Into The Abyss: Episode 2 – The Betrayal

Episode 2: The Betrayal

I should have seen it coming. The clues were there, scattered like breadcrumbs leading to an inevitable truth, but I chose to ignore them. Love, I’ve come to realize, isn’t just blind—it’s a form of mental illness that makes us act against our own self-interest, driving us to make completely irrational decisions.

It was 1989, maybe 1990, during my first patrol on the USS Henry M. Jackson. This wasn’t just another short at sea period —this was our first full patrol, stretching between 85 and 90 days. Around the eight-week mark, we made a surprise return to port for a three to four-day stay. With duty assignments, I only got two days at home.

On my first day back, I decided to check our finances. It was her first time managing our money during a long deployment, and I wanted to see how she’d handled it. When I opened the checkbook, a small piece of paper fluttered out—a man’s name and phone number with a note that read “call me sometime.”

When I confronted her, her response was perfect, almost too perfect. She explained that she and some other Navy wives had gone to a club, and this persistent guy wouldn’t leave her alone. She claimed she’d taken his number just to appease him, stuck it in her wallet, and forgotten about it. It was completely believable. I wanted to believe it.

The next day, I collected our mail. Among the bills was our phone bill, and what I found made my stomach drop: dozens of calls to that same number from the slip of paper. When I confronted her again, her dismissive “it’s nothing” and “quit whining” spoke volumes.

I had duty the following day, and then we were back underway. For the next month, those phone calls consumed my thoughts. Then came the stories from my shipmates—things their wives had told them about mine. Everything began to unravel.

My routine became mechanical: six hours on watch, six hours of maintenance, and instead of sleeping, I’d work out until I could barely stand. Then I’d collapse for four hours before starting the eighteen-hour cycle again. I lost over twenty pounds in a month. My mind began to crack under the pressure. For the first time in my life, I experienced serious mental health issues. I started cutting small incisions on the back of my left hand, trying to focus on any pain other than the one in my heart and the voices in my head.

When we finally returned home, I was a shell of myself. Suspicious, I searched our apartment and found another damning piece of paper—a family planning facility’s name and phone number. This time, when confronted, she finally admitted the truth. She had been cheating, and she was eight weeks pregnant. The math was simple and devastating—I’d been gone for twelve weeks.

I drove her to that clinic and waited in the car. Afterward, we returned to our apartment and began the hollow process of trying to “fix” our marriage. Even after everything she’d done, I still loved her and wanted to make it work.

Love really is blind.