Back in February
C Jane had a series of guest posts about pornography addiction. Some of the comments were misguided at best and cruel at worst. But I appreciated that she was giving blog time to the issue and so I submitted my own story that I wrote with the help of
a friend. (Who turned out to be a demanding editor.) C Jane didn't use my story, but I felt grateful for the experience I had writing it.
Recently I've found myself seeking refuge behind my glass window again and I thought back to the strength I felt when I wrote these words. Scabs taught me about writing less like a text book and more like a human. Today when I read back through it I am reminded of the ability that authentic writing has to empower and validate self.
Anyway, I thought I'd publish it today in an effort to recommit myself to its principles.
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It takes an act of courage to write a post like this. For someone in the throes of pornography
addiction, it takes an act of courage to read the comments of such a post. It is easier to protect myself by keeping my
story on my bathroom floor, where I sit when I cry, behind a glass wall
observing instead of healing.
So much is misunderstood.
Our paths are the result of experience and consideration that an
outsider can’t begin to imagine. A
cynical and judgmental voice once belonged to me, and after nearly drowning in
the shame of his sins and my shame by association; I was rescued by the idea
that we are all flawed human beings.
He’s an addict. But
I’m not going to write about him. I
want to write about me.
In the beginning I tried controlling him with passwords and
filters. I persecuted and shamed him with religious fervor. I begged him to
stop with shoulder-shaking sobs. I tried
to compete by being my prettiest, sexiest self. I created the ideal environment
in our home and comforted him after each relapse. One night, sensing he was in
a bad place, I tried staying awake to protect him from himself. Silent and still beside him in bed I waited,
sure the minute I fell asleep he would bolt upright and grab his
smartphone. My eyelids became too heavy
and in the morning I awoke to his confession.
It was so predictable and STILL I could not stop it. I failed.
My efforts were futile.
They were resented by my husband.
My well-being and sanity were compromised. There was finally relief in the idea that I
could not control him. After reading,
studying, praying and reaching out for support, I began to see the freedom and
power I did possess. It is the power to define and live my own
life despite my husband’s choices. I
gave myself permission to heal and forgive. (See Step 1, here.)
One day while feelings of anger and injustice hovered over
me, I was reminded of the advice of a friend.
She said, “Have the day you were going to have before he ruined
it.” So I did. I played with my kids, went for a run, and
even laughed. My husband isn't the one who pays the price when I dwell in
bitterness. I pay the price because my attitude of indignation is manifested in
all my relationships.
Refusing to heal is like living behind a glass window. On the outside the world is going on without
me. People are kind and happy. But behind
the window I nurture hate and fury.
Betrayal justifies anger and resentment.
My bitterness isolates me. The
window protects me from feeling. Like a
foul odor, my anger ekes out into the way I treat my children, other men, other
women, everyone. Hateful and negative thoughts become consuming.
"Forgiveness is a gift that I give to my soul. Without
it, I have no peace." (Rhyll Croshaw.)
The place behind the glass window is miserable and
lonely. My time in that place is a dark
and painful memory. Occasionally I seek
refuge behind the glass, in some effort to feel control and safety, but it is
not the place for me. So I return to the
world on the other side of the glass, the place where I define and live my own
life.
The decision to stay or leave is so intensely personal I
hesitate to even discuss it. In one ear I hear voices shouting about how I
deserve better, how I'm crazy to stay. In the other ear, equally intense voices
ask me if I'm really willing to ruin my children's lives over pornography. I hear a voice of reason that tells me that I
don’t owe anyone an explanation. I hear
a voice of compassion that reminds me of his goodness. I hear the voice of my insanity that screams
with ridicule that he will never change.
I stay because I view my husband's addiction like an
illness. The analogy isn't without its flaws, but I've turned him over to the
proper professionals, a counselor, a trusted confidant, and the healing power
of the Savior, to help him recover. I can't cure him, and while he is humble and
willing to accept treatment, I will honor my marriage vows. My husband is a
wonderful man. He is ambitious and
successful in his career. He is a
gentleman to me and takes time to let me know I am appreciated. He makes me laugh, and he finds ways to
execute even my most outrageous plans. I
love him. This is only a small part of why I married him and why I remain with
him, and says little of the memories and life we have built together.
There are no guarantees in life. But, I
can live a happy and fulfilling life with a compassionate and empathetic heart,
not just in spite of my husband's addiction, but because of it. The victim is not the part I want to play,
emerging from the fight weak and disabled.
It is the heroine I want to be, emerging with strength and confidence. Not worse for the battle, but better.
I am empowered and liberated by the knowledge that I am
strong. Even though I’m tempted to avoid stepping out from behind
the glass wall, I’ve learned not to live in fear. I am courageous and I’m okay with
vulnerable.
