The first group happens to coincide with the first day of spring, although snow still covers the ground. There hasn’t been a day above freezing for months.
Hannah tells herself to get a grip as she parks at the back of the small lot across from the rambling Victorian that has been turned into offices. A solid ten minutes early, she looks at herself in the rearview mirror. Her lipstick is even; the neutral tone seems appropriate. She’s grasping for familiarity in what feels unfamiliar and terrifying. She reminds herself she doesn’t have to stay; she can excuse herself at any time if she feels too uncomfortable.
When Kathryn called two weeks ago to tell Hannah she’d been chosen, Hannah felt honored, as if she’d won something. Kathryn sounded pleased that Hannah agreed to join. It was all so removed from the reality of actually exposing the shameful secrets that have become the skin of her life.
Instead of putting her keys in her purse, Hannah shoves them in her pocket. They will serve as a reminder that she is not trapped. Kathryn asked that Hannah think about what she wants from this group. Support was the first word that came to mind, but the more she thought about the word, the more literal it became. Support beams, support bras, support hose. Other words—empathy, understanding, coping skills, friends—came to her. None felt quite right. She finally decided that what she wants is relief from the panic that comes in the middle of the night, and the floating anxiety that plagues her most of the day. She wants to stop snapping at her children, stop obsessing about what Adam may or may not be doing. She wants to start living again—a tall order for a therapy group to deliver.
The place feels deserted. She climbs the stairs to the second floor and knocks on the door, wondering if she got the time wrong.
Kathryn greets her.
“Hi,” Hannah says. “Am I too early?”
“No, but you are the first.” Kathryn smiles.
Hannah has read somewhere that group leaders are sensitive to the early birds who try to sneak in one-on-one time.
“I’ll wait out here,” Hannah says.
“No, come in. Please.” Kathryn looks younger than Hannah remembers. She has her hair in a ponytail, and her brunette bangs hit just above her well-defined eyebrows.
Hannah steps into the room, where mismatched chairs are arranged in a circle.
“Take a seat.” Kathryn smiles again, and Hannah senses that she is also nervous.
Hannah decides on the wooden Windsor chair, the only seat without padding. She doesn’t want to sit on the loveseat and risk being too close to someone else. And she’s not going to take an armchair since she probably won’t come again.
“There’s water on the coffee table,” Kathryn says. “Help yourself. I’m just finishing up some notes.”
Hannah could use some water, but right now she’s afraid her hand will shake if she actually tries to pour a glass.
It’s too quiet. She digs her phone from her purse and reads the last text from Adam, informing her of the time he left work, traffic conditions, and estimated arrival. This is what her life has come down to—his reporting his every move. It’s supposed to build trust, but it doesn’t. She powers off her phone.
“Knock, knock,” a voice calls.
“Gail,” Kathryn says. “Come in.”
The woman is already in, and Hannah wonders if it’s because Gail is older that Kathryn seems too eager as she takes her coat. Gail has on bright red lipstick and no other makeup. The circles under her eyes have a plum-colored hue.
She looks around, nods as if the room is acceptable, then sits in the armchair next to Hannah. She shifts, trying to get comfortable. Her sneakers stand out against her tailored slacks and peach silk blouse. When she finds a position that seems suitable, she turns to Hannah and introduces herself. Hannah does the same and is stumped as to what to say next. Does one ask, What did your husband do to mess up your life? She settles on, “Did you run into a lot of traffic?”
“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Gail replies, “although there isn’t an easy way to get here from Cambridge.”
Something about the way she says Cambridge reminds Hannah of people who need to drop in that they went to an Ivy League school. Gail pours herself some water and takes a sip with steady hands.
Two other women walk in. They are both tall. The older one, fortyish, has thick auburn curls thrown into an updo. She sits on the loveseat, clinging to the side, making sure there is enough room for someone to join her.
The other woman also sits on the loveseat. She is younger and striking, with brown hair, nearly black, that comes to her slender waist.
Hannah wonders why men would cheat on such beautiful women. Then she reminds herself that cheating is the wrong word, that she is supposed to think illness. Disease with a capital D. Yet cheating is what sticks.
Kathryn walks to the door and closes it most of the way. “We are waiting for one more member, but I think since it’s seven, we should begin.”
The woman with the auburn curls smiles. Gail takes a sip of water. Hannah’s palms sweat. A panic attack is not far away. She grasps the wooden seat of the chair.
Kathryn passes out confidentiality forms, and Hannah signs hers without reading it.
“I’d like to look mine over,” Gail says.
“Of course,” Kathryn replies. “Perhaps we can begin by introducing ourselves and telling the group a little bit about what brings you here.”
Everyone nods. No one looks comfortable.
“I will try to stay on the sidelines as much as possible,” Kathryn explains. “If I think the group is getting off track, or if I sense someone isn’t getting to share when she wants to, I will intervene.” The words are well placed, formal.
The room is silent. Hannah wants to talk, if only to fill the emptiness. She lets go of the chair, ready to raise her hand.
“I’ll begin,” Gail says. “My name is Gail, and I’m here because I wanted a private group in which I could find support. As far as I know, there are no others in the area that address the issues that partners of sex addicts face.” She looks around to make sure she has everyone’s attention.
Hannah is impressed by how easily she can say “partners of sex addicts.”
“I have a very high-profile job,” Gail continues. “I can’t risk the chance of the papers getting ahold of my story.”
Hannah imagines Adam being arrested in some seedy bathroom. If that ever happened, and it wound up in the news or on some Web site, she would change her identity and flee to Argentina. With the children.
“There is often a lot of shame and humiliation around sex addiction,” Kathryn says.
“Yes, well…” Gail says, sounding a touch irked that Kathryn cut her off. “Jonah is my second husband and my soul mate. From the moment we met, we both knew that we were meant to be together. We discuss everything, from what we perceive God to be to the latest state referendums.”
Her words flow smoothly, unrushed. At this point, Hannah would be stammering.
“One afternoon at work, my assistant asked to see me. She was clearly distraught as she held a piece of paper. It was a letter from a graduate student of Jonah’s. He teaches philosophy at Harvard. His concentrations are normative ethics and personal identity.” She pauses, chin forward, head high.
Odd areas of study for a sex addict, Hannah thinks.
“In this letter, the student claimed my husband was actually in love with her, but he was too frightened to tell me. I brought the letter home and showed it to him. He crumpled as he sat on the couch.” She takes a moment to bow her head.
Hannah gets the sense that the real Gail, whoever she is, is buried under well-practiced orations.
“He admitted that she wasn’t the only one. There had been another.” Gail bows her head again. This time with more solemnity. “Another? Was that better? Did that mean he didn’t care about them and still loved me? I—”
The final member, a woman in her twenties with brassy red hair and shoes that look like combat boots, traipses in.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic, and I hit every red light.”
“Please, Bridget,” Kathryn says, “take a seat.” She gestures to the empty armchair at her right.
Bridget sits, takes off her jean jacket lined with faux fur, and places it next to her feet. She has a small, compact athletic body. Her eyes, a bright Irish blue, are heavily made up, and her lipstick is deep purple.
“I was just telling the group,” Gail says, “about the night I discovered my husband was having affairs.”
Bridget snaps her gum. “Asshole,” she murmurs.
“I think it’s best,” Kathryn says, “that we refrain from making judgments.”
Gail purses her lips.
“Would anyone else like to share?” Kathryn asks.
“I thought this wasn’t one of those sharing twelve-step groups,” Bridget replies, then yanks a tissue from the box on the coffee table and spits out her gum.
“No, this is not a twelve-step group. In here you are free to comment and give feedback,” Kathryn explains.
“Because when I went to an S-Anon group, they tried to tell me I was a co-addict. I asked someone what that meant, and she told me there was no cross talk. I said that I just wanted to know what I was addicted to. She told me that perhaps I would discover that if I attended a few more meetings.” Bridget twirls a finger in her hair. “Well, I wasn’t about to go back there so I could get some ridiculous label.”
Hannah guesses that pushing the boundaries comes naturally to Bridget.
“My name is Lizzy,” the auburn-haired woman on the couch says. “I went to one of those groups, and I had the same question. I wasn’t brave like you, though.” She smiles broadly. “I waited until after the group to ask about what I was addicted to, and I was told I was an addict because I was choosing to stay in my marriage.”
“Do you think that makes you an addict?” Kathryn asks.
“An idiot maybe, but no, not an addict. I don’t understand what that word means anymore.”
Hannah likes Lizzy.
“Perhaps this is a good time to talk about what addiction means,” Kathryn suggests.
“Number one,” Bridget says, raising a finger with a chewed nail, “addictions escalate. And number two”—she raises another finger—“addicts have withdrawals when they stop. I’m a nurse in a psych ward. I’ve seen it all.”
“I don’t think my husband had withdrawals,” Lizzy says.
“Do you believe he’s stopped?” Kathryn asks.
Lizzy tugs at a thread on the couch. “I want to believe he has.”
“Not all people have withdrawals in the classic sense as we know them,” Kathryn tells her.
“And,” Bridget speaks up. “Addicts lie. They are con artists, and bullshitters.” Her voice is abrasive, and Hannah believes fear courses beneath Bridget’s tough exterior.
Gail draws in a deep breath. “I do not believe my husband is any of those things.”
“Then maybe he’s not an addict,” Bridget tells her.
“I don’t think that’s for you to judge,” she replies. “Addicts are individuals and behave in different ways. We can’t generalize.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t different.” Bridget scuffs her boots on the carpet. “I just think that addicts have some similar characteristics. And one of those is lying.”
“Lying is often part of an addict’s behavior,” Kathryn adds.
“Well, I know that Jonah has been working hard in therapy, and he has been vigorously honest with me since the discovery.”
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 help 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.