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From the very first meeting, the guilt racked through me.

We would meet in hotels, have sex – mindblowing sex - and then the realisation that what I was doing was irrevocably wrong would set in.

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Mercifully, the kind and complicated man I was married to focused too.

I'd always heard that you have to work at a marriage.

Soon, I was spending hours in the parallel universe of cyberspace, often through wonderfully wide-awake nights, uninhibited in a way I never could be in reality.

I told no one, immersed and isolated in my secret life. In moments of fleeting clarity, I wanted to understand what was happening to me. Was it just my marriage problems, or was there something deeper causing me to behave that way?

And so our long-nurtured virtual affair became real.

He was young and beautiful and I couldn't believe that he wanted me.

I was a latecomer to counselling, having previously considered therapy a largely American pursuit. By the time I reached that landmark age, without children and in a marriage that was beginning to lose its fairytale glow, my daily life was beginning to feel not unlike a soap opera.

And I did, pretty much, and I was perfectly fine - until suddenly I wasn't.

It's taken me a good while to fully come to terms with what I've done, to understand how easily I fell into the previously unknown world that I would regrettably come to prefer to the real one.

Luckily, after only a short time apart, my husband came back to me, willing to try to put us back together and realising, in all this, he had had a part to play too.

Taking my online affair offline was my big mistake, a transgression too far.

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