Kerry Kerr McAvoy - Love You More: The Harrowing Tale of Lies, Sex Addiction, & Double Cross

LOVE YOU MORE

The Harrowing Tale of Lies, Sex Addiction, & Double Cross

KERRY KERR MCAVOY, PHD

To my three sonsCameron, Devon, & Kellin

There isn't enough gratitude in the world to express my thanks

for your unwavering support and faith.

You all are the joy of my life.

Three times love has breathed life in me.

Its heated my cold-stone body

Til it flowered bright and free.

The first two times, it didnt take.

The mens hearts slowly turned away,

And their love began to fade,

Causing my heart to throb and break.

My first husband chose fear.

Hed clutch his hands around his chest

And, from afar, try to hold me near.

Out of time, we hugged goodbye

As Death gave him a set of new eyes.

He still lingers to whisper and pray.

His fingerprints are on my sons hearts today.

I fell in love a second time

With a monster playing a deadly game,

Wearing a mask

That hid his real name.

While Death took my first love,

It healed his wounded heart.

My second love was Death,

Wishing he, himself, could find a beating heart.

Im in love again.

This time its with life

And with all that could possibly be.

Its started deep within my heart,

And it has set me amazingly free.

Loyalty to that which does not work, or worse, to a person who is toxic, exploitive or destructive to you, is a form of insanity.

Patrick J. Carnes, The Betrayal Bond: Breaking Free of Exploitive Relationships

I WAS TWELVE years old when Patty Hearst, granddaughter of newspaper publisher mogul William Randolph Hearst, announced that she had joined the Symbionese Liberation Army. Two months earlier, this same terrorist group had taken the nineteen-year-old hostage. Patty was later captured, convicted of bank robbery, and sentenced to thirty-five years in prison before being pardoned.

How could this young, well-educated woman walk away from what shed known to join a violent groupthe same one who had threatened her life and taken away her freedoms? Patty suffered from Stockholm Syndrome,

which occurs when hostages develop a psychological bond with their captors. Emotional manipulation uses fear to create an attachment, also known as a trauma or betrayal bond.

All of us are made for belonging. We are primed from birth to connect to our significant others and hardwired for self-preservation. In infancy, abandonment is our greatest fear since it spells death. We instinctually know we are at the mercy of our caregivers. Infants housed in an orphanage, even though well-cared for, if not touched and loved, are susceptible to infections. Their growth rate is stunted, and many will die. Abusers exploit this vulnerability by threatening the withdrawal of their love.

Through emotional manipulation, such as trauma bonding, the primal survival instinct is activated and used against the victim. Narcissists and other types of predators mirror their targets likes and dislikes. This kind of attunement is intoxicating since the targeted person has essentially met themselves. They think theyve found their soulmate and quickly fall in love. But the initial lavish attention is deliberately withdrawn to create confusion. Victims unwittingly believe theyre at fault and work to regain the love that has been lost.

Patrick Carnes, Founder of the Institute for Trauma and Addiction Professionals, writes, Exploitive relationships create betrayal bonds. These occur when a victim bonds with someone who is destructive to him or her. Thus the hostage becomes the champion of the hostage taker, the incest victim covers for the parent, and the exploited employee fails to expose the wrongdoing of the boss. He further says, These attachments cause you to distrust your own judgment, distort your own realities, and place yourself at even greater risk. In my work with women in mental health settings, Ive seen them go to extreme lengths to save an abusive relationship. They often blame themselves for the problems and are willing to forgo self-respect and physical safety in the hopes of finally being loved.

A vulnerability to emotional coercion is unrelated to the mental strength of the victim, contrary to what some would like to think. Its estimated an abused woman makes an average of seven attempts before shes able to leave. This is not because she is weak; its because shes been made to distrust what she sees, hears, and feels. She is no longer sure what is real. This can happen to any of us, including me, a psychologist.

Heres my story in which I became so confused, I nearly lost my way.

Love is blind, and a deaf-mute too.

Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Mans Fear

July 2016

I RUBBED THE sleep from my eyes and sighed. Another day.

Was it Tuesday or Wednesday? Since my husband Brads death, they blurred into one another with the same blandness.

My ivory curtains billowed in the air-conditioning current. Sunlight peeked around the pleated blackout blinds.

My back complained; it was time to get out of bed. My friend Connie expected me at a nearby restaurant. I hesitated, reluctant. She had everythinga loving husband, two daughters she doted on, and an involved mother. I couldnt be the sister she never had or even the friend I used to be.

Lifes unfairness had turned me bitter. These days I had to resist being nasty as she rattled on about her kids, and I resented seeing her kiss her husband goodbye. We once had never run out of things to say; now, there were long gaps of silence. Brads passing had created an asymmetryher life was full of what was missing from mine. Though we both pretended, our previous closeness was gone.

Losing Brad had changed everything. Widowhood had dislodged me from my previous social standing; now, I floated on the fringes as an outcast. The other women in my Bible study, all married, stumbled for the right thing to say. They would tilt their heads with sad smiles. How are you? theyd ask.

Not well.

I buried my head in the pillows as tears leaked. Dr. Hammitch had suggested at my last counseling session that I make a daily date with pain.

I stared, aghast. Im to hang out with pain? But that evening, I did as shed asked and sat in Brads massage chair with the timer set for twenty minutes. At first, nothing happened and then an ache squeezed my ribs, and I heaved huge sobs. As the minutes passed, the pain diminished just as shed said it would.

Brad and I met over summer break. Both in college, we had taken jobs at the same restaurant. Soon, we were inseparable. He was my first love, then husband and friend. Wed raised three sons. Though thirty-three years together had worn love a bit thin, Id hoped wed rekindle the passion once we had both retired. Then he was diagnosed with cancer.

On the wall above me several colored-triangle shapes danced. The stained-glass insert that hung in my window reflected the early morning sunlight. It had been a gift from Brad. Its weathered frame featured a bouquet of flowers cut from yellow glass surrounded by a multi-colored border; it most likely had once graced a historic home.

Brad must have heard me wish aloud for it. While emptying his socks drawer, Id found a small white envelope. In his blocky penmanship, he had written, For Kerry, Happy Birthday. Inside was a gift certificate for a local antique shop. Hed penned in the memo line, for that stained-glassed window. I turned the card over and marveled at how hed managed to purchase it.