Imagine (and for those of you that have been through it, this isn’t a stretch) that you are a healthy, moderate drinker in a relationship with someone you come to realize, through great pain and damage, is an alcoholic. After having your life torn apart by the consequences of your partner’s drinking, you might (among many possible reactions) become so sick at the sight of alcohol that it simply doesn’t appeal to you any more, and you might find yourself giving up drinking, even though it is not harmful to you directly.
This is exactly the reaction I had to my husband’s sex addiction. Well, maybe not exactly. I didn’t want to stop having sex (although some people do react that way), but I felt deeply violated. I had always been (so I thought) comfortable with my body and confident in my sexuality, but now I found I wanted to scrape myself down to the foundation. Along with reexamining my marriage and my relationship, I wanted to reexamine my body image and my sexuality. How much had I really been doing for me and how much had I been doing because society expected it of me or men complimented me on it or I thought it would keep my husband’s eyes from straying? I wanted to decide what made me feel good about me, not what made other people feel good about me.
In those first weeks after finding out about my husband’s addiction, I got a big heavy duty trash bag out, and I combed the house for anything that could be considered sexy, or even feminine and attractive. I purged it all. I got rid of every last sex toy, every bit of porn, every fantasy game, everything that seemed now to be a barrier between me and real intimacy. And I rid myself of anything that could turn me into a body to be objectified. So, gone too was every scrap of lingerie, all the sexy panties, all the lacy bras, all the makeup, the miniskirts, every last bit of it. (It must have been a sight at the dump!) I was very much like the wife of an alcoholic pouring every bottle of booze down the sink in a screaming rage at the drinks she felt poisoned her life and figuring she’d decide later whether on not she could ever stand to have a beer at a barbecue or a glass of wine over dinner again.
Slowly, over the past five years of recovery, I’ve experimented, exploring the edges of my comfort zone. The thought of porn or sex toys still makes me queasy, so most of my explorations have centered on my appearance. What makes me feel beautiful and comfortable in my body? What do I do just to please and attract others? What can I wear that makes me feel good about myself, body and soul?
So, I’ll buy a short skirt and find it doesn’t work for me. I’ll add in shaving my body hair and take it back out again. I’ll wear makeup and then put it aside. I’ll walk through Victoria’s Secret and decide I’m just not ready to go there and try some colorful panties from Target instead. I’ve learned what I do like (clothes that have soft textures and colors that please my eyes, but that are not conventionally sexy) and what I’m not comfortable with (Fredrick’s of Hollywood lingerie) and what I’m still ambivalent about (shaving).
And I’ve learned that there is no “healthy” that fits everyone; just as peanut butter and apples are a healthy snack for most people, but a life threatening one for those with peanut allergies, some “normal,” “healthy” expressions of my sexuality are just too painful and triggering for me personally to venture into anymore. But then again, there’s really no reason for me to try to add it all back in again, any more than it’s necessary for the partner of an alcoholic work on taking up drinking again. Those things I have decided to give up may not ultimately be unhealthy, even for me, but they also are not necessary components of a full and happy life for me. I’m finally reaching the point where I’m satisfied with who and where I am right now. And that’s all that really matters.
This post originally published at The Second Road on October 11, 2008.
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