Image credit: Photo by DailyPic on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

I've been sneaking around.  I've been telling my husband I'm going one place, but (sh!) not telling him about the other place I'm going or who I'm meeting there.  I've been pulling little sums money out of my account and hoping Mark won't notice this increased trickle of cash out.  I'm afraid I'm accidentally going to mention something that will give me away.  I try to appear normal and at ease as I give him answers about how my day has been or what I've been up to, but there's a sick sensation of fear in my stomach when I think that I might not be quite meeting his eye or that he might have noticed some slight hitch in my voice.  But the worst of it is, it all seems a lot like Mark's behavior when he was active in his addiction.

No, it's not like you might think.  I'm sneaking around doing good and making happy.  I'm (yep, in fine sitcom fashion) planning a surprise party for him.  And it's hard.  I know he'll love what I have planned.  I know it will be so much more wonderful for not telling him, but secrets — even pleasant, surprise party secrets — are burdensome.  It's hard work hiding and deceiving, trying to be quiet and working not to be found out.

I've been thinking what a relief it will be, when the planning is done and the guests yell surprise, to be able to stop spending all this effort on an elaborate coverup.  And in a way, that's the way it is with starting recovery too.  There's that shout of "Surprise!" (though with pain, not ringing delight) when denial shatters and amid all the chaos and confusion that follows, there's relief that, whatever happens now, everything is out in the open and the burden of secrecy is gone.