When I found out about my husband’s sex addiction, I spent weeks ripping every last Who and Where and What and How Often out of him. While he was at work, I’d make lists of questions and then keep him up late into the night interrogating him like a CIA agent would a terrorism suspect during the Bush administration. (And if I had known about water boarding, believe me, I would have used it.) We didn’t have the support of a therapist or a group during this process. I discovered the sex addiction and attacked like a wild animal. I was either going to savage out what I needed or I was going to leave. So, we looked for support as I held onto his neck by my teeth, growling.

Mark was a wily subject, and I spent hours in frustration trying to determine precisely the right wording for my questions. I found that he was more skilled at finding loopholes than the most highly paid lawyer. I couldn’t ask a question like, “Did you kiss Sue?” I would have to say, “The questions I am about to ask you refer to Susan Benson who worked at Widget Co. with you from 1998-2000 in the role of company receptionist and who will be referred to for the remainder of this session as “Sue.” Did either your upper or lower lip, your tongue, teeth or any adjoining part of your face touch any part of Sue’s body including, but not limited to her hair, teeth, toenails, fingernails, skin, lips, etc… Please note that the answer will still be yes if your lips touched any item or substance placed over Sue’s body, again including but not limited to paper, food items, cloth, bed sheets, the salad stuck in your teeth, scarves, shirts, blouses, bras, panties or other items of clothing belonging to either of you.”

I kept at it (for a time) because I believed that somehow, if I had The Facts, I would know The Truth. I’d be able to pin it down like a butterfly and spend my life examining it under a microscope. I’d be able to see what it was I had missed and how I missed it. And I’d be able to break the chain of secrets that kept him intimately linked to the women he’d acted out with. In the end, I collapsed in exhaustion, with enough to satisfy me that more was not going to help. I could see that from here, I had to find a way to a truth that went beyond the details — a journey I expect to continue for the rest of my life.

I later found out there is a name for this sharing of information early in recovery: disclosure. It can be an important and beneficial part of rebuilding trust within the relationship, although I’ve also learned that the method by which I attained went about it is, ahem, not recommended. (Therapists say, “Kids, don’t try this at home.” Oh, and they don’t endorse torture either. Go figure.)