I Was Forced Into An Arranged Marriage At 18. Then I Found A Chat Room That Promised Escape — For A Price. (2024)

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My wife cooked a kosher meal, and I am dropping it off at the hospital. Meet you at the parking lot off Exit 43?

Yes, I responded. I’ll be there.

It was late winter, and Motty was the fourth man I’d met in person over the last few months — out of the dozens I’d chatted with since the fall — in an online chatroom while still in my Hasidic marriage.

Now, Motty’s breath felt heavy on my face as he leaned over me, his thin body pressing against mine. I froze against the seat.

I was terrified.

We were in the back seat of his gray minivan at the far end of a dark parking lot. His pants were pulled down enough to expose himself, but not low enough that we would get in trouble if the police arrived.

I felt his thin fingers claw under my skirt and lift my panties as he groped me.

“Stop it,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Stop it now.”

He edged himself off and slumped down, breathing heavily, just inches from me. He then grabbed a bunch of tissues from the front seat, and I saw the rectangular-shaped food container wrapped in silver foil, labeled simply: “Mount Sinai, 3rd floor.”

I quickly turned away.

“I need to go. I need to get to my kids,” I said.

I thought meeting with him would make me feel good, but instead I was both terrified and disgusted.

I was done.

***

At the age of 40, I’d asked for a divorce. My husband told me that if I left, I would never see our children. When my oldest son, the second of my 10 children, threatened that I wouldn’t be invited to his wedding if I left his father, I knew that my husband was serious about keeping the children from me.

I was trapped in a marriage I had never chosen.

I had gotten a laptop when I began college but only gained full internet access in the fall of 2013 after my computer crashed and needed to be reset. I rebelliously refused to reinstall the kosher internet filter mandated by the rabbis. Previously, the page would be blocked if I searched for anything outside of college work. Now, I had the freedom to research topics that had been inaccessible to me.

I Googled:

Can I leave my Hasidic marriage and take my children with me?

What happens in a divorce case when the house is owned by a nonprofit?

How can I get my husband to leave my home if he refuses to leave the bedroom?

Is there such a thing as rape in a marriage?

Then, I stumbled upon a chatroom for heimish people. This term was used in the Hasidic community to describe insiders, so I knew these were my people. On the surface, it seemed like a chatroom for general conversation, but most conversations veered quickly toward sex.

The comments moved furiously on the page, and I quickly figured it out. The conversations began on the main page, and individual discussions happened in private chat rooms, indicated by a row of tabs. Some of those conversations turned into exchanging phone numbers with a promise to schedule a meeting time.

I was one of just a few women who were desirable among this group of men. At times, I would have a dozen tabs open, juggling responses to an onslaught of Hasidic men on one side of the laptop screen as I worked on an essay on the other.

The laptop sat in the sewing room, a closet-sized space with white double doors that opened to the family room. When we’d moved into the large home my parents built us several years earlier, I worked as a seamstress. I later enrolled in college, and the room doubled as an office. I spent more time in the room when I began an online MBA program in 2012.

As my marriage fell apart, I would often fall asleep in my sewing room chair and stumble into bed in the wee hours of the morning. It was the only space in the house that felt safe. My husband controlled everything else. I didn’t even have the code for the safe where we kept our legal documents and most of my jewelry.

It began in late December 2013, when I had my first conversation with a man. I was alone at home. My six younger children had gone with their father to a Hanukkah party in New Jersey, and the older children were out of town for school. Things had gotten bad between me and my husband, and I knew I wasn’t wanted.

The message popped up in the chatroom: You should have gone to the party.

I know, maybe next time.

What are you wearing?

The next question came quickly: When was the last time you had sex?

I was confused. What intentions did this anonymous man have?

I am wearing tall black boots.

Tell me more.

Another man, to whom I had given my number, called and told me: I had amazing sex with my wife yesterday. Do you want to hear about it? Tell me. What are you wearing?

His tone scared me; who was this person anyway? I quickly hung up the phone and blocked his number.

Several days later, the fear was gone, and the intoxicating pull was back. I was back on my laptop, chatting with other men.

How was your day, sweetie?

Can you touch yourself?

Imagine coming with me to the beach. Have you ever worn a bikini? (I hadn’t. He should’ve known this.)

The message continued: Go on, touch yourself.

I leaned back in my chair and did what he said, feeling the intoxicating pleasure wash over me.

I quickly learned to pretend to org*sm when I was actually at work or when I did the dishes. Some of the conversations became very personal, with men expressing their frustration with their marriage and asking to meet up.

Sometimes, I agreed.

I am not sure what I was hoping to gain from these meetings, but I knew that anything felt better than my current situation.

***

“That is what happens when you don’t go to the mikvah, the ritual bath. I saw those disgusting messages. You are a moredet, a rebellious wife,” said my husband, standing over me as I lay huddled in our daughter’s bed.

I’d moved to her bedroom after I’d stopped going to the mikvah. Under the Hasidic rules, when a woman sees any sign of vagin*l bleeding, she is immediately forbidden from physical contact with her husband. She must immerse herself in a special ritual bath after counting seven days. On that night, she is required to have sex.

For years, I had followed these rules without complaint.

But I had changed.

When I was first married off in an arranged marriage at 18, my husband was adamant about controlling the sex we had. He insisted that we would follow the directives of the Talmud and have sex only on Friday nights, the holiest day of the week, saying, “We aren’t regular people. We are special. Holier.”

The youngest of five boys, he was a precocious child and, as a teen, recognized as a future scholar. He took his role seriously, rarely involving himself in mundane matters and focusing on his studies. As a young woman, I was so proud to be matched up with a scholar, and I saw him as righteous and noble.

In my 20s, I would often beg for sex. I will never forget leaning on the banister and crying for him to come up. I craved the physical touch and attention. It was the only time he would ever kiss or hug me.

But by now, I was close to 40, had grown stronger, and refused to beg. I attended college and had a job outside the home.

Instead, on Friday nights, he would now come up to my bed hours after I had fallen asleep.

I was furious but felt helpless. The only recourse I had was to stop going to the mikvah. The fear of God would prevent him from touching me, not any moral compunctions.

Every time I met with a man, I was terrified of my husband finding out, but also secretly — desperately — hoping that he would so he’d be forced to divorce me. At the time, I felt like I was doing something to free myself. Chatting with these anonymous men made me feel like I had power over my husband, but I also felt ashamed.

After keeping it a secret for months, I told a friend what I was doing.

“Don’t go down this path. You’ll just end up hurting yourself,” she said, referring me to a therapist.

“You can leave this marriage,” the therapist encouraged me. “But why are you self-sabotaging? You will make it harder to leave.”

I burned with shame.

Coming home, I stood in front of the mirror in the master bathroom, my face staring back at me. Who was I becoming? After years of being in a bad marriage, I never imagined that I would cheat in this way.

“I will leave,” I promised myself. “I deserve better.”

***

On the eve of Passover in 2014, I finally escaped with my four youngest under the cover of darkness. I told my attorney everything a few days before we were to appear in court: the chatting, the meetings, the sexually explosive emails.

“But I have stopped all that,” I said. “I am done.”

I was terrified that it would be used against me in court.

“Why?” he responded. “It’s a normal part of a woman leaving a marriage. I see it all the time.”

Ending my cybersex experiences for good was a process. The guilt and shame sometimes stopped me, while the powerful feelings drew me back.

It has been nearly 11 years since I first found that chatroom, which exposed me to an underworld in the Hasidic community. In so many ways, I regret that experience. But I know it was a vital part of my journey to own my power, as I found the strength to escape a marriage that was almost impossible to leave.