Being The Other Woman was flattering when it was just words.
Being The Other Woman was not a possibility, until it happened.
Being The Other Woman was no longer flattering.
Being The Other Woman was a symptom of a weak mind and a gnawing, self-subjected disease of years of neglect. I had injected my arms with needles full of neglect for so many years, and then not realizing it latched on to the next high, the better high, of attention from a married man.
A dangerous addiction that I finally overdosed on one night, and a big part of me died for a very long time. I lost my self-worth, my innocence, my integrity as a friend, the integrity of my words. I hated me.
But I put myself in rehab for it. And now, I am clean.
I have faced it head on: the banishment, the ridicule, the sideways glances, the nasty comments, and even the lies about it. I have invited the revenge with an understanding that an apology would never be enough. And because of these things, I like who I am today. I am a better person today for finally facing it, and in the end not tolerating anything less than direct communication about it to snuff those who love chaos. And now, clean and sober, fully aware of how and why it happened, knowing that it never will again; I like me.