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Vol. 2 No. 5 share without shame W I had a revelation after a conversation with a friend the other day. We were discussing Facebook and a recent post, which she really enjoyed, despite the fact that her husband is NOT a sex addict. She shared the post, thinking it would help Healing Betrayed Hearts reach more women.
She was not prepared for the reaction she received! Her husband and a couple of his friends questioned the share. Simply seeing the post elicited so much negative energy that she found herself defending her actions. Her husband couldn't understand why she chose to share it. His friends worried that something was amiss in their marriage and inquired about their well-being. Why is this? Why is there so much shame associated with sexual addiction; to the extent that someone who doesn't have a spouse who is a sex addict can't share something without justifying her actions? Why is there such a stigma? How can we ever heal if we are afraid? Fear immobilizes; stifle thoughts and actions; brings doubt and confusion; creates indecisiveness and stagnation; creates negativity; destroys your self-confidence; steals your peace and contentment; and causes you to hide. Left unchecked, fear will keep you in a state of frustration, discouragement and denial. Don't let fear rule you! Stand tall in your willingness to like and share what YOU want to.
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Vol. 2 No. 4 not grateful, but ...Have you ever heard a friend say she was grateful for something horrible? It's unexpected. You can't grasp how something bad could possibly have a positive connotation. And, yet it seems to be the new norm. I think Michelle Fredman explains it best in her post This is Why I'm Grateful for Cancer: "I am grateful for cancer because before my diagnosis I was asleep. I was stuck inside a narrative of 'if only … ' I was waiting for life to happen to me, instead of realizing that it was happening right now, right in front of me, everywhere I looked. Getting sick was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through, and yet at the same time the best thing that has ever happened to me because it woke me up." The Internet is flooded with gratitude and appreciation for illnesses, addictions, struggles, strife and disturbances in life. Psychologists believe this is because we are still capable of focusing on the positive–even in the most trying and depressing times.
My former relationship with a sex addict was absolutely a trying and depressing time. I fumbled through it blindly because very little was known; help wasn't readily available. And although I am in a better place, I don't think I can say I'm grateful to have been in a relationship with a sex addict. The dictionary defines grateful as: feeling or showing an appreciation of kindness; thankful. Thankful is defined as: pleased and relieved. Those words don't ring true. I am not pleased with the fact that my ex watched pornography, called 900 numbers, and had affairs. I am not happy about the fact that my self-esteem plummeted and I was consumed with an animalistic rage that took me years to overcome. In no way, shape or form am I relieved about any aspect of my experience. How could I possibly be appreciative of the heartache, turmoil and devastation; the disappointment, horror or even shame I endured; a failed relationship? The honest answer is that I'm not. I'm not grateful for any of those things, but ... I think that when something shatters, you have a chance to put it together in new–and often better–ways. My life as I knew it shattered. It imploded and I suffered greatly. But, I put it back together one piece at a time. I do not believe I would be who I am today without that experience. As devastating and traumatic as it was, it molded me into someone I truly like. I am grateful for how I've grown. I'm thankful for everything I've learned. I appreciate the opportunities that experience has created. I am EXCITED to use that pain and anguish to help others. For the first time in my life, I am on the right path. And for that, I am immensely grateful. Vol. 2 No. 3 escalationI learned relatively quickly that my ex's addiction was a master. It ruled our marriage. It consumed my life. And, for years, it even destroyed me.
And the isolation made it even worse. You have to understand that this was the early 90's. The Internet wasn't even live until the Fall of 1991, and pornography wasn't as accessible as it is today. Playboy, Hustler and other adult magazines were the go-to. Men casually joked that they subscribed for the articles and their spouses or partners tolerated it as "what men do." Calendars with women in scantily clad outfits were kept way past their expiration. Back rooms in VHS video stores became a popular way to view more than just nudity. And, although coined in the 80's, the term sexual addiction wasn't well-known until (then 35-year-old) Tiger Woods brought it to the forefront in 2009-2010. So, I was essentially combating something I (and everyone around me) knew very little about ... ALONE. All I really knew for sure initially was that my husband had wandering eyes. Anytime a large busted woman entered his line of sight, I ceased to exist. He seemed to devour her with his exaggerated glance, attempting to etch every detail into his memory for later recall. Of course at the time, I had no idea that's what he was doing. All I knew was that while holding my hand, he was checking out another woman. It drove me mad. Houston we have a problem (I-V) details the first time I actually caught him masturbating. That led to a complete cleansing of our home. I wanted every pornographic magazine, video, calendar and everything else I could find GONE. I was clueless and thought it would solve the problem. If there wasn't anything around for him to look at, he'd stop right? Nope! Despite the fact that we could barely afford our rent as college students, he charged thousands of dollars on 900 numbers. The first time I saw a bill. I cried in rage and horror knowing that I was working three jobs while going to school full time so he could pay to hear another woman tell him things his wife wouldn't even ever say to him. I was disgusted. But, I figured since this option was outed too, he'd surely stop now ... Wrong! It only created more of a need in him and fueled his addiction. He started having affairs. I forgave him again and again, and we tried to move forward in our marriage. Things would seem okay for awhile, but, this addiction thing was a master, remember? We had a word processor, not a computer. (Remember that this was the early 90's.) When we finally got a computer, it didn't have a modem. It wasn't until years later when we finally began to navigate the world of dial-up. And, with each significant technological improvement, his addiction became more and more insatiable. The easier it was for him to access it, the more of it he had to have. Addiction experts indicate this behavior is known as chasing the elusive high. It becomes more challenging as the "chase" perpetuates the addiction. In an effort to replicate the first-time sensation, acting out increases. Unable to numb whatever the sex addict is fleeing from, he has to find new ways to self-medicate. His hunger for sensation and new experiences drive him to escalate his behavior. Left untreated, this master will continue to escalate. Eventually it and everything in its path will likely implode. A spouse or partner has zero power, zero say, zero impact. Vol. 2 No. 2 isolationWhy did I feel so ashamed even though HE was the one with the addiction? Why did it feel as if people looked at me like I was a bad wife? I could imagine them snickering and referring to me with an assortment of choice words. I may as well have taken out a public service announcement on the local news: "Woman embarrassed and humiliated by husband's actions as she believes they reflect negatively upon her."
At least, that's what I thought. HE was a sex addict. HE checked out every woman who crossed his path, watched pornography, called 900 numbers and ultimately cheated. So why did I feel like everyone was judging me for HIS actions? Didn't they know I couldn't control him? How could I make him stop? If they knew, why weren't they telling me? I felt completely alone. No one understood what I was going through. How could they? My own mother said, "You're not the first woman whose husband cheated on her!" In her defense, she wasn't trying to make me feel badly, but rather to assure me that I wasn't alone. It did not work. I mean, if my own mother couldn't understand that THIS was different, THIS was worse, THIS was an addiction, how could I expect anyone to? Even me ... I blamed myself. I wasn't pretty enough. I wasn't smart enough. I wasn't kind, thoughtful or interesting enough. I wasn't funny enough. I wasn't witty, hardworking or devoted enough. I JUST WASN'T ENOUGH. Period. End of story. That's what I thought. I had to be more. More of what he wanted. I had to mold myself into whatever he conjured up when he fantasized. The problem was, I couldn't compete with an ever-changing dream; with an addiction. It won every time. It took me years to realize that. No matter who he was with, he would STILL be an addict. He would act out, feel guilty, offer remorse and then repeat. It had nothing to do with me, and was solely his issue. He was the only one who could make it stop. I had no part in any of it. REALLY. It had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with our marriage. And despite the fact that it felt SUPER personal because it was a sexual addiction, the fact remained that it was still an addiction and required treatment. And, when I finally realized that he wasn't going to do the work necessary to change, I did the only thing I could for MY survival: I walked away. I decided to step out of the shadows and quit hiding because of HIS issue. I refuse to be ashamed. I will no longer isolate myself and worry if someone is talking about me. I know "more" doesn't exist. And I'm okay with that Because I know the truth: I did NOT cause his addiction. I am NOT responsible for his actions. And most importantly, I know that I AM enough. Vol. 2 No. 1 Self graceHave you ever noticed how difficult it is to forgive yourself? You have no problem telling a friend that her actions are forgivable; that she really isn’t a bad person; that she is justified. And yet, you are completely incapable of doing the same thing for yourself.
I am the queen of this! I beat myself up for anything and everything. Why did I do this or that? How can I be so stupid? Just because he … doesn’t mean I had to … It’s seemingly impossible to stop the torrent of self-criticism and doubt that plagues my thoughts every day. Despite nearly 30 years recovering from my former relationship with a sex addict, I find myself struggling with self-grace more than anything. HE was the addict--and yet, I turned into someone unrecognizable. I made choices without thinking; I reacted to things poorly. One minute I was crying and the next I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I became a PI extraordinaire and KNEW my snooping would lead to discovery of him acting out or yet another affair. His addiction controlled me and made me act differently than I ever had. It was uncharacteristic and yet, it became my new norm. Even though HE did something wrong or inappropriate, I found myself asking for forgiveness because my actions were equally as bad, if not worse. Not that I was cheating or doing the things he was; but I was mean. I wanted to lash out and hurt him because I was hurting. And, that ISN’T me! My conscious ate me alive. I was consumed by guilt. I didn’t like who I had become, and yet, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to who I wanted to be. Unfortunately recovering from a relationship with a sex addict isn’t an event, but rather a process. One in which I’m still taking part. I learned somewhere along the way that beating myself up and carrying guilt like a cross to bear isn’t healthy. I HAD to practice self-grace. Grace is defined as: “the quality or state of being considerate or thoughtful; mercy, pardon.” I had to pardon MYSELF; offer MYSELF mercy; and be kind to MYSELF. Initially all the SELF stuff made me feel SELFISH. But, the more and more I practiced it, the more and more I realized that it was SELFISH NOT TO! If I can tell a friend it’s okay, I can tell myself the same thing. It’s human. It’s understandable, justifiable, forgivable, and every other “...able” I can come up with. If my friend deserves this, don’t I? Vol. 1 No. 9 am i crazy?How is it possible to go from seemingly normal--albeit completely clueless--to this insane nut-job I've become?
One minute I'm crying so hard my nose hurts from wiping off all of the snot. I consider taking stock in Kleenex. My whole body heaves with each gut-wrenching sob. My throat is raw, my eyes are so puffy they look like they're going to swell shut. I'm worse than a baby with colic. The next, I'm a raving lunatic who wants to lash out and hurt him. The hatred spewing from me is evident in my stance, glare and voice. I think of clawing his eyes out. Sometimes I actually slap him--taking immense satisfaction in the rigid red handprint I see across his cheek. I think the devil is inside me because of the thoughts I'm having. But, wait! How can I be such polar opposites within seconds? Neither one is the real me. I don't recognize myself or my actions, but am seemingly powerless to stop them. By the time my brain begins processing what I'm feeling, my heart shifts again and I'm thrown into a completely different feeling. How is this possible when I don't even know what I'm feeling! I remember all of this as if it were yesterday. When you're in a relationship with a sex addict your lose control of your life ... and even yourself. You look in the mirror and don't know how you got here. Just surviving an hour without a complete breakdown is an accomplishment. Your spouse or partner is the sex addict, and yet, you're the one who is "acting out." How is this even possible? I remember not knowing why I was feeling what I was feeling; how to cope with what I was feeling; and if I was even feeling anything at all. Years later, when I began helping other women work through the pain and agony associated with a relationship with a sex addict, I found a word that changed everything: GRIEF. Sometimes just knowing that there is a justifiable basis for what you're feeling helps immensely. That word would have likely altered my behavior if I had known that was what I was dealing with. Knowledge is power. Knowing somehow offers a sense of grace which previously may not have been attainable. Take comfort in that word. Research it. Understand it. I'm not saying this will magically make the feelings go away, or the behaviors vanish. But, you just may be surprised by how much it will help to know that you're Vol. 1 No. 8 holiday cheer = holiday miseryJoy. Peace. Love.
Why is it so difficult this time of year? You look around, see laughter and sheer delight, but cannot force yourself to "get in the spirit" of the holiday season. Every holiday plan you ever made with him was a farce. All of your Christmas traditions are now meaningless. Each seasonal idea which had previously prospered your relationship is now pointless. Faking something you can't feel because ... well, because you're dead inside, serves no purpose. I remember that well. Dead inside. That's what it felt like. The world was going on around me and I couldn't figure out how to get out of bed, let alone participate in anything remotely festive. His addiction made me question everything. What was he really doing when he bought that Christmas ornament in 1994? Wasn't he gone for a really long time? How about the angel we just had to have for the top of the tree? Didn't he say he was researching them so we'd have the perfect one when I caught him up late at night on the computer? Somehow I could hide from the world before the holidays. Now I had obligations with family and friends. I had to get it together and smile when I wanted to cry instead. I had to buy presents when my focus was clearly elsewhere. I just wanted it to stop! The happiness and joy around me. Fake smiles. Catching up with people I only saw once or twice a year. Nodding when they shared how wonderful things were for them. Pretending to be someone I didn't even recognize ... Could they tell how much my husband's addiction broke me? Did they see how I had been cheated? Did they know I had been robbed of everything I once believed in and thought I knew? Did they know? I understood the "Ba Humbug" theory quite well and regretted every moment of my lack of desire to participate in anything holiday related. I truly was miserable and the holidays made it so much worse. Looking back, I can't tell you how I survived it. No clue. I think I floated through most of it, with no real understanding of what was going on. I lived like a fraud. I attended, participated and gave like everyone else. Nothing seemed amiss. A part of me died each time I did that. Likely not helpful. But, at least raw and honest. Vol. 1 No. 7 there's no such thing as fairy talesI'll never forget playing with Barbie and Ken. She with her slim waist, large bust and perfect hair. Him with his broad shoulders and bright smile showing off beautiful white teeth.
They would have a picnic under what I imagined a cloudless day. Talking about nothing and everything, they would make plans to spend their lives together. Ken would drop to one knee (in my mind only because his knees didn't bend) and propose to Barbie, professing his undying love. They would join hands and walk off (my parents never bought me the pink convertible so they couldn't drive) into the sunset. I grew up wanting the fairy tale. Cinderella, Rapunzel--even Little Red Riding Hood--are saved by men. We're taught from a young age that men are heroes. It's ingrained into us that women are merely damsels in distress in some form or another. But, once our Prince Charming, Flynn or even lumberjack comes, we live happily ever after. I believed I could live happily ever after. Refusing to accept anything less than perfect, I shamelessly had faith that it was attainable. As a child believes in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, I sought my hero for my very own fairy tale and happily ever after. The day I discovered my husband's dirty little secret, it all came crashing down. And, I think I fell harder because I not only had to let go of what I thought was so good, but also of the childhood belief that I could have it all. I was devastated, distraught, heartbroken. I had to mourn what I thought I had. I had to learn to let go of what I fantasized about my entire life. My husband was NOT going to rescue me. The ugly truth was that he was the VILLAIN--not the knight in shining armor. Letting go of the fairy tale was one of the most difficult things I ever did. I lost part of myself. My blind innocence was shattered. I ached for what I had always believed was mine. I wasn't special; not the fairy tale princess I wanted to be. I was just me. No more. No less. Coming to terms with that was the first step in my healing. Fairy tales don't exist. But, I do. I CAN be okay even if my hero doesn't rescue me. And you know what? I'm okay with happily ever after just being happy for today. Vol. 1 No. 6 normal is just a setting on a dryerAS THE SPOUSE OR PARTNER of a sex addict, your normal implodes, disintegrating before your eyes. Everything you thought you knew ceases to exist. Nothing is taken for granted any longer. You long for the mundane and crave simplicity.
When will you ever feel normal again? I remember focusing on attaining something that didn't even really exist. I looked at other couples and longed to have what they did. Everywhere I went, I was bombarded with lovers holding hands and laughing at private jokes. Jealousy and anger ruled my life. I felt robbed. I felt cheated. Why was everyone else so blissfully happy when my life was falling apart? It wasn't fair! It wasn't how life was supposed to be! I wanted my life back ... and yet, DIDN'T at the same time. My life was a lie, so why would I want that? It was all so confusing. I just wanted to feel normal! Was that too much to ask? But the truth was, I didn't even REALLY know what that meant. How could I EVER go back knowing what I did? I couldn't UN-know that my husband was a sex addict. Everything about my life as I knew it wasn't even real. He had lied about everything and anything. I didn't even know who I was anymore ... I trusted nothing and no one. And yet, I still longed for normal. It wasn't until I finally accepted--outside of drying clothes--normal doesn't exist, that I was able to move forward. I had to quit living in the past. I had to stop longing for what was ... or what I thought WAS. Letting go of who I thought I married, my focus had to shift from him, and what had happened, to ME. I needed to put effort into figuring out who I wanted to become. Longing for the past and what I THOUGHT had been was breaking my heart over and over again. Wanting something that wasn't even real didn't make any sense. Right now I had to focus on today ... one second at a time just as my dryer effortlessly ticked away on the normal setting. Vol. 1 No. 5 houston we have a problem: part vThis is a five part series intended to be read in order. WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. DISCRETION ADVISED. WHEN I OPENED the bedroom door, I wasn’t even thinking about my husband. But as soon as I realized I had to leave the safety of the bedroom, I panicked. I wasn’t ready to face him. I stood in the doorway unable to move.
I listened. Nothing. I couldn’t hear him in the living room. Where was he? Maybe he wasn’t awake yet? I couldn’t handle a confrontation right now. I had to get ready and leave for the day. I had to avoid him until I could figure this out. Darting across the hallway, I strode into the bathroom and gently closed the door. I stood behind it, waiting for the ringing in my ears to stop. Just as I put my head on the door, he gently knocked. “Aargh,” I shrieked. “Go away.” “Hon, I’m sorry. Please come out and talk to me.” “Go away,” I repeated. “Please babe, I …” I cut him off. “I. SAID. GO. AWAY.” I heard his footsteps recede down the hallway. Stifling a sob, I took off my clothes and turned on the water for the shower. I caught a glimpse of my naked reflection in the mirror as I was waiting for the water to warm. Yuck! No wonder he wanted to look at that magazine. A closer inspection revealed that I had put on a few pounds since we got married. There was a bulge in my gut that hadn’t been there before. Plus, my hips and thighs looked bigger. Even my hands looked bloated and fat. My eyes were all red and splotchy and had huge dark circles under them. My hair was plastered to the side of my face on one side and sticking up in the back. It looked like it hadn’t been combed in a week. My brown roots desperately needed a highlight, and my eyebrows could use a full waxing. I was desperately close to achieving full unibrow status. Pathetic! The reflection staring back at me proved what a total loser I had become. I was a 21-year-old hot mess and I wasn’t sure how it had happened. I knew that before I went to bed, I felt good. But the past hour had somehow robbed me of everything I thought I knew. I couldn't un-see the ugliness that was a billboard before my eyes now. How could I have looked at myself and not seen what a wreck I was? And when did I let myself go like this? Who was this woman looking back at me? How could I ever feel attractive again? If my own husband preferred models, I'd never be able to satisfy him. Peeling my eyes away from my reflection in disgust, I stepped into the shower. My tears mixing with the spray of the water, I sobbed quietly while I lathered my body. How was I ever going to get through this day, let alone the rest of my life? EVERYTHING changed with that ugly discovery and I felt like such a fool for not knowing sooner. My entire life was a big fat ugly lie. Really? Vol. 1 No. 4 houston we have a problem: part ivThis is a five part series intended to be read in order. WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. DISCRETION ADVISED. BREATHE.
BREATHE. Just breathe, I kept telling myself. What the heck had just happened? Why was my husband masturbating on the toilet? Why was he looking at pictures of women in lingerie? Where had he even gotten that catalog? And why was my name on it? My hands were shaking and I was hot all over. I thought I might pass out. I put my hands on my face and squeezed. My temple was throbbing. I could feel the blood pulsing on my fingertips. I took a deep breath, lowered my hands, and walked toward our bed. OUR BED. The place we made love. The place we united as husband and wife. The place I gave myself to him willingly, lovingly, believing that I was the only woman he desired. Trusting him implicitly. Enraged, I screamed at the top of my lungs and ripped the comforter, blanket and flat sheet off of our bed. The king sized bedding tumbled to the floor in a heap. Not fully satisfied, I went for the closest corner of the fitted sheet. Pulling with the strength it would take to lift the entire mattress, I yanked the corner free. The mattress pad was exposed and I figured I may as well finish the job. I yanked it too. Screaming with each tug, I removed all four corners, rolled the newly freed bedding into a ball and hurled it at my husband's dresser. Everything on top of it fell to the floor with a satisfying crash. Panting, I flopped myself onto the bed and sobbed like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum in the middle of a store because she can’t have a toy she wants. I kicked and screamed and sobbed for what seemed like an eternity. At some point, the tears abated and I put my face into the wet mattress. Lying in a pool of my own snot, I hitched and sniffed until my heart rate returned to normal. Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe, I told myself over and over again. Why was this happening to me? What was wrong with me? Who was the man I had married? Why had I even married him in the first place? I felt so lost. So alone. So confused. The alarm went off, and at first I didn't know why it was beeping. I had to get a hold of myself. I knew I couldn’t lie around in bed all day contemplating this mess that was my life. I had to move. I had to make that stupid sound stop. I rolled to my side to turn the alarm off and it wasn’t there. Apparently in my fit of rage, I had knocked it off the nightstand. As I leaned toward the floor to find it, I saw that I had ripped two nails completely down to the quick. One was bleeding and the other looked red and swollen. Great! Once I finally slammed my hand on the top of the alarm clock and made the annoying tone go away, I realized there was probably blood on the mattress. Yep. Not a lot, but enough that betrayed my ridiculous outburst in glaring red dots. Even better! I stood up and surveyed the room. I had made quite a mess. Plus, it smelled horrendous. It was as if someone poured musk over rotten food or something sweet on top of dirty socks. And even though my nose was full of snot from my self-indulgent blubbering party, the competing scents made my eyes water anew. As I walked toward my husband’s dresser, I saw several broken cologne bottles on the floor; the liquid merging into a foul puddle next to the dresser. Fantastic! Unable to handle seeing one more thing that I had broken, damaged or destroyed, I decided to take a shower. I had a class in just over an hour, and didn’t have time to deal with the mess. Vol. 1 No. 3 houston we have a problem: part iiiThis is a five part series intended to be read in order. WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. DISCRETION ADVISED. “WHAT THE HECK?” My husband questioned as he stepped back into the bathroom to turn on the light. “Traci, what are you doing? You scared the crap out of me!”
“Umm,” I responded lamely, racking my brain for some logical explanation as to why I was standing outside the bathroom door in the early hours of the morning. “Phew,” he said, not realizing that he was still holding something. Placing his hand and that something on his chest, he told me, “I nearly had a heart attack. What are you doing up anyway?” Time seemed to slow down. I tilted my head as if seeing it from another angle would change it. My need to come up with a valid explanation of what I was doing up at this insane hour vanished. Rage engulfed me as an image of a scantily clad model seared into my brain. I turned the tables on him. “What. Is. That?” “What is what?” “THAT!” I screamed pointing to the magazine in his hand. The color drained from his face. He had forgotten that he was holding anything. I snatched the magazine away before he could utter another syllable and stormed into the living room. “Traci, it's nothing. Wait,” he tried. I turned on the light on the end table beside the couch and stood with my back to him as I explored what he had deemed as “nothing.” I was breathing hard and my fingers were tightly clenched, gripping the sides of the magazine. It was a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog full of women in sexy negligees and provocative shoes. As I hastily flipped through the pages, my anger intensified. “Where did you get this?” “What?” he played dumb. I turned toward him with insane fury in my eyes. “THIS” I screamed shaking the catalog in his face. “Where did you get this?” “I uh … it uh … I mean ... let’s sit down and talk about this.” “Answer the question! Where did you get this?” “It came in the mail,” he admitted, avoiding eye contact and hanging his head in shame. I flipped the catalog over to inspect it and, sure enough, it was addressed to me at our current address. I had never ordered anything from this store, so the fact that I was receiving their magazine was insane. Where did they get my name and address? It wasn’t some random mailing. It wasn’t addressed to Current Resident. No. It was addressed to me, Traci, wife of the man I thought was honest and trustworthy; wife of the man I had been married to for less than six months; a college student who hadn’t even had this address for a full year. I couldn’t even comprehend why my husband would request this catalog under my name right now. All I could think about was that he had confiscated it when it came in the mail and hidden it from me to use for his own pleasure. I was furious! I tried to push my way past him, but he grabbed my arm, restraining me. “Get your filthy hands off me,” I spewed with as much vehemence as I could muster. “Wait,” he tried. “I SAID, get your effing hands off me. NOW!” He must have seen something in my eyes which indicated I wasn’t kidding. He released his grip, and I stormed past him. I rounded the corner into the bedroom and pulled the door shut with as much force as I could. Since there wasn’t a lock on the door, I marched over to our bed, grabbed his pillow, returned to the door, opened it and threw it into the hallway. “You can sleep on the couch tonight,” I ordered, and slammed the door again. Vol. 1 No. 2 houston we have a problem: part IIThis is a five part series intended to be read in order. WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. DISCRETION ADVISED. MY INITIAL REACTION was to run back to bed and throw the covers over my head. Maybe I could convince myself that it was just a nightmare. But, for some reason, my feet remained cemented to the threadbare carpet in the hallway.
I was in shock. I was disgusted. My mind couldn't process what had just happened. I was confused. And I was ready to burst into tears. Was I being irrational? I heard my husband flush the toilet and wash his hands. He’d be coming out of the bathroom any second now. I was ashamed that my husband of less than six months felt the need to jerk off in the middle of the night even though I was sleeping a few inches away from him. Why would he do such a thing? The knot that was previously in my stomach was now a boulder. I felt like I was going to throw up. I had to move. He was going to open the door and find me standing in front of it. I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t have any explanation for being in the hallway. I felt degraded. I wasn’t naive enough to believe that my husband never masturbated. That’s what men do, right? I guess I just didn’t think he’d do it when I was around. Somehow, the thought of it was okay, but the reality wasn’t. My brain hadn't yet comprehended that I had overheard it actually happening. I knew that didn’t make any sense, and yet, there it was. Why didn’t he want me? Was I that bad? What did I do wrong? I would have been willing to have sex if he had asked me. I believed that everything was okay. Why was this bothering me so much? I overheard my husband masturbating. So what, right? Yeah, but ... Why did I feel so empty inside? Why was my heart beating so fast? Why did I feel like clawing his eyes out, screaming at him, and making him explain why he chose his hand over me? Why did I feel so violated? I didn’t understand why this was happening. The light from the crack under the door vanished and the door swung inward. Before I could react, my husband stepped into the hallway and directly into me. Vol. 1 No. 1 houston we have a problem: part iThis is a five part series intended to be read in order. WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT. DISCRETION ADVISED. THE FLIRTING WITH other women wasn't enough. The double-takes he did when a large busted woman entered his line of sight didn't do it. His insatiable sex drive should have, but surprisingly even that didn't tip me off. Nope. I didn't know we had a problem until, well ...
Until the night my whole life changed. I knew something was wrong the moment I opened my eyes and realized my husband was no longer in our bed. My brain was still groggy, but I couldn’t deny the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up in bed. The sun wasn’t up yet. He should’ve been under the covers next to me, but he wasn't. Something was wrong. Needing to orient myself, I turned my head toward the bright red glow of my alarm clock. It glared the time into my foggy brain: 4:23 a.m. Huh? Where was my husband? We only had a little over an hour left to sleep, and yet, I was alone. I threw the covers off and started to get out of bed. That’s when something caught my eye, making me feel like the world’s biggest drama queen. A faint glow of light trickled from under the bathroom doorway, signaling he was inside. Since he didn’t ever bother to shut the bathroom door unless he had to sit to do his business, I knew what was going on in there. Shaking my head and chuckling under my breath, I decided to lie back down. Everything was just fine. The worrywart had gotten a hold of me for nothing. I tried to close my eyes and go back to sleep. No such luck. The nagging sensation that something wasn’t quite right wouldn’t leave me. Feeling like an even bigger fool than I had when I realized where he was, I got up to investigate. Shivering as I left the comfort of the covers which had warmly cocooned me only seconds before, I tiptoed to the bathroom door. I started to knock and call out to my husband, but then I stopped. My knuckles were an inch from the door when it occurred to me that he still thought I was sleeping. I put my hand over my mouth to steady my breathing. Something inside me said to wait. For some reason, it was important that he didn’t know I was awake yet. I didn’t know why. The thought was just ... there. It was the same as the feeling that something was wrong. It came out of nowhere. I stood outside the bathroom, staring down at the faint light emanating from the crack at the bottom. The light shone on my bare toes and I wiggled them, mesmerized by the light dancing off my bright red nail polish. I stood there outside the bathroom, wiggling my toes, and waited because somehow I knew it was important. At first, I didn’t hear anything. In fact, it was so quiet that I wasn’t even sure that my husband was in there. Just as I was about to knock again, I heard the faint rustling of paper. Assuming he was reading while using the restroom, I started to walk away. But, as I took my first step away from the door, I heard something else that I couldn't identify. I returned to the door and listened. I couldn’t figure out what it was. It didn’t sound like he was tapping his foot on the floor or drumming his fingers on the sink. I placed my ear to the door, trying to figure out what he was doing in there. Several seconds passed and I realized that I had been holding my breath. Needing to breathe again, I took a step away from the doorway so he wouldn’t hear me. Pushing my hair away from my face, I knew I had to figure out what was going on behind that door. The feeling of impending doom was stronger now, and my stomach was a ball of knots. I quietly placed my ear on the door again, and focused on breathing as quietly as I could. “This is ridiculous,” I thought to myself as I remained with my ear plastered to the door, afraid to move an inch because he may discover me there. Several minutes passed and I heard that paper sound again. What was he doing? It was driving me crazy! I had to know what was making that sound. My muscles began to strain from holding myself in the exact same position for so long. Plus, I had an itch on my left shin that I desperately wanted to scratch. None of that took precedence over my need to know what was going on behind the bathroom door. I stood motionless, immobile, listening. Somehow the noise seemed more deliberate than when I first started listening. I heard my husband breathing. At first, I thought it was me. But, I held my breath for a few seconds to make sure it was him. Yep, it was him. Why was he breathing like that? Just when I was about to knock on the door because I couldn’t take it any longer, I heard him groan. It wasn’t very loud; muffled in fact. I think he had his hand over his mouth to mute the noise so he wouldn't wake me. I’m not sure how I knew that, but I did. I knew that sound ... Realization crept in with a sinking sensation. I knew what he was doing in the bathroom. With a dawning horror, I stepped away from the door and stifled a disgusted gasp before it could leave my mouth. |
AuthorTraci is a Betrayal Recovery Specialist and the owner of Healing Betrayed Hearts. She has almost 30 years experience recovering from a relationship with a sex addict. Archives
September 2019
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