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.

I Believe in Miracles.... and Movies.

"People break down in to two groups: When they experience something lucky, group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there watching out for them.

Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. I'm sure the people in group number two are looking at those fourteen lights in a very suspicious way. For them, the situation is fifty-fifty. Could be bad, could be good. But deep down, they feel that whatever happens, they're on their own. And that fills them with fear.

Yeah, there are those people.

But there's a whole lot of people in group number one. When they see those fourteen lights, they're looking at a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help them, and that fills them with hope.

See, what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky?

Or look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?"

-Graham, from "Signs"

*****

I came to the conclusion long ago that life is messy. The only way to survive when bad things happen to good people, {and they will} is to remember that there is always someone looking out for me. I'm never alone, and that fills me with hope.

Bring on the alien invasion, baby. ;)

What kind of person are you? {The kind that can draw from a well of faith-building-scenes-in-movies just as readily as stories from the scriptures? Me too!}

The Rundown, Part 9

"You have not loved me well," I told J. We were parked at the end of a dirt road next to the remains of a cotton field. The landscape was barren, and I felt just as desolate inside.

"I think about that 19 year old girl that I was when we married. She was so innocent, so trusting, so vulnerable with you....." I was trying not to cry, and failing miserably.

"I wish you had cherished her. I wish you had respected her. I wish you had been noble and gentle and a protector of all that was sacred," I turned to look at him, a portrait of pain with my unkempt hair, red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. "Instead, you used her."

"From the very beginning, you were dishonest. You couldn't see me as someone with real feelings, but as something to fill your needs. You brought this ugliness into our lives, into our bed, into the same room as our sleeping children. You violated our home and sullied everything I held dear."

J didn't interrupt. He simply sat there as I took a moment to sob angrily and mop at my face with a napkin. Finally, I took a shuddering breath and stared at the horizon.

"I do not regret marrying you, but all of..... this.... makes me feel like I would be a fool for staying. You've wounded me far more deeply than you could have if you'd punched me in the face, and yet if you were beating me instead of betraying me, wouldn't I be long gone by now?

"I don't know how to move past this. I just know that I'm in pain-- the most excruciating pain I've ever felt-- and I wish that you had the ability to love me. I wish you could see and feel in a way that would make you never want to cause this kind of destruction again."

For a long time, I cried, not registering the words he said or his arms around me as he tried to comfort me.

Gradually, I realized J was crying. I watched as he began to transform before my eyes-- it was as if every burden he'd handed me over the years was piled back onto his own shoulders. I could see the weight of it, the agony as he began to comprehend just how horrible his choices had made me feel. We wept, both overcome with grief.

I don't know how to describe what happened next. It was as if a conduit to heaven opened up, and God wiped all tears away. We could feel the weight lifted from our shoulders, the pain removed from our hearts. The air was thick with the spirit, and we could hardly speak for fear of breaking the reverence.

Just moments ago, I could not have conceived of ever feeling safe with J again, and yet as the sun set and I sat in awe of the miracle that had just taken place, I held J's face in my hands and whispered, "This is how I wanted to start our marriage; as two flawed people with lots of mistakes behind us and lots of mistakes in front of us, but completely united. So, we're starting again. I'm pretending that this is the beginning, and I'm saying Yes, I will marry you."

I also told him that after this experience and the events of the last year, I'd changed. I could't and wouldn't go back to where we once were.

"Never again," he agreed. "I can't take back the past, but I can promise never to do it to you in the future."

We drove home, both solemn and joyful. We'd come back from the brink of disaster and had a new beginning.

{image by Mark Mabry}

The Rundown, Part 8

We've always been good at collaborating on projects together. If its something that we're united in, our talents combine and complement, our enthusiasm builds, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Of all the things that make us compatible, I've always loved that we can be 'a very effective team' the most.

We have a tradition of filming videos of our family and sending them out in place of Christmas cards. It became something we looked forward to and planned for months in advance. The year we were separated was no different. We spent a whole weekend building sets and hanging lights, filming with the kids in shifts and living off of holiday food. For the first time in forever, J spent the night at the house {albeit on the couch} and I could see how exciting it was for the kids to run downstairs in the morning and find him there. It felt good to be reminded of all the ways in which we could be amazing together.

And there were hopeful signs as well-- several moments when I would break down or express a fear or draw a boundary and J would react with tenderness and compassion. It made the entire experience beautiful and connecting.

Therapy was going very well. J was starting to express unprompted empathy, and he was nearing 90 days of genuine sobriety. It seemed that things had started to turn a corner.

Then we had a new Bishop called in. To our dismay, he was completely green when it came to addiction recovery. We could both tell that our separation freaked him out. He began cornering J at every opportunity and asking him what he could do to move the process along more quickly. We've gotta get you moved back in together, he'd say seriously. This separation thing just isn't good.

J's response? "I think my wife can take all the time she needs. We're working it out, and doing just fine."

My jaw dropped. I don't think J had ever defended me publicly about something that he in fact, wasn't entirely comfortable with either. It was such a telling show of solidarity and understanding that I began to think maybe, just maybe, this time things were actually different. Maybe he was in recovery.

But we had one large hurdle to jump before I could consider reconciliation. I needed to know everything. J had been lying for so long and so convincingly, that I needed to have it all out on the table. If we were going to start again, I wanted a blank slate. No secrets between us.

J worked for months on his Step 4 {write an honest and searching moral inventory} and prepared to share it with me. Our therapist tried to reassure me that while it would be painful to hear, there was probably nothing on it that I hadn't already thought of or known on some level. So with trepidation, we set a date to go over it together.

There is no other way to say it: that night was the worst night of my life.

It was as if every fearful, traumatizing thought I'd ever entertained had turned out to be true-- only worse. I sat, stunned and numb at first. The weight of what he said seemed to slowly crush down on me, until after he'd only made it halfway through, I broke down in raw, animalistic sobs.

Tentatively, he reached out to touch and comfort me, but I shoved his hand away, horrified and disgusted.

It was a pain unlike any I have ever experienced; a wave of betrayal and grief that flowed through me as every covenant we'd made, every sacred moment we'd shared, every beautiful thing we'd created together crashed down and was mocked before my eyes.

I felt so violated and tainted. I thought of every time I'd let him look at me, touch me, or be intimate with me, and suddenly felt dirty. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to die.

How could I ever come back from this? How would I ever look at him again? How would I ever look at myself?

I was still crying when J left.

I continued to cry for the next 24 hours. My poor kids-- they came in periodically as I sat in bed, surrounded by tissues, and would hug me as they asked about what to eat for lunch, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was barely clinging to the land of the living. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. My eyes became red and swollen, and my whole body ached with the emotions that seemed to wrack my soul. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to feel indigent and powerful, to lash out at J and proclaim that we were through. But the truth was that I was simply and thoroughly devastated.

So I cried and prayed and journaled and cried again as I prepared to confront him.

Call and Answer

It's hard to navigate that line between keeping myself safe and wanting to be open and loving. It's a balance between boundaries and vulnerability that I can't help but think would be easier in a healthier relationship. For years, I've yearned for J to join me-- to reach for something better than what we have. It's felt like I've been singing a variation of this song:

"Call and Answer"

I think it's getting to the point
Where I can be myself again
I think it's getting to the point
Where we have almost made amends
I think it's the getting to the point
That is the hardest part

And if you call, I will answer
And if you fall, I'll pick you up
And if you court this disaster
I'll point you home
I'll point you home

You think I only think about you
When we're both in the same room
You think I'm only here to witness
The remains of love exhumed
You think we're here to play
A game of who loves more than whom

And if you call, I will answer
And if you fall, I'll pick you up
And if you court this disaster

You think it's only fair to do what's best for
You and you alone
You think it's only fair to do the same to me
When you're not home
I think it's time to make this something that is
More than only fair

So if you call, I will answer
And if you fall, I'll pick you up
And if you court this disaster
I'll point you home

But I'm warning you, don't ever do
Those crazy, messed-up things that you do
If you ever do,
I promise you I'll be the first to crucify you
Now it's time to prove that you've come back
Here to rebuild
Rebuild
Rebuild
Rebuild

{image uncredited-- anyone know the painter?}

The Rundown, Part 7

J was determined to prove that I was overreacting. As far as anyone else knew, the kids and I were simply on vacation. "I'll have my temple recommend in no time," he boasted. "Then you can come back, and I'll show you that I've changed."

I was doubtful. More than that, I didn't trust that sobriety meant recovery. Like the early days, I almost wanted him to slip so I could see how he would respond. Would he be humble? Would he deny that anything had happened? Would he deflect blame? His reaction to being confronted with reality-- that he was powerless over his addiction-- would tell me far more about his place in recovery than the number of days he'd been sober.

To my relief, just 24 hours before he was to have his recommend reinstated, he broke sobriety. He confessed, devastated, and I was sincerely impressed by his honesty.

The next day, he reported that he still wasn't sober.

And the next.

And the next.

When he texted me on the 5th day with small talk, I straight-up asked him if he'd acted out that day. He reassured me that no, he was feeling good; then he went to an SA meeting. When he got back, he wrote me a long email and confided that he'd lied earlier.

For years, I'd told J that my bottom line was the lying. "We can fight this together," I told him, "as long as you let me in. I need to see that you really want this-- that we're on the same team." However, I'd never developed firm boundaries for when he violated that bottom line. Oh sure, I'd be angry. I'd tell him to sleep on the couch, or I'd give him the silent treatment, but I never examined what I needed to feel safe, and often allowed my boundaries to crumble in the face of resistance.

This time, I had a clear gut reaction: I can't sleep in the same house with someone I don't trust. 

As I went running and meditated, not only did I feel a powerful confirmation of my decision, I also had the impression that I should give him a choice: I cannot live with someone who lies to me. Would you like to move out, or shall I stay here with my parents?

Of course, he was furious. He acted wounded. He accused me of being selfish. He justified himself, saying, "I only lied for a few hours. I just didn't want to depress you. I was protecting you."

The more he kicked against the pricks, the more I felt assured of how right it was to detach myself from the drama. Again and again, I'd calmly ask, "So would you like to move out, or shall I stay here?"

He moved out.

We were separated for 9 months, and I think J was insulted that I found them to be pleasant and peaceful. I hadn't realized how much emotional energy I'd invested in appeasing J until he was no longer a constant presence. I enjoyed concerning myself only with my own recovery and managing the needs of my children. I no longer felt the weight of J's addiction taking up the largest portion of my mind, heart and life.

But there were difficulties. Even though J came over every weekend and would join us for Church and Family Home Evening, the children missed him terribly. Our 4 year old would ask when Daddy was going to come home and stay home. I'd tell him that I didn't know-- that Heavenly Father had told me when we needed a break, and that he would tell me when we were ready to live together again.

He would look at me with his furrowed brow and say, "Mommy, if you don't know when, then how 'bout I decide? How 'bout on Friday?"

I spent many nights praying that God would make up for the way our grown-up choices were affecting our little kids' lives.

I also found that the longer we worked together in therapy, the more difficult my conflicting emotions became. Our therapist specialized in treating sexual addiction as an attachment disorder, so much of the work revolved around teaching J what real attachment meant and how to feel his emotions and turn to others to help regulate uncomfortable feelings in a healthy way rather than numbing them out with pornography.

For months, this meant practicing turning to God, a sponsor, a family member, or even things like a memento of a loved one. But as he progressed, my heart began to soften, and we started to work on creating true attachment and intimacy between the two of us.

It was exciting and hopeful-- I was seeing glimpses of a J I'd only dreamed was in there. We would work on an assignment and I'd feel an overpowering love for this man I thought had been lost or even nonexistent; a figment of my imagination. But almost as quickly as the euphoria came, I'd become plagued with doubt. Am I falling for it all over again? Am I setting myself up for another heartbreak?

Terrified, I would retreat into detachment, which J would inevitably see as a personal rejection. He'd get that hurt look on his face, and his lack of empathy and understanding would then seem like confirmation of all my fears.

See? I'd think, He can't help but play the victim! I'm only an object of pleasure for him! He was just faking that change of heart! The pain and fear was crippling. It was an exhausting cycle, and one that we became very, very familiar with.

It wasn't until Christmas that things began to feel different.

{image by Laura Williams}

The Rundown, Part 6

Even with all the therapy and study I'd done, I never truly understood boundaries until I was so broken down and tired that the best I could muster was to make decisions purely for my own survival.

In pain? Leave.

Overwhelmed? Let God handle it.

Scared of the future? Keep your head where your feet are.

So much of it was visceral. My sense of what was true, what was reality, what was right were so upturned that I couldn't make logical sense of it, so I clung to the only thing I did trust-- the still, small whisperings of the Spirit.

J would ask, "Can I call you in the middle of the night if I'm struggling?" and without thinking, I would say, "No. I can't take care of you. Get a sponsor." No matter how appalled he was, I knew it was honest-- I could not take care of him. Acknowledging that fact ignited a glimmer of peace inside my heart.

I quickly determined that taking on the burden of responsibility for something I had no control over instantly dispelled peace and introduced fear, so I guarded that peace with everything I had, even as J's manipulations increased:

"It is not good for man to be alone," he would try. "How am I supposed to succeed at recovery when you won't support me in it?"

"One of my biggest scars from childhood is rejection-- If you love me, why are you abandoning me when I need you most?"

"How are we ever supposed to heal our marriage when we're apart? God wants us to be together!"

"None of our friends or family understand why you're doing this! You're just hurting this marriage!"

The more J would talk, the more I felt every cell in my body scream IT IS NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY TO MAKE YOU SOBER!

In the years before, his pleadings would have moved me. Part of loving someone is giving them the benefit of the doubt-- that they have the best of intentions, and wouldn't truly hurt you maliciously. But addiction taints that. I could no longer assume that what he wanted was recovery and not just to restore the status quo. His words said "I love you" but his actions said "I love the addiction." Boundaries kept me from being too vulnerable with someone who had-- and still could-- abuse that vulnerability.

That isn't to say that I was immune to concern-- I still loved J and longed for him to change. I wanted the recovery I thought we'd had. Most of all, I desperately wanted to give my children a stable home with an example of parents who were faithful to each other and the Lord.

But as much as I yearned for those things, I knew they were out of my control. I did not have the knowledge, power, or energy to secure them. I was forced to surrender; to sacrifice my deepest desires on the alter of the Lord, and trust that He would turn even this to my good.

It was freeing.

I had a long and golden summer, as I ran amid the wheat fields, watched the kids roast marshmallows over a campfire and lounged in a deck chair as white sheets blew in the breeze on a laundry line. It was healing and sacred and I felt protected at home with my parents. Slowly, the world began to right itself again. I felt stronger, more confident in my connection with God and in touch with what I truly needed for myself.

I would need that strength for the year that followed.

{image}

The Rundown, Part 5

Even with the spirit guiding my discovery, I felt totally blindsided. Overcoming addiction had been a source of accomplishment for us. It was something we talked about often-- the early days of his denial, his first tearful confession when I found him in the closet, and then finally, him taking responsibility for his own recovery with LifeStar while I focused on letting go. We had been the success story! I'd thought we were on the brink of entering a phase of both being dependent on God so we could be interdependent on each other-- and here I was, discovering that the amazing journey we'd been on together was actually a path I'd taken alone? It was horribly disorienting.

It got worse as the length and breadth of his actions slowly began to reveal themselves. {For the record, trickle disclosures suck.}

He said he'd been acting out for a few months, but only because I was so distant and unloving.

No, actually, it had been a few years, but not seriously.

Scratch that, it had started right after he quit going to therapy and it was because he was bored and frustrated at work.

Had his behavior escalated? No. Maybe. Yes.

Oh, you know what? Now that he thought about it, he didn't know if he'd really been sober for any length of time even when in therapy...... but that wasn't the point.

Apparently, he felt that the real point, the root of the problem {of which addiction was just a symptom, in his mind} was that our relationship was in crisis. Clearly, I had detached so completely in my quest to let go and let God that I wasn't truly present in the marriage anymore.

{Of course, now when I read that, I want to shake myself. J rarely gets mad, but without fail, he plays victim when confronted with his addiction. Refusing to take responsibility is clear addict behavior.}

Unfortunately, at the time, there was just enough truth in what he said {I was, after all, very detached} that given a few weeks of his persuading and debating, I began to wear down. My parents were in transition, so I didn't have a place to escape to; Our therapist was booked out for 2 months, and I was staring down the barrel of a long, hot summer. Denying the severity of the problem was the path of least resistance.

So, we worked on our 'relationship'. Courting and whatnot. But I was plagued with a sense of deja vu. Nothing he did or said seemed different than the last time, and I'd seen where that had got me. How were chocolates and flowers supposed to change that? I started to feel like an emotionally battered woman, and determined that I needed to figure out how to keep from being trampled all over again. I started with a simple boundary: I would not be bullied into sex.

It wasn't long before that boundary was tested, as I later learned all boundaries are.

It was a Saturday morning, and while I attempted to sleep in, J turned to me without preamble. I'd taken to wearing one-piece garments in order to discourage wandering hands {TMI, I know} but it didn't help. I rebuffed him and he sighed. He sighed the heavy way he'd sighed that day; the way he'd sighed a thousand times; in a way that spoke a thousand words of accusation. As he went on to voice his frustration with that wounded look on his face, I. just. snapped.

The nerve! The entitlement! The complete lack of empathy! I didn't speak to, or even look at him for a week. Never in my life have I been so consumed with unbridled rage.

Finally, after an evening watching J back peddle, {calling in Home Teachers to give him a blessing, imploring me to pray with him, asking me in that I-am-so-concerned-for-your-spiritual-welfare voice that I turn the other cheek and fight for our marriage} I lay awake on the edge of our bed, as far from my sleeping husband as I could get. Tears streamed down my face as I uttered the only prayer I could muster:

"I hate him. Dear God, I hate him. I don't want to be here. I don't want him next to me. I don't want to be mad anymore. I don't know what to do and I'm going to screw this all up. Please God, help me not to hate him."

The next morning, I felt miraculously calm. The anger had drained away, though the hurt remained.

That same day, my parents signed a rental agreement on their new home, and before the ink had time to dry, I packed up the kids and left.

{image}

He's Not So Fantastic

I love Mrs Fox from Wes Anderson's The Fantastic Mr Fox. She's blunt, she's firm, and she knows where she stands:

          MRS. FOX
          Twelve fox-years ago, you made a promise
          to me while we were caged inside that fox-
          trap that, if we survived, you would
          never steal another chicken, goose,
          turkey, duck, or squab, whatever they
          are. I believed you. Why did you lie to
          me?

                         FOX

                         (SIMPLY)
          Because I'm a wild animal.

          MRS. FOX
          You're also a husband and a father.

                         FOX

                         (PAINED)
          I'm trying to tell you the truth about
          myself.

          MRS. FOX
          I don't care about the truth about
          yourself.

          Fox looks down at the ground. He nods and tries to contain
          his emotions. Mrs. Fox watches him coldly.

          MRS. FOX
          This story is too predictable.

                         FOX

                         (SURPRISED)
          Predictable? Really? What happens in the
          end?

          MRS. FOX

                         (QUIETLY)
          In the end, we all die -- unless you
          change.

The Rundown, Part 4

Shortly after our miraculous Christmas, J got a wonderful new job. Steady income, benefits, completely in his field-- it was almost too good to be true! I was incredulous and happy, having braced myself for the worst, but J just seemed... irritated.

He constantly complained about how little attention I gave him, and became especially resentful towards the kids, as if jealous of the energy and affection they garnered from me. He fumed about our {lack of a} sex life. He accused me of being cold and unfeeling, saying that I never seemed to need him or miss him or look for ways to meet his needs. He bought books on bettering intimacy. He purchased sex toys. He huffed when we didn't instantly hop into bed together after a Friday night date. Mostly, he badgered me about my depression medication. He became convinced that they'd killed my libido and was suddenly intent on taking me to the doctor and getting things changed.

I remember distinctly a conversation we had while driving home from a date. He was going on and on about how hurtful it was that I didn't surprise him anymore; that we might as well not be married if we were going to live like roommates. I had a very clear impression-- almost like hearing someone say the word "pornography" right into my ear. I silently asked Heavenly Father if I should confront J, but felt that no-- I just needed to dismiss everything J was saying.

It was odd. As far as I knew, he had been in recovery and sober for over 3 years. I'd spent that time learning to turn to God as my primary source of attachment, and felt that now J simply needed to realize that I couldn't fill his emotional holes-- only the Lord could. All this blame he was spewing felt like misdirected angst. I actually saw it as growth-- that he'd never been taught how to regulate his emotions or had proper attachment modeled for him, and that this could be the beginning of something deep and significant.

Then, the week before our 13th wedding anniversary, I forgot to take my meds two days in a row and had a depressive crash. J was furious. He spent an hour riling against me, saying that I was irresponsible; that I was going to emotionally scar my children; that I never stopped to think of how unfair it was for him to have a wife with depression; that if he'd known I was going to be so unavailable to him,  he would have seriously reconsidered marrying me. I'd never heard him say such vile things or look so disgusted with me. I was shocked, and completely, utterly crushed.

Well, if he thought we had no sex life before, he was about to find out what it was like to really have no sex life. :)

Of course, he later acted like nothing had happened and was perturbed when I didn't do the same. It was too late. I was on high alert, and again began praying that God would help me to see the situation clearly and discover whatever I needed to discover. {P.S. worst anniversary ever.}

It wasn't until Mother's Day that I was certain. My church calling left me free during the 3rd hour, so I found J and asked for his phone to call my mom. He hesitated. As I sat outside on the lawn, listening to the phone ring without an answer, I thought about that hesitation. The brief look of panic in his eyes. I hung up and opened his web browser. The internet history was completely empty, and immediately I knew.

Hands shaking, I asked for guidance. Again, I felt the impression that I needed to wait-- but keep myself safe.

I no longer remember how much time passed between then and the morning that he turned to me in bed and tried to start something. I shrugged him off. He sighed, got up to go to the bathroom and I drifted back to sleep. Half an hour later, I woke with a start, feeling as if someone had shaken me awake. I looked up and realized that J was still in the bathroom.

I couldn't look at him as he got ready and kissed the kids goodbye. As soon as he was out the door, I texted him.

 I know what you were doing.

{image}

The Rundown, Part 3

I can remember sitting in a group therapy session and realizing with an odd kind of certainty that I wasn't co-dependent; I was sad.

I had reason to be sad. Aside from wrestling with clinical depression for years, I genuinly mourned the loss of the marriage I'd envisioned for myself. I no longer expected him to 'complete' me, and I {miraculously!} no longer saw his addiction as a commentary on my desirability; but nevertheless, I longed to have a partner. Someone I could express my feelings to, lean on, and trust to help buffer me from life's storms.

With time, experience, and therapy, I came to understand that while J now claimed to be sober, he was not yet capable of handling his own feelings, let alone mine. My emotions seemed to repulse him. He'd become angry and isolated, waiting for me to 'get over it'. I felt like he really only wanted me around when he was sure there was something in it for him. I understood why, but it was still painful to come to grips with.

Once I started Zoloft and the depression began to lift, I found an amazing thirst for life begin to bubble up. Interests I'd thought died off long ago surfaced once more. I felt far less dependent on J, less lonely, and finally felt that I didn't have to wait around for him before enthusiastically pursuing my own happiness.

I consiously decided to let go.

I stopped monitoring him-- no reading journals, playing 20 questions, searching his internet history, or driving past strip clubs to see if his car was there. It was making me crazy, and I trusted God to prompt me if there was something I really needed to know.

I also made a decision to view our marriage differently. As long as God was telling me to "wait", I was going to believe that He wanted me to wait joyfully. That must mean that I could have joy regardless of J's actions. If marriage was a triangle, then I really only needed to turn to the Lord for the emotional intimacy I was craving. I tried to see marriage as an opportunity to rely on Him rather than my husband.

They were baby steps, but they led me to the richest, most happy and fulfilling period of my life. Seriously, it was like walking around with a choir of angels singing. :) Which explains how I was able to actually want to get pregnant again, despite the year of hell that had followed the birth of my son.

Pregnancy was hard once again, but faith promoting in so many ways. I was able to prayerfully go off medication for 9 months. I started a blog, becoming very vocal about depression and dispelling the shame surrounding it. I reached out for help, slowly attempting to surrender my perfectionist pride. When our second son was born, his happy spirit was like a healing balm to my soul! He would look up at me with his big, blue eyes and I would think, "My joy could fill this room."

He had reflux as well, and I suffered postpartum depression once again, but this time I felt prepared. I was proactive about getting help for both of us, and was able to quickly recover. I even ran a marathon before the baby turned 1!

I began having long talks with my dad about how to recognize the spirit and receive daily answers to prayer. I spent a whole year practicing the act of turning my heart to God and doing what he asked of me. Later, when J lost his job and the Great Recession commenced, I realized that we'd paid off all our debts, built up a savings, and had a year's worth of food storage in our pantry-- all thanks to to following seemingly small and insignificant daily promptings. I felt humbled and overwhelmed with gratitude.

J fell back on being self-employed. Money was scarce and unpredictable, which brought up for me all kinds of childhood fears about lack of stability. But over and over, I saw that as I turned to Heavenly Father, I could find peace.

We managed to stretch one year of savings into three years of self-employment before depleting everything and maxing out our credit cards. By Christmas of 2011, we had 4 children and were in danger of losing the house. Though it made no logical sense, every time I turned to God with my concerns, I felt like "everything will be fine." Of course, God's version of "fine" doesn't always match up with my version of "fine," but once again, I chose to trust him.

I cry when I think of that month. We only ate because people gave us food. We only had presents because people-- strangers we still don't have names for to this day-- sent them to us. It was a George Bailey christmas, and a testimony to me that God loves me and gives me far more than I deserve.

For me, it was the culmination of the most beautiful and spiritual years I'd ever had, but for J, it was the tail end of his decent into the longest bout of addiction he'd ever indulged in..... and it was all about to crash down around him.

{image}

A White Blank Page

Can you lie next to her
and give her your heart, your heart?
As well as your body
And can you lie next to her
and confess your love, your love?
As well as your folly
And can you kneel before the king
and say, "I'm clean", "I'm clean"?

But tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?
Oh, tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?

A white blank page
and a swelling rage, rage
You did not think
when you sent me to the brink, to the brink
You desired my attention
but denied my affections, my affections

So tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?
Oh tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?

Lead me to the truth and I
will follow you with my whole life
Oh lead me to the truth and I
will follow you with my whole life

-Mumford & Sons

Years later, and still this song expresses it all perfectly.

Today I woke to rolling thunder and pouring rain. It feels appropriate. I know I've let my mind turn to fear and thus lost much of my serenity-- it's oddly comforting to have the weather reflect that. Still, it's a new week and a fresh opportunity to surrender all that I have no control over. Life may be uncertain, but there is One who is steadfast in the storm. I'll cling to Him.

Happy monday, all.

Tired of Filth

I cleaned a hoarder's house once. It was years ago, when I was first married, and the situation had been minimized to such a degree {"He's old-- he just needs help making room in the spare bedroom for his son."} that when I walked in, I was shocked, horrified and instantly overwhelmed. We had 8 people and it took us 18 hours to even make a dent.

It wasn't until a decade later that I even knew what a hoarder was and could put a name to the sickness that I'd seen.

I find myself thinking about that event quite a lot lately. I've watched hours of reality shows that follow hoarders, identifying {to a frightening degree} with the spouses and children of the sick person. I watch them cry, asking the hoarder to love them enough to let go of the filth. Often, the hoarder agrees. They get a big crew to come clean up, and then, of course, the hoarder freaks out and tries to hang on to every expired can of food and dirty band-aid.

Sometimes, the spouse or children aren't willing to engage anymore. The hoarder says he wants help in overcoming his collapsing mountain of junk, and they just say, "I don't believe you. You've said that for years."

That's how I feel about my husband's lust addiction. The filth of it turns my stomach. I beg him to stop, to think of me and the children enough to see that what he's pursuing is worthless. I've helped him clean out the metaphorical trash over and over again, only to see him resist, cling, and eventually turn back to holding his box of band-aids close to his heart. The roller coaster of his addiction has dominated half of my life, and now I just feel so, so tired.

I don't have the energy to clear out the filth anymore. I can't live in it either, no matter how much he proclaims that it's "not that bad" or "not about you" or "not what I want; I just need you to {fill in the blank} so I can let it go."

I don't believe him.

He's an addict, and the only thing I can know for certain is that he is weak and he is a liar. That doesn't make him a bad person, just a damaged, self-delusional, miserable person who hurts me and can't be trusted.

I watch the spouses on Hoarders and can see how sad, angry, and conflicted they are. I can't fault them when they leave-- they can't MAKE their sick spouse want to get well, and they have to think about their own health and sanity. Likewise, when the spouse stays, I can't fault them either, though i feel their pain. It's a horrible way to live, and the progress is agonizingly slow even when the addict/hoarder is actually putting forth a lot of effort to recover.

*******

My husband and I are separated. Again.

I don't know how or if we'll ever get back together. Right now, he's in that phase of frantic effort and negotiation. I visualize a hoarder shuffling junk from the stairs to the dining table and saying, "How can you give up? Can't you see I'm trying? Why won't you help me?" I look at him and know that I have seen all of this before. I've seen him "try." I've seen him blame me for not "doing my part." I've seen him white-knuckle sobriety for up to a year, and I've seen him go right back to square one in a heartbeat.

I look at him and feel not a single stirring inside. I only feel utter and complete exhaustion. He thinks I'm giving up, but this is simply as much as I have left to give.

{image}

The Rundown, Part 2

Late one night, I got up to feed the baby. Our second bedroom served as both an office and a nursery, so when I walked in and found J sitting at the computer, I wasn't surprised. But by his demeanor, I knew what he'd been doing.

With our daughter in the room.

I was livid. Shaking, I packed my things, grabbed the baby, and went to the only place I could go on such short notice-- his parents' house. His parents are good people, but were completely clueless about how to deal with something like this. His dad, in his characteristically inappropriate way told me that, "all men need physical release. He must not be getting enough of it from you." {I still have resentment crop up from time to time about that remark.}

I endured two days there before J showed up with flowers* and agreed to go to therapy together.

That was pretty much the state of things for three years. While J went to therapy, he maintained that "everything was fine" and that we were going to counseling in order to help me with my bitterness. He often told me, "If we get divorced, it won't be due to my problem, it will be due to your unwillingness to forgive."

It was a torturous way to live, and yet all my prayers were answered with, "wait."

So I did. Grudgingly.

I vowed not to have any more children. I went back to school. I opened my own banking account and got my own credit card. While I couldn't bring myself to file for divorce, I also couldn't fully commit to our marriage. I didn't feel safe. Periodically, I found evidence of more acting out, which usually led to apologies and promises to "take this seriously." Each time, I'd turn to the Lord and ask, "Now? Is this enough?" but the answer was always no.

While therapy didn't seem to be having much effect on J, it did dramatically change me. We didn't have the money to afford it, but we turned to his parents and our Bishop for financial help. I found that maintaining this boundary of, "I will only stay as long as we are in therapy" was empowering and healing for me. I grew more patient. I focused on myself. I had help navigating my massive faith crisis, and gradually began to truly trust God again. By 2004, John 14:27 was the scripture I recited like a mantra:

Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

Despite the fact that J was certainly not in recovery and wasn't being honest with me {or even with himself} I found peace. I felt the spirit nudge me to accept that I didn't have to put my life on hold while waiting for J to screw up 'enough' for a divorce. I didn't need to live in fear. So I gave permission to myself to invest in an uncertain future.

I became pregnant with our son.

Again, it was a difficult pregnancy, but the birth was beautiful. I labored naturally and had him at home, in our bedroom upstairs. I felt powerful and brave and so near to God.

Our son had severe reflux, which meant he was in constant pain. He regularly screamed until he passed out in exhaustion, only to wake 45 minutes later screaming again. He only seemed to sleep in an upright position, if I held and rocked him just so. I swear, I didn't sleep for a full year after he was born.

At the same time, J started a new job. He still had his own business, and had to commute over 2 1/2 hours a day, so essentially, I never saw him. In the back of my mind, I knew that he was distant, un-empathetic, and probably regularly turning to his addiction, but I honestly didn't have the energy to care. One day, I walked in on him while he sat in the closet, trying to compose a letter confessing of his latest acting out. It was the first time he'd ever attempted to come to me instead of waiting to be caught. I was touched and hopeful.

Our therapist recommended LifeStar, so we scrimped our pennies and did that. J went for several years, but I dropped out after phase 2. At that point, I'd realized that my depression hadn't lifted despite the baby now sleeping, J working only one job, and obvious blessings in my life.

I went to the Dr and got a prescription for Zoloft, and for the first time in years, it was like the world was in color.

*I still hate apology flowers. Flowers are for when you say something unintentionally hurtful or forget to fix the dripping faucet after being asked a million times. They are definitely NOT for when you've selfishly betrayed everything your partner has held dear. Stupid, insulting, inadequate flowers.

The Rundown, Part 1

If you've been directed here from my first blog, you probably have a general idea of the history between J and I. You may even have a good picture of what we've been struggling with. Still, here's a rundown of our story up to this point:

We were married 15 years ago. I was young {barely 19}, but had an overwhelming, spiritual confirmation when I prayed about marrying J. I was giddy and optimistic, feeling like I could 'finally start my life'. Obviously, I went in to the situation with unrealistic expectations of what I would get out of our relationship. I'd always been a little less than confidant, and mistakenly thought that having someone love me would make me feel whole and accepted and sure of myself.

The first two years were confusingly difficult. We barely saw each other. I worked full time while he tried to get his own business going. I'd wake up at 5am to go running, then leave for work while he was still asleep. J, ever the night owl, often didn't go to his office until noon. He'd return long after I'd gone to bed. He seemed distant and uninterested in me, which was hurtful and baffling. I sunk into depression. It was horrible. I felt like all our friends were blissful newlyweds, and couldn't figure out why we were doing so badly.

I was terrified of starting a family, but after the first year, felt strongly prompted that I needed to get pregnant now. J didn't seem to care one way or the other, so I took a giant leap of faith and threw away the birth control pills. Then waited and waited and waited.

It took us about a year to get pregnant, and pregnancy was difficult for me. I still hadn't been diagnosed with depression, and frankly, felt like I just needed to cope better. When I was 7 months along, J turned to me in bed one night and told me that he had been looking at pornography. He reassured me that it wasn't anything to be concerned about, that he was only telling me because our Bishop refused to give him a temple recommend. His brother was about to be married in just a few weeks, and J was in the awkward position of having to break the news that he wouldn't be able to attend the sealing ceremony. But it's under control, he kept reiterating. I'm repenting, it won't happen again, and our Bishop is obviously overreacting. 

Complete and utter devastation.

I remember crying. I remember him drifting off immediatley, and me laying in bed looking at the ceiling, so angry that he could sleep while my world had just imploded. I couldn't help but go over every inch of our past and re-write the memories, look for warning signs, and blame myself.

I felt so ugly, so rejected, and so tricked. Had he married me just to fulfill a cultural expectation? Had he even been worthy to marry me in the temple? What else hadn't he told me? And WHY had God asked me to bring a child into all of this? Was there something fundamentally wrong with me that I could be so easily deceived? Had I known on some level and just ignored it? Did I just attract addiction? Wasn't I worthy of a faithful husband?

I couldn't sleep or eat. J swore me to secrecy and became angry when I pried details out of him. I gradually discovered that he'd been involved with pornography and masterbation since he was a teenager, but that it'd gotten exponentially worse when he came home from his mission and had access to the internet. His parents caught him once, and gave him a half-hearted lecture that only managed to teach him how to delete his browser history. When his younger brother went through the temple to get his endowments, J was unworthy to attend and waited outside.

Hearing all this, my gut was screaming addiction. I took the advice of a friend who could see I was in pain, and flew home to my parents, where I spilled everything. They were comforting and understanding, and advised me to learn everything I could and take things slowly.

I did not believe in divorce, and I could not deny that I'd had Heavenly Father's approval when we married. As a result, I began to have a very conflicted relationship with God, often saying that He was "such a man". Why else would he have allowed me to be trapped in something so painful?

On the other hand, I continued to pray for guidance. J combated the idea that he was an addict, saying that I was being unforgiving and dramatic. His resistance scared me. I began to pray that I would catch him in the act. "Just let me have proof", I'd pray. Either he'd be forced to see that he was wrong and get help, or I would have justification for leaving him.

Be careful what you pray for.