First, the porn.

A friend of mine, who happened to be a heavy-hitter Microsoft programmer guy, once told me with unequivocal certainty, “90% of the computers I work on have porn on them.”

I argued that point vehemently. “I don’t believe that for a second. 90%?! I know men who aren’t into that at all. I guarantee you, it’s NOT 90%.”

“Yes-it-is. I’m telling you. 90%”

Looking back, I had no idea why I argued so intensely, why I was so very convinced that fact couldn’t be right. “90%” of anything is–in my mind–hyperbole. A made-up number for the sake of debate.

I think I rejected the notion of 90% porn as an emotional reaction. If it were true, then it would suggest Dean was incapable of self-restraint.

The existence of porn in a marriage can be healthy for some, or a non-issue for others. For us, its presence signified deceit in its benign form, but insidiousness at its most extreme.

The first time, I came home early from an errand and walked in on him printing out an enlarged, grossly graphic image. Why did it shatter me?

Because in the dynamic of our marriage, Dean held himself beyond reproach. Between us, he was the moral judge; I was the unruly, irresponsible, selfish girl who could do nothing right, as not a day went by he didn’t fuss at me or scorn me for one infraction or another:

…I wasn’t mixing the fruit juice right, I talked too much about any one subject, I was trying to get attention with my funky clothes, he couldn’t stand the music I sang along to, the restaurants I picked were stupid, I had no right to ask him for help, I had no right to ask him where he was going or when he was coming back.

The daily objective was to be good enough for Dean. Be quiet, be adaptive, ask for nothing, be self-sufficient, unemotional, but I better not try to express myself, exercise choice, or worst of all, question him.

Because Dean was trustworthy, responsible, sober-minded, loyal… and I was not. At least that was the unspoken “understanding” between us.

So when I walked in on Dean printing out a blown-up money-shot, an old scratch inside me tore into a hole. Like discovering your pastor’s been sleeping with the choir director. Suddenly, your church isn’t the church you thought it was. —Or in my case, the balanced law of love was actually skewed and corrupted.

We fought. But my fury didn’t come from a sense of betrayal, but a firepit of injustice.

He said it was nothing. He was bored and curious. He didn’t need porn “the way I thought he did.”

Then it happened again. I left for work, forgot something at home, walked back in the house three minutes after I left, and found him at the computer again.  Same argument. Again, he said he was bored and didn’t need porn—his words.

~~~

God, I don’t know how many times that happened—walking in on him or some videos or images falling into my lap, slapping me in the face every time.

I developed a fear of coming home unannounced for any reason, like I was violating his space. Always, always afraid of what I’d see, the painful, awkward encounter followed by the unbearable burden of having to somehow sand the edges off whatever he told me in order to make it fit into a shape I could bear without resentment or distrust.

Over time, I think I created a mental landfill where I buried these things. Like pouring toxic waste into the pond at the back of your property.

Porn. 90%. Okay.

But damn me to hell…. One day, it wasn’t just porn anymore. Why couldn’t it be? Why me? Why him? Why did I have to learn anything worse?