Allow Ordinary to be Extraordinary

I sat on my little apartment porch that overlooked the pond as evening clouds started to rest beside the sunset. I was wrapped in my softest blanket, pajamas underneath at 5:30 PM, and a glass of white wine that was now perfectly chilled from the December air. It was New Years Eve, and I was exactly where I wanted to be. I wanted to watch the year set. I wanted to watch the sun descend on the many days and nights that I took several brave steps forward into a year that nearly broke me. A year that made me. As I reflected back on 2023, I thanked God for all of it. For humbly leading me, and continuously providing an abundance of safety and love, through all of it. The final disclosure. The inpatient stay. The out-of-state move. The new job. The name change. The opportunity to date again; to experience connection in healthy relationship. And as the last of the sun caressed the tree tops, my chosen theme for the new year rose high into the sky among the stars that were now reflecting the promise of a new year. The year 2024 would be my year to allow ordinary to be extraordinary.

So much of every day life had been years of chaos followed by years of uncertain steps forward to leave the chaos. The ordinary of life had been acutely unpredictable. I needed to stabilize. I wanted to sit back and soak it all in; to be fully immersed and present in the ordinary of the every day life I worked hard to reclaim and redefine. I wanted to be intentional in how I spent my time. I wanted to be intentional in my healing.

I decided part of my healing in the New Year would involve the regulation of my thought patterns. Forming pathways in my brain for the new life I was creating that would eventually overcome and replace any lingering, ruminating thoughts of the prior chapter.

I decided part of my healing would be accepting the life that was prior, was in fact, a chapter. Not the whole story, but one part of the story, that God was continuing to unfold.

I decided part of my healing would be continuing to reach for self-compassion. I would shift some of the same love I have for helping others onto myself. I would learn to see myself, my values and my needs, as important.

I asked God to meet me in these declarations. To meet me exactly where I was in this phase of the healing process.

What are you reaching for in this New Year?

What feels tangible and safe?

What is already in us, that only needs to awaken?

As we hover in the space that rests between one year ending and a new year beginning, I pray for more moments of peace in your ordinary.

I pray this new year releases that which no longer serves you.

I pray we make room for the ordinary moments of life that can lead to extraordinary healing.

Reason in My Season

A significant part of my trauma, and some of the more cruel lies and manipulation I experienced in my marriage, happened on Christmas. For a few years, I avoided Christmas carols, movies, holiday functions outside of an intimate family setting, and commercialized stores. I was remembering a particular Christmas this week. Reflecting on and having so much compassion for younger me, as I battled the good fight to choose the reason for the season.

This particular Christmas morning, I was alone, sitting on the living room floor with a cup of coffee, my sweet girl nestled on the couch, and staring at a blank journal page. I was six months post the first disclosure, and believed my then husband was spending the holiday in the city where he had business travel. I told him not to come home. I was weeks away from our separation, and our marital home felt utterly bleak. There were no decorations. There was no one to share breakfast with over presents. There was no pending meal prep for family visiting that day. Just a blank journal page, and my bible beside it.

I casually flipped open my bible that morning, in full doubt of where God could possibly take my darkness, and landed on Luke 1:46. Mary’s Song of Praise. I had heard this scripture just a few weeks prior on the series, The Chosen. It was an incredibly powerful scene as the Mother Mary, in all her youthfulness, uncertainty, and fears, undoubtedly overwhelmed in the responsibility of her testimony, gracefully spoke this prayer of praise. “My Soul Magnifies the Lord…” she says. “My spirit rejoices in God my Savior…for he who is mighty has done great things for me…”. I glanced up briefly at my surroundings, my circumstances, the empty home that was once a home and now carried so much brokenness. And my gaze returned to the blank journal page. And I thought of Mary. A woman who could have been engulfed by her testimony, the heaviness of what was being asked of her, and was instead, rejoicing in God.

Dear partner. Our holidays will look inevitably different for a little while; or perhaps a long while. There were a few years, while fighting demons that no one knew, as I passed out dessert and refilled wine glasses, that I needed to find a reason to survive my season. I invited friends or acquaintances to Christmas dinner that had no family to speak of. I purchased gifts for children who wouldn’t have a Christmas morning otherwise. I sat in a pew for Christmas Eve service and distracted my tears by biting my lower lip and watching the clock count down. And it was that Christmas morning where God met me, with not a mouth to feed or host, not a forgotten child to clothe or gift wrap for; it was there, dear partner, that God met me in all of my darkness, and gave me a spirit to rejoice. Alone. Uncertain. Questioning my own ability to carry a testimony that was unfolding beyond my control. Rejoicing.

Here is the journal entry I wrote that Christmas morning:

12/25/21

It has been a while…No doubt I allowed numbing and feelings of being paralyzed by raw emotion to take over this month. Or in quite a possessive way, they just simply found a broken and vulnerable body to take over. But I am back. And what a day to reach for God again.

I am alone and that was exactly what I wanted this year. No one to please or fill up, just me & this time and peace I am receiving from God. Nothing to hide behind or with, but to open my hands and receive God’s never-ending & abundant grace & peace. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior…”

God, you have been so good to me. In all of my weakness and emotions, you have been so good to me. The only light in my life. You continue to burn brightly in the midst of all the darkness. The narrow road I continue to walk trusting you, taking one step further; one daunting step further.

Thank you for filling me with the grace and ability to choose me and my needs. To be filled with this intimate time with you. For permission, to just be in your presence.

Faith is strengthened in our darkest moments. Fragmented moments that piece together to form a testimony that radiates, God is still good.

I didn’t need the darkness, dear partner. We do not need our circumstances to have a life of faith. But I am not certain I would have experienced the depth of where God’s love would reach for me, until I rejoiced in it. Until I rejoiced in the darkness. The uncertainty. The season.

I would never have a Christmas morning in that house, with the entirety of that family as I knew it, with my sweet girl, in the marriage or in that life ever again. But I would rejoice in the darkness. I would faithfully seek God, who continued to seek me.

My Justice Served

I went through an incredibly intense period of wanting justice shortly before my divorce. Sometimes I get lingering aftershocks from this period over a year later. I had one recently, standing in my kitchen seasoning chicken thighs for dinner when I remembered a serving bowl I left in my marital home. The flashback continued on to the visuals of photos I incidentally saw as I was deleting my social media accounts. Photos of a family reunion my then husband hosted in our marital home, a few months before our divorce. My serving bowls, a few I had collected over the years and others given to me by his grandma, were pictured all over the kitchen counter with chips and appetizers, surrounded by family I had not seen in quite some time. The next photo was my then husband’s affair partner and her child, standing in the kitchen wearing smiles and early-summer party attire. It was quite an event, I had heard later that evening. One where he introduced her to the family as new and taking it slow. My then husband, pictured full-smile beside this woman at a table covered in steamed crabs and beers. Two months post his discharge from the inpatient program. Days from emails and texts, lamenting the darkness and loss of our marriage. Weeks away from a divorce. The garage door closes, and I am startled back to present day, staring at the chicken thigh skin I have now caked in seasoning. My racing heart and flustered fingers are immediately at ease when my now partner rounds the corner for his consistent, warm, welcome-home greetings. I am back in my kitchen. I am back in my safe place. He comes immediately to hug me, chicken-thigh-seasoned hands and all. I feel peace.

This, dear partner, is my justice served.

One can imagine the shift from very private to intense public humiliation is quite provoking. As if we have not been through enough, dear partner, the days leading up to my divorce were filled with calls from close friends and old acquaintances who wanted to know who she was; the woman my then husband was now bringing to professional events. Some that once knew me intimately, asking why my then husband said, we just fell out of love. I wanted to rage during each and every call. I wanted to blast his name, his reputation, sharing all that he had done to me and drop the mic with the end call button. But I knew this high, this intense desire for justice, would be so very short-lived. A therapist once told me, I could write an entire book and no one would believe me; he is just that good. So after I processed these calls, these visceral and deeply painful reminders of the continued humiliation experienced as his wife, I made a mission critical connection. I did not need to share one, true, relevant detail from my lips to their ears. My then husband was already living out what he had done to me; what his behaviors and choices continue to emulate. He is living it out, on public display for the world to see. I didn’t need to say anything.

This, dear partner, is my justice served.

A full circle realization, is that justice wasn’t for me to decide. Justice for the how and the when accountability would come for his actions. It still isn’t for me to decide. And that is one part of radical acceptance on our healing journey.

I am acutely and often reminded, that the peace of my life, the peace I battled long and hard for at the feet of Jesus, is my justice served. The day I took my last anti-anxiety pill. The day I moved 500 miles away from all that I had known to begin a life that would become far greater than I could have ever imagined. I serve a God of justice. And God is consistently faithful to my healing, as I seek him daily.

Nothing of this world can compete with the joy of God’s redemption.

This, dear partner, is my justice served.

The Day I Reclaimed What Was Taken

We had an intimate family celebration for my parents 40-year wedding anniversary that weekend. Pictures of their special day, when they were all but children, scattered across tablecloths and cake stands with their wedding song softly playing in the background. My littlest nieces were decked out in their favorite ensembles for the occasion and enthralled with the flashback photos; their sweet, innocent connections that the adults in their life were once young. My mom brought her wedding dress out, still in the same box that held memories of 40 years past. It was then that it hit me, the latest grief stage. Sudden waves of emotion followed by a pulsating, throb of sorrow. I would never have a 40-year wedding anniversary. 

I had just begun the intense grieving over the loss of my marriage.  Grieving the loss of life and the survival of all that had happened to me in those nearly two decades. As I drove home to my apartment that evening, reminiscing the sweet yet internally somber day, I asked God, what can I do about this? What can I do with the memories of a wedding day where vows were exchanged laced in lies, and years as a committed wife were simply taken from me? What can I do with this, God?

My own wedding anniversary was on the horizon, and it dawned on me that in one week I would be heading back to my marital home to pick up the remainder of my things, including my own wedding dress.  I imagined touching the blush-colored garment bag; the custom-hangar with my married name in script font across the top. I could feel the layered tulle beneath the bustle; the soft, satin finish. I could feel the raw emotion I would have in this moment.

And God, in all His glory, began to reveal a tender and intimate image to me as the sun was setting through my rearview mirror on my drive home that evening. I pictured myself in my wedding dress, on a beach, walking confidently in who I was and who I would become from survival and healing. I imagined vows, written to myself. A promise to take myself back, to love and honor who I was as a wife, and all that I would become. These images inspired a shift. In the middle of the grieving, I hired a professional photographer. I exposed my heart and mind to seeing and touching my wedding dress again, and planned what I would eventually call a “Reclaim” photoshoot that took place four days shy of my 8-year wedding anniversary. And it was the best gift I could have given myself in that phase of my healing. 

On that humid, summer evening, much like my wedding day, I walked onto a beach barefoot in my wedding dress. I was still a wife at this time.  Legally, speaking. But on this day, I was so much more. The photographer captured a woman, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a friend. She captured a woman who may not have a 40-year wedding anniversary, but had and will have, a lifetime of love. I felt peace and confidence in those moments that I had not experienced in many years. And as I stood on that beach with the sunset rippling across the bay, I felt God with every ounce of my being say, it’s going to be amazing. 

The album I created holds the photos I want to celebrate.  The photos I want to show my sweet nieces when they grow up and ask me about my time as a wife.  The album holds a story I want to remember.

Dear partner. Our healing is a choice. I pray that you make it your own. I pray you ask God for guidance as new obstacles surmount, and in the choosing of how you want to heal. Here are the vows I made to myself. My commitment to the healing.    

I, Take Thee

I Take you Back.

Not lost, but Found.

Not broken, but Redeemed.

I Reclaim what was taken.

I Celebrate all that you have been, all that you are, and all that you will become.

Faithful.

Daughter.  Sister.  Aunt.  Friend.

From this day Forward,

The very worst, has made you the very Best.

Go, Live in Peace.

I Take you Back.

Grey Rock

I knew leaving the marriage would be daunting. Navigating financially impactful decisions and property allocation with someone who has utilized a cyclic presentation of manipulation and love-bombing for their best interest and the entirety of your marriage, would be daunting. I had been cautioned by my therapy team in the days leading up to my then husband finding out that I wanted a divorce, to expect the worst, and perhaps far worse than I had ever seen, in his behaviors. Expect the worst and pray for the best. I did both and sought credible resources to prepare for everything in between.

I was sitting in my car, working through breathwork patterns with a podcast playing in the background before I walked into the salon for a hair appointment. I had been listening to a series on divorce when the host explained a communication technique that saved my sanity and kept my divorce moving forward.

Grey Rock is a technique that involves stripping all of the emotion out of communication, and relaying fact-based, necessary information only. Lifeless, dull, and otherwise insanely boring communication.

Picture a grey rock on the edge of a picnic table. I had one once. At girl scout camp we picked “pet rocks” from the woods to decorate with paint and other fun accessories. My rock, was in fact, grey. It had smooth edges and I remember the calming sensations of holding this rock in my hand. I didn’t need paint. Grey was fine for me. A narcissist, however, requires the paint. They need the vibrant strokes of color and all of the accessories to supply their brain. Grey will not do. Grey is boring. And this dear partner, is exactly what we want to be if we must have, remain in, or end all communication with a partner who demonstrates narcissistic behaviors. We can become the grey rock.

I received a few texts and emails leading up to my divorce that required grey rock responses. Messages that ranged from intense self loathing from the loss he was experiencing, to telling me I couldn’t get my things from our marital home because he was painting doors in the house, to simply ignoring requests altogether and instead entertaining other, irrelevant topics. All messages equally triggering. All requiring the external support of my trusted inner circle, legal, and therapy teams before I could reply. All candidates for grey rock communication.

After receiving the rest of my things from my marital home, I committed to communication via email only. This provided ample time to write, re-write, read out loud, and strip all of the emotion from my communication. Replies that were once paragraphs of my feeding his supply with compassion, were now one sentence. And eventually, the replies were only one word. Nothing more, nothing less. When we no longer give our narcissistic partners (or ex-partners) their supply, dear partner, the idea and goal is that they move on. There is no bait or vulnerability for them to latch onto. There is no one to argue with in battles that never end constructively. I was oddly blessed during the final days of my grey rock communication, that my then husband had already circled back to an affair partner to begin his new life and supply. His continued choices, and the art of grey rock communication, allowed me to begin mine.

One year after my divorce, his name popped up in my inbox. A short, cryptic, message reminiscing the loss of our marriage. My therapy tool box opened, and a screen shot of his message went to my accountability partner to remain grounded in reality. My tool box closed. No reply was sent. And I stepped out into the sunshine, that which is my freedom and life, with coffee in hand.

But When Did You Know?

My then husband had been out of the inpatient program for a few weeks when we had our last phone call as husband and wife.  I did not know it at the time, as I answered his call that evening driving in rush hour traffic as the rain wished-washed across my windshield. I can still hear the wipers, stubbornly gliding in between heavy and light spurts as if telling me, it’s coming; just hang in there, the end is coming. I did not know it at the time, but God had diligently been preparing my heart, and more importantly, my brain to receive this call in the capacity I did. Truthfully, my then husband spoke words and with a tone I had experienced dozens of times in the last few years. The direct reminder that we both ruined our marriage. The voicing that a lot of things would need to change for him to commit to reconciliation. The stoic response, I am not comfortable with that, when I indicated I would want a formal disclosure with our therapy teams and routine polygraphs. My own brain pausing, shocked and not shocked all at the same time, at the ease of his fresh-out-of-inpatient responses. My own brain pausing, as I spoke my needs out loud. Did I want this? Did I want a life the therapists told me to expect in year one of recovery? Lie detectors with an added layer for eye movement? A life he had already lied through for a year of intensive therapy and separation? As these questions circled the now stifling, humid atmosphere of my car, and eventually dispersed up to the clouds that hovered over my drive, my then husband continued on. I eventually interjected. Muttered, really. Something about meeting later that week for dinner.

What my then husband heard on that last call was my expected agreeing with his perspectives, so I could peacefully end the call. What he did not hear, or rather, chose not to hear, were that my needs for reconciliation in the last few weeks since inpatient had transitioned from open for discussion, to non-negotiable. And when I hung up the phone, I knew.

As God planned it, I was driving to my second bible study that evening with a new church group. It was a trauma recovery group.  I had shared my story the week before and debated even returning. Among the stories of death, childhood abuse, and adult care giving, my 8-year marital saga of deception left the entire group speechless. I was not even sure where to go from there in week two. But before we started on our lessons and the group was filling in, a new face entered the room. She was beautiful, a powerhouse all five feet of her. And then she blew me away with her testimony of domestic violence, survival, recovery, and what my soul needed most that night, surviving legal battles. Two hours later, I would leave the group with a name and number for one of the best female divorce attorneys in my area.

When I say God lined everything up, God, lined everything up. I did not plan fearless, and I did not plan confidently. But I did plan when it was calm (as calm as controlled chaos can be), white knuckling and teeth grinding over the next few weeks, as I planned for the legal ending of my marriage. 

I knew. 

I had asked a few women before me on similar journeys, “But when did you know?” Their answers and scenarios were all different and yet all the same. This would be my ending. 

I had played dozens of scenarios and rehearsed conversations in my head, detailing what the end would finally be. What would it finally take for me to save myself and stop trying to save him? I had my APSAT coach, my trusted inner support circle, my list of non-negotiable needs for reconciliation, my positive affirmations, and the list goes on for what I compiled for justification to save myself. And what was ultimately required, what finally took place for me to know, was a complete surrender to God who was just waiting in the wings to take my hand and say, come.  Follow me.

The World Was Quiet

It was a Wednesday evening when we had our last call before he checked in to the inpatient program. My phone rang as I walked in to a worship service at church. When I saw his number, blood raced to my cheeks and my heart rate escalated. I expected his phone to not be accessible by this point, with limited and monitored phone calls for the next several days. It was one last “checking-in” call while he was enroute to the facility. My patience was non-existent by this point. I was less than 24 hours from the previous check-in call, when he informed me he chose to continue relations with an affair partner in the weeks leading up to inpatient. One last trauma-bomb for the road. I was ready for several days of silence.

For fourteen years, up to and including our separation, my then husband routinely and frequently checked in. I used to think it was sweet. As the years went on, these check-ins became more flat. Regardless of what I replied, where I was, who I was with, or how my day was actually going, it was as if he was somewhere else, and the check-in was simply a formality. If I did not respond to a check-in, however, the tides turned. Immediately. Disinterested became hypervigilant. There was an evident and imperative need for a response. This became acutely obvious when I would leave our marital home, and he would call to ask where I was going, and wanting to know when I returned home, regardless if he was gone the entire day or traveling for business. This became acutely obvious, when I was 50 miles away for a therapeutic separation, and he wanted to know what my plans were, and when I went to bed at night. There was a time I believed this was an act of love; a geninuine concern for my well-being. I didn’t awaken to what was actually happening to my mind and body with these frequent check-ins, until the world was quiet.

I had planned a trip that just happened to fall at the beginning of the inpatient stay. I traveled to a cozy southern town that had been on my bucket list for years. I grabbed the rental car and drove immediately to a state park. I parked and had my shoes off before the gritty concrete met the soft, February-cool, sand. I was instantly relieved to be escaping winter for the warm, southern sun. The view in front of me was beach for miles and only a few, likely locals, out on a week day stroll. I paused before I made my way onto the beach, tilted my head up to the sun, and took the deepest inhale exhale in days. A woman casually grazed my right arm as she walked by with her beach chair and said, “felt like we were never going to get here!” I smiled, as a single tear traversed my cheek. She was gone before she could hear my spoken reply, “You have no idea…”

I went to the local grocery store and strolled up and down every aisle, picking out my favorite snacks. And the world was quiet. I unpacked and made dinner reservations, and put on a beautiful new dress. And the world was quiet. I sat solo among a Saturday night restaurant crowd and ordered every appetizer on the menu. And the world was quiet. I strolled into quaint shops and ate pie in a rocking chair that faced the water. And the world was quiet. I journaled, I prayed, I slept in a queen size bed without my phone nestled beside my head on the adjacent pillow. And the world was quiet.

It became curiously, then abundantly clear to me during those several days, that my world had been anything but quiet. I had been living in a world where my eyes would dart to my phone every few minutes to not miss any calls. Calls that held so much control and no healthy significance. A world where my heart leaps into summersaults when I see an unknown number, wondering if it is the next woman trying to find me.

I wrapped up this trip and the days of silence with awakenings.

I desperately did not want to return to the chaos.

And I was terrified of what getting out of the chaos would require.

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.