NENA'S STORY - CONCLUSION (Women in Love and in Trouble)

(as told to Anna Manila)

Dancing with the enemy

One of my first reactions was to dance with the enemy. At 35, I was an incurable romantic who believed that love and kindness conquered all.

One afternoon, I met Leny for the first time.

I dropped by her apartment just as she was on her way to school. Our meeting was a pleasant one, surprisingly. She remarked how good and young I looked. But of course, I took care to look my best -- wore my most flattering blouse, suffered my girdle, had my hair blow-dried. I told her in turn she was everything my husband told me she was. Inwardly, I groaned -- she looked so young, fragile, and innocent.

She told me she didn't really have to go to school that day. "Great," I said. "Why don't we drop by his office -- the two of us together -- and watch his jaw drop?"

We must have made a grand show. When we entered the office, holding hands and beaming, work ground to a halt.

Yes, his jaw dropped as we made our way to his cubicle. When he recovered his senses, he said: "Let's go out to dinner."

We made plans for the three of us that night -- noble, win-win plans. Silently, I congratulated myself. How clever I was, I thought.

If our lofty plans had materialized, Leny would have studied full time. I would have been her guardian, mentor, and friend, who'd keep an eagle eye on her. He would have kept distance. When she would have graduated and started a career, we would be the best of friends -- all three of us. In my mind, I added, she would have met a man who'd marry her, give her his name, and keep her out of arm's way -- my husband's arms.

It was an exhilarating dinner. All three of us glowed with good will towards all and malice towards none. The Chinese food was great. I feasted on a banquet of hope.

Two months later, Leny was pregnant.

The night I learned about it was the night I threw myself on a busy street, wanting to kill the pain.

Plunging into war

Looking back, I realized that the "best of plans" are easier made than done. The spirit acknowledges what is good and right, but the body does its own thing. In short, he couldn't keep distance. She couldn't either. Neither of them could stay away from the forbidden fruit -- a fruit I was making infinitely sweeter for them.

Then I plunged into war. No holds barred. All systems go. Exit Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Enter a woman-dragon spitting fire. I brought forth all the wilinesses and foolishnesses I didn't know I was capable of.

Of course, an affair that has broken out into the open escalates inevitably into a psy-war. A battle of one-up(wo)manship. A crossfire of the vanities.

In the eyes of the betrayed wife, the errant pair looms larger than life, while the rest of the world recedes to the background. Home, children, work, profession, friends -- they no longer count except as support systems to help annihilate the enemy.

I monitored my husband as though my life depended on knowing where he was and who he was with at any time of the day. The telephone was a instrument of torture and relief. I died a little when I learned he was out. I breathed easy when he was in. I made him promise to go home before seven -- his hands on the bible. (Of course, he didn't.) I invented every excuse to drop by his office at 5:00 p.m. or thereabouts so we could go home together. I went to St. Jude every Thursday, Quiapo every Friday, and invented every conceivable meeting and seminar during the week -- all incidentally very near his office.

I monitored his personal effects. Kept count of his shirts and underwear. Checked that his wedding ring was in place when he went out to work and checked again when he got back. Demanded love every night -- drained him out of his loving energies so there would be nothing left for nobody. Sniffed him inside and out after late nights for unexplained scents. Made sure our wedding picture was always in his wallet. For good measure, I scrawled a note at the back of the photo: 'HEY YOU THIEF. ARE YOU SO UNATTRACTIVE YOU COULDN'T FIND YOUR OWN MAN?" Sure enough, the note hit bullseye, drew tears, and sparked a major tiff.

Pendulum

With my husband, I blew hot and cold. Sometimes, I came to him with hammer and tongs. Threatened to leave him, have my own boyfriend, take the children away. Other times, I tried to "kill" him with all the sweetness and softness I could muster. Cooked his favorite food, massaged him to sleep, served him hand on foot.

At work, I couldn't function thinking of the two of them. They were with me in my waking hours, in my sleep, and sleeplessness. The nights of waiting for him to come home were most harrowing. I learned to take small doses of tranquilizers. Once, when I ran out of the merciful pills, I turned to drink.

My emotions were a pendulum. I swung from heights of hope (when he's with me) to depths of despair (when he was with her). At my most desperate, I wished him dead. I relished the idea of a mild catastrophe falling on him -- maybe a crippling of his legs, or a moderate stroke or heart attack -- anything, just to keep him home for maybe a few months, a year. In the meantime the interloper would lose hope and disappear.

My children -- how they suffered (as I found out later). But I was oblivious to them. It was a wonder they didn't grow up wayward or maladjusted.

I left home a number of times, always on a bluff. Invariably, I came back when fetched.

Holidays were nightmares. Mistresses had to have a Christmas, too, you know -- and a New Year as well. That dark excruciating year, Leny's Christmas was December 23, her New Year, January 2. I bought him his gift for her, wrote the greeting on the gift tag. I sent her pastries, suman, and fruits from my pantry. I made sure she understood she was celebrating Christmas only at my sufferance. I slept through their celebrations. Nothing to it -- just two pills.

By the time Leny gave birth, I was two months pregnant with my fourth baby.

Crisis helped. His business closed that year. He was hard pressed keeping up with apartment rentals. Soon, it had to go. They began fighting over money, his dwindling visits, the sickly baby. With my stable bank job, I helped with the milk and the diapers, not so much out of the goodness of my heart as my desire to smell like roses. And I did. The tables were turned. I became the comforter, she the afflicter.

In less than two months, Leny and her baby were kicked out from the apartment. They had no place to go but back to her family. They still met after that -- intermittently. I began to relax -- it was just a matter of time. I dropped by Leny and the baby one last time. We hugged and forgave each other.

Within a year, Leny was recruited abroad as an entertainer. In time, she married a foreigner, who later on adopted her child. Later on they divorced. But to my best knowledge, Leny and son are still abroad.

Paying the price

I won the war, didn't I? I was certain then that I did. Now, I am no longer sure.

You see, just as I thought we were settling back to our old placid life, it happened again. Another woman. Another set of circumstances. Another cycle of pain. I guess I'll spare you the details.

You might say I won that round again. For look, my husband is still with me.

Everything has its price. I paid dearly for my victories. I stopped caring -- simply, totally. Today, my husband and I are physically together but emotionally apart.

Sad! -- a friend said, her eyes misting when I told her. Maybe. But in a way, I am more at peace now with myself than I've ever been. I suppose when you have stopped expecting or wanting, you are no longer vulnerable.

I guess I like myself better now than 20 years ago. I am a more focused mother, a more efficient worker, and a less selfish human being all around. Even my children think so.

The experience taught me to redefine my life. I guess I woke up one day from all the brooding and the hurting and decided that there must be a better way to live. A merciful God couldn't' have meant this gift-life to be so difficult, could he? Otherwise, what kind of God would He be? It was a turning point.

All I want now is to exorcise leftover resentments. To be able to look my husband in the eye and feel more understanding than rancor. Never mind passion. I can live without it. This hopeless romantic is cured at last.

- End -