it takes two

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I can't call it my story.  Without Husband's story, I wouldn't have a story to tell...

Husband has been battling pornography and masturbation since the ripe young age of 13.  Husband is now in his thirties and still battling.  I knew of his "problem" before we were married.  When we first started dating, I had asked him for a priesthood blessing.  He couldn't give one.  I was shocked, but naive, and we continued to date.  It wasn't until we were practically engaged that he fully disclosed his unworthiness.  I chose to marry him anyway.  Yes, we were married in the temple.

Things were great!  Or so I thought.  Fast forward to two months after the birth of our firstborn.  Seven years ago, on a chilly October night, my eternal companion confessed to straying into the dark paths of his past.  We had been married for a year, and he had struggled the entire time.  I was blissfully unaware.  I was heart-broken, but still naive.

Things were better!  Or so I thought.  Fast forward to five months after the birth of our second-born.  Three years ago, on a sweltering August night, my eternal companion confessed again.  I was suspiciously unaware.  I was disgusted, and not quite naive.  The following months were some of my darkest times.  But I chose to stay.

Things were hard, but good.  Or so I assumed.  Fast forward to the first month of my last pregnancy.  One year ago, on a dark September night, my eternal companion confessed again.  We were having the usual fight over sex, and as I was walking down the stairs, he lashed out: "I'm masturbating!"  I had never heard such a tone as the one he used then.  It was full of scorn and blame.  He might as well have kicked me down the stairs.  The wind was knocked out of my lungs, and I may have stopped breathing for a few seconds.  I had endured past confessions, but they were all sincere and remorseful.  This was different.  He had meant to hurt me.  This was not my husband.  And so I left.

I got in the car and froze.  I didn't know where to go or who to talk to.  So I drove to the nearest church parking lot and cried my heart out.  Husband called a few times and I ignored him.  He left a voice-mail or two, worried about where I was and if I was ok.  His voice was full of anguish and concern.  He sounded normal again.

It was really hard to drive back home.  It was all I could do to not pack up the kids and head to my mom's.  But I stayed.  We talked.  We cried.  And then, we got help.

For the first time in our eight years of marriage, and in his twenty-something years of indiscretion, our eyes were opened: Husband was addicted.  An addict?!  Addiction!  We both now fully realized the extent of his "problem".  It was not just a label, and it was NOT an excuse.  Realizing it was an addiction allowed us to ask the right questions and to finally get some helpful answers.  Turns out there's more to recovery than just reading your scriptures more and praying harder.  Naive no longer, we both understand what it's going to take to make this marriage work.  Husband and I are a team.  His actions do NOT define me.  And I can NOT control his actions.  But we can support each other in our personal recoveries.

Yes, there are relapses.  Yes, there are hearts to be mended and wrongs to be righted.  But we are slowly getting better.  I'm getting better.