I've already written about how I believe my ex-husband's sex addiction healed me in many ways, but I haven't really shared why I believe I chose a sex addict in the first place.

It generally doesn't "just happen."

In fact, while I was grieving the effects of my husband's sex addiction disclosure 20 years ago, I learned that a high percentage of people who choose sex addicts have been sexually abused.

That certainly rang true for me.

I'd known since I was 15 that I'd been sexually abused, and I was even fairly certain that I knew who my perpetrator was. I didn't have any memories of the abuse; I just knew that it was true, deep in my gut, for as long as I could remember.

But at that tender age, I also didn't think it was an issue to be concerned about. It happened; I knew it; and it was over. 

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

What I didn't know then, as a young teen, was that I should've done something more about it, like tell an adult. Or consult a professional. Or confront my perpetrator. Or even believe it was a monumental discovery that needed attention.

But I did none of these.

In fact, I successfully shoved the abuse so far down into my subconscious that thinking about it over the years felt like a fictional story I was trying to write.

Someone else's story, certainly not mine.

It wasn't until my life was impacted by sex-addiction when I was finally given permission to ask myself the tough questions: Had I really been sexually abused? And why had I chosen a sex addict as a mate?

I was grieving so heavily and so deeply about my broken marriage that I assumed I was killing two birds with one stone: healing the fall-out from my husband's infidelities, while dealing with that sex-abuse-thing that happened years ago.

How wrong I was.

Instead, the abuse had been driving my behaviors for decades since it had happened to me as a toddler. And the fall-out of being sexually exploited continued long after my ex-husband left our home.

I just didn't know it.

Looking back on the symptoms, it may have been obvious to the casual observer that something sinister had happened to me, but the effects from sex abuse were obvious to me only in hindsight, after I began healing as an adult.

As a child, I was an angry and lonely; I was fearful and anxious much of the time; I worried incessantly; and as a young writer, many of my poems spoke to my abuse in the form of ideas and themes far beyond the typical knowledge and maturity of a kid.

The dominant theme that fueled my behaviors and drove my decisions beginning when I was very young was that I have always felt like an outcast and an outsider.

I have rarely felt like I belong: to any groups, to my family, to my places of employment, or to the world.

As young as five years old, I sensed how different I was from  my family and I've rarely felt a part of our big, robust clan of ten. I knew they didn't act like me, think like me, nor have the same perspectives on the world as I did.

Trauma taught me that I was to stay in the background of my life, hidden, because I was just a "nobody," incapable of making a difference in my world.

Don't make a sound; don't have any needs; don't act up.

Staying quiet and hidden continue to paralyze me at times. I can still succumb to feeling small, vulnerable, and discarded, even as a powerful 54-year-old woman who has led a courageous and kick-ass life.

I've also had to learn to break free of debilitating fear. I was terrified of abduction, especially as a child, but even as a young adult I was still acutely aware of my surroundings at all times. 

One could call it "hypervigilance," an enhanced state of sensory sensitivity accompanied by an exaggerated intensity of behaviors whose purpose is to detect activity. It may bring about a state of increased anxiety which can cause exhaustion.

Yep, that was me for as long as I can remember. 

My take on the world has always been that it's out to get me, and that may have sometimes included you, too.

I have been afraid of your tone, your anger, and even your brilliance. Self-doubt often made me compare myself to you and others, and I rarely measured up.

In fact, oftentimes I was flailing inside while a barrage of self-criticizing chatter droned on in my head. Unworthiness was a typical theme, so I've had to be persistent about replacing it with uplifting and empowering thoughts and behaviors, instead.

In order to compensate for feeling less-than, I adopted perfectionism as a way to throw a blanket over the symptoms of abuse. If I could be a perfect Mom (oh, my poor children!), homemaker, wife, employee, and friend, I could tamp down feeling so broken.

But few people knew any of this about me.

Because as a child I learned to hide behind a veneer of "nice" and "happy" and I quickly learned that staying very busy would drown out any undercurrent of abuse.

I groomed myself into a free-spirited, independent, unconventional woman; I naturally and easily lead workshops; I am a prolific writer with a published book; I raised 3 kids alone for 20 years; I'm typically chosen as a leader at work; and I'm a powerful Mofo in life.

But that has never completely erased the nagging belief that I don't belong on this planet, I don't fit in, and I don't always feel as together as you may think I am.

I'm often surprised when people remember my name, or seek me out, because I'm more used to feeling invisible or ignored than I am used to feeling included.

Sex abuse also skewed my filters for intimacy and appropriate relating. Love was confused with sex, so I gravitated toward others whose need for sex was insatiable because my need to be loved was paramount.

Unraveling and rebuilding a sense of healthy intimacy has been challenging.

Fortunately, I've been able to overcome many of the challenges left in the wake of sex abuse because my personality has always demanded it. I have had a life-long drive to become someone more than my scared little self, and I am proud of how I've succeeded.

The demons that still occasionally show up serve to remind me how sex abuse fractured my childhood and set me on a course of pain, fear, and missing out on feeling like a worthy member of the planet, but as an adult, I also know these are just symptoms of abuse.

I can change my perspective, challenge the negative chatter, and expect a different outcome.

I've also been able to fully forgive my perpetrator, which is a miracle since he died long before I even began my healing journey. My story with him is complete; my forgiveness added a whole new layer of meaning to my path toward healing.

I feel safe, and the world is beautiful and friendly. 

And because I've been diligent in my pursuit toward healing, I lead a meaningful life full of adventure, joy, confidence, and a sense of pride for all I've survived.

You can, too.

Be courageous. Tell your story. And lean into healing.

"All the adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you." ~ Walt Disney

Think about it...

What has been the very worst day or moment of your life? When did your world cave in on you so completely that you were thrown into a new reality where nothing was familiar and everything felt terrifying?

If you haven't yet experienced anything resembling this, I almost feel sad for you.

Not that I'm wishing ill health or misfortune onto you, but I know--first hand--how my world became a brighter and happier place to live after healing the most devastating event in my life.

And I wish that for everyone.

For me, it was March 23, 1996 when my then-husband of ten years came home from work and disclosed--sort of--that he'd had an affair. I say "sort of" because I had to guess by the way he was acting: evasive, jittery, angry--not his normal demeanor--and by the way my intuition was screaming at me.

And it wasn't even the whole truth.

After an agonizing few weeks of marinating in huge amounts of grief, rage, and disbelief about an affair, I discovered that he'd been having affairs for the length of our marriage.

Talk about a swift and mighty kick to the gut.

Our babies were one, three, and five, with two still in diapers. I wasn't working much, and I was under the illusion that he was the most loyal man I'd ever known.

I had no idea what to do or where to turn.

So in my desperation and grief, I did the one thing that felt sane: I let go.

I caved. I cried. I asked for help. I screamed. I wrote. I reached out to God, family, and friends.

Yes, it was mostly gut-wrenchingly painful and heart-stoppingly awful. But as I allowed life to take the lead--with me often kicking and screaming as I felt dragged along--I began to change.

Most days were long and difficult, with the occasional sprinkling of hope. But as the days turned to weeks, then months, something different was happening: I was seeing reality for what it was, not for what I'd hoped it was. And life took on a new and colorful hue.

I had to drop old expectations and fantasies. I had to face awful truths and confront monumental lies. I had to look at myself and uncover my own insecurities, illusions, and mis-perceptions.

I had to be willing to become someone new.

And as I gave in to my new life, I began to heal.

Within a few years, I was strong enough to endure a divorce, then I wrote a book about my story. A few years later, I moved my kids cross-country where I confronted and healed my history of sexual abuse (another kick in the gut).

I once thought I'd never, ever get over the blow to my marriage and my life, but as I did the hard and tedious work of self-discovery, the agony of betrayal dissolved.

All that remained were the blessings.

What I remember is the the courage I cultivated, the strength I nurtured, and the joy I found on the other side of pain. I reclaimed my self-respect and acted in ways that supported my life.

For the first time, I felt empowered and whole, and it could not have happened without first having endured a huge shift in my thoughts and behaviors.

Essentially, I would not have discovered a new life without first getting kicked in the teeth.

So if you are facing a blow to your life right now, remember somewhere in your grief that life will one day become bright and kind again, and that your agony will be used for everything good.

I can almost guarantee it.

"There are too many people today who, instead of feeling hurt, are acting out their hurt; instead of acknowledging pain, they're inflicting pain on others. Rather than risking feeling disappointed, they're choosing to live disappointed."~ Brene Brown
 
Last week I touched upon the importance of caring for your anxious, exhausted self in the wake of a life-altering event.


Today's fabulous quote by Brene Brown tells us why.

It seems that the world is full of angry, defeated, and sad people. We are divided by politics, religion, culture, and even within our families (myself included).

The news is full of anger, blame, and fear which trickles down into the lives of many who jump on the band wagon, ready to fight against unknown villains.

But how you feel about the world is just a reflection of what's going on inside of you. Are you feeling outraged? Apathetic? Fearful? Bored? Powerless?

If so, then ask yourself: Who or what in your own life are you feeling outraged or apathetic toward? Is fear running your life? Where do you feel powerless? Or bored, or helpless? 

Whatever you're feeling, it's your responsibility to notice how your feelings are impacting your life.

It's easy to pass them off onto the world that looks like it's spinning out of control, but the truth is, YOU may be spinning out of control.

If so, don't act out your emotions by grumbling, yelling, or running for cover under warm, fuzzy blankets.

Instead, feeeeeeel them.

When my long-term relationship was crashing a decade ago, I was pissed. I'd moved my family cross-country for a special kind of relationship, but instead found myself in an abusive one.

I acted out my anger and sadness with my kids, in my job, and with God.

It wasn't until I realized how destructive this was that I decided to adopt a new tact. I mourned the loss of what I expected the relationship to be, and accepted it for what it was.

No, that wasn't easy, and yes, I had a lot of tough emotions to work through.

I cried, I stomped, I journaled, I pouted.

But as I felt each one, I became better equipped to handle my own emotions around the loss, and felt better able to let him go.

And when I stopped acting out my emotions on others, they stopped feeling so overwhelming. They lightened up over time, so I was willing to lean into feeling them more often and more fully.

Then a crazy thing happened: the most intense emotions simmered down, then eventually disappeared. Because I'd been willing to feel them instead of hide them or shirk them off onto others, they vanished.

And when they went MIA, I was able to think about the loss of my relationship with more compassion--and some days--even gratitude. The anger and sadness were no longer mucking up my energy field because I had made room for something better:

Love.

Instead of lashing out at others for your bad day, or yelling at your spouse for the loss of your job, feel your disappointment and anger and sadness and rage.

Because, I promise you, when you put your attention on feeling instead of lashing out, the energy of your emotions will eventually dissipate.

The trick is to feel the intensity of your emotions without injuring others. Then feel them until they no longer need to be felt.

How do you know when they don't need to be felt anymore? You'll begin to feel better, look better, and won't feel so tangled up in your emotions for as long.

So do yourself and everyone else a favor and feeeeel what's bothering you.

Your world will take on a new hue and you will feel happier. The anger and sadness will simply be gone, leaving more joy and happiness in its place.