Tag Archive | addiction

Celebrating My D-Day

If I had a D-Day, it would have been this week. My three year anniversary of Discovery Day. This generally refers to the day sexual sin is exposed in a relationship, forever changing the unsuspecting partner’s life. It is a moment of utter devastation and complete betrayal. However, for me, D-Day has a somewhat different meaning.

D-Day was the day I discovered me. Buried deep underneath the fragmented layers of a life destroyed by the neglect and rejection of a sexless marriage. It was the day the broken and crushed spirit within me found enough courage to fight for my soul. It was the day that I recognized the pain of staying the same was becoming greater than the pain of changing something. Anything. It was the day I decided I didn’t want to hurt anymore. D-Day was the awakening, not the breaking of me.

Not only was my soul awakened that day, but my eyes were also opened. My naivety and embedded beliefs that had accepted sexual and emotional abuse throughout my life were greatly challenged.

My husband was away from home. I sat down at his computer. I found pornography. That day, and the next, and the next. The magnitude of his porn use slowly sinking into my mind and my stomach.

I didn’t confront him. This was about me now. For the first time, this would be about me, not him. I needed the time to prepare and strengthen myself against the attacks of shame, blame, anger, and complete insanity I knew from experience would be deflected back to me. This time I would not allow him to confuse me and twist the truth so that I no longer knew what it was. I needed time to gain clarity and confidence.

A few days later, I was shaken by the revelation that my husband was able to look me in the eye and blatantly lie to me. As odd as it may seem, I had never actually considered that my husband was deceitful and untruthful with me at any time in our marriage. Finding out he was a liar disturbed me just as much as the pornography. I wondered how many times he had lied to me. How many times he had laughed at my gullibility. I felt foolish and stupid and betrayed.

The overwhelming emotions pushed me into action. I was no longer willing to be the wife who accepted a marriage devoid of affection, companionship, respect, intimacy, love and sex. I did not feel brave. I did not feel courageous. I felt battered and abandoned. I was about to change the role I was playing in my marriage but it did not unduly scare me. My life would be different, and have new challenges, but it couldn’t be worse. I might be married. I might be alone. But I would no longer be neglected and abused.

My D-Day is a birthday more than an anniversary. A celebration of a new beginning and a new life. I began to value me that week. More than my marriage and more than the façade of a happy family.

I began the journey to healing and wholeness on my own. Without my husband. And without inviting God to join me. Leaving God out wasn’t a deliberate omission, rather I just didn’t think about it at all one way or the other. Although I went to church regularly, and considered myself a Christian, the protective walls I had built around my heart were also a barrier to a functioning relationship with God.

Years earlier, I remember attending a church service where I clearly felt the presence of the Holy Spirit and heard the whisper to open my heart and fully let Him in. And I also recall distinctly telling God no, I can’t do that, it would hurt too much. I believed that opening even the smallest sliver of my heart to God would release the floodgate of all my suppressed emotions and pain. It was my belief that my heart could not be both open to a relationship with God and closed to my husband. I chose to keep my heart wrapped up tight.

Many times throughout my marriage, God beckoned me to Him. He stretched out His arms to me and I consciously refused to draw close. My heart had been broken too many times by the people who were supposed to love and protect me. Even in the despair of the events leading to my D-Day, my distrust extended to God.

It took me a few weeks before I finally approached God with my shattered heart. And He was right there waiting for me. He gently took my heart and my hand in His, and set me on an unbelievable path of restoration and healing.

Looking back, I can see God’s orchestration all along. Even when I rejected and pushed God aside He waited patiently for me as a loving Father does. Even when I did not feel His presence He was there.  Even when I thought it was only me against a husband and world that had let me down, it wasn’t.

My D-Day was the end of my life as I knew it. I thank God every day for that new beginning. What the devil meant for evil, God meant for good. And it is good.

You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. Genesis 50:20

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Breaking Bread and Broken Hearts – The Morning After

Our first communion together. After 25 years and 6 days of marriage. Four days after my husband’s salvation. And less than 24 hours after shared disclosures of our sexual history, sin and betrayals.

The day before, I heard details of my husband’s sex and porn addiction behaviours. He was blindsided with the stinging news that his wife (that would be me) had an affair many years earlier.

The morning after had arrived. In the two months that my husband had regularly been attending church with me, we often left home separately, as he served on the worship team and needed to be at church early for practice. This Sunday was different. There were guests leading the worship service. He would be operating the sound system but had set it up the evening before. In God’s grand design, we drove to church together. Raw. Quiet. Each of us immersed in our own unrelenting pain. Separate yet united.

We walked into the sanctuary. He headed for the sound station. I sat with a friend. Disappointment weighed heavily on my heart that we were not able to sit together as a couple for our first communion.

The immensity and weariness of our brokenness kept me from singing. My heart was breaking that even here at church, circumstances and seating arrangements were disconnecting us on a very special occasion.

I decided that once I had received my bread and wine (or rather grape juice and cracker) I would go and stand beside my husband at the sound station. There was enough division in our marriage. This would not be another time.  God’s sanctification and redemption was for us to claim.

I was too late. A movement beside me. I looked up and there he was, joining me on my pew! He said we had to be together for his first communion. It was a bittersweet moment. The joy of partaking in our first communion together was covered with an overwhelming sadness. We could not move. Or sing. Or pray and reflect. My husband had his arm around me. I had my head tucked in his shoulder. And we just cried together. Walking to the front of the church for prayer was not a possibility. The weight of our pain immobilized us. Our pastor came to us. Never before or since have I seen him approach anyone seated in their pew for prayer. Nothing was ordinary about that day. After a bit, my husband went back to work the sound system. The rest of the service was a blur. Except for the words of one worship song that resonated deep within me:

The sun comes up, it’s a new day dawning

It’s time to sing Your song again

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me

Let me be singing when the evening comes.

(10,000 Reasons)

The morning after the most difficult day of our marriage, with the day stretching darkly ahead of us, these words brought me a glimmer of hope and light. The sun had come up. And nothing would ever be the same again. We were both now fully aware of all the “whatevers” that had combined to ravage our hearts and marriage. The devastating effects of sexual sin and betrayal were very much our present. And would be daily for a long time to come. But the actions and behaviours were in the past. It was the “whatever” lying before me that remained unclear. And yet it wasn’t. Unknown where the details and timing of God’s plan to rebuild our lives and marriage. Known was the commitment to the process I felt during the communion service from all three of the components in the trinity of my marriage – God, husband and wife.

God gathered a broken man and woman to Him that morning. In the brilliant setting of a communion service. Where we were called to remember the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ as He bled and died on the cross for me. For my husband. For every one of us. Where extravagant love and overwhelming sorrow were forever united at Calvary so they could one day join us on our church pew. Cleansing. Purifying. Transforming. I am forever humbled and grateful.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22,23

The Day I Told My Husband I Had An Affair

I woke up. That’s a good thing. It meant I had been sleeping and my heart had received enough peace to allow my mind to stop spinning for a few hours.

I fervently prayed. Immediately. Before I even got out of bed. This was not my regular schedule. But this was also no ordinary day. Next, I dove into my Bible. My heart yearned to receive God’s words. A message of hope, faithfulness, promise, strength. Something. Anything I could hold onto to soothe my anxious spirit. God did not disappoint. He never does.

Now I felt a little steadier to begin my morning routines. Showering, getting dressed, eating breakfast. Every step bringing me nearer to our departure for the city and our counselling session. Every minute that passed on the clock carrying us ever closer to the moment I would add another hurtful layer to our story of sexual betrayal and recovery from my husband’s sex addiction.

Disclosure day. Mine and his. Only he didn’t know there would be two that day. He did not know that it was his heart that would be torn apart more than mine would be. Although he would be revealing the extent of his sexual history and sin to me, it felt like I was the one about to destroy my tattered, much loved teddy bear. Ripping out the stuffing. Leaving shredded fragments lying scattered on the floor. A gaping hole where his heart should be beating and healing.

As soon as my husband woke up, we prayed together. I tried my best to pour love and care into him. I wanted God to do the same.

We both received texts from our support system that day. God was not leaving us on our own. And neither were the people God had provided to walk our healing journey with us. Intercession was occurring at the same time we pulled into the parking lot, entered the building, walked into the office, and the door closed behind us. No turning back.

His disclosure first. I listened. Asked a few questions. Received honest and sufficient answers. When it came to a natural end, our counsellor looked at me, I took the first of many deep breaths, and nodded. Our counsellor told my husband it was now my turn.

A look of confusion and surprise crossed my husband’s face. And then as I confessed my affair and sexual sin, sadness and grief were added into the mixture. I saw in his teary eyes and the emotions on his face what a broken, dejected heart looks like.

I did not cry as I read my disclosure. But my voice and hands were shaky. I had to stop reading several times to take a deep breath before continuing to shatter his heart.

My husband reached over and took my hand. He held it for a minute or two before letting go.

He blamed himself. Our counsellor quickly corrected his thoughts. He agreed with him that he had created an environment in our marriage that made me more susceptible to committing adultery, but ultimately, I was the one responsible for that infidelity. The affair occurred because of my choice, and my behaviour.

Driving home, my husband again reached over and held my hand. Until we decided it was best that he have both hands on the steering wheel while maneuvering in city traffic. Nevertheless, this action spoke what words could not yet achieve.  A sign and promise of forgiveness and hope. The immediate assurance that although our hearts and lives were broken, God was mending us both separately and together.

We arrived home. We walked through the door and my husband gave me a welcome home hug and a gentle kiss on the forehead. Akin to carrying his bride over the threshold.

Soon after, our pastor called to check in with him. And then he left for worship practice at church. He asked me if I wanted him to stay home. I didn’t. I knew that God had predestined this worship practice to minister to his heart and surround him with the support and love of our pastor and his wife. Because our God is so good that way.

We climbed into the same bed that night. Our bedtime recovery routines were clouded with the heaviness and raw pain of both of our sexual betrayals. But even though it would have been understandable, perhaps even excusable, to miss a night of our rituals, my hero, my husband, remained dedicated to communicating feelings and praises to each other. And so we did. And then once more that day, he reached for my hand and we prayed together.

My husband and I were covered in prayer that day. When the extent of both of our sexual betrayals and sin were revealed and confessed, rather than destroying the progress of our individual and marriage recoveries, grace won. Both of us were given the opportunity to not only receive grace, mercy and forgiveness from God and each other, but also to extend it to each other and ourselves.

God teaches and grows our character as He heals. That really is amazing grace and love.

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. 1 John 1:9

Twas the Night Before Disclosure(s)

My husband held out his phone, showing me a text he had received from our pastor. He didn’t understand what it meant. It was the day after he accepted Jesus Christ as his Saviour. A fellow church member had asked our pastor if he had warned my husband about the spiritual attacks he was likely to face in the coming days. Apparently, this other man’s new found freedom and salvation had been immediately assaulted and he was concerned that my husband be prepared and on his guard for the same thing.

I read the words and my heart dropped right to my feet. Right to the instruments I would be using in two more days to crush his open and vulnerable spirit. He was about to be blindsided by my disclosure. At our next counselling session, I would confess my affair to him. Yes, I understood about spiritual attacks. I also sickeningly realized that his spiritual attack would be coming from me. I looked up at his confused and fearful face. And I tried to be strong and encouraging for both of us. I don’t think it worked.

My husband was an emotional mess that week. He had been preparing his disclosure with our therapist for our session and was very anxious about my reaction and the outcome. We had attempted a casual date night at home the evening before. It was obvious that it was more than the jigsaw puzzle causing his agitation. He was distraught over the looming revelations of his sexual sin the next day, and of hurting me even more. I did my best to reassure him that it would be okay. I was pretty certain that part would be. Our therapist had indicated that it was doubtful I would hear anything from him that would be newly traumatizing. So I was a little baffled at how troubled he was. But also moved by his concern for me and the brokenness I was witnessing.

My husband was the genuine picture of remorse that every sexually betrayed partner wants to see. Only at that moment, I didn’t really want to see it. If he had tears in his eyes now, how would I bear the look on his face the next day when he learned of my adultery? How would he?

That evening was emotionally brutal. Because of the progress in my husband’s recovery, he was beginning to believe that I was a miracle and a gift. Profound sadness had overtaken me, mixed in with a hefty dose of shame and guilt. I was not a miracle. I was not a gift. I was a cheating wife.

I was also extremely worried and afraid that my survival mechanisms would kick in, my emotions would retreat and shut down, and I would appear cold and unfeeling during my disclosure. I was so fearful of my remorse not being clearly apparent, that I had been praying all week that I would cry during my confession. At the very least, that my voice would be quivery. I was sure it would seem like I didn’t even care about the wounds the discovery of my affair would cause. Or the feelings of betrayal he would surely experience from keeping my disclosure hidden from him while he was distressed about his.

It was a night of heaviness and secrets. Of darkness about to meet light. And yet neither of us knowing if the light would be bright enough to overcome the raw, palpable pain.

What we did know was that we were in this battle together. We intentionally chose to spend the evening before the disclosure(s) dating each other. Neither of us had the energy or desire to leave our home for a date, but nevertheless we ordered takeout, watched Netflix, completed a jigsaw puzzle of a fluffy white kitten and desperately clung to hope. Together.

Hope and faith was all we had, as faint as it was. But Jesus tells us that if we have faith the size of a mustard seed mountains will move. We had two mountains. And two mustard seeds. Also a prayer team that, unbeknownst to each other, had been assembled by each of us reaching out to members of our support systems.

We ended our evening sharing feelings from our day, giving each other praises, and most importantly,  holding hands and praying together. I don’t remember the words that were said, but God does. He heard them. The prayers from our hearts were enough. We did not have to fight this battle on our own.

But you will not even need to fight. Take your positions; then stand still and watch the Lord’s victory. He is with you, O people of Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid or discouraged. Go out against them tomorrow, for the Lord is with you! 2 Chronicles 20:17

Sometimes “Happy” Anniversary Isn’t

Two very special friends from my recovery group for partners of sex addicts had wedding anniversaries this weekend. I first wrote the word “celebrated” but replaced it with “had.” Because although one was a celebration, the other, not so much. And I can’t stop thinking about the transformation that has occurred in my marriage from the not so much to the celebration.

The first friend wrote in an email “We have plans to celebrate our anniversary this weekend.” Even included a smiley face. I responded with “Happy Anniversary! The best part is that it really is happy, isn’t it?! A joy and gratitude filled celebration.”

I learned of my other friend’s anniversary via my Facebook newsfeed. As I scanned the messages of “Happy Anniversary to a wonderful couple!” my heart sank. My first reaction was “Uh-oh.” Because I know, oh, I know, the sting of those words that do not always bring joy. I knew in this instance, that as they had for me, each proclamation would be a poke and twist into the wound of unhappy days behind and uncertain days ahead.

My wedding anniversary became a mocking reminder of just how long I had been mistreated, neglected, unloved, in pain. With every congratulatory acknowledgement I received over the years came the assumption that I had a happy marriage. Or that I would at least have a happy time celebrating it for one day. I failed at both.

Anniversary cards would come in the mail from our parents and church. Some years I opened them and left them out for my husband to see. They might garner a quick glance. Or a snicker at the corniness. Nothing more. No sweet sentiments for my starved soul from him. Other times I would open a card, hold back tears and throw it in the garbage. The words inside too hurtful and so far away from my reality that they didn’t have a place in my home.

For our tenth wedding anniversary, I received a commemorative Precious Moments plate from my parents. It made me cry. As a teenager growing up in the eighties, my bedroom was filled with Precious Moments figurines, many received as gifts on special occasions. This is what my mother thought she was doing now. It should have been a perfect gift, but instead it was so very wrong for my wounded heart. I kept it for another seventeen years. This spring I threw it away along with the painful memories it generated.

My parents and in-laws were the only people who celebrated our anniversary over the years. Not the husband and wife within the marriage. It was another bitter rejection that my husband was not willing to sacrifice one evening of his year to spend with me. The one day, that maybe, just maybe, he would choose to be with me rather than the television or computer or his fantasy world. It seldom happened. Once or twice if there was something he wanted to do. We went to a movie once that he wanted to see. Cast Away. I remember because we don’t go to movies together. There is no theater in our town. It requires a drive to the city. Which would also require spending three hours with me in a vehicle. As it also happens, there are no decent restaurants in our town. Going out for dinner was never an option in his mind. The food choices seemed to be more important than the company (me). It didn’t take long for my mind to make the connection that I was not worth his time.

Less than two months into our recovery for his sex addiction, our 25th wedding anniversary occurred. A momentous milestone with every possible conflicting emotion attached to it. The week before, I mustered up the courage to tell my husband that I wanted to go out for supper. We would have a date for our anniversary, and I would pick the restaurant. He agreed. Now that I had dared to communicate my need, panic set in. My mind was spinning with choosing the “right” restaurant. I was still wary of his disapproval in my selection and trying to find the balance of keeping him happy while staying true to my newfound desire to use my squeaky little voice. And honestly, I knew he wouldn’t want to drive a long distance for our date, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to spend that much time in a vehicle together either. Supper conversation would bring us enough unease for the evening. I researched restaurants and menus in nearby towns. I hummed and I hawed. But I didn’t discuss it with him. As challenging as it was, it was very important to my recovery (and in retrospect his) that this decision be mine, not his.

We observed our 25th wedding anniversary together. Celebrated would not be quite the right word. It was not a light, party atmosphere in our section of the restaurant. We were both self conscious and uncomfortable. Conversation was awkward, tentative, but very polite. As an added bonus, we were keenly aware that less than a week later we would be sitting in our counsellor’s office hearing his disclosure. And what I also knew was that he was about to be blindsided by mine.

The pain between us was palpable that evening. We shared it. Each of us holding more secrets in our hearts that would soon be exposed. Each of us searching for hope in each other’s eyes.

We have returned to that same restaurant now to celebrate our 26th and 27th wedding anniversaries. It is never too late for a bride and groom to begin new traditions.

Maybe that evening was a celebration. Maybe God was looking at us with a twinkle in His eye. A smile on His face that His plan for redemption was in motion. Because it was. It most definitely was.

He has taken me to the banquet hall, and His banner over me is love. Song of Songs 2:4

Honey, I’m Home

I drove by my house. Unable to turn into the driveway, park my car, and take the agonizing walk across the yard and through the door. Circling around the block another time seemed like the easiest thing to do. And it was. More than once.

I have also sat in my car, staring at my house, the weight in my stomach keeping my butt firmly in the seat.

And then there have been the times that I have stood on my step, taking deep breaths and willing myself to open the door and enter my house. My house. But not always my home. And never my sanctuary or refuge.

My husband was on the other side of that door. He was always home from work before me. In the pre-recovery days, that didn’t bother me so much. It was unlikely that our paths would cross, even in our small house, for more than the few necessary moments. Most of his time was spent in the bedroom or his office with the door closed. Keeping me and our children at a distance.

But now that I knew how my husband had been spending his after work hours, now that our marriage was openly struggling and battling sex addiction and sexual betrayal trauma, the tension of his presence was in every room, whether he physically was or not.

It took time for me to adjust to him being more physically present in the house. It was odd to have him greet me at the door when I came in. To seek me out during the evening. To leave our bedroom door open. (No longer requiring me to knock and receive permission to enter to put laundry away, or to come to bed!)

This all kept me a little off balance. Not knowing what to expect next. I had learned ways to avoid the anger, soften the criticism, withstand the silent treatments, tiptoe around the perimeter to evade detection. I was fairly adept at walking on eggshells. But now the parameters were changing on me. And although it was a good thing, indeed a very good sign of the behaviour changes of recovery, I didn’t always know what to do with these offerings.

I was curious, cautious, hopeful. Watching, and not quite believing. But desperately wanting to. But mostly I was uneasy and confused. My husband’s new behaviour challenged everything I knew to be true. It left me a bit shaky and uncertain. It caused me to react and respond differently to him. It was seeping through the cracks of my carefully guarded heart. My world was changing. And that scared me. Even in the crazy, messed up life of being married to a sex addict, it was my life. It was what I knew. It was what I could trust to be true. It was him. And it was me. And now it wasn’t.

I no longer dread coming home. Home has become my safe place. My husband’s smiling face, open arms and loving heart welcome me. Every time. My spirit lifts when I know I am about to see him.

Recently, I was driving home from an outing to the city. Sadness was weighing heavily on my heart due to the painful situations of several people close to me.  My eyes were close to tears. I felt incapable of helping them all. My heart called to God, “How do I do this?”

I turned and glanced out the side window of my car. It was dusk, and a brilliant full moon was shining through the wispy pink sky around it. I was in awe of the beauty. And I heard God’s whisper telling me “You don’t. I do.” My spirit calmed. And my heart longed to get home and tell my husband about the beautiful moon and God’s voice and comfort.

My heart longed to get home and tell my husband about the beautiful moon and God’s voice and comfort. These are not words that I would have ever imagined writing. Or thinking. Or feeling. I smiled then. And I am smiling now. Although I am feeling that little lump in the back of my throat forming. The one that overwhelms me with gratitude in God’s miraculous healing of my heart, my husband’s sex addiction, and our marriage. God has taught me to trust and to love again and it is a wonderful thing.

He will once again fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy. Job 8:21

From Addict to Best Friend

My addict. Those were the words I used to describe my husband in the title of my previous post “Untangling From My Addict.” In the days following the post, I found myself wondering how and why I had so unhesitatingly attached the addict label to him.

In the beginning of our recovery program, it was a relief and validation to be given a name for our crisis. Sexual addiction and sexual betrayal trauma were the answers to the question of “What the heck is wrong with us and our marriage?” Once the problem was identified, our therapist followed through with the solution.

I accepted that my husband was a sex addict. I acknowledged that I was the partner of a sex addict and a victim of his behaviours. The admission was a breath of fresh air to me. Denial was a thing of the past. It was a blow, but not a defeat. It was freeing, promising, life giving to know I wasn’t crazy. It was hard confronting my wounds. Oh, the effort was gruelling. But it is necessary to call it what it is if you truly want to release its power over you.

As I dove further into recovery resources, I began to feel uncomfortable wearing the labels that had been affixed to us. Addict. Yes. Victim. Yes. That was a part of who we were. Of who we still are today. But only one component. It is not the entire picture.

I spent many weeks struggling with our classifications of addict and victim. I was being careful to ensure I wasn’t returning to any state of denial. But I was also gaining an awareness that we were so much more than these labels. This was not my identity, nor his.

For me, wearing a sticker tagging me as a victim, as a partner of a sex addict, only encouraged and validated that role, and I had no intention of giving my husband that much power over me anymore. I was victimized by his addiction, but choosing not to stake the victim claim.

At the same time as God was gently opening my heart to hope and healing, He was showing me how unconditionally and extravagantly He loved me. Revealing to me my value as His beloved daughter, wonderfully created in His image to bring Him delight. I was finding a new identity in Christ.

God also began slowly changing my heart attitudes towards my husband. Uncovering the truth that my husband was also passionately loved and designed by God. Hmmm. If I was more than a victim, then logically my husband was more than an addict. We were both broken humans being called to healing and wholeness.

The check in sheet being used by my recovery group began to trouble me. It didn’t seem right to identify myself as the partner of a sex addict, giving him a label that both of us were required to wear. I suggested a change in wording to our group leader. She agreed. The check in sheet was modified to introduce us as the partner of a man recovering (or not ☹) from sex addiction. It is amazing how such a small transformation and choice of words can make a difference in the views of ourselves and our husbands.

My husband is a new creation. I am a new creation. And so I am still not sure what drew me to using the words “my addict” in the title of my previous post when I was so uncomfortable applying that label to us. Maybe the key is in the “my”. Recovery has become a lifestyle for us now. He will always have to utilize his recovery tools to remain sober. I will always have to rely on God, my Higher Power, for my health and sanity. But we are doing this together. He is mine. My addict. My husband. My best friend.

This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun.” 2 Corinthians 5:17