Same Old

J's pain was both short lived and fruitless. 

He came to me one afternoon and announced that he'd discovered he was co-dependent. "I've been spending all this time trying to make you happy," he explained, "thinking that it would make me happy. I should be focusing more on myself."

My figurative jaw dropped. This has been you trying to make me happy? I thought, my inner sarcasm kicking in. Well that was an epic fail! And, I added, incredulous, if you focus any more on yourself, you'll drown in your own reflection. 

Though I could see elements of truth in his words--that he did expect me to make him happy, and had never learned to accept responsibility for his own feelings-- I could also see that that wasn't at all what he meant. His words were correct on the surface, but his attitude was one of glee over finding a plausible excuse to act more selfishly. I braced myself for the entitlement that was sure to follow. 

I didn't have to wait long. 

For the next few days, he made efforts to insert himself into my life. Under the guise of helpfulness, he asked to come to Family Home Evening. I turned him down. 

Next, he made a show of taking the children to the new Temple open house. He acted hurt when I refused to join him. 

Finally, he came to pick up our daughter for a concert, then dangled the tickets in front of my face. "Last chance," he coaxed. 

I gave him a dirty look and took him aside. 

"Why are you always so pissed at me?" He whined when we were alone. "Is it really so insulting that I want to spend time with you?"

"Of course you want to spend time with me!" I countered. "I'm awesome! But you're too arrogant to consider the fact that I don't want to spend time with you."

His face grew stony. 

"What has changed," I challenged him, "that you think you're even worthy to ask that of me?"

"Worthy?" He repeated woodenly. 

"I told you," I continued, "I'm not willing to take a single step toward you unless you prove that you're safe, and you haven't done anything to show me that."

"Yes I--" he protested, but I interrupted, 

"Don't give me that crap about how long you've been sober. I don't believe a word of it anyway. You have a list of 6 behaviors, so you know exactly what I need to see in order to trust you, and nowhere on that list does it say, 'chocolates, flowers, time together, white-knuckle sobriety and a massive dose of denial'. Shoving those things in my face in place of actual recovery is insulting. So yes, I'm pissed."

I'm sure J argued in response. I'm sure he became defensive, looked wounded and called me mean and unreasonable, the same way he had in Europe and during every other iteration of this fight that we'd had over the years. But I no longer registered any of it. His words had become meaningless long ago, and my efforts to get him to acknowledge reality and act accordingly were predictably futile. 

I read once that people tell you who they are through their actions, and your challenge lies in whether you accept what they show you. 

J's actions were speaking loud and clear, but it wasn't until what came next that I finally started to believe it. 

Endless Thought Cycle

J's moodiness lasted several days following our return from Europe, and though I cautioned myself against it, I became vaguely optimistic. 

Maybe this is rock bottom, I thought. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. 

In my minds eye, I attempted to see J being led through the emotional labyrinth that started with remorse and humility and ended with love and recovery. How wonderful to step to the very brink of disaster, only to recognize it for what it was and allow yourself to be snatched to safety! Perhaps this is what God had been orchestrating all along! 

But even as I tried to envision us strong and united, hope was crushed under the terrible weight of just how far J would have to go and how long it would take to get there. I knew it wasn't impossible-- with God, nothing is-- but I'd experienced the agony of that journey twice. Those journeys had been refining. They had brought me strength and growth unlike I'd ever before known, but apparently they hadn't had the same- or perhaps any-  effect on J. 

I could not comprehend how that was even possible. He was either extraordinarily dense or willfully rejecting everything we'd been taught, neither of which made me eager to go through hell a third time with only the smallest flicker of hope in his capacity and desire to change sustaining me. 

Here I was, still waiting around for him to reach rock bottom? Waiting for him to wake up and decide that addiction was not serving him? Waiting for him to finally start this journey of a thousand steps?

Thinking about it that way always circled me back to the same conclusions:

That I was outgrowing him. 

That I was done with this stage of growth.

That I was ready for the next hard thing. 

That at this point, even if J were sprinting towards recovery, I was not certain I could wait around for him to catch up. 

That J was nowhere near sprinting.

I worried that God would ask me to stay anyway. That He needed me to learn something more that I wasn't yet seeing. While I would do anything He asked of me, in my heart of hearts, I felt certain that the possibility of having a loving, respectful, and equally yoked marriage with J was gone. If God wanted me to stay, it would be for another purpose entirely, and that made me feel sad, afraid, and so, so tired. 

As it turned out, I needn't have worried.  

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Outgrowing

It was somewhere in Oxford that it happened. 

It was overcast and windy, giving me a perfect excuse to wear riding boots and a heavy scarf as I walked through scattered leaves. I'd spent the morning taking in the Great Hall at Christchurch, sitting in the library where they filmed Harry Potter, and exploring gardens and university buildings that had been the stomping grounds of Lewis Carrol and JRR Tolkein. 

Now I sat on a weathered pew sipping tea in what had once been an Abby, but was now a whitewashed bakery overlooking a courtyard. I read my book intermittently, pausing to take in the scenery or listen in as the older woman at the next table over described her house hunting adventures of the previous afternoon. 

And then he walked by. 

Someone-- just the briefest flash of a profile. A sure walk; a smart silhouette. Nothing I'd be able to recall later or describe in any detail. I didn't even see his face-- but my stomach leapt and my heart picked up its pace. 

I looked away quickly, flushed and ashamed. I'd noticed someone. For the first time in more than fifteen years, I'd let someone who wasn't my husband catch my eye. 

I felt sick. 

I knew I was hurt. I knew I was detached. I knew I was contemplating divorce. But was I, on some level, allowing myself to feel single? The thought both appalled and frightened me. If J and I did get divorced, I did not want there to be even a hint of "someone better" on the horizon of my mind. I would never be able to trust or respect my own decisions if that were the case. 

Mentally, I berated myself for my lapse. But in the very next breath, I was horrified to realize that I had had to be on the very precipice of divorce before I'd even allowed myself to notice a man. J had been cataloging, lusting, fantasizing over, and comparing me to countless women from the very day we were married. 

What did that say about how attached-- or detached-- he was from me? If it made me sick just to get butterflies over glimpsing a man, how much would he have to cut off feelings of love, loyalty and morality just to allow himself to do the things that he did? 

Once again, I was left feeling bereft and confused. The question was not whether my husband loved me-- I knew he didn't-- but whether I truly could live in a loveless marriage. 

For a decade, I believed it was possible. I believed that the key to marriage was to cease expecting any fulfillment from it; to find joy despite J's callousness; to love him for the sake of loving. I believed in potential. I believed in looking for the good. I believed that life was supposed to be hard, and that a marriage was just a tool for learning and growth. I believed that love was an ability that could be taught. 

But sitting at that pew, warming my hands around my cup of chai, I wondered if it really was possible that a marriage required the efforts of both parties; that I could put forth my best effort and still fail; that staying might actually be more masochism than it was worth. 

In the deepest recesses of my mind, I told Heavenly Father, I know I can do hard things. 

I'm just ready to do a different hard thing. 

I don't know what more I can gain here. 

I think I've outgrown my marriage. 

And then I waited, terrified at what He might answer. 

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The Rundown, Part 18

I am not afraid of solitude. Traveling accross Europe solo just confirmed to me that I enjoy my own company and have the capacity to be happy regardless of J or his actions. 

That was not always the case. 

When J and I got married, I felt as if I had been on hold up until that point and only then could I finally begin living. 

On our honeymoon, we wrote a list together of things we wanted to do and places we wanted to go-- a bucket list of sorts. I remember finding it again a few years after J's first disclosure and being shocked at how little of myself was contained in that list. I don't want to skydive. I thought. I don't want to learn to ski. But at the time, I'd just wanted to go wherever he went and do whatever he did. I'd lost myself in him. 

J's first disclosure changed all that. In the years following, I'd made a conscious decision to live in such a way that I wouldn't need him for anything. I'd stopped looking for his love or validation to fill my emotional holes. I'd pursued my own interests and cultivated my own talents and developed a relationship with Heavenly Father that enabled me to receive strength, comfort and inspiration independent of my husband. 

Our starkly differing experiences in Europe seemed to highlight how far I'd come. 

In Sweden and Denmark, I walked cobblestone streets, read books in quiet cafes, explored art museums and shopped for simple, modern design goods. I went running in lush parks, biked around Nyhaven and sat in grand cathedrals for Evensong. I navigated on my own, spent hours in absolute silence or made a game of trying to go an entire day without speaking English. It was liberating and empowering and centering all at once. I was pleased to find that despite everything, I felt whole and happy, all on my own. 

Meanwhile, on Instagram, J was posting photos of his travels in Ireland. I'd look at him standing by the Cliffs of Mohr or eating in a pub and think, "I am so glad I'm not there!" I'd wondered if I would have any regrets; instead I felt an exhilarating freedom to see what I'd narrowly escaped; to look around at how purely "me" my trip really was. 

I basked in it. For two weeks, I didn't have to cook, clean, talk, sacrifice or compromise. I simply walked wherever I wanted to walk, ate whatever tasted  good, looked at whatever struck me as beautiful and pondered whatever I found intriguing. It was healing and meditative and revealed to me how easy it was for me to actually enjoy myself once I was unencumbered by J and the psychological weight of his manipulations and betrayals. 

By the end of my trip, I felt absolutely filled to the brim with life and beauty. I dreaded seeing J again, aware of how blatantly impenitent he was, and steeled myself for the long flight home. 

Once I was settled in to the seat next to him, I cautioned myself not to open up-- but I could hardly contain how happy I was! It spilled out all over the place. I cheerfully chatted with the woman next to me and ended up enthusing to J about the sights and experiences. As I waxed poetic, I could see him sinking deeper and deeper in to self pity. I turned on a movie to get myself to shut up. 

"I'm not well" J told me. "I was miserable for the entire trip. I wish you were there. It was torture watching others with their spouses and knowing I was all alone." He pulled his hat down over his face and cried. He asked to hold my hand. For a while, I felt sorry for him and obliged, then instantly felt uncomfortable with it and let go. It did not feel like he was crying out of godlike remorse or genuine sorrow for where his actions had led. Instead, he cried because I was happy and he wasn't, and it didn't seem fair to him. 

As I watched a coming-of-age film on the tiny TV embedded into the seat in front of me. J continued to interrupt, fishing for small nuggets of conversation. J had always loved coming-of-age films. For years, he'd been drawn to the awkward underdog. The misunderstood, socially awkward boy who only needs a woman's love in order to 'find' himself. He'd started countless scripts, attempting to encapsulate these feelings into a single character, but always ended up lost in the second act. He never knew how to end the story; how to get his guy to grow up. 

As I mulled this over, I was struck with the thought that J can't finish his coming of age story because he's never come of age. He can't verbalized something he doesn't know or understand, and he's never learned that you can't expect a person or event to make you happy. Being an adult means taking responsibility for your own actions and feelings, but J was still expecting me to "fix" him. 

For a moment, I couldn't help but look at him and think, "You never grew up. I am married to a thirteen year old boy."

And with that, I felt alone for the first time in two weeks. 

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The Rundown, Part 17

J started out saying all the right things regarding my decision to travel alone. 

"I understand you feel uncomfortable."

"I'm so sorry that I ruined our romantic trip."

"I will support whatever decision that you make."

But when I began to actually book hostels and make plans, it became clear that he hadn't expected me to really go through with it. He expressed concern for my safety. He voiced his doubts in my ability to navigate on my own. He offered again and again to simply sleep on the floor at the hotel if I would just join him for the duration. 

It was soon obvious to me that he had envisioned an entirely different scenario-- one where I was hurt and delicate, but he won me over as we explored exotic locations and rekindled desires. Once again, I was jarred by the realization that J thought things would be fixed if he could have a chance to introduce more sex and romance into our relationship-- that those were the only things that had ever been needed to repair all that was wrong between us. 

I forged ahead anyway. I gave J a copy of my contact information and a vague itinerary, and when we settled in to our seats next to each other at the beginning of the 12 hour flight, I put in earplugs and slept the entire time. 

Once we arrived, I made sure we parted ways immediately. I went through customs alone. I bought an Oyster card alone. I hopped on the tube, found my hostel, then took a long evening walk in Regents Park alone. 

It was amazing, meditative, and surprisingly healing. (The whole trip ended up being that way.) J sent a photo of his hotel room and again offered to share with me if I felt unsafe, but I ignored him. I needed time and space to think, and his refusal to recognize that was offensive. 

I ran in to J just once. It was a few days into the trip and somehow, we both bought tickets to the same performance of The Woman in Black. Afterward, he walked me to the tube station. He was casual and charming, chatting away about things he'd seen and done and asking after me. I walked next to him, feeling increasingly tense and angry, until finally I blurted out, "How do you do that? How do you just act like everything is okay between us?" 

He looked confused. "It's not easy, but I don't want things to be awkward. I can't be like you-- just detach and give up hope. I have to have hope." 

I was frustrated. "I'm not asking you to give up hope. I'm asking you to recognize reality. You don't acknowledge my pain! You don't respect my boundaries! You act like pretending everything is normal might somehow make me forget! You don't treat this like a big deal."

"Yes I do!" He countered, "I'm not minimizing the situation! I just don't think that backing off completely is going to help us to heal together." 

I was walking fast and blind now, pushing past crowds on the escalator and hardly stopping to check which train I was catching. "Exactly! There is no healing together right now!! You've cheated on me. You've betrayed me. You've lied to me. You are the biggest source of pain for me, not comfort. Refusing to see that is just reopening the wound!!" We were giving all the midnight train-goers quite the show with our american lover's quarrel. I ignored the stares and continued to hiss, "I am devestated. I am hurt to the core. It's as if you ran over and killed my son. Every time I see you, I re-live that trauma. If you really understood that, you would not walk up to me with chitchat. You wouldn't expect me to forget my pain just because you avoided talking about it. You would empathize! You would apologize! You would expect my pain, and accept it as normal! You wouldn't push me to let go or forgive, especially without any humility on your part!"

By this time, I'd become so heated, I hadn't noticed that I'd missed my stop. We got off and switched trains. 

"I do acknowledge your pain," J pleaded. "I know this isn't fun for you. It isn't fun for me either. "

"It isn't FUN?!" I shouted, "so you kill my son, and your response to my utter heartbreak is 'it isn't fun?' This is my point! You can't even fake empathy. You don't see this as devastation, so you don't treat it like devastation. This is why you are not safe for me! This is why your very presence is traumatizing for me!"

J had tears in his eyes, but my heart was completely unmoved. "You're right," he tried, "I'm weak at many things, and empathy is one of them. But I'm working on it. It doesn't mean that I don't feel the things you want me to feel. It doesn't mean that I don't love you."

We got off at Swiss Cottage and J followed me as I stormed toward my lodging. "I don't know what you think the definition of love is, but it certainly isn't mine. You do not love me. If you did, you wouldn't be able to do half the things that you do." He tried to argue, but I turned on him, my arms crossed and my eyes burning. 

"That day you lied to me, knowing you had looked at porn just hours before-- you tried to have sex with me. You did have sex with me before I left for the summer, even though you knew that if I had the complete truth, there would be absolutely zero chance that we would be intimate. But of course, you didn't let that stop you from getting what you wanted. That's wrong. That's abuse. That's rape." J was crying, and I was shaking with rage. 

"My feelings always take a back seat to what you want. Well, I'm done being used. If you think that is love, then you haven't the first clue what real love entails." For a long moment, I couldn't look at him. I clenched my jaw and stared at the moon trying to compose myself. 

"You know," I said finally, "I always thought I'd have to hate you in order to want a divorce." I looked at him, pathetic and broken as he stood alone in the dark, and at last, my eyes began to fill with tears. 

"But it turns out I only had to be hurt enough to never trust you again."

The Rundown, Part 16

For the first time in my life, I was honestly feeling afraid of J. He had become unknown, and thus, unpredictable to me. 

When he dropped off the kids after his first weekend with them, our boys cried and begged him to stay for dinner. J told them that he'd love to, "but mommy doesn't want me here."

When my father in law emailed me with manipulative threats that divorce would guarantee my children would feel like second class citizens and leave the church, I told him to never voice his misplaced fears to me or my kids again; then started this blog and announced I'd give the link to anyone but J's boss or father. J was mortified, and instead of defending me, told me that I'd been "mean" and had unfairly embarrassed my father in law. 

Most hurtful of all, in an attempt to be honest and transparent, J emailed me every night with a copy of the journal entry he would send to his sponsor. Almost immediately, it was filled with accounts of the women he looked at, flirted with, and lusted after throughout the day. It was always said so casually-- as though it never even occurred to him that his behavior might be disturbing or even outside of the norm for any faithful, priesthood man. He seemed to operate under the assumption that every man looked at and objectified women this way. I knew that anything he was willing to divulge to me was probably just the tip of the iceberg, and what he was already revealing was so painful-- I shuddered to think what else there might be that he was in denial about. 

None of these had ever been things I'd have thought J capable of, which made me all the more afraid of what he would yet do. I simply didn't know him anymore. 

Before I'd come home, I had felt impressed to contact friends in my ward and let them know what I was dealing with, and that I'd need help and friendship when I returned. I was so grateful for that immediate support! Amid all the betrayal and mourning, I also had lunch dates, shoulders to cry on and company at the temple. I felt loved and cared for by sisters, which carried me through much of the confusion of that week. 

In the temple was the only place where my mind quieted and my heart felt at peace. It was there that I cried to the Lord as divorce seemed to solidify as a very real, very probable and very necessary outcome. I'd dreaded this kind of answer to prayer for years, and yet I could not deny the somber surety that had already begun to settle on me. 

J continued to push against my boundaries. He asked me out on dates. He hinted that we should have family activities together. He constantly crossed lines with the kids, telling them that this separation wouldn't last long and we'd all be back together in no time. His aggressive disregard for my safety and wishes meant that I was constantly taking steps to back away and protect myself even more. 

For months, we had been planning a trip to Europe, piggybacking on a film trip he was taking for work. We'd already purchased tickets and made arrangements, but as the time drew near for us to leave, I knew I wouldn't be able to bear sharing a holiday with him. I looked in to canceling my ticket, but it was non refundable. I could get credit with the airline, but they would charge a $300 rebooking fee. 

If I was honest with myself, I knew I would be resentful of J if he went off to Europe without me when I felt that he was responsible for my inability to join him. So I began to consider taking the planned flight, but then jumping off from there into my own solo vacation. 

I researched hostels and day trips and even nearby countries I could visit. One night, while watching Broen/Bron (The Bridge) I realized I could go see Malmo, Sweden and Copenhagen, Denmark-- the settings for the show! And while I was in London, I could take a train to Oxford and see all the Morse/Endeavor sites and the Harry Potter locations! I emailed J with my decision to travel separately, and started making plans. It was such a relief to have something to look forward to. I craved the adventure, solitude, and independence of it all. 

J was not very happy about that. 

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The Rundown, Part 15

"She always threatens divorce after a relapse," J said, "but I really don't believe she has grounds for it. I think that whatever happens between the two of us should not have an impact on our children. We have a responsibility to them first and foremost-- but she's making them suffer just because she doesn't feel comfortable around me."

As J spoke, I couldn't get far enough away from him. We sat on the stereotypically overstuffed couch in our therapist's office as he calmly listened. "What, in your opinion," he asked, turning to J, "would be justification for divorce? Or in other words, how long do you feel a woman should stay in this kind of marriage?"

J didn't even hesitate. "I think if I were having a physical affair, that might be justification. But this? No way. She should be willing to stick by me for the rest of our lives. Especially since I haven't given up. It's not like I've just given in entirely to addiction. I would hope that as long as I am trying, she would want to support me."

The rest of our lives? At those words, the floor seemed to drop out from under me. How could he even say that with a straight face? Had he no concept of how devestated I was? How absolutely shattered? For years I'd been extending myself, doing everything in my power to love, support, understand, and let go of my own desires. I'd sacrificed all that I'd dreamed for just to try and make this work, and now he was saying that it hadn't been enough. No, worse than that-- that it wasn't even a gift, but something merely expected of me as a wife. To be broken and depleted the way I was wasn't an indication that he needed to change, but that I was not strong enough to endure and achieve an eternal marriage. He saw my as a quitter. 

"I can't do that," I told him. "I wasn't making idle threats last time when I told you that I only had one last round in me. I told you that dishonesty was my bottom line, and that I did not think I'd have the capacity to come back from another betrayal. I'm sorry that you didn't believe me, but if you want someone who can go through this over and over until the day you die, you better find someone else, because it won't be me."

Afterwards, j asked if I'd like to go to lunch and talk about the session. I stared at him in disbelief. He'd just minimized, in no uncertain terms, the worst pain I'd ever experienced. And now he thought I could sit across a table and talk to him as if my world wasn't ending? I could not even begin to comprehend how he was able to be so blind to everything. His level of denial was astounding. I was dying inside, in agony as I began to realize AGAIN, how close we really were to divorce, and yet there he stood, blithely unaware. 

I sort of hated him just then. 

I refused, observing with incredulity the surprised, wounded look that crossed his face, then walked away. 

As I drove home, I was struck all over again with how much I no longer knew my husband. It was as if, by giving him the benefit of the doubt, I'd painted all his features in a positive light and was only now becoming aware of his true nature. I'd always thought he was a peacemaker, but now I saw him as an appeaser. I thought he was lost and unaware, but now I saw him as weak and a liar. I thought he'd loved me, but now I saw he'd only known how to use me. He was selfish and manipulative whether he did it maliciously or not, and seeing him that way was like looking at an optical illusion-- one minute, all there is is a young woman in a hat, and the next, it's a hideous old hag. Once I saw it, I couldn't un-see it. 

I felt afraid, and very, very alone. 

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The Rundown, Part 14

For a few days, I worried that I wouldn't be able to go home because J was resisting the idea of separation so much. He even admitted that he looked into what legal recourse he had,  (What? Did he think he could force us all to live under one roof?) but eventually came to the conclusion that pursuing that route would be ugly and fruitless. 

He flew in to help me drive back to Arizona, and as I went to pick him up at the airport, I felt powerful and sure of myself. Writing my list of 6 Recovery Behaviors had reinforced my belief that the safety I was looking for was necessary; what I was asking for was not unreasonable or unattainable, but was in fact the very bare minimum that I would need to see in order to try again, and that I would be ready and willing to recognize safety when I saw it. 

J must have anticipated a weepy, heartbroken, angry mess, because he seemed startled and disoriented by the cheerful yet firm way I explained my expectations for our separation. But he soon appeared to take it in stride, and the next day, we spent our last hours of summer vacation at the county fair with the kids and my parents. 

On the surface, everything looked so happy and healthy. We could sit around a picnic table and talk pleasantly. We divided duties with the children and reveled in their joy at being together again. I felt no animosity towards J and was completely content to spend time around him as long as he did not attempt to touch me. It was all so normal. 

I was grateful that I felt solid in the decisions I'd made, because days like that--where by all appearances, we are the very picture of an ideal family-- could have thrown me into a storm of doubt and confusion. That had often been the case in the past. 

However, the facade began to crumble as we made our way back home. J began questioning my boundaries once again. He struggled to understand why I felt that such "extreme" measures were necessary. He tried, unsuccessfully, to disguise the fact that he felt I was being punitive. 

That afternoon, I'd written a letter to his family in reply to all the emails they'd been sending me, and while I didn't say anything that I hadn't already discussed with J, he felt that I'd been harsh and judgmental in it. He really became concerned with appearances. He thought I was causing him to look bad in front of his family, friends and co-workers, and that being separated was an embarrassment and failure that I was forcing on him. 

That night, we stopped in Utah and had to tell the kids why we would be sleeping in separate rooms, and what life would look like for them when we got home. J was furious with me and refused to participate in the discussion or back me up in any way. I'd foolishly hoped we could present the situation as a team, but instead I was left holding our daughter as she sobbed (she was the only one who could vividly recall the last time we'd separated, and had cried, "I can't do that again!") as our sons asked questions I couldn't answer and J glared daggers at me. 

I was so relieved that we had a therapy appointment already lined up for when we returned, and longed to have someone who might be able to 'get through' to J for me. I began to hope against all hope that the therapy session would change everything. 

It did. But not in the way I expected. 

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NOT Team Edward

The night after I hung up on J, my mom and I sat down to watch Twilight with my thirteen year old daughter. 

Teen-angst romances make me uncomfortable, and the fact that my little girl is old enough to read them (let alone watch them!) make me even more so. I'd agreed to let her see it as long as I watched it with her-- so I could point out all the parts I felt were inappropriate, unrealistic, or just plain unwise. Basically, my definition of good mothering is making sure I'm a killjoy. ;) 

She conceded, so we gathered treats and settled in for a girls night. 

Fairly early in the film, there's a scene where super-mopey-and-mysteriously-strong-Edward saves Bella's life by stopping a car from crushing her with his bare hands. Bella turns to him and asks, "How did you get to me so quickly? You were clear across the parking lot!" He calmly lies, looking in to her eyes and saying, "No I wasn't. I was standing right next to you the whole time. You must have hit your head harder than we thought."

Though he was just a stupid, fictional character, his words made me feel like I'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. My heart began to race, my mouth went dry, and my hands became shaky and numb. 

I hated Edward in that moment. 

He was doing something I was all too familiar with-- blatantly denying the truth and manipulating the situation so that the blame rested squarely on his victim. He was justifying his actions behind a veil of love and protection, but in actuality he was selfish and weak, not trusting Bella to have the sense to make decisions for herself. 

"He's controlling and emotionally abusive," I warned my daughter. "If someone really loves you, they don't lie to you."

My stomach was in knots. In a distant corner of my brain, I knew I was just triggered and feeling trauma, but I kept hearing "emotionally abusive" echoing around in my head. I don't know if I was overreacting, or if I was simply seeing things differently because I was imagining my daughter in my place, but finally I began to acknowledge to myself that the things J had been doing to me, saying to me, and asking of me all these years was wrong. Addiction did not excuse his behavior. 

I turned to my daughter, dead serious, and said, "If you ever meet a boy who acts like he owns you the way Edward acts like he owns Bella, you RUN."

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6 Behaviors of Recovery

I no longer remember everything that was said during that first conversation, only the choking emotions that rose in my throat and the rage that exploded in my chest. I do, however, recall with complete clarity that J told me, "I can understand that you are hurt. This is more than just what I've done. This is touching on childhood trauma or something."

I sat up in the hammock where I'd been attempting to keep calm, and through decidedly un-zen, cleanched teeth yelled, "This is NOT childhood trauma. This is broken covenants trauma. This is fifteen-years-of-lies-and-betrayal trauma. Don't you DARE tell yourself that you have nothing to do with my pain; that you hold no fault in our separation. Be a man for once and take responsibility for your actions."

And then I hung up on him. 

I was ashamed of my outburst as soon as I hung up, and yet as I walked in to the house to make breakfast, I couldn't help but notice how much lighter I felt. It had been a relief to speak the truth without mincing words. I was tired of always trying so hard to say the "right" thing, to be empathetic, and see things from his point of view. 

That night as I journaled, I considered what it would take for me to even consider attempting reconciliation. J's behavior was making it clear that we would be starting from scratch, which meant that even if he began sprinting towards recovery, it would be a long race. 

Almost effortlessly, I wrote out 6 behaviors that, if I saw from him, might allow me to feel safe enough to attempt to support him in that marathon of recovery. 

*****

1) Radical Honesty. I need to experience consistent, unprompted honesty wherein you share every temptation, trigger, thought and action the same day. Be willing to divulge every detail. I need nothing less than complete and utter transparency. 

2) Take Full Responsibility. I need to see you make the connection between your actions and my pain. Instead of being angry at me for the distance between us, I need you to acknowledge that you've caused that distance by breaching trust and breaking covenants. I need to see you own the consequences of your actions instead of making excuses, minimizing, or shifting blame. 

3) Empathy. I need you to take my pain seriously and make extraordinary efforts to nurture through genuine empathy, without thought of reciprocation or 'what's in it for me'. 

4) Enthusiastically do whatever it takes to obtain recovery. This means taking the initiative to attend meetings, reach out for help, be honest and transparent, and humbly submit to anything I require in order to feel safe. I should never have to investigate, interrogate, or submit "proof" to justify my discomfort. You should be willing to go above and beyond, with gratitude, for the chance to redeem yourself and save this marriage. 

5) Progressive Victory Over Lust.  At this point, there should never be an opportunity to seek out pornography-- ever. If you are being honest and transparent, you will have obtained help long before you have the chance to go looking for it. Accidental exposure is one thing, but there is no excuse for seeking out pornography. That is addict behavior and I will not remain married to an addict. 

6) Respect. I need to feel that I am being respected as a human being with real worth, genuine feelings, and value as a Daughter of God. I am not an object for your pleasure. It is not my job to fill all your emotional holes or to 'fix' you in any way. I was not created to complete you. I need to see that my opinions, feelings, inspirations, and needs are just as valid as your own, and have them taken with equal consideration. 

*****

Much later, I ended up sharing the list with J, but even the practice of writing it out brought me so much comfort. I knew what recovery looked like, and I knew I could live with nothing less. That was both freeing and empowering. 

Roller Coaster Ride

I was so grateful that J's confession took place when I was halfway through my time at mom & dad's. While I felt bad that suddenly our carefree vacation was being overtaken by long, serious discussions and bouts of tears, it felt like a kindness to be miles and miles away, where distance could allow me to have clarity and safety while I processed.

The weeks that followed were tumultuous. J replied to my first response with humility and remorse. I felt flooded with relief and hope, only to be jarred into a harsher reality the days later when he began to push back against the boundaries I'd established.

"Separation is not what God wants of us."

"We have a common enemy. He is destroying our marriage, but it is not me."

"I believe we can heal more together than apart. How are we supposed to be an effective team if you detach from me?"

"Separation is what YOU want and need, but it is not what is best for US or the KIDS. Do not punish them for my actions by asking me to move out."

"I was honest with you! That's progress! Just because I didn't tell you things within the timeline you wanted, you're going to kick me out?"

They were the same old lines all over again. With each email, my mouth hung open in disbelief, and then I'd feel angry at myself for being surprised at all. With shocking predictability, his focus shifted from humility and remorse to minimizing, blaming, and attempting to negotiate with me while he adopted a wounded, I-can't-believe-you're-really-doing-this tone. 

In the face of his forceful assertions that I was over-reacting, I asked for a written statement itemizing each website he'd visited, each action he'd taken, every detail of his relapse(s) in the past month. Complete transparency. I reasoned that the very act of being brutally honest would make it impossible for him to then expect that I brush his sins and betrayals aside as if they were inconsequential. Also, if he was insisting that lying to my face in that devastating way was never, ever going to happen again; that he was committed to change; I needed to test that commitment.

He dug in his heels. He argued and resisted. He sited every reason he could come up with why such a list was unnecessary, dangerous, and plain masochistic. But in the end, he wrote an admittedly touching letter pleading with me NOT to read the attached list-- but he did give me the list. 

For weeks, I didn't read it, but basked in the joy and comfort I found in the fact that he was willing to provide it. That was a sign of progress, right? And the fact that he so vehemently opposed my viewing the list meant he knew just how wrong his actions were! This has to mean that he was no longer minimizing! I'd broken through his denial! We were on the right track! 

Ha. 

Addiction is a roller-coaster ride, and that high was quickly followed by an even more dramatic low. He took my renewed encouragement to mean that I'd "let it go" and was shocked when I began talking to him about the details of our upcoming separation. 

"Wait, you still want that? I thought we understood one another!"

"Really, you're saying you don't feel comfortable attending church together? What will people say?"

"You think the kids should be free to talk about separation? Aren't you worried they'll advertise it to everyone?"

He sent me a voicemail advising me to focus on the good and let the Lord heal me. "We're so much better together" he proclaimed, along with his belief that being hundreds of miles away just made "all of this" worse. "You need to cry on my shoulder and I need to cry on your shoulder" he said, his voice choking up. As I listened, I couldn't figure out why everything he said rankled me. I should feel tenderness towards his pain, shouldn't i? Instead, I was certain that he was only crying for himself. I felt that my pain was completely unacknowledged, which only magnified the trauma of the betrayal. 

The whole song and dance was so sickeningly familiar. It was déjàvu all over again. And then he demanded that we talk over the phone, regardless of the fact that after his confession, I'd told him that I only felt comfortable emailing. My emotions were too raw and unprocessed. I needed time to think before I wrote-- to pray before I replied too hastily to him. 

He refused to honor that. "I am not hiding anything from you," he wrote every day. "But I will say nothing more until you are willing to talk on the phone with me."

I found it galling that he felt justified in making demands of me-- that his desire to hear my voice was somehow more important to him than MY desire for space. Each day that he continued to make his requests and imply that I was being unresonable was another day where my respect for him waned.  

I was tired and hurt and angry when I finally called, which meant our conversation went exactly as well as you can imagine it went. 

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First Response

August, 2014

I didn't talk to J for a week. As his disclosures trickled in and I began to have a clearer idea of just how dire the situation was, I agonized over how to respond. In the end, I wrote with more tenderness than I expected I had in me-- but it felt both honest, direct, and loving. It felt true. This is what I wrote:


J

After several days spent in thought and prayer, I think I've come to some peace. I'd like to share with you how I see our current situation. 

It has been a difficult two years. The struggle to trust, attach, and build a new version of 'us' has been all consuming. It's taken every ounce of energy we've had. And there have been glimpses of what we can be as 'a very effective team'. Those glimpses are incredible. They fill me with warmth and hope as I see our real potential together. 

Having seen our potential makes your betrayal all the more heart wrenching. 

Seriously, I have no words. 

(Except that, yes I do. Because words seem to be my strength at times like these. I bet you wish they weren't. )

I'll be honest, I don't know how this will end. I can't even think that far without turning into a puddle of grief. I know that I don't want a divorce. I keep seeing the last 15 years flash before my eyes like on The Story of Us and I think, how can we throw away all that history? The video that taught me to swing dance and brought us together? You teaching me to drive while we made out at stop lights? Cold showers in our first apartment? Experiencing Europe together. That awful red-yellow combination that I painted the walls (ketchup and mustard!). Riding a Vespa among red sand and arches, then breaking down. Walking through model homes on a Sunday, while C ran ahead of us in her boots-with-flashing-lights and picked out 'her room'. No one else knows what it was like the day our children were born, warm and slippery into your arms, or how thrilling it was when each of them said their first words. No one else shared those moments when we cried-- you when your grandpa died, me when dad had a heart attack, both of us when I found you in the closet, trying to compose a letter of confession. We've lost jobs, gone to concerts, tried new foods, traveled the world, watched our children learn and grow, and looked into each other's eyes and said 'let's not do that' every time we heard of another ugly celebrity divorce. Almost half of my life has been spent with you. I hardly have a memory that you don't share. 

And you are destroying that. For what? Lust? You're selling your birthright for a bowl full of porridge, and don't even seem to grasp the repercussions of it. 

This is like a nightmarish form of Groundhogs Day. Here I sit, in the peace and solitude of my parent's home, as once again you tell me that you've been lying to me. My one and only bottom line-- that I don't expect that you'll never struggle, be triggered, slip or even relapse, just that you respect and love me enough to be transparent-- and you cross it. It feels like a sucker punch. The lowest of low blows. 

I keep seeing us in bed together over Fourth of July weekend, me telling you about watching Hoarders and being so, so afraid that nothing has changed. You reassuring me that all is well. Us running and hiking together, bonding as my fears were attributed to 'self esteem problems'. I want to throw up knowing now that I was right to fear. That once again, you lied to my face, and worse, let me believe that I was somehow to blame for the distance between us. 

And then I see us in the car 2 years ago, after your inventory. I'd cried for 24 hours, and then poured out all my heartbreak to you. I needed you to feel the pain I was feeling, to experience it as I did. And you did-- we cried together, first in agony and then with joy as The Lord literally lifted the pain from us. It was miraculous, and I told you then that we could do ANYTHING from that moment on, if only you would be open with me and allow us to be a team. 

I do not know how to come back from this. 

If separation, therapy, hard work, and years of faith and prayer and outright miracles have now been brushed aside as if it were nothing-- what will it take? What is your rock bottom? And do I even have the capacity to wait for you to reach it? 

I am afraid that even if this were it-- your lowest moment--and you were completely transparent and honest and vulnerable from now on-- I'm afraid that I'd still be too broken and traumatized to ever believe it. 

I love you, but I don't know that I can ever trust you again. And the thought of living in a marriage where I'm too fearful to allow myself to be loved by you is simply unbearable. 

Is this too much talking around the issue? I'm trying to let you see my thought process and feel what I'm feeling-- the sick twist of fear and discouragement and grief-- but maybe I should just be plain:

I don't know if I can come back from this. This feels like the beginning of the end. I am honestly considering divorce, though every fiber of my being cries at the thought. 

I have to type this, because the thought of saying any of it out loud makes me sob. 

Going forward, I see two options for separation. 

1) The kids and I come home as planned, but you move out. Unlike last time, we would not have church and Family Home Evening together, but you could take the kids for the weekend so you have time with them. 

2) The kids and I can stay here with my parents for the foreseeable future. 

Either way, I would be willing to continue therapy and hold off on any decision about our marriage until the end of the year. 

Also, I think we should tell the kids about your addiction. Their lives are going to be upturned (again) and they deserve to know why. I suspect {daughter} and {son} have an inkling anyway. 

I love you. I'm devastated and have lost all faith in you, but somehow I still love you. 

Please change. Please choose me. Choose us. I just can't believe that you would allow this to be the end of our story together-- that you would trade what we have and 'return like a dog to his vomit'. It makes me think of these lines:

This is the way the world ends. 

This is the way the world ends. 

This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang but a whimper. 

If we are going to go, do it with a bang. Stand up and fight. You are worth more.

-N

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The Rundown, Part 13

It seems that every pivotal moment in our marriage has happened while laying in bed together, sleeping and talking during the late morning hours of a weekend.

That day in July was no different.

We'd only been home from Alaska for a few weeks, and yet already J was feeling disconnected and dissatisfied. "I don't know how to keep that momentum going," he said, sounding lost and sad. "We were so happy and close, but now I can tell you're withdrawing. It's been forever since we've had sex, and I don't know what to do to stop you from.... I don't know. Getting lost in your head."

It was always a little hurtful to have to explain my fear to J. I wanted him to magically see my pain and hold me, comfort me, tell me that of course I was afraid. It was completely natural given I had always had reason to be afraid. I wanted him to reassure me that while I'd been right to fear in the past, that I'd never have to in the future. That he would be loving and faithful and patient, that no matter how triggered I felt, he knew that I loved him, and he would wait for me to feel safe the way I'd waited all these years for him to be in recovery.

But of course, J couldn't read my mind. So I explained myself. I told him that even after all this time, it felt that nothing had really changed. Things were too silent. I wanted to be told daily where he was at in recovery. I wasn't feeling safe, and I wasn't hearing things that told me I was safe, and I didn't know how much I could believe some of the recovery behaviors I was seeing.

I told him that I'd started watching Hoarders again; that I felt like the spouses who couldn't get excited by one clean room when they knew the rest of the house was still buried in trash. They couldn't believe that things were 'fine' now, that the hoarder was now cured and would continue to make progress. They needed to see the house stay clean. They had to be able to open every closet without fear of it one day being piled full of hidden trash. 

"Things can't just be fine," I said, starting to cry. "I know you must have struggles, but I never hear about them. The silence isn't comforting. Keeping things from me isn't protecting me. Please, if there's something you have to tell me, just do it. I can't take the silence anymore."

J held me, wiped away my tears, and then looked into my eyes. "I have been prompted by the spirit to tell you that there is nothing going on. I'm sober. I'm working the steps. I'm not looking at pornography. I'm not masterbating. I don't want anyone but you. I love you and I want you to feel safe."

He talked about how challenging it must be for me to make heads or tails of things when I had issues with depression. "Those voices in your head tell you that you're not beautiful enough for me. I wish I could replace all those thoughts with what I really see when I look at you."

We talked until I felt I had cried all my tears and I had and exorcized all my demons. Then, for the first time since J and I were dating, he offered to go running with me. "You always feel better after a run, and I could use the training for The Amazing Race," he smiled. 

It was sweet, and touching, and very, very reassuring. I believed him. 

Little did I know that just 12 hours before, he'd jeopardized his job to download porn to his phone. He'd lied to me telling me he was driving out to the desert to go train watching, and he'd spent hours acting out instead. 

When he disclosed his behavior a month later, that terrible day in August while I was staying with my parents, I don't think he even recalled this instance of reassurance. It had been something profoundly promising to me, one of those signs of hope that I clung to as reason to trust. For him, it had been just another moment he'd successfully dodged the truth. 

It was dizzying. Who was this man who could lie to my face so convincingly? Who could manipulate the moment until I was the one apologizing for my trust issues? 

I felt a cold, sick fear take hold in the pit of my stomach. I don't know him at all, I realized. 

{image by Michael Carson} 

Editor's Note

As I've been writing The Rundown series, I've noticed that the more distant the past, the easier it has been to write and process on paper. Now, as I'm nearing current-day in the chronological narrative, I'm having a hard time making sense of recent events. They're still raw and confusing and full of powerful emotions.

Initially, when I wrote The Rundown, Part 10, I skipped a whole year in the account. I tried to think about what had happened, and it all seemed so slippery.

It was a hard year, and part of me felt angry that I'd ignored my reservations and given J the benefit of the doubt, but there was also a large part of me that believed-- and still believes-- that loving someone is giving them that benefit of the doubt.

There were times that I felt we were making great strides. We were connecting in a way that was more genuine and deep than ever before. I would even venture to say that in the last 18 months, we've  had a better, more authentic relationship than we've ever had.

Part of me doesn't know how much of it was real.

Was I just seeing what I wanted to see? As the depth of J's addiction becomes more and more apparent to me, I begin to think that what we had were just glimpses. They were enough for him to see what he could have if he really wanted it, but the only changes he's sincerely made over the last 15 years have been in learning to appease me and keep his life looking the way he wants it to look.

I don't think he's ever been in true recovery.

So, the story is still convoluted and uncertain, but I've edited The Rundown, Part 10, Part 11 and added Part 12.

It's confusing, but an honest representation of how I feel about it at the moment.

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The Rundown, Part 12

From the very beginning, visiting my family had been a source of contention between J and I. He complained of the time he had to take off work, the expense of flying or driving, the difference in the way I liked to spend my time there {lots and lots of talking}, the inevitable neglect he would experience as my energy and attention shifted to my loved ones; but most especially, he hated how long I wanted to visit for.

I grew up incredibly close to my parents and brothers. For the last 15 years, J had the luxury of having all of his family live here, while mine are out of state. Once it became clear that I wasn't going to be able to raise my children right next door to them, seeing them for 5 days out of every year just wasn't going to cut it.

When my daughter turned 8, I started bringing the kids to spend at least a month of every summer with my mom & dad. After J and I had our first separation, I stopped asking permission to do so.

This year, I planned for 6 weeks. Plenty of time to allow for all the festivals, berry picking, swimming lessons, drive-in movies and county fairs!

I knew it was a long time, and I certainly knew how much J resented me for it, but unapologetically taking these trips had become one of those visceral decisions I'd started to make. I didn't know exactly why it bothered me so much that he objected to my going, and I wasn't entirely sure why it felt so important that I hold my ground; I just knew that anything less felt like unnecessary isolation. I wanted my kids to have relationships with their grandparents, and I needed the peace and acceptance I felt from going home. A few weeks of the summer was such a minimal sacrifice for the benefit. So, I forged ahead.

Once I got there, J called twice a day.

He began expressing that he was having a rough time of it. I tried to be supportive. I thanked him for his honesty. But after a few days, I told him that it was unfair to expect me to help him much. What was I supposed to say? "Yes, you must be so lonely! Of course you're craving porn stars!" Hearing him talk longingly of his addiction was painful and scary for me. I didn't want to comfort him, I wanted him to be healthy enough to comfort me.

So, I told him that this was precisely why he had resources. Use them. Call a sponsor. Go to a meeting. See the therapist. Whatever.

By week three, he confessed that he'd relapsed. Not surprising, but still, there were a few reasons why this time felt disturbingly significant:

1) He got around all kinds of filters on our home computer in order to access what he wanted. It took forethought, and a blatant disregard for my boundary of keeping filth out of our home.

2) While acting out in that way would have entailed experiencing warnings and triggers leading up to the act, he never once used any of his resources to ask for help.

3) He blamed me. Obviously, if I hadn't left him alone, he wouldn't have been put in such an overwhelmingly tempting situation. I was heartless and cruel for not caring about how difficult it would be for him.

I spent a weekend considering these things, refusing to talk to J until I'd had time to process. As I thought about it, I had the sinking feeling that this kind of relapse doesn't just come out of the blue-- not if he'd really been in recovery. As if in direct confirmation of my fears, more disclosures began to trickle in.

He'd been struggling for months.

He'd been lying to his sponsor.

This wasn't his first relapse.

The last disclosure was the one that changed everything.

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The Rundown, Part 11

As the new year began, I felt worn out by the internal struggle I'd been having ever since J had moved back. In an attempt to recapture peace and serenity, I determined that I would start focusing only on my own self image and self care.

I'd been steadily gaining weight, but couldn't seem to get myself to want to lose it, despite how I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. It became the reason I wouldn't let J touch me. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the weight wasn't a form of protection for me-- a cushion between J and I, since I was feeling so raw and exposed-- but instead of examining that thought too much, I latched onto the idea that "I am more than a body." I found it healing and empowering to think of my body as a tool to be used by me, not an ornament to be seen by others.

One afternoon, I was running through a neighboring development when a car drove past. The driver slowed down, and I watched as his head turned to follow me as I made my way down the street. Instantly, I was flooded with sickening rage. The desire to yell, hit his car, and give him the finger was absolute. I was disgusted and offended and ashamed all at once. I wanted to hide and wrap myself in a blanket and never, ever be objectified by a man again.

It was the first inkling that I might still be experiencing some major trauma.

A few months later, J and I began watching endless episodes of The Amazing Race. While we'd always been voracious consumers of movies, it had been nearly impossible to find entertainment that wasn't triggering for us. This left quite a void in both our time together and identity as a couple.

As we watched season after season in quick succession, we began to dream of what it'd be like to compete on the show. We made packing lists. We talked about strengths and weaknesses. We agreed that I would learn French, and he would learn Spanish. I would have to get over my fear of roller coasters and skydiving while he would have to become more detail-oriented and work on reading comprehension. We began making plans to travel more, to run and hike and get in shape.

What started as a joke {"Ask for directions, it's good practice for The Amazing Race!"} became a new form of couple-identity. We were bonding over something completely non-sexual, and it was helping us to start talking as though we had a future together-- one we looked forward to. Prepping for The Amazing Race became something tender and precious to me-- a daily reminder that we actually liked each other and could be a good team.

Happily, the year ahead proved to be full of opportunities to travel. We went to Alaska shortly after our 15 year anniversary, and I felt closer to J than I ever had before. I felt vigorous and alive as we immersed ourselves in the natural beauty all around us. I used my body every single day as a tool to get up a mountain, paddle down a river, or run around a lake, and it had an instantaneous result in changing how I felt about myself.

It was glorious-- we came home brimming with ideas for how we could incorporate these new-found passions into the life we were building for ourselves. We were seeing something new: a version of us that had transformed and grown from where we once were.

It was on this high note that I left to spend the summer with my parents...... but it didn't take long for it all to go to hell.

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The Complete Realist

"A silly idea is current that good people do not know what temptation means. This is an obvious lie. Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is. After all, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting against it, not by giving in. You find out the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down. A man who gives in to temptation after five minutes simply does not know what it would have been like an hour later. That is why bad people, in one sense, know very little about badness-- they have lived a sheltered life by always giving in. We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it: and Christ, because He was the only man who never yielded to temptations, is also the only man who knows to the full what temptation means-- the only complete realist." --CS Lewis

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The Rundown, Part 10

*Edit-- originally, I skipped a whole year in this narrative. It was still too recent and confusing to me, and I wasn't sure how to sum it up. I've since decided that it should be included despite how unsettled I feel-- that it's still significant and authentic. This is the edited post.*

Despite the healing I had experienced, having J move back in was absolutely terrifying for me.

My most valuable tool in achieving serenity had been listening to my gut-- if I felt unsafe, I would act on it. I'd speak up, detach, and seek safety. This worked perfectly when having an actual relationship with J wasn't part of the equation! But once he was back, our therapist began encouraging me to be vulnerable. Let him in. Give him an opportunity to nurture and earn trust. Expect that he will fail. Keep trying.

All of those things, while they made sense for building intimacy, pushed me into that zone where my gut screamed DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! Moving past that instinct in order to give J a 'chance' meant I was living in an anxious, triggered state almost constantly. I had no idea how to regain serenity without detaching.

A typical {daily} example:

J would do something simple- like walk through the door after work.

Immediately, I would be tense. I didn't want him to come kiss me. I didn't know if he was still sober that day. I didn't know what to expect at all, and yet I had no idea how to explain the fact that his walking through the door every evening was traumatizing.

J saw this as rejection. He wanted to be greeted with adoration, and my fear felt like a personal insult. Of course, when he reacted by taking offense, I couldn't help but feel that his lack of humility and understanding was further evidence that I was not safe. 

We could very quickly spiral from there.

The more I expressed my fear, the more J felt unwanted, and the more he only focused on his own wants, the more I felt that my fear was justified. We called it the cycle, and we went through it hundreds of thousands of times as we tried to reconcile.

Of course, in hindsight, I think my vulnerability should only have been equal to what he could prove he was capable of handling with empathy and love, {which was very little} but at the time, I truly believed that the cycle was what healing looked like*.

It wasn't long before our biggest source of conflict returned to sex. J felt it was his love language, the only way he ever felt completely accepted and one with me.

We would come home from a week long vacation, where by the end, I'd finally relaxed and established a connection enough to be intimate. "This is what it should always feel like!" he'd proclaim, "This is real intimacy! How do we keep this going?" and I would despair, because how does anyone make a marriage feel like a honeymoon 24/7? He was asking the impossible.

Once again, I felt like he was expecting me to fill all these emotional holes he had with sex-- only now he was calling it attachment.

I became very depressed, started gaining weight, and refused to work on 'desensitizing myself to the fears I have surrounding healthy intimacy'. I didn't know what was wrong with me. No matter what J or the therapist said, no matter how logical or healthy any of it sounded, I simply could not make myself do anything more than what I was already doing.

But there were glimpses-- little flashes of what healing and unity could be like-- that gave me hope. They were often interspersed with events that seemed to point to the contrary as well, but I wanted to choose the hope.

There was the weekend we went out of town with his family, which was incredibly difficult for me when I was feeling so self-conscious and uncomfortable in my skin. J was protective and understanding, even when I'd bow out of something and take time to be alone.

There were all the times he would push aside his desire to be physical with me, and try to serve me and meet me where I was currently at emotionally instead. He knew I liked projects, so that was the year we built a massive chicken coop, painted the kitchen cabinets, redecorated our daughter's room and spent date nights shopping for power tools.

He would get frustrated by how slow our progress was and lash out at me, but then sit humbly in therapy and take notes as our counselor told him that he had to double down on empathy and find a way to be honest about his feelings without jumping into victim/persecutor mode.

There was an afternoon where he ran up the stairs with panic in his eyes and asked me to come delete a file off of the computer that he'd forgotten he had.

And there was the way he endured months upon months of periodic rejection as I slid out of his embrace, turned away from a kiss, and stayed on my side of the bed.

"Why am I the one doing all the changing?" He would ask, "Don't you feel that I speak your love language? Don't you see all the ways I'm trying to make you feel safe? Is it really so terrible to go out of your comfort zone a little in order to make me feel loved? Can't we work on this together, even slowly? Anything would be better than this!"

That summer, I went home to spend a month with my parents again. They were in the middle of working out their own relationship issues, and as my mom tearfully voiced some of her hurts and concerns, she sounded eerily similar to J. She talked of felling unloved; she said that the form of attention she was asking for was so small in the grand scheme of things, and she'd gone so far out on a limb in order to love and serve my dad, that why couldn't he have compassion and do the same for her? Wasn't she worth it to him?

Her pain was so sincere, and yet so alarming to me {because I completely identified with my dad!} that it caused me to re-evaluate the way I was rigidly maintaining my boundaries and detachment from J. Maybe my fear really was just residual trauma. Maybe I needed to decide "in for a penny, in for a pound" and commit full force to doing whatever it took to establish a truly intimate marriage. Maybe I needed to do more to meet him partway.

It was hard. So incredibly hard.

When I returned home, my emotions were even more erratic. I'd grit my teeth and be vulnerable, then second-guess myself and be so consumed with anxiety that it gave me whiplash. And it was all so confusing-- was I ignoring gut feelings the way I swore I never would again? Was I purely hormonal because of a new birth control we decided to try? Was my depression medication off? Was this the natural growing pains of re-establishing a relationship after experiencing betrayal? There were just too many variables to take into consideration, and by giving up the 'listen to your gut' strategy, I'd completely lost my moorings.

As the holidays approached, J relapsed. It had been after another sleepy morning where he'd made an advance and I'd turned him down. He came down the stairs an hour later and informed me of his break in sobriety with an almost-vengeful tone in his voice.

He was angry. He felt that I'd pushed him into it by not working on 'my' half of our recovery enough. I'd sabotaged him, and he was bitter.

I was shocked and disoriented by his attitude. What happened to taking responsibility? What happened to coming to me with compassion and regret as he built safety? Simultaneously, I knew he was hurting. He'd been sober for a year, and this setback was a blow to his ego. I didn't want to increase his shame, so I thanked him for his honesty, then did my best to remain calm and supportive over the next few days.

We had planned to be filming our Christmas Video that weekend, but he was too angry and depressed, so we put it off. However, as the next weekend approached, he was still wallowing. The way he could concurrently pity himself and blame me for how terribly he felt enraged me. Throwing up my hands, I emailed his brother and asked him to talk to him, since I couldn't put up with it anymore; then packed up the kids, the camera, and all our props and filmed the video myself.

It took a week, but J slowly came out of his foul mood. He talked with his brother and our therapist, then signed up for an intense 90 day version of the 12 Step Program.

I wanted to acknowledge the small victories. At least he'd been honest. At least he'd gotten back on track. I wanted this to be a bump in the road, so I let it go. I forgave and we moved on.

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*To clarify, the cycle can be a healthy part of healing-- if J had been reacting with patience and compassion, it would have been incredibly comforting to me. I think it would have established a great deal of trust and safety between us, and I think I would have begun to feel confident in his recovery. But that isn't how he reacted-- because he wasn't in recovery-- and I just kept putting myself out there, long after he'd stopped giving me valid reason to do so.