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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