The Evolution of Intimacy : A Personal Story: Hope for Adult Children of Alcoholics And others in Dysfunctional Relationships

By Karren Kae Kearney

Life is one small unexpected journey at a time moving us towards a destiny we could never imagine. The Evolution of Intimacy : A Personal Story is one such journey, The book is an account of taking a leap of faith, with a chance online meeting on a dating site in October, and moving in together in December having only met once. The book details the results of following one's intuition and heart, and moving over three hundred miles to create a new life. It's a story showing how, against all odds, faith and trust changed the fate of two unsuspecting people. It touches on difficult issues of love, marriages, divorces, death, adult children, his and hers, ex-spouses, couples counseling, health, finances and everything in between. The book offers hope, insights and inspiration for anyone struggling with or in a dysfunctional relationship, or was raised in an alcoholic environment, or is an alcoholic, an addict, a compulsive over-eater, or food addict , a sex and love addict, co-dependent, or in a relationship with anyone with an addictions or mental illness. I hope you find the story as inspirational as I did living it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642376241

Book preview

Terms

Introduction

If you find no one to support you on the spiritual path, walk alone. There is no companionship with the immature.

—Buddha

IT’S BEEN ALMOST ten years since my first book The Unseen Side of Me/A Journey from Disgrace to Grace was published. It recounts my personal recovery from what the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous calls a ‘Hopeless state of mind and body,’ and includes experiences of dealing with compulsive overeating, and food addiction, co-dependency, and sex and love addiction. Growing up as the adult child of an alcoholic mother and maternal grandmother earned me a seat in Al-anon and Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA), while dealing with my own alcoholism and recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous. My recovery developed while employed as a Licensed Vocational Nurse, working in mental health, and later as a Registered Addiction Specialist. I am now retired; unfortunately we never retire from working a 12-step program.

There never were any expectations regarding the publication of my first book, other than putting my story in print to help those suffering from a variety of addictions. I wanted to write a book to assist professionals in the field of addiction and co-dependency in the hope of giving them a more comprehensive understanding of those of us who suffer from multiple addictions, and work in the field of addiction as well. In my first book I coined the term Multiple Dissociate Addictive Disorder in an attempt to understand why I kept switching addictions. It is by no means a scientific or medical diagnosis. The important thing to remember is there is no cure for any addiction, only treatment. For me, after thirty-two years of recovery, the Spiritual Solution has been the only thing that continues to work.

If you are an alcoholic, drug addict, compulsive overeater, food addict, compulsive gambler, co-dependent, or raised in an alcoholic, military, or strictly religious family, or work in the field of addictions, this new book may be of some help to you. The story is personal and includes my honest account of living with and recovering from multiple addictions and comes from the perspective of a retired Registered Addiction Specialist. My recovery started in Overeaters Anonymous in 1986. After a few years of recovery my therapist recommended attending Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Seven years later I switched to alcohol and started attending Alcoholics Anonymous. I currently have twenty years sobriety, and am a double winner, being a grateful member of Al-Anon for over thirty-two years as well.

One of the things that kept coming up with each addiction, and 12-step fellowship was my inability to have close, intimate relationships. As a Registered Addiction Specialist, and a 12-step sponsor to others I saw the same issues. I saw so many drink, use drugs, or eat food compulsively because of the things that were eating at them. It usually ended being their inability to communicate their needs to others that got in the way.

My experience has been on any given day I was—and am—just as susceptible to relapse as my clients. As I grew in recovery in OA it became clear to me that food addiction and addiction to sugar and flour were issues for me. Over the years I’ve had experience with Food Addicts Anonymous, Food Addicts in Recovery, Overeater Anonymous, and H.O.W. They all were equally helpful to me at different times of my life. Compulsive eating and food addiction are complicated illnesses because one can’t just give up food. Whether a person is overweight, underweight or normal weight, what all food addicts suffer from is an unhealthy relationship with food, and/or a distorted body image. The spiritual awakening that came about by working the 12-steps is what healed me. The 12-step fellowships were the last house on the block for my eating disorder. They helped, whereas the three major professional weight loss programs, where thousands of dollars were spent, and a gastric bypass surgery, were of no help to me at all. There have been many people supporting me on my path of recovery. Some of them walked ahead of me, while others walked beside or behind me. Then there were those unable, in spite of my desire, or theirs, to walk with me. These wonderful people were released to the God of their own understanding.

This present book continues my journey from where my first book ended. It describes my continuing recovery in 12-step programs, and my personal spiritual journey. The story begins with me moving to Santa Rosa, California, to marry my third husband, Patrick, in 2004, and chronicles our 12-step journey together. In my first book he’s called ‘PC’, an acronym for ‘Private Case’, a reference to a book he wrote and published in 1981. In the middle of a co-dependent slip, based on fear of losing the connection to my family of origin, I gave into their demands that their real names would be withheld, except for my own. There were no such agreements with this book. We are only as sick as our secrets. I will no longer be responsible for others’ truths. Denial is the number one killer of all addicts. This new book is about healing from all my addictions, and how it’s possible to live without co-dependency destroying your life. Many life changes have taken place over the last fourteen years, and there were slips along the way, but real love, and the forever presence of a loving God, won out.

The book explores what it’s like to remain abstinent with alcohol, food, free from co-dependency and sex and love addiction while developing a close, intimate relationship with the person who chose to walk beside me on my path of enlightenment. Most addicts have a fear of authentic intimacy. The word intimacy means in-to-me-see. To let another person see who you are takes courage and patience. This book also details the changes and losses in our lives, and the grief that followed. In the end it’s about hope. If someone like me at the age of fifty-nine, when I met Patrick, can find unconditional love and live free from all addictions, then it’s possible for anyone.

My current husband has been walking this path of recovery with me for fourteen years now, and joined the path himself a few years after we were married by becoming a member of Al-Anon. I am grateful, amazed and hopeful. He deserves recovery and love as well, and without his love and willingness to do the work with me—coupled with our sense of humor—there wouldn’t be a marriage. He is the best cheerleader one could have ever hoped for to walk on this path to a better, more loving and lived life.

—Karren Kearney

Chapter 1

Santa Rosa

Racing towards a finish line that doesn’t exist

In a suit of armor that didn’t quite fit

Rescuing lost souls, for God Almighty Lord

Such an unlikely endeavor for this former whore.

IN OCTOBER OF 2004 I had a 3 p.m. appointment at Wasco State Prison, a thirty mile drive from my home in Bakersfield, California. Testifying before the California State Prison Parole Board can be scary. In spite of my anger and fear at the prospect of giving a statement at my second husband’s parole board hearing, it had been made clear that he’d walk without my testimony. Answering questions, being interrogated, and sharing the same space in a small room with him nauseated me. He had violated his parole by committing spousal abuse against me, and reliving that night wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. I no longer felt the need to rescue lost souls or give false testimony.

The intake officer at the front desk treated me better than the officers in charge of visitors. I went through security at a faster pace than the visitors as well. A large African American female correction officer led me down a small hallway and into a brightly lit room. Two men and a woman, all Caucasian, sat behind a large desk. The officer told me to take a seat at a smaller desk facing the parole board. An empty chair identical to mine sat across from me, parallel to the larger table. I imagined Russell, my second husband, might occupy the empty chair soon. The three members of the parole board busied themselves shuffling papers. Their preoccupation and avoidance of me gave me plenty of time to nervously check out the rest of the room. This didn’t take long because the room was sparse; four white walls, bright lights, and it appeared to be the size of my master bathroom. The noise of keys in a door, and the chatter and laughter of an all too familiar voice startled me.

It didn’t take long for the real Russell to show up once the questioning began. His smirking, wild gestures, and outbursts, trying to convince the parole board of his innocence sickened and angered me. Although already handcuffed, his shenanigans became so disruptive the chairman of the parole board threatened to have him gagged as well. Instead, they had me turn my chair around to face the door of the room so I didn’t have to look at him; unfortunately a tinted window next to the door reflected him at his worst. In the end the verdict didn’t surprise me. They gave him a year in prison along with a restraining order not to contact me, or his sentence could double.

I turned the music up on the car radio in the hope of drowning out the echoes of his voice still ringing in my head. If only an eleven year relationship could be erased that easily. We’d met in October of 1993 at a local bar and he’d moved in three days later. We were married on Valentine’s Day 1996 at the Circus Circus casino, Las Vegas, on a 175 foot bungee jump with our ankles tied together; after saying our vows, we fell backwards, heading straight for the swimming pool below.

He’d just completed an eighteen month prison sentence for spousal abuse on me and had been out of prison three days. The relationship included many addictions—his and mine. The difference between us—I wanted Recovery, and he didn’t. The relationship could only be described as ‘bat shit crazy.’ It also included a divorce after he absconded from the state of California in 2000. After the divorce, I would joke that the jump lasted longer than the marriage. He called me out of the blue almost four years later claiming to be clean and sober. He wanted to return to Bakersfield, straighten out his legal problems, obtain legal employment, and see if we could reconcile. He hadn’t heard we’d been divorced for three years, and still saw us as married. The fact I had returned to college to become an alcohol and drug counselor surprised him more.

The guilt I carried for my part in the relationship, my recovery in Al-Anon, and the feelings I still had for him led me to say yes. Saying no to him had never been my strong suit. My life became intolerable after finding out that within a few months of returning to live with me, his drug use started again. I’d forgotten that you can always tell when an addict is lying—they move their lips. In the months that followed I played Let’s Make a Deal with him, offering to pay for his trip back to Arkansas, or helping him find somewhere else to live. He didn’t buy any of it.

Then came the Friday my boss, at the alcohol and drug treatment facility for inmates coming out of a California prison, called me into his office. He asked me if I had a parolee living with me. When I told him I did, he informed me of the terms of the contract with the Department of Corrections; an employee may not have a state parolee living in their home unless they were married, or a legal child.

Either marry him again or kick him out, he said. I expect the situation to be handled by Monday, or don’t come back to work.

Beaten down from lack of sleep and everything that goes with living with an alcoholic addict I felt defeated. Not wanting to lose my job I told Russell about my boss’s ultimatum. No problem, he said, confidently. We can make it to Las Vegas and back before Monday. Let’s go get married! The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting different results. Crazy as it seems, I didn’t resist. We could figure it out later.

We didn’t have a shot-gun wedding, but it certainly felt like being under fire. On the way home from Las Vegas, he stopped and bought an 8-ball. I couldn’t stop him. By the end of the month I’d turned him in for violating his parole, and for spousal abuse after he pushed and shoved me while preventing me from leaving my home. This led to the parole board hearing I had just left. I found it poetic that our relationship started in October 1993 and it ended in October 2004.

My first marriage at the age of twenty-two to Jerry, a thirty-four year old man I’d met through a friend from work, happened quickly as well. I had been employed as a nurse’s aide at a local hospital, and had just moved out of my oldest sister Dede’s home where she lived with her husband, three-year-old daughter, and two-year-old son. In 1966, they had me, along with my infant son, move in because my parents didn’t want an unwed daughter living with them. We stayed with my sister Dede and her husband Bill for almost a year, and just moved into a small apartment by ourselves two weeks previously when Jerry and I met on January 31, 1967. We married in Las Vegas March 21, 1967. That marriage lasted twenty-five years. Of course I wanted to leave after the first two years, but didn’t. The insanity of both my marriages would be written about in detail in my first book, but one thing I knew for sure—no more relationships or marriages for me! Enjoying the ride home, I occupied my thoughts with soaking in a hot bubble bath and having dinner. I had more than enough data to know marriage sucks.

After my bath and dinner, I sat down to catch up with my e-mails before bed. I deleted the usual junk e-mails, but the last one’s subject line caught my eye: ‘someone is interested in you.’ The e-mail came from the online dating site, cupid.com. I had been deleting their e-mails for the past year, but thought this could be my opportunity to pour out all my anger and disgust at jerks everywhere. Impulsively I opened and read the e-mail.

To my surprise his long and interesting email intrigued me. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see his genius. His photo didn’t interest me as much as his words. He gave his age as 61 and resided in Santa Rosa, California, a city over three-hundred miles north. He had lousy timing. I decided to reply and tell him the story of my life, and see if he continued to be interested.

His reply surprised me even more. We started talking on the cell phone every night. He told me about having written four books on various aspects of erotic literature, mostly French unfortunately, and offered to help me write my first book and get it published. The idea excited me, and thought I should take him up on his first date offer—he wanted me to come to Santa Rosa on Thanksgiving, spend the weekend and attend a Saturday night blues concert.

Patrick, my new knight in shining armor, and I had only been talking on the phone less than a month. Faye, my Al-Anon sponsor, supported my going to see him at Thanksgiving as long my family knew his address, and I met him in a neutral place before going to his home.

By the end of my visit I didn’t want to go home. I’d fallen in love with his British charm. The first time I laid eyes on him I said to myself, How cute is he! He didn’t fit my type—which had been tall, dark and handsome and built like a Mack truck—but how many of my partners have done so? His English accent made it hard for me to understand him, but he oozed charm, and the fact that both of us had the same astrological sign, Libra, made it seem as though we’d known each other for years. His blue eyes mesmerized me, as did his great smile. He had a wicked sense of humor, much like mine. His single-wide mobile home filled, wall-to-wall and room-to-room with books, further convinced me God brought us together. It had been my feeling for a long time that God had saved me by his grace, and what better way to honor him than to write a book about my recovery. Patrick, with all his experience with books, could certainly help me with getting a book written and published. His ‘drum’, as he called his single-wide, had an immaculate kitchen and my excitement grew at the thought he might cook as well. It never occurred to me that he’d taken the time to clean from floor to ceiling in readiness for my arrival, nor the fact the kitchen sparkled because he ate out all the time.

Not only had I fallen in love with Patrick, but also with the beautiful landscape and charm of Santa Rosa. The Pacific Ocean, less than an hour’s drive away, became an additional attraction. By the end of that weekend, we decided that in January, when my vacation from my job had been scheduled, we’d spend it together in Santa Rosa. Daily phone calls changed all that; he had been charmed by me as well, and we decided we didn’t want to wait until January. Hence the need to discuss with my therapist, food and Al-Anon sponsors, my desire to move to Santa Rosa. Surely eighteen years of 12-step recovery, twenty-three years of therapy, certification as an Alcohol and Drug Counselor, as well as being a Licensed Vocational Nurse (LVN) for twenty-three years, mostly in Mental Health, proved my readiness to move 329 miles from family and friends, sell my home, quit my job and move in with a man I’d only met in person once. Or actually twice if I included his visit on Christmas to take me back to Santa Rosa.

We decided he’d come to Bakersfield for Christmas to meet my family. My mother’s excitement at meeting him grew the closer it got to Christmas. Everyone fell in love with him as quickly as I had, and happy for us. My house sold two weeks before Christmas, a thirty-day notice had been given at my job, and all my belongings, except my clothes, books and a few personal items, had been given away, including Russell’s stuff. It didn’t even phase me that Patrick and I still needed to divorce our current spouses. We didn’t see it as a deal breaker because that hurdle had been jumped before. Moving into Patrick’s single-wide with him, his sweet cat Marmalade, and all those books had to be my destiny.

I didn’t make the decision to move lightly. The history of bad relationships and two marriages in my past had to be considered. Those statistics are not uncommon for alcoholics and others types of addicts. Meeting Patrick through an online dating service the week after testifying at a State Parole Board hearing against my second husband Russell could be considered either good timing or bad luck, depending on how one looked at it or who did the looking. My two previous marriages had begun with us moving in together very quickly; perhaps making this move to Santa Rosa with Patrick might be a mistake. I kept asking myself Am I just a diehard romantic, or just plain nuts?

A little over thirty days after that first date, and with the full support of those closest to me and who knew me best, I arrived in Santa Rosa on December 28, 2004. I had two years of abstinence from my addictive foods, and six years sobriety from alcohol. I had eighteen years in 12-step food related recovery which made me an old-timer. I didn’t leave a decision about moving up to anyone other than me and God. Each time I prayed, meditated and journaled, the answer ended up the same: go. I had been living a God-directed life ever since joining Overeaters Anonymous in 1986. Seeking His will had become paramount in my life.

That’s the Reader’s Digest version of the back story to my trip to Santa Rosa. I had come a long way, and at the age of 59, if not ready for this adventure, then when? The question I asked about my decision to risk everything and move to Santa Rosa—Am I a die-hard romantic or just plain nuts?—is undecided, but you will have to keep reading to find out the answer for yourself.

Chapter 2

Marmalade

PATRICK HAD A few days before returning to work. The adrenalin I’d been living on for weeks had run out. The long drive to Santa Rosa had a few hiccups on the way, one of which almost made me question whether or not to make a U-turn and head back to Bakersfield. It happened when we stopped for gas. I needed to use the restroom and pick up a bottle of water and some nuts. As the cashier took my money my cell phone rang. I answered, thinking it might be my younger sister Annette, but instead I heard the now familiar English accent saying to me, Is that you behind me, lovey?

I don’t know, I answered. Where are you?

Much to my surprise he said, I’m about ten miles north of the mini-mart where we got gas.

Are you serious? I replied.

Why, where are you? He shouted over the noise of the traffic on I-5. I had no idea how to get to his house, and it didn’t sit well that he’d left the Mini Mart without me. I informed him that he’d left me at the gas station, and he said he’d drive slowly until I caught up with him. The phone suddenly went dead, and read ‘no service’ when I looked at it.

His idea of driving slowly didn’t match mine. To make matters worse, it started raining cats and dogs, making it impossible to see clearly. I continued on I-5, driving north and checking my phone for service every ten minutes. Panic set in and I started seriously wondering what I’d got myself into. Turning around and returning to Bakersfield didn’t make sense because he had all my belongings, and I didn’t have a home any longer. Luckily after about an hour, I spotted a small pick-up at the side of the road with its blinkers flashing and pulled over in anticipation of giving him the what-for. He honked as soon as he saw me and pulled back onto I-5, reaching a speed of sixty mph in a flash. I thought to myself that his Irish luck had won out because I couldn’t catch him and my cell service still appeared non-existent. My bladder, which is the size of a gnat’s, needed to be relieved. I made a mental list of the things to discuss with him when we caught up with each other.

We finally met up again at the toll booth of a bridge where he’d pulled into a parking space, and found him standing beside his truck. I told him about my need to use the rest room.

Follow me, he said. I’ll find a place for you.

I had no choice but to follow him. It took another thirty minutes before seeing his turn signal. He’d found a restroom. Afterwards, we continued north towards Santa Rosa.

Patrick pulled his silver 1990 Mazda pickup into his driveway, with me a few minutes behind in my white 1998 Nissan Sentra. We had finally arrived at our destination. I had no idea where to put the boxes or my clothes or anything else, but it didn’t matter since I had to use the restroom again. By the time I’d finished, Patrick had unloaded everything from the pickup and put it into the spare room. He said we’d unload my car in the morning. I happily made my way to the couch to get my bearings. Patrick’s beautiful orange, white and brown calico cat Marmalade came out of nowhere and hopped on my lap. My stomach growled, and being too shy to mention it to Patrick I refrained from rummaging through his refrigerator. He suggested we go to bed and get some rest, and I followed him to the bedroom with Marmalade trailing behind.

The double-sized bed looked very inviting. I’d been sleeping in a California king-sized bed for years and on my visit the previous month thought he had a king-size as well. The bed took up the whole room and that must have given me the impression of a larger bed. He kissed me goodnight, rolled over on his back and before I could get my clothes off he started snoring, with Marmalade fast asleep on his stomach.

I tossed and turned in bed trying to figure out how to turn off the lights in hopes of getting to sleep. After a trip to the bathroom and back I took a side trip to the kitchen looking for a jar of peanut butter. I returned to the bed empty handed, but found that the street lights outside kept me awake; my list of things to discuss with Patrick kept growing. Eventually I did manage to fall asleep.

I woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee. Looking around the small bedroom, I realized it didn’t look like Kansas, nor did I possess any ruby slippers to click three times to take me home. After quickly getting dressed and using the restroom, my nose led me to the coffee. Patrick sat on the couch reading a book with Marmalade curled up asleep in the middle of the room, in a patch of sunlight.

Good morning Lovey, Patrick said. Would you like to take a shower? I set out a clean towel and wash cloth for you. When you’re ready I’ll take you out for breakfast. His words, charm and sweetness were music to my ears. By the time I’d showered and dressed, Patrick had unloaded my car and we left for breakfast.

The drive to the restaurant proved beautiful. The late December sun shined brightly on the grassy hills surrounding the mobile home park. Having failed to find any peanut butter the night before, I eagerly awaited breakfast at the East West Café. I asked Patrick why he didn’t have any peanut butter. He made a funny face. I hate peanut butter, he said. I thought how could I trust someone who hated peanut butter? Putting that thought aside I ordered buckwheat pancakes. The food tasted great, and the restaurant soon became a favorite.

During breakfast we talked about getting a storage unit for my belongings. The single-wide didn’t have enough room for all our belongings. We knew sooner or later we would move to a bigger home. I had an agenda and it would be put into action as soon as we rang in the New Year. Thinking about the New Year made me remember my mother’s birthday. I quickly telephoned her to give her my best wishes. She thanked me, but immediately started scolding me for not calling to say we’d made it to Santa Rosa safe and sound. I made my apologies and hung up in order to finish my coffee.

The first thing on my mind had to be finding a job. I had money from the sale of my house, and a Worker’s Compensation case on file for an injury to my back at my last nurse position. My bank checking account balance had a few thousand dollars