by Sylvia True
Bridget rolls her eyes. A taut silence falls. Hannah would like out.
“Bridget,” Kathryn says after a few moments, “would you like to tell us why you’re here?”
Bridget glances around, then focuses her gaze on Hannah, whose first instinct is to turn away.
“We’re telling what our husbands are into, right?” she asks.
Hannah nods and tries to imagine telling these strangers about Adam. It feels impossible.
“Michael is into the chat rooms.” Bridget’s foot bounces. “Porn too.”
“That must be difficult for you,” Kathryn says.
“He gets off on the chase. He likes to know all these women get hot for him. He’s on every dating site known to man, and he sends pictures of himself.” She pauses. “It’s fucked up. But if he ever crossed the line and slept with someone else…” Her small hands ball into fists.
“I don’t think it matters what the exact nature of the addiction is,” Gail says. “It comes down to feeling betrayed.”
“Oh, it matters to me,” Bridget tells her. “I’d kick his ass out if he slept with anyone.”
“Does it frighten you that your husband might be doing more than he’s telling you?” Kathryn asks.
Bridget twirls her finger in her hair again.
“Listening to other stories can be terrifying,” Kathryn says. “Considering the betrayal you have all already experienced, it would not be surprising to start wondering if your husband was doing more than he is saying.”
If Hannah finds out more, she will shatter.
Bridget bites her bottom lip, then glances at the women on the couch. “So, what about your husbands?” she asks.
The striking young woman gathers her hair and ties it in a knot behind her head. She scoots forward a little. “I am Flavia. My husband, his name is Demetrius. He is from Greece. I call him Dema.” Her face flushes. “First I must say that, although I live in this country since five years now, my English is not always so good. Excuse me please. I am from Brazil.”
“Your English is fabulous compared to my Spanish,” Bridget says.
“I believe she speaks Portuguese,” Gail interjects.
“Actually, I speak both.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” Bridget says as she glides a cool glance in Gail’s direction.
“It is fine.” Flavia smiles. “It is not something I like to tell, so stop me when you like.”
No one speaks. No one stops her.
“This is how I find out,” she begins. “I work for two years in the Boston Library. One day, not too long ago, one of the janitors brings me an article from the newspaper. He thinks it is my husband’s name he sees in the paper. It tells he was arrested for groping on the subway. I nearly fainted. On the way home, I think of all the ways that Dema will tell me that the article is not about him. By the time I walk into my house, I have convinced myself there are many other Greek men in Boston with the same name. But when I show him the newspaper, his head sinks. My heart felt like it explodes, and little glass pieces of it swim through my arms. I never have this feeling. Not even when my father died.” She stops and rubs her arms.
Hannah thinks of the politically correct anti-groping posters she’s seen the few times she’s been on the subway.
“Then.” Flavia shakes her head, and her hair falls out of its knot. “The library finds out, and I have no more job. Not because of my husband, they make sure to tell me, but because there is no more funding.”
“Yeah, right,” Bridget says.
Flavia re-knots her hair. “Yeah, right,” she says with an American accent.
“Did you think of suing?” Gail asks.
“I cannot afford a lawyer, and I also do not want more attention put on this.”
“He lives with you now?” Bridget asks.
“Yes, but I do not have the sex with him. That is the limit for me.” She slices her elegant hand through the air.
“You need to make boundaries in order for you to feel safe,” Kathryn says. “You will all make different ones. What’s important is that you learn what works for you.” She looks at Hannah. This is her cue to talk. Her palms are damp, her heart races. She glances at the rug as her face heats.
“Lizzy,” Kathryn says, sensitive enough to move on. “Are there any boundaries you’ve made that have helped you?”
“I don’t think I’m good at that. I think … well.… it’s more like I’ve made anti-boundaries. The thing is, I probably should say I won’t have sex with him, but I want him to prove that he wants me and not some porn star dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform with pigtails.” She hesitates. “He won’t have sex with me.”
Now Hannah feels the need to speak. “You could be Angelina Jolie, and he’d still watch porn.”
“I know.” Lizzy smiles. She has a round, warm face. “I try to tell myself that, but I’m not exactly young anymore, and I don’t have time to work out at the gym every day. I have cellulite on my thighs.”
“It is important,” Kathryn says, “that you begin to understand that your husband’s addiction isn’t about you.”
“How the hell is she supposed to believe that?” Bridget asks. “He’s jerking off watching other women and not having sex with her. How is that not about her?”
“Of course she’s affected by it,” Kathryn says. “It can take a long time for it not to feel so personal.”
“It’s always going to feel personal,” Hannah says. She may not be able to talk about herself, but having lived with a sex addict for years, she has learned a few things. “Sex in a relationship is the most intimate and vulnerable way we express ourselves, and when we’ve been made to feel as if our husbands want something or someone other than us, it’s very painful.” She pours herself a glass of water, believing she can now drink without her hands shaking.
“I disagree,” Gail says. “Jonah doesn’t want other women, and I recognize that. It’s a compulsion with him. A disease.”
Bridget grimaces. “I fucking hate that it’s labeled as a disease. It’s such a lame excuse. And then there’s all the childhood emotional reasons. Poor Michael, his parents were alcoholics and didn’t give him enough attention. My mother died when I was thirteen, and I didn’t become a sex addict.”
“Well, I happen to believe it is a disease,” Gail says. “And since Jonah has also recognized it as that, he feels less stigmatized and has been more self-reflective. In turn, he’s been healing.”
“I get why alcoholism and drug addiction are diseases. They actually change body chemistry,” Bridget says.
“That also happens with sex addicts. Neurotransmissions in the brain are altered. Essentially, it’s the same thing,” Gail replies.
“There has been quite a lot of debate in the psychiatric community about just this issue. Some people think of addictions as illnesses. Some believe they are compulsions,” Kathryn says.
“Well, this is what I think,” Bridget says. “Sex releases endorphins. I feel kind of high from it too. Doesn’t make me an addict.”
“It’s when you can’t stop. When it gets in the way of your everyday functioning, when you withdraw from your intimate relationships. Sex addicts lose their jobs, their spouses. Everything. Just like any other addiction.” Gail glances around the room, satisfied she’s won the debate. Lizzy and Flavia nod.
“Does your husband go to meetings?” Bridget asks.
“Yes. He’s gotten a lot from them. And your … partner?”
“Husband. He goes, but sometimes the twelve-step stuff seems like a load of crap. Like he has to learn from a group that he’s not supposed to lie to his wife.” She huffs. “Seems like shit. That’s all.”
“Hannah,” Kathryn says, “is there anything you’d like to add?”
Hannah’s mouth goes dry. She knows she’s supposed to share something about herself. It’s not only her turn, it’s her obligation. She rubs her hands along her jeans.
“My husband seems to get he
lp from those groups,” she says. “But I understand what you mean, Bridget. It does seem as if some of the things they talk about are pretty basic. I think for them it’s about applying those guidelines to their addictive personality. For me it feels like I have two husbands: the one I fell in love with—he’s thoughtful and kind; and the addict—he’s narcissistic and self-centered.”
Bridget nods. “I’m just so angry.”
“Do you know the serenity prayer?” Gail asks.
“I hate that prayer. I mean, think about it, we’re just supposed to sit back and wait for them to change? Not get involved? It makes no sense.”
“Only they can change themselves,” Gail replies.
“Then think of this,” Bridget snaps. “If we hadn’t caught them, you think they’d be changing or going to those groups? Probably not.” She holds up her chin, mirroring Gail.
“I don’t think you understand the prayer.” Gail squares her shoulders. “It’s about surrendering to a greater power.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. I’d love to just toss in the towel and tell Michael to fix himself and figure this all out, but he’s not about to do that unless I help him. We’ve decided to stick with these men, and that means we’re tied to them. Change doesn’t happen in a vacuum.”
“I think she has a good point,” Lizzy says. “I doubt Greg would be getting help if I hadn’t caught him. I think we’re often the catalysts for change.”
“Yeah.” Bridget points to Lizzy. “We’re the catalysts.”
“Before Jonah and I leave for work in the morning, we kneel together and say the serenity prayer.” Although Gail is at eye level with Bridget, she appears to be looking down on the younger woman. “It helps remind us to stay vigilant.”
“I sure as hell will never be kneeling and praying with my husband,” Bridget mumbles.
Kathryn leans toward her. “I think part of being in this group is learning to accept the different ways people choose to struggle through this.”
“And I think some husband-bashing might do us all good.” Bridget kicks up her leg and grins.
Hannah smiles.
Gail clenches the armrests of her chair. “I’m afraid,” she says, “this is not the right group for me. I would prefer not to listen to someone denigrate my husband. Kathryn, I thank you for letting me come, but I will not be returning.”
“I understand,” Kathryn says. “But I would like very much if we could all try again next week. We will disagree about many things, but that’s part of what being in a group is about. What we need to do is agree that we will try to withhold judgment of other people’s partners.” She looks at Bridget.
“Yeah, all right.” She pauses, then bites her nails. “Gail, I’m sorry. You can keep on praying.”
“Well, I thank you for your permission,” Gail replies. “But I need to think about it. I might be looking for something that is structured a little differently.”
Hannah sits taller. “If you want the twelve-step structure where you can’t really talk to anyone, why not go to one of those groups?” Her question sounds more aggressive than she had intended.
“I don’t want a step group. I’m just looking for something a bit more serene. A group where people have reached another level, that’s all.”
“What level?” Hannah shoots back.
“I’ve been doing a lot of work in therapy, with my husband and on my own,” she says. “I think I’m at a different place. I’ve been through the anger and the grief. We’re in the healing stage, and I don’t think it will be good for me to go backward.”
“If some of the things Bridget says will make you slip backward, maybe your footing isn’t as strong as you think,” Hannah tells her.
“Gail,” Kathryn says, “we circle around with our feelings. Sometimes we think we’re over the anger, and it comes back. Sometimes we find ourselves forgiving even if there’s more grief to live through. It’s a cyclical process. I think having people at all different stages is what makes this a powerful group.” Kathryn places her hands firmly on the arms of the chair. “It is through your shared experiences that you can all find the courage to move forward.”
“I respect everything you’re saying. It’s just that sometimes a personality conflict might get in the way,” Gail says.
“So then I’ll fucking leave.” Bridget picks up her jacket and stands. “You can sit around and preach to everyone else. I don’t need this.”
“Don’t,” Hannah says. “Please.”
Bridget sits. “As long as I can say whatever I want.”
“No one has stopped you so far.” Gail picks up her purse.
“No one has stopped anyone,” Lizzy points out.
Good for her, to speak up. Hannah feels better about her own outburst.
Kathryn clears her throat. “When Dr. O’Reilly and I interviewed you, we knew there would be some differences and some conflicts to work through. That’s part of the process. It’s important that you all give this a few weeks. Often, what is bothering us outside the group we bring to the group, and it manifests in relationships we form in this room. When we work through those, we can work through some of the troubles we’re having in the real world.”
“I’ll be back,” Lizzy says.
“And me,” Flavia chimes in.
“Thank you,” Kathryn says, and looks at Hannah.
There is a hitch in her throat. She wants to say yes, but this was so much harder than she thought it would be. “I have to think about it.”
Kathryn takes a breath before speaking. “When I called each of you, I asked if this was something you’d be able to commit to, and you said yes.”
“I am committed to being part of a group,” Gail says. “But this just might not be the right one. If I went to a therapist and it wasn’t working for me, I wouldn’t keep going.”
“Yes, I understand. Please think about it then, and call me if you don’t plan on coming back.”
Hannah smiles briefly. “I just want to say that this feels like a good group. That’s not why I wouldn’t come back. When I left home tonight, I realized that I didn’t want to give up a night with my kids. Especially since it’s my husband’s problem. I resent giving up this time.”
“Many partners of addicts feel as you do,” Kathryn says. “But they often find the support to be really helpful.”
There’s that word again. Support. Exactly how is she supposed to get that here? She doesn’t need anyone to hold her up. Hannah nods, pleased at least to have set a valid excuse on the table.
Flavia puts on her jacket. Gail is the first to stand.
Outside, the temperature has dropped. It feels as if spring will never arrive.
“I hope you come back,” Lizzy tells Hannah as they walk through the parking lot. “But I understand what you mean about it not really being fair that we have to give up a perfectly good night because of the stuff our husbands did.”
“Thanks. I hate to make promises I can’t keep.” She pauses. “Unlike my husband.” Hannah shudders as she realizes this is the most personal thing she’s shared about Adam.
Bridget
“Hey,” Bridget calls out from across the parking lot. “Do you have a sec?”
“Of course,” Hannah replies, opening the door to her SUV.
Bridget jogs over. “I— Can you explain what just went on in there?”
“I doubt I can explain everything, but if you have a question, I might be able to help,” Hannah tells her.
“I guess what I’m wondering is, do you think it will help?”
Hannah touches Bridget’s arm. “There really isn’t a guidebook for this,” she says. “See how you feel next week. Talk about what’s going on. That’s the most you can do right now.”
“Does it get better though?” Bridget looks up at the office. The light is still on. “You know, the pain? Does it go away?”
“Time helps,” Hannah says.
“Has it been a long time for you?” Bridget sho
ves her hands in the pockets of her jean jacket.
“From before we were married.”
“So…” Bridget hesitates. “I mean … why?”
“It’s okay to ask. I wouldn’t have said anything if it wasn’t.”
Bridget shivers.
“If you want, we can get in my car, and I’ll put on the heat,” Hannah says.
Bridget climbs in, and Hannah starts the engine. The car smells like Cheerios.
“I just don’t know if I can do it. Listen to all that shit. My head spins when I think about it.”
“It’s traumatic and overwhelming.” Hannah grabs two Diet Cokes from the back and hands one to Bridget. The cans make a sharp slicing sound as they open.
“But it gets better. Right?”
Hannah leans her head back. “It never really goes away. It’s like any addiction—it lurks.”
“But lots of alcoholics get better. Don’t they?” Bridget runs her finger along the edge of the can.
“They do,” Hannah says flatly.
“How did you find out the first time?” Bridget asks.
“I was young and in love. My husband, Adam, was charming.” She grins. “I used to joke that we sounded like those cheesy personal ads. You know, walks on the beach, back rubs, late-night talks. A regular old fairy tale.”
“That’s what I thought me and Michael were. The perfect couple. I had no idea.”
“Most of us don’t.”
Bridget doesn’t want to be in the most category. “How did you find out?”
“A week before our wedding, he told me he was an addict.” Hannah shakes her head. “I still can’t believe it, even after fifteen years. At the time, his therapist told me it had nothing to do with me. I believed her. I was in a state of shock on my wedding day. People said I had that glazed look of love in my eyes.” She chuckles. “Little did they know.”
Bridget glances at Hannah’s thick hair and perfectly shaped mouth. She could have had anyone. And she ended up here.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Being naive. Like, I want to believe Michael, and I do, but what if he’s still lying? Then what?”
Hannah takes a sip of Diet Coke. “There is just so much about this we have absolutely no control of.”
