First of all, you have my sympathies. I've been on the receiving end of that pain, and I've delivered it as well. There are few things in life that can consume you, on a soul level, like the uncertainty and confusion and hurt and anger of not knowing the truth about a husband's affair. It's like wandering through a carnival fun house with the distorted mirrors and trying to find the one that reflects you. Only the experience is way short on fun. Please know that I, too, have felt what you're feeling.

The problem is this: not only has your husband betrayed you, but he has wreaked havoc with any trust you might have had in your own judgment. You ask, Was this actually happening on my watch? Did he come home, kiss me, perhaps even make love to me, and the whole time he was fantasizing about her? This is why you feel crazy. You don't know who or what to believe--him, her, your own questionable judgment. You take painkillers, hoping to ease the pain. But the pain never eases.

One of the few truths I know for sure: his affair, virtual or otherwise, had nothing to do with you. It didn't come about because you weren't enough. It evolved because he wanted his own chemical painkiller: illicit sex. He wanted a dildo for his ego. He wanted to prove he still "had it." There are a thousand reasons, and believe me, they have nothing to do with your merit as a woman. You two are married. You have kids. His life is a rat wheel of responsibility and obligation. And guess what? Tough shit. You make sacrifices, too, don't you? But he sees you as part of the drudgery. She's the vacation. And I'm willing to bet if you actually saw this pathetic creature he's fantasizing about, she would make you laugh until you cried. It's not about her. It's not about you. It's about him.

My advice? Find her. Confront her. Move forward with the idea that you can get your questions answered. But I predict that you won't find any answers there, because you're looking in the wrong direction. He needs counseling--and you might make that a condition of his probation. But you need counseling, too. Here's what I'm getting at.

For you to feel consumed by this obsession with the idea that she might be sexier/younger/prettier/more alluring than you tells me that you are still handing your self-worth away. Just handing it away. Putting it in the hands of someone (your husband) who is clearly a fucking mess right now. Is that wise? Would you place one of your children in the care of the criminally insane? Of course not. Yet every time you look outside yourself for a mirror, for external validation of who and what you are, even if it's your husband, you're remitting yourself to the custody of the fundamentally insane. And that is the gift for you in all this. Here is your chance to truly liberate yourself, not just from needing him to "love" you, but needing the world to show you your own beauty.

Just remember: he doesn't love this woman. It's arguable whether he's even capable of love at all. He just wanted a legal high--like you do. He took a really underhanded, weasely approach to getting his needs met (which is still at issue here). But you have an incredible opportunity to evolve.

Take it. Go through that door. The pain will not kill you. I promise you will find the answers you are looking for.

...to inspire this level of weirdness and visceral, almost kneejerk hatred. So have it. I, for one, find you witty, observant, and an ardent champion of the underdog. If you were a stock, I'd buy you on margin. I encourage you to keep antagonizing the ass clowns who read you and flame you. Dare I suggest that you are a hot flame to their fingertips? Or perhaps the haters are part of that unfortunate 20% unemployed, and therefore have an inordinate amount of time on their hands.

And so with their pitchforks and flaming torches, the readers of Salon and the residents of Salem burned their witches....

Thank God. I thought I was the only one entertaining sick fantasies of me, Rahm, and his desk.

Now, if I could be the mayonnaise in a Rahm Emanuel/Jon Stewart sandwich...I'd think I'd died and gone to heaven.

Your story bears an eery similarity to mine. Like you, I had early success (I was nineteen when I first published), and the book actually did well, but then I couldn't get another book sold. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and no tomato. I wept in despair, gnashed my teeth in rage and frustration...and at the end of the day, realized that I am a writer no matter what. I am a writer because I write.

More to the point, though, is this one simple fact that took me the better part of ten years to figure out: just because you write well doesn't mean diddly fucking squat. NY doesn't really care if you write. The only thing they care about is the stinky green.

So instead of letting yourself be consumed by the idea of spit-shining each sentence until it gleams, write books that sell. In other words, screw art. Commerce rules the day. And until there is a balance, I think you're going to have to stab the sacred cow of your own artistic principles in the neck if you want to make any money in the New World Order.

Above all, remember that nothing is inherently good or bad except that our own perceptions make it so. This may be a turning point in your career as a writer. I say go with it.