I remember watching TV when I was about seven or eight and seeing what must have been an after school special in which a character stopped drinking alcohol and got “the DTs.” His eyes bulged in panic as he tried to swat invisible bugs from his arms. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, and it made me anxious. My father explained that when people drink a lot for a long time and then stop suddenly, they can have hallucinations. And that was my first lesson in withdrawal (see, who said TV doesn’t teach you anything).

When my husband went through withdrawal, he wasn’t coming off alcohol and it didn’t look like what I had seen on TV, except that it was just as frightening. In fact, it seems strange to say that someone can experience withdrawal from sex addiction at all, because sex isn’t a chemical one ingests. Yet, one of the hallmarks of addiction is withdrawal, and sex addiction is no exception. When my husband started recovery, after years of using sexual behavior to alter his moods, he stopped all sexual activities outside of our relationship, including porn and masturbation, and with that, his happy flow of brain chemicals stopped and withdrawal started.

I was in our living room one day early in his recovery. It was summer. The sun was shining through the window and a few tiny flies buzzed lazily against the screen. Mark saw the flies and started to panic.

“Where are they coming from? These flies. Where are they coming from?”

“I don’t know. There do seem to be a lot of them around lately.”

“They’re everywhere. I killed them yesterday, but there are more today. The flies just keep coming and coming. They never stop. Where are they coming from? Why won’t they stop?” his voice was getting increasingly panicky and I was starting to get frightened.

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Flies come from dead things. There’s death everywhere. It’s me. Death is following me. I’m surrounded by death. They’re coming for me. The flies are here for me. Why won’t they leave me alone?” His eyes darted around the room as he talked.

“Honey, you’re really scaring me,” I said, “I think you need to call your therapist.”

“I’m scared too.” He started sobbing. “I’m going to lie down and then I’ll call.”

He left the room, still muttering to himself about the flies, and I felt panicked. I sat on the sofa and cried into my hands. Who was this man ranting about flies? Had he lost his mind? Was I safe? Was he safe? I was frightened to check on him, frightened not to.

But before long I heard him on the phone, and shortly after he emerged from the bedroom. “How are you feeling? Did you talk to your therapist?” I asked.

“Better,” he said, “and yes, I called. She said that I’m going through a lot of changes now, that when you have behaviors that are with you your whole life and you suddenly stop, it’s hard for your body and mind to handle that change. She said the transition is going to be rough. She said…”

“It’s withdrawal,” I finished, and I wanted to smack myself for having been so blind.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m so scared, baby.”

“I’m scared too,” I said, as I rested my head on his chest and let the tears soak his shirt.

“We’ll get through this. I know we’ll get through this. We’ll get though this,” he said. Whether that was to reassure himself or me, I don’t know, but I know we did get through it. That initial craziness faded, the flies disappeared, and we’re still here, working.