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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