One day, early in his recovery work around sex addiction, Mark and I were standing in line at the grocery store, when I commented on a headline on one of the news magazines. “I can’t look,” Mark said.

“What?”

“It’s not good for me. Those magazine and tabloid covers are awful. I hate the grocery store checkout. There’s no place I can safely look.”

I hadn’t thought about it before, at least not in terms of recovery. Most of the magazines were insipid and pandered to the worst in people, but when I wasn’t tuning them out, I was mocking them. I never thought of them as particularly worrisome or hurtful, at least not to me, since I wasn’t threatened by (or aspiring to be) anyone who might be on the cover. But that changed as soon as the first sex scandal hit the shelves (which, of course, didn’t take long).

There would be pictures on the tabloid covers of the injured spouse, shell shocked or shying away from cameras. And it would remind me of that very first day after disclosure when Mark and I drove to a friend’s house to drop our son Austen off while we went to meet with a therapist. I stood next to the car, wearing sunglasses to hide eyes that were nearly swollen shut with crying, and waved to them while Mark walked Austen into the house because I knew I couldn’t speak coherently to anyone right then.

There would be the insinuations that it was somehow partly her fault and the implication that she did something wrong: that she wasn’t sexy enough or was too cold or too demanding. (And of course, there would be Cosmo right on the next rack with sex and beauty tips to make sure you wouldn’t make the same mistake.) I’d stand in line wanting to scream, “I did EVERYTHING to make my husband happy, and he hurt me anyway. It’s not my fault that my husband lied rather than deal directly with his problems. And it’s not her fault that her husband lied either.” I suddenly became a huge fan and staunch defender of Jennifer Aniston, whom I’d never particularly cared for before.

There would be criticism for her anger or her lack of it. And I’d think of how I’d hit Mark until the thought it was making him feel better made me stop. And how I stumbled through the following days and weeks with no real thought, blindly and automatically following some formula that was set before me for what I needed to do, waiting for the hurt to stop.

Then there would also be the picture of the mistress, always looking sultry, scantily clad and completely unrepentant (in fact often stating that she was unrepentant). And I’d think of the women who had contributed to my pain and the near destruction of my marriage with white hot rage and hatred in my heart. I’d feel betrayed by them as much as by my husband, and I’d spin into fantasies about how to inflict the kind of pain upon them that they’d inflicted on me. Sometimes I’d skim the news magazines looking hopefully for their names among the victims of terrorist attacks.

And of course, there would be the husbands, sometimes with wicked grins as they left their wives for the other woman and sometimes sorrowfully begging forgiveness in an attempt to save their images, their careers, their marriages. And I’d feel the same mix of anger and confusion and pity that my own husband inspired in me at the time.

And even when there were no sex scandals, it was still all about how I ought to do my makeup or wear my clothes or eat or cook or weigh or act in bed to ensure that what had happened to me wouldn’t happen to me. And I could only stand there knowing I’d done it all and it hadn’t protected me from the same pain that periodically splashed across the tabloid covers.

The supermarket checkout line became a gamut I had to run rather than a fun distraction from the boredom of waiting in line. I started averting my eyes just the way Mark did. I ordered more food deliveries and spent more time shopping at specialty stores that didn’t stock the usual mix of gossip rags and “women’s” magazines.

Six years in to recovery, the magazines aren’t the same trigger for me that they used to be and I see the players in the drama a little differently, with less (but not always no) anger and more sympathy all around. I don’t avoid the grocery store and I don’t generally avert my eyes from the news magazines just because Cosmo or the Enquirer are up there being all awful. But I still don’t seek them out when there is a sex scandal, because, especially if I’m tired or hungry or stressed, I know I’m prone to fall back into old thought patterns and I may not be above the temptation to take up a Sharpie and ink out some of the teeth on Tiger Woods’ mistresses.