Through Addict Eyes

I see her picture. She is average looking. Overweight. Dresses immodestly. I've seen her body in a more intimate way than I've seen even my best friend's body. Her image is seared into my brain.

Why is she what he wanted? I ask myself, knowing full well that this will never make sense to a non-SA. I will never understand why he wanted her, or the others. But I can't stop the obsessive thoughts.

I am attractive. I have blonde hair, blue eyes, petite body. I am kind, interesting, and generous. I am honest, loyal, and smart.

But at some point, I wasn't enough for the addict. I would have been more than enough for many men, but His fix couldn't be satisfied with loyal, smart, and pretty. It had to be more. It had to be daring, risky, potent.

And to the addict, I became boring, rigid, and ordinary. Husband took on the persona of lonely devoted father just looking for some attention. He justified his actions with every new email, every new picture, every new post. His tactic worked, really well. He was skilled at his craft, an expert in seduction. In getting what he wanted.

But the wreckage he left behind can't be undone. I can't un-see the critical emails about his cold wife. I can't un-open the explicit pictures tagged with my husband's praise. I can't un-read that I wasn't good in bed, that I lacked sexual prowess, that I was less than.

He wants to repair the wreckage. He desperately wants to heal the wounds. But they are etched in my being. They haunt my dreams. I will survive, and I will thrive, and I may even love again, but I will never be the same.