew we’d cope. We were a team.
But you’d been unhappy in your job for some time and one day you walked
out of the office and quit. Just like that. Without even discussing it with me.
I was devastated that suddenly we had such huge financial responsibilities and
only one income. Our rows were huge and explosive. Angry and resentful, I set
myself on a destructive path, which led me away from you and into the arms —
and bed — of a colleague.
Of
course, I don’t blame you for how I reacted — it was entirely my doing — but
occasionally, I wonder what might have happened if you’d only talked to me
about quitting your job first. I would have supported you.
John was someone I’d worked with for ten years who was constantly
flirting with me. I was very attracted to him, but always rebuffed his
advances, telling him I was happily married — which I was.
But one day after you’d called me at the office — I think it was about a
failed job interview — John came into my office and found me crying. He took me
to lunch to calm me down, and that’s how it began. One lunch turned into
several lunches, which turned into evenings out and ‘working late’ and
eventually into a full-blown affair.
Because my job would often take me around the country on overnight trips,
it wasn’t too difficult to hide what I was up to. It’s
no excuse, but John caught me at a low point in our marriage. Yes, I was
vulnerable, but I could have said no. Ultimately, I think I was looking for
something that made me feel good, to take my mind away from the stresses and
tension at home.
In my defense, John wasn’t just a meaningless affair. I fell in love with
him — even though I was still in love with you. Those who have never been in my
position will say it’s impossible to love two people at the same time, but I
know it’s not.
I knew I should stop seeing John, but an affair is like a drug — it’s
addictive. It was stressful living a double life, but the highs of an affair
meant I kept going back. Now, with hindsight, I still can’t believe I did it.
It’s a mistake I’ve learned from but, at the time, I was in too deep.
Meanwhile, my relationship with you was deteriorating. We’d stopped
communicating and laughing, and became distant. My behaviour must have aroused
your suspicions.
Seven months later, when we returned to our room at the end of my work
Christmas party at a country hotel, you confronted me. Had you been studying my
colleagues that night wondering: ‘Which one is he?’
Thankfully, John wasn’t there that night, but you must have picked up on
something because when we got back to our room, you simply turned to me and
said: ‘Are you seeing someone?
Those few seconds remain, to this day, the worst of my life. Standing
opposite you, a man I still very much loved, I was petrified because I knew
that the next words to come out of my mouth were going to break your heart. And
they did. I’m not a good liar, I had to tell you the truth.
You ran to the bathroom and threw up. I couldn’t have hurt you more if
I’d stuck a knife in your back. I remember us both crying as the truth came
out. Eventually, I held you tightly on the bed as we both fell asleep, broken
by exhaustion and shock.
The next day is a bit of a blur. I know we left the hotel early, not
wanting to be anywhere but in the sanctuary of our marital home. I remember
explaining again why the affair had started, that I’d needed someone to talk to
and you — being such an honourable, dignified man — even tried to understand why
I had needed someone to turn to, and your part in the situation.
At first, we thought we could work it out. For me, admitting to the
affair was in some ways cathartic. I’d been living a lie. We both had a sense
of moving forward, although neither of us knew how, or if, we could.
One hurdle standing in our way was that I had to work with John. As a
couple, we couldn’t afford for me to quit my job so I continued to work in the
same office, but told John we had to cool it. Unfortunately, that was harder
than I expected. I really did love him, seeing him every day fanned the flames
and the affair reignited a few weeks later.
But you knew. Every time I walked out of the door to the office, your
head must have been filled with all kinds of suspicion.
Eventually, we could take no more and when you told me you could no
longer trust me, we agreed our marriage was over. I’d failed it, ruined it. I
let you down, my family down, and I’d let myself down.
My families were distraught. They supported me throughout it all, but
they missed you and all the lovely times we had together. I never spoke to your
family again. We should both be proud that our divorce wasn’t a hostile
battleground. We agreed there would be no solicitors and lived separately so we
could automatically divorce two years later.
You moved out and, although we spoke on the telephone, it was as clean a
break as anyone could hope for in such a situation.
Still,
when the divorce papers came through and I saw you’d cited ‘adultery’, it hurt.
I don’t blame you, though. What a sad ending to our story. John and I were
together for 15 years afterwards, although we chose not to have children.
For a good few years after my divorce I carried a huge amount of guilt
and it took me a while to feel happy again. But I do now.
Sadly, John and I drifted apart and separated in 2005. Inevitably, I
reflected on whether breaking up from you had been worth it. But I’d had many
good years with John, and I hoped that you were happy, too, so it probably was
the right outcome for both of us.
I’ve wondered about you in the intervening years. Whenever I hear I Only
Want To Be With You by Dusty Springfield or a song by your favourite band, Dire
Straits, I am transported back to when I was with you.
There have even been instances where I’ve seen you on the street in
Halifax. When you moved into your new home, I even called and wanted to apologize
then, but you hung up on me.
Remember when we happened to be in the same restaurant a few years after
we split? You blanked me, understandably, and I deserved that. I don’t blame
you.
But losing contact with you was like bereavement. In fact, it was worse.
At least bereavement is no one’s fault. I had brought all this on myself.
Today, I’ve no idea where you are or what you are doing. Through snippets of
information from friends I have a feeling that you remarried and that you might
have a stepdaughter. I think that’s wonderful because you’d be an incredible
dad and a lovely husband to the right person.
I truly hope that’s the case. Please don’t think this is a plea for you
to get in touch. I know you will have moved on with your life as I have with
mine. The last thing I want to do is to cause you further pain. So why am I
saying sorry now and so publicly?
In 2012 I went to my GP, concerned by a sudden change in one of my
breasts. I was referred for tests and, although I was prepared for a cancer
diagnosis, I was stunned to learn it had spread to my lymph nodes, lungs, bones
and liver and was incurable.
It’s ‘Stage 4’ cancer. To give you an idea of how bad that is, there is
no ‘Stage 5’. About 50 per cent of women given this diagnosis will die within
3.6 months.
I was petrified but, to be honest, my thoughts right then was not of what
I’d done in the past, but of the future I wasn’t to have. I don’t subscribe to
the belief that cancer is caused by something someone has done in their past.
But would I see my niece get married? Would I fall in love again? It sounds
bizarre, but I even wondered if I’d see the end of Downton Abbey.
But that was nearly three years ago and I’m still here. I believe that is
because I’m dealing with this disease in my own way. I’ve become something of a
cancer maverick and have written two books about it. It’s also inspired me to
become a motivational speaker.
I’ve not eschewed conventional medicine entirely. I’ve paid nearly
£40,000 for private chemotherapy at a German clinic, a kind unavailable on our
NHS which targets tumors rather than damaging the body’s entire immune system.
But I’ve also researched and learned about the effectiveness of
alternative treatments. Therapies that focus on the mind, the toxins we put in
our body as well as nutrition. Some will label these therapies as ‘wacky’ but
that couldn’t be further from the truth. There is lots of evidence to the contrary
and I am living proof.
Looking after your mind and spirit includes forgiveness, both forgiving
others and being forgiven yourself. It came about as part of an exercise I did
at a German clinic last year. Repeating the phrases ‘I’m sorry, please forgive
me, thank you and I love you’ over and over again, I felt a release of negative
emotion that was incredibly powerful.
Now I’m in remission. I have no cancer symptoms and I’m living my life to
the full.
So you see, my apology is not entirely altruistic. Selfishly, I thought
you might want to know I had cancer but truly, I don’t expect you to do
anything about it.
Of course, I would love you to forgive me — and knowing you as I once
did, I think you will — but you don’t have to contact me. Simply thinking it in
your head or saying it out loud would be a lovely gesture.
And even if you can’t find it in your heart to give me this gift, I still
maintain what I wrote in my original message last Valentine’s weekend. I hope
you’re healthy and happy wherever you are. And I’m sorry.
With love, Nina
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