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}
No comments:
Post a Comment