Well, I may not be writing much lately, but I certainly have been reading. The latest on my recovery reading list was You Are Not Your Brain by Jeffrey Schwartz and Rebecca Gladding, a decent self-help book with the sadly unrealized potential to be superb.

Have you ever had the perfect picture of something in your mind? Maybe it's a job. Or a spouse. Or a home. Or a pair of pants. Or this thing that will keep your nose warm in the winter. And you spend a long time looking for it. Maybe you even consider, idly, learning a new trade, like knitting or robotics, just so you can create it. At last. The perfect robot spouse handing me a custom knitted nose cozy!

Then maybe, having created this perfect picture, you've even seen something that had the potential to be IT. That perfect thing you've been looking for. And then you find yourself disappointed because it doesn't live up to its potential. Because it turns out your perfect nose cozy almost sort of keeps your nose warm, but isn't really well organized enough to do its job. This book is that nose cozy.

As I started reading, I had high hopes. The first chapter, in a form that I believe is legally mandated for all self-help books, cheerfully chirped that the solution to my problems would be easy and that this book could tell me how to do it. Really. It will. It's coming. Keep reading. No. Not here in the store. We've put all these words in so that you can't just skip to that easy answer and read it without paying for the book. Whew. Got you to buy it.*

Ok, now we can tell you the truth. Which is that you're actually going to have to work at this quite a lot. Oh, but we will tell you how. Eventually. Well, sort of. You'll be about 150 pages in before you ever get to the meat of our method and even then, it will all be so poorly organized and muddled that you'll have a hard time wading through the morass of words to tease out the important bits. But it's in there!

Yes, I was quite excited by the idea of this book and so almost equally disappointed that poor organization got in the way of its excellent message. What I enjoyed most was that this was a book that avoided the kinds of labels that keep many spouses of addicts (and addicts themselves) from getting help with their pain. I've seen so many people stew in the pain of intrusive thoughts of an addict's acting out. Or get so angry they destroy property or hurt others or themselves. Or rage at their spouse in front of the kids. Or overeat or drink alcohol or overspend to deal with the stress. And not get help. Because they don't consider themselves alcoholics or overeaters or codependent and they don't have PTSD and they're not depressed and they really, really don't need a God that doesn't exist, so forget 12 Step thankyouverymuch. They're just hurt and frustrated by all this stuff other people keep doing.

Well, here it is. Here's a book that gives you all the great tools we learn in 12 Step. Tools like mindfulness and acceptance and taking care of yourself and not shoulding all over. Here's a book that can make a great supplement and accompaniment to 12 Step or a great introduction to some of the tools we learn in program. And it does it all with a basis in nice, safe brain science with no one forcing that pesky God thing on you. Here is a book that admits there are no quick fixes but lays out the practical steps and hard work it takes to work on healing.

Or rather here it could be.

Because while You Are Not Your Brain contains a lot of fantastic and helpful information, it is bogged down in organizational problems. Terms that are used repeatedly from the earliest pages of the book sometimes aren't fully defined until 200 pages later. Most of the first 140 pages are spent telling us (out of order) what we're going to read later in the book. I found myself wishing I had a dollar for every time the authors wrote things like "you will learn more in chapters 3 and 4" or "we will teach you more in Part II, but for now..." or "we will discuss this in chapter 11." Or better yet, wishing I had access to the text and could edit the book myself. (Note to the authors and editors: In a properly organized book, the information should build in a logical way. I'll be happy to help you with your next book.)

And while the authors tried to use simple language, they ended up creating a whole new set of jargon like "Self-Referencing Center" and "Refocus with Progressive Mindfulness." My almost-favorite was what they called the "Uh Oh Center" of the brain, because it was simple and descriptive, but after they mentioned that a colleague referred to it as the "Oh Shit Center" instead, "Uh Oh Center" seemed a pale second best.

Still, while You Are Not Your Brain may not be the perfect recovery book for which I've been longing; it's a good enough book. Even with its flaws, the excellent information, exercises and practical advice it presents make it worth a read and even a second read. Just go heavy on the skimming the first time around.

Leave a comment on this post between now and Sunday, June 26, 2011 for a chance to win a free copy. The winner will be announced on Monday, June 27, 2011.

It's nearly impossible to be the friend or family member of an addict and not have heard Melody Beattie's name. Her books on codependency are widely read and recommended. My own 12 Step home group regularly uses Codependent No More, Codependents' Guide to the Twelve Steps and The Language of Letting Go as part of our meetings and Step work.

Beattie's latest book, Codependent No More Workbook, is something of a companion piece to Codependent No More, intended to move the description and understanding of codependency into the action of recovery. In the first chapter, Beattie compares the work of recovery to mountain climbing, and these are no idle words. Many of the activities in the Workbook are intense and demanding and require a firm commitment to doing the hard work of recovery.

Still, while the overall quality of the activities didn't disappoint me, I was surprised by how few there were. Beattie seemed to have chosen to focus on a few intense activities interspersed with what sometimes seemed like an unnecessary amount of expository text, especially given that each chapter starts with a suggestion for readings from Codependent No More. In particular, the first chapter contains quite a bit of background information on codependency, which seemed unlikely to either convince any skeptics or enhance recovery work. Despite these flaws, the activities and text are helpful and inspirational enough overall that I consider the Workbook a useful addition to my recovery library.

The Workbook is based strongly on the 12 Step model, so in working through the exercises, you will be working the Steps. As such, it will not be a method that everyone is comfortable with or that will work for everyone.

I believe this book will work best for people who:

• are already part of a 12 Step fellowship.
• already accept both the concept of codependency generally as well as their own codependency OR feel they will benefit from working a program like this and can do so without feeling threatened by the label.
• conceive of their Higher Power as a male deity with the power to directly intervene in their lives OR are comfortable enough with their own different conception of a Higher Power to be able to take what they can use and leave the rest.
• are ready to make a commitment to devote the time and energy necessary to work through the activities in the book over the course of many months.

The Workbook also pays special attention to "double winners," people who struggle with both addiction (particularly to drugs and alcohol) and codependency.

This book may not work well for people who:

• are not part of a 12 Step program, particularly those who have negative or hostile feelings about 12 Step.
• do not accept codependency, especially if they feel negative toward or threatened by the concept, either in general or for themselves.
• have negative, hostile or unresolved feelings about an all powerful male deity.
• aren't ready to commit to the necessary work.

Having read the book through over the course of the past few weeks, I've come away with a renewed commitment and inspiration to continue my own daily work on the 12 Steps, and I'm eager to try some of the more involved activities in the book.

And good news! I have an extra copy of the book to give away, so you can get an opportunity to work through it too.

Leave a comment on this post between now and Sunday, May 8, 2011 for a chance to win a free copy. The winner will be announced on Monday, May 9, 2011.

Harry: Do you ever think about death?
Sally: Yes.
Harry: Sure you do, a fleeting thought that jumps in and out of the transom of your mind.  I spend hours, I spend days...
Sally: And you think that makes you a better person?
Harry: Look, when the shit comes down, I'm gonna be prepared and you're not. That's all I'm saying.
Sally: And in the meantime you're going to ruin your whole life waiting for it.

~When Harry Met Sally

The caller ID read "Linton, Isabella." I didn't recognize the name or number, but I picked up anyway.

It was my husband calling from an old fashioned land line in the administrative building of the retreat center where he was spending the weekend with other members of his SAA group. His annual three days and two nights of 12 Step fellowship in a cluster of cabins tucked in the woods, out of range of cell phone towers.

Like any good wife of a recovering sex addict, I thanked him for letting me know he arrived safely, told him to have a wonderful weekend, hung up the phone and promptly googled "Isabella Linton."

Because, hey, he might call from the home phone of a sexual liaison rather than his cell. It doesn't make a lot of sense. But that's not important. What's important is that you never know.

Turns out Isabella Linton is the manager of the retreat center. Oh.

See. My husband is where he says he is, doing what he says he's doing.

Or not. Maybe there is no SAA retreat. Maybe for seven years he's been pretending to go on these retreats when he really has a romantic weekend away with someone else at this retreat center.

Or maybe the woman he's meeting is Isabella Linton, retreat center manager. And he met her at the retreat center. Where they get together every year. During a big SAA retreat? Right under the nose of his sponsor? Devious!

Or there is no conspiracy, no big lie. He really is where he says he is, doing what he's saying he's doing.

But all of that -- and the how-do-I-know that follows -- leads only one place. Can you hear it?

"Now boarding! Bus to Crazytown. Population: Me. Attractions include an obsessive search for 'truth' to the exclusion of all other activities."

But I'm not getting on that bus. True, I may still go to the station and hang out there googling Isabella Linton. But I'm not getting on that bus today.

Because here's my truth. I can't know what my husband is doing every moment of every day when he's out of my sight, even if I ruin my whole life trying. But I can choose to focus on what I do know and what I can see, which is that my life is good and I'm happy to be where I am right now. So I closed my computer, and asked my daughter if she wanted to help me make cupcakes. And they were delicious.

This, by the way, is the point at which blogging experts say you shouldn't blog. You should always put your best stuff out there and dazzle the Internet multitudes. But I say... Um... Ah, whatever. I don't have it in me to come up with a dazzling response to that either. So, here, my friends, are your bullet points:

• I was working on a guest post for a blog on disability and spirituality that I think many of you will love: Amy Julia Becker's Thin Places. The post won't be up for a week or two. I'll post a link when it is, but do feel free to poke around and get to know Amy Julia in the meantime.
• I've been working on my 1st Step, in depth this time, which has consisted of writing up a history of my life and relationships. I've used a lot of blog material, and it's about (gulp) 50 pages long, which is awful and fabulous. Awful, because I need to edit it down to about 8 in order to present it to my 12 Step group and fabulous because I started this blog with the idea of writing a memoir about my marriage and I've found I have a really solid foundation for that. When I read it to my cosponsor, she and I both cried.
• I have been celebrating! My husband and I have 7 years in recovery, and since many of you know that discovery and recovery happened when I was very pregnant with my daughter, you can probably guess that we've been preparing to celebrate the anniversary of Janie's birth. We've also been celebrating a sobriety anniversary for my husband, who has 4 years since his last major slip. Yay!

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.

A few months ago, Mark and I took the kids to a "sensory friendly" movie showing.  Autistic individuals, and others with sensory processing difficulties, can find a typical movie going experience overwhelming.  Movies are loud.  Theaters are dark and often crowded.  The screen is huge and the images on it are flickering and fast paced.  There are previews and commercials before the show that switch rapidly from one theme to another, while we wait impatiently for what we actually came to see.  Then when the movie does start, its story and situations are designed to evoke strong emotional responses: to scare or thrill or amaze us.  And did I mention they're LOUD?

Most of us go to the movies to be a little overwhelmed.  But for some people, all of that can be too much.  So, at sensory friendly showings, there are no previews.  The lights are dim, but the theater is not dark.  And the sound is turned down.  And not only that, it's ok to sing or talk or to get up and walk around, dance or jump if it all gets to be too much anyway.

At the showing we went to, some kids got up and paced the aisles.  Some rocked in their seats.  Some grunted or chirped.  My son commented on the movie at full voice.  (Whispering is only for secrets.)  And we all had a fun day out doing something different while nobody stared.  Nobody glared.  Nobody shifted uncomfortably in their seats and made little "hem" noises in their throats.  The air didn't buzz with electric hostility.  And nobody had to worry that, at any moment, it might.

I don't know about the other parents in that theater, but I felt like I'd been able to put down a hundred pound weight.  The kids and young adults in that theater could all be themselves, and we all understood.  No one said anything or did anything, but there was a palpable sense of acceptance in the air.  It hung there, invisible but enveloping, like the drowsy smell of honeysuckle on a warm afternoon.  What a relief.  Which made me realize just how guarded I am and how much weight, how much fear and tension and worry, I carry every day.

This past weekend, I went to a convention for my 12 Step group.  Hundreds of sex addicts and their partners or family members gathered in hotel conference rooms and ballrooms.  There were meetings and workshops and outings.  There were speakers who shared their experience, strength and hope.  At each banquet iced tea was served instead of alcohol.  No one gossiped about the latest infidelity scandal in the media.  People openly shared their pain and their weaknesses and their gratitude.  And all weekend long, I had nothing to do but connect with my Higher Power in a group of people who was supporting me in doing just that.  All weekend long, I felt I had nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.

Again that love and acceptance enveloped me.  Again that hundred pound weight dropped off my shoulders. Again the relief washed over me.  And again I realized just how guarded I am and how much weight, how much fear and tension and worry, I carry every day.

On the last day of the convention, I wept with gratitude for the gift of having been there.  (If you were one of the lovely ladies sitting around a hotel banquet table with me on Monday morning at breakfast, yes, that was me crying and smiling at you all crazy.) We were asked on that last day if we had picked up any burdens that we wanted to leave behind, and I couldn't think of any.  All I could think was that I needed to try not to reshoulder the burdens I'd set down when I entered.

Sometimes I picture those who are in the grips of addiction as falling down into a chasm so hopelessly dark that eventually no memory of light remains and so endlessly deep that it can take years of hurtling down, scrapping the rough walls and smashing into rocky outcrops, before the falling ends.

In the happy ending, the recovery ending, the addict lands somewhere -- broken and battered, but safe -- and calls out for help. Hands are extended, light grows, and the addict starts climbing. That's the ending I pray for, every day and in every moment of silence in every 12 Step meeting I attend.  And that's the one I see manifested in so many beautiful lives around me.

But in the other ending -- the one we all fear -- Death sweeps in, swift as darkness, to stopper that cry for help and cut off the ascent before it can begin. Death may come wrapped in a cloak of despair or disease or irreparable physical damage, but it always comes tragically and too early.

And when it comes at just 18 -- as it did for blogger Katie Granju's son Henry this weekend -- it is so unnaturally early, the sharp horror steals my breath like a plunge in icy water.

I don't have the power to erase, or even fully understand, that loss, that grief.  In fact, I didn't know Henry, nor do I know Katie, except virtually and in passing, through another blog I follow.  Yet my heart is with them. Recovery has taught me that we are all connected, that grace shines through the loving-kindness of those around us (often total strangers) and that the knowledge that we are not alone in the darkness can lift us up.  So, knowing that many of my readers know the pain or the fear of losing a loved one to addiction, I ask you to please consider dropping by Katie's blog with your condolences or donating to Henry's memorial fund, which will provide financial assistance for families who cannot pay for drug and alcohol treatment for their children and may be just the light in the darkness someone needs.

"Why do some men and women cheat on their partners while others resist the temptation?" asks author Tara Parker-Pope in a recent New York Times Well blog post on the science of commitment. The post, which has been doing the social networking rounds lately, goes on to discuss recent scientific findings around sex drive, flirting, temptation and relationship satisfaction.  Interesting stuff. Unfortunately, none of it actually has much to do with the issue of cheating.

Oh, sure. It all seems to. The (mis)perception that sexuality is the central issue in infidelity is so common it's rarely questioned. After all, isn't that what cheating is? Sex outside of one's primary relationship? But to cheat, one not only has to be involved in a primary relationship and have sex outside of it, but also hide it.  Open relationship? Not cheating. Multiple anonymous partners? Not cheating. Calling your partner on the phone when you see an attractive person in a bar and saying "honey, I'm going to have sex with someone else" before having sex? Probably not the most tactful way to handle a breakup or start a discussion on monogamy, but still, technically, not cheating. Sex outside a primary relationship is only cheating if it involves deception and lying, either explicit or implicit.

In discussions about infidelity (and boy, marry a sex addict and you'll have a lot of them), people get sidetracked -- a lot -- over issues of sexuality and monogamy, while ignoring the fundamental issue of dishonesty and breach of trust. We may have sex, inside and outside of committed relationships, for a whole host of reasons, but we cheat (that is, lie about having sex outside our relationship rather than openly having multiple partners) for only one: a desire to control our partner(s). And why do we do it?  Often fear, specifically fear of of losing the partner or something important that the partner controls access to, such as money or children.  But sometimes just for the love of the power itself.

In the end, (as Parker-Pope acknowledges may be the case) if we want to know what makes relationships successful, looking at sexual fidelity, loyalty or the ability to resist temptations is not what matters most.  While she touches on the idea of "self-expansion," the focus I've experienced in recovery has been on trust, respect and honesty.  Because in cheating, and healing from it, sex isn't the issue.  It's the lies.

"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!

I finally got around to watching the Tiger Woods apology speech, and I have to admit, I was impressed.  As a New York Times article pointed out, even without explicitly saying the words "sex addiction" or "12 Step" the speech clearly implied both. In a way it was like a public 9th Step, even including the word "amends."  Although I found it heartbreaking that he was in a position to have to 9th Step the world so soon, I thought he did a surprisingly good job for someone who has only just started this process. He took responsibility for his actions and it was clear that he's been doing some work.  It seemed like an excellent start to a journey of recovery.

However, I know perfectly well that does not mean the journey is going to end in a particular destination.  He may go right back into his old behaviors. His marriage may end.  His career may end.  Or his acting out may stop.  And his marriage may end anyway.  Or his marriage my thrive. Or the whole thing may be a playacting sham.  Which may continue.  Or not continue.

But having been through my own smaller private version of the Tiger Woods story, and having heard countless others, I know that where it ends -- in marriage success or failure, in career success or failure -- doesn't tell me anything about what kind of person Tiger Woods is.  Or what kind of person his wife is.  Or whether or not he is, at this moment, sincere in his desire for change.  Or whether or not recovery programs work in treating other people like him.  Yet, unfortunately, all of those are and will be the object of speculation around water coolers and in news columns and on blog posts.

I can only say that I wish Tiger and Elin Woods and their family the very best in their journey, whatever the destination.