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Dear Friends,

My recovery-dedicated blog can be found at annegirlrecovery.wordpress.com
Please follow me there.

Love to you all,

Anne Girl

He's Back

After almost four months of sleeping separately, I invited Simon to sleep in our bed again. 

Just for sleep, mind you. And our three year old is in between us. 

Simon thanked me for letting him back in and I think I just nodded my head like, "Sure." It was more that I felt ready to tolerate his presence in my bed: my safe place. The place where I cry and kneel to pray. 

I've felt good about him being in there with me. ( even though I had gotten very used to having the bed all to myself!) And having my son with us makes me feel emotionally safer to. 

I bought my ticket to Togetherness today. And in the registration, I was asked to write down what my main question is that I'm hoping will be answered at the convention. This is what I wrote:

How can I feel comfortable and adequate in the bedroom again?

I think you get what I'm asking. And truth be told, I shouldn't have put in the word "again." Because I've NEVER felt comfortable or adequate in the bedroom. I always knew something was amiss with our intimacy and its frequency. 

Having Simon back in my bed--even just for sleeping--has brought up those insecurities again. And I hate it! Because I KNOW nothing's wrong with ME in that situation. The issues were never about me. But I still stress. 

For now, I'm taking my sweet time. And Simon has not pressured me once for which I am grateful. 

So if anyone is sitting in Togetherness and hears this question brought up--you might just see AnneGirl with her arms in the air praising God. Ha! 

Who is going to Togetherness? 

ARP Dates

Simon and I have been on more dates in the last three weeks than in the last three years of our marriage. We went rock climbing, ate sushi, played board games, had a Valentine's dinner with our ward and made a date night out of ARP. 

They were all fun. And we are learning to reconnect. Investing time in each other is nice and new.

Victoria (A Battle Worth Winning) was the one to suggest that our ARP nights be special date nights. Before, we would drive to the church, go to our separate meetings and then drive back home. We always had good conversations afterward. However, I really took Victoria's advice to heart and tried to make it special.

I wanted to convey to Simon that I wasn't going to ARP BECAUSE of him, but I was choosing to go WITH him. I shifted my thinking and attitude. I suggested we go out to dinner beforehand and try someplace new. It was awesome. I'm always a happy girl with a belly full of fish tacos. Our conversation was happy and hopeful and we shared a brownie on our way to the church. 

My meeting was great in that I felt useful. There was a new woman--who I know a little and is my age--and I watched her bawl and bawl. I'm not far into recovery, but I had enough tools and experience under my belt to share my hope and healing with her. Seeing her--and that traumatic state--reminded me of just how far I really have come. That trauma was the most painful thing I have ever experienced. Seeing my fellow sisters experience it is brutal. If there is an upside to all of this, it's the level of compassion I have been able to find and hopefully extend meaningfully.

Despite the tear-filled night, Simon and I were able to meet back up and drive home holding hands and talk with real vulnerability.

The talks we have after therapy/ARP are my favorite. We are each in such an open, vulnerable, honest place and I feel closest to him during those talks. Simon--who has not been super jazzed over our particular group--was so upbeat and positive afterwards. He felt lighter and more hopeful. And though it's terrible that there were more new people that particular night--he felt happy knowing he was not alone and that other men were seeking help.

My heart soars when I hear him talk about his recovery efforts. I wish therapy and support groups could happen every day.

But they don't. Some days aren't stellar. Some days are simply awful. And others are very happy. Triggers and trauma resurface. Trust is still lying in pieces on the floor. But hope seems to be a little more visible. It's one step forward, two steps back.

But at least we aren't standing still. One day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time.

Tomorrow I Turn 29

Tomorrow I turn 29. The last year of my twenties. Next year, I'm 30. And I could be divorced. 30 AND divorced. That could majorly be a suck-tastic year for me. 

I can't seem to push "divorce" out of my head. But I'm feeling so done. I feel increasingly more angry as my husbands actions sink deeper into my heart. And I'm left screaming on the inside, "WHAT THE HELL!!!" 

I mean, seriously. What was he thinking?! He wasn't, obviously. He didn't care about anything but the "fix." 

Sometimes I just sit in shock and disbelief. And lately disgust. 

The cycle of my emotions has been really interesting. It really is "crazy making" as my therapist says. So many emotions, so little time. 

But disgust--repulsion, has really settled in. I'm just so disgusted. Disgusted at what he's done. Disgusted at it's effects for me and my children. Disgusted that I was so oblivious. Disgusted that I'm still married to this man who doesn't even seem to care about me. 

I read in Rhyll's book that she told her therapist, "I feel like my husband doesn't love me." To which he responded, "He doesn't! He can't!"

I told my sponsor that I was feeling similarly. I have no romantic love for my husband. She said, "Of course you can't! The betrayal has been too extreme! He can't love you in his addiction. And you can't love him in your trauma. At least not romantically."

It was seriously profound to hear that. I felt like I was given permission to NOT love my husband. Because I simply can't. There is no room for romantic love. It was such a relief!

I do love him. But it's a concerned brotherly love. I'm worried about him. I know sexual addiction can't make him happy. But I have no desire to kiss him or be intimate with him. No desire to plan out a future with him. Nothing. Suddenly, I've become the sexual/intimacy anorexic in this relationship. 

As I've given myself permission to NOT love my husband, I've really discovered how forceful I was being with myself. I thought that to truly forgive him I had to truly and romantically love him. I thought forgiveness meant I was madly in love with him and would do everything in my power to stay with him. I thought that's what a successful recovery looked like. What was expected. I was forcing myself to stay. I was forcing myself to love. I was forcing my marriage to stay together. 

Force is the same as control. It's unhealthy. I've had to accept that recovery can be successful and a marriage still fail. I really believe that. But I don't hear much on that scenario. 

Sometimes the betrayal is just SO deep to make a marriage work. Sometimes it's just too much and there's no going back. I guess I really just don't want to make it work. I've done nothing but be true to my covenants. I've done nothing but support my husband. What more can I do? 

I don't like to fail at anything. I don't fail. I succeed. But I don't want to "succeed" in keeping my marriage together and be miserable the rest of my life. That's not succeeding. That's a tragedy. 

Simon isn't a monster. He is a good man deep down. I saw it in him those first couple years we were married. I think. But his actions have been monstrous. Atrocious. Disgusting. I just can't dealt with it! I don't know how. 

Simon IS improving. But I don't see it as recovery. I haven't seen those behaviors yet that tell me he's 100% on board. I don't know if he's willing to do what's expected of him. He wants to do recovery "his own way." And that spells disaster. It's a ticking time bomb. J

I'm not getting divorced tomorrow. But I feel like it's coming. We live parallel lives. I work my recovery and hope he's working his. But I've learned to not have expectations. 

I just want it over sometimes. I almost want him to act out with someone again, just so I can have an "out." Just be done. Just move on. Just not see him and be reminded of everything he's damaged and all the trust and love he's dashed to pieces. He's such a fool to have thrown us away. 

In many ways, I am happy. But a righteous husband for my birthday would really be the best gift I could dream of. I literally dream of being married to a righteous man. It's all I want. It's what I deserve. It's what I need. 

But again, that's setting up an expectation. 

Here's what I can expect tomorrow. I'll turn 29. And it will be bittersweet. 

Satan Hates Date Night

"I can't help flying up on the wings of anticipation. It's as glorious as soaring through a sunset...almost pays for the thud." -L.M. Montgomery

I wrote the following on my Instagram account Friday: 

Simon is taking me out on a date tonight. GASP. The first since discovery and honestly it feels like our first date ever. It's my first date with new and sober Simon. Hopefully, a man who's working on a complete change of heart. It's our first attempt at falling back in love. We may crash and burn. But we may be at the start of something beautiful. A lot of "what ifs" but a lot of potential. Whatever happens tonight I deserve dessert. 

And crash and burn we did. Major THUD! And it all happened before the date even started: 

I stood there curling my hair for the date with my kids crawling and playing at my ankles when Simon texted me. He asked what time the babysitter should get there. 

Me: "5:45/6ish."

Simon: "Ok. I should be home by then."

I looked up Simon's location to see how far away he was. It was 5pm. His location showed him parked in a grocery parking lot...five minutes from our house. 

That pounding lump of adrenaline I get when I'm being lied to, came full force. But I played it cool. 

Me: "Is traffic bad?"

Simon: "No thank heavens."

I was pissed. But I always give a second chance to be honest and come clean--or maybe I kinda like to see him dig that hole and see how far he'll go. To watch the train wreck pile up in a blazing heap. 

Me: "So where are you at on the freeway?"

Me: after a few minutes: "?"

Simon: "On the phone."

Me: "With who?"

Me: after another few minutes: "?"

Simon: "Customer escalation. Freeway was quick. Almost home."

Me: "Consider our date canceled."

I had no idea what Simon was really doing in that parking lot and I didn't care. The fact was I was being LIED TO AGAIN. 

I immediately called the babysitter and canceled. Simon could watch the kids and I would go out on my own. I was all dressed up and looked pretty for heavens sake! I wasn't going to waste my night. 

Simon came through the door looking confused. I stomped around the house accusing and cleaning (it's how I channel my anger--I get a lot done when I'm angry, fortunately.) He sat on the bed while I told him I knew he had lied. He gave excuses, saying he had to jump on a conference call for work quickly and had just pulled into the parking lot to focus. So why lie? Why say you're on the freeway? Why not write "in the grocery parking lot"? Why say it was a customer escalation when it was a conference call? Why the need to lie about your whereabouts? Why lie about the most stupid details of your life? Nothing an addict tries to explain makes sense. 

Simon apologized. Like so many times before he admitted, I don't know why I lie. 

He's lied for so long, it's simply a habit. The lies roll off his tongue about everything and anything. It's maddening. 

Simon suggested I go out anyways and he'd watch the kids. I exploded, "But I wanted to go out with YOU! Why do you have to ruin everything!" 

He didn't say anything. I furiously continued to clean and organize. As my thoughts boiled in my brain, I remarkably thought of the temple. And I remembered the old adage of "Satan will do everything in his power to keep you and your husband from attending the temple. Don't let anything stand in your way" (or something like that.) 

Looking back, every time I wanted to attend the temple, something would invariably come up: the keys would be lost, a reccommend was expired, traffic was bad, we'd have an argument--there was always something trying to prevent me from getting there. I think Satan knows that a couple that attends the temple together draws closer to one another and to The Lord. Their marriage is strengthened. And he does not want that. 

Simon and I weren't trying to go to the temple (because he can't), but we were attempting to strengthen our marriage. And Satan does not want that. He thinks he has my marriage and family tightly in his grasp and the last thing he wants is for us to loosen his hold on us. 

Lightbulb: Satan hates date night. And he is laughing at us. 

In an instant, I was yelling at Simon to get ready now, get the kids in the car, we were taking them to my aunts house, hurry up, we are going on that date if it kills us! 

He obeyed. And we were off. We didn't speak a word. I was still pissed but I was not going to give Satan the satisfaction. He does not win with me. Ever. 

When we finally pulled into the restaurant, I was ready to just jump right out. But I looked over at Simon and saw the remorse in his eyes. So I waited while he hung his head low. He fumbled with the keys a bit and then finally murmured a soft "I'm so sorry." He couldn't meet my gaze. 

I let him explain his side of the story. And it all checked out--as far as I know. But he had still lied. Once again, I had to explain how lying was a HUGE trigger for me. When he lies, I have no choice but to believe that he acted out in some way. I told him, YOU MUST VIEW EVERY SITUATION FROM MY PERSPECTIVE. Once again, I had to explain that any lie, no matter how small, was BIG to me. 

I actually thought he might cry. But he kept it in. It's ok. I feel like he's learning. Baby steps. 

So, MIRACULOUSLY, we went to dinner and actually had that date that Satan tried to thwart. We ate a ton. Really, way too much. We talked and laughed and sometimes we just sat and stared. But it was nice all things considered. I tried to stay and live in the moment and let everything else fall by the wayside. I wasn't perfect, but I chose to be happy at that table in Red Lobster and see the man opposite of me as someone worth loving and letting myself fall in love with again. 

We had crashed and burned. But we picked up our bloody carcasses and went to dinner anyways. It was a good bandaid. Let's hope it sticks until we can get another. 

Feel to Heal

So I think I should change my name from Anne Girl to Negative Nancy. Am I right? Holy Hannah I've been so negative lately. I was actually really getting down on myself about it the other day, ya know, shaming myself, telling myself to get a grip already! But my sponsor has repeatedly advised, You can't heal what you can't feel. In other words, you can't skirt around the pain-- you've gotta go right smack through the middle of it. It's like driving through the middle of Kansas, it totally sucks but it's the quickest way through to the other side. 

So feeling is OK. In fact, it's necessary. It's imperative! Because through pain I am refined and strengthened and prepared to heal. I have been victimized. But I WILL heal, dammit. And I will no longer be a victim defined by an ugly past that isn't really mine in the first place. 

You can't heal what you can't feel. I love it. 

So here are some raw emotions on being IN LOVE. And hopefully some healing comes on the other side of these words. 

My last post was really emotional for me. Pretty much devastating to write. I silently cried through most of it. Because the message I had received from Simon was that he flat out had no passion for me and had found it elsewhere. And the justification was that we weren't "in love" anymore and hadn't been for some time. 

I think it really rattled the both of us. And the next day we were extra nice to each other. It seemed we were both under an unspoken contract to TRY to be in love. I wrote him a little note and put it in his briefcase. He was extra helpful and kind and complimentary. 

A couple days later, I woke up on our lazy boy. I had accidentally slept there all night. Simon was kneeling there and had gently woken me up. He wanted to talk about my night (I had gone to play volleyball and when I came back everyone was asleep). It was actually very sweet. He was really trying to see me and know me. 

I was feeling loved and cared just a smidge (which is more than in the last few months) and so I suddenly felt comfortable letting him know how hurt I was over the "not in love" conversation. I told him I felt like he was trying to minimize what he'd done with the excuse of "well I wasn't in love anymore so what does it matter?" 

He apologized that he had made it seem that way and emphatically told me that he WANTS to be in love with me and he knows that the "not in love" feeling was all his fault and a direct result of the addiction. I cried. He WANTS to be in love with me. 

He continued to tell me that as he serves me and thinks about my needs his passion for me has been growing stronger. I cried at that too. He WANTS me. 

I know I'm responsible for my own happiness. I know that I don't need someone to complete me. I know all that. But I do know that I like having a husband who wants me. It's just plain nice. And it shouldn't just be a perk that you get some of the time in a marriage. It should be a constant. It should be. 

I told Simon I wanted to be in love with him too. It's the truth. I do. I hate that I do sometimes, but dagnabbit I do. 

And then he let me do something grand. He let me punch him in the face. He was scared of course and asked that I not break his nose, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to even if I tried. I'm kinda weak in the muscle department and I didn't exactly have enough rage at the moment to really follow through. 

So I punched him in the cheekbone. (Aka lightly punched/smacked.) It was awesome. I did it a couple more times. When his jaw was getting a little sore, I stopped. We both kinda smiled because the situation was just funny: Simon cowering trying to not reflexively defend my punches while I aimed for his face with my weak-sauce jabs. Seriously though, it was very therapeutic. 

I told Simon I had a new boundary. I get to punch him in the face everyday. After all, you can't heal what you can't feel. 

He said no. Though I think it's totally justifiable. 

Under Water

The rage and injustice have been steadily and increasingly bubbling over as disclosure has really sunk in this week. The injustice is extreme. There have been several women spanning over the last 6 or so years. Did you hear that? Several. 

My triggers have been increasing in breadth and frequency. They are everywhere: in thoughts, in feelings, in words, in places, in situations, in songs (sadly, Carrie Underwood has now been banished from my life), in tv shows (but I refuse to give up Downton Abbey) in people, in church, in facial expressions. I even dream triggers, for heaven's sake! 

I had a particularly painful trigger in therapy last night. Read on. 

So, Simon and I started a 4 week couples workshop with our therapist with the goal that husbands would better understand and be equipped to help their wives with soothing the betrayal trauma when triggers strike. I was so excited. I love reaching out to other women who've suffered as I have. Comraderie and support in this hell is crucial for me. Isolation is not an option for me. I refuse. 

I was also so excited and anxious for Simon to finally learn how to help me! I feel like I silently scream for it daily in some form or other: Help me! Please! Some days he does. Other days I feel neglected all over again. 

So, I got triggered during the first 10 minutes of us sitting there on my therapists sunken down, burgundy striped couch. The other two husbands introduced themselves and their wives. And in some way they each complimented their wives. Nothing big. But they looked at their wives, spoke softly, and seemed so genuine and tender in their words. Thanking them for being there and supporting them. 

Simon introduced us next. It was rehearsed. Without feeling. Void of vulnerability and love. He said the words "we" and "us" but it was like I wasn't there. Not really. I was just a person on a burgundy couch that he wouldn't make eye contact with. I'm just there, so he's obligated to mention me. 

I felt humiliated and unloved. And that triggered the most embarrassing moment of my married life. 

Months ago, Simon and I were asked to speak in sacrament meeting at our new ward. (On the timeline of his addiction, this is about the exact time that he had met with "the other woman" and started their 6 month affair. I'm fairly certain they had become intimate already.) 

So I give my talk and then sit down. Simon's turn. He always starts with a joke. But he started by telling a little about our family and then described how long we've been married. He said, "We've been married almost 8 years, but it feels like 8 minutes...under water."

My heart just completely stopped. 

Every eye in the ward turned to me. I could feel their pity! What did he just say? How could a husband say that? Why would he say that? And I had to sit up there facing these strangers all while my husband, the man that is supposed to build me up, made me the butt of a joke. I was humiliated. Utterly devastated. And I couldn't run. I had to sit there and pretend I wasn't phased by it. All my energy went into silently pushing down the urge to sob behind the podium. 

Why would he say that. 

In hindsight, it's because Simon resented me. Why else would you make that comment? He says he doesn't resent me and that it was a stupid, thoughtless comment. But there's truth in every sarcasm. The truth is he'd started seeing some other woman. And in his addict mind at the time, she was perfection and I was a living hell. I was "drowning" him. So yeah, I'd say that "joke" was dripping fatty drops of resentment. 

All that humiliation poured over my head, spilling onto that burgundy couch last night. I was dying inside. And I couldn't run this time either. 

Ironically, at the end of the session the therapist asked if anyone had been triggered at all. I was the only one to answer yes. He asked me if I'd like to share. 

I had tried to be so vulnerable and honest and open during the session, but as I opened my mouth to share my trigger I just couldn't. I took a moment and told him I couldn't, I wasn't comfortable and would have to speak with Simon privately about it first. SHAME wouldn't let me speak. 

The therapist told me that he actually loved that response. He wanted me to feel safe and comfortable. 

Thinking on it, the real source of the SHAME is that the trigger had nothing to do with the acting out. It was simply about Simon as a person. These other two husbands love their wives. And I feel like my husband doesn't love his. The SHAME is that I am unloved. 

The therapist made it a point to tell Simon to really prepare to listen to me and soothe me. He wanted us to talk to one another in the car before we left the parking lot. 

Once in the car, we talked for about 20 minutes. But Simon did all the talking. And it wasn't about me and my trigger. It was about how anxious and uncomfortable he had felt during the session. How angry he was starting to feel at the church for excommunicating him. How he felt shunned (even though everyone that knows has been so loving towards him.) 

I let him talk about his feelings, because he rarely does. I put my own pain on the shelf. And then we drove home in separate cars to relieve the babysitter. 

Jimmy heard me come home and wouldn't go back to sleep unless I lay in bed with him. I fell asleep and I've been waking up every couple hours now ruminating in these feelings. Feeling so...empty. I guess I've tried to fill that emptiness with words. It's like if I fill enough pages with all the hurt I feel then maybe one day I can hand Simon an encyclopedia called "Knowing Anne Intimately." 

Maybe then he'll get it. Maybe then he will SEE ME. 

I heard a great description of the word "intimacy." If you say the word slowly it becomes "into-me-see." Right now, Simon cant see inside of me. He is incapable of it. And the terrible truth is that maybe I don't want him to. 

Even in recovery, even if he's eradicated the addiction from his life, I don't know if he's someone I want to be with. 

I don't know if I want him. And I don't know if he really wants me either. We don't even know each other. 

My marriage has been 8 minutes under water. I just want to breathe. 

Baptism

As I was organizing Primary assignments for this Sunday, Jimmy came over to me and looked through my binder. He found the new Sharing Time manual and exclaimed, "That's Jesus!" He was pointing out the picture that depicts Christ's baptism. 

I asked him what was happening in the picture. He said with such excitement, "He's getting baptized! I'M gonna get baptized!" It was the sweetest and most heartfelt declaration. 

I felt so impressed in that moment to tell Jimmy something. I said, "You're right! And you know who else is going to get baptized?! Daddy!"

Jimmy whispered back, "Yeah!" His expression was that of, "Really?! Wow. Yeah that's cool."

I told Simon about the conversation this morning before he left for work. Simon had just uttered a very sincere prayer. As we knelt and he poured his heart into talking with Heavenly Father and expressed his hope and desire to once again hold membership in the church, I felt he needed to hear what Jimmy had said. 

So I told him. And Simon's eyes filled with tears. 

I never imagined that I would get to see my husband be baptized. Or that my children would see their father be baptized as a grown man. But how incredible. 

Jimmy will--hopefully in a year or so--see his daddy enter the waters of baptism. He will see firsthand the cleansing power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. He will see his daddy living the gospel and accepting Jesus Christ. 

THAT is a powerful example. Being baptized again holds no embarrassment for me. It is truly a gift. It is amazing. And I saw that hope in Simon's eyes. 

I Pick You Up

I have a sweet little boy named Jimmy. And he loves me immensely. He always tells me, "I pick you up, Mommy." (Which really means, I want YOU to pick me up.) But his soft words to me have struck my heart lately. 

I pick you up, Mommy. I pick you up. 

Last night, as we fell asleep in my bed, he rubbed my arm softly. He nuzzled so close to me that our foreheads were touching. That little 3 year old loves me. And I love him so much. 

I worry over him all the time. I don't know if he sees or feels the weird vibes in our home and between his parents. I'm sure he senses it at times. I want the home he grows up in to be filled with joy and safety. I don't want pornography to be a part of his life. I worry all the day long. I worry about all my children. I worry about Simon. I worry about me and my life ahead. 

I pick you up, Mommy. I pick you up. 

Sometimes moms need to be picked up too. Sometimes we need someone to say, You've been so strong. Let me carry you for awhile. 

The Savior does that. He carries us. He picks us up from where we sit sobbing and scared and sorrowful. He picks us up even when we're strong and capable. He is always right there ready to catch us, soften the fall and then pick us up. 

I know He picks me up. 

And I know He places earthly angels around us that are ready to help as well. That are ready to pick us up. 

My Jimmy is an earthly angel. I'm never going to correct his grammar again. His message has too much valuable, heaven-sent meaning. I love those tender, loving words: 

I pick you up, Mommy. I pick you up. 

Forgiveness is a Process

I used to think that Forgiveness was all or nothing. I've learned that's not true. Forgiveness is a process. Some days I'm high on the forgiveness scale. Some days I'm very low. Some days it takes all my effort and strength to just have the desire to forgive Simon. 

I read the following story years ago and it has always stayed with me. It came to my mind again this morning as I read my scriptures and awed over Nephi's true gift to "frankly forgive" (1 Nephi 7:21). Nephi was forgiveness, just as the Savior is. It is the makeup of their identity. 

I am not Nephi, sadly. I have to work on forgiveness. And that is ok, as long as I am WORKING it. Corrie Ten Boom had to work on it as well as is illustrated in the below story:

“It was in a church in Munich that I saw him—a balding, heavyset man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives.

“It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my favorite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander’s mind, I liked to think that that’s where forgiven sins were thrown. ‘When we confess our sins,’ I said, ‘God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever. …’

“The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in silence left the room.

“And that’s when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones. It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights; the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor; the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were!

[Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at Ravensbruck concentration camp where we were sent.]

“Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: ‘A fine message, Fräulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!’

“And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course—how could he remember one prisoner among those thousands of women?

“But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. I was face-to-face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.

“‘You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk,’ he was saying, ‘I was a guard there.’ No, he did not remember me.

“‘But since that time,’ he went on, ‘I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fräulein,’ again the hand came out—’will you forgive me?’

“And I stood there—I whose sins had again and again to be forgiven—and could not forgive. Betsie had died in that place—could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the asking?

“It could not have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.

“For I had to do it—I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we forgive those who have injured us. ‘If you do not forgive men their trespasses,’ Jesus says, ‘neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.’

“I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality. Those who were able to forgive their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as simple and as horrible as that.

“And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion—I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart. ‘… Help!’ I prayed silently. ‘I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.’

“And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.

“‘I forgive you, brother!’ I cried. ‘With all my heart!’

“For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God’s love so intensely, as I did then” (excerpted from “I’m Still Learning to Forgive” by Corrie ten Boom.)

My favorite insights from this story:

1. Those who forgive are able to rebuild their lives. 

2. Forgiveness is an act, not just an emotion. 

3. The Savior can help us learn to forgive if we are willing to do the work. 

4. Forgiveness=healing. 

I want healing. I want to rebuild my life. I want forgiveness to be the building block of my identity. I want the Savior to continue to make up the difference. And He is happy to do that for me. Forgiveness is a process and I choose to WORK IT. 

Disclosure

It's been a couple days since disclosure. And I'm ok. But just ok. Well, no. If I'm being honest then I'll admit that each day since disclosure my heart has hardened a little more. My heart is not ok. 

Hate and anger have been a constant cyclone around my mind and the debris falls haphazardly around my heart. Piling up. Burying it under some serious weight. I've wanted to write down my feelings so many times but I just couldn't muster the mental clarity. I need some major community clean up to uncover those freshly battered emotions. 

It's exposing. It hurts. 

And trauma robs me of words. So even though I dig up those feelings no words seem adequate enough to convey the deeply felt emotional pain and confusion. These will have to do:

The day of disclosure I subconsciously kept myself busy. I was out and about running errands, taking Jimmy to basketball, visiting with my mom, chatting and laughing and it was all so fake. I remember I stopped for a second and thought to myself, why am I acting so happy?

Subconsciously I knew that if I stopped and processed about what 7pm held for me, then I'd obsessively worry over what I would hear. My imagination would run wild. I'd think the worst. I'd be walking into that appointment as an emotional time bomb. And I wanted to be strong at that appointment. I wanted my mind to be clear and open and ready to digest. I wanted to walk in there ready for the healing to start. 

So I had to fake happiness all day long. Aka denial. Aka repressed emotions. 

The worry and fear didn't hit until I started driving to meet Simon at the therapists office. My heart felt like it had fallen down an internal elevator shaft and lodged behind my belly button. I wanted to clutch my stomach to hold the ache in but I had to drive. I was late. 

I had planned on bringing a blanket into the appointment with me. Something to wrap myself in, hold me together. But I left it in the car. The idea suddenly seemed stupid. And I wanted to appear confident and unshaken. Don't let them see you sweat is my psyche's motto. 

I wrapped my sweater around me like a blanket instead. The therapist had Simon sit opposite of me so I could clearly see him and have him talk right to me. I like the therapist. He knows what I need before I do. 

And so he talked. And there were a few surprises. Mostly high school and college stuff. Stuff that hurt to hear but didn't effect me too greatly since we weren't married during those times he mentioned. But I reheard the big stuff-- the stuff that happened during our marriage. And a few surprises were sprinkled in there also. And you know what? The little things hurt just as much as the big things. 

Simon acted out in many ways in varying degrees of severity. But the moments that he acted out that--seem to me--to have an emotional drive behind them, kill me. 

A one night stand is a one night stand. He left 10 minutes after. He never talked to that woman again. That's where I believe the addiction. It was strictly for the sex. 

A six month affair is a relationship. He invested time, effort, attention to that woman. They had dinner. They watched tv. They went on little trips. They shopped. I know because I've seen the pictures. I wish I hadnt. The point is it had to be emotional. He had to have liked her. Maybe even loved her! 

Simon swears to me over and over that there was no emotional connection. He swears it. He knows it's impossible for me to understand or believe. And it is. It's impossible. It makes no sense. 

Simon knows and admits he made horrific choices. And as terrible as it sounds, he admits that he rationalized to himself that he'd gone through so much effort to get this woman to be physical with him, that it was easier to just keep her around then start with someone new. He told me, I'm a terrible person. I asked, why her? What's so special about her? Simon said, nothing. She just showed up. And he hung his head. 

In that room, when all was out. I felt satisfied. I felt like everything was finally out. I wept a couple times but then reined it in. And then I could feel the anger start. 

Something I realized, and that I told both Simon and the therapist, is that I FEEL LIKE THE OTHER WOMAN. I'm the one who's been strung along and kept on the sidelines while my husband gave so much attention to these other women--on the screen, at the strip club, in the bar, in chat rooms and in their homes. 

He dated them. He worked for it. I tried to think of a time where I felt like he worked for me and my love and attention. I couldn't come up with one. It feels like he was willing to invest in anyone but me. So what do I lack that others have?

The therapist stopped me there and said that was my inner fears and securities talking. He said I needed to figure out why I felt that way. I get what he's saying. I shouldn't feel inadequate. I should have a strong sense of self and remember that I'm pretty freaking awesome. Because I am. 

But hello. You can't NOT have those feelings. If I didn't have those feelings. If I wasn't deeply hurt than why would I stay? It would mean I didn't--deep down--love my husband. And that's where it came back to Simon's efforts to explain that it had nothing to do with me: It's all me. I'm the one that is so messed up. It wasn't about you. 

I thought of You've Got Mail and the "business not personal" conversation:

Tom Hanks (Simon) says, "It wasn't...personal."

Meg Ryan says, "What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn't personal to you. But it was personal to me. It's *personal* to a lot of people." 

Exactly. 

In the back of my mind, I know that everything is a result of the damn addiction. I hate it with every fiber of my being. And I've read enough of the addicted man's standpoint in books and blogs and comments to believe that Simon is telling the truth when he says, "It wasn't about you or what you were lacking. It's about me and the addiction."

But it's still personal. 

Just as I will never be able to fully understand his addiction, Simon will never be able to fully understand my pain and trauma and the annihilating blow that's hacked away at my self-esteem in the intimacy department. 

After the session, we walked out to the car. We talked. Aka I screamed and wept bitterly. Simon sat there and listened. His eyes so full of shame. 

And I just can't write anymore. Not now. 

Little Things

"I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” --LM Montgomery

The last 24 hours, three simple, major, wonderful things happened. 

1. Simon stayed with me while I cried. In the past, if we had an argument or I was feeling sad about something, I would usually cry on my own. I'd lay on my bed and just cry. And the one thing I always wanted and hoped for was that Simon would come in, lay there with me and hold me. It's all I wanted in those moments. I wanted him to want to comfort me. I needed him to. But he never did it. He'd always say, "You want to call your mom?" And I'd yell on the inside, "Why don't YOU just comfort me?!" I know now why he didn't. Because he was self-consumed and he literally could not see or care about my pain and emotions. Pornography had locked away his ability to love and reach out. 

Yesterday, all day, trauma was smacking me in the face. Without warning my mind would tell me, "Your husband cheated on you. He did this." And I couldn't breathe. I stuffed it down as best I could until I had time to process it. And that meant I curled up in a blanket and took a nap later. 

When Simon got home, I was so on edge. He could sense it. Old Simon would just ignore it. Emotion made him feel uncomfortable. But I broke down. I sobbed. All the trauma came rushing in and crashing onto me. And then the miracle happened: new Simon listened. Not only did he listen but he responded with actions enveloped in compassion and empathy. He followed me everywhere I went. He held me. He didn't say a word. He just held me tighter. He kissed my head. He rubbed my arm. He listened. He stayed. Then he apologized. He was there for me. 

I had prayed for this so many times. I was hurting horribly, but Simon stayed with me. It was like he found the key to unlock his ability to comfort his wife last night. For the first time, I felt like he truly validated my pain. He was there for me, just as he should be. He shared in my suffering. Once the crying was done, I felt puffy and tired and fantastic. 

2. Simon let me give him a haircut. He even went out and bought the home haircutting kit. Then he ASKED me to give him the haircut. I thought I had stepped into a parallel universe. Old Simon was totally adverse to it. He wouldn't let me near his hair. He'd give me this look when I offered to cut it that said, "Uhhh... Are you crazy? You don't know how to cut hair!" And it's true. I don't. But how hard could it be? His hair is practically buzzed! Can't really mess that up. But he never let me. Never. 

This morning though, he requested it. He was positive. He was warm. He was willing. And I cut his hair to perfection. That haircut communicated one word to me: TRUST. I felt even more fantastic. 

3. Simon demonstrated this phrase: "You are the most important thing to me." Because of sick kids, we had to reschedule our therapy appointment to another day. This particular session was going to include and discuss Simon's disclosure. I was devastated to put it off because I need that disclosure. Even though I know most everything already (as far as I know), and even though it will completely suck to hear, I need that disclosure out in the open to be able to fully start my healing and recovery. 

So we switched it to next Tuesday. Simon left for work and then I realized that he had a work dinner scheduled for that same night and at the same time. I immediately texted him and asked if that was indeed the same night. I fully expected him to say, "Crap, I'll have to reschedule our session again." Work has always come first. 

But instead he texted back, "Yikes. Well I may have to miss that dinner then. Our appointment is more important to me." I nearly collapsed. I started to cry. I thanked him for making me feel important and loved. He told me, "You are the most important thing to me." 

I like new Simon. New Simon holds me when I'm suffering, trusts me and validates me and tells me I am the most important thing in his life. 

It's the simple little things that mean the most. They mean everything today. 

2014 Bookends

2014...that was a doozy. It kicked my trash in every way--physically, financially, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, you name it. 

The year started with the birth of our twins--Jem and Rilla. Born less than an hour after the ball had dropped and everyone celebrated the birth of a new year. It was a crazy and hectic and scary emergency c-section and I thought nothing would ever top that night of sheer exhaustion, fear and CRAZINESS. I was wrong. 

The majority of 2014 was spent with three little kids. Poopy diapers, crying babies, expensive formula, a new house, a workaholic husband, and all the rest of the day to day experiences that come with being a mom of a young family. A lot of loneliness. But there were good things of course. Lots of them actually. Small little joyous moments found in everyday ways. I wouldn't trade in those three dear and silly spirits for the world. 

And then of course...came the end of 2014 and with it the discovery of Simon's sexual addiction and the horrific extent that it had escalated to. The CRAZINESS of this situation and all the details and deception is so far and beyond anything I could have ever prepared for or even thought possible. 

I've told Simon many times now that every memory of 2014--and basically every other year of our marriage too--is trashed. Because I weigh every memory against the timeline of his addiction and then realize, "Ok, so we were here doing this while meanwhile you were secretly doing that over there." It's panic inducing at times and I can feel my chest start to tighten and my heart begin to race as the reality crashes against me. 

I wish I could send 2014 spiraling into space, lost in oblivion to some black hole. Gone, obliterated, erased, see ya in hell, 2014!!!

But I can't think that way. I'll always have to tell my children--especially Jem and Rilla--how 2014 was wonderful, one of the best years of my life, because they came to earth to be with us that year. And they did make it special. They saved 2014 for me. 

2014 started special with two beautiful tiny babies in my arms. 

And ya know what? 2014 ENDED SPECIAL as well...which is something I did not expect at all. I expected to still be slightly comatose on the couch just as I have been the last couple months. But I wasn't. I was on the floor laughing and smiling and talking with Simon as we played board games while the kids slept. We ate Hershey kisses and Veggie Stix while sabotaging one another in Machi Koro and Ticket to Ride. We didn't watch the ball drop or sip Martinelli's or kiss at  midnight. We just were. Together in a moment making a completely new memory. Being totally silly. It was the best night I've spent with Simon all of 2014. 

Heavenly Father has blessed me in 2014. I fell in love with my twins that first day of 2014. I felt IN LOVE the last day of 2014. Despite all the crap in between, I'm grateful that this past year was encapsulated by two bookends of love. They held me together. 

I have no idea what 2015 holds. But I hope for the best. Happy New Year.