And the only thing that stands in the way of our enduring love is the fact that I'm not a cartoon character. (Oh, and he already has a thing for that cartoon reporter, Roxanne. Whatever. I'm sure the animators can just draw me as her. I mean, let's not get picky about it. I'm sure we can work through those little details in the name of true love.)

Yes, that's right. My new imaginary boyfriend is Megamind, the blue space alien evil genius with the soulful green eyes voiced by Will Ferrell (for whom I totally would not leave my husband). But to tell you why he's so hot, I'm going to have to include some (moderate) spoilers, so if you're the kind of person who likes to approach movies as a blank slate, go watch it now.

So, did you see it? Did you see how Megamind was alone in his dark prison cell as a child, working on his plans for a popcorn maker to get the other kids to like him? And how it didn't work? And how he sat alone at a table at school with the fish that was his only friend? Did you see how he said the only thing he was good at was being bad? And how guys like him never get the girl?

Did you see how everyone abandoned him his whole life long? Did you see how lonely he was? And how misunderstood? And how he pretended to be someone else? And he lied? (Favorite line in the movie: in response to the question of what he will do when the girl he loves finds out about his deception, he says, "She'll never find out! That's the whole point of lying!" If you were in the theater with me, I apologize for the fact that you couldn't hear the next five lines of dialogue over my howling laughter.)

That all is so. freaking. hot.

That's like a cartoon portrayal of my dream man, which I recognized, because I was sitting next to the man I've adored for twenty years now, who was lonely and never felt good enough to get the girl and pretended to be someone else and lied. And it ate my heart out that no one would love this poor space alien right. I was cheering so hard for him to get the girl, from the deepest reaches of my codie soul, I was yelling at Roxanne to recognize the goodness and fragility beneath his evil exterior. For crying out loud, couldn't she see it? She could save him, and he would love her forever. Sigh. So goes the fantasy.

Ok, I'm off to hang a picture of Megamind up by my bed, and wonder what our children will look like. Only not really, because please, I'm like 40-something, I've had my tubes tied and which makes me too old for the sad geekiness of cartoon romance. (You know, if I were 30, maybe...) And besides, who needs Megamind? I've already played out that fantasy with his real life counterpart, and I'm happy to hold hands with him as I walk out of the theater, smiling.

In my bedroom, buried in a pile of papers is a questionnaire labeled "The Marriage Expectation Inventory." Each question is answered in neatly printed block letters in purple ink. After nearly a decade and a half, the ink has started to bleed through the pages and on the reverse of each page are the blurry ghosts of letters in a screaming fuchsia.

On the line beneath "What is the greatest weakness you bring to your marriage?" I've printed, "Jealousy/insecurity," which is an interesting answer given what happened in our marriage in the years after I completed the questionnaire. At the time, I wouldn't allow myself to admit that I wasn't comfortable with my husband's behavior toward women, so I thought there must be something wrong with me for being uncomfortable about it. I wasn't worried that he might find himself involved with another woman because, oh, say, he was looking to get involved with other women, but because I was lacking in the confidence necessary to fully believe the fantasy that he wouldn't.

This weekend we were out at the park with our kids when a woman approached us and complimented Janie's curls, a compliment we hear, oh, roughly, once a minute every time Janie walks anywhere outside our home. Janie whispered "thank you" while looking at her toes and then ran off to play. Mark and I sat down on a bench and a few minutes later the same woman came over, sat down next to Mark and began chatting.

The odd thing was, unlike most moms at the park, she didn't chat about her children. She chatted briefly about her own physical attractiveness and her availability for a relationship. Then, a few awkward moments later, she left.

A decade ago, Mark would have had her number at the end of the conversation or would have given her his. She would be one of his new friends, someone to keep in flirtatious contact with and maybe have an affair with. And I would have gone home furiously angry at him and hating her, but most of all mad at myself for being so insecure that I couldn't trust the husband who clearly loved me. I would have tried to keep all that in until it exploded out at Mark. We would have fought about it. He would have assured me he loved me and it was just my jealous mind playing tricks on me.

This time around, I thought of that questionnaire and laughed. That woman's conversation crossed some invisible line of intimacy and it made both Mark and me uncomfortable. I can identify the exact words and the exact moments that brought up those feelings of discomfort for me. I can talk to my husband about it without contemptuously berating him for any part in it. And I can recognize that it's not helpful to dismiss my feelings as the delusions of an insanely jealous or insecure mind. But then again, it never was.

July 4th is Independence Day here in the United States. It is also Israeli Girl's birthday. My husband's relationship with Israeli Girl was his bottom: it was what finally caused him to admit his sexual behavior was out of control, that he was an addict. I began calling her Israeli Girl contemptuously: while not technically a girl, she was only 19 when my 30+ year old husband met her on a business trip abroad and began a several year long relationship with her. I don't feel the same contempt anymore, yet I still cannot quite bring myself to grace her with a name. Somehow, giving her a name gives her some humanness, some power, that I don't yet want her to have.

For years, Israeli Girl was one of the most worrisome splinters in my brain. I remember one year, on July 4th, Mark spent $70 of our money (I was furious when I saw the price) on a single international phone call to her, to say happy birthday. I listened to the entire call, jealously, edgily, because something seemed wrong, suspicious, off. I listened for any hint in his voice of anything beyond friendliness -- some trace of desire, seduction, attraction, deep caring, love -- but I didn't hear them, although I knew the sound of them well. And I settled back into a dissatisfied uneasiness, which persisted, until years later, everything fell apart, and made sense.

After my husband admitted his addiction, admitted that one April day he had finally hit bottom with Israeli Girl, July 4th was tainted. I imagined all of those beautiful fireworks going off to celebrate her birthday. I remembered the phone call, imagined what he must have written to her in those years e-mail messages they exchanged, and I couldn't stand to leave the house. This night four years ago, new in a black place of crushing, disbelieving pain, I cringed at each pop of a distant firework, each whistling rocket, and felt they were searing and exploding inside of me.

The next year, Mark and I were wondering aloud whether or not to go out and try to see fireworks. He was tired, and I was still angry and depressed. We both understood that subtext, although with the kids listening, we simply said to each other, "Should we go?" My son heard us talking and said, with verbal skills newly developed after a year of speech therapy, "I want to watch fireworks!" So, it was decided, and I declared it my Independence Day. I was not going to let a tyrannical past rule my present; I would not let the past cast a shadow that blotted the fireworks from the skies my children saw.

We didn't have a destination that year, we simply drove around until we saw some fireworks and parked the car by the side of the road to watch them. There is a Schoolhouse Rock song my son liked to listen to that contained a line, "Red, white and blue fireworks like diamonds in the sky..." As he gazed up into the sky, my son echoed it back, gasping, "They look like diamonds in the sky!" He was thrilled to see a smiley face in the sky, and to watch the blaze of fireworks that marked the end of the show.

As I was putting him to bed afterwards, I told him that he could go to sleep and dream about trains (which were his obsession at the time). When he said he didn't know what dreams were, I told him they were pictures in your head while you sleep. He looked thoughtful, and said, "We can go to sleep and see fireworks in the sky, and we can see that face and then lots and lots like diamonds in the sky."

See, I worried about Israeli Girl's birthday ruining the fireworks, when in fact, my son's joy, and the magic he saw in the sky, threw a light on that night that no dark memory could blot out. I wouldn't think of missing fireworks after that year.

Last year my daughter was awake and old enough to appreciate the fireworks for the first time. As she walked outside, she saw the moon, which was quite a new and exciting sight to her, since her bedtime was 7 p.m. She asked if the moon could come with us to see the fireworks, and I promised her it would. During our car ride, she looked out the car window, checking to make sure that the moon was following us to the fireworks display. When we arrived, she was thrilled to see the moon, still there, watching. She sat with her mouth open wide through the whole show and was too excited to fall asleep, even so long after her bedtime, on the way home.

She and her brother have been chattering all day about the fireworks, about sitting outside and eating cookies and having the moon there and seeing lots of them explode at the end of the show and waving our flags and singing love songs to our nation, like "America the Beautiful," which gives me goosebumps (truly) every time I hear it. My life may not always be perfect, and my country may not always be perfect, but both of us are free.

Happy Independence Day. Enjoy the fireworks.

Memory is notoriously unreliable: we leave out some details and enhance others; we rewrite old understandings based on what we currently know; we simply forget. I've written about most of the incidents in this blog from memory, even those few events I do have written records for, simply because it can be both time consuming to find and read the records and painful to revisit them first hand. However, for the past few weeks, I have been time traveling back through my life -- reading through old diaries and letters -- as I work on my 1st Step.

My old diaries are a treasure trove, but there are still many incidents I left out; much of what I saw of my husband's addiction (although I didn't call it by that name then) at the time I either didn't consider important enough or considered too confusing and painful to record there. Fortunately, starting some fourteen years ago, I began saving copies of the letters I wrote to my best friend, where my sharing is both more mundane and at times more telling than what I shared with myself alone. Last night I found the following letter from October 12, 1996 about two of my husband's acting out partners, as I perceived them at the time. Mark and I were engaged, but not yet married at this point.

The first woman I mention was a coworker Mark dated during our engagement. She was unaware that we were engaged at the time; Mark didn't tell her, instead she found out later, when other people at work congratulated Mark on our engagement in front of her. I was completely unaware anything had gone on between them until Mark told me during disclosure seven years later. The second woman was someone who had gotten Mark's e-mail address either through a mutual friend or a career networking website. They carried on a long-distance flirtation filled with sexual innuendo for a year or so, but never met.

One of the things that stood out at me in reading this was the extent to which I minimized my own feelings and played off any worries as the result of my own unreasonable "jealousy" or "paranoia" or "insecurity." I was also struck by how I was reassured after talking to Mark, who would certainly have told me, not just that nothing was going on, but would have made me feel very loved and attractive. Since I believed at the time that infidelity of any kind (physical or emotional) was absolutely incompatible with love and attraction, the only option open to me if I believed that he loved and was attracted to me was that I must be crazy, since he certainly couldn't be unfaithful under those circumstances.

Another thing that struck me, and still resonates with me, is my rage toward older (in this case Mark and I were close to 30) men who date women of high school and college age. I still am not entirely certain where this rage comes from, and I am continuing to examine it. But I do know that age difference remains a trigger for me, although generally only when teens, or those just barely out of their teens, are involved.

"It's 11:30ish on a Saturday nite & I'm home alone in a weird funk. I figured you'd help me talk myself out of it. I was fighting the urge to tear some stale wine out of the fridge -- but I've decide to fight no longer -- vinegar or not it'll be relaxing...

"Mark's out at a birthday party for one of the administrators in his department -- they're at some jazz club -- I think -- in [city name]. I decided to bag -- an hour there & an hour back plus the $8 cover charge and drink money for some woman I've only met once just didn't seem worth bagging the end of Game 4 of the Yankee/Orioles playoffs. I was sort of bumming about not having Mark around -- he's been out at work all day -- but right now if this wine were just a little bit better life would be perfect.

"I was kind of bent out of shape earlier b/c I was cleaning up & was moving a pile of Mark's papers from the living room floor to the top of his dresser when I saw a letter -- actually just the envelope -- from this "penpal" of his at [college name] addressed to him at work rather than here at home. So I -- having a jealous streak about a mile wide -- started fretting over it. His correspondence with this woman has always made me sort of paranoid. He's never met her -- they met thru e-mail -- but they write all the time. I guess it's reasonable that he gave her his work address -- since he doesn't really know her but... I guess she hits a sore spot with me -- touches on all my insecurities. She's an undergrad -- which makes her much younger than us -- but that only fuels my insecurities. Just before Mark & I started dating he was dating this woman who was a senior in H.S. -- he was finished with college at the time. That is something that has always made me angry beyond the point of reason -- men who date younger women. I have no idea why -- but it disgusts me more than anything else in the world -- I find men who date younger women to be the most reprehensible scum...

"I feel like I'm in an episode of Laverne & Shirley -- with those words Mark entered the room. Guess I'll get back to this later -- shame really -- I was just feeling better...

"October 13, 1996... Mark & I had a nice talk last night about my many jealous paranoid delusions -- and now everything is fine. I go thru these things every four-five months or so -- and talking to Mark always makes it all seem so ridiculous that I feel better right away. I guess I just get scared sometimes -- I start imagining what it would feel like if something happened -- if I did lose Mark -- and I start going over every little thing -- making sure it's all ok -- and if I come across anything I'm not sure about I freak out. I suppose that's nothing new -- my love for Mark has always been (this sounds so cheesy but...) so powerful that it terrifies me. (That really is so melodramatic I'm tempted to cross it out...)"

Likewise, although these excerpts still raise some shame, and I'm tempted to delete them rather than share the person I used to be, I will let them stand.

"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.

"I don't like Agnes much," said my mother, "She's definitely no Aunt Gerty.  But it's because Gerty was so wonderful that I think Uncle Fred is marrying Agnes."

"What do you mean?" I asked.  Uncle Fred and Aunt Gerty had been married over fifty years when Gerty died.  I was in my early teens at the time and had always figured that the sign of a truly happy marriage was keeping that space in heart and home forever sacred, and never marrying again once you'd lost that one true love.  So it had seemed strange to me that, after a year or so of seeming lost in grief, Uncle Fred had started dating with so much enthusiasm.  He was over eighty and had a social life more active than mine.

"Well, Uncle Fred and Aunt Gerty loved each other a lot, but he not only misses her, he misses being married. He's had such good times being married, and he's used to living life with a partner. But then look at John, next door; he and Martha had a hard time. It's been years since she passed away, and he doesn't even have the slightest interest in dating.  I'm sure he doesn't want to go through that again."

Our elderly neighbor John seemed to love and care about his wife Martha, but her mental illness colored everything. She was depressed, addicted to prescription medications and could have been (if she had lived in today's reality TV world) featured on Hoarders. When she died, I assumed that John, a great, spunky man with a quick smile and a zest for life, would finally have the chance to find a partner who could make him happy.  But I'd been baffled to find that he preferred to spend his time alone, tending to his garden.  Maybe my mother was right: with no experience of marriage as happy, John had no incentive to get into a new relationship.

I find myself thinking of John from time to time, because (I know, never say never) I can't picture myself ever wanting to get into a romantic relationship again.  I'm happy in my marriage as it is now, but I can't imagine starting this all over again with someone new.  It's too dang much work.  And I have no illusions that the next time, if I somehow pick the "right guy" (you know, not a crazy sex addict), the journey would be an effortless dance on a carpet of rose petals rather than, well, more hard work.  It's similar to the way I love my kids and have found parenting rewarding beyond belief, but I have no desire to adopt more newborns when my children are grown.  (I don't even get nostalgic for that newborn scent and downy hair, because I know all too well it comes with dirty diapers and sleepless nights.)  If I lose Mark before he loses me, I fully plan to spend my golden years, ensconced in a house full of beautifully fragile and child unfriendly things, in happy retirement from both romantic relationships and young children.

But what if things happen the other way around?  I had a cancer scare recently, and while I was waiting for the biopsy results, I wavered between faith and fear.  I was firmly on the faith side for several days, knowing that whatever happened (whether it was, from my perspective, good or bad), I would be where I should be and I would be supported, loved and able to cope.  But thoughts of my own mortality would creep in, especially as time went on, and while I valiantly pushed out thoughts of what my kids would do should the absolute worst case be true (there was no way I was going there), I did find myself wondering which path my husband, still just in his forties, would choose.  And I found myself fighting back tears as I drove to an appointment, because I couldn't imagine Mark being alone and that thought hurt deeply and scared me as much as almost anything else.

Before the disclosure of sex addiction, I used to be comforted by the thought that, if I died, a remarriage would be, like it was for my Uncle Fred, a way of honoring the happiness we have and of finding (hopefully) a new loving partner to be there for the kids.  Besides, as Mark always says, "I don't care what you do after I'm dead.  I'll be dead, so I won't know the difference."  But now I found it brought up, not just echoes of abandonment and betrayal, but illusions of my own power and fears of the addiction surfacing anew in my absence.  I could hear the whisper in my mind, "I have to live, because if I'm gone, there's nothing to keep him from diving right back into insanity."  And that's the sound of me diving back into my insanity.

When my doctor called to tell me that all was well, it was a relief to know that my physical body is sound, but it was also a relief to know I have time to deal with those little demons in my mind that tell me that I'd be better at picking Mark's path than he would and that I'm the only thing standing between my family and disaster.  That kind of pressure is exhausting.  No wonder John's post-Martha puttering in the garden looks so attractive to me!

Just days before I discovered my husband Mark's sex addiction, we were shopping in Target, when we passed a young woman.  "Hi, Mark!" she chimed, smiling brightly.  Then she turned to her shopping companion, a man who was glowering at Mark, and said, "Jimmy, this is my friend Mark, you know, the one I've told you about.  I've been having such a great time with him lately!"  Then turning back to us, she introduced Jimmy as her boyfriend and chatted for a while before cheerfully parting with: "Well, it's been such fun to run into you here.  Bye, Mark!  See you tomorrow?"

"Um, yes," Mark replied, with much less enthusiasm than she showed.

I had no idea who this woman was, although she obviously knew Mark well enough, had been spending time with him lately and was planning on seeing him again tomorrow.  As she walked away, I whispered to Mark, "Who was that?"

"That's, um, Ashley."

"Who's Ashley?  I don't think you've ever mentioned her before."

"Really?  I haven't?  She, um, works at Starbucks."

"She seems to know you pretty well."

"Well, I go in there every day, and the servers get to know the regular customers.  It's good business.  You know, they learn what you like and they try to make you feel welcome, so you'll keep coming back.  That kind of thing."

And it was true that Mark was a regular at Starbucks.  He was out of work at the time, and I was pregnant and a stay—at—home mom to our two year old son, which made our home a less than perfect environment for concentrating on a job search.  So, each morning Mark would get up at about the time he would usually go to work, take his laptop and head to Starbucks where he would work on his résumé, send out job queries via e-mail and do research online.  This much I knew.  Apparently, along with the work finding a job, he spent time chatting with Ashley.

Still, as surprised and uncomfortable as I felt about this encounter, that was Mark — at least as I knew him then.  Of course, he would spend time chatting with folks at Starbucks; Mark was always sweet, charming and friendly.  And of course, having a nice regular customer like Mark would make Ashley's work easier and more pleasant.  I was a little crazy (as was Ashley's boyfriend) to feel suspicious about this, wasn't I?  Just more proof, I told myself, of my irrational and jealous mind, as I tried to put thoughts of Ashley out of my head.

And I might have been successful at forgetting her if it weren't for the fact that, days later, I found out about Mark's sex addiction and the whole picture changed.  I found out that Mark had Ashley's e-mail address and had been carrying on a flirtatious private correspondence even outside of business hours.  And Ashley wasn't the only one: Mark's Palm Pilot had a list of women he'd met during his mornings at Starbucks, each one with a physical description and a short summary of her interests, likes and dislikes.  He would use the notes to woo the women by showing how interested he was in the things that interested them, talking to one about the latest episode of CSI and another about jazz music.

Among the many demands I made of Mark in those early days after disclosure was one that he not visit any Starbucks ever again.  But since giving up his sexual compulsions turned out to be easier than giving up his tall mocha frappuccinos, we compromised on not visiting the Starbucks where Ashley worked again.

Tonight, Mark and I went out for coffee.  Mark headed for the Starbucks closest to our home, but I reminded him that it closes early, and suggested we go a bit further to a larger Starbucks that is open later.  As we were sitting there enjoying our gingerbread spiced beverages, I said, "I want to do some writing tonight, but I can't think of what to write."

"Write about Starbucks," he said.

I looked at my drink and the picture of the red velvet cupcake on the wall and couldn't think what I'd have to write about Starbucks.  It actually took a few minutes before it hit me.  Starbucks.  There was a time when I couldn't come anywhere near this place without being thrown into an attack of post-traumatic stress.  I couldn't walk in without wondering which of the baristas Mark would have slept with if he hadn't found recovery when he did.

"Oh," I said, minutes later, "I could write about Starbucks."

"That's what I said," said Mark.  "See!  I am your muse!"

"It's just that I forgot."

"You forgot?  And this was the Starbucks!"

"Hey, look how healed I am!" I said, and then joked, knowing I'd long ago let up on forcing Mark to boycott this particular store, "Wait.  This was the Starbucks?  Then you're not even supposed to be in here! I thought I told you never to come in here again!"

"But I'm here with you, because you wanted to come, baby," he laughed, "Besides we let go of all that years ago, remember?"

"Yes." I said, smiling, "I guess we did."

"You know," joked my husband Mark, "I think you ought to be paying me royalties. You wouldn't have anything to write about without me..."

"I know. It's true. That's the sad life of a codependent. My problem is being all wrapped up in your problems. But you haven't given me much to write about lately anyway."

"Well, do you want me to go out and do something addicty for you so you can write about it?"

"No, that's okay. Please don't. I have a lot of other things to write about."

"Yes, but no matter what you write about, I'm your inspiration. I'm your Muse. So, back to those royalties. What do you think Muses usually get?"

"They usually get beautiful works written in their honor. And I'm already doing that."

"Oh. Darn."

"It's okay. I don't really have any money anyway. Maybe after I sue Stephanie Meyer for stealing the story of our crazy early romance and turning it into a vampire novel, okay?"

"Fair enough."

"Just keep not doing anything addicty for me to write about in the meantime. Deal?"

"Deal."

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.

Eight years ago, in spite of the fact that we were both exhausted by caring for our infant son, I found that my husband Mark was staying up later and later at night. He had to be up at 5 a.m. to get ready for work, yet I would wake some nights at 2 or 3 or 4 a.m. to my son, wailing for a feeding or a diaper change, and find Mark's side of the bed empty, cold, untouched. Then I'd glance to the bedroom door and see the eerie blue glow of the computer screen in the next room creeping in. And I knew he was looking at porn. Sometimes I'd ask him to come to bed, sometimes I'd just stew and wait. And in the morning, I'd wonder, "Should I be worried about this? If he is, is it a big deal? Is this ok? Is it normal?"

Those seemed like legitimate questions at the time. He wouldn't stay up every night. And sometimes he was actually doing some work, or starting off doing some work. (Hey, I'm codependent. I spied, so I know.) I knew he was looking at some porn, but I didn't have a problem with porn. It was one of those things guys did, right? And I even viewed it myself. But this seemed like a lot. Did he have a problem? Or was I crazy and overreacting? (I knew he fell on the side of crazy and overreacting. But if he was crazy then his evaluation of the situation couldn't be trusted.) I simply didn't trust myself or my own feelings. I wanted some neutral third party to say where the line should be drawn, to define exactly what was normal, what was ok, what was worrisome, what was a problem.

I was thinking about all this as I read an article about how his porn use is the equivalent of her pedicures, a way to relax and blow off steam. The author of the piece asked questions like "should you be worried?" and tried to reassure partners that, even if porn use bothers them, it may not be a "big deal." They may be overreacting. All of which made me want to punch the author in the nose and then send him to a therapist who could teach him not to invalidate people's feelings. (What? Are you saying I still have control issues? No worries, I'll lovingly detach and let him crash and burn and learn on his own.)

The reason I got fussy when I read that, is because it took me some time in recovery to realize that there is no "should" when it comes to feelings. And that lesson is still raw. It's something that I am apt to forget as I fall back into fretting over whether or not I "should" be upset or angry or worried. I'll wonder who is right and who is wrong and who is crazy and who is sane and what's normal and grind myself to bits hoping that the world will arbitrate in my favor.

But here's the thing: a problem is a problem. If something worries me, it's worrisome to me. If my husband was staying up at night looking at porn, and it was bothering me, it didn't matter if he was an addict or not; it was bothering me! And it was ok for me to be bothered by it even if it wasn't a problem for him. If my feelings about his porn use were interfering with our relationship, then there was a problem with porn use in our relationship. Likewise, if I'm spending money on spa vacations and my husband is getting anxious and irritable about that, if he's feeling threatened because I'm spending time having my pedicurist massage my feet rather than him, then my spa time is an issue in our relationship, even if pedicures are perfectly healthy and relaxing for me and he "shouldn't" be upset. It doesn't matter how he or I "should" feel, it only matters how we do feel.

Thankfully, we've found recovery programs and therapists that have helped us deal with our problems in a way that has acknowledged and respected each of our feelings, rather than telling us that the way to solve the problem was to convince us that we should stop having those feelings.