"I hate that you don't have a blog," said a woman about to undergo heart surgery, as she gazed sincerely up at her boyfriend, "I hate that I don't know what you're thinking."

Mark and I burst into raucous laughter and had to pause the episode of House that we were watching to wipe away our tears of glee and catch our breath.  Seriously?  "I hate that you don't have a blog?" Really?  Yep.  That's what we personal (and dare I say it, female?) bloggers are all supposed to be like.  So divorced from real life connections, so caught up in deluding ourselves about these supposed "friendships" we have online, so obsessed with our hit count, so eager for an audience, so narcissistic, that we can't even talk to our partners or parent our children, at least not unless there's a screen between us.

The comments on the recent Motherlode post on "mommy blogging" back up this perception. There are lots of women there talking about the community and connections they've made and about the therapeutic release of writing.  And there are plenty of others saying those connections aren't real and that the children of these deluded, self-obsessed women are being sorely neglected.

And it makes me wonder, why do people think bloggers and other social networkers are so crazy and scary and dangerous and delusional?  Why is an online presence portrayed as something that precludes, rather than enhances or supplements, other relationships?  What makes friendships "real?"  Why do we believe that people don't know what "real" relationships look like?  Why does it matter so much how people (particularly women) spend their free time?  What makes us believe that online time is not, in fact, free time, but time that is being taken away from more important things?  For that matter, why do we always have to be doing something "important?"  What makes something "important" in the first place? (From what I read "important" is anything from things I'd count as truly important -- like spending time with loved ones -- to things I consider not at all important -- like making sure the house is tidy and/or we're making more money.)  What makes it ok for a published author of personal essays or a memoir to write in detail about herself, her life, her children, her friends, her family, but not ok for bloggers to do the same?

If there are any universal answers to those questions, I don't know them.  What I do know is that there are hundreds of people who have passed in and out of my life and have all seen a sliver of me, both online and offline: sitting next to me in a movie theater, driving me a few miles in a taxi, clicking on a link to my blog and clicking right back out again.  I know that there have been dozens to hundreds of lurkers in my life, both online and offline, who have seen bits and pieces of me (and not always the nice bits, nor for that matter, always the nasty ones): the neighbors who (assuredly) heard Mark and me arguing or laughing or having sex through the thin walls of our old apartment just the way we heard them, the folks at the next table in the restaurant listening to our conversations, the people silently reading my blog.

I know that I have hundreds of people I've talked to and spent time with each day over the years, who've shared a workplace or the classroom or the social space, both online and offline: coworkers, high school and college buddies, neighbors, moms at my kids' schools, folks in online discussion groups, blog readers, fellow bloggers.  Some I know well, have fun with and consider good friends.  Others are acquaintances whom I don't know, and still others I don't really like at all (and vice versa, I'm sure).

Then I know that there are people in my life, both online and offline, who are my soulmates: the ones who are family or like family, the ones who would know my voice (spoken or written) anywhere, the ones I call first when I have joys or sorrows to share, the ones who can come into my house and help themselves to a drink or a snack, the ones I laugh and cry and eat ice cream with, the ones who see me -- as me, all of me -- and get me, and are there for me, as I am for them.

Some of those soulmates are people like Jay (whom I've known for almost a decade now) and JW (who is my son Austen's absolute favorite person in the world to talk to long-distance (just don't tell his grandparents)); people I met online.  I didn't know what they looked like or what their voices sounded like or get to see or touch them in the flesh for years.  And some of those soulmates are people like my husband Mark or my friend Kelly; people I happened to meet "in real life."

I also know that I am fortunate enough to have six hours a day free when my kids are in school and my husband is at work.  I know that I spend the vast majority of that time on housework, household administration and errands that are unseen by the and unacknowledged by people both in and out of the blogosphere.  And I know that I take some of those six hours, as a gift to myself and a support to others, to write.  I know there are people who don't respect that or see it as useless and "a waste of time" because I either don't get paid (or don't get paid much) for that.  I also know that I love my life and the way I spend my days, and that although what I contribute to the world (whether in doing the dishes or feeding my kids or blogging) may seem small, it's important: just as, in my favorite movie, It's a Wonderful Life, George Bailey's life and work in his small town was as valuable as anything he ever could have done if he'd gone out and built those bridges and skyscrapers he dreamed of.

No doubt there are people out there who become so obsessed with some aspect of their life or group of friends that they ignore other relationships.  No doubt there are people who can't tell the difference between a genuine friendship and the high of a falsely instant connection (I'm married to someone in recovery for just that, remember?).  No doubt someone, somewhere in the world, has to conduct a poll of everyone she knows before making major life choices.  No doubt there is a mom out there somewhere who is ignoring her kids while she does something else.  But all of that is hardly new to the Internet, just as "real" friends in my life haven't been confined strictly to people happen to have met in person.

And that's why Mark and I laughed as we listened to that fictional blogger on House.  We laughed knowing that I blog (about intimate details of our lives) and he doesn't.  We laughed knowing that we were snuggling on the sofa watching House after talking for over two hours -- about everything from mundane topics, like scheduling the kids' doctors appointments, to quite serious matters about our marriage -- during which I never once wistfully opined that it would go better with a keyboard in hand.  We laughed because Mark knows me better than anyone, online or off.  And we laughed because we both knew exactly what bits and pieces of those few hours spent talking and watching TV would go on the blog and what never would.

Most parents hear it at one time or another.  Some variation on the universal theme of parent awfulness: "I hate you. I wish you were dead. I don't like you.  I'm not going to be your child anymore.  I want a new Mommy/Daddy.  You're the worst parent ever."  These pronouncements are usually inspired by something truly terrible we've done, like forbid our child from diving head first off a playstructure onto concrete.  (Actually, a lot of people married to addicts (for whom the rest of this story may also resonate) hear that kind of thing too, and usually for the same reasons.)  And those words can hurt, even when we know they're just a passing storm of anger and frustration.

But yesterday, when Austen screamed, "I don't love you!" it made me feel, well, loved.

Austen is autistic, and it comforts him when the little details of his world are neatly in place.  One of these details is the need to have all words printed neatly in capital block letters; no lower case letters and no script allowed.  If one of us should write something using any lettering that is offensive to Austen's discriminating eye, he will not rest until he has fixed it for us.  Grocery lists can be found with each item crossed out and correctly rewritten above.  Signatures on birthday cards are blacked out and bear neatly printed versions of the name instead.  If you want to keep a document safe from Austen's pen, you should generally keep it out of his sight.

I've recently been reading over some old journals and letters while doing some 12 Step work, and my daughter Janie has enjoyed having me read to her about what I used to do when I was a child.  Yesterday, I was reading to Janie when (and you can see where this is going, I'm certain) Austen, mistakenly thought to be safely occupied with something else, noticed that (shockingly) I didn't not print every item in my childhood diary in capital block letters.  And this was an outrage.  A crime.  An atrocity.  Austen wanted to fix that journal for me right away.

Of course, the answer to that was no.  No, you cannot cross out every word in my precious junior high diary and rewrite it.  I took the journal and locked it up safely in my room.  At which point Austen told me to please walk away and not look at him.  Nothing to see here. Move along.  He'd just be over here trying to pick the lock.  Just ignore him.

So, being the sharp and totally onto-him mother that I am, rather than walking away, I stopped and said, "Buddy, I really can't let you have that diary.  I wrote it when I was very young and it's the only one I have.  It's a part of who I was and who I am, and it's very special and important to me.  If you cross out the words, you'll be damaging it, and I'll be sad and angry and hurt. I'll feel like you would feel if I wrecked up your electronics collection, which I know is really special and important to you."

And that's when the screaming started.  "No!  You must let me have it!  Promise?  You have to let me destroy it!"

"No, I can't do that, buddy."

"Yes, you can!"

Austen's anger usually comes from anxiety, so I took a guess as to what he might be anxious about and tried to reassure him.  "I love you no matter what.  I know I said I would be angry if you damaged something that is important to me, but I would still love you, always and always."

"Well, I don't love you!" he shouted.

"Do you feel that way because you're angry at me?" I asked, trying to help him label his emotions.

"No," he said, through tears of frustration, "Because I have to destroy your diary, and it will hurt you.  And if I love you, I don't want to hurt you.  But if I don't love you, it's ok.  And I really need to destroy it, because it's WRONG in lower case!  So, I don't love you!"

Oh.  Wow.  I'd really misunderstood and misjudged: the level of his need, the level of his empathy the level of his emotion.  But all I could think right then was that this was the best "I don't love you" I'd ever received.

I wavered a little over whether it was more morally wrong to skim the book in the store without buying it (is that the literary equivalent of downloading music without paying?) or to actually buy the book, in essence rewarding the author for his cheesy charlatanism (however entertaining).  After a quick look at the first chapter, I decided it would definitely be more wrong to buy the book.

Like many books of the self-help genre, the first few chapters contain don't actually contain any helpful information, but are instead dedicated to telling you (aaaatttt gggrrreeeaaattt lllleeennngggttthhhh) how much helpful information you will find later in this book if you just keep reading.

This is to discourage people like me from doing what I was doing.  Most people just break down buy the book after skimming the introductory marketing material.  Only the persistent skimmer will stick through those self-promotional first few chapters about how Al-Anon is wrong and you are not powerless and you totally can change people if only you follow the four easy steps laid out in this book, which, trust me, are coming, right after a few more of these chapters about how this book is right on the money.  (And speaking of money...  But I bravely pressed on, both because I was eager to see where I had gone wrong on the whole fixing-my-husband's-sex-addiction thing and because knew this was totally blog fodder.

It turns out that the right thing to do is to gather together people who love the addict and stage an intervention.  You are all, unlike what those suckers in 12 Step tell you, to use lots of "I" language to communicate your message.  (Oh, "I" language is a fundamental part of 12 Step? Well, ok, moving on...) The message you are supposed to communicate is that you really love and are concerned about the addict, so much so that you want this person to enter recovery, which includes 12 Step meetings (in spite of the fact that powerlessness is for suckers).

At this point, by the way, your loved one is supposed say yes, you're supposed to set some very non-12 Step boundaries (damn, that's 12 Step too?), your loved one is supposed to enter rehab and — with continued loving detachment (oh, wait, loving detachment is a 12 Step concept too?) — is fixed forever.  Ta da!  You've effected change!  See how awesome you are!

Of course, there's this little, tiny section, buried somewhere deep in the book about what to do in the (really, very highly unlikely event) that the addict refuses to admit to having a problem and says "no" to recovery or storms out or tells you you're crazy.  (But really, don't worry too much about that, because addicts almost never do that kind of thing.  That's why this section is one 200th of the entire book.  The chances are that small.  But you know, just in case.)  The answer?  Keep trying.  Eventually, one day, if you keep at it, your addict will enter recovery.  Because you are powerful, and you can change people.  Don't give up!  If it's not working, you're probably just not doing it right and should study the book harder.

It's as simple as that.

Or is it? It's probably not entirely fair for me to mock this book for repackaging powerlessness as powerfulness and selling it. After all, it does trick people into reading about some concepts that they might not otherwise be willing to explore. Maybe it's the codependent version of putting a free beer sign on the door of an AA meeting. It's false advertising, but it still gets them through the door.

"How did you know?" my son Austen asked.

"Know what, buddy?" I asked.  We had been talking about how a particular connector fit into a particular slot.  This, along with batteries and speakers, is a particular fascination of Austen's lately.  When we were watching the movie Alvin and the Chipmunks on DVD recently, we had to pause the movie during the scene in which Dave presents a record executive with the Chipmunks on a set decorated with lighted model Christmas trees and wired to play the background music to their big hit, "Christmas Don't Be Late."

This scene was the source of much heated speculation.  Where had Dave put the speakers?  Could we see them?  What was powering it all?  Did Dave plug it in but we didn't see it?  If so, how many prongs did the plug have?  If not, what kind of batteries (Double A? Triple A? C? Nine volt?) were powering the lights and the music?  Were there wires leading from the batteries?  What kinds of plugs and connectors were on the wires?  The possibilities were nearly endless, and all tantalizingly out of sight.  Austen clearly had a vision for a superior, autistic version of the movie where the camera would have plunged right past the Chipmunks and into the tangled mass of wires behind the cotton ball snow and plastic fir trees.  And I've got to agree with him, that version probably would have been more interesting to me too.

But right now, I have no idea what he's talking about other than something I just said about something that is probably (but not definitely) wires.  This is a problem I often encounter with Austen: he pays much more attention to what I say than I do, especially when his sister is talking to me at the same time, and I'm trying to get a snack ready for one of them and my terrible monkey mind is jumping ahead to the thousand other things I need to get done before bed.  It leads me to end up in moments like this where I'm standing and staring blankly at my kids as if I just woke up to find I'd been sleep walking around the house all day.

"HOW!  How did you know?!"

"Hm," I search my mind and I'm pretty sure the last sentence I said was that I didn't think that plug fit in the slot he was trying. "How did I know that connector doesn't fit in that slot?" I venture, "Um, because that's a connector for an XBox, but the thing you were trying to connect it to was not an XBox and the slot looked different, so I didn't think it would fit."

"No!" he screamed, "How did you know?!"

Damn.  Now I'm screwed.  I don't know what I said.  "I don't know, Austen.  I really don't remember what I just said.  I thought we were talking about that connector?  Could you help me?"

"No.  Remember for yourself.  Now, how did you know?"

Ok, I can get out of this.  I know he's stuck on this point because he's hungry, so I decide to continue with the activity that made me forget what I was talking about in the first place: making him something to eat.  He follows me dutifully around the kitchen, barking out at regular intervals, "How did you know?  How did you know?  How did you know?"

I was reminded of one day in high school history class when a teacher called on me, I think because he sensed I wasn't paying attention.  Which I wasn't.  I heard my name, but not the question.  "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

"Answer the question," he said.

"I can't answer it, because I didn't hear the question," I responded.

"Answer the question," he repeated.  We went back and forth like this, several more times, with me getting angrier and angrier until he called on someone else.  I was so relieved to hear the answer because then I could finally infer what the damn question was!  I wished I had someone else to pass this off to now.  Where was my husband when I needed him?

"Can we call Daddy and ask him how I know things?" I asked.

"No," said Austen, "How did you know?"

Ok, fair enough.  I was, admittedly, trying to cheese my way out there, but it was still worth a shot.

So, I try (unsuccessfully) focusing on the task at hand.  I try repeating my answer and then not answering at all.  Then I hazard a few more guesses.  I try some vague but plausible answers.  I try telling him I have magic, psychic powers that allow me to know everything.  I even try total kid gross-out silliness by telling him the way that I know is "because of big, drippy, gooey, snotty, yellow and green boogers."  That makes him laugh.  A lot.  But when he finishes laughing, he goes back to "How did you know?" adding the frustrated command, "And tell the truth!"  Boogers, however entertaining, clearly were not the truth.

But the truth is that I already told him the truth: I don't know and I need more information.  What he wants isn't the truth, it's the right answer, his right answer.  And as I hear him droning, over and over, "How did you know? How did you know?  How did you know?" I find that I desperately want to be able to give him the answer he wants to hear, so that we can all move on.  And I think, "Ah, this is how people end up with false confessions from torture, because they just want to find the answer that makes it end."

After he eats, Austen begins to calm down and asks, "How did you know that connector wasn't going to fit in that slot?"  Finally!  And damn it, that was the very first thing I tried and he told me that was not it!  "Well, I know that's a connector for an XBox because it says so on the package, but the thing you were trying to connect it to was not an XBox and the slot looked different, so I didn't think it would fit."

"Oh, ok," said Austen, and went off to examine some other wires.

So, it turns out that sometimes it's not having the true answer or the right answer that counts; it's having it at the right time.  And the right time for us is almost always after Austen eats.  (Note to self: if you're ever held for questioning, try offering the officers a snack, then give them the answer they want.)

Silk is a sexy fabric. It's smooth and soft and falls in glistening ripples like waves. Years ago, shortly before I moved to another state to be with Mark, I sent him a pair of silk boxers as a gift, and he wrote me an erotic letter about them in return. When I arrived in my new home, he had lined our bed in silk. At my bridal shower, a friend gave me a silk nightie for my wedding night and I was married in a dress of silk. I told my husband Mark I want to be wrapped in silk when I die: a long ream of white silk as my last cocoon.

But silk wasn't just for me, of course. Silk was for the Victoria's Secret models and fantasies and other women.

Silk for our bodies, silk for our bed, silk as a symbol of sex and of marriage, of death, fantasy and infidelity. In recovery from sex addiction, silk can be beautiful or like other symbols of romance, silk can be a trigger.

Every year, Mark and I have celebrated our wedding anniversary by following the traditional gift giving guidelines: paper for the first anniversary, wood for the fifth, and so on. We always got a kick out of coming up with creative ways to give each other things made of leather or steel or aluminum. Shortly before our anniversary this year, Mark said, "I'd like to give a traditional gift this year, but it's silk. I wanted to get you something to wear, but I associate that so much with silk lingerie out there that I just don't think I can safely shop for you without being triggered."

"Yes," I agreed, "that kind of thing might be triggering for me too."

"Are you going to be comfortable with do silk at all?"

"Yes, still love silk. It just has to be in a way that's safe for both of us.

We both paused, pondering, before I said, "I have an idea! You can shop for something silk for yourself — a tie or a shirt or pajamas — and I can shop for something silk for myself. That way we can each buy what we're comfortable with, and then we can share it."

"Perfect!" Mark said, relieved.

Addiction may have prevented us from handing each other wrapped boxes, but recovery allowed us to keep ourselves safe and have a date luxuriating both in each others' presence, as well as the the silk of our choosing. And that's a pretty wonderful gift.

I woke up this morning, muscles clenched like a fist and throat tight with anxiety, wanting to grab my son and never let him go. I crept to where he was sleeping and ran my fingers through his curls, reassuring myself he was there and safe. He'd actually been better than usual in this morning's version of my recurring nightmare; at least in this dream, I'd found him in the end.

I've had some variation on this nightmare — in which I lose one or both of my children — countless times. In a nightmare theme a few weeks ago, I'd happily, if absent-mindedly, voiced my assent to my 6-year-old daughter's trip to the mall with a friend of hers on Christmas day. Dream-hours later, when she wasn't home yet, I realized I didn't know the friend's name, address or phone number and there were no stores open on Christmas. She was gone, taken, and it was my fault.

Last night, my husband was the bad guy for a change instead of the usual villain: me. In my dream, he'd planned to go out to run some errands alone, but Austen begged to come, so the two of them went off together, but only Mark returned home, having forgotten he'd brought Austen with him. We rushed back to find him, with my dream mind running through the very real-life possibilities that Austen would not be able to communicate his needs and get help. We found Austen and he burst into tears mingled with a steady stream of anxious, repetitive shouts and questions with no answers, very much like what I'd expect of the real Austen under stress. Then the chime of my alarm woke me, still tight and panicky, and truly wanting to punch my husband, who was sleeping innocently beside me, totally unaware of what he'd been doing in my dream.

I realized, as time passed and I calmed down, that on top of the fear that I will lose my children, the sheer panic that they could be hurt or lost or worse — a fear any parent understands — there extends through all of these nightmares a different kind of fear. In each dream, at some point, I always think, "Oh, no. I'm not going to be able to find this child by myself. I have to ask someone — the store clerk, a police officer, a neighbor — for help. But if I tell them I lost my child, they are not going to want to help me. They are going to blame and judge me. They are going to tell me I didn't work hard enough and do well enough. They are going to tell me that it's my fault. And even if we find my child, they are going to think that my husband and I are such bad parents that they take our children away forever anyway." It's not just the realization that my child is missing that causes the nightmares to be so traumatic, it's the realization that my child is missing, that I might be blamed and that the problem is so big, I can't fix it by myself.

And I recognize that isolation and loneliness, that self—blame and guilt. I recognize those fears: The fear of asking for help. The fear that mistakes or weaknesses or imperfections will cause me to lose everything I love. The fear that I'm not working hard enough. The fear of judgment and of blame, and not just in and of themselves, but as agents of loss. I recognize in all of these the deep roots of addiction and codependency still present in my mind, gripping me when I sleep.

Somewhere, gathering dust on a dark, forgotten shelf in my house is a video that helped greatly in my recovery. It's not one that you can buy on Amazon.com and it's not one that will help any of you. It's a video of me. Pre-recovery. Being angry and upset. Being really pissy. Being just a total screaming hellion. Or at least that's what I thought. Until I watched the video.

The video is of me, and the rest of my extended family, getting ready for a big family event. We're trying to get dressed and figure out where we're going and get there on time. There are going to be people there that some of us have never met and people we haven't seen for a very long time, and we want to look good and be sociable. Some of us are running late (as always), some of us are ready on time (as always). Those who are on time are badgering or sighing in exasperation at those running late, and those who are running late are snapping at those who are on time. We're losing things and banging into each other and getting all kinds of frustrated and frazzled. And one of us has a video camera and is walking around filming the whole thing.

I remember so well how angry I was that day. How I stated my needs with razor sharp precision and clarity and how no one listened until I blew up and snapped at everyone. And how no one seemed to notice that either, as they all went blithely on their way without acknowledging it. I went out to that event so resentful, grumbling about how people didn't consider my needs and wishes. Grumble, grumble, grumble. If they loved me they would...

And then, months later, I saw the video. Of me, speaking Codependent. When I was sure I'd said, "I really need to use the bathroom. Would you mind if I went next?" what I'd actually said (before walking quietly away) was, "Oh, there's someone in the bathroom. I guess I'll find something else to do." When I thought I'd said, "Turn that f-ing camera off so I can get dressed in private!" what I'd actually said was "Wow, you really are taking a lot of video." I wasn't making requests. I wasn't setting boundaries. I wasn't being open and honest about my feelings. I was making casual observations that those around me were supposed to magically interpret as statements of my wants and needs. And I was getting pissed off when they failed to read my mind and obey my secret wishes.

But I wasn't expressing any of that anger either, although I thought I was. I was certain that there was a point at which I exploded in rage and snapped at people. In my mind, I could see it so clearly. And then I saw it approaching on the video. Here, surely, was where we'd see some drama. Instead, it was one of those things that you'd have to play over and over again in slow motion to catch. "And... Wait for it... Wait for it... There! Did you see my eye twitch a little? Did you see it? That was it!" That moment, where I thought I was really angry and supremely rude was actually the one moment where I even seemed to approach a statement of my needs. I intone in a sing-song, with a smile, something like, "Give me just one moment to get my shoes on, please!" And we fade to black...

With the story of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford's week-long disappearance to visit his mistress in Argentina buzzing about, we're faced yet again with a barrage of images of a public figure tearfully apologizing for his infidelity, while his job hangs in jeopardy.* And in the wake of this story, the same discussions will repeat themselves that have echoed down from all the scandals past. Why did he do it? What does it say about our society? Should he keep his job? And, my perennial favorite, was he justified in cheating?

Yes, rest assured, people will whisper about the cause being his bitchy wife (she must be or he wouldn't have done it, right?) and someone, somewhere out there, will use this as an opportunity to bemoan our culture's moralistic attitude toward sex. It's a charge that is sometimes leveled at partners of sex addicts (at times by the addict or even by ourselves): that the problem with infidelity lies in our own uptight attitudes about sex and if we'd just lighten up and not get so upset about sex outside of marriage, everything would be fine. Which completely misses what every partner of a sex addict knows: the pain of infidelity doesn't have nearly as much to do with the sex as it does with being lied to.

Ask nearly anyone in a relationship with a sex addict what the worst thing about active addiction is and they will almost universally tell you that it's not the sex, but the lying and the horrible breach of trust that comes with it.  Sure, the sex part of it matters; it's not like I would have fallen down on the bathroom floor sobbing and hugging the toilet in sickness if my husband had lied to me about his secret life helping poverty stricken orphans.  The lies hurt because they were about something as intimate and personal and hurtful as a breech of sexual trust. And yes, I wanted the sexual acting out gone, but I know wanted the lies gone still more.

When my husband disclosed his activities to me, I laid into him, "If you wanted to have sex with other people, why didn't you tell me? If you want an open marriage, I need to know that. Hiding your actions and covering things up and lying shows a total lack of respect for me. I didn't have what I needed to make an informed decision about this relationship. You didn't give me the option to decide for myself, like an adult, you decided for me based on what you wanted. If multiple partners is what you want, let's talk about it. If that's what you're going to do, then tell me. I can deal with the sex, but I can't deal with the lying and the hiding and the deception." (See, it was early in recovery, I still "youed" at him a lot then. Also I bargained and tried to control him. Please do not try this at home.)

And in my husband's most major relapse since starting recovery for sex addiction, it wasn't the details of his acting out that hurt me (I wasn't even interested in them), but the fact that he would lie about going to a 12 Step meeting (a sacred meeting) and then cover it up for a year before coming clean.  I know he's an addict, I knew chances were slim that he would enter recovery and go the rest of his life without another slip ever, but I didn't care what he had done with this other woman so much as I cared that he had deceived me about it.  Even knowing that lying goes with the territory in addiction, the lying undid me.

What are my attitudes toward and beliefs about sex and relationships? To be honest, I'm still working that out; they're ever changing as I grow. But I do know that I didn't (and couldn't) begin to explore them until my husband and I both started talking honestly and openly about our wants and needs, our hopes and fears, our goals and values.

A version of this post was originally published at The Second Road. Additional comments can be found there.

It was raining the night I first kissed my husband. The wind was hissing and howling through the bare branches of the trees, rattling the last of the dead leaves still clinging to their posts. Before we kissed, we twined our hands together and watched our arms weave against each other like snakes, mahogany and golden. And when at last, softly, lip met lip, I wanted to rush out into the wind and rain and throw my arms out and laugh wildly or scream at the sky, like Ophelia drowning or Lear going mad in the storm. I couldn't resist him, nor he me, and the intensity of the pleasure in that kiss rode the edge of being blinding pain. It was the kind of high that addicts seek to return to and sustain forever, that I, in my own issues around love and romance and sex, have always wanted to return to again and again with Mark.

Last night, the kids were asleep and after a long busy week, Mark and I finally had a moment alone together. We were lying in bed and he twined his hand into mine, a sweet prelude, just like that night we first kissed. Only this time the contrast -- between what magic I thought we had back then and all the craziness of addiction and fantasy and delusion and denial that overlaid it and everything else since -- was too much for me. I burst into tears and Mark said, "Whoa, you're sad. What's the matter?"

I fumbled to explain where that gesture, so reminiscent of an earlier time, had taken me and said, "You know, people who are just starting recovery sometimes ask me if it ever stops hurting. And I tell them it does, mostly. But I say that sometimes it comes back, just not as strong. This is one of those times. It's better, but the pain's still there. Sometimes I just miss that fantasy, that irresistible passion. I miss the person I used to be, when sex didn't seem so complicated."

I put my head on Mark's chest and he stroked my hair and shoulder while I lay there feeling angry and disgusted at myself for being so caught up in the past and in the unknown that I couldn't enjoy an intimate moment right here in the present. I worried that Mark would be angry at me and level the charges at me that I'd heard others had leveled at them (and that I'd even leveled at others myself): that I was "freaking out," being "neurotic" and "overly emotional," being a stereotypical woman "too uptight" to have sex. I mean, geez, why didn't I just say I had a headache while I was at it? I imagined he wanted me to "get over it" so that he could get his needs met without having to deal with my troublesome and annoying emotions. And I thought about a conversation I had with a friend who said healing from the violation and trauma of being in a relationship with a sex addict has similarities to healing from the violation and trauma of rape, and I tried (without much success) to be forgiving of myself for still struggling sometimes, even six years after disclosure.

Then Mark interrupted my thoughts as he ran his hand over my shoulder, sighed happily and said, "I love you, and I'm so glad to be here with you!" I looked up at his face, and he was beaming. "God is good!" he said, almost laughing with happiness. What? No sex and he, the sex addict, was still happy? To be here with me? Wow. I snuggled in close and kissed him, and then I started laughing. "You know," I said, "just a minute ago, I was missing that irresistible passion and addictive inability to say no. I was thinking it was the sexiest thing in the world and I was never going to be able to get moments like that back. Now, a minute later, I'm seeing the ability to say no as such a gift, and I don't have to get back there, because recovery is looking pretty darn sexy on you..."