The Final Round

D-Day Round 3 hurt the most. One would think after two warmups, the stage having been set, the curtains drawn and knowing what all lights on me as the humiliated wife looked and felt like, that I would be a well-seasoned, connoisseur on D-Day. But Round 3 came after months of something is different. Something had changed. Even his demeanor was different. Present. Peaceful. I can certainly look back now and see the warning signs. I can also look back, and see the gas-lighting carved neatly into the narrative, after my questioning the warning signs. But it was the closest I got during those few months to believing this was invested recovery.

Shortly after D-Day Round 2, my then husband completed a one-on-one therapeutic intensive with a CSAT/PhD, whose specialty went beyond completing training modules in sex addiction. He founded an entire center for intimacy disorders. His treatment model started at the root of trauma, navigated early childhood into present time, and ended with commitments to group calls and weekly check-ins. An entire team managed my then husband’s care. The program emulated sustained and individualized treatment over an extended period of time. In addition to completing the intensive, my then husband committed to a consistent workout regimen, attended weekly yoga classes, and was back in church. Albeit, I was watching all of this from afar and the safety of my apartment while we continued our separation. But my brain and heart began seeing consistency and change. My brain and heart began to believe the change was real.

 In the days leading up to D-day Round 3, I spent a few nights in our marital home with my sweet girl. My then husband had business and personal travel, trips he described as a time of solitude to reflect on his recovery progress. I helped him pack, picking outfits he would wear for dinner. I decorated our home for Christmas, the first time in two years. Carrying our artificial tree up the basement stairs, all five feet of me, and feeling entirely rejuvenated to be in love with the Christmas season again. My then husband came to Christmas dinner with my family. He spoke of our plans in the coming weeks. He was present and smiling. Everyone noticed. Everyone.

 And while I was entertaining the idea of moving back in to our marital home during those blissful holiday weeks, a storm was brewing on a different stage I knew nothing about.

 On the morning of D-Day Round 3, my then husband’s mood changed entirely. My body felt the shift.  I asked him directly if he needed to talk.  Because the thought of D-Day had not even crossed my mind. The progress and commitment to that progress, moving back home, and the high I had been riding out from this new, relational connection, were at the forefront.

 We met for a workout class that evening with plans for dinner to follow. I knew as soon as I saw his face, the spark and glow that had been there were gone. He was lifeless. No eye contact. I survived the class with knots in my stomach.  My inner dialogue suggested he did not feel worthy of love or healthy, normal intimacy. A relapse in thoughts had occurred, perhaps.  Class ended and he abruptly told me he needed to go for a walk and be alone.  I climbed in my car and called a mutual friend of ours, one of the few that knew our story intimately. I told this friend something was not right and to please be on standby for a crisis intervention call. This unfortunately would not be the first. It was not even 20 minutes into the drive to my apartment that my then husband called and asked to meet me. He had something he needed to share.

 The presentation of D-Day is all too familiar. The crying. The sweaty palms. The rapid speech that makes no sense and the leaning into me for support.  I wasted no time. Who is she? I was confident. I knew exactly what was about to unfold and decided my boundaries in the span of 30 seconds.  I did not want to know her name.  I did not want to know her children’s names.  I would want to know where she lived. I would want to know if and what she knew about me. I would want to know how long.  And while the internal boundary preparation ensued, my frontal cortex was registering the painful reality.  I whispered so softly, so gently, to my soul, you know you can’t go on like this…

 This D-Day hurt the most. It was not one, but two women this time. Two more families impacted by my then husband’s choices. Two more women who were rightfully angry, appalled, and confused at the situations they were in. Two more women were contacting me in the coming days through calls, text messages, and emails with photos, to personally update me on who I married. And as I watched my then husband vacillate between the emotionally distressed and business acumen versions of himself, my frontal cortex roared on. You know you can’t go on like this…you know you can’t go on like this…

I remember feeling speechless and defeated as I reflected back on the prior months; the time we spent leading up to this day.

I believe I became one of the alternate lives he was living during those few months; one of the alternate women and relationships.

This was continued, blatant deception, objectification of innocent humans, and no genuine empathy for the consequences.

The outcome of D-Day Round 3 was enrollment in an inpatient stay at a sexual addiction treatment facility. 

It was the beginning of a shift.

It hurt the most, because my defeated brain knew this story was nearing an end.