"Is Tiger Woods a sex addict?"
"What do you think about Tiger?"
"Aren't you going to write about Tiger Woods?"

The questions have been peppering my inbox, but I've been avoiding the topic.

On the one hand, I love a good celebrity sex scandal, both because I can relate and because I see it as an opportunity to educate people about what sex addiction can look like. I remember when my husband disclosed his addiction, I realized that his words and actions bore an uncanny resemblance to Bill Clinton's (even down to the "oral sex is not sex" line).  And I was pissed, not at Bill Clinton or at my husband, but at the media.  Why were there all these stories about how Bill Clinton was a cad and a liar and a womanizer and a bad person and a bad husband and a man who believed he was "above the law" and absolutely none about how he was (in a way that was now glaringly obvious to me) a sex addict.  Why hadn't I heard of sex addiction before?  Why hadn't anyone told me that this was what it looked like?

But on the other hand, while some people are begging for a Tiger story, I know (from years of blogging experience) that other people are absolutely going to hate it.  It's going to send half the Internet into spams of delight and the other into paroxysms of rage if I use "Tiger Woods" and "sex addict" in the same post, and dealing with that kind of conflict is simply tiresome.  So I've been weighing whether or not writing about Tiger Woods was worth the drama of writing about Tiger Woods.

But as I was considering this question last night, it occurred to me that I wouldn't be wondering this at all if news had just broken that instead of having a dozen mistresses at points around the globe, Tiger Woods had a dozen different heroin dealers.  Would there be similar quibbling over what to call his behavior if, instead of risking his marriage and his family and his lucrative endorsements by spending time and money on tour having sex with porn stars and models and cocktail waitresses, he had risked them by spending time getting high on cocaine?  If there were rumors that he might give up touring because he was spending all his nights getting drunk when he was traveling rather than having affairs with other women, would the debate over addiction be the same?

Sex addiction is hard to recognize precisely because it's tied up in behavior that doesn't seem so clear cut.  It's harder to see where the line is drawn or should be drawn when it comes to something as basic to who we are as sex.  It's more complicated for us to discern someone's motivation for having an affair than smoking crack.  But regardless of what we think of Tiger's actions or speculate about his motivations, in the way the story has played out in the media, we can see a degree of unmanageability that addicts and their partners can all relate to: the desperate attempts to cover up, the car crash, the hemorrhaging of money.  As Mark said when we discussed it this morning, "All you have to do is take the news clippings and put them together to have a pretty good First Step."

A little less than a year ago, I moved my blog to its own URL, and when I did so, I had the opportunity to reread many of my old posts as I updated broken links (still not all fixed, by the way). As I did, I noticed that, whether I wrote about them explicitly or not, I could see the phases I went through, like rings on a tree: here was the fire that burned my bark; here was a season rich with rain; here was mild and pleasant weather; here was the drought that left me parched. With each ring, my focus became a little bit more clear and I got a little bit better at knowing what material I could share with a large and diverse audience in a healthy way.

When I first started blogging, I shared much more broadly than I do now. I wrote about my extended family and my friends (most of whom didn't know about the blog). I wrote about situations I was struggling with and people with whom I was angry. I shared my opinions about politics and celebrities. I speculated about sex addiction in the news. I tried to answer any and all questions ("try" being the operative word, as I'll admit that some of those questions are still sitting in my inbox, waiting).

But gradually, as more people started reading and as I grew and changed myself, my focus changed. I felt less comfortable putting friends and family members out there without their knowledge, even when I was focusing on my own response to them or telling my story as it related to them. And I found it less and less helpful and healthy to share my current struggles, emotions or opinions in such a broad forum. I still do from time to time, but I do it less often and less pointedly than I once did.

I began to recognize that when I get a tight feeling in my chest as I'm writing — when I vent, or rant, or try hard to get a good laugh, or struggle to find a way to change people or force them to understand me — I'm likely to feel awful afterwards. I started to key in to when I heard that critical little voice in my head saying "but..." or "you're wrong" or "you're crazy." I'd notice how I'd fuss and fuss to get the words right so that people wouldn't "misunderstand" me, knowing what I really wanted was to be able to use my words to bully any difference into submission. And almost inevitably my anger or uncertainty or sarcasm or desperate need to have everyone agree with me would trigger someone, which would in turn trigger me.

In 12 Step we talk about sharing our "experience, strength and hope." That is: what happened to us in the past, how we got through it and the hope and faith we now have for the future. And as I look at those tree rings of writing drawing in over the years, I notice that the focus I'm moving toward is exactly that: experience, strength, hope. When I'm able to share from that place, even if I'm ashamed of what I've done and scared (often very much so!) of how people will perceive me, I'm able to feel good about what I'm doing. In moving away from focusing on others or on my resentment and anger or on the things (and people and opinions) I can't change, I'm more likely to be of service to others, to make progress myself and to do no harm.

But never fear, since I'm about progress, not perfection, I'm still likely to slip up and be a smart ass or gossip or boss people who are being wrong (that is, anyone who doesn't agree with me). You know, just to keep things entertaining.

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..."

I was struggling today with several issues that have been swimming around in my head lately: my relationship with anger and rage, the place of vulnerability in my recovery, the harsh and insidious voice of my inner critic, my past emotionally and verbally abusive relationships and the ways they led to where I am today. I started to try to work it out through journaling but couldn't wrap my head around it. After all, there are some really fascinating clouds outside my window today, and it's pretty important to me to beat the computer at this particular game of solitaire that's been plaguing me. Also, I'm hungry. Are those Girl Scout cookies still in the pantry?

Then my computer beeped at me. Oo! It's my friend Ellie wanting to chat.

Well, you know, since the writing isn't getting me anywhere, why not? Ellie is an Al-Anoner, and a few weeks ago we'd been talking on the phone about some things we are each working through in recovery, but (because we are both moms on the go) one of us had to run. She chatted me looking for contact information for a mutual friend, but of course, we drifted back to the earlier conversation, and when she had to leave the computer to pick her daughter up at school, she suggested I call her cell so we could keep talking.

I know picking up the phone and calling friends in recovery is some well known wisdom, but it's still not something I do regularly. I have a lot of reasons for that, and many of them are good and valid. But there are times, like today, when it's the best possible thing to do. I got to talk to someone who loves me and gets me, someone who is able to laugh off the inner critic I can't. I got to hear about Ellie's struggles around similar issues, which informed my own. And I got to get out of my own head for a while. It was like a spiritual breath of fresh air, and while I still don't have my head around all the issues that have been on my mind, I feel refreshed and rejuvenated enough to let them go for today.

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

Whew! Between the online 12 step work I'm doing, my (slow) progress through my issues around this election and the thought provoking questions you all have given me around one of my recent posts, I'm pretty brain fried. So, I thought it would be fun to (finally) answer two of the more lighthearted questions you all posed for me last month. (See, I don't forget these things, I just work very, very, very slowly!)

1. An anonymous commenter asked: "If you had 2 weeks of free, reliable babysitting and $5,000, where would you go? Who would you go with?"

I would go to a tropical island. I like Hawaii, but it could be anyplace warm and surrounded by water. I want to smell the salt water and fall asleep listening to the ocean waves. I want a room that opens onto the beach and I want never to leave that combination of room and beach for the entire two weeks.

I want to order room service for every single meal, and I want the server to leave the meal outside my door so that I never have to interact with another human during the entire two weeks. Much as I love my husband and would love to get away on a vacation with him for the first time in nearly eight years, I would go alone, alone, alone, ALONE with a stack of books and my journal.

Someplace where no one is pulling on me or making requests of me or needing me (plus ocean and room service) is my idea of paradise!

Now who wants to give me $5000 and a babysitter? I'm ready to go!

2. Mim asked, "Shoes - what's more important, function of fashion and what has been your favourite pair of shoes ever?"

Definitely, without a doubt, function. My feet are wide and super sensitive to temperature and texture. I don't wear socks. I also do not like or wear heels or cute shoes that pinch my toes. When other women squeal and say, "Oh, what a cute pair of shoes." I think (but don't say, because I'm polite and codependent and don't want to offend anyone), "Those look so horribly uncomfortable they make me feel physically ill."

I own just three pairs of shoes (which my friend Tigermom tells me is a crime) and they are all very comfortable, heelless and rubber soled. My favorite shoes ever are my Birkenstock sandals. I even posted a poem about how much I love them.

Image credit: Photo by Lst1984 on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

One evening four years ago, my husband headed out to attend one of his weekly Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings. What was unusual about this particular meeting was that I had begged him not to go.

Those meetings help him. They help me. They saved our marriage. And that generally makes me a big fan of his nights out 12 stepping. However, the day before this meeting, I had undergone an abortion to end my pregnancy with what would have been our third child. Exhausted and depressed by everything that had happened in the last few days, I didn't want him to leave me for several hours to care for the kids and get them off to bed.

But Mark was adamant about going. He was still fairly early in recovery and simply didn't trust himself. If he gave himself permission to skip just one meeting, he believed he would use that to let himself justify skipping other meetings for other reasons. It felt too dangerous to him, like standing at a cliff's edge where one wrong step would send him plunging back into active addiction. He called my friend Judy and asked her to stay with me and help with the kids while he went out. And off he went.

I was devastated. As much as I love Judy and was happy to have her help and company, the person I wanted with me right then was the person twined up in my sorrow, the father of the child I decided not to have: my husband. When Mark was active in his addiction, our family often came second to his sexual acting out. And now that he was in recovery, it felt like our family still came second to this new 12 step love affair of his.

"For once -- just this one time," I thought, "why can't holding my hand when I really need you there be first on the list?" I knew this was an exaggeration. I knew Mark had been there for me, and put me ahead of himself many times in our marriage. I knew that was why I was still there working. So, I tried to breathe and remember the big picture greater good of his recovery, but it still hurt like hell. And I kept holding on to those festering resentments, never fully forgiving him for doing what he felt he needed to do that night.

Two years later, Mark came home between 9 and 10 p.m. on a meeting night, just as he always did. There wasn't anything special about that night to me, and I can't call it out in my memory. It was just part of the routine. Mark goes to meetings and gets home late a few nights a week. I feed the kids dinner, put them to bed and give him a kiss when he gets home. But that night, whichever it was, was different for Mark, because he didn't go to a meeting.

A woman he works with, who works for him, had broken up (again) with her on again off again boyfriend. So Mark asked her out on a date. Knowing that I wouldn't expect him home until later that night, he took her out to dinner and then drove her back to her apartment. He shared his slip with his group shortly afterwards, but it took him a year to get himself to a place where he could share it with me. And it's taken me a year, likewise, to share anything beyond the fact that, on the day he told me, I put myself to bed to watch the rain with a pint of gourmet ice cream for comfort and didn't get up until the next day.

It's hard, at times like that, not to take sex addiction personally. It's hard not to see those actions as separate rather than inextricably connected. It's hard not to rage and say, "You couldn't skip a meeting to be with me the day after we aborted our baby, but you could skip a meeting to take another woman out on a date?!" It's hard not to feel that those actions reflect on his love for me and for our family. It's hard to see those actions as symptoms of a disease.

I could have (I have) worked through relapses on other occasions. But to relapse on a meeting night was the greatest breech of trust of all, because in my desire to bury my anger and pain and resentment, I had elevated meetings to a level of sacredness. I had made meetings a sign that he valued our family and our relationship enough to work hard on himself and his problems. Those meetings were the talisman that I thought was keeping us all safe.

But addiction doesn't respect the sacred: not meetings or family heirlooms or pets or family or friends. It will destroy anything, sell anything, steal anything, lie to and about anything and anyone to feed its hunger. Those meetings keep it at bay, one day at a time, but nothing ever keeps us completely safe. And however it feels to me, I know in my mind (if not my heart) that skipping a meeting to go on a date doesn't mean he doesn't love me, it just means he's still an addict.

Photo credit: Photo by sheeshoo on Flickr

I generally stay away from posting about news, for several reasons:

1. This blog was designed for the purposes of gazing at my own lovely and fascinating navel. Why venture outside the bounds of my beautiful belly lint, unless news stories reflect on said belly lint?
2. There are two sides to every story, and I hesitate to chime in on matters I know only snippets of from news stories. (Unless they involve diagnosing celebrities I know next to nothing about with addictions or a history of abuse. That, my friends, is easy, and I do jump all over it.)
3. There are tons of bloggers out there who do a great job already of dissecting and parsing the news.
4. I ruminate like a big cow, chewing and chewing on ideas. By the time my mind is ready to spit out its nuggets of wisdom for you, the story is dead and gone. (See: Eliot Spitzer.)

But I've decided to blog about this story anyway. Just let me suck on this cud of mine for a few more hours. Ok?