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Healing When Sexual Addiction Invades Your Marriage
by Meg Wilson
How does a woman pick her way through the darkness? How does she pick up the pieces? How does she cope after discovering her husband has engaged in sexual activities outside of their marriage? Since you’re holding this book, I’m guessing you, or someone close to you, has recently had her life devastated by sexual betrayal. Or perhaps your wound from betrayal is an old one, made worse by a believer, pastor, or counselor who offered well-meaning but unhelpful direction.
More than six years ago, the path of my life was altered forever. I was a suburban wife with two daughters, two cars, two pets, and a firm grasp on the American dream. Central to all of this was a loving and successful husband who loved the Lord. I had it all! Oh, there were the typical run-of-the-mill challenges of parenting and finances. I simply glossed them over and pressed on.
The first tremor began with a call from a close family friend who had moved out of state. My husband and I listened as Mark explained he was stepping down as deacon of his church. Mark confessed his ongoing struggle with Internet pornography. Stunned and saddened, we knew this man’s heart, and the news simply didn’t make sense to us.
In the days that followed, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Amy, Mark’s wife. I doubt if I was any help to her. It was clear she had crossed over into a dark land I knew nothing about. There was a new hardness to her words, which struck the surface of her idyllic appearance, cracking the high-gloss polish. Listening prepared me, though, in ways I couldn’t realize at the time.
The thought that my husband, Dave, might also be struggling with the same problem didn’t even cross my mind. I would have bet our every last cent on my husband’s fidelity and honesty.
A couple of months later, the storm clouds rolled in. Prompted by Mark’s confession, my husband admitted that he, too, was struggling with pornography. As a salesman, he traveled, and the in-room adult movies were a temptation to him. My husband’s revelation sent me into that strange dark land. Everything that I thought I knew about my husband suddenly seemed like a lie. I was groping in the shadows, where it seemed truth was lost. As sad as I’d been for my friend Amy, her reality was now my reality. This was no longer simply her story—it was my life.
At least I knew the person I could turn to. Amy became my comfort and a valuable resource. She recommended many books. I read . . . and read . . . but absorbing was a challenge. Clinical definitions of this new term, “Sexual Addiction” (SA), didn’t bring me much hope or comfort. I wanted to understand this new land, a place where I was lost in dark feelings.
Every page I read confirmed that SA was my husband’s problem and not my fault. At the same time, my every body flaw confirmed it was my fault. The books assured me I was not alone in the way I felt, yet I never felt more abandoned. According to everything I read, the Lord was with me, but I couldn’t see Him in the dark of hopelessness.
Then I found some footing; the old Meg took over. I began to deal with my shame and sadness as I had in the past, by dragging myself back into the world of delusion. I stuffed, denied, and prayed the problem away. After all, my husband was sorry. His library of books on recovering from SA grew, and he seemed to be spending more time reading the Bible.
I thanked God it was only pornography and for the amazing healing of my husband. Life was back to normal.
An acute awareness grew in me, though, regarding the prevalence of SA in our society. Women experiencing the same pain were everywhere. I came to understand their language and recognized the hints
of their hidden shame. Seemingly innocuous statements like, “My husband and I aren’t connected,” or “My marriage is in crisis,” were flashing lights to me. It didn’t take long to realize how insidious this addiction is, particularly in the church. I wanted to help.
God began to bring more hurting women to me, and I shared with them my testimony of hope. Compelled by their pain and experience, and my desire to make a difference, I saw the need for a support group. Women whose husbands struggle with sexual addiction need a place to heal. Our church already had a group for men. God connected me with Sharon, another wife whose husband was in recovery, and we decided to act.
I approached our pastor, Martin. He suggested attending an existing class for wives of sex addicts at another church to see if we could incorporate their program. Pastor Martin’s suggestion was a wise one. For twelve weeks, Sharon and I became students in their support group. There, more than just learning took place. God poured additional truth and light into our lives. The Lord was building supports under us for what was to come, though I didn’t see it at the time. I was too busy thanking Him that my story wasn’t as severe as some of the other women’s in my group.
The following spring the first Healing Hearts group started at our church. Ten ladies showed up for the first meeting. Excited to see God provide the same rapid recovery in the lives of each woman, I looked forward to each meeting. It was a privilege to watch the light of hope spread along the paths of these women. As they stepped into their first golden beams and out of some lies, the healing process began.
A few weeks into our class, however, my marriage took another traumatic nosedive. It was a Tuesday morning in spring. That evening I was scheduled to share my story of hope at Healing Hearts. When I got out of the shower, I noticed the message light on the phone was blinking. Pushing the button, I listened to the familiar sound of my husband’s voice. I loved the fact that he called me every day, sometimes more often—far more often, in fact, than he once did when he was away. Since he’d been out of town the past week, I was glad to listen . . . until it became clear that this was not a routine “Just wanted to say hi, honey” call.
“It’s me,” said Dave’s voice. “I’m on my way home. We have to talk . . . I’ll be there by two . . . so please be home—alone. I’ll explain in person. My boss has been very supportive.”
My heart went into overdrive, pounding in my ears. Every nerve ending snapped to attention. There was an unfamiliar edge to his voice. Something was very wrong. Why was Dave coming home three days early? I knew from the last sentence that he hadn’t lost his job. But I could tell this was not good news. My brain spun as I went over the last two days he was home. He’d seemed distracted and distant. I assumed it was the stress of travel.
I tried to get some chores done, but all I did was count the minutes until 2:00. When Dave’s car pulled into our drive, I felt the urge to flee.
He walked in, holding a softcover notebook. It was curled in from the edges, from being rolled and unrolled. The expression on his face was like nothing I’d seen before. The pain that was reflected in his eyes was about to be mine. He spoke first.
“I’m home because of Carl . . . you know . . . my men’s group leader. I called him last night . . . and I confessed my relapse a few days ago. The guilt was eating me alive.” He went on, fiddling with the notebook as I sat frozen. “Carl told me to get home and confess to you before you shared our story tonight to the ladies in your group. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I stayed up, writing a timeline of my sexual addiction.”
Suddenly, nothing else existed except for the drumming of my husband’s voice and the journal he was holding—the pages that were about to change my life indelibly.
I knew from Dave’s first disclosure two years prior that his compulsion started when he was only eleven years old, when he found his father’s pornographic material. Porn became a coping mechanism for his feelings of low self-worth. His addiction had progressed to its current state. This time, though, he included the parts of his story he’d left out before. Dave had not been completely honest in his first disclosure. For over seventeen years his being unfaithful had been inconceivable to me, and because he feared that I’d leave, he omitted important facts. Though his desire to be free and healed was sincere, his conscious exclusion of pertinent information had left just enough for the Enemy to get a handhold. Satan waited for the right moment, grabbed it, and dragged Dave even deeper into the addiction.
This time, my husband had hit bottom. He described how, after his last sexual encounter, he felt that God had turned His back on him. Loneliness had been his lifelong companion, but this feeling of being estranged from God was darker still. Dave sensed that he’d be dead if he didn’t come clean. His desperation to be free of his addiction was so great that he was willing to lose our nineteen-year marriage. He confessed every betrayal over the course of our lives together.
As he referred to his notebook, determined now not to omit anything, life as I defined it vanished. Reality no longer existed. Dreams died and were buried out of reach. All that remained was one large, black hole with a huge question mark in the middle.
As he shared further details of his sexual addiction and continuing struggle, my heart was broken again, only deeper this time. Nothing I learned through reading all those SA books prepared me in that moment. Had the wound been physical instead of emotional, I might be dead.
The first time Dave confessed, he left out a nonphysical encounter with a woman. Even though there had been no touching, that omission stalled any chance of his being healed. This time he admitted that since his last confession he’d had physical contact with a woman. And this time I was unable to see straight or even remember any prior progress. The only thoughts I had were what a trusting fool I’d been, and that my husband had been unfaithful.
The pain grew unbearable. If one of the women in my group were to tell me that her husband had just made such a confession, what would I have said to her? I needed every tool and reinforcement God could supply, but I felt it was all out of reach. This hurt felt too big . . . too painful . . . too hopeless for any remedy.
Dazed at first, I didn’t see God; I could barely breathe. I remember feeling nothing except my legs shaking beneath me. It was as if they were no longer a part of my body. I sensed the shivering, but was unable to control it. All I could do was sit and listen, and shudder under unthinkable images unfolding before me. My mind was numb, unable to register pain at that level—God’s wonderful design called shock.
One thought did filter through to me, though: Don’t make any rash decisions. I somehow recognized that I needed to wait until God spoke. I could only hope He was still there . . . hope He was real. Looking back, I realize, of course, God was there and had guided what I said, but in that moment I could see only fear, darkness, and complete hopelessness.
Dave and I were still talking when one of our daughters arrived home from school. Had it really been two hours since Dave had walked in the door with his notebook? It felt like two minutes.
Dave panicked. “What do you want me to do?” he murmured. “Should I go to a hotel?”
Amazingly void of emotion, I sensed God setting the guidelines for me. I heard myself speak in a normal tone, like I was listening to a stranger read a list. “You’ll stay in the house until I’m sure what to do . . . and hear something . . . think of something. Just because you’re here today doesn’t mean you’ll be here two days from now. We’ll try to keep things as normal as possible for the girls. We’ll sleep in the same room, but there will be no physical contact between us. We’ll be like roommates, with neither of us in the room when the other is dressing or showering.”
That’s all I knew. Then my mind reengaged as a tidal wave of disbelief hit again. How did we get here? Haven’t I done all the right things? What a fool I was.
Not wanting to face the women in our group that night, I called my trusted friend Sharon to cancel. She grieved for me but convinced me to go. Later, I called and backed out again. Finally, she said she’d pick me up and was on her way to get me. She knew I needed the support.
The group didn’t get the story of hope I’d originally planned. Instead, they got their worst nightmare laid out before them. My head was down as I shared. When I finished, I looked up slowly, expecting to see their disappointment. Instead, I saw only tear-streaked, caring faces. I was humbled. They listened, cried with me, and offered their support. That night was difficult for all of us. Many had their own fresh wounds, but I needed to be there and share mine. The only comment I remember making was, “It stinks.” I could see no hope at that point, but their understanding was salve for my hurting heart.
Had I stayed home, hiding and feeling ashamed, I may have found myself stuck there, because at home the battle raged in my mind. Like many Christian women, I wondered if there was just the right prayer to take away the pain, but I knew the injury was too severe to be sidestepped with a single prayer or Bible verse. Added to the betrayal was the disclosure of the lies. I felt like a failure as a Christian and a wife. What wrong turn had brought me to this place?
Dave and I spent the next day apart. I cleared my calendar except for an appointment with Donna, a friend. We were originally getting together to discuss her becoming my mentor. She had no idea what our first meeting would hold. Donna listened, though. Then she shared about an emotional affair her husband had many years ago. She understood the pain of betrayal.
She even went with me to my doctor while I was tested for sexually transmitted diseases (STDs). I’d never sounded the depths of shame until that moment. I could see my doctor didn’t know what to say. She tried to be professional and compassionate, but she didn’t want too much information. My shame had splashed onto her.
When I came out, Donna’s loving expression enabled me to take the next step. She was a godsend—the right person at the right time. All the while I was crying out, “Why, God? Why? Why me?” But she listened and cried with me, never once condemning my husband. Not only did she not see him as a monster, her opinion of him didn’t seem to be altered. She allowed me to see the first glimmer of hope.
If you see yourself in my pain, I empathize with you beyond words. Know that you are not alone. There’s a growing community of women like you and me, most are just still hiding.
I understand how fortunate I was to have women who could share this nightmare with me. The majority of women, however, feel as if there’s no one they can talk to. Whether or not you’re sure of your husband’s sexual addiction at this point, you have a loving heavenly Father standing by, ready to listen and help. He’s already led you to find this resource. Keep reading and don’t stay in the place of darkness. Determine to find the path to hope. I’ll be honest; this is not an easy glide over a sunny slope. It’s hard work.
Saying that my husband and I sailed right into healing would be a gross overstatement. We still had to live through and process all the emotions and the very real pain. I had to move from my initial shock and go through all of the stages of grief. Grabbing hold of God’s truths, one at time, moved me inch by inch toward faith and health. I reached out first to books, looking for the one that would give me hope. I didn’t find it right away.
Giving my pain, fears, and emotions to God started the healing process. Still, the steps weren’t exactly clean or the results instantaneous. I cried out to Him often, because many pieces of my pain were harder to let go of than others. But as He ministered to my need every time I picked up His Word, our relationship deepened. I could have missed Him had I not been willing to step out in faith even when my feelings caused me to doubt God’s existence.
All the theories that I knew about the character and attributes of God now became reality. Acknowledging, for instance, that I needed Him to be my strength and shield was an important turning point for me. For the first time, I spoke prayers without worrying about how they sounded. I didn’t try to clean them up before speaking to Christ. I let Him have everything, because God already knew my pain. Verbalizing those deep hurts became an act of trust and worship. My first prayer was, in fact, not at all eloquent. The words were honest and went something like this: “Okay, God, I know You didn’t plan this, but it doesn’t take You by surprise, either. You can somehow use this for good even though I can’t see how right now. All I know is it stinks. I’m choosing to trust You, knowing I need Your help because I can’t do this alone.”
Almost before I’d finished speaking the words, something was revealed to my spirit, like a veil had been lifted, and I knew I’d be okay. God began to personally minister to the broken places. The results were not magical; my circumstances didn’t disappear. But the adjustment of my attitude—my determination just to let go and trust—was beginning to make the difference.
Evidence of God’s work and His personal care for me came each morning as I opened my daily devotional. This long-established discipline took on new meaning day after day as each Scripture and reading seemed written just for me. On day one, a verse in Isaiah 54:5 said that my Maker is my Husband. Genesis 22:14 simply said that the Lord would provide.
And so His loving encouragement continued day by day. I felt God’s intimate touch in a new and powerful way. Even though I understood He answers prayers, this intervention on His part was more. I had no doubt that God was addressing my specific needs with His loving words of truth. As walking through a trial with a friend grows the relationship, so my faith rose and soared, sheltered beneath the wings of His personal care.
Excerpt taken from Hope After Betrayal:Healing When Sexual Addiction Invades Your Marriage by Meg Wilson—available now!
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