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Katie Kramer, RN/Life Coach/Author
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The Fall-Out From Sex Abuse

10/17/2017

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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.

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Death Without Benefits 

2/28/2016

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The following is an edited chapter from my book, Coming Through With Grace, * which outlines the losses endured while I was in the middle of divorcing my sex-addict husband.

Without understanding why, this chapter has been tugging at me for the past 24 hours. So I looked it up, edited it for re-posting, and then it hit me: March marks twenty years since my life began re-aligning itself. The fact that it all began with a huge, life-changing explosion is not the story—it was just the beginning of creating a life that was more free, honest, and happy.

Perhaps, once you are out of your own storm, you will be able to glimpse clues of a bigger and brighter future, too. It's out there, calling you forward. Heed its pull, and watch what God and the universe have in store for you...

Death Without Benefits *

“Whenever you lose something you want, you’ve been spared (or God is a masochist).”

January 1999

A death has occurred and I am in mourning. No one seems to get that. The Jack I married and loved no longer exists. My husband, friend, and partner died in the spring of 1996 when I realized that he wasn’t the man I believed in, trusted, and loved. The addict buried him deep beneath lies, betrayal, and malice.

Had Jack truly died I would be entitled to the benefits of a widow—life insurance, social security, financial security, and the sympathy of having lost my spouse, my life-long partner. What I have instead are a string of broken promises and vows, memories of deceit and betrayal, one-fourth of the income, lost health benefits, no life insurance or social security, and the remarks of others that offer empty sympathy: “So sorry your marriage didn’t work out.”

My decision to divorce Jack wasn’t based on his infidelities. It was based on his unwillingness to seek treatment and help. It was relatively easy to proceed with the decision to leave in spite of loving Jack, because relationships cannot survive when addictions have overtaken rational thinking.

I still love Jack and I believe the Jack who is now deeply hidden within the addict still loves me, but the addict resents us all because we threaten the addiction. I became the enemy once I stopped playing the game. I was supposed to allow Jack a life with our family and with his addiction. When I refused, I became the enemy.

When we went to court, I was surprised to find out that no one wanted to know about what caused our marital break-up. The judge had no idea that an addict had robbed our home of a husband and father. I couldn’t tell him. He did not consider that someone should pay for that. When my home was burglarized, the vandals paid for their crime. I got reimbursed for damages. Who pays for the damages inflicted upon my family when my husband was kidnapped by an addict? I wasn’t allowed to bring up such “personal matters” in court. Because sex addiction is so unknown, so misunderstood, and still so unbelievable, it is denied. People would rather believe that it’s not a real affliction rather than deal with its aftermath.

There are many hidden losses in addiction. I worked part-time as a nurse for most of our marriage so that I could be home as much as possible with our growing children. I was grateful to be a stay-at-home mom, while also enjoying the benefits of having an adult life outside our home twice a week. I was lucky, as far as I was concerned.

I now think that our decision created the ideal situation for Jack to maintain his addiction. I was raising children and had no intention of furthering my education or taking on more work responsibilities. Perhaps that was what Jack thought would keep me in our marriage? That my low wages would make me need to stay? Perhaps this was the perfect arrangement for ensuring that his addiction would not be thwarted, and that I would never leave him because I was financially dependent on him?

While it is true that I am financially dependent on him for child support and alimony, the income he provides each month is his responsibility for having had a family. But I have lost the steady income that I had counted on for a lifetime. I lost the health insurance and retirement funds that would ensure financial stability. Had Jack truly died, I would have that lost income in the form of life insurance.

I have been mandated by the court to fulfill my end of the “responsibility” by working full-time. Is it not enough that I care for my children, feed them, do their laundry, help with homework, and provide an emotionally stable environment for them by myself? I have little reprieve from the constant needs of three young children.
What about Jack’s responsibility? He was supposed to seek treatment, get better, and become a responsible and committed husband and father. Instead, everyone has turned their backs and pretend that nothing has happened. He is suffering no consequence for his lack of accountability and responsibility to the family he chose to have.

Jack’s Dad suggested that the court split Jack’s income five ways and I get four-fifths; I like that. Instead, he contributes only minimal financial responsibility, and takes the kids only two nights a week. I’d rather have the stability of raising our kids in the same manner we had become accustomed to by receiving money of a widow. I have become a widow to addiction.

Not only have I lost a husband; the kids have lost a father. The kids must feel the grief of losing the Dad they had. Whenever they return from his home, they fight, they cry. They don’t have the tools I’ve acquired to cope with the situation. They only know to react to their feelings. And it all must be terribly confusing.

That’s addiction.

It steals your conscience. It steals your logic. And I fear this will only get worse. I’m not sure how to tell our children about Jack. Do I allow them to read this book when they’re old enough to handle the information? Do I allow him to be fully accountable to their questions? Do I even wait for their questions? How do I tell them that their Dad couldn’t face himself and get well, despite loving them? How do I explain to them anything that may come close to helping them understand?

I know that in his own way, Jack loves our children. He would probably not expose them to anything potentially damaging. However, I remind myself that in spite of loving me, he did do that.

As far as I know, Jack is still practicing addiction. It’s confirmed in my interactions with him, watching his life-style choices, and hearing similar stories about him from others. He remains evasive and distant.

I’ve questioned the children’s teachers and counselors about their behavior. Fortunately, all of them say that my kids are normal. But do we really know? Will they be okay, with healthy behaviors and intact intuitions to guide them when they’re with him? I visit pediatricians, counselors, and lawyers. I am constantly on-guard for my children’s safety.

What I find most revealing is that I was disposable to Jack. I think he stopped caring about me as a wife, lover, or friend—at least in the sense that was appropriate and healthy—once the addiction consumed him. I became another female that he could objectify, feel-up when he felt like it, and seduce at will. He was able to love me conditionally, then when it became too difficult, he simply pulled himself away completely.

No remorse, no apologies, no looking back.


Spouses of addicts lose to the addiction, too, yet we are the quiet losers. Few people understand what we are going through. Most people don’t want to know. Perhaps it’s just too difficult for them to think about—after all, if it happened in my “normal” home, might it also happen in theirs?

When I see Jack today, my heart stirs with softness. I see before me a sweet, kind, loving man—the one I remember—and I feel compassion. I remember the good father, loving husband, and family man. I remember the man who made me laugh, the one I liked snuggling with, and the one who made beautiful babies with me. But I say nothing in that moment. I do nothing. Then I remember the reality of the man who stands before me and my heart stirs with sadness. I do nothing, say nothing, as the kids jump into his car, his voice quiet, his eyes avoiding mine. He is gone.

He is not the man I remember. He is a different man, one I don’t trust, one I don’t particularly like.

An addiction stole my husband.

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HIS problem is not MY problem!

2/12/2015

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Picture
How can I be considered a co-sex addict if my partner is the one who is the sex addict?

Yeah, that's what I wanted to know, too.

When my ex-husband's story was brought out into the open, there was finally a name to define what had been invading my home and taking over my husband for the length of our marriage. Boy, was I relieved.

I could finally blame an addiction for all the frustration, anger and exhaustion I felt over ten years. I could finally blame something else for the constant niggling thought that something was terribly wrong--a thought that pestered my brain for days upon months upon years. With a confirmed diagnosis, I could rest in the knowledge that I couldn't possibly be to blame for the emptiness I had felt for so long.

What I eventually discovered, however, was that I did have a part to play in our co-created dance of a marriage, too. No, I didn't cause his addiction, and I couldn't control it or cure it, but I could certainly contribute to it.

Now, wait a minute!

I contributed to his sex addiction? First of all, I didn't know about it, so how could I share any responsibility? Second, I didn't even know what sex addiction was. I was a committed wife and mother; I attended playgroups, made dinner every night, was responsible with money/time/resources.

How could I have contributed to an addiction I didn't even know existed?

Well, after weeks and months of mind-numbing grief, and hours on my counselor's couch, I began to understand that I had, indeed, enabled my husband's addiction by not listening to my own reality. When any horrible thought about him or our marriage circulated through my head, I'd quickly bat it away like a pesky mosquito. I was afraid to give it any meaningful time and attention and figure out why the horrible thought was so persistent.

So I ignored it, minimized it, rationalized it—until it would go away, because to actually pick it apart and look at it, I was certain that something horrible would be uncovered about me, instead. I was really afraid to discover that maybe I was the deeply damaged one—not him.

I was already angry, irritated, and exhausted by him and the lack of emotional connection in my marriage, but I was also very quick to believe that I had a problem.

But after his diagnosis and lots of reading, talking, and sobbing, I eventually understood that my behaviors merely gave him permission to escape into his fantasies, or rationalize more affairs. It's like the alcoholic who says, “If you had a wife like mine, you'd drink, too.” My behaviors were the excuse he needed to betray me...over and over and over. No, that wasn't rational, but neither are addictions. There is nothing logical about them.

But eventually, I had to stop pointing the finger at only him and figure out why I had chosen a sex addict. And ever so slowly, I learned—and then believed—that I chose one because I needed a healing. Picking him as my mate was driven by unconscious needs that were set up and re-enforced during my upbringing. This is not about blaming my childhood, but about understanding why I made the choices I had, or why I behaved the way I did.

My ability to deny my own feelings of doubt about him and us were cemented decades before I ever met him. I was taught to deny my own reality while believing what others told me was real. And that, my friends, has been the toughest habit to break.

A decade later, as my family continues to deny, scoff at, and reject events that happened in my childhood, it's been damn difficult trying to remain steadfast and certain in my own reality, especially when I have been ignored, called a liar, or told that my counselor brain-washed me.

But that's precisely the point at which I get to stand in my own truth and heal a wee bit more. I can believe my memories; I can believe my truth; I can believe my own reality without the need for others to believe it or validate it. I know what I know.

And so do you.

Believe in yourself, and trust what you know—no matter how many outside influences may be trying to defeat you.

You know that you know what you know...

Amen.

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    Author

    After being raised in the mid-west, I migrated south for high school (with a year in Brazil) and college, and ventured west for a long marriage (and later, divorce)...and eventually landed in the northwest--my real home. Sigh. 

    I am a Teacher, Healer, Single Mother, Nurse, Coach, Columnist, Artist, Author, Traveler, Motivator...eager to share myself with you. 

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