Was My Affair a Vitamin or a Drug?

Four years sober from an addictive affair

“Hi, my name is kasey and I had an affair.”

I’ve often wondered if affair recovery meetings would begin this way. Would we all introduce ourselves like I’ve heard they do at AA meetings? Would we say our name and what we did?

And if affair recovery meetings do exist, would that be a good thing? Gathering people in a room together who’ve all had affairs seems like a roundabout way to meet the next one. We’re showing up there to recover but hey, we’re human.

Anyway, that’s not what this story is about. This is about my recovery from an addictive affair.

I’ve plastered stories all across medium about my affair. It’s what began my writing journey in the first place. I needed to process the why of what I did. I’ve written a lot about all the good the affair did for me.

It woke me up. It nudged me to face the truth of my marriage. It supplied a validating affirmation that I’m desirable to someone.

But what I haven’t talked about is my addiction to it.

I used to call my affair partner Vitamin D. His name started with a D and he provided a burst of sunshine in my life, so it was a fitting nickname. But was the relationship really a good thing? Was my affair a vitamin or a drug?

When I think about the language I used to let him know I wanted to see him, it raises that question. I’d text him with a simple message.

I need a hit of vitamin D.

Hmm.

I’ve never used drugs, but when I stop to consider the emotional roller coaster I rode during the affair it resembled the highs and lows I’ve heard users go through. I’d be high while we were together.

I’d be on cloud nine. Euphoric. Blissful.

The high would last for a few days then I’d start to come down. I’d begin to feel itchy. When will he call? When will I see him again? What’s he up to right now? Are we still good?

Doubts would overtake me and I’d feel myself crashing. I’d need another hit to lift me up again.

When it became clear that the relationship was going to end I was devastated. We stopped communicating and I went through a hard case of withdrawals.

I cried. I wailed. I shook. I writhed.

It was awful. At times, I struggled to get through the day.

My upper left me and he wasn’t coming back. I had to find a way to live without him.

During the first stage of this withdrawal process, I did several things to keep the relapses at bay. I deleted his number from my phone and unfriended him from all social media accounts. Like someone addicted to the bottle, I had to get rid of any possible temptation to reach for him.

At times I’d feel a relapse coming on. I’d hear a song on the radio — our song — and I’d crumble.

So I started listening to a Spanish radio station to eliminate hearing anything that might remind me of him. I joined meetup groups to begin widening my circle of friends and activities. I did lots of things to push him out of my mind.

But he still lingered there.

I fought the urge to contact him. As I struggled through the withdrawal of not having him in my life, my mind would circle through a series of whys.

Why couldn’t this work out? Why couldn’t he see how good we are together? Why did he feel so compelled to stay married to someone who didn’t appreciate him like I did?

Why was I once again not worth it?

I wrestled mightily with that last question and it became the crux of where my healing needed to begin. I left my marriage partially because I married someone who made me feel like I wasn’t worth it. Yet here I was again attaching myself to someone who ended up making me feel the same damn way.

I felt so alone in my pain.

So I started writing feverishly to work through it all. I wrote and I wrote. I posted. I shared. I spilled all of it out here.

Through writing and all that alone time, I learned I have some deep-set inner wounds in need of healing. My marriage created unhealthy ruts of feeling unworthy. The euphoric effects of the affair made me think the relationship with this guy was the solution to this problem. The notion that I needed him to feel better about myself became the bedrock of my addiction.

But here’s the thing about any addiction. The objects of our addictions are never the answers to healing those inner scars, yet we continue to reach for them because they numb the pain. The temporary high they provide feels better than doing the hard work of dealing with our wounds head-on.

Yet none of them solve the problem because the solution will never come from something outside of ourselves. It doesn’t live there. Doesn’t live in a bottle, in a needle, or in another person.

The only way to heal our wounds is to reckon with them. The balm for what ails us arises from a shift that must take place within ourselves.

So after all this wrestling and writing and reckoning, I came to a few conclusions. I’d been relying on others to determine my worth. But that’s backward thinking. I was trying to find my worth where it isn’t located. I was searching in all the wrong places. My worth isn’t determined by someone or something outside myself.

I determine it.

And that knowledge created the framework for how I allow myself to be treated and who I let into my life.

This marked the beginning of determining and defining my boundaries. They’re not just about saying no. They’re about standing firm on what I will and won’t tolerate. They’re about holding people accountable for their actions. They’re about noticing when someone repeatedly crosses them and then having the courage to break ties.

I’d like to say that coming to the realization was easy. I’d like to say it took a few months to get over the affair and figure all this out. But untangling my heart from its addictive power and the healing process that followed took much longer.

It took years.

In the end, I believe the affair was both a vitamin and a drug. It provided the spark to ignite a much-needed change. It prompted me to leave a marriage that for many years wasn’t working for me. The affair redirected my life.

But when I clung to him and believed he was the answer to my self-worth woes the relationship became as addictive as a drug.

Its ending pushed me to step into that ring of fire and burn down all the misconceptions deeply embedded in my head. It began my journey of healing. It pointed me in the right direction.

Back to myself.

kasey sparks, © 2023

Thank you for reading. To quote Ram Dass, “We’re all just walking each other home.” If you’d like to join me on the journey, click here.