As a child, she was in a dentist's office playing in the toybox one day, waiting for her appointment, when she found a Playboy. That's right; some sicko had left a Playboy in a toybox at a dentist office. She began to leaf through it, and many of those pictures made her feel very funny.

A few years later, she was at a sleepover with a friend when her friend decided to show her a stack of her father's Penthouse magazines. She began leafing through these, too, and those funny feelings returned.

As a teen, though, she experienced some pretty awful things with sex. She was date raped, and she never told anybody. Nothing "bad" happened from it; she wasn't pregnant, she had no STD. So she decided just to put it behind her. She was a Christian, and she wanted to forgive the boy, so she did. Forgive and forget, as they say.

In her mid-twenties she married a wonderful Christian man who was involved in the ministry. They had great fun making out before they were married, and she often found herself quite breathless, but they never did any heavy petting or anything else. Then, on her wedding night, she froze. She wanted him to love her without needing sex. She was afraid that it was too much like the date rape, where he needed something from her and he just took it.

She didn't want to. Her whole body froze up, and it was as if she wasn't even part of her body anymore. And it really hurt!

(This seemed to be a common theme in the emails; sex hurt or was rather uncomfortable. There's a condition for this called vaginismus, when the muscles at the beginning of the vagina tense during sex and won't relax, so that sex becomes very painful, if it can be completed at all).

Over time, wanting to please her husband, she did have sex with him. Quite a bit. But she didn't enjoy it, and she found herself trying to think of anything BUT sex in order to get through it. It was almost as if she left her body and was trying not to think of what was going on.

After a few years she felt like a freak. Everybody else was enjoying sex, but she saw it as a chore, as just something to get through. She didn't like it. It didn't hurt as much as it used to, but it was still uncomfortable. Surely she was capable of enjoying sex, wasn't she?

And that's when the pictures started to come back. She remembered all those magazines she had seen, and remembered that they had made her feel aroused. She did some research on the internet about this, and found some inappropriate sites. And soon she had a whole bunch more pictures in her head to go along with the ones from her childhood.

Now, the next time she had sex, she started thinking of those pictures. She found herself getting aroused. And she finally felt like she wasn't a freak! Her husband was happy because she was enjoying it. But the problem was she was still separate from her body. She still wasn't actually present during sex. She still was "running away" in her mind from what was going on. Yes, her body was responding, but it was because of something she was doing, not something he was doing. And over the years she got better at it. And he didn't know. He thought he was a good lover. But how could she stop now, because then he would know that everything, up until now, had been a lie?

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I love a man in a suit. He looks like he takes himself seriously. He looks powerful. He respects himself, and he respects those he’s with. And if he lets his wife choose his tie, he’s likely colour-coordinated, too.

Few wear a suit these days, and perhaps it’s just as well given the cost of dry cleaning. But until relatively recently suits were commonplace. All self-respecting men donned them, and usually topped it off with a fashionable hat. Pore over pictures of the Great Depression, and you frequently see men, in three piece suits, sitting around playing checkers. Even the poorest owned a suit. Come to think of it, so did gangsters. I guess they figured if you work for Al Capone and you have to take somebody out, you may as well do it in style.

These days suits are passé. Executives and politicians may don them, but we’re a little suspicious of those who seem overly successful. Instead, most of us don’t care about formality anymore; we care about comfort.

Now I have nothing against comfort. In fact, I’m rather attached to my denims. I’m just wondering what happened over the last few decades. T-shirts and camisoles were once underwear, not outerwear. People dressed to show they took pride in themselves. Today, with jeans hanging below one’s nether-regions and bra straps revealing more than they should, it’s hard to see the pride. Maybe it’s there, buried underneath the metal studs, but I’m not catching the vibes.

Clothes aren’t the only thing we’ve sacrificed on the altar of informality. People once called each other “Sir” and “Ma’am”, or they at least addressed each other by last names, like Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They wrote thank you cards. Clerks believed in customer service, not in lurking in the automotive department playing on your iPod touch in case somebody might need help in toys.

Teachers dressed formally and expected compliance, even if the kids didn’t like it. Today the emphasis is on making learning fun. And students learn best when they’re comfortable, so the theory goes.

What about family dinners? For most families, dinnertime was a ritual. One child would set the table, and another would clear. You waited until everyone was seated to dig in. You passed the salt. Today many families heat up dinners in the microwave and collapse in front of the TV or computer.

I’m turning forty this year, so perhaps I’m becoming even more of a curmudgeon than usual. But I think a little bit of discomfort and a little more pride may be a good thing. We don’t have to go overboard; after all, I spent several years avoiding some relatives at family reunions because I had forgotten to write thank you cards, and I was mortified that they may remember the infraction. One of my worst clothing memories is of serving as a bridesmaid in a wedding on a day that made hell feel like a cool breeze. I had the good fortune of wearing a short-sleeve dress. The men wore wool suits—complete with vests. I spent the entire service staring into my husband’s sweaty face, willing him, and the other ushers, not to faint.

Nevertheless, I wonder what it says about us as a culture when our highest virtue is not working hard, or respecting ourselves, or taking pride in our accomplishments; it’s instead living a life when we do whatever we want, however we want to, as long as we don’t have to exert any extra effort. Even gangsters took pride in their work way back when. Surely we can again, too?

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I am writing this letter reluctantly. I have hope to offer those in the middle of despair, so I will write, but the heart that was broken wants nothing more than to hide the shame and fear and hurt in a corner.

For nine years, there was something between us. Our sex life was a disappointment. My husband could be cold and distant. There was a look that came over his face sometimes that I can't explain. It wasn't a loving look. My husband had a self-centeredness that left me stranded in the worst possible moments--in the labor and delivery room, in the hospital with a life threatening illness. I tried to reconcile this side of him with his good qualities and dismissed it as a possible biological quirk--a mild form of autism perhaps.

It was an uneasy marriage but it worked. We had children. We functioned. Then my husband went on a retreat.

From the first the retreat bore fruit--my husband began to initiate prayer. He discussed God and the church without hesitation for the first time. He began to take the lead in our spiritual life.

At the same time there was something ugly rising up under the surface. He started flirting outright. I knew he flirted when I wasn't with him and resented it. I tried to dismiss this behavior as less than insulting, but it was getting worse. Finally, after a wink at a waitress sent her off to find another person to wait on our family, I pleaded with him to stop and show me more respect.

Our arguments became fights. Our sex life dried up completely, but before it did, I began to feel as if I were nothing but a tool for his masturbation. He wouldn't even look at me.

Then last summer at a pool party, I had to leave my husband in the pool to supervise our two oldest children (ages 3 and 5) while I got the younger two warmed up. My husband stopped watching our children and engaged in (and probably instigated) an inappropriate teenage game that involved the boys putting the girls on their shoulders. He put our children at risk of death and other people's children in the way of temptation. My heart was nearly stopped. The ensuing fight could have been epic, but I was so scared, so aghast, so much in shock at what could have happened to our babies, I prayed. I prayed desperately.

We discussed it seriously and quietly. That night, long into the night, he confessed everything: the porn, the opportunities he had availed himself of that stopped short of sex, but were a betrayal of our vows nonetheless. Within days of these revelations, we had plans to separate. When I called a friend to inform her, she stopped me dead with a question.

"He's addicted to porn, isn't he?"

She proceeded to describe things that were secret and wrong in my marriage--his selfishness, his disconnectedness, his immaturity, his indifference and disgust towards me--and I'd never shared any of this with anyone. How could she know? These are the things in common with men who have suffered long term pornography addictions. Like a drug addiction, it stunts their brains and warps their perceptions.

I will tell you what she told me: "This is not a fight YOU can win because this battle is not between you and your husband, but between good and evil. Satan is fighting for his soul. You let God wage this war. You pray, you fast, and even if you do wind up separating, remember that the job you signed up for on the altar when you said, 'I do" is to get that man into heaven. Don't ever stop praying.'" She is the best friend a woman could ask for. When I was sad, she comforted me. When I was petty, she rebuked me. When I couldn't go on another step in the pain and humiliation, like Simon, she shared my burden and walked with me.

My marriage would not have survived without her and her husband mentoring us both.

Like most illnesses, physical or spiritual, it got worse before it got better. Although he gave up the porn, we were brought very low. We had nine years to resort and reshuffle and redo. For the most part, thanks to my friend and her husband and thanks be to God, I behaved well throughout all of this. My husband did as best he could. Then, at the end of my rope, these two friends practically signed us up for a Retrouvaille Weekend.

Days before the weekend, a miracle happened: my husband made a decision. He put God first in his life, and then he finally and for the first time, trusted me with his heart, too. That miracle was continued through the Weekend where another miracle occurred--I began to hope.

Nearly a year later, we are still struggling, of course. The difference being that now we are yoked and pulling side by side. The good qualities of my husband have come to the fore. He has become a prayerful man.

I'll never know what instigated this healing in our marriage. I only know that the first steps were taken by my husband at that retreat he went on so many months before this wound in his soul festered and broke. He let God begin His work in him then. He is still working even now.

If any of this sounds familiar, hang in there. Pray. I will be praying, too.

Sincerely,
Your sister in Christ

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Human beings, in general, hate statistics. It’s not just because we fear that 69.4% of stats are made up on the spot; it’s because whenever we hear that cigarette smoke causes lung cancer, we think of Uncle Jim Bob who smoked two packs every day of his life until he keeled over at 102 from a bad case of indigestion. Those researchers obviously don’t know what they’re talking about!

Well, yes. And no. Statistics are very good at telling us about the general. They tell us nothing at all about the specific. Whenever we hear that marriage, for instance, tends to make one happier, we think of our best friend who has become a mouse since her wedding because her husband berates her constantly. But just because you can think of an exception doesn’t invalidate the study.

Statistics are only supposed to point to trends, and those trends are real, so it’s worth listening to their warnings. Waiting until you’re 37 or 38 to start having children, for instance, can lead to a lot of heartbreak. It’s just harder to get pregnant in your late thirties than it is in your late twenties. But that doesn’t mean it won’t work for you; just that you should be aware of the risk, and decide accordingly. Similarly, studies tell us that staying married for the kids, even if you aren’t happy, is still better for the kids than if you split up. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean that your particular kids will do better, or that you should stay with a serial adulterer. But ignoring the stats just because you don’t like them can be awfully stupid. I remember talking to someone close to me who was about to ditch her husband to move in with her lover. “What about your kids?” I asked. She laughed it off. “They’ll be fine. They’re good kids.” I would have none of it. “I was a good kid, too, and I wasn’t fine.” I wish in retrospect she had listened to me. Society would be much better off if more people heeded those warnings.

While studies should warn us, though, they don’t need to limit us. After all, if I lived my life solely according to statistics, I shouldn’t be happily married with two great kids and a good education. I should have married someone distant, if I married at all, and ended up with a lot more chaos in my life. Children who grow up without fathers tend to end up in worse shape than those who grow up with fathers, and girls who grow up with abusive or absent fathers tend to marry abusive or distant men. Learning these facts early helped me to make much better choices about whom I dated, knowing that I’d probably initially be drawn to the wrong people!

Statistics can warn us, then, but anybody can buck a trend. You can decide not to be a statistic. You can decide to be that high school dropout single mom who works hard to complete her education and succeed. You can be that child who grew up in an abusive home who chooses your spouse well and then works hard at making your family stay together. You can be the child of a teen mother who decides not to repeat the pattern.

So next time you hear a statistic that rubs you the wrong way, take a deep breath and ask yourself, “Is there a warning in there for me? Should I change course?” And if you decide to plow ahead anyway, then at least you know the danger spots.

Labels: columns, divorce