So Now What?

Last Wednesday, my dad and mom came over and sat down in our front room, holding hands, and faced my husband and I for a serious talk.
My dad looked me in the eyes as he told me of his most recent behavior--while he hasn't relapsed or acted out with his previous pornography addiction (one I've known about since I was 18), he has been using avoidance behaviors at work, and so he has lost his job--a job that our whole family thought he loved and was remarkably good at, but one that it turns out he hated and avoided through Internet browsing.
Thankfully, he has a new job provided for him, but my parents aren't sure if the salary will be enough for them to pay the mortgage on the home we've had since I was a child, so although there have been many tender mercies, there will still be some pretty steep consequences for his behavior--consequences that will affect the entire family.
My stomach knotted as I watched him and my mom, looking at each other, and then hearing my mother softly cry in the background as my dad said something that struck me incredibly powerfully: "Your mother has always given me her entire self.  She has always let me see the good and the bad both, but because I was so ashamed to let her see what I saw as the worst parts of myself, I always tried to hide things from her, thinking it was because I was trying to become what I wanted to be.  In reality, I hid them because I was afraid. Since this last Sunday, I have decided to be completely and totally honest with her in every way.  I don't want to hide from her anymore."
At that moment, seeing my mom looking up at my dad with so much love and patience, rather than feeling angry with my dad for his irresponsible behavior, I was surprised to find that I was both sad and jealous.
I was jealous of the honesty they had, and I knew that that kind of honesty--that openness, was what I wanted in my own marriage.
And I didn't have it.
Afterwards, I let myself cry for as long as I wanted (I'm trying to learn how to emote rather than hold my feelings down--a habit that's harder than it sounds), and then my husband and I sat down and talked.
Surprisingly enough, we both came away with the same exact perspective--we each felt compassion and respect for my dad, and we both wanted that kind of honesty in our own marriage.  But we did nothing about it that night, and even though I had a few things come to mind that I felt I needed to share with him, I didn't have the courage to tell him out loud just yet.
So, the tension built.
And built.
And built.
We tried to keep things cheerful and positive for the kids, but I could feel the distance growing exponentially, and by Sunday night, when it came time for bed, I couldn't figure out how to sleep--the stranger in bed beside me felt so alien that I couldn't bring myself to sleep with him.  My gut kept screaming at me to get out, to escape, to get away.
So I did--for the first time in my married life, I voluntarily slept separately from my husband.  I grabbed a blanket and a pillow and slept on the couch, and the moment my head hit the pillow, I felt that peaceful feeling that always comes when I follow my instinct and find out that it was the right thing to do.
Sleep then came easily, and when I woke up the next morning, my worried husband was standing over me.
"What did I do?  Why were you sleeping in here?" I could see the hurt in his eyes--sleeping together is usually very important to both of us.
I was still too groggy to try to get into all of the details, so I gave a partial truth: "You were snoring."
He let it slide, still worried, and I felt the tension return immediately.  I had to tell him the truth, but I knew it would be hard with the kids up and awake--it wasn't a good time.
The lie I told wouldn't leave me alone, however.  It kept building and building, until finally, I had to let it all out before I burst.
"I lied." I spat.  I knew I sounded hard, angry, but he kept eye contact, never wavering.  I went on.  "Last night, I didn't sleep with you because I didn't feel close to you.  There's something keeping us apart.  And I can't figure it out.  I'm trying so hard to be honest, to communicate, but I'm being blocked."
I could see the tears welling up in his eyes, which softened my heart and lessened my frustration, just a bit.  I reached across the table and took his hand in mine.  "You are so important to me.  I want to make this work, but right now, I just can't.  And I don't know why."
Just then, Child #2 came in, whining about how Child #1 had taken his favorite superhero toy, and Child #3 followed him with her diaper trailing halfway down her leg, happily hugging her favorite doll.
He blinked the tears back, then squeezed my hand.  "Can we finish this conversation after the kids are down for naps?  I want to talk to you."
I nodded, wiping back my own tears, and we somehow got the kids through lunch and down for naps before we retreated to our room.
We sat down on the bed, where he proceeded to disclose something to me.  Something big--something that he had kept hidden from me since before we were married.
The amazing thing, though, was that I wasn't surprised--even as he began speaking, the Spirit whispered to me, letting me know what was coming, and I immediately had brought to my mind several instances where I had wondered, guessed, thought that perhaps, maybe?  And now that feeling--that inkling--was being validated.
I had known about it all along.
And as the man I loved more than life itself broke down sobbing, telling me something he had never told another living person before, through no virtue of my own, I was filled with complete and overwhelming love.  I LOVED him, perfectly, thoroughly, completely--and I had only compassion for him and relief that he was finally relieving himself of this burden.
I let him talk and cry, I cried with him through his pain, and then--silence.
Peaceful silence.
The truth was out, and it had set him free--to some extent.  Free from the worry that I would hate him for lying to me, free from the fear that I would leave him if I knew, free from the burden of such a secret to bear on his own.
But still not completely free.
We talked for a while longer, I shared all of the things that had come to my mind that I needed to be honest with him about, and then--
"Now what?" I asked.  "Do you want to talk to a counselor?  Our bishop?  Do you want to start recovery?"
"I dunno," he responded.  "It's taken me a full year to get up the courage to tell you.  Give me some time, okay?"
I felt that it was a reasonable request, so I agreed.
I know the anger, the betrayal, the trauma from being lied to for so long will hit me eventually.  I know it will, and I'm trying to be prepared for it--to experience it fully, to acknowledge it, to surrender it to God when it does come.  In the meantime, I'm trying to be patient as I wait for him to continue on the healing process in his own way and time.
For now, I finally know the truth.
But now what?