“I have learned I can be both broken and beautiful at the same time. I have learned the very worst of this life can lead to the very best...the ultimate relationship; with God, and with myself. ”
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.
If You Love, You Will Be Loved
A therapist asked me once, if your childhood had a motto, what would it be? I maybe paused for thirty seconds as I visualized my motto on a flag, waving in a spring breeze over my childhood home. The home where my momma taught me how to taste honeysuckles and we rode our big-wheel bikes in the driveway. I woke up from the sweet memories and said, “If you love, you will be loved.”
My childhood was simple and magical. There was always a space for imagination and tools for success. We didn’t have a need for much and always had enough. We were not perfect. We believed in fairytales. We had each other, and we had love.
So how does a woman who grows up in love, knows love and seeks love, end up in this marriage?
In the middle of my adult therapy work, I received a few different labels as professionals dissected how I arrived here. Naive. Empath. Trauma-Magnet. To name a few. There was a subtle insinuation that my empathic nature was an attraction for the man I chose to marry. The insinuation that my empathic nature rendered me a vulnerable candidate, the culprit for why this man chose me. This insinuation became a label I went on to carry for years. A label that impacted how I chose to show up in the world and in my relationships; an otherwise hard, less empathic version of myself. As I healed and learned the relevance of boundaries as they relate to self-love and in relationships, I circled back to this label. This insinuation. And I believe, dear partner, we have enough labels that come out of our stories. Can we place this one on the shelf for a bit, and perhaps name the culprit at hand?
I have met partners who carry similar labels.
I have met partners with devastating childhood trauma compounding the trauma they are now experiencing at the hands of their spouses. I have met partners that are CEO’s of successful, women-owned companies. I met partners that are raising their children in Godly, confident and nurturing homes, despite what has happened in their marriage. We are a diverse population and yet linked by one, common denominator. And it is not an empathic nature, dear partner. It is abuse.
Narcissistic abuse does not have a type. It has a need for supply. And when one encounters the orbit of someone who presents with narcissistic behaviors, spinning in an otherwise tumultuous atmosphere that ultimately leaves you not knowing up from down, we all become the same thing. Despite our childhood. Despite being successful adults. Whether we are rooted in a foundation of love or trauma. Ultimately, we become supply.
I lived as a supply puppet for 14 years. My strings were longer in the beginning. I ventured outside routine and grew within the boundaries he laid. At the time, I didn’t even know they were boundaries. Eventually the strings became shorter. Eventually the strings were tighter. I could only step so far, I could only breathe so deep, and if I challenged the length or the strength of those strings, I was reminded I was only a puppet. I was to stay in place. I was to do the dance of chaos within the confounds of that chaos, to keep the supply going. And one day, dear partner, those strings broke. And I was free.
It is important to understand how we arrived here.
It is important to understand how we do not arrive here again.
But be the empath that you are, dear partner.
Be all that is good, all that is kind, and all that is you.
Be love, and be loved.
Bonded
The first time I heard the term trauma bond I had an immediate flashback to D-Day. After a two-hour disclosure, my then husband touched me. He touched me in a way I had not been touched in over a year. A touch that began at my shoulders and slowly traced down to my fingertips. And then I slept with him. After a two-hour disclosure that ended in a six-year affair confession, I slept with my then husband.
This, dear partner, is a trauma bond.
A trauma bond may be defined as a strong emotional connection in a relationship with cyclical patterns of abuse followed by a period of positive reinforcement*. It is entirely confusing and heavy to apply such words to the relationship of marriage. It is still heavy to write about to this day. I was in shock and eventually denial when I heard it therapeutically explained to me in the context of my own marriage. But this is exactly how a trauma bond survives and thrives.
When my then husband disclosed, I went immediately from an outsider for many years to inside the circle of knowing. Stepping into the circle of knowing was an incredibly traumatic event. His touch, however, a touch that had been withheld through chronic patterns of rejection, was the positive reinforcement.
In my trauma bond, touch, made the bond even stronger.
I was 14 years deep into my own trauma bond when truth was revealed. Appropriate, healthy reactions to a disclosure were not even available to my brain.
It is important to identify if you are currently or have been in a trauma bond.
It is important we understand, dear partner, how a trauma bond may impact us, and importantly, our recovery.
Here are a few considerations from my own, lived experience:
· The trauma bond may be the lens through which you see all that has happened to you.
· The trauma bond is what may lead you to lay down your life for a partner who has inconceivably wounded you, and not see yourself as a whole person to be valued, cared for, protected, and seen.
· A trauma bond is not a marriage. It is not in sickness and in health. It is the result of an abuse cycle. It is fed by trauma, and it will perpetuate from that trauma.
After six months of work with my individual CSAT, I had survived two disclosures, countless episodes of gaslighting leading up to these disclosures, and I was still the first to defend, protect, and believe my then husband was choosing recovery. My therapy sessions emulated a desire to understand his trauma and his choices, and not see how his choices impacted me. My actual reality did not align with the reality I was living. I remember one session, my CSAT’s attempts to rattle my denial, as she said, “You know there are other women...”
This is one of the first and perhaps most critical steps, dear partner. Before we can lay our firm foundation for healing. Before we can take impactful steps in a new and healthy direction. We can choose to seek support, professional and personal, to break the bond. Regardless of where you are in the process, healing individually, committed to reconciliation with a partner who is choosing recovery, separated, or divorced, if you suspect you are currently or have been in a trauma bond, consider identifying and working with accountability partners, coaches, and/or therapists. Consider the need for someone available in real-time to run real life scenarios by, as they are happening. Consider having support to stay grounded in the reality at hand.
Breaking a trauma bond is a process. When a partner is used to you living one way, compliant, uninquisitive and unconfrontational, and a shift begins to happen to curious, accountable, and confident, this shift may lead to the adverse reactions and emotions we work hard to avoid while in the bond. Consider having a safety plan in place in the event such reactions escalate. Communicate such experiences with your accountability team to stay grounded in reality.
Breaking a trauma bond is a commitment. I remember one partners group call, receiving the strongly advised message from the coach, “Do not let him touch you.” This message was odd. This message was curious. And this message was an otherwise terrifying awakening to the cycle I had been living. The power that exists in one touch, erasing a single moment and ultimately a lifetime of psychological abuse. It was the first time I heard it said so directly in a therapeutic setting. It was undoubtedly a commitment I knew I needed to make to break the bond. Until recovery is consistently observed, validated, and confirmed by professionals in a therapeutic setting, consider working with your therapy team to decide when intimacy of any capacity is deemed appropriate.
Breaking a trauma bond is healing. It is healing for you, dear partner. It is healing for your spouse if they are committed to their own recovery. It is a re-learning and re-wiring of your brain that may require professional guidance. Consider breaking the bond entirely necessary to take independent and relational steps forward. Consider your life and your relationships worthy of being set free.
*(credit: https://www.sandstonecare.com/blog/trauma-bonding)
D-Day. Round 2.
Six months into our therapeutic separation I started having daily headaches. The moment I would open my eyes in the morning to the time I went to bed, the tension would sit just above and beside my eyes. We had both been working with individual CSATs during our separation, and my then husband was preparing for full disclosure. And something wasn’t right.
I had received a few notifications on my Linked In account that the same woman had visited my page. I didn’t know her. I didn’t know her place of employment. Her profession, however, was in the same realm as my then husband’s. After the third notification, I messaged her. I simply asked if she knew me or my then husband. No reply.
I received a call from this woman on my office phone two months later. When I saw her name pop up on the caller ID log, I knew. When I asked my then husband about this woman, he said he had never heard of her.
A few weeks later, he asked if I wanted to meet for dinner. We had just started working with our couples CSAT, the one that came highly regarded and we waited six months for an appointment. We had dinner at one of our favorite dive bars on the water. I wore my hair the way he liked it and had just come from a facial. I was glowing from the extractions and oils, the hot summer sun, and even more so when he invited me on a trip that summer and told me he would take care of all the arrangements. He took a picture of us, as he usually did. He sent the photo to our close friends. I left dinner in a blissfully assured state that our separation and therapy were working. A state that would be trauma-bombed 45 minutes later when I arrived home.
I opened my inbox to an email from the woman. She did know my then husband. She did want to speak with me.
I wish I could say I paused. I prayed. I called someone from my trusted inner circle before I made that call, but I didn’t. I called her immediately and without hesitation. Her little ones were still awake in the background, as she reminded them it was bedtime. My heart sank, as I was anticipating this to be the I didn’t know he was married phone call. But when she began to speak of the year and half that she had been dating my then husband, it was readily apparent she knew. She knew about me, and she knew he was married. She filled in the gaps of the uncertainty I had been carrying those first six months of our separation. The feeling that something is not quite right. My then husband started doing life with her and her children, on and off, shortly after his first disclosure one year prior. He moved in with her when our therapeutic separation began. Although I ran into this conversation, still entirely in denial this could be happening to me again, which was quickly being replaced with shear anger and terror this was happening to me again, my response to this woman was straight from God.
I shared my faith with this woman. I told her that God was protecting me right then, and he would continue to protect and heal me. I asked her if she believed in God, and what happened in her own life, to have her believe this was all she deserved.
Dear partner, I bring this part of my story into the light for a few invaluable takeaways:
· First. Trust your body if it’s telling you something is not right. Discuss this with your therapist and trusted inner circle. Acknowledge that your body’s intuition is real.
· Second. This is not recovery. This is not a relapse. D-Day Round 2 was a pivotal time for me. How could someone commit to therapy twice a week, attend group calls, read all the self-help books, and articulate they are in recovery, and not be in recovery?
· Third. Take the pause. This is a reminder that what we expose our brain to has the power to gravely impact our recovery. I did not need all the details this woman shared with me. I did not need the four months of ruminating thoughts and horrendous visuals she left me with after a 15-minute conversation. I went into the conversation emotionally charged (rightfully so), and perhaps had I taken the pause, the five minutes to clearly state the purpose of the call, define my boundaries on what details I did and did not want to hear, and the point I would end the call, maybe, just maybe, I would have been spared in some capacity the continued and unnecessary impacts of my then husband’s choices.
D-Day Round 2 was another layer into the reality of what I was up against. What followed in the months after I will share in later posts. For now, I will rest in the version of me that chose to lean into faith, and the tools I had received thus far on my healing journey. I will celebrate a God that carried me, and helped me survive.
The Marriage Boat
I hastily walked to a different building at work with the only empty conference room I had access to, holding my water and journal. It was a matter of minutes before my hospital pager would be alarming, summoning me in another direction when my only focus was to login for this long awaited appointment. My then husband and I had been on a waiting list for six months to meet with a highly regarded couples CSAT. It was our first session, and like all intake sessions, I was showing up with our 14-year relationship timeline and therapy goals, with a side of caffeine and life-induced anxiety. When our zoom cameras clicked to life, I was pleasantly surprised to see the face of a woman who held confidence and presence more like an attorney than a therapist. Sharply dressed, well-appointed, and with a professional office space nestled on either side of her. This was going to be well worth our wait.
My then husband took the floor, as he usually did in our couples therapy sessions, to explain to our CSAT why we were here, and his thoughts on our next steps. I remember tilting my head and raising my brows as he explained with business-like acumen that we both made missteps in our marriage, and that our goal for therapy was to decide if we are moving forward with reconciliation, and back into our marital home together. Our CSAT paused, and then began with a story. She asked my then husband to picture a boat floating on the water. The boat represents marriage. She went on to explain that sometimes we punch holes in our marriage boat. She said, “I punched holes in my marriage boat. My colleagues down the hall punched holes in their own marriage boats.” Her summation, of course, being that we all punch holes in our marriage boat. “Sometimes, the holes are so big, the boat even starts to sink,” she continued. She paused again, for a climax I knew was coming but not entirely sure my then husband knew, and said, “We are not here to talk about the holes in your marriage boat. We are here, to understand why you jumped off the boat for 6 years.”
Dear partner, today’s post is to shed both the darkness and light on our marriage boat. We, dear partner, are not on your average marriage boat. I used to tell my girlfriends when they would call fuming over their husband forgetting to take the trash out, that I would welcome a healthy fight and repair session over a full trash bin, or dirty laundry scattered on the bedroom floor.
The darkness that covers our marriage boat suggests that we never had a chance. Every disagreement on household responsibilities, child raising, what you made for dinner, how your in-laws are driving you mad, or plans to host family for holidays were all superseded by choices our partners were making without our consent. Our worst moments and performances as a spouse do not match the magnitude of marriage boat holes from blatant deception. A line I heard frequently nearing the end, was that we both did things to ruin our marriage My response today, dear partner, is I never had a chance. The reality is, I was never on the marriage boat with a committed and honest partner.
The light that covers our marriage boat suggests that we honor this reality. Our CSAT did not deviate from this reality. She faced it, head on. She acknowledged the severity of the actions at hand. The devastating aftermath. The wreckage. These were not holes. These were life-altering choices with devastating consequences. It is important, dear partner, a therapist honors this reality as a first step. Acknowledging the magnitude of damage, and consequences from that damage, to our marriage boat.
The couples CSAT was brutally honest at our next session, the one where I shared his second affair disclosure that had just come out one week prior, when she simply said, “I do not know where to go from here.” I kindly thanked her for her time. I too, did not know where to go from here. Our lifeless marriage boat, sailing on into unchartered waters I was growing tired of navigating alone.
Un-Gaslight Me
I stood at the window of our vacation rental and stared, holding my breath as I watched my then husband texting. It was not often I was at an angle or even remotely close enough to see his text messages. This was an opportune moment. I pulled the blinds down to get a closer look, and squinted until my eyes burned, as if my life depended on the words rapidly coming from his fingertips. I watched him vacillate between a text with a woman and a text with a small child. I caught just a few sentences. The child indicated he had not seen my then husband since his birthday. I remembered him traveling for business on his birthday, running out of our home that morning with the blown candle scent still resting in the kitchen. The woman said she was proud of him, and used words like “silly.” My heart rate escalated. He promptly stood from the chair and entered the front door, while I moved from freeze to flight mode and shifted around a dish towel on the counter. It took ten minutes for me to rehearse internal scenarios of how and when I would ask, and then I did. Arms reach length between us and enough tension radiating from my now hunched shoulders, that he could surely feel the interrogation coming. I asked point blank who he was texting and repeated the sentences I saw. He grabbed his phone, held it to his ear, and asked the other end to hold. He would be joining a conference call momentarily. My question was not answered.
We rode our bikes to the beach while he remained on the conference call, winding down unnecessary backroads, obviously delaying and giving him more time to prepare a rebuttal. I was angry. By the time we arrived at the beach, my anger transitioned to questioning what I saw. We sat in reclined beach chairs and after the insanity stewed in me once more, I asked again. Who was the woman and small child you were texting? Where did you go on your birthday? His reply was one sentence. Firm. Stoic. “We need to work on our trust issues.”
I caved. Inward. Like I usually did when I heard these not so often replies. It wasn’t often I could form words for odd things that I saw, let alone have the nerve to ask for clarification. This was brave. This was very brave, and I was now feeling very defeated. He promptly stood up, walked to get my favorite snacks and drinks, and it was not spoken of again.
This, dear partner, is Gaslighting.
Gaslighting in my story ranged from the extreme example I share above, to late night work calls taken from his truck in our garage, to finding an unknown address on an Amazon box in our home, to claiming in a therapeutic setting that my body was the reason our marriage was failing. My then husband had a deemed objective response in the que for any scenario that jeopardized the alternative lives he was living and questioned his character. The byproduct of living in such extremes for so long, is just as extreme.
Here is a brief list, dear partner, of symptoms and core beliefs that we all likely share from living a life with gaslighting:
- Inability to trust our instincts
- Feeling unsettled, like we are crazy
- Inability to make simple decisions
- Anxious
- Irritable
- Fear of the unknown
- Altered perceptions of reality
- Seeking validation for beliefs and ideas you once confidently knew to be true
How does one begin to show up for therapeutic work and healing, when their core belief says, “I’m crazy.” I used to begin most sentences like this in therapy. “I know it sounds crazy, but…” Or an alternate variation, “I feel like I am going crazy!” Dear partner. We have survived life-altering, mind-blowing, crazy-making behaviors in our most intimate relationship. We, however, are not crazy. And we may require a strong therapeutic foundation to continuously remind us of this reality, and to reframe core beliefs we inherently have, from surviving in this life for so long.
Here are a few examples of core beliefs our brains may have learned from chronic gaslighting, and reframes to consider for beginning the un-gaslighting process:
- Betrayed Partner Core Belief: I am crazy.
- Reframed Core Belief: I have survived behaviors that altered and deceived my reality. I am not crazy.
- Betrayed Partner Core Belief: I imagined what I saw. I am overreacting with how it made me feel.
- Reframed Core Belief: I may not feel safe in this moment to address what I saw directly with my partner, but I will journal what I saw and how it made me feel, and I will commit to discussing with my coach, therapist, or trusted inner circle.
- Betrayed Partner Core Belief: I can’t even go to the grocery store without feeling overwhelmed. I cannot commit to simple decisions, even planning what to eat.
- Reframed Core Belief: I feel anxiety and self-doubt making decisions right now, because my reality was replaced with lies and deception. I will commit to writing grocery lists and planning meals before I go to the store, so I feel safe to make decisions. I will commit to discussing decisions with my therapy team when I am struggling.
Rewiring our brain and reality for truth is a commitment to a process. For me, the process started with fixing my eyes on truth. Covering myself daily in God’s truth in the form of scripture, sermons, and devotionals. The process continued with giving myself permission to shift from “I feel crazy, but…” to “I am not crazy,” when navigating on-going and real life scenarios with the support of my therapy team. And this process continues on, even now, in relationship with a partner who cultivates a safe, loving, and committed relationship with truth.
May we all be afforded opportunities to name the thoughts, anxiety, and fears that were brought on by our partners behaviors and choices. May we bring them confidently into the light, write them down, say them out loud. May we release them into a trusted space, until intuitive doubt transitions to intuitive trust in ourselves.
Was It Always Like This?
I have been asked this question a handful of times, and a few times by the same people. People that know and love me, still in disbelief of all that happened. Was it always like this?
The short answer is yes. The long answer is no.
No, it was not always like this. Because I was not always the same version of me. He was not always the same version of him. And when you add deception to the mix, it takes the accusation of “how could you not have seen this coming?” entirely out of the equation. No, it was not always like this.
When I met my then husband, I was barely a 20-something, naïve, and anxious human. I was also top of my class and on a fast-paced track to a competitive graduate school program. I had my life trajectory planned out and an eating disorder layered in the background. I was a beautiful compilation of functioning, masked, human. Like we all are.
My then husband (and not my husband at this time, for clarification), was also a highly driven human when I met him. He radiated confidence and our first month of dating was a stretch from the humble of an environment I grew up in. He was worldly and well-traveled for 20-something. He was handy and could fix anything. He was also determined to be successful and had a goal of a six-figure salary before he turned 30. He was appetizing and intoxicating. Until he wasn’t.
My first trauma bomb went off one month into dating him. He was still seeing his ex, who also attended our same, so-very-small college. An ex who also happened to have an incredibly long history with him that dated back to their childhoods. It was my first experience with deception. It was confusing and humiliating.
It was also my introduction to love-bombing. My brain had been on a dopamine high since I met him. The dates and the food, exotic by my standards, and the intimate attention were all intoxicating. And the trauma-bomb of deception dropped my brain to a low so deep that it wanted the high. It wanted it immediately. So, when my then boyfriend, eventually husband, showed up on my parent’s doorstep with flowers, promises, and talks of getting help and getting right with God, my brain recognized the drug. The high it was desperately seeking. The beginning of the chaos cycle.
This story continued on repeat for four years. I grew and I matured in my career and faith, and I completed the graduate program and was full speed ahead on my life’s trajectory I had so firmly laid out. And trauma-bombs were laced through all of it. Women in other states. Professional women. Each bomb was more traumatic than the last; each effort to pull me back into the relationship more grandiose. Lengthy, handwritten letters of shame for his behavior followed by one-on-one sessions with pastors and therapists. Him wanting to be good, and wanting a good life with me.
My brain was now groomed and molded for a life of living in the chaos cycle. My life’s trajectory was now arriving at mid-twenties and the next stop was marriage. I wanted to be married.
I remember asking a few wives to have dinner with me shortly before my wedding. They were the wives of my then husband’s professional partners, and I wanted to be a good wife. I wanted to dress the part, support my husband at professional events and his ever-growing goals. We sat at the high-top table over a glass of wine and appetizers, and I can still picture their faces with my bold questions and goals for marriage. Was I tackling marriage like I did all other goals in my life? Was I the product of the now seven years of psychological experiences my brain had endured? Or was it both?
We were married on a beautiful summer day under a weeping willow tree, where I stood just hours before the ceremony running explanations and scenarios through my head in case he didn’t show up. I chose him that day. I chose him every day for seven years following. Because if you were to ask the version of me under the weeping willow tree, “why do you choose this man?” I would have said, “Because I believe in him. I see the real him. And there is so much more to him than any of us know, and I am going to figure it out.”
Was it always like this?
The short answer is yes.
The long answer is no. Because I was not always this version of me. He was not always the same version of him. Over the next seven years of marriage, my goals for my life trajectory moved from becoming a mom and building a home for my family, to losing sight of who I was entirely. And his behavior grew darker and more deceptive than I could have ever imagined.
Moving Day
I prepared for moving day like all other overwhelming moments in my life. I take otherwise seemingly daunting moments and strip them down into smaller, palatable checklists. I packed whatever I could fit into my SUV. I sent a list of furniture to my then husband that I would plan to take. I went grocery shopping for the food I would find comfort in, cleaning supplies, and other essentials needed for a new home. And while I emptied a few of my kitchen cabinets of just enough pots and silverware to get me started, I watched my sweet dog in the background. She sat for days in the garage on the sofa I planned to take. If I kept moving, I would not absorb her anxiety. If I kept moving, I would not absorb the magnitude of the decision I was making. I turned to my girl once, and told her, “Mom will be back.” Because in that moment, I truly believed I would be.
It was a brisk and gray morning with snow in the forecast the day I moved out of my marital home. The weather was another component to an already tumultuous time, and I knew we had only a few hours to make the drive to my new apartment before it turned worse. And by we, I mean my then husband and me. He loaded up his trailer with the furniture I would be taking. Our guestroom bed. The coffee table we bought for our first home. It was all entirely surreal. I did not believe he would actually let me go.
I ordered egg sandwiches from a local spot up the street where I had spent many of my Friday evenings picking up carryout. I wiped the countertops one last time, still taking pride in the home I had intimately cared for and loved. I said goodbye to the porch I had always wanted; the dreamy kind that wraps around the house and you can appreciate regardless of the season. I climbed slowly into my SUV, backed out of my garage, and remembered something an old colleague had told me before I made the long crawl up the driveway, past my neighbors who continued about their day. She reminded me of the scripture in Genesis 19:17, to not look back. “Do not look back or stop anywhere in the valley. Escape to the hills, lest you be swept away.” If you are familiar with this passage, you know it results in a man’s wife who did not listen to the warning, looked back, and was turned into a pillar of salt. I would heed this warning today, and not look back.
I handed the breakfast sandwich to my then husband through his truck window like it was any other morning. Like he was on his way to a work engagement, and not moving his wife fifty miles away. But this was a normal reaction for me at this time. To freeze, dissociate, act entirely and unemotionally normal to avoid receiving strong emotional reactions. I knew I needed to save any remaining shreds of confidence for the moment we arrived at my new place. The moment I would need to tell him he could not have a key.
Being just the two of us, the move-in process to an apartment the size of my former master bedroom closet was entirely formidable. It was an anticipated trigger for my then husband’s intolerance for difficult situations. Except this time, I was not behind closed doors. I was out on display in the middle of an apartment complex, and tolerating this behavior. This was the first impression I made at the new place I would call home. It was humiliating and validating all at the same time. The staff I grew to know as kind, warm individuals still spoke of this memorable move-in, on the day I moved out almost two years later. They saw me.
The door closed after the last bit of boxes were brought in, and my throat closed as I knew this was the moment he would be asking me for a key. It was just him and I, a few boxes and furniture thrown about, and fourteen years of life hanging in the air between us. And I told him no. I told him this was a therapeutic separation, and I would not be giving him a key to my place. I rehearsed this response with my APSAT coach. I said it out loud as we approached the apartment complex, as the snowflakes began to dance across my windshield. And I wish I could say it gave me a renewed strength to say it out loud to him, to look him in the eyes, speak my needs and put my safety first, but it didn’t. It broke me, to my core. I turned the lock, and stared at the sterile, white-walled space, and said, “what have I done…”
I share this part of my story, to continue sharing truth. To share the raw truth that we can be both beautifully in denial while simultaneously surrendering to a God whom just two months prior I begged desperately to get me out. Both can equally exist. But on this day, moving day, I ultimately chose to surrender.
After I sat for a bit and processed the events that had just transpired, I opened a few boxes and made up my bed. I wiped down the countertops and the fridge. I went downstairs to the front desk to introduce myself. To apologize. And was met with warm smiles and “no apologies necessary.” They assured me only tenants with a key could enter the building. I went back to my apartment, closed the door, turned the lock, and all was quiet. No one was coming in. This was my place. This was my peace. This, dear partner, was exactly what I needed.
Plan While It’s Quiet
I called my dad early that morning on the way to work. The sun had just started to reflect off the morning dew, covering the fields that lined the back roads I had been driving for nearly four years. Most mornings looked like this, with the occasional school bus that would offer more time to pause next to the fall layers of hay and pine grass that give way to wildflowers in the spring. This morning was different though. I had been masking the last five months during these catch-up calls with my dad, using a more than usual upbeat voice and bringing our topics back to anything other than my life. But this morning, I planned to take the mask off. Or rather, lift it enough to ask for something I needed. The mask had become part of my survival. It held in all the damage. I could function outside in reality with the mask on. I had no intention of revealing all the damage to my dad that early fall morning; that would be entirely too much for one parent to bear in a single phone call. I only had one ask. I needed a budget.
Despite being in my car and very much alone, I spoke quietly and softly of a hypothetical scenario. If I spoke it too loud, hypothetical, or not, it became real. If my marriage continued to dissipate at the speed at which it was, I would need to clearly understand my financial situation. Independent of my spouse. My then husband had made subtle insinuations that I could not do it on my own, occasionally reminding me that my life would change dramatically without his financial support. But as it became imminent that my situation was not improving, and rather on a steady decline, I awakened to the curiosity that maybe, just maybe, I could do it on my own.
My consideration for you, dear partner, is to plan while it’s quiet. Plan for a day, a situation, or a decision, that you may never need to make. Plan anyway. Plan when your partner is off at a business event or visiting family. Plan while they are deep into in their own recovery. Plan for your protection, your safety, your independence, and your financial well-being. Plan because you are a priority.
Here is a brief list of planning priorities to consider, regardless of when or if you ever need them.
Create a living expense budget. My living expense budget was an informal excel file that captured my monthly take home pay allocated for a list of expenses (rent, groceries, cell phone bill, car insurance, etc.). If you are not currently employed or do not have a source of income independent of your spouse, consider seeking legal advice to understand alimony, or financial provisions that may come from your spouse if a divorce were to occur. Consider being open, if time and resources allow, to exploring obtaining a source of income independent of your spouse. Consider skills you have or may want to learn. Write them down. Consider financial education and planning a success.
Create a list of family law and divorce attorneys. At the time I was exploring hypothetical scenarios, I could not bring myself to even say the “D” word. Divorce. However, when I did choose to proceed with divorce, I would have appreciated a list of resources and terminology that was prepared when it was quiet. Some attorneys offer free consultations. You are free to practice, educate yourself, and prepare under hopefully calmer circumstances than when a divorce is actually in motion. In advance of divorce, you may consider asking for legal support in understanding post nuptial agreements and/or separation agreements, two documents that personally were entirely new territory. Taking steps to educate and legally protect yourself, dear partner, is to be celebrated.
Create a safety plan. Identify a key person or people who you would contact if necessary for physical, emotional, and/or spiritual support. Initiating a separation or divorce does not typically bring out the best in people. Consider having a secure place in mind if you need to leave an escalating situation. Consider your safety a priority as you plan while it is quiet.
Dear partner. It is okay to choose supporting your spouse in recovery. It is also okay to choose your own recovery in it’s fullest capacity.
These are tough days, and I do not intend to simplify the work and decisions at hand with a bulleted list. I do intend to help you awaken. To help you be curious enough to consider, that if recovery does not proceed in the fashion we all deserve, that you are a person. A whole person who perhaps may not otherwise see themselves outside of all the burdens we may carry.
I see you.
Therapists Are Not God
Three months after my then husband’s first disclosure we started working with a couple’s therapist; one that came highly regarded. I was grateful to have a therapy team in motion. His presence in our marital home had grown more unpredictable than before disclosure. I would go weeks without seeing him. Business travel and commitments beyond his norm. When I asked for details, he described the nature of the travel, who he was with, where they were having dinner and all the business talk in between. He would be pleasant one moment, anxiety ridden and irritable the next, to inconsolable with no plausible explanation that he wanted to discuss. Everything I was reading at the time said big emotions were normal for early recovery. But this wasn’t sitting right. I started journaling our conversations and difficult moments so I could later process them on paper. I wanted to bring these moments to therapy. I wanted to understand why he was still not coming home and someone to validate this completely valid concern. If he was committed to recovery, why wasn’t he here?
During one particular couple’s session, I ran to grab my journal so I could read a few entries to our therapist. I had been given the floor to explain my concerns for his absence in our home, just three months after a six-year affair disclosure. I read the entries rapidly and all over the place. Flipping through pages pausing only to breathe, trying to get it all out before my then husband could grow irritable over what I had written; accountability floating off the pages. The therapist asked me to take a pause. He asked us to take a breath. And I did. I felt relief wash over me. My eyes returned to the zoom screen, and the therapist had just one response for me, “I think you are being judgmental.”
I still close my eyes tight when I read that. I still see younger me sitting on my couch and feeling the tears I worked so hard to otherwise control on a regular basis, fall to my pajamas. My eyes left the zoom screen. The session ended. My then husband asked if I wanted to go get lunch. Lunch. I walked out to our front porch to cry and silent scream.
Two months later and one month prior to our separation, I found our individual CSATs. Specialists. I believed we needed specialists. I had one check in session with my then husband’s CSAT as they prepared for full disclosure. He told me my then husband was one of his best clients. He had read all the books. He did all his homework. He went to group and individual therapy. And I scheduled this call to ask his CSAT about my feeling off. About not feeling quite right as his partner, now in separation, and the speed at which I was experiencing my then husband moving through recovery. I wanted to discuss questions I had about recovery milestones. But it was readily apparent the therapist was not open to expanding on my concerns. The call ended, and left me with the all too familiar thought from our prior therapy sessions, “what just happened?”
Six months into CSAT work my then husband’s second affair disclosure came out; another secret life. A life he was living through all of his sex addiction therapy work to date. A life he was living when the couple’s therapist told me I was being judgmental. When the CSAT claimed my then husband was his top client. He lied through all of it.
Dear partner, I bring this part of my story into the light, so you are a prepared, educated, and an empowered partner. So you use your voice and continue to seek a quality therapy experience with you in mind.
I also emphasize, there are good therapists. There are amazing therapists. I worked with a handful of them on my therapy journey. Unfortunately, working with a cyclic presentation of manipulation, lying, and love-bombing, requires consistent expertise to see, pursue, and treat the reality at hand.
Here is an invaluable list of considerations for your therapy journey to ensure you, the partner, are seen, heard, and valued:
· Consider working with a partner certified CSAT, or an APSAT. Their training is specifically partner-centered. They are equipped to see you as a whole person, with your own trauma, trauma responses, and healing journey.
· Consider asking for routine check-ins with your spouse’s individual therapist to discuss therapy goals, recovery progress, and your up-to-date experiences of doing life while in recovery. In addition, bring any concerns you may have regarding recovery progress. Discuss these concerns in your own therapy session so you are confident and prepared for the check-in.
· Consider asking for recovery goals and milestones from your therapy team. The recovery journey looks different for every individual and every couple. Understanding what recovery is, and what recovery is not, is important. Having tangible goals and milestones to meet individually and together as a couple is extremely important to be sure you, your spouse and therapy team are all on the same page.
· Consider being open to new therapists if you do not feel you are being supported or making progress. I had quality experiences as a partner with a CSAT and an APSAT coach. Both offered me the opportunity to build my own goals and valued my needs for my own recovery. I moved on from working with both when I met those goals and felt equipped to continue my recovery journey on my own with God, my family, and my trusted inner circle.
· Consider taking a pause from therapy. I would show up to some sessions with no words or the same words I had spoken sessions before. I would show up depleted and wanting to be filled, and leave still feeling entirely empty. Therapy burnout is real. Consider taking a break and doing something new for that one hour for your mind and physical well-being. Consider taking a walk in nature, a drop-in visit to a yoga or exercise class, or a coffee date with a friend. Give yourself permission to take a break. You are still therapeutically caring for yourself outside a therapy session.
Dear partner, therapists are not God. The expectation for me after disclosure was therapy equals treatment, and treatment equals recovery. May we remember that while experts do exist, our stories are incredibly layered, challenging, and therefore deserve the utmost care. May we see ourselves as a whole person; a person who advocates for our safety, our needs, our expectations, and our own recovery. May we acknowledge there is a second person in our story. A person that must show up. A person that must choose their own recovery.
The Night I Knew It Would Never Be
I left my house at 11:00 pm on a 25-degree night in November. I did not even bring the dog. The door closed, and I can still see her sweet face through the porch window, head tilted and pondering where mom would be going at this time of night. Truthfully, I did not know. I was still in pajamas with my knee-length coat halfway zippered as I trailed up the driveway walking with a mission. A mission to leave the ruminating thoughts behind. I made it halfway down the main road that lines our neighborhood. This road gives way to a large field and I could only see pieces, fiercely hit by the moonlight. The wind was forcing leaves at me from all directions. No street lights, and oddly, I felt calm. I stood very still, facing the field I once smiled in as my sweet girl would chase her ball before dinner. I stood waiting for something. Anything. A sign of life in the field and in my soul. And then it all came over me. The awakening I did not anticipate receiving. Straight from God and straight from the moonlight, as I now found it fiercely hitting me. My marriage, the marriage I thought it was, would never be.
I was four months in to the shock, anger, and now early grieving of my first disclosure. Our marital home had remained cold and empty. Not just from the transition of fall to winter and the earth dying around me, but my marital home truly felt like a cold death inside. We had started working with a couple’s therapist. While my then husband continued to travel extensively for work and occasionally returned to our home, I was deep into books on sex addiction and childhood trauma. I was in church on Sunday’s. I was journaling. And still, the world around me and within me continued to slowly die as if it only needed someone to just pull the plug.
I remembered reading somewhere among the pages I combed through daily, the strongly advised suggestion of not to make any permanent decisions in those first six-months post disclosure; an insinuation that the emotions and brain are too raw to comprehend decisions of any magnitude beyond basic survival and the daily need to function. And yet, when I returned from my walk on that frigid night, I laid on my bedroom floor with my sweet girl cuddled at the top of my head, and cried out, loudly to God. I asked God to please get me out.
The marriage I thought I had; the one I foreshadowed when I first opened the door to that home. The children I imagined in the family room while I cooked dinner. The noise and the smells of hosting holidays. The late night snacks and movies beside the fireplace. I would first need to grieve the loss of the life I thought was, and would never be, before I could even imagine a rebuild. A reconciliation.
In the days and weeks to come, I would plan for my space to grieve. I would secure my safety and my sanity with the love of my inner circle and the trusted faithfulness of a God whom I knew would lead me. I would move out to begin what I deemed a therapeutic separation, six months, and four days post disclosure. I would accept that the version of the life I had once imagined, would never be.
What My Body Knew
I was 33 years old when a clinician looked me up and down, inside and out, and told me there was no plausible explanation for my early menopause-like symptoms. My then husband sat beside me as I slumped deeper into the chair, my last shred of dignity as a woman dissipating as I sat in the sterile, white-walled room surrounded by pamphlets on vaginal rejuvenation and finding my “mojo.” My hormone levels were entirely normal. I had no children or history of vaginal trauma. I had explored the standard of care options with my GYN and was now dabbling with the experimental treatment realm of lasers and platelet rich plasma injections. My then husband asked, “what is she supposed to do?” The clinician’s frank solution, “just use lube.”
I had been experiencing a progressive onset of unexplained symptoms for years. My then husband had grown increasingly impatient with my body. At least this was how I experienced it. My issues had landed us in couples therapy, not an entirely unfamiliar territory for us, with a therapist who was also exacerbating treatment options and therapeutic support. She suggested my then husband just wanted to be heard; his opinions wanting to be validated. A year then ensued of me educating myself on all things women’s health. And in between laser treatments, injections, homeopathic remedies and eventually hormone replacement therapy, I slowly died to the belief that I was ruining my marriage.
It was not until years later, on the other side of multiple affair disclosures and a handful of therapists, I understood the physical manifestations that my 30-something-year-old body were telling me; manifestations that my brain could not register. The body knows when something is off with an intimate partner, and the symptoms of knowing present in many fashions. My experience with relational intimacy consisted of a sharp pendulum swing between sexual objectification and sexual rejection. This was my only experience with relational intimacy; the only story I had known for 14 years. The brutal honesty, dear partner, is having healthy intimacy with someone who is actively engaging in compulsive sexual behaviors, including pornography use and long-term affairs, is simply not attainable. My body knew what my brain could not process or bear to comprehend.
My purpose in sharing such a vulnerable component to my betrayal trauma story is to simply say, you are not alone. I want to bring such vulnerable and life-altering physical manifestations into the light, because we are worth more than suffering in silence. I want to express a need in the therapy community, in support circles, and among partners, for our bodies to be regulated, after surviving chronic, hypervigilant states. This, dear partner, is where a foundation for complete healing begins. And you are not alone.
Sexual healing came much later in my recovery journey, but I am eternally grateful for the care, compassion, regulation and grace I instilled in my body before that next chapter began. Here are a few exercises and practices that were beneficial in regaining regulation, that ultimately helped to prepare my body for sexual healing:
Working with a Breathwork Coach
Vinyasa and Yin Yoga
Walking in Nature
Meditation
Daily Journaling & Prayer
Choosing to care for my body in the healing, dear partner, has left me with a greater appreciation for the resiliency we carry in our bones. The capacity of one body to not only tell us when we are under deeply concerning stress, but to recover one step, one breath, one stretch at a time into a body that is built to receive self love and relational intimacy. Honor the body God has given you, dear partner. We are worth more than suffering in silence. Let us bring this part of our story vulnerably into the light.
I am Not a Lie.
I was in our basement, convinced I had the stamina for a quick workout when the box caught my eye among the Christmas decorations. Our box. It held old photos, handwritten letters, and other mementos from more than a decade of shared life. I stared at the closed lid for a few seconds wondering how this would impact me, while intuitively grabbing it and sitting on the cold, dusty basement floor. I sat in front of the mirror I typically used during workouts, as I began creating a makeshift collage. Photo by photo, note by note, a lifetime of memories in front of me, while catching glimpses of my current self in the mirror, the reflection of a woman who was so distant from the vibrant one I had once been.
Why can’t I cry? I had asked this question several times over the last few weeks. I placed another picture down, turning it diagonal as if I was delicately piecing together a school project. When I finally paused, I placed my hands on my hips and felt the familiar burning sensation beginning at the corners of my eyelids. Photos from a lifetime ago traversed the weathered notes he had written. I caught my reflection in the mirror again, as I began stating out loud, “He lied…he lied.” One tear made its somber fall to the ground. I could feel anger surfacing from my belly to my throat. He lied…he lied. Anger now in my throat and welling up into my eyelids as I asked God to take it; anger was not what I wanted in this moment. I ran my hand violently across the now painful collage of memory lane as God made the connection I needed to receive. I caught my reflection once more. He lied…but I am not a lie.
Dear partner, there are many lies we will tell ourselves in the aftermath of betrayal. Lies that we were fed, and lies that our brain will tell us from the trauma. One of the first things I did after disclosure was put away all of the photos in our home. The images and memories too painful to see; the vivid imagery of placing another woman into their frames. Putting away the photos felt therapeutic. But it was the lie I had started telling myself that was not. My entire marriage is a lie. I would ruminate on this thought daily, moment to moment, mid conversation in a work meeting as this now core belief haunted my thoughts. Asking clients if they had any questions while simultaneously refraining from the interjection, “Did you know my entire marriage is a lie?” It was all-consuming. But that day in front of the mirror was the shift, the reframe I needed. He lied…but I am not a lie.
Gentle ripples from this reframe started replacing the ruminating thoughts. I am the wife that left dinner on our kitchen island, in case he came home hungry. I am the wife that dropped off dry cleaning, reminding them to use light starch and softly smiling as I smell traces of his cologne still on the collars. I am the wife that had dishes done and the trash out before he came home, so he could just come home. I am the wife that was committed, unwavering, and present.
He lied…but I am not a lie.
What lies have you told yourself? What can we name and reframe to give our brain rest from this season of intense rumination?
Write them down. Speak them out loud. Whisper to the universe what you know to be true. Ask God to take the lies.
Do You Want to Share Your Story?
On the day of my first group therapy call, I left work early so I could be home, settled, and more importantly, freshen up. I wanted to fix my hair, reapply my make-up, and put on something comfortable yet still give off a presence. Confidence. I had no confidence remaining at that point, but was still of the mindset that if I appeared put together, I would not feel and reflect the mess of a situation I was living.
I sat in the home office I had just decorated for him less than a year prior for the zoom call. I remember pulling my shoulders back and tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear as the partner cameras started showing signs of life. And it only took five minutes to hear voices and see beautiful faces for me to crack. My shoulders slumped back into the earth as the tears eased down, one by one, dropping onto his work desk beside the work phone I would sometimes screen for recent calls when he left the house. It was real. I was in a virtual circle of women who carried the same brokenness I was carrying, and it was our situation.
One-by-one, women that were far longer on the journey of betrayal trauma than me shared their story. Every few minutes I would mute and black out my screen to breathe and dissociate from the stories of lengthy affairs, broken homes, and sexual addiction. And when all but me had spoken, my therapist, the group leader asked, “Do you want to share your story?”
I had never shared my story. Was it my story, or our story? My now overly sensitive stomach started with burning and gnawing sensations. I should have prepared. I should have spoken the reality out loud prior to this call so it came out confident and flawless. As the stage fright and panic began to ensue, I quickly prayed my ingrained line for moments such as these, “God, please give me the words.” And I spoke. It was not flawless. It was not beautiful. But how could it be? How does one tell this story and make it beautiful?
The raw truth is my first round of sharing my story, even among a circle of trusted and fellow survivors, surfaced feelings of intense humiliation and shame. I wanted to yell into my microphone and the universe, “How could this have happened to me? I am the wife who chose her husband. I chose him daily. Despite all his shortcomings, and unending commitments outside our home. I chose him. I trusted him. And I believed in him.”
After I spoke and the group held for a therapeutic pause (thank you, God, for therapeutic pauses), one of the partners asked if she could speak. She was beautiful. She spoke with an empathy and connection I had yet to encounter in the world of betrayal trauma. The type of connection you experience when someone says to you “I get it,” and you believe them. We had similar and relatable stories. She spoke of personal experience with treatment options and hope for healing. Her vulnerability and courage would serve as a platform for me to chip away the shame core I had developed. The core that tried to keep me from speaking and seeking support in circles such as these. I never told her the impact this first conversation had on me, but she was entirely what I needed in this moment. Thank you, brave and fellow partner.
I would spend six months in this betrayed partner therapy group. It was the safe space that was held for me after experiencing my second affair disclosure. It was a space where I learned I was not alone. If you have an opportunity to join a partners group, consider joining. Do not hesitate to speak when you feel safe enough to do so. Do not hesitate to pause when you need to take a pause. And be brave enough to walk away when you need a break from it all. Allow resources such as these to serve their purpose. And when that purpose has been served, ask God to point you in the next direction. Ask God to use the experience for His good.
The Truth About Truth
The best advice I received from my CSAT was about cooking. “What is the one ingredient that can make or break a recipe?” she asked, as we opened our session. I let out a slow sigh as my eyes drifted away from the zoom screen. I had done so little cooking since disclosure, and I pictured myself in my kitchen with a cup of coffee and all its natural light while doing Sunday meal prep. Life looked so different now. She undoubtedly saw my digression and kindly answered for me. Salt.
My CSAT was helping me unpack the latest rabbit hole I went down that week. The hole I dug so deep, that I finally found a picture of my then husband’s affair partner. Which led to seeing a picture of the affair partner on our boat with her small child; her leopard print towel hanging in the background. I saw various other images and glimpses of the life I now know they had spent together for six years. I had been inescapably ruminating on all of these images for several days. My therapist, breaking my trance, continued on to explain that salt is a lot like truth. Add just a little, taste, and you can always add more. Add too much, and there is no going back; it will never taste the same.
Truth is like salt. If you are like me in the early days post disclosure, there is no stopping and tasting; you likely want all of it. Every mind-blowing, where did it happen, when did it happen, how many times, level of truth-bombing details. The truth about truth though, is once you hear it, and once you see it, you can’t go back. There is no rewrite for the pain and anguish your brain will be fueled to ruminate on for weeks, to months, to years.
The truth about truth, is you get to decide how much or how little you want to know. You get to decide what boundaries you want to have in place, for the level of details you will not be able to unsee and unhear. My best advice is to be intentional with your truth. Here are a few questions to use as a guide:
· Is this helpful information for my recovery?
· What is my goal for knowing the answer to this truth?
· What will I do with this information?
· Is this truth necessary to keep me safe?
· How will this truth impact my recovery?
It was helpful and imperative for my healing, that I could put a name to a face for my then husband’s affair partner. This information was helpful for my recovery, because this woman lived roughly 15 minutes from my home. My goal for knowing what she looked like, was to alleviate the anxiety I was experiencing at our local grocery store, over a woman I thought might be the affair partner. I felt emotionally prepared when I stepped outside my doors, into my church, a restaurant, a coffee shop, and the walking trails I frequented with knowing this truth. This truth did help me feel safe. And eventually, it did become a positive step forward in honoring my needs and having healthy boundaries within those needs.
I encourage you to work with your therapist, a trusted friend or family member to decide what truth is important to you and your recovery. Write it down. Honor it with grace and patience. Practice forgiveness and self love for the moments you blow through the boundaries you set.
The truth about truth, is you get to decide.
May we be intentional with our truth, with the ultimate goal being to serve and not hinder our healing.
Dear Betrayed Partner
I wrote this journal entry shortly after my third D-Day. With three disclosures under my belt, I felt equipped to put pen to paper and capture what a partner could expect in the early days of betrayal trauma.
12/29/2022
Dear Betrayed Partner,
In these early days, you fade in and out. Quickly. The flashbacks are intense. What you read, what you saw, what you heard, comes into your soul quickly and then leaves. Your new reality of before you knew, and what you now know, intertwined.
The denial is real. You pinch your eyes closed and open, closed and open, to try convincing your brain it never happened. It was a mistake. You hold your body tight. You forget to breathe. And then you breathe what feels like your first breath in days. You are in too much shock to cry. That will happen later, and it will happen. But for now, save the time to grieve for a later day.
You begin looking back on several moments that were lies. Your brain fires off glimpses of stories they told, and the imagery they used to hide the truth. Who you thought they were is slowly overshadowed by truth, and it is all too much to handle in a single moment.
You begin to recall moments you questioned things, even if you didn’t understand. The lying has been slowly impacting you. It has left holes, that you inherently filled with coping mechanisms and trauma responses to keep yourself safe.
There are many directions your brain and heart will travel in these early weeks. Here are a few recommendations I learned from lived experience, that I hope you find comfort in knowing for the coming weeks:
· Cover yourself in truth. Be conscious of what you expose your brain and heart to in these early weeks. The music, television, food, and people you expose yourself to, all have the potential to impact and influence how you will heal.
· Share your new reality with a person or people who truly know and love you. I recommend keeping the circle small. You do not know it yet, but everyone will process this new reality differently, and their opinions have potential to profoundly impact you during these early days. An immediate need, truly, is for your trusted people to love you unconditionally. You have tough days ahead, and your primary goal right now is to feel safe and loved.
· Remind yourself daily, this is not your fault. If you saw red flags and were not equipped to honor them, it’s not your fault. If you unknowingly exposed your family, and your innocent children to the chaos of deception, it is not your fault. You will feel like you cannot trust yourself, your judgement, or your intuition, for quite some time. But that will pass. I promise, it will pass.
· Do what brings you joy. When you are able, for five minutes or for five hours, do something that brings you joy. The more you expose yourself to joy, the more those trauma holes are filled with positive, healthy experiences.
· Therapists are an outlet. A place to get your words out. I suggest therapy in those early months to get your words out. To identify your triggers. To navigate moving from the initial shock, to anger, to grieving. You will want to be your own advocate. When you find yourself sharing the same stories, receiving the same feedback, feeling like you are out of things to say or tired of living and being chronically reminded of this space, give yourself permission to take a break from therapy.
· Be honest with your boundaries. Tell people what you do and do not want to discuss. Tell them when you need space.
· Stretch and move daily. We hold our bodies tight. Our jaw, our shoulders, our back, clenched and hyperreactive. Take a few minutes of intentional time to move your limbs, touch your toes, reach your arms into the air, whatever feels safe and good to open your body to healing while releasing the tension that accumulates.
· You get to decide what is enough for today, dear partner. It may be a new pair of pajamas or clean sheets, or a shower only to put back on the pajamas and climb into clean sheets. You get to decide for today, what feels good and what feels safe.
Breathe… this is Trauma.
Breathe…I see you.
D-Day
The months leading up to D-Day were long and exacerbating. I saw things. An unknown address on a box with his name. Unusual text conversations with a woman and child unfolding when he did not know I was watching. My then husband walking into our home after a work function in gym clothes and explaining without my questioning why he was in gym clothes. Impromptu work trips and late-night work calls.
My body knew something was very wrong. I stopped sleeping. I could not focus on work or performing simple tasks. My brain was constantly searching to make sense of what I saw, and to process the responses he would tell me when I had enough nerve to ask for clarification. His moods were erratic, his emotions wildly unpredictable, and his presence in our marital home had become fleeting to non-existent.
A dear friend died unexpectedly that same week on vacation with her family. A young, beautiful, vibrant life, gone. She was a wife and mom of two small children. It was the pain from her loss that had me take a hard look at my own life, and my own marriage. I called my then husband on my way home that Friday to tell him I was leaving him. I had no words, no explanation, nothing concrete to support this sudden and impulsive choice. I had no plan, no exit strategy. I just knew I needed to get out.
Saying the very words, “I’m leaving you,” sent me into hyperventilation and panic. By the time I arrived home, panic was replaced with an irrevocable fear. I would need to face him. I stepped outside for air, of which, there was none. It was a stifling, humid July evening. We would sleep on it. He would go to a hotel and meet me at our home in the morning for my final decision. Another sleepless night.
Morning. You do not forget mornings like this one. You could see the sun breaking between the summer bloomed trees that coated our backyard. It was my favorite time of day in that house. My eyelids lathered in dried tears and two hours of sleep were slow to open. It did not take long for my brain to register the morning ahead. I showered, applied make-up, dressed, and ran out for coffee. I made it back just in time for his car pulling into the driveway.
We had a beautiful screen porch that overlooked our wooded property. I spent many mornings on this porch snuggled up with a cup of coffee and our dog. But not this morning. Even the dog felt tension in the house as she and I both sat upright on the edge of the couch, the summer sun already beating through the screen. He walked in moments later. And over the next two hours my life would be changed forever.
On that beautiful porch, my coffee would go cold. My phone would go unanswered. I told him my decision remained the same. I would be leaving him. He paced the house, angry and demanding to know my exit plans. I lingered, tracing an imaginary outline of his footsteps with mine. Eventually we met, our bodies facing each other with a tension that still sparked that butterfly dance in my belly despite the adverse atmosphere. He took my hand and told me he needed to tell me some things. We resumed sitting on the porch, me upright on the edge of the couch, he slumped over, now remarkably with no words.
Secrets eventually surfaced out of a great depth; from a place I had never been. A place as his partner of fourteen years I desperately wanted to go to but had never been invited. I hold so much grace for younger me, as I listened patiently and self-controlled to a life I knew nothing about. My then husband spoke of his childhood and glimpses of memories too painful for details in this moment. He spoke about an addiction, and his attempts and failures over the years to heal from on his own. All of this made sense based on his erratic, unpredictable behavior, and frequent absence from our marital home, and I was oddly relieved. But my body knew there was more, and my brain in-between consoling him registered I needed to ask the one question that remained unsurfaced. There had to be an affair. The behaviors I experienced in the months leading up to this day would be clarified. I would finally have all my answers and validation. And without hesitation, I asked, “how long?”. I held my breath as I prepared myself for six months, maybe a year at most. I would survive; we could survive infidelity. His eyes met mine, lips trembling and soaked with tears, as he replied. “Six years…”
Hours later I would sit on the dog’s bed, on the hard, cold kitchen floor. This felt safe. My ears were ringing. He was talking but the ringing was too loud. A bottle of wine caught my eye from our wet bar that read, “and truth will set you free.” A newlywed cookbook sat collecting dust on the shelf above our desk. Our kitchen sink held cold cups of coffee, and remnants of tears when my face would hover wondering what time he would be home. There was no freedom. I was a wife in a story I did not know existed.