I wish this wasn’t my story. But it is. I’m Kayla, and I’ve lived as the partner of a sex addict. I didn’t know that word at first. I only knew the feeling. Tight chest. Spinning brain. A phone in my hand that felt like a land mine.
This isn’t a guide. It’s my review of what life was like, what helped, and what flat-out made it worse. Real scenes. Real tools I tried. And yes, how it felt in my bones.
What It Looked Like (For Me, Day to Day)
I used to think I was “helping.” That’s cute, right? I was managing. That’s the real word.
- I checked his browser history at 2 a.m. I refreshed it, like it would change if I stared hard enough.
- I tracked bank charges. Hotels, random subscriptions. My stomach dropped when I saw $19.99. It always did.
- I timed his showers. That one still makes me blush.
- I hid his spare phone in the laundry basket once. Yes, the laundry basket.
- I called his friend to “make sure he was there.” He wasn’t. I already knew.
Those late-night dives into his App Store taught me way too many brand names I wish I didn’t know—Tinder spin-offs, discreet “dating” logos, plus a handful of no-name “friend finder” icons. Curious what kind of hook-up software tends to hide in plain sight? Check out FuckPal’s round-up of fuck apps you have to download tonight for a candid look at the platforms that often feed sexual acting-out; the article breaks down how each app works, which can help you recognize them at a glance and decide your own safety plan. I eventually learned that some addicts skip apps altogether and hunt for anonymous meet-ups on regional classified boards such as Backpage Norman, where seeing the format and code words used in ad titles can help you spot patterns quickly and set firmer digital boundaries.
I slept on the couch with my hoodie on. I told myself it was because the couch felt “cozy.” It didn’t. It felt like a tiny island.
The Moment It Broke
One morning I stood in Target, in the cereal aisle, crying over a box of Cheerios. Not because of the cereal, of course. I was done being the detective, the babysitter, the human lie detector. I called my sister from the car and said, “I can’t hold this anymore.” She said, “Then don’t.”
That call cracked my shell. Not all at once. Just a little.
Real Help I Used (And What I’d Rate It)
I get it—“help” can sound fuzzy. I needed stuff I could touch. Stuff I could do. I tried a bunch. Some worked. Some backfired.
-
S-Anon meetings: 5/5
I was so scared the first time. My hands shook. But there were people who knew the words before I said them. I sat in the back. I cried. I also laughed, which shocked me. That room felt like a warm bench when your legs are cold. -
A CSAT therapist (Certified Sex Addiction Therapist): 5/5
Mine gave me words like “trauma” and “boundaries.” Not to be fancy. To be clear. These professionals complete rigorous sex addiction training to earn that credential. She said, “You’re not crazy. Your body is on alert. That makes sense.” I breathed deeper after that. -
“Mending a Shattered Heart” by Stefanie Carnes: 4/5
Some parts were heavy. I underlined a lot. It helped me not feel alone in the weird, messy middle. -
“Your Sexually Addicted Spouse” by Steffens and Means: 4/5
Hard truths. But gentle. Picture a friend handing you water and saying, “Sip. You don’t have to chug.” -
Journaling in Day One: 4/5
I wrote one page each night. Three facts. One feeling. One small win. The small wins were tiny, like “I ate lunch sitting down.” That counts. -
Calm app for breath work: 4/5
Box breathing during panic. Four in. Four hold. Four out. Four hold. Not magic. But it kept me from texting 12 wild messages at midnight. -
Boundary scripts taped to my mirror: 5/5
I wrote: “I won’t check your phone. If I feel unsafe, I’ll sleep at my sister’s.” Short. Clear. No threats. I said it twice a week until my voice stopped shaking. -
Stories on Through the Flame reminded me I was walking a shared road, not an isolated one—especially this honest take on being a codependent of a sex addict.
What Did Not Help (And Hurt, Actually)
-
Snooping wars
I thought I was “protecting myself.” I was spinning myself. Every new thing I found pulled me under. -
Threats I couldn’t keep
“If you do that, I’m leaving.” I said it. I didn’t leave. I didn’t even pack. That hurt my trust in me. -
Shame speeches
I tried to shame him straight. That never worked. It lit his shame, which lit mine. Fire meets fire. -
Isolation
I kept it secret for too long. I smiled at church and cried in the bathroom at home. Secrets grew mold.
How It Felt in My Body
Your body keeps score. Mine did.
- Night sweats.
- Heart racing in the grocery line for no reason.
- Hands shaking when he was late by ten minutes.
- “Freeze” mode. I sat on the floor and stared at nothing. Scrolling, scrolling. Numb.
My therapist said, “Your nervous system is loud. We’ll help it quiet down.” That line gave me hope.
Boundaries: What I Said, Not What I Wanted Him To Do
Here’s the thing: a boundary is what I do, not what he should do. I hated that at first. I wanted a leash on the problem. But my side of the street was the only part I could sweep.
Real examples I used:
- “I won’t check your devices. If I feel unsafe, I’ll sleep elsewhere tonight.”
- “If there’s a relapse, I’ll pause intimacy for 30 days while I regroup.”
- “I won’t cover lies with the kids. I’ll say, ‘Dad’s working on some stuff. We’re getting help.’”
Short. Plain. Repeated. I kept them written in my Notes app and on a sticky note in my wallet. I’m not fancy.
Co-Parenting While Hurting
We still had lunches to pack. Kids don’t stop needing sandwiches because your heart is tired.
- I set “kid-only” hours after school. No heavy talks. No phone checks.
- We used a shared Google Calendar to cut down fights. Games, pickups, therapy.
- I told a trusted friend, “If I text SOS, please grab the kids for an hour.” She said yes before I finished the sentence.
Faith, Food, and Other Small Things
I prayed some days. Other days I just sat. I lit a candle I got at Target with a goofy name like “Ocean Wind.” I ate actual meals. Protein helped my mood more than I expected. A walk around the block counted as a workout. I kept a frozen pizza for meltdown nights. No shame.
You know what? Small things stack up. They don’t fix the big thing. But they keep you steady while you choose your next step.
If You’re Here Too
You’re not weak. You’re not silly. You’re not “too much.” You’re in shock. You’re grieving. Both can be true. Here are simple, doable steps I’d hand you like a friend:
- Eat something warm.
- Text one safe person: “I need a hug or a coffee.”
- Write three facts, one feeling.
- Call your doctor if sleep is gone.
- Try one meeting (S-Anon or CoSA). Sit in back. Leave early if you need. No gold stars given, none needed.
If you’re scared you might hurt yourself, please call or text a crisis line or go to an ER. I’ve gone. It helped me breathe.
My Verdict
Being codependent of a sex addict? Zero stars. Would not recommend the chaos. The help, though—the meetings, the therapist, the simple food, the sticky-note boundaries? Five stars. Slow, steady, sometimes boring, but real.
I still get wobbly. Triggers still pop up. A late text. A weird charge. My chest tightens, and then I remember: I can sit down, breathe, and choose my next right step. Not ten steps. One.
And if no one has said it to you yet, let me be first: you’re not crazy. You’re human. You can make a safe life, even if this part of your story is messy. I’m making mine, one small, sturdy choice at a time.