I'm PISSED About My Illness

I've had a really bad week.  I couldn't put my finger on it, so I was grateful to have a therapy appointment last night.  I have to say, doing therapy on my own couch isn't too shabby.  Sometimes I even wear pajama pants because my appointments are at 10:00 at night and my therapist can only see the top half of me on his computer.

“You have an illness.” He said to me.

I do have an illness.  My illness is a broken brain. Faulty ways of thinking.  Misleading beliefs.  Its symptoms are a compulsive urge to control, lousy self-esteem, persistent self-doubt and bouts of anxiety.  I learned two important things about my illness while talking with my therapist last night.

1- I’m mad that I’m sick.  I’m PISSED actually.  I’m angry that I am perpetually plagued with feelings of inadequacy. I’m ticked that I feel so emotionally fragile. And I’m so damn frustrated that I can’t stop trying to control people and things.

2- My illness is not my fault.  But it seems to me like it is.  It seems to me that if I were better at recovery, if I were more clever, if I were less needy – then I wouldn't be so sick.  But no.

“You’re illness came with you.” He tells me.

It’s as much a part of me as my blue eyes and my long toes.  My illness was influenced by my upbringing just like my personality and sense of humor have been influenced.  But I didn't earn my illness.  Which means I can’t un-earn it by being more clever and less needy.

It also means that my illness wasn't caused by Pete’s addiction.  My illness is no more his fault, than his addiction is my fault.  Yes, his addiction has exasperated my symptoms.  But just as certainly, my illness has exasperated his symptoms too.

It’s like getting strep for the third time in the same winter and being so pissed about it.  But it’s there nonetheless.  And all you can do is see a professional and take care of yourself.  So that’s my game plan.

I have an illness.  I’m pissed about it.  But it’s not my fault.

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Disclaimer:  I understand that this language may not resonate with everyone.  And that’s okay.  I use the word illness at the very least, as a metaphorical convenience, at most- a statement of fact. An unhealthy condition of the body or mind. I don’t mean to sound critical of myself, or make it seem like I am damaged or inferior. Rather, I feel like this perspective is a liberating and compassionate way of viewing my messy self.  And the first step in accepting my messy self.  I imagine it is a similar experience for someone acknowledging the presence of chronic depression.  It sucks.  But it’s there. And depression doesn't make anyone damaged or inferior, because depression is an illness too.

Conditional Love

This morning as I was walking home from my children's school, I was stewing.  Just to give you a brief update -

I've been relearning about codependency, I've been attending Al-Anon and Skyping with my therapist.  I've been discovering loving detachment, and trying really hard not to totally check out of my marriage.  Things seemed to be looking up.  Pete has been helpful and responsive and we have spent quality time together.  But he is still an emotionally closed book, and refuses to share with me anything regarding his addiction or recovery.  

The other night he said some more hurtful things.  And I felt like I handled it well.  I didn't trigger into a pathetic, sobbing mess on the floor.  I listened, and then offered my best love and committment to him.  The next day I felt really good about maintaining some sanity, until he came home.  And then I couldn't handle it.  Anger and hurt bubbled up inside of me. I think I was hoping for an apology,  In any case, I had an emotional response.

So this morning I've been stewing, and as I was walking along, some advice I have given to multiple people hit me like a face-palm.  (This is yet another reason I try not to give advice.)

You don't treat people with kindness and love to get something from them.  Because some people will never give you what you are longing for.  You treat people with love and kindness because it is the best way to feel good about yourself.  

Love, kindness and forgiveness are my moral code.  And I'm most likely to maintain contentment in my life when I live in line with my moral code.

I think I've tried a dozen different, unhealthy ways to try and elicit empathy and compassion from Pete, with no success.  I know there is a compassionate person inside of him, I've seen it.  But there is absolutely nothing I can do to force it out.

Choosing to offer him love and compassion is a choice I make with no strings attached, no expectations, no emotional ties to outcomes.  Just a gift of love that I can give when I am emotionally strong enough to give it.  Which, I'm not sure if I am, today.

LIAR!!

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A few months ago, when Pete wasn't talking to me about his recovery because I had emotionally withdrawn, I wondered about his sobriety.  A friend told me how to check a google search history.  At first, the search history wasn't on, so I turned it on.  I checked it every day for a few days, and it always came up clean.  This gave me some peace of mind (obviously it's not fool proof) but Pete had also agreed to tell me when he broke sobriety. So I went with it. 

After his confession on Monday I kind of had that annoying nagging feeling. During his confession I specifically asked if this was the only "episode." He reassured me that it was a one-time deal. A blip. A slip.  

Yesterday I had the idea to check his google history. I hadn't done this in a long time.  But I decided to do it.  I'm not a fan of snooping if it's done out of codependency.  I had never needed to snoop before. He always confessed.  But I went ahead and pulled it up.  I looked over it.  It didn't match what he had told me. There were other searches.  A lot of them, on two different days besides the day he had confessed about.  I tried to work it out logistically in my head but it didn't make sense.  My heart started to race.  I started to sweat.  I called him.  He admitted to it. 

My trauma went to a couple new levels yesterday.  

1. I've never caught Pete before. (Except one time I read a text conversation with his dad.) I've never seen searches or images.  I've never had that nauseating feeling when you read the words your husband typed into the Google box. The names of the women who are the objects of his fantasies.  I could not stop sweating. 

2. Pete has always been honest.  Or I thought he had always been honest.  Except that one time, when he wasn't.  And now I feel so ridiculous saying it. I've told everyone else that there is always more than what the addict is admitting to.  But I'm the exception.  Addicts are liars.  But Pete is the exception.  Yeah, Pete has been mostly honest.  But once there are lies, how do you EVER know what's a lie and what isn't?  Trust is so fragile.  So easily and quickly destroyed.  And such a painful, excruciating reality check.  

I hate those old feelings of being a fool, being deceived, duped, manipulated.  I HATE those feelings.  I want to scream and throw up and run until my lungs are on fire.  I want to punch pillows and break plates. I want to curl up and sob. I want a hug that never ends, from a friend.  I want to be manic and active, and the next minute I want to be lazy and lethargic.  

I thought I was at the beginning of the end. I thought this was going a new direction.  I thought my posts on this blog were winding down. 

But he is still sick. 

Eventually I won't be angry at him for that.  Eventually I'll find acceptance.  But today it hurts.  

There have been times in years past when I worried that if he got better, what would I do with myself? This was my new identity.  But I have long since relinquished that identity. I REALLY wanted it to be over this time.  I was REALLY ready to move on to our new life.  Of course I knew it would always be there. But I have friends whose husbands have a year or two sobriety.  Why can't I have that? Why does it elude him, and me? 

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**After I wrote this I went back to link to the post I wrote about the last time I discovered that Pete had lied to me.  It makes me wonder why we ever trust at all?

You Don't Need No Man

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My Dear Friend-

I'm going to go out on a limb here and share my story in the hope that it will be helpful to you.  As I always like to say- take what you want and leave the rest.

I want to challenge you on something.  I want to question your statement that you "need" your husband to offer daily manifestations of his love, help you around the house, and be a leader for your children.  Those things are all keys to a healthy marriage and a successful family life, but I know you, and I know you are strong, and I think right now that you can find peace and happiness without them.

I used to be a sponge for Pete's love, desperately seeking approval and validation from him, longing for his attention.  Eventually his addiction became so unmanageable that he was incapable of offering me those things.  In fact, he usually did the opposite.  Made me doubt myself, left me emotionally alone, withheld his love. 

As long as I continued to expect Pete to meet my needs, I felt disappointed and angry.  I was oozing with resentment toward him.  He failed and failed over and over and it was making me miserable.  Eventually I had to let him go. I had to find happiness and personal worth outside of my relationship with him.  I didn't say so to him, but maybe I could have said something like this.

"I'm relinquishing you from the obligations I've imposed upon you to make me happy.  To fill my cup.  To meet my needs.  I'm letting you go.  For the time being I'm determined to be dependent on myself for those things.  I have good people to love and support me.  I have children to fill my cup.  I don't NEED you right now.  You are free to find recovery, or not. But I'm going to let you off the hook.  For now.  I'm willing to let our marriage fall apart for awhile, with the hope that it will give you the space you need to join me in fixing it down the road." 

It's just a kill your own damn buffalo concept.  If you want to have family prayer, initate it.  If the garbage is full, take it out. 

I know it sounds so fiery feminist, maybe because it is,  but

YOU DON'T NEED NO MAN.

When I did this at first I was just being a martyr.  I was vindictive, and determined to guilt him into change. "I hope he feels like crap when he sees that I mowed the lawn" - type feelings.  But eventually it became an empowering and liberating way to live.  I DON'T need no man. 

I know that in the big picture husband and wife are one.  It's a relationship that enhances our joy.  But that wasn't/isn't the reality I'm living in. 

I love you friend- I know you are strong and you can find the emotional place you are searching for even if your husband never becomes the man he can become. 

When Did I Get so Mean?

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Last Sunday I watched Pete slip out of recovery.  I could see it happening before my very eyes.  The signs might be different for our addicts but we know them. After cycle and cycle and cycle.  Maybe it's stress, maybe it's angry outbursts.  General irritability with the kids.  I like to use the words "compulsive" and "indulgent" behavior. 

On Sunday he zoned out with Angry Birds on his cell phone.  He skipped his meeting and watched football.  These things filled my heart and thoughts with hurt, resentment, fear and flat out anger.  I banged around in the kitchen and invited Insanity to join me. Finally I couldn't take it.  I threw my own recovery out the window and went after him, guns a-blazin'! 

It didn't go well. He said some of his usual things, things I thought we were done with, and he said some new things.  Phrases like "you've taken this too far" and "what's the point of my recovery if you're going to blame every little thing I do on addiction?!" 

It got to me. I couldn't walk away. I'd taken the bait. I threw "separation" on the table like a winning poker hand and I wasn't bluffing. I played the "safe" card as trump.  I would be safer if we separated because then he couldn't blame me for anything.  (Which isn't true, addict brains can always find a way to blame.) The conversation was intense.

At one point he drew back the curtains to his soul and I saw real pain in his eyes.

It was both heart-breaking and infuriating. 

Finally when we were both emotionally defeated I dropped my weapons and I asked him to sleep in another room. 

Pete texted me the next day.  He owned it.  He apologized. 

A day after that, I had a chat with a new counselor.  (I'm therapist shopping because mine changed her schedule and it won't be able to accommodate me.  Big huge disappointment.)  He validated me.  He reassured me.  He helped me feel sane again. 

I'm asking for a bare minimum in our marriage.  I'm asking for a relationship free of porn.

But I'm also asking for him to show some superhuman strength to earn my trust back.  I tried to think back on a time when someone attacked me, guns blazing, and I responded with patience and meekness.  I nearly always get defensive.  I'm quick to put my guard up.  It sucks to be accused.  Regardless of the truth of the accusation.  I'm human.  He's human.

My therapist drew this diagram on the white board in his office.  (I am so sorry for the poor quality of my diagram. Graphics are NOT my strong suit.)

He explained to me that watching football or playing Angry Birds aren't inherently bad activities.  The pornography addict would say "Why are you so upset, I haven't even acted out?"

But if an activity makes me feel unsafe it has crossed a boundary.  (These terms aren't technical, just words my therapist used to make a point.)  In that first circle I am unsafe because I am that much closer to the second circle.  Pornography and mastur-B are the second circle.  They are boundary violations.

It was okay for me to tell Pete that I wasn't comfortable with his behavior, that it made me feel unsafe. 

But I've been telling people lately that I believe anger is okay as long as it isn't used to mistreat people.  I DO believe this.  But apparently I misunderstood my own advice.  I mistreated Pete.  I was cruel and aggressive. 

I am so glad I've learned to trust my gut. I'm so glad I've been able to relinquish any responsibility for Pete's addiction. But sometimes I worry that I've swung on the pendulum too far to the other extreme. I exempt myself from any misbehavior.  I get a free pass because I'm the victim. 

But the bottom line is, no one feels good when they are cruel or unkind.  Victim or not.  Justified or not.  And, in that sense, I'm a little concerned about the person I'm becoming. 

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. 

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. 

The Sad Day

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I don't often wish that none of this had ever happened to me.  I know it's strange to say, but some of the things I've learned and more especially the friends I've made are really that important to me.  They mean enough that I couldn't wish them away even if it would erase all the porn my husband ever looked at. (To those who have been through worse than I have I don't expect you to reciprocate my sentiment. And I can completely understand anyone who wishes it all away.)

But yesterday I had a moment where the resentment was just too much to keep away.  I hunched over the washing machine as it filled with water and cried my own tears into it.

"WHY WHY WHY?!"

A thousand "whys?"

All the blame, fury, frustration at this stupid problem gushed out of me in sobs.  It's hard.  It hurts.  It is confusing and impossible to understand.  And it is so dang complicated.

That was my turning point.  When I let go of the anger and let the sadness in.  

So yesterday was the angry day and today is the sad day.  I'm too emotionally spent for tears today. Being sad seems so much harder.  Anger is energizing, driven, strong, powerful.  Sadness is weak, debilitating and humbling.  Neither is better as far as I can tell. Both are just guests in my life party, invited or not.  I don't want to go back to the anger nor do I want stay in this sadness for long either.

Thank you everyone for your support.  I didn't mean to draw out any man-hate, I'm learning to separate the man from the behavior.  But I appreciate you all.

Deception

I have some fear and trepidation in writing today because first of all,  I know Pete will read this and I also know I have no control over how he reacts.

And secondly, I am angry.  And if you know me you know that I know better than to hang on to anger.  And I won't, I will let it go.  But today I'm giving myself a day to just feel it.  And write about it.

The holidays had their moments, but Pete went back to work and I had made some decisions and was feeling pretty good.  I was actually feeling close to Pete, and after I had set a new boundary (in my mind) I was feeling liberated and relaxed about everything. 

On Friday Pete acted out, but didn't tell me.  He usually tells me right away, or at least the first time we talk in person.  The entire weekend went by and he didn't mention it.  He did give one of our children a blessing on Sunday, but I'm not going to even venture into the realm of worthiness.  That's his business. 

On Sunday night, thinking everything was hunky-dory I decided to tell Pete about my new boundary.  I will write about that later, but he responded remarkably well.  We didn't talk long, but he had ample opportunity to share his indiscretion, and he didn't.  I felt so peaceful, so hopeful, so optimistic. 

Finally last night he confessed.  And now I'm mad.  I'm mad for three reasons.

1.  It sucks that he keeps acting out.  It sucks that my husband looks at porn.  It sucks.

2.  I hate that I didn't see it coming.  I hate that I missed the signs and I feel stupid for being deceived.

I can usually read Pete pretty well when he acts out.  He wears it on his sleeve.  Which means that when he isn't telling me that he has acted out, and when I'm not sensing it from him, on some level he is making deliberate efforts to hide it, changing his behavior to be deceptive.  And while he hasn't technically "lied" because I never asked if he was sober, he was being dishonest.  Allowing someone to believe something that isn't the truth is dishonest.  It doesn't foster trust, it encourages suspicion. 

It is awful to be deceived, but tolerable when you can see right through your spouse's efforts to mislead you.  What is worse, is being made the fool.  When you bite.  When you buy into all his false mannerisms and artificial contentment.  Then you find out that you were clueless.

I know this only lasted a few days, but I am still hurt and angry when I imagine myself sitting on our bed on Sunday, eating up his every word about how he wants a better relationship for us than this whole addict mess. 

3.  Pete never says the words anymore, but I can read it in his face when he's thinking

"You are over-reacting."
"This is not that big of a deal."

And that is what hurts worst of all.  It IS a big deal.  Period.  I shouldn't have to justify my reactions, and I'm learning not to.  They are mine to feel and manage, and I'm grateful for each of you for understanding.  Because I KNOW you do.