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| Image credit: Photo by Lst1984 on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
One evening four years ago, my husband headed out to attend one of his weekly Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings. What was unusual about this particular meeting was that I had begged him not to go.
Those meetings help him. They help me. They saved our marriage. And that generally makes me a big fan of his nights out 12 stepping. However, the day before this meeting, I had undergone an abortion to end my pregnancy with what would have been our third child. Exhausted and depressed by everything that had happened in the last few days, I didn't want him to leave me for several hours to care for the kids and get them off to bed.
But Mark was adamant about going. He was still fairly early in recovery and simply didn't trust himself. If he gave himself permission to skip just one meeting, he believed he would use that to let himself justify skipping other meetings for other reasons. It felt too dangerous to him, like standing at a cliff's edge where one wrong step would send him plunging back into active addiction. He called my friend Judy and asked her to stay with me and help with the kids while he went out. And off he went.
I was devastated. As much as I love Judy and was happy to have her help and company, the person I wanted with me right then was the person twined up in my sorrow, the father of the child I decided not to have: my husband. When Mark was active in his addiction, our family often came second to his sexual acting out. And now that he was in recovery, it felt like our family still came second to this new 12 step love affair of his.
"For once -- just this one time," I thought, "why can't holding my hand when I really need you there be first on the list?" I knew this was an exaggeration. I knew Mark had been there for me, and put me ahead of himself many times in our marriage. I knew that was why I was still there working. So, I tried to breathe and remember the big picture greater good of his recovery, but it still hurt like hell. And I kept holding on to those festering resentments, never fully forgiving him for doing what he felt he needed to do that night.
Two years later, Mark came home between 9 and 10 p.m. on a meeting night, just as he always did. There wasn't anything special about that night to me, and I can't call it out in my memory. It was just part of the routine. Mark goes to meetings and gets home late a few nights a week. I feed the kids dinner, put them to bed and give him a kiss when he gets home. But that night, whichever it was, was different for Mark, because he didn't go to a meeting.
A woman he works with, who works for him, had broken up (again) with her on again off again boyfriend. So Mark asked her out on a date. Knowing that I wouldn't expect him home until later that night, he took her out to dinner and then drove her back to her apartment. He shared his slip with his group shortly afterwards, but it took him a year to get himself to a place where he could share it with me. And it's taken me a year, likewise, to share anything beyond the fact that, on the day he told me, I put myself to bed to watch the rain with a pint of gourmet ice cream for comfort and didn't get up until the next day.
It's hard, at times like that, not to take sex addiction personally. It's hard not to see those actions as separate rather than inextricably connected. It's hard not to rage and say, "You couldn't skip a meeting to be with me the day after we aborted our baby, but you could skip a meeting to take another woman out on a date?!" It's hard not to feel that those actions reflect on his love for me and for our family. It's hard to see those actions as symptoms of a disease.
I could have (I have) worked through relapses on other occasions. But to relapse on a meeting night was the greatest breech of trust of all, because in my desire to bury my anger and pain and resentment, I had elevated meetings to a level of sacredness. I had made meetings a sign that he valued our family and our relationship enough to work hard on himself and his problems. Those meetings were the talisman that I thought was keeping us all safe.
But addiction doesn't respect the sacred: not meetings or family heirlooms or pets or family or friends. It will destroy anything, sell anything, steal anything, lie to and about anything and anyone to feed its hunger. Those meetings keep it at bay, one day at a time, but nothing ever keeps us completely safe. And however it feels to me, I know in my mind (if not my heart) that skipping a meeting to go on a date doesn't mean he doesn't love me, it just means he's still an addict.
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