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.

As a nurse, I'm pretty fastidious about getting my annual check-ups. It's the only time I see an MD because I've been blessed with good health.  
 
But after my annual blood draw last month, I was referred to a hematologist, a doctor who specializes in blood disorders.  
 
I was surprised, but not worried, because when I asked myself if something felt wrong in my body, my immediate "knowing" was Nope.  
 
I also rationalized that if something was really wrong, I would've had an appointment immediately, but instead, I was given a date a month out.  
 
I promptly forgot about it until I had to rearrange my work schedule to go, but feeling concerned didn't even occur to me.    
 
Until, of course, I pulled up to a building today that read: "Cancer Care Center."
 
For the first time, it felt just a bit too real.  
 
As I climbed the steps toward the bathroom, I asked myself again: Do I resonate with having cancer?
 
Again, I heard: Not one bit.  
 
At the check-in desk, my blase attitude began to lean toward concern as I was handed a large stack of papers to fill out. When I mentioned that this was only a consultation, the gal replied that everyone--whether diagnosed with blood disorders or cancer--gets the same packet.  
 
The visit suddenly felt a bit more worrisome.  
 
Everyone in the waiting room looked my way and I imagined them thinking, "There's the new girl. She still looks well, but everything is about to change for her."   
 
I sat next to a couple waiting for their loved one who was coming out of a procedure. I heard one of them whisper, "Thank you, Jesus" when a nurse informed them that all had gone well.   
 
I filled out the stack of papers in minutes since most of my answers were negative: I do not have any symptoms. I don't have pain or nausea or headaches. I have no history of problems, and I only take 3 pills a day, two of them non-prescription.  
 
Then I glanced at the TV screen on the wall that was showing a film about cancer survivors. I was surprised when I saw my sweet friends' face, her hair cropped close to her head, talking about her experience with cancer. She had survived, but her prognosis on that day was still unknown. I could see the sadness and worry in her eyes as she described life with cancer.  
 
I suddenly felt such love and awe for her and for the painful and triumphant fight she had endured. I was nearly crying.   
 
Then the thought hit me: This could be me, too. What if my world changes today, in an instant, just like Annie's had?   
 
With blurry eyes, I returned my packet to the desk. My mind tried to imagine what life would look like with a diagnosis of cancer but I quickly dismissed it.    
 
There is nothing wrong with me, I reminded myself.  
 
Instead, I imagined what I wished I had done before today, before a possible and sudden change in plans.  
 
And that's when I felt a powerful surge overtake me. It was the same surge that ran through my body when my life was altered some years ago:  
 
I was standing in my living room, "knowing" that divorce was imminent. All that we'd planned for, saved for, and fought for was going to be lost. My only regret was that we'd wasted so much time doing things that barely mattered.  
 
In that moment, I no longer cared about our money, our cars, or nice home, because it would soon be gone. What mattered was our happiness, our dreams, and living life fully.  
 
That profound experience turned me around, pointing me toward a future of chasing dreams instead of merely wishing them to happen. I began to live boldly for the next several years.  
 
Until I stopped. The details about why I stopped aren't important here, but the sentiment to continue living boldly was with me today.  
 
There is little time to waste. It's time to go for everything I want. NOW.  
 
My reverie was interrupted by someone calling my name. I was taken to my room where (no surprise) my blood pressure registered 150/100. I told the CNA how unfair it was to take it minutes before a consultation in a cancer care center.  
 
She agreed and we shared a good laugh.  
 
Minutes later, the doc came bounding in and his first words were: "What are you doing here?"
 
Assuming he was commiserating with me about the possibility that my life could change for me today, I answered, "I haven't a clue; you tell me."
 
He wheeled his chair close to me with his face inches from mine and said, "Nothing is wrong with you. Not one damn thing. You shouldn't even be here."
 
I almost cried.
 
He opened his computer screen to show me an eight-year history of labs. Although I had an obvious trend toward falling lymphocyte values, my overall hematologic trend was perfect. I took my first normal breath since seeing Annie on the screen.  
 
And then it was over.   
 
Doc led me to the check-out desk where he put my paperwork down on the counter in front of me. With his pen, he drew a slash across the page.  
 
"No charge" he told the receptionist, then turned to me and reached for my hand. "Nice to meet you; I never want to see you here again." He winked as he walked away.  
 
I teared up: for his generosity, for his humanity, and for my relief.    
 
I knew all along that I was okay.  
 
But the possibility that today could have just as easily ended in a different outcome scared me enough to consider how I live my life.   

It also proved that I know, without any doubt, that I am aware of what is right and true for me and my life. 
 
I have changes to make, big things to create, and places I want to go. Coming a bit too close to an altered future shook me up enough to expedite my roadmap.    
 
I refuse to waste another minute indulging in fear or hesitance before venturing forward.    
 
So this is my message for you: What do you already know to be true for yourself and your life?  
 
Listen to it.  
 
My experience today also begs the question: If you had six months to live, what would you change today? What would you do, where would you go? How would you live?  
 
Then go out there and do it.   
 
Because your life can change with a single blood draw. 

"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.