Spouses Need Disclosure

Spouses need disclosure because they have a right to know who they love and what world they’re living in. It’s grossly unfair to pretend that everything is fine when it’s not. As difficult as this is, we’ve got to tell the whole truth. Besides, it’s your only hope of finding long term recovery. If you aren’t going to be honest, you aren’t going to be sober either.

When my husband came to visit while I was in treatment during family week, he made it clear that he really wasn’t interested in knowing what I’d done. Unfortunately, that’s not how recovery goes. Blissful ignorance is the antithesis of recovery. Done properly, disclosure gives you the whole truth but none of the gory details. How many anonymous sexual encounters, condoms, webcams, and affairs are part of the whole truth. Outfits, toys, thoughts, orgasms, and (usually) names are gory details. That’s easier said than done because wanting to know those details is a kind of defense mechanism for some people,  as if the details somehow can delineate the borders of this new world you now inhabit; the real world that you’ve been unaware of.

My husband didn’t want to hear any of this but he needed to. I didn’t want to say any of this but I needed to. Even with help, I don’t think you can be prepared for that kind of pain. It hurt much worse than either of us expected.

The first time I went into labor, I knew what to expect. I read books, went to classes, and learned how to breathe. When the big day arrived, we were a little nervous but more excited than anything else. We were merrily hee-hee-hee-hoo-ing along until that first real pain hit. Ten hours later, we abandoned our goal of a drug free birth and I got a shot of demerol. Eight hours later I was absolutely certain I wouldn’t survive another contraction. Six hours later, after around 40 minutes of pushing, our child was born. The whole thing hurt much more than either of us expected.

The second time around, I was more than a little nervous because this time I knew exactly how much it was going to hurt . But even though I knew what was coming,that first real contraction brought a tidal wave of fear with it. That and incredulity. How could I have been so stupid as to do this twice? How could I have forgotten? 

When you disclose a relapse, you know there’s a lot of pain coming but you’ve got to do it anyway.

I hope I never have to disclose that I’ve lost my sobriety but it could happen someday. After all, I’ve licked the bottle, to use an AA analogy, several times and only by the most technical of definitions have I been able to say I didn’t drink. There are times when I’ve been literally banging my head against the wall because every cell in my body is screaming for sex and I hate, hate, hate that I can’t just jerk off like the rest of the world.

I’ll bet you’re wondering if I’ve told my husband. I don’t tell him every time I want to watch a porn flick or read some dirty stories on the newsgroups; those are gory details. But I do tell about the big stuff. Nearly losing my sobriety is big stuff, so the answer is yes. I told him.

There are many reasons addicts lie about relapses but most of them boil down to avoiding pain. The only reason I can tell the truth because I remind myself that he has the right to know who he loves and what world he’s living in. If I truly love him (I do) I have let him see the real me, regardless of the outcome. Still, it’s like labor the second time around: way scarier because I know what’s coming. I’m sincerely grateful that my husband understands that.

Open meetings, or what do a group of sex addicts talk about anyway?

We’re going to be having an open meeting tomorrow. That’s where we let in people who aren’t sex addicts. In my area, these are very rare. The last one was over 2 years ago. I asked for it so my husband could see where I go, and meet some of the men I’m in meetings with. After deliberately ignoring his concerns about my therapist with such awful results, I thought it was perfectly reasonable that he was concerned for my well being in a meeting where I am almost always the only female. It went very well, and my husband was grateful that the others understood and were willing to take the risk to allow him in. 

Evidently there are some therapists who want to learn more about our meetings. They have reasonable concerns about referring their clients who are suffering from sex addiction to our meetings. I’m sure they’re going to be nervous. I know we’re nervous about having them. We’re changing our format so that nobody qualifies. Usually we introduce ourselves by first name, and then go through our major forms of acting out along with the character defects we’re currently working on. Then we state our length of sexual sobriety. At this open meeting, we’re just going to say our names and that we’re sexaholics.

And that brings me to a weird thing. Over the past few days, I’ve been thinking that I’d rather go through the whole litany when I introduce myself. I think it’s that desire to be seen, judged, and then (hopefully) accepted. And I want to tell them my story.

I hate that needy part of me. For most of my life I’ve felt like a mistake. Like I had to work hard and be very good to earn the right to be here. That’s gotten a lot better in recovery. I’m aware of that emptiness and I know that feelings are not facts. Although I sometimes feel like a mistake, I am not. I have a right to be here because I am here. It’s that simple.

But I’m still looking outside myself for acceptance of my right to exist. I want these “normal” people to see me and hear my story and then tell me I’m a good person. I gotta work on that.

The open meeting is a good thing. There are some people in my group who will stay away because they’re afraid of being judged, but I think it’s good for the spouses and therapists to be able to see what our meetings are like. My husband was surprised that we didn’t talk about sex very much and that when we did, it was not salacious. And that’s because recovery from sex addiction isn’t about not masturbating or not having sex, it’s about living. We talk about how to live.

The Long answer for “Do you know how much you hurt me?”

It’s all about the meta-message. If you aren’t sure what a meta-message is, Deborah Tannen will explain it to you on the video.

This question we addicts get asked reminds me in a way of when my children were little and they asked, “Would you still love me if I … turn into a bad man…  go to jail when I’m a grown up… throw a rock through the window… etc.” There’s only one right answer to that: “I love you. No matter what.” When they were little, I answered the question in their hearts not the one on their lips. 

I think we need to do the same when we’re answering our spouses when they ask, “Do you know how much you hurt me?” In a linguistics book I read years ago, this is called addressing the meta-message. When someone sneers at you and says, “Have a nice day,” you’ll probably respond to the meta-message rather than their actual words. (One of the difficulties of email is that we often create the meta-message rather perceiving the other person’s intended communication.)

So with a spouse – what I’d do (what I’ve done) – is say I’m sorry. Again. Because I really am sorry. If there was any way I could go back in time and undo the hurts that I’ve caused, I would. And if I still feel sorry, I’m sure there are times when he still feels hurt and betrayed. And afraid that I’ll do it again. I mean — I’M often afraid I’ll do it again, it’s why I still go to SA meetings. 

And I ask if there’s anything at all I can do right now, in this moment to help. Sometimes my husband just wants to hear that I love him. Sometimes he wants me to stop doing whatever I’m doing and spend some time with him.

Does this make sense? When I am able to act out of sorrow and compassion – I’m kind. When I’m acting out of guilt and shame I get angry that he doesn’t just get over it. But the guilt and shame is really huge – for me there’s no getting over it without help from my sponsor and my therapist.

And here’s another thought: when you’re answering literally, or at least if I’m answering literally I’m gonna have to say, “No. I really don’t know how much I hurt you.” At which point my husband might be inclined to try to explain it to me. I know from listening at meetings that the conversation often goes this way, especially when the spouse doesn’t have enough support. Like most of the men I know, I’d be able to listen to this sometimes, but usually, I just can’t. The world gets black around the edges and I hear a roar, like the ocean, in my ears. I can see his mouth moving, and I know I’m supposed to be listening to him share his pain and betrayal, but I don’t hear a word. Not a single word. In my mind, I know he’s saying, “I hurt. I hurt. You hurt me.” But what I hear is … not that. I hear the universe confirming that I’m a bad, shitty person and that the world would be better off without me. That’s not what he’s saying, but even now, after residential treatment and over two years of sobriety, fighting to hear how I’ve hurt him is a battle that’s just too big for me. As I mentioned awhile back, just seeing the title of a book my therapist gave him (Shattered Hearts, by Stephanie Carnes) was difficult enough that I had to work hard to stay sober.

I’m so grateful that my husband really understands this part of the addictive cycle. That doesn’t mean I’m “off the hook” or that he hasn’t been hurt. It just means that he accepts that I’m sorry. Even though it’s not enough, it’s enough for him for now. I’m really lucky. He’s an exceptional man.

An interesting interview with Deborah Tannen on meta-messages can be found here if you scroll down a bit. Her books on communication are fascinating!

“Do you know how much you hurt me?”

 

When a spouse asks this, what should we recovering addicts say? I don’t know about you, but I feel queasy just reading the question. It sucks. I caused this wound and there’s nothing I can do to make it go away. No matter how good I am, how sober I am, I’m never going to be able to go back in time and not do the things I did. I think most of our spouses know this. But it doesn’t help much when they’re hurting. 

Speaking only for myself, it’s not that I’m unable or unwilling to take responsibility for my actions. I do. After all, I was the one who showed up at a residential treatment facility for all intents and purposes turning myself over as an abusive perpetrator who had preyed on a vulnerable priest and ruined his life. Which is funny. Because his life was going along just fine until my husband came back and reported him. If I’d been successful in committing suicide, he’d probably still be seeing clients and saying Mass. I wonder if that’s why he never notified anyone that I was in danger? Who knows. Wondering about whether he wished me dead is just getting back on the hamster wheel. Renting space in my head to a person who never had my best interests at heart. I’m pretty sure if I told my present therapist what I told my previous therapist in our last phone conversation, I’d be hospitalized for my own protection without consent. Of course we wouldn’t have had that conversation since I’m pretty sure that my present therapist isn’t going to be having phone sex with me anytime soon. 

But even knowing (some of) the motivations behind my sexual acting out, these were still my actions and the results happened. It is what it is. Part of getting better for me has been assessing fault and blame, trying to make sense of why I did what I did. I know that’s not a big part of 12-step recovery, but it’s been a necessary part of my recovery and obviously I still struggle with letting go.

And why shouldn’t those who love us also struggle with letting go? I don’t think anybody wakes up, decides to be a sex addict, and sets out to sexually betray their partner who loves and trusts them. But that doesn’t take the pain of our betrayal away. When someone is speeding and a child is killed, knowing that the child ran into the road by mistake doesn’t help. Even if we are able to completely absolve the motorist of guilt, the tragedy remains. The hurt and pain remains. Remember the movie “Signs?” Where the vet fell asleep at the wheel and killed the pastor’s wife? It’s like that. But worse. Because the vet wasn’t the pastor’s brother. They didn’t have to see each other.

So what should we say? The short answer is that we should say we’re sorry. Again.

Tune in next week for the long answer.

I’m a Strong Woman in Recovery

I don’t buy that whole spiel that everything happens to us for a reason; it certainly doesn’t fit with an atheist world view. Yeah, there are reasons for what happens but they’re not part of some larger plan directed by a deity. Growing up in a rigid, authoritative family, being molested, having my particular personality and genetic make-up along with a myriad of other factors are why I’m here typing away on this blog.

But I am trying to reinterpret some of my experiences. Instead of feeling misunderstood and victimized by my mother, my step-father, his father, my sister, my therapist, my real father, on and on, I’m trying to feel proud that I did more than just survive. I sought help and struggled to trust therapists even after having a disastrous 2 years with Fr. M, the leather loving wonder priest. (Here’s a happy side effect of atheism: no more worries that “Baphomet” is stalking me.)

When I’m trying to help others, that’s when it’s easiest for me to feel proud of myself. It’s one of the promises: No matter how far down we have gone, we will see how our experiences can help others. And whether I’m any help to them or not, every time I talk to a fellow suffering addict, it helps me.

A few days ago a woman called me looking for support and we had the strangest conversation. She told me she was an addict as well as a co-addict. Almost immediately she started in on how awful her husband is, what a liar, what a pervert, and so forth. I generally don’t listen to drunk-a-logs but this lady didn’t want to stop. She seemed to be frustrated that she wasn’t communicating just what a bad person her husband was. As the conversation progressed, I thought she probably needed support from sa-anon. When I mentioned this, it came out that she’d assumed that I was a fellow wronged wife. I could almost hear the gears in her brain grinding as she tried to process the idea that I was like her husband. I was kind, understanding, helpful yet I’m like her husband. That’s discordant. Either her preconceived notions have to go, or I do.

My guess is that she’s not ready to let go of her illness yet. Right now she’s the poor wife who has been so betrayed by this bad man. That buys a lot of sympathy from her church, her family, and her friends. It’ll be easier for her to imagine that the reason I wouldn’t play along with her vilification of him because I’m a pervert too.

I felt drawn down into that old shame spiral after I spoke with her. Usually I feel energized and hopeful after trying to help someone, this time I felt awful. I was going to blog about how this was the first time helping others didn’t help me. But spin and recovery don’t really go together so here’s the truth: I felt like a piece of shit after that call. But I’ve got a whole new set of tools that I’m in the habit of using to fight shame, like affirmations. My favorite is “I’m a strong woman in recovery.” After saying that a few times, it’s easier to remember who I am.

I’m a strong woman in recovery (not a piece of shit).

Mindreading, Shame, and Other Women

At the first weekend conference I attended, I was scared witless. I went because the men in my group said that there might be other women there, and evidently I needed these recovering women for my own recovery. Now, here’s the thing. I have some real difficulties with women. I have had some wonderful women friends over the years but I’ve always felt I’ve been unusually lucky because most women are twisty, evil bitches that will stab you in the back when you least expect it. One would think I have “mother issues.”

So I’m there at the desk checking in and there are name tags for us to wear. I had to hand back the pretty flowered one they handed me and ask for one of the red ones. How apropos. I got settled in and waited for someone I knew to show up. Eventually it was dinner time and still nobody from my group had arrived. As I walked into the dining room I quickly noticed that every other woman in the room was wearing a flowered name tag. I could have cried. As I stood there, the other women would glance up at me, notice that flaming scarlet name tag and then studiously avoid eye contact. It was a ghastly return to the 7th grade lunch room and I handled it the same way I did when I was 13. I got some food, sat down at a table by myself and pretended to eat. Even though I knew that co-addicts are in fact just as sick as addicts, in that room, I felt like the lone slut in a room full of virtuous wives who clearly held the moral high ground. And of course, since addiction is a shame driven disease I felt myself sliding down that familiar slippery slope.

And then something really good happened. A woman who had several years of recovery in sanon sat down beside me and started talking. I was too close to breaking down in tears to say much of anything back but she didn’t mind. Without me saying a word, she knew that I was having trouble being the lone slut amongst all the pure women. Looking me straight in the eye, she assured me that I’d be okay in the conference and that I was no worse than any other woman there, regardless of how awkward I felt. Of course, I didn’t believe that for a minute – but she sat and talked to me just like I was a regular person. After a few minutes I was comfortable enough to be talking about kids, weather, normal stuff.

I can’t say I got comfortable around the other women, I didn’t. They still scared the bejeezus out of me. But that one generous act still helps me manage my fear when I interact with an sanon woman.