London - For ten years, people have reached out to agony aunt Bel Mooney, seeking her unflinching advice.
From family rifts to the heartache of betrayal, their stories have provided an invaluable lesson in human behaviour and are contained in Bel’s book, Lifelines: Words To Help You Through. Here are two letters from her archives.
Dear Bel,
I had a two-week fling with a colleague, for which I make no excuses and feel only guilt. To make things worse, I am now pregnant by my husband and believe I will be punished for my sin.
I pray every day for forgiveness and am truly, truly sorry for what I did. I know I don’t deserve to be happy, but I don’t know what to do.
This is the first (and maybe the last) time I have told anyone my secret. I can’t even tell my closest friends, or my GP, as I am so ashamed of what I did. I need your advice.
Bel's reply
I am moved by the anguish in a letter written by a good woman who made one bad mistake and is profoundly sorry, but deserves happiness as much as any one of us.
Your letter is full of dignity. You refuse to make excuses for yourself but admit to “the thrill of another man finding me attractive”. Ah, yes, let she who is without sin cast the first stone. I can’t...
If you literally “pray every day for forgiveness”, then any Christian will tell you that you already have it. Your genuine remorse is the key.
So take some deep breaths (I always advise this, since we need to stop and calm ourselves, and deep breathing is the start) and focus on your unborn baby.
From this moment on you have to realise that (a) nothing bad will happen because of what you did, and (b) this child is an innocent who needs you to take care of him or her with every single part of you.
The issue of confession is difficult when it comes to your husband. What can I tell you but my instinctive response, which is to keep silent? I know some readers will angrily accuse me of counselling deception. So be it.
What he does not know cannot hurt him - unless, that is, you continue in this state of panic. Stop. The risk associated with telling him is, in my considered opinion, too great.
You love him and you love his unborn child, and that love will only grow in power when you are a family - and far outweigh he mistake you made and quickly rectified.
Of course, you will always carry the guilt with you in a private part of your mind, but many people live with guilty secrets. It’s a part of the human condition, making you no worse than many others.
Believe me, it is not an “easy option” to remain silent, for sometimes people blurt and inflict far more damage than if they’d been stronger and held their tongues. Sometimes they confess in order to punish the other person, not to wipe their souls clean.
The human spirit is very complex - and that thought takes me back to your unborn child. You must forget yourself now, park this fruitless angst in its secret place and concentrate on the precious little person who is capable of bringing great joy to you and your husband.
Dear Bel,
I am 64 with two daughters and three granddaughters. I married my wife 42 years ago, but shortly before our ruby anniversary I noticed subtle changes that became progressively worse.
She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, became increasingly irrational and was eventually admitted to the local hospital’s psychiatric unit and then to residential care.
I was devastated, and so were our daughters.
Now I have become close to one of my clients, a widow of my age. Wracked with guilt, I feel I have betrayed my wife, whom I still love. Our daughters were not happy, but they say life is short and if I am happy, so be it.
I am not looking for absolution (although I did consider talking to a local vicar, then rejected the thought), but simply an unbiased outside opinion. Am I the world’s worst bastard or a victim of circumstance?
Bel's reply
I cannot imagine anyone judging you as “the world’s worst bastard”. I believe the majority of readers will agree with your daughters - and they are the only ones with the right to judge this sad case.
You stoutly maintain that you still love the wife with whom you shared a long married life, but the painful fact is this: that wife is no longer with you.
One of the cruellest aspects of dementia is that those who love the sufferer are left bereaved - condemned to witness what is, after all, a form of living death.
You do not say whether your wife still recognises you, but since it sounds as if the progress of the disease was cruelly fast, I fear it may be unlikely.
Devastated, you kept going, and then met another lonely person who could offer mental and physical comfort - which (I have no doubt) is as important for her as it is for you. I can only find it in my heart to be happy that you have found solace with your lady friend.
The wife you loved will never come home to you, but you could read a really useful book by Oliver James called Contented Dementia, which will perhaps give you some ideas about ways to enjoy the times you have with her. Your visits are important for both of you (and for your daughters), and nothing should get in their way.
As for the rest of the time. Well, when something is lost, the universe often supplies something to be found - and bring joy.
* Bel Mooney’s Lifelines: Words To Help You Through is published by Robson Press
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