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My Story: I was married to a sex addict.

**Trigger Warning: My story will be told in a very honest and upfront manner. Please take caution if you are newly finding out about any betrayal.**

 

"Every man watches porn."

That’s what I was told after discovering an indecent photo on my ex-husband’s iPod.

When I confronted him, the shame and guilt were palpable. His face flushed red, his ears burned—so much so that I could have sworn I felt red too!

We hear this statement often in our society. Maybe it’s true for most. Maybe it’s considered “normal.”

But have we talked about the negative effects?

 

According to Fight The New Drug (https://fightthenewdrug.org/ )

 

most kids today are exposed to porn by age 13, with 84.4% of males and 57% of females ages 14-18 having viewed porn.

 

In my case, I learned that porn was a gateway for my ex-husband—leading from fetishes to paid escorts. What started as "just porn" became something much darker.

Porn addiction is becoming a bigger issue, yet it’s rarely discussed as openly as it should be. Have you ever noticed that when this topic comes up in public, you instinctively lower your voice? You check to see who’s listening.

Why is there so much shame and guilt surrounding this addiction? Why do we feel the need to “keep our voices down”?

No more. It’s time to raise awareness. Too many people are hurt by this addiction, and it’s time we start talking about it—loud and clear.

My story

is just one of many where a partner discovers betrayal. The effects are devastating and long-lasting.

In 2012, while dating my ex-husband, I had no idea he was already living a double life. The first moment I realized something was wrong is still vivid in my memory. I pulled up a photo and thought, Hmm, this looks odd. It looks like a picture, but it’s on a website. Something felt off. I had to go inside and confront him. That’s when I learned this wasn’t a typical porn site—it was a website filled with ads soliciting sex. As I processed what I was seeing, my emotions surged. Confusion. Panic. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. Then came his confession:

"I really don’t watch regular porn anymore. I enjoy looking at this because it’s more real. These are real people. Pornhub isn’t my go-to anymore." More questions flooded my mind, but I couldn’t even compile my thoughts—I just needed the anxiety to stop. I tried to comfort myself, tried to believe what he was telling me.

Then came the tears. "I promise I will never look at that again. I don’t need it anymore."

A sentence so many betrayed partners have heard—and believed.

 

We continued dating, and I continued falling for the man he so perfectly pretended to be.

Sex addiction is a compulsive sexual behavior that often fuels a cycle of lies, deception, and cover-ups—driven by the constant shame and guilt battling in the mind (Mayo Clinic). This explained so much. It explained how he became an expert at lying, how he could look me in the eyes and tell me exactly what I wanted to hear—protecting his secrets at all costs.

During this time, I fell in love with a man who seemed sweet, caring, funny, and noble. He was handsome and charming. I truly believed I would marry him one day.

 

"D-Day"

In recovery, we have a term called "D-Day"—our discovery date. It’s the moment we uncover the truth, the moment we realize the person we fell in love with isn’t who we thought they were.

In my story, I had over 20 D-Days during our dating period alone. Twenty times I caught him in the act. Twenty moments of heartbreak. I walked in on him—in the shower, in the bedroom, even in my parents' home.

It didn’t seem to matter how intimate we were; it was never enough.

But surely, marriage would fix this problem… right?

 

Looking back now, I wish I had paid closer attention to the red flags. But I’m happy to say I’ve grown so much since that relationship.

My ex-husband and I got engaged on Valentine’s Day 2014. During that time, we made a special promise—to remain celibate until our wedding night, believing it would make that moment even more meaningful.

And we did.

Correction: I remained celibate.

Not only was I celibate, but I was loyal.

 

Married

We were married on May 28th, 2016. Our family and friends gathered to celebrate with us, and our ceremony and reception couldn’t have been more perfect. Sure, there were a few hiccups during the wedding preparations, but at that moment, nothing else mattered.

I was ecstatic—I had a new husband, a fresh start, a future to look forward to.

But then came our wedding night.

Another D-Day.

 

We arrived at our beautiful destination, ready to settle in for the night. This was supposed to be a time of excitement, love, and connection—a memory to cherish forever.

Instead, it became a nightmare.

As I poured us some wine and admired the view, the mood shifted quickly. An argument erupted. I was supposed to be in lingerie—but I wasn’t. In the chaos of planning a wedding from states away, I had forgotten. And let’s be honest—how uncomfortable would that have been after such an exhausting day?

Looking back now, I realize the only way to end the argument and get to sleep was to give in to him sexually.

During our honeymoon, I felt guilty. I wanted to make my new husband happy, to make up for what he saw as a mistake. So, we went to Adam & Eve stores, where he picked out the outfits he preferred me to wear.

I was already experiencing trauma and fear. But somehow, I took the blame. I apologized—for not picking these things out myself before the wedding.

 

Worst D-Day

As I describe my worst D-Day yet, I want to make something clear: we define what is acceptable in our relationships. If it hurts you, it hurts you. That’s all that matters. No data, no research, no outside validation is needed.

By this time, we had been married for one year. That morning was completely normal—we both went to work as usual. But when I came home that evening, something felt off.

His car was already in the driveway. Strange, but nice—I thought it would be good to have him home early.

Then I walked inside.

The room was dark. Ominously dark. The only light came from the dim glow of our backyard. Somehow, even that small light made me feel slightly more at ease—though I wasn’t sure why.

My two cats sat in the living room with us, their eyes darting around, as if even they were confused by the heavy darkness surrounding us.

He waved me over to the couch and asked me to sit.

"I need to tell you something. It’s serious, and you may have questions. I just ask you to please wait until I’m finished."

I tried to swallow, but my throat refused to cooperate. My mind raced.

Oh my God… he lost his job. Someone died. He cheated.

I shifted in my seat, trying to brace myself. Then, I nodded.

I was ready to hear it.

Or at least, I thought I was.

"I have two types of STDs, but I did not cheat."

 

Again… why can’t I swallow?

My throat locked up. My mind spiraled. What did I do wrong? How did I cause this? More and more questions flooded in, drowning out reason.

Facing him, I managed to say, “I don’t understand.”

He looked at me, and for the first time, I truly felt like I was staring into the eyes of a stranger.

"I have a fetish with women’s undergarments and sanitary napkins."

Stomach.

My stomach twisted violently. The nausea hit instantly. The room spun around me. Before I knew it, I was running—to the bathroom, where I was sick.

When I returned, he hadn’t moved. He sat in the same position, his face now streaked with tears. A familiar sight. A reminder of the past D-Days—red-faced, ashamed, apologetic.

"I know this sounds insane, but it’s true. This is how I contracted the STDs. I used those items sexually to—"

I threw up my hand. “Stop.”

I knew what he meant. I didn’t need to hear the rest.

 

The Day After

The next morning, I went to urgent care—alone.

During check-in, I couldn’t speak. The words refused to leave my mouth.

A nurse handed me a piece of paper.

With trembling hands, I wrote:

"My husband has STDs. I’m still confused how. I think I do too…?"

To this day, I still shed tears over that moment.

I cry for that Stephanie—the one who was lost, uneducated, unsure of what to do next.

I cry for the Stephanie who had to face it alone.

 

"It's okay, it was not your fault, and you did not cause this."

 

This is a truth I tell myself as a reminder.

During my visit, I requested a full blood panel. The results confirmed what I had feared—I had STDs and pelvic inflammatory disease (Mayo Clinic).

I was horrified.

The staff was incredibly kind, doing their best to make me feel safe. The nurse practitioner sat down, held my hands, and gently explained:

"The only way to contract these infections is through intercourse."

I shook my head. No. That’s not true.

I pleaded with her, repeating what he had told me. I defended him. I told her how he got them, convinced she was wrong.

She looked at me with sympathy and repeated the same truth.

I wasn’t ready to hear it.

I wasn’t ready to accept this reality. I wasn’t ready for anyone to see him in a bad light. I wasn’t ready to face the facts.

I wasn’t ready.

When I got home, he asked how it went.

"See? Isn’t it great that it’s curable with a shot now?"

A huge smile spread across his face.

I forced myself to agree, nodding along, but asked for time to be alone.

At the time, I didn’t realize what was happening. I didn’t see the control, the manipulation. I didn’t recognize the love bombing—the expensive gifts, the grand gestures, the constant distractions—all carefully designed to keep me from truly processing what I had just learned. Not knowing any better, and desperately wanting this to disappear, I followed his lead.

I let myself be pulled into a world of distractions—a world where I willingly buried my head in the sand.

 

2018

Another year passed since that horrible night and the STD testing.

I had mastered the art of distraction, burying my emotions under a carefully constructed facade.

But something else had happened—something I never expected.

I was protecting his secrets, too.

I hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone about what had happened. Not to my best friend. Not to a soul.

There were moments when I wanted to cry out, to confess, to vent—but I couldn’t. It felt safer to pretend it wasn’t real.

Whenever my mind begged for an outlet, I shut it down.

I numbed myself with TV, junk food, shopping, and meaningless gifts from him—anything to drown out the truth.

 

Another heartbreak. Another discovery.

I was right.

He did cheat.

It wasn’t just porn. It was physical. It was real.

Anger. Shock. Sadness. Depression. Worthlessness. Confusion. Rage.

A flood of emotions consumed me.

Before my life shifted again, I was sitting in our home—watching TV, eating takeout—while he was supposed to be an hour away for work.

Then, the front door unlocked.

Panic shot through me. Who has a spare key?!

But then I saw him.

Standing there. Shame-faced. Guilty. The same look I had seen so many times before.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I faced him.

"You did cheat, didn’t you? With another person. You’ve been lying. You’ve been cheating. Right?"

Tears streamed down his face.

"You knew it the whole time," he choked out. "Why did you believe me? Why did you fight the NP last year?"

No denial.

I knew it.

My gut knew it.

My heart knew it.

He had been sleeping with other people.

"Why did you come back?" I asked. "Why drive an hour just to do this tonight? On a work night?"

He stood there, almost confused himself.

"I was in a hotel. I felt like I needed company. And… God was on my heart. I needed to tell you."

Then, his voice dropped.

"I also think we need to get tested for STDs again."

And just like that, I unraveled.

I fell into a traumatic spiral—asking all the questions.

"Where? When? Who? What did she look like? Smell like? How many? How often? Where did it happen?"

Every detail. Every graphic detail. I thought I needed to know.

But here’s what I’ve learned: DON’T DO THIS.

When you feel the urge to ask everything, do anything else instead.

Please. Self-care, self-care, self-care.

 

Thinking back now I always feel enraged, he tried to look holy and amazing, but the truth was: both times he had to tell me because his doctors made him. It was never because of his selfless personality. This time it was harder on me. It was the hardest moment of all the moments. I made him leave and asked him not to come back until I said. I am saying this next sentence because you ARE NOT ALONE. That night I struggled deeply. Please speak to someone. 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Dial: 988.

 

2019/2020

We had been trying.

Trying to attend church.
Trying to be more intimate.
Trying to watch things together.
Trying to talk more.

But my body and mind no longer felt safe enough to connect with him on a sexual level.

I felt horrible—about my self-image, about other women, about life in general.

Betrayal doesn’t just break your heart. It shatters your reality.

The everyday, the normal—all of it had been tainted.

Even the simplest tasks—going to the grocery store, the pool, the lake, pumping gas, shopping, scrolling online—now required preparation.

I found myself asking, "Do I really need food right now?" because even a trip to the store felt like too much.

It sounds strange, I know. But about 75% of the women I speak with daily confirm this new reality—this new lifestyle that was forced upon us.

Not every betrayed partner experiences this, but many of us know the daily battle of triggers.

Pre-betrayal, we could “run out real quick” to grab toothpaste.

Now? Even that requires thought. Bracing. Strength.

 

I was in complete shock.

Dr. Barbara Steffens, founder of APSATS (Association of Partners of Sex Addicts Trauma Specialists), speaks about how to support the betrayed spouse:

"We don’t put her in a co-dependent box. We respond to her pain and her hurt."

In another interview, Dr. Steffens discusses PTSD in betrayed partners—an unfortunate but common reality. If it’s not full-blown PTSD, many experience severe trauma symptoms.

A 2005 study found that 70% of betrayed women met all the criteria for PTSD.

To summarize Dr. Steffens:

Once the shock hits, our brain perceives it as a threat.

This fuels a trauma response. Our fight, flight, or freeze kicks in.

We become reactive.

We’re not overreacting—we’re responding to an earth-shattering betrayal that blindsided us.

We are not “crazy.” We are not “delusional.” We are not “insecure.”

We opened our hearts to someone who promised—to us, to our families—that they would love, protect, and forsake all others.

And they broke that promise.

Breaking Point

I have been in healing from partner betrayal trauma since.

The support group I attend is for women only, which is how I feel most comfortable.

I feel blessed and honored to be part of such a healing community.

One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is that we all have different breaking points. No one tells another what to do—whether to stay or leave, whether to rebuild or walk away.

Instead, we share our stories.

And the more you share, the more you heal.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve told my story, and each time, the sting lessens.

Now, I share not just for me—but in hopes that it inspires others to recover out loud.

 

My personal breaking point was late 2019/2020.

I discovered that he had been purchasing items from one particular woman across the country—having her mail things to his work. These were used items of all kinds.

One day, he sat down on our bed and admitted:

"I have been chatting with this other woman for two weeks. It's going well, and I don't think I can stop."

Another blow.

To my surprise, it hurt just as much as finding that photo in 2012.

But this time, something was different.

This time, I had concrete evidence.

As I scrolled through their messages, I saw familiar patterns—the same emojis, the same selfies, the same laughter he once shared with me.

It hurt.

He "tried" recovery for two weeks. He even "broke up" with this woman once.

Then, he came up with an idea…

 

"Maybe I can keep her as a girlfriend for just a short while, and we can see if we should work on our marriage."

 

I decided—he needed to leave.

He needed to get his own apartment—for good.

Deep down, I knew that once I said these words, I might never be with him again.

This was my breaking point.
My last straw.
This. Was. It.

I had had enough.

The most powerful moment of that day?

I begged and pleaded with God to save my husband.

But in the end, I quickly realized—

It was me who was saved.

I let go.

I read Psalm 35 until I felt soothed.

Then, with newfound strength, I looked at him and said—

"You need to leave."

And just like that, I reclaimed my home, my peace, and my future.

In the end

He had spent $2,500 on this person—just within the first two months of speaking with her.

He had moved across the country.

I uncovered more about the people he had acted out with.

I was diagnosed with PTSD and other disorders.

I had to endure ongoing STD testing.

I was financially unstable.

I carried the guilt of divorce.

I battled severe depression.

I had more unprepared disclosures than I ever could have imagined.

But now, I have a testimony.

I share my story with other women.

I have started coaching others.

I have learned self-care and discovered my self-worth.

I have become educated about sex addiction and partner betrayal trauma.

I have attended life-changing retreats and met incredible women who walk this journey alongside me.

But most of all—

I have grown. I have healed.

Healing is an ongoing choice, and I embrace it every single day.

And you know what?

I love the woman I am becoming.

 

Today

I remarried on March 10, 2023, to a man who is real, caring, loving, and committed to protecting me. Trust was not automatically given; he earned it. Before marriage, he voluntarily took and passed a polygraph following a full sexual history disclosure. This is part of our lifestyle, and if he ever needed one in return, I would take it without hesitation. To some, this may seem extreme, but for those of us who have experienced deep betrayal and trauma, safeguards like this provide necessary reassurance. We would rather trust an 85-93% accurate machine than risk trusting an addict again.

 

To the betrayer: 

If you’ve come across my story, please remember—your partner has their own story to tell. You have a choice. Recovery is possible, and you don’t have to continue living a double life. This kind of rupture causes deep pain for both you and your partner. Past trauma is not an excuse for 'hurt people to hurt people'—instead, it’s an opportunity to seek support and healing. How incredible that you have the power to choose recovery!

 

Thank You

For reading some of my story, as many other betrayed partners we have a lot more that is part of our story. I included the biggest pieces. You deserve to heal, too. I hope it gives you strength on your journey. 

© 2024 Coach Stephanie Lynn

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