Dear Bert, from Nena

Dear Bert,

I'd like to tell you, Bert, about my friend.

She's a brave and admirable woman -- my friend. But I worry about her these days.

At work, she pores over papers, teaches, writes, e-mails, attends meetings with her usual grace. She smiles, even laughs sometimes. She even manages to ask me how I am doing. She makes the usual small talk. In short, she goes through the motions. But her eyes -- they tell a different tale. I catch her off guard with a faraway look. The dark fringes give away sleepless nights. But more than that, her eyes betray an unspeakable sadness.

Meanwhile, as she keeps up her brave front, her eyes get darker, her body slighter, her countenance sadder. Twice I espied her inside her room her head buried in her arms, weeping softly. I asked her if she was sick and if she wanted to be taken to the clinic. She said she had a headache but that it would pass.

When we are alone together, I make subtle openings. I confide in her my own deep secrets so she could start unburdening hers. At another time, I dished out my usual line: "You are so lucky you have everything," hoping that when she begins to protest, a floodgate of confidences would open. She had not taken the bait.

Now that she has taken a long leave from work, I am sure there is something terribly wrong with my friend. She just is not saying. Perhaps, she is ashamed. Perhaps she hates to be pitied. Or doesn't want to get others upset, no matter that they are friends. But it is so unhealthy -- not being able to unload.

I worry over my friend because she has admitted she eats little and has problems sleeping. It figures -- the way she's fast losing weght and how deep the shadows around her eyes have become. For weaker women, this combination is dangerous. It can be a prelude to a nervous breakdown.

I worry over my friend. Because if my hunches are correct, what she is now going through I have myself gone through -- 20 years ago.

I was 35 when my husband took an 18-year-old mistress. My two-year ordeal was the darkest season of my life. I felt the most excruciating pain -- a pain I wouldn't wish on my most hated enemy.

I fought for my husband with everything in my power. Sometimes I smothered him with all the TLC I could muster. Other times I attacked him like a virago from hell. I went to Baclaran every Wednesday, St. Jude every Thursday, Quiapo every Friday; walked on my knees, burnt candles before altars, whispered mantras before I slept.

At work, I couldn't function thinking of the two of them. When he came home late, I thought it could be either of two things: he was making love with his mistress or mugged in the streets. I always preferred the mugging.

When I fell into troubled sleep, at time with the help of pills, I didn't want to wake up to the new morning -- for the pain would start all over again.

Oh yes, he tried to assure me of his abiding love. The affair was an "accident," something he didn't ask for. But he couldn't leave the "poor girl" just like that, he said. He asked for time. He expected me to wait while I slowly died.

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. Today, my son would chide me: "You didn't see me grow up. You were too busy with work and with something else."

In the end I got my husband back. But I was so exhausted and resentful it no longer mattered. In the process of fighting, I stopped loving.

This sounds over-dramatic and sad, doesn't it. But every word of my story is true, every emotion I recounted I actually felt. Since then, I've read accounts of woman similarly betrayed. Compared to some of theirs, my story pales. Which got me thinking: If errant husbands had a full appreciation of what their wives -- women they love or once did love -- go through, would they rethink what they are doing. If my husband had an inkling of my personal hell, would my story have ended differently?

I have learned since that no man is worth the pain, the mental agony, the humiliation, and most of all the setting aside of other important things in life like children, career, and one's own well- being. I have learned that the heart can stop caring if it has been battered so.

These lessons I want to pass on to my friend, your wife.

Sincerely,

Nena


(Note: The above is a sort of postscript to Nena's story published here some time ago. Nena told me her story for an aborted book project which I hope to revive. Click here and here to read/reread Nena's story. This letter to Bert was actually written and sent by Nena).