An article was recently published regarding a scientific study that may have identified a genetic link to cheating.
If you read past the headline, you see that having the gene or not having the gene won't make you any more or less likely to cheat on your spouse. What they found was that men with the gene - and a combination of external factors - were less likely to "bond" with anyone, and therefore more likely to cheat on a partner.
Oh, let me tell you about the bonding thing.
My husband and I were a team. Thick or thin, up or down, we came through it together. Our friends used to joke that the world would split apart before we'd ever break up. We heard it over and over again, to the point where we'd just shake our heads ruefully and smile when someone told us we had "The. Perfect. Relationship". And then something funny happened.
I grew up. I grew up and he didn't like it.
You see, I was raised to be a peacekeeper. My Mother, in all my lifelong memory, never once had an opinion that contradicted my father, though they were wildly different people. She would never have dreamed of it. And my father, while never a violent or angry man, mind you, was someone you didn't want to piss off. His cold, stony silence was worse for her than any torture he could devise. I grew up being taught and having it reinforced that he was more important than her. He had bigger burdens to bear, being the man of the house. He couldn't vent his emotions the way we women can, so his stresses were greater and he deserved a peaceful house, no matter what had to be sacrificed to afford that.
I swore I'd never turn into my mother, but that's just what I did. I sometimes disagreed with my husband, but pretty early in our relationship I realized what it would cost me when I did. His temper was mammoth, and frightening at first. My Mother was the one who yelled in my house, and it wasn't much more than annoying. Having someone scream me down with veins standing out in his head, so loud he could peel the paint off walls, tipping over tables when the checkbook showed less than he wanted after we paid the bills, trying to throw a chair through the TV when his team blew it in the playoffs, and the sulking that went on for days, with any minor irritant setting him off in fiery blast of temper again, building exponentially until I truly feared he'd wind up dead on the floor from a blood pressure induced stroke or a heart attack - that was my life. The knot in my stomach. The walking around on eggshells. Learning to just keep my mouth shut and stay out of his way when he was "in a mood". I told myself he was just a guy with a temper. He almost never talked to me about his problems until I finally got fed up enough with his misery to confront him, and that happened on rare occasion. I told myself he was just a guy who kept a lot in, so it had to come out. I justified his verbal abuse by reminding myself that he had never hit me, would never hit me. He never did, but abusive words (and silence) can feel like a punch from someone you love.
Nine years ago, this very day, my husband was knee-deep (or is that 'crotch-deep') in affair #1 (that I know about, anyway) and I was feeling my firstborn kick me in the belly, setting up the nursery, and waiting for us all to be a family while he was waiting to pull my life out from under me. I found out just a few weeks later, my life tilted on it's axis, and nothing was ever the same again.
It forced me to grow up. Motherhood did the rest.
You want to scream uncontrollably at me because you tripped over the laundry basket full of laundry that didn't get put away? Guess what? You live here, too. You make laundry, too. When I put it away, it's no big deal. When you occasionally put it away, it's because I didn't do my job. Same with just about every other household chore around here. I'd go with that if I were a homemaker, but I work 40 hours a week just like you do, bucko. PItch in.
The kids don't want to eat their green beans, as usual. Fine. No dessert if you don't eat your veggies. Not good enough for him, though. This requires a tremendous amount of screaming, slamming dishes on the table, putting his nose to theirs and screaming some more as they shrink in their chairs. God forbid they even stammer the words "But Dad - " because they'll be dragged to their rooms and screamed at some more, and mostly because he's had a bad day, not because they're not eating vegetables. Every single act of childish disobedience or pickiness or carelessness is now reduced to a personal attack on him. Leave a toy laying around? How dare you! You're disrespecting him and his house! I'm all for a united parental front, and if they're truly being disrespectful or destructive, I'm right behind him reminding them that they deserved this one. There is no rhyme or reason with him, though. The severity of their crime depends entirely on his personal mood, and that's not right. I find it especially disturbing when he asks them why they always make him scream. Are they happy now, making him scream??? As if the choice were theirs.
As usual, it's all about him. And when I started stepping between him and them, or stepping up to him myself, suddenly I wasn't part of the team anymore. The team, as far as he's concerned, is him, and me going along with him. He's no longer bonded to me, because I'm no longer the girl who did things the way he liked them. I'm the girl who stands up for myself, and my children, because he showed me all those years ago just how disposable I was to him. He didn't value me, so I learned to value myself. We rebuilt, and I'd hoped he and I could forge a life together as two valuable people who had much to bring to the table for each other, and for their children. Seven years after his first (?) infidelity, I learned that while I had plenty to bring to the table, he'd been ordering take-out again. And one of his chief complaints and justifications for doing what he did? "You aren't the same girl I married. I'm last in line around here."
No, I'm not the same girl he married, and thank God for that. It would have destroyed me to go on being that girl. And as for being last in line - no, he can't claim that honor. Unfortunately, I still have too much of my Mother in me. I still bit my tongue and rearranged plans and gave up on dreams on many occasions, just to keep the peace. And it was, and IS exhausting. Draining. Soul-eating.
No more.
He may have a cheating gene, but I find that far from an excuse, if true. Your choices define you, and the lives of those around you. Until you grasp that, work with that, live that, you're doomed to repeat your mistakes.
He can just go try and bond with his Thing Woman. Good luck to her - I hope she has what it takes to play on his team. I'm just spiteful enough that I'm really happy to wish her a whole life lived just that way.
