BAM! TRIGGER!

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I used to say that I'd never experienced triggers.  I hadn't experienced them in the way I had originally thought of them.  As trauma-inducing reminders of past despair. 

But then I started hearing the word trigger in other contexts.  A trigger was an annoying observation that might remind me of my husband's addiction.  Or a trigger might be something that causes me to slip back into codependency.  Some other triggers were things that were bothersome because they were temptations for my husband, or situations that portray happiness and joy that I find lacking in my own life. 

Those were the things I began to accept as triggers, and cope with them accordingly.  It was manageable. 

Then on Friday night I experienced a trigger that was in fact like a tidal wave from the past, of the feelings from my moments of deepest anguish.  It was overwhelming. It lasted all evening. And the moment I was able to, I burst into tears, reliving the grief of disclosures, the shame, the fear, the embarrassment and the desperate longing to believe that it wasn't true.

I can't share the details of the trigger.  It involves personal details about a family member, and even though this blog is anonymous the internet is a sneaky place, and I really don't feel like throwing this person to the wolves in the off chance someone I actually know reads this. 

But I mostly worked through the feelings. Pete was supportive and kind.  I don't think he understood, but he knew he didn't understand, and that helped. 

A couple days passed and last night the subject came up.  Pete went from being supportive to being a man.  It's hard to explain without offering details, but the conversation ended with me screaming these words at him.  (Or something to this effect, I can't quite recall what I actually said in the moment.)

"I'm so tired of living in a man's world! Where men keep other men's secrets.  Where someone is always there to hold the hand of the addict, pat him on the back, encourage him along his way.  Meanwhile the woman is in the dark, oblivious to the trauma that awaits her, and then "hushed" into secrecy as she tries to cope!  If it's none of my business, then it's none of your business! And we can all go on our way, ignoring it, brushing it under the rug, letting it thrive in its taboo-induced silence where things will never change!"

This time the trigger wasn't sadness.  It was all-out rage.  I was on fire. My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking.  I grabbed the car keys and drove away vacillating between sobs and shouts of fury.  It felt like the same hellish nightmare that I'd endured on my bathroom floor, time and time again two or three years ago.  I felt trapped.  Alone.  Desperate. 

With the help of good friends I'm finding sanity again.  But I'm also giving myself a day to be angry. Because the truth is, TRIGGERS SUCK.  And sex addiction is everywhere, and so painful. And change is slow.  And men have fear too. 

And it is tormenting to feel unheard and unseen. 

The Heart Of The Matter

I had so many thoughts tumbling around in my head.  I was trying to make sense of one, to mold it into a coherent blog post, when Pete came in the room.  Seeing what I was up to, he informed me that his sponsor blocked my blog (on Pete's computer) via his "Net Nanny."  I get limited info these days about the workings of his sponsor, but he did tell me that he finally found some software that was compliant with his employer's computer/internet policy.  His sponsor manages the filters for him.  Apparently my blog was "a drug for his emotional dependency."

Honestly I'm not sure what to think.  It's weird to not really be sure if he will ever read this.  I've grown so accustomed to writing with him over my shoulder - so to speak. (Not literally.)  His work computer is really the only computer he has access to. 

Anyway.  That mini-conversation added even more thoughts to the mix and now I'm sure I can't compose anything coherent. 

BUT!

THIS!

This is very important to me.  Please watch.  Please donate.  I opened my own bank account a couple months ago.  I've been saving to establish financial independence.  But I think I'm going to drop a fat wad on this project.  I really believe in it. 

Sunday School

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It has been easy for me to become disillusioned with the church  programs I was raised with as I cope with the damaging effects of pornography and addiction. 

“There was never a lesson in Sunday school about boundaries.” I’ve been known to spitefully accuse. 

A few weeks ago as I brushed my little girl’s hair for church I had a strong impression. I realized that at church she is learning all the important things she will need in order to face the challenges ahead of her. 

It’s possible that women all over the world have wondered why Sunday school lessons weren’t “relevant” to their crisis. For example, there wasn’t a lesson about how to cope with losing everything in a natural disaster, or how to process through the feelings of an untimely death of a family member.  I’m sure there is a broken heart who wondered why she never had a lesson in young women about the anguish of a double mastectomy. 

The gospel is universal.  It is designed to offer peace and joy to the souls of all who suffer.  And while I still plan to teach my daughter about boundaries and self-care, I realized that at church she is learning exactly what she needs to know.

There is a loving God in Heaven who knows her.

Blessings come from living in obedience to God’s commandments.

The safest answers will be found in her heart, planted there by God through the Holy Ghost.

Jesus Christ suffered an atonement that qualifies him to be her most loyal friend and advocate.   He will always remove her pain and shortcomings when she turns to him.

Joy is found in kindness and charity. 

Her body, no matter what it looks like, is a sacred creation and can be capable of amazing things when she cares for it. 

Her virtue is hers to protect and respect.

Honesty and integrity will give her a clear conscience and confidence. 

Reaching out and offering love to others will be her greatest source of happiness. 

I find myself occasionally facing fears about the suffering my children will inevitably face.  In my codependent moments I become desperate to control the information they receive and the circumstances they face.  But when I look back at my own journey into recovery I see a beautiful patchwork of guidance, friendship, leadership, lessons, websites, and resources.  A friend here, a blog there, a 12-step meeting, and a “chance” encounter. 

God can’t possibly have individualized Sunday school lessons for each of his suffering children.  So he sticks with the essentials.  And then with providential power, God orchestrates His world to provide what each of his children need, when they need it. 

He is the God I worship, and the God I want my daughter to worship.  He can be trusted.  He will provide. 

Let's Get Real: Part Two

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Here are the rest of my remarks from the training. 

Read Part One here.

After Pete and I finished, the stake president opened it up for questions.  We could have stayed for hours answering questions, and it became painfully clear to me that most of these men (bishops, counselors, executive secretaries, and ward clerks) had little knowledge or experience with sexual addiction.  Some of their questions were almost comically naïve.  But to the credit of many in the room, their hearts were opened and they seemed genuinely and humbly willing to learn.  I didn't feel any animosity to them for being unaware, I felt grateful to them for being ready to be aware.  They didn't know what they didn't know.  (Just like me.)

**************** 

It has to be said, that I work on these things daily.  I’m by no means entirely successful at applying these principles.  But awareness has been opened up before me and with the Savior’s grace I work on changing one day at a time.

I feel grateful that I have never had a bad experience with my bishops, and President ----------- has been perfectly compassionate and supportive.  I know church leadership is demanding.  But I humbly encourage you to learn about this, to give advice carefully, particularly to women.  Increased intimacy will not cure this addiction but might make a wife feel objectified and used, forgiveness is possible but difficult, trust has to be earned, and above all – she didn’t cause his addiction, she can not control it, nor can she cure it. 

I wish someone would have told me that it WAS going to get worse, that’s the nature of addiction.  It is self-preserving, perpetuating and progressive.  Suppose a young couple approached you for counsel.  The husband was exhibiting symptoms consistent with a terminal illness.  They said that they believed that if they prayed diligently and increased their spirituality God would cure the illness.  I imagine you would plead with them to seek professional advice, get medical attention, and take advantage of the many resources available from educated and experienced people familiar with the illness.  Even if the symptoms “weren’t that bad.”

I understand the power of denial, and people have to want help.  But even if the husband isn’t willing, encourage the wife to find healing.  I believe that a wife in recovery can live in a peaceful and healthy way with a husband in recovery.  I also believe a husband has the freedom and hope to seek recovery when his wife is in a healthy emotional place to support him.

In closing I’ll say what I would say to the “me” of three years ago.  It will get worse before it gets better.  This thing isn’t going away on its own.  Please don’t underestimate it.  Face it now. Set aside your shame and fear and ask for help.    

I have been blessed most of my life to have the spiritual strength and stability to live in the details and complexities of the gospel.  But in the last few years I have had the opportunity to gain a profound testimony of the essential principles of the gospel.  I know God lives and loves me.  I know the Savior’s atonement will relieve me of my weakness and the suffering I experience as the result of other’s weakness.  I understand that God’s grace will sustain me and help me gain salvation.

In Galatians 2:20 it reads:

“Nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.”

Let's get real

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Recovery nurtures honesty.  I'm not talking about honesty in terms of accurately reporting facts, although recovery nurtures that too.  I'm talking about honesty with my intentions and my desires. If I'm being honest with myself I need to admit that my last post was just a more subtle way of getting validation. 

Regardless, I appreciate so much your words of support and compassion.  I feel strong again, and I feel like we can all do hard things, especially if they are things that will make the road more clear for those coming behind us.

So here is part one of my remarks (too long for one post) to the leadership of my stake. My stake president wanted me to share how recovery has helped me, particularly the 12-step program.  I tried to do this while also shedding some light on how Pete's addiction affected me.

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In Finding Nemo and Wreck It Ralph, Pete and I laugh longer than most during the 12-step support group scenes.  It’s our world, we get the jokes, and our laughter is a sign of how far we have come.

It was nearly two years ago when President ----------  encouraged us to attend the church’s support group meetings.  With knots in our stomach and sweaty palms we walked through the doors of our first meeting. 

I don’t recall now what I expected to find at those meetings.  Maybe angry, embittered wives, or maybe other women like me, self-righteous and determined to fix their husbands.  But what I actually found were compassionate, charitable and humble women, seeking the Savior.  The meetings are safe, I made immediate friends and felt the reassurance I was not alone.  I found validation and encouragement and hope. 

Each time Pete confessed to me, and having the realization that we were dealing with addiction was traumatic and devastating.  My self-esteem was hurt, I felt inadequate.  I felt betrayed by his behavior and confused about who he was and the reality of our lives.  I was incredibly lonely, afraid to share our secret and seek support.  I felt stupid for being blind to signs of his behavior.  I lived in fear and anxiety about the future, and I took responsibility for his addiction and began making rules for him and trying to manage his choices.

I want to share how the 12-step program helped me to cope with Pete’s addiction, and how it helped me as an individual to understand the atonement and faith. 

Step 1: says that I “Come to understand that I am powerless over the addiction of my loved one.”

Coping with Pete's addiction in a healthy way began with me learning about codependency.

The best definition of codependency I’ve read is simply my happiness and peace being dependent on Pete’s behavior.  His addiction sent me into a tailspin of insanity and intense emotions.  Although I was reluctant in the beginning to accept a “label”, I soon realized how harmful codependency was.

In addition to feeling like my emotions were unmanageable, my codependency manifested itself in unhealthy behaviors like persecuting, shaming, nagging, etc.  I sobbed and begged Pete to change.  I guilted him and shamed him.  I gave him the silent treatment and the cold shoulder. I withheld my love.  It is not in my nature to get angry, but I’ve had very angry moments. 

I did these things because I didn’t know better.  Finding my own recovery, using the 12 steps, attending a support group and having a counselor have helped me learn a new way to deal with my intense feelings and a better way to treat Pete without enabling him.   

In steps 2 & 3 I come to believe that the power of God can restore me to spiritual and emotional health, and then decide to turn my will and my life over to the care of God the Eternal Father and his Son, Jesus Christ.

I've realized that faith isn’t just believing in God, it is believing that God will care for me and facilitate my happiness no matter what happens in my marriage or what the circumstances are in my life.  Faith isn’t believing that God would remove my trials, but give me an endowment of spiritual strength to get through them. 

I was used to living in fear. Fear about the next relapse, fear of people finding out, fear of infidelity, fear of divorce. I learned that I could surrender my fears about the outcome of Pete’s addiction to God.  We like to say “Breathe out fear, breathe in faith.”

A few months ago Bishop ---------- gave a lesson in a combined priesthood/relief society about how the atonement applies to the victim.  I’ve certainly had need for the atonement as a sinner, but until this experience I didn’t understand how the atonement applied to the anguish I felt as the victim of someone else’s sins.  The 12 steps are truly a step-by-step course with practical application about accepting the Savior’s gift of the atonement to relieve me of my pain and despair.  It isn’t my job to punish Pete, nor is it my job to save him.  What IS my job is to let go of my disappointment, hurt and grief in exchange for forgiveness and peace. 

Vulnerability Hangover

Cliché Zero

Last night I stood in a room of 30-40 men in suits.  I felt a bizarre combination of total intimidation and quiet confidence.  Last week my stake president invited me (and then Pete agreed as well) to speak at the bishopric training meeting.  [This is a meeting for local church leaders and their assistants.] 

It sounds totally cliché but I really did envision all of you in the room with me.  I wanted to have my moment to represent us, to share the hope of recovery and to encourage these men to better understand what more they can do.  I would like to post what I said, but honestly right now I feel so exposed I feel like crawling in a cave and isolating. 

After such a bold personal confession it's hard for me to not feel insatiable for validation.  Did my words help? Did these men approve of my message? Was I effective? Do they admire my courage? Friends, I'm so hooked on validation my life is unmanagable.

Later in the evening Pete got a text from a member of our own ward who is also a good friend.  He thanked us and said he still admired us as much as he had before he knew our deepest secret.  (Not his words exactly.)

Go ahead and laugh out loud, but I felt like he was the one leper. 

BAHAHAHA!

So ridiculous right? 

There were several men in the room who know us personally and I find myself wondering where are they? Why haven't they texted/emailed/called to support us? 

So I'm working on that. And when I can be sure that I'm not sharing just to appease my validation appetite, I'll talk about what I said last night. 

But thanks to you all who were with me in my heart.  Thanks to Pete for his gesture of courage.  It felt really good to be united with him in something. 

Have a fantastic Labor Day Weekend friends. 

The Power I Possess

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. 

Remembering to Live

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While I don't believe that comparing the tragedy of someone else's life to my own suffering, in an effort to guilt me out of sorrow, is always a healthy way to cope with grief; I do believe that occasional or frequent reminders that my life does contain all I need for happiness, are beneficial.  A recent reflection on the life of a woman who survived the genocide in Rwanda was one such reminder for me.  (Because what kind of ungrateful pond scum would I be if I read her story and DIDN'T feel profound appreciation for freedom, family and safety? See... guilting myself out of sorrow...)

I've been wallowing like Wilbur in a muck of self-pity for a bit.  I've been grieving the disappointments of the past two years and the seeming lack of change with Pete's addiction. I've been self-medicating with social media and carbohydrates. 

But in the words of my wise friend Scabs, it's time to get off the couch. 

It's time to live again. 

My relationship with Pete is in something of a holding pattern.  Like a deep breath, or with a deep breath, I have accepted the circumstances of my marriage for the time being.  I give my most patient effort to wait for sobriety AND recovery before re-engaging with my husband emotionally and physically.  While I only have a general idea of his thoughts and feelings about our position, from my perspective we are cohabiting amicably.

In the meantime, I'm ready to shed my grief, and a few of those indulgent pounds.  It's time to get out from behind my glass wall and think a little bit less about myself and a little bit more about someone else.  [Beginning with my little people, who have suffered the most during my saddest days.]

It's time for some real connections and it's time to release some fears, disappointments, expectations and control.

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

J.K. Rowling

You're overreacting! Am I overreacting?

Street Art

A few weeks go Pete and I were in the car on our way home from an afternoon in the mountains with the kids.  Conversations that go badly in the car are torture, because there is no escape, nothing but uncomfortable silence holding you hostage when someone disengages from the conflict.  There is also no privacy to process feelings or cry it out. 

"This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you this."  Pete said to me when he could see I was upset. The words, his demeanor, everything said to me

"There was only one appropriate reaction to what I just told you, and it was not the reaction you are having." 

This bothered me quite a bit, so much in fact that I later expressed to Pete how it wasn't right for him to only accept one emotion from me.  That no matter what his behavior, I was entitled to feel whatever feeling came to me. And a little empathy might go a long way.

A couple of days later I let each of my kids pick one of those pouches of pureed fruits and veggies for a snack.  In the car I distributed them, and then we were on our way.  In a matter of seconds my oldest child realized I'd given him the wrong snack. He fussed and whined about it and I found myself saying to him

"Get over it kid! I made a mistake, chill out.  Let it go! Stop making a big deal out of it."

Facepalm.

Hypocrite.

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It used to be that when Pete said I was overreacting it would spiral me into self-doubt.  Was I overreacting?  Now when Pete says it to me I just get pissed.  But I still find myself asking that question all the time. And here's where it's brought me.

Overreacting just means that the original behavior doesn't justify the magnitude of the response.  Right? Well, how can anyone, myself included, possibly be the judge of what behavior justifies any given response?

First of all, actions and responses can't be put in a vacuum; they can't be made isolated events unaffected by history, circumstance or mood.  For example, say I blow my top when the toddler poops in the bathtub.  A frustrating action indeed, but probably not enough to merit a motherly meltdown.  But suppose that was the last in a series of events that tested this mother's patience at bedtime. 

The fact is, I just REACT.  At some point I allow the feelings to all come out and I think my energy is better spent giving place for those feelings than fretting about whether or not the feelings were an appropriate response.  They just were the response.

This sex addiction world has caused extensive self-reflection and discovery that has molded my core beliefs.  And one of those beliefs is that feelings matter.  I should "honor" them.   If Pete, or someone doesn't like my reaction, I am happy to leave them to their own tools and coping mechanisms.  But my reactions are a huge opportunity for learning about what's going on inside my kooky head.  Why did this hurt so much? Where is this anger coming from?

It's absolutely possible that my reactions include some behaviors that are inappropriate.  Violence, cruelty, and manipulation are never acceptable.  In fact, I'm a firm believer that I can hone my response skillzzz so that my reactions don't include any of these unacceptable manifestations of my feelings.

But levels of hurt, disappointment, and anger just are what they are.  I can't measure them to determine if they are too much or too little.  It isn't helpful to compare them to anyone else's reactions.  It is certainly not okay for someone else to tell me that my pain is too much, my grief too severe or my frustration excessive.  Nor is it okay for me to dismiss any one else's feelings in response to the disappointments they face. 

(Side note: I think as a mother I am allowed, after offering love, empathy, and an apology where necessary, to help my children keep their disappointments in perspective.) 

I don't intend to let the demons of overreaction haunt me.  I'm coping with what has been given me, I'm making the best of the cards I'm dealt.  Take it or leave it,

it is what it is. 

Insanity Returns

Morocco - Cavallo13

I had a horrible nightmare last night. I was at Pete’s office and there were pictures of Jennifer Aniston all over his walls.  But they were photographs, like he knew her personally and he had developed them from his own camera.  There was a third person in the room with us, but I can’t remember who it was.  Pete was pulling the pictures off the wall and it felt awkward and embarrassing in the room. He made some jokes about it, and then he randomly poured his paper cup of root beer on my shoes.  The next thing I knew we were at home, talking about the pictures.  I was lying in bed and he climbed on top of me.  He started groping me.  I begged him to get away, to leave me alone but he just laughed and told me to “lighten up.”

When I woke up I couldn’t stop the sobs from coming.  My response was visceral and I felt violated and abused.  I cried my tears into the pillow for a few moments and took deep breaths until my mind accustomed to reality and I fell asleep again. 

Pete has never been forceful or abusive.  That is not in him.  He doesn’t operate from power or brute strength.  I have no blame toward Pete for that dream.

It is my subconscious I blame.  And my subconscious blames my conscious.  And my conscious blames my insanity. 

I have to let go of the fear.  I have to.  Insanity would have me believe that the worst case scenario is even worse than my conscious can imagine.  Insanity would have me believe that my circumstances are incapable of offering me peace and a meaningful, joyful existence.  I’ve been letting insanity hang around too long.  Insanity wore out her welcome. Again.

 

It's not easy to shrug off the kind of pain that comes from a dysfunctional marriage. And I have no intention of shrugging off any of my pain.  But I know I need to work through it.  The only way is through. And on the other side of the pain is the place where I can start to feel gratitude and joy again.  The place where I banish Insanity and all her drama, and allow myself to feel optimism and appreciation.  The place where I make a key lime pie and attempt to practice vulnerability.