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

A few weeks ago, I got an e-mail from a woman named Paula Saardchit. She told me she'd found my blog while doing research for an article she was writing on sex addiction for her website, and she wanted to write and tell me how moved she was by my story. Of course, I was curious to know more about her site, so I googled her. And I found out that she helps women plan lingerie and sex toy parties. (And I know what kind of party some of you have in mind. No, not that kind! You know, this is like a Tupperware party, only with vibrators.)

When I found out about my husband's sex addiction, one of the first things I did was get out my big, black garbage bags and start dumping in porn, lingerie and sex toys. The sight of them, of anything that made me think of sex or by extension of my husband's sexual acting out, made me want to vomit. So off in a landfill somewhere are all the artifacts of my subconscious attempts to control my husband and keep his sexual attention firmly fixed on constantly exciting, porn star me: the dildos and the vibrators, the bustiers and fishnet stockings and the crotchless panties and the wigs and the costumes, the X-rated board games and the porn DVDs. Yeah, I tried it all. Well, except a stripper pole. That hadn't occurred to me yet. And thank goodness because how would I have carted that out to the trash?

I had been as conventionally sexy and exciting and adventurous and engaged as can be, and my husband loved it. But it wasn't enough. That endless, aching need of his wanted more than I could give. More than all the women in all the lingerie with all the sex toys in the world could give. And still I wanted to give it. Which is how I ended up there, with the black Hefty bag in my hand, sick to my stomach with shame and disgust and rage.

And now, six years later, I was on a lingerie party website, full of pictures of that conventional sexy I dumped in the trash, wondering what kind of sex addiction article Paula intended to write. As I glanced at the site, I saw that there was plenty of the usual "hot" and "titillating" sex selling, but Paula also genuinely seemed to see these parties as a way of empowering women to learn about and appreciate their own bodies. Black and white thinking is common in the lives of addicts and those who live with them, and I've been slowly working toward a place where, after fully indulging in our culture's idea of "sexy" and then fully rejecting it (from lingerie to makeup to shaving my legs), I am exploring more shades of grey. So, just because I can't incorporate lingerie and sex toys into my relationship in a healthy way right now, doesn't mean they are evil in themselves. There are definitely aspects of lingerie and sex toys that I'm deeply uncomfortable with, and even perceive as dangerous to women, but there was enough that was positive about Paula's site that when she asked if she could interview me, I said, "Well, send me your questions and I'll see."

When I saw the questions, I found that not only was I comfortable with answering them all, this would be a good opportunity to reach out to women who may not realize (yet) that their partners are sex addicts. (I mean, what better place to find a sex addict's partner in denial than out buying lingerie?) So, while many women may be using Paula's parties as a healthy expression of their sexuality, I (taking to heart that 12 Step message of reaching out to those still suffering) couldn't pass up the opportunity to plant some seeds among those who might be indulging in sexy, not as an act of empowerment, but as one of desperation and degradation.

Then had to take that last leap of faith that Paula would put it up as I expressed it before I clicked send. (Not that I have trust issues or anything!) And she did. The interview is up, and after having thought long and hard about linking out to such a potentially triggering site, I thought I would share it with you all, especially since many of you don't have sex addiction as part of your lives at all and may find it interesting. There is nothing in the content of my interview that I wouldn't post here, but images and links in the header and sidebar are related to lingerie and sex toys. So, one last time before the link...

Warning: Sex addicts and their partners may find images and language in the linked site triggering!

(If the thought of clicking through raises any concerns about your sobriety or serenity, please feel free to e-mail me for a copy of the information contained in the interview instead.)

And here's the link (isn't it cute that I'm an expert?): Interview with Mary P Jones at Lingerie Party and Adult Toys.

A few months ago, my husband and I sat in our car in an empty parking lot. We'd gotten the kids settled with a babysitter, although it had taken longer than usual, and had driven to a place we knew we could park in relative peace. The rain was drumming on the windshield and a chill started seeping in when we turned the engine off.

"Do you want to say a quick Serenity Prayer together first?" Mark asked.

"That sounds good," I responded.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Our voice blended together with the tapping of the rain.

"Ok," I said, "here we go." I picked up my cell phone, pressed *67 to block my number and then dialed the number scribbled on the scrap of paper in my hand. I'd copied it from my e-mail before we left home that evening. Writer AJ Grossman picked up the phone.

"Hi. Mary?" she said, "That's a pseudonym, right?"

"Yes, it is."

"And so is 'Mark', correct?"

"Yes."

She was writing an article on sex addiction for Elle magazine, and we'd found each other while she was looking through the blogosphere for addicts and their partners to interview. Mark and I had agreed to talk to her about our experiences with sex addiction. In the days before the call, Mark and I had read parts of the em Twelve and Twelve /em aloud together and discussed the Eleventh Tradition regarding interactions with the media. Mark had spoken to his sponsor. We were as aligned as what we felt we could be with our Higher Powers and the greater good of helping those still in the throes of active addiction and codependency, but we were both still feeling anxious and uncomfortable about where attraction to the program ended and self-promotion began. After all, could either of us say our motives were entirely pure when we found the idea of being interviewed for a piece in a major national magazine a little exciting and gratifying.

The interview started with me. I struggled to answer questions about life during my husband's active addiction. I didn't want to tell Mark's story for him, and I was still worried about that gaping chasm of self-promotion I seemed to be dancing near. But as the interview went on, I relaxed more and told my truth the best I could. Then I handed the phone off to Mark and listened to him describe his addiction and recovery with openness and honesty, and I was filled with love and admiration for the work that he's done and for the place he's come to. He talked about the secrets he had carried that he swore back then that he would take to his grave, and how he did share those secrets and it freed him. And I laughed, because those secrets that were supposed to haunt him in death were potentially being shared with the entire readership of Elle magazine.

After we hung up the phone, we sat in the car in silence for a moment, each dealing with our own strange mix of emotions. Both of us were feeling anxious and unsure about the interview. Had we done the right thing by agreeing to speak to this journalist? Had we adhered to the 11th Tradition? Had we been of service to others or just our own egos? But both of us were also feeling profoundly grateful and overwhelmed by the power of sharing our stories in each other's presence.

After a moment, Mark took my hand and said, "I never imagined, years ago, that I would ever be able to talk about these things. It was just amazing to listen to you tell your story and to have you hear mine, and know that I didn't have anything to hide. I wasn't worried or scared about what you would think. I know you've heard everything before, but it was really powerful to share it with someone else with you there. I feel so close to you right now and am just filled with gratitude. I love you."

"I love you too. And it was just amazing for me to be here and hear you sharing, and have you here to support me as I did. Whatever comes of this, I'm so grateful for this experience and for this moment right now."

The Elle article "Sexy Beast"* was published recently and strikes a nice balance between the author's personal story and general information on sex addiction from some of the leaders in the field. In the end, Mark and I weren't included in the article, and for that I'm feeling grateful too. It didn't need us, and we got out of it more than we ever would have thought possible years ago: an incredible moment of closeness, holding hands together, safe and dry, while the rain beat on the roof of the car.

1. If you could be famous, what would choose as your profession?

The Maven threw me a big, slow, hanging pitch here. It's interview batting practice so I can warm up for the tough ones ahead. The answer is (drum roll, please): writer. And not just because it's the one thing I passionately love doing. I have to admit that, sadly, sitting on my butt and stringing words together is about the only thing I'm good at. And being a famous writer would be a lot easier to deal with than being a famous politician or actor or musician. Few people know what writers look like, allowing me to blend into crowds and maintain the invisibility that I love.

2. What is the most important thing your son has taught you about life?

He's taught me that everyone learns and interacts with the world and processes information differently. I knew that to some degree, but he's made me feel it viscerally. There are things that are intuitive to me that he just can't grasp and vice versa. I can see how hard his brain has to work to figure people out or to tell his body what to do in order to get his clothes on. Yet I look at a math problem and see a jumble of numbers, and I can see that even at eight, he looks at the same problem and hears a symphony and sees the hand of God. He's made me much more accepting of where other people are, more appreciative of their triumphs and more comfortable with my own shortcomings in relation to other people.

3. What were you like in high school?

I was a nerd. I was at the top of the class -- the kid who had the best grades and won all the prizes -- and I felt conflicted about that: both proud to the point of arrogance and ashamed for not fitting in. I was shy and scared of people. I was a perfectionist, but spent a lot of time trying to look like I had thrown my work together at the last minute because I didn't want to seem uptight and I wanted people to like me. I spent a lot of time reading and writing (bad) poetry and angsty journal entries. Um, so pretty much the same as I am now, only with a hotter body.

4. If you could have dinner with any three people, who would they be and why?

Hillary Clinton, William Shatner and Anne Lamott. Hillary Clinton and Anne Lamott are both women I deeply respect for their accomplishments and the way they've worked through their personal pain. William Shatner not only appeals to my Star Trek nerdiness, but he's a codie. And I think each of them, in their own way, would be quite a lot of fun.

5. And now for the most important question: If you were on The Bachelorette: Sesame Street edition, who would be your final pick and why?

This is an excellent question, because I do like to think about which character I would date on every show I watch.* I hope this counts, since he's more often associated with his own spinoff hit franchise, but my pick is Kermit the Frog. He's gentle and intelligent, and there's something a little sad and broken about him that makes you want to hug him and take care of him, which is totally appealing to me in a man (or a frog). But he's not so broken that he winds up living in a trash can or binging on cookies or fastidiously trying to control his environment and his roommate. And he doesn't have Elmo's annoyingly cheery voice or Ernie's boundless optimism, both of which would need me to be cranky to counteract them. If I had to pick a runner up, it would be Grover, because he's goofy, a little insecure and very much lives in a fantasy world, which are also traits I find hot in men (or monster puppets).

* For those of you interested, the answers for dating preferences in my current top three favorite shows are:
Lost: Desmond. A crazy guy with a lovely Scottish accent who spends years on an island thinking of nothing but his tragic romance and Charles Dickens? Hot!
House: Um, House, of course. Sure, he seems like an asshole, but underneath he's a sensitive guy and I'm pretty sure I could fix him.
Heroes: Sylar. He's crazy, dangerous and nerdy, which all equal sexy in my book. And in the alternate future where he overcomes that addiction to killing people by psychically cutting their heads open, he's a sensitive guy and totally awesome dad.

And now...
Here are the rules if you want to participate in 5 Questions:

1. Send me an email saying: ”Interview Me” to mamampj@gmail.com
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You can then answer the questions on your blog.
4. You should also post these rules along with an offer to interview anyone else who emails you wanting to be interviewed.
5. Anyone who asks to be interviewed should be sent 5 questions to answer on their blog. It would be nice if the questions were individualized for each blogger.

4) Keanu Reeves - actor or eye candy? (With examples from at least four of his films, please!)

Keanu Reeves, I'm sorry to say, does not have that addict charm I find so appealing in men. So, yes, believe it or not, I love to watching him for his acting. Now I'm not saying (and you will note the question did not specify this either) that his acting is good, only that it is entertaining. No, wait. It's riveting. Riveting in that "somewhat horrifying but too fascinating too look away" way. He is the artistic heir to William Shatner, another of my favorite actors ever. The aspect of Keanu's acting I enjoy most is his ability to deliver his lines in a way that causes you to mentally add "dude" to the end of them. Consider the following...

Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure
This is Keanu's signature work, in which, I have always suspected, he simply plays himself. All other roles, spanning the vast artistic range from Ted Theodore Logan reads Shakespeare to Ted Theodore Logan plays football, are simply derivative of this film.

A Walk in the Clouds
This is possibly Keanu's greatest comedic work to date. I saw this movie in the theater and spent the entire time roaring with laughter while the teenage girls in the audience sighed with rapture, smitten with Keanu. (Mark spent the entire time hiding under the seats because I was making him look bad in front of the teenage girls he was hoping to hit on later.)

My favorite part of the whole movie is when Keanu, in an attempt to win over the father of the woman he loves, finds the sole grape vine still living after a fire destroys the father's vineyard, pulls the vine out of the ground and brings it to the father, like a cat bringing home a dead mouse. Yes, he found a live vine, but he ripped it out of the ground to prove it. Now, you may say that Keanu received a great deal of assistance from the atrocious script, and you would be correct. But only Keanu could deliver the line "your daughter is like the air to me" in a way that begs one to mentally add "dude" to it.

Point Break
One can't help but love a movie starring Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves as surfers. What I love most about Keanu's acting in this movie makes a believable beach bum but an utterly unbelievable former-college-football-star-turned-FBI-agent. And he delivers my favorite line in the movie, "I am an FBI agent," with his trademark "dude" panache.

Johnny Mnemonic
For some reason Mark and I saw this movie (in an actual theater; yes, we're Keanu Reeves freaks) while on vacation in a different part of the country. I had an upset stomach and was desperately trying to hold on until the end of the movie before dashing to the ladies' room. But my suffering paid off when I got to watch Keanu bemoaning his life and shouting (with classic "dude" delivery) "I want room service!" That scene made the entire movie.

OTHER KEANU ODDS AND ENDS:

Three Best Keanu Reeves Movies:

1. The Matrix - It's my favorite metaphor for addiction.
2. Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure - Kelly once gave my a stuffed bear that looked like a dog. I named it Ted Theodore Dogbear in honor of Keanu's part in this movie. Following in the acting footsteps of its namesake, it once starred as a dog in a skit I did for German class. I lost it while on a business trip when it got tangled in the sheets in a hotel room and left behind. (Yeah, so what if I took a stuffed animal along to sleep with on a business trip; I get lonely in bed without Mark!) I never recovered it and still miss it.
3. Speed - Dude, it's an action movie about a bus! How ridiculous and cool is that?! The denouement was a little lengthy, but still: Action movie about a bus!

Worst Keanu Reeves Movie:
Devil's Advocate
I never thought I could say this about any of Keanu's movies but: BORING!

Silliest Keanu Reeves Movie:
The Watcher
I'm a bit obsessed with serial killers and profiling. I think movies in which serial killers do unrealistic things like fight the cops are silly. And silly serial killer movies that star Keanu as the killer? Well...

Most Forgettable Keanu Reeves Movie:
Chain Reaction
I forgot this movie even existed, let alone that I'd seen it, until I was looking over Keanu's filmography while writing this post!

My Near Brush With Keanu:
Keanu's band, Dogstar, was playing at a club near where Mark and I used to live. We walked past as they were setting up, but we couldn't get tickets to the show. Still, I felt Keanu's presence and that was good enough.

I totally need to go watch some Keanu now, dude.

Ok, I'm pretty sure I have committed some kind of huge blogging faux pas by having: requested that Aphra Behn interview me, started to answer her questions, run off to a wedding, and in the exhaustion following, never finished answering her questions. So, now that I have recovered from my trip and have had given myself enough intervening days of mindless posts to allow my brain to clear, I am back at it. With great apologies to Aphra Behn for all the flakiness, here is my answer to the third of her interview questions:

3) What does trust mean to you?

Ok, I admit, another of the reasons that it has taken me so long to answer this question is because I just can't come up with an answer I like. In my early blogging days (a few whole months ago), I wrote a post about trust that really resonates with many of the folks who drop by and visit me here. The Junky's Wife read that post in a Nar-Anon meeting and it made someone cry. Recovery Discovery carries a copy around. The San Diego Reader has even paid me to publish it. After all that, wow, I really feel like I should have something huge and healing and deep and life-altering to say about trust, something else that will touch people and make them cry and carry my words around in their wallets and pay me money. And yet...

What do I know about trust? I'm still learning what trust is. Anyone who knows me knows that I joke about my "trust issues" all the time. I like to joke that I should see a therapist for my trust issues, but first I have to overcome my trust issues enough to see a therapist. (I actually really do not have, and never have had, a therapist. Maybe I'll blog about that sometime.) When I was at that wedding recently, I spent some time dancing with some of the guys in the wedding party. One of my partners tried to dip me, and I would not go over. I told him it was just my trust issues acting up, a common refrain of mine in any situation where someone else is supposed to physically support me.

If anything, I tend, as is the case with my lack of a therapist or the ability to dance, to be suspicious of people, not to open up, not to tell the truth, not to give them all of myself. I did believe in my husband and give into his care my heart, my life, all of me. And one of the great challenges in my recovery has been not to learn from his betrayals that I was right, that I should protect myself from people by closing up again. But that breach, that injury, did teach me that trust is not blind belief; trust needs to be founded on something, even if that something is simply the will to change.

So, maybe trust is walking that line between closing a hard exterior shell against possible hurts and revealing my vulnerable interior without basis. Maybe trust is a perfect middle ground of remaining balanced in openness and love without fear of harm. But I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it out.

(4) What's the difference between flotsam and jetsam?

Oh, dear! This is one of those mysterious interview questions. It's saying something. What is it saying? Something like, "You're a creative person. Wow me." Or, "I'm going to analyze your answer for some deep hidden meaning." These questions are always nerve wracking.

So, I read the question and thought, "It's all detritus to me, but 'flotsam' sounds floaty and 'jetsam' sounds jettisoned. " So, I looked it up, and my etymological instincts were right on, without ever having taken Latin. (In your face, dead languages and ex-boyfriends who traumatized me with them!) It turns out that flotsam is the floating (see how sharp I am!) wreckage of a ship, and jetsam is something that is cast overboard (jettisoned) to lighten the load of a ship in distress.

But the most important thing that one can know about the words flotsam and jetsam are that I first encountered them at around about the worst time in my life: junior high school. "Flotsam and Jetsam" is the title of one of the chapters (ok, Chapter 9) in The Two Towers, Book II of J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. To say that I was obsessed with this fantasy series as a child is an understatement. One of my deepest regrets in life is that the current set of movies were not made when I was at the height of my love for the books, because a life-sized cardboard cutout of Orlando Bloom would have been just the thing to set off the poster of Michael J. Fox over my bed, assuming, that is, that we live in an alternate universe where Orlando Bloom and Michael J. Fox would have been about the same age and desirability in the 80's.

Now that I think of it, the "Flotsam and Jetsam" chapter actually does include both important flotsam (the "pipe-weed" from the Shire that Merry and Pippin find in the wreckage of Isengard) and jetsam (the palantír Wormtongue throws from Orthanc). Cool!

And so whatever the intent of this last question, the answer now clearly says, "I am a geek."

(3) What age (or time period) was the most difficult for you and why?

It may be clichè to say, but like the vast majority of the world, the most difficult time period for me was (drum roll, please) junior high school (surprised?). If I had to choose a year, it would be seventh grade, which just flat out sucked. In fact, even after I found out about my husband's sex addiction, as I was walking around for days in sunglasses to hide my puffy, red, bawled-to-hell eyes and considering the many ways in which I might castrate him and how much prison time away from my children this might involve, even then, I would think to myself, "At least this is not as bad as junior high school."

It wasn't that particularly bad things happened, although some undoubtedly did, it was that I was particularly ill-equipped to handle them. In junior high school, I felt alone and didn't even have myself to comfort me yet; I wasn't fully formed yet. In junior high school you're at the weird cusp of being a teenager, you're a child growing (awkwardly and in all the wrong places) into an adult. (If you are a woman, and your body developed like mine, this involves passing through a distinctly pear-shaped phase, during which you have hips, but no breasts.) But it isn't just the body that is growing and changing, it is the mind and the sense of self. Nothing now can ever be as bad as junior high school, because it's not possible to unknow what I now know about myself, to unlearn the skills I've learned in the years since.

By seventh grade, I had drifted away from the girl who had been my best friend, and essentially my only friend for years. I was the nerdy kid, and she was the one whose family problems caused her to turn to cigarettes and alcohol at a young age. We tracked off into different classes and different crowds. I wasn't, couldn't be, didn't want to be, part of her crowd, but the geeks and the nerds hadn't yet taken me in as one of their own. I was cliqueless, and best-friendless. I was socially, musically and fashionably clueless. I was left to face the spitballs on my own in my Sears Surplus jeans and second-hand John Denver t-shirt.

There was this one guy in particular, who was in every one of my classes, and since his last name started with the same letter as mine, and since every freaking teacher in the school seated people alphabetically, he was always sitting right in front of me. We always ended up seated at the very back of the room, safe from the teacher's view. He'd tear up my notebooks, steal my pens and take them apart and then use the possessions he had destroyed to shoot spitballs at me from very close range. He'd snatch back the papers he was supposed to be handing me just before I grabbed them. He'd copy my work. He'd refuse to pass my work forward. He'd mock my clothes and my hair and absolutely anything I said. He'd dance around the classroom before the teacher got there mocking me by singing Adam Ant's "Goody Two Shoes." One day he was talking about a party he had been to and turned to me and asked, "Do you drink?" And I knew I was trapped: if I said yes, he'd mock me, if I said no, he'd mock me. But yes seemed like the more socially acceptable answer, so I gave it. Then he pranced around the room and said in a high-pitched, snotty-sounding voice, "Oh, yes. I drink water occasionally." I can't think of a pseudonym to fit him and that horrible feeling he gave me.

At some point in high school, I heard he found God. I ran into him at a party, and he tried to apologize to me for having been a jerk in junior high. I didn't know whether he was sincere or if he was just mocking me again: ready to pounce on me when I granted my forgiveness and say "ha, ha," like Nelson in the Simpsons. I didn't say anything. Apology not accepted. I have often wondered what has happened to him in since. In recent years, I've wished I could see him again, and lay a hand on his head, like Jesus, and not just forgive him, but heal his brokenness and hurt.

By the eighth grade, I had found a new group of friends, a new best friend. There was the girl who became my best friend (another smart perfectionist) and the group of smart girls she introduced me to. But there was someone more important: me. And the group I surrounded myself with: the characters out of the books on my shelves. I would lie in my bed at night, away from the spitball throwing bully and the crazy old lady, away from the teachers who didn't protect me and the former friend who was smoking in the woods around the school, and I would be an elven queen helping Frodo and Sam on their way, or I'd be a detective helping Hercule Poirot solve his latest mystery, or I'd be a castaway roaming the beach with the Robinson family. And as I played through different roles, I'd suspect things would get better someday.

(2) What is your best memory from childhood?

This question was surprisingly hard. I have spent the last few days looking through every last corner of my vast and cluttered memory, looking for that one moment of sheer childhood joy. What I have found are the stuff of dreams: bits of bright, vivid, surrealistic paintings, some painful, some disturbing, some beautiful, some strange, but none simply happy or good.

I was hoping that somewhere in there were some of the magical moments I've had as a teenager or an adult: my first kiss, walking on a beach at night leaving luminous moon jellyfish footprints, running on a path next to a lake in college, laughing so hard with friends that I can hardly breathe, making love to my husband, the beautiful crazy perfect night my husband proposed to me, swing dancing at our wedding, going to a hoagie place in my wedding dress for a cheesesteak (in my pre-vegetarian days), watching my infant children fall asleep at my breast, watching my growing children laugh and play with each other.

But all my "happiest" childhood memories, the ones that aren't painful or just bizarre, are bittersweet with an overlay of experience: the awe of seeing a Christmas tree surrounded by presents is filtered through the knowledge that Santa didn't put them there; the pride of that straight A+ (yes, not a single mere A to be seen) or that much praised piece of crayon art or that prize winning poem is filtered through the recognition of the crushing perfectionism that made it possible; and behind every action there's a retrospective underpinning of loneliness and insecurity. The older I get, the happier I am, the more secure, the more spiritual, the more healthy. And I wouldn't go back and do life as a child again even if I could.

But as I searched, I found one little moment I miss. I miss (oh, this is going to sound so sad) being sick. When I get a cold, I sometimes get this burning sensation in my nose, like a wetter version of the clean sinus burn that comes from eating wasabi. And I'll be so tired. And that's when I miss being a child, when I go back to childhood with that sweet nostalgia and longing one is (I hear) supposed to have for childhood.

I miss lying in bed and having my mom bring me saltine crackers and Campbell's soup (chicken and stars!) and soda (a special treat for sore throats). I miss feeling like I could sleep if I wanted to, when I wanted to, for as long as I wanted to. I miss watching endless hours of Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch and I Dream of Jeannie and Bewitched and I Love Lucy without guilt. I miss staring at the wall for an hour if that's what I felt like. I miss having nothing to do but read The Little House on the Prairie series and Nancy Drew mysteries and Agatha Christie mysteries and The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I used to think of myself as a mellow person (especially since I tend to hang with a neurotically driven and competitive group of, um, loners), and while I do project a calm, easy-going, suburban hippie mama persona, deep down, I'm an uptight, recovering perfectionist. When I was sick, as a child, with my mom to take care of everything, I was able to just give myself permission to relax. I felt secure. I felt loved. I felt I had nothing to do but what I needed to do to rest, enjoy myself and heal.

However, since little old sleep deprived me is barely keeping up with, oh, I don't know, anything, I've decided to savor this interview and answer one question a day. Yes, after having gotten someone to read my blog, I'm now exploiting her kindness for several days worth of topics for posts. But seriously, if you knew how sleep deprived I am...

(1) Why did you choose to blog anonymously?

My life is more than a collection of my own individual experiences; in my story are bits and pieces of the stories of everyone whose life has ever touched mine. In order to tell my story, I need to share details of my husband's story, my children's stories, my parent's stories, my former lovers' stories, my dearest friends' stories. In making the decision to share my life, I am also making the decision to share theirs, whether they want that or not.

I need, deeply need, to do this writing, for reasons I don't entirely understand myself. Yet, as Step 9 ask addicts to make amends "except when to do so would injure them or others," I don't want to injure my family or others through my own need for an online therapy tool and a public audience for my writing. It's far more important to me to protect the privacy of my husband and my children than it is to protect my own.

The topics and situations I write about are all deeply personal, and are sometimes painful or shameful or potentially divisive: racial issues, my husband's sex addiction, my abortion, my religious beliefs, my son's autism. It's no accident that 12 Step programs are anonymous; in situations that are deeply painful, personal or shameful, anonymity provides a sense of safety from judgment. In anonymity, there is no fear of honesty: I can write without constraint.

Most of the people I'm closest to in my real, off-line life, are out there reading my blog, including many of the people I blog about. Some of them chime in in the comments (Jay, Tigermom!) and some lurk and e-mail me privately. Those folks know our real names and which celebrity my husband resembles. And they love and accept me (and everyone in else in my life) as is. Now I've added to that a wonderful mish-mash of total strangers dropping in and peering into my heart; some for just a moment, and some who find a connection and become new friends (Junky's Wife).

But in anonymity, my family and I are protected from the people in the nebulous middle: neighbors, family members, teachers, classmates and friends who aren't close enough to us to truly know and accept us, yet aren't distant enough from us not to care. There is plenty in our lives that would cause people who know us (and maybe even love us) to become frightened, hurt or angry and react in ways that are judgmental or negative. I want and need to share my experiences honestly, but I don't want or need my family to pay the price for that.

And now, a special sneak preview of tomorrow's question:
(2) What is your...
Ooo, sorry! I wouldn't want to spoil it!