A House Interrupted

Maurita Corcoron

Description

A can't-put-it-down read about a wife's devastating discovery that her physician husband is a sex addict

Maurita Corcoran's world collapsed when she learned that her husband of fourteen years, a successful physician, was a sex addict. She had never even heard of a "sex addict," but she was suddenly submerged in a world of painful choices about how to rebuild a life for herself and her four children. This is an absorbing memoir about forgiveness, resilience, and hope.

With the growing public awareness of how pervasive sex addiction has become in our culture, this memoir answers the questions that spouses must face in building lives of self-respect and confidence. Filled with actual raw journal entries, this first-hand account will help any spouse or partner who needs to know more about this devastating addictive disease.

This engaging memoir proves that women can emerge from the betrayal, anger, and heartache to become authentically peaceful and resilient sources of support to other women.

Maurita Corcoran and her husband have been in recovery for more than a dozen years. They have raised four children, and they remain happily married.

Sujets

• Substance Abuse
• Self-help
• Addictions

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 16 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780983271369
• Langue: English

Extrait

A HOUSE INTERRUPTED
A Wife’s Story of Recovering from Her Husband’s Sex Addiction
 
 
MAURITA CORCORAN
 
 

Carefree, Arizona
 

Gentle Path Press
P.O. Box 3172
Carefree, Arizona 85377
www.gentlepath.com
 
Copyright © 2011 by Gentle Path Press
 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced, stored or entered into a retrieval system, transmitted, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise reproduced in any form by any mechanical or electronic means, without the prior written permission of the author, and Gentle Path Press, except for brief quotations used in articles and reviews.
 
Published in eBook format by Gentle Path Press
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 
For more information regarding our publications, please contact
Gentle Path Press at 1-800-708-1796 (toll-free U.S. only).
 
ISBN-13: 978-0-9832-7136-9
 
Book edited by Rebecca Post
Book designed by Serena Castillo
 
Author’s Note: Most names have been changed in this book to protect the confidentiality of the author ‘s family members, friends, and acquaintances in recovery. In some cases, real names have been used with the permission of those individuals. Certain circumstances and names of places have also been changed to preserve the privacy of people who appear in this book.
 

 
 
To my four children, the bright lights and great loves of my life. Miracles do happen and people can change.
 
And to my husband, you were right: Marrying you has been a wild ride. Thank you for your complete, unwavering support and patience throughout the writing of this project.
 
I love you more now than ever before.
 
 
Contents
Introduction
In August of 1997, my husband of fourteen years disclosed to me his addiction to sex. I had never heard of such an addiction and was completely blindsided by the double life he had been living—right behind my reasonably educated back. Hearing the truth about my marriage—rampant infidelity and other dark, sexual behaviors—was devastating, traumatic, and catapulted me into a journey of recovery. This was a journey of excruciating pain and difficult self-examination, but it eventually resulted in my rebirth as a new woman.
This book is based on the detailed journals I kept during the beginning years of my recovery. I tried to choose entries that paint an accurate picture of what it was like to learn the unthinkable and to walk through the deserts of grief, anger, resentment, self-pity, and victimization. I decided to keep the bulk of my journal entries raw and uncensored in form. If you are a wife or partner who is just learning about sex addiction, I want you to take comfort in realizing you are not alone on this path. Your feelings of shock, anger, and grief are normal.
Now for the good news. I want you to know that there will be eventual healing and a light at the end of the tunnel if you are willing to take the steps to heal yourself from betrayal. For me, my emotional recovery began after I got over the shock and trauma at what had happened to my marriage and I began looking at myself, my own choices and behaviors. I instinctively knew I had to ask myself the big question: What is up with me that I would marry a sex addict?
In the following pages you will learn about what happened to my life when I found out about my husband’s sexual addiction and my road back to a new-found spiritual and emotional recovery. My life today is proof that you do not have to stay broken when infidelity and sex addiction strike out at your heart. It is possible to reclaim your spirit and heal your soul.
Brace yourself. If you are the spouse or partner of a sex addict, the journey in facing the truth about your life can be arduous and painful. I can promise you that, at times, the healing process will be lonely. There will be times in your healing when only you alone can do the necessary work to move forward. No therapist, no minister, no friend, and no husband can walk with you.
Most of all, know and remember this: You are worth every bit of the effort that this process asks of you. You are worth the time it takes to recover your sanity, your balance on Earth, and your spirit so that you can be whole again.
 
 
Part One: Hell on Earth

 
 

Chapter One. The Set Up

My life took a dramatic, unimaginable turn after a phone call from my husband, fourteen years into our marriage. Before I get to that night, allow me to share with you my personal background and some early life experiences.
I was born and raised in Wellesley, Massachusetts, an affluent suburb west of Boston, home of Wellesley College for women. The first house I can remember was quite small. But the second house, on Abbott Road, was enormous with three stories, nineteen rooms, five bathrooms, six fireplaces, and a barn. The Wellesley Country Club was at the end of Abbott Road and across the street from Babson College. I spent a great deal of time at the country club while I was growing up, and my father spent every weekend for twenty years on that golf course. We were a large family, and I was the middle child with three sisters—two older, one younger—and a younger brother.
My first significant memories are of my father. I remember sitting on a bicycle at the top of our inclined driveway at our first house on Weston Road. I must have been four or five years old and so short that my feet didn’t quite reach the pedals. My father put me on the bike seat, gave me a little shove, and I pedaled. I ran smack into the garage door, fell over, got up, walked the bike back up the slight incline of our driveway, and my dad put me back on the seat so I could do the same thing over again. I learned to ride a bike in two days. My Dad was firm but gentle with me, encouraging me to try again after I steered the bicycle into the bushes, into the garage, or toppled it on the grass. I remember wanting so badly to be able to ride that bike, for me and for him. From a very early age, I always felt this intense need to get his attention, his approval, his love.
When my parents first bought the house on the hill on Abbott Road, my father called it the “the worst house in the nicest neighborhood.” The previous owners had let it go, and the vines that covered the row of second-story windows gave the house a look of being swallowed. It was so overgrown that that you could barely see the first two floors from the street.
In that neighborhood, we grew up surrounded by affluence in a truly beautiful area. Most of the families had many kids; the family across the street had ten children. My best friends—Nancy Arnot, Pam Pierson and Debbie Babson—all lived within four or five houses of each other on Abbott Road. At least six families on Abbott Road had a doctor as the head of the household.
My early feelings or thoughts of my mother are not as clear. My first real memory of her was some time after we moved to the Abbott road house. After dinner in the evenings, we would get together with the neighborhood kids to play baseball in one of two small neighborhood parks. One night they needed a pitcher and an older boy put me on the mound. When I pitched the first ball, a boy hit a ground ball, it bounced off my toe and into my face, breaking my nose. A big deal was made over it and I remember a day later, sitting in the surgeon’s waiting room, listening to my mother tell another person about my accident. She was animated and I remember a feeling of deep concern for my well-being—not necessarily love, but serious, honest concern. After my nose was reset, my sisters each took me into their classrooms for show and tell. I stood there with two black eyes and a bandage over my nose as the first and second graders stared up at me and listened to my sisters’ version of my accident.
My parents were hardworking. My father was dedicated to his growing insurance business, community service, and his lifelong passion for golf. What time he did seem to spend with us was usually focused on my brother, David, his only son. My mother was equally dedicated to keeping a beautiful home, raising well-rounded children, and pursuing her creative and artistic talents. She enjoyed creative pursuits, taking art classes or cooking classes, and she was always willing to try just about anything new to her.
We were Sunday churchgoers from day one until I went to high school. Because of those early years of Sunday Mass and Sunday School, I have always felt at home in the Catholic Church; however, I never did develop a deep spiritual connection to the Catholic faith. As soon as my parents stopped making Sunday Mass mandatory, I stopped going to church. By the time I left for college, my spiritual foundation was nonexistent.
I have come to learn that my family was quite different from how we must have appeared to onlookers. Inside that big house on the hill, we were strangers to one another, not able to connect with each other on an intimate, openly loving level. My siblings and I certainly had a lot of fun together growing up. Our house was always humming with activity, and I especially remember our high school years full of girlfriends and boyfriends, coming and going. On the outside we were happy and involved with a lot of after school functions, like cheerleading and other sports. But for the most part, we lived on the surface of our emotions, especially toward our parents.
My father ‘s business turned out to be a great success, so my parents were able to provide for all my financial needs. They were not, however, available to me on a deep emotional or spiritual level. I felt they never expected anything out of me except to go to college and get married. So that is exactly what I did.
By the time I was a freshman in college, I had started a pattern of allowing whomever I was dating to shape the path of my life. I didn’t realize it then, but I needed a man in my life to define me—I was not worthy enough in my own right. Because I f