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"I can't take this any more," I cried out. "I've had enough! God, I need to get out of here."

A new strength surged within me. I drove home, stuffed what I could into a suitcase, jumped back in my car, and made a beeline for the border.

Back in North Carolina, I settled into a new job and apartment. Determined to start over, I found a church where I could grow spiritually and emotionally. Every sermon helped bandage my wounds of hurt and shame, and the people I met showered me with love and compassion. I also found a great counselor to whom I poured out my grief and despair. Many long, lonely nights were spent in tears and prayer before God. Slowly, I began to realize I'd been way too passive and had enabled my husband's lifestyle. My backward thinking was replaced by a new understanding of whom God had made me to be. I could finally say to myself: I'm a new creation. The old has gone; the new has come.

Then, I started thinking about Peter again. The marriage was dead and buried in my mind, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Trapped by his addiction, he needed someone to intercede for him. I felt it had to be me. When I sent him a small gift on his birthday, he phoned.

I kept the conversation brief, but for the first time since I'd left, confusion set in. Deep in my heart I didn't want to be another divorce statistic. I loved my husband despite his perversity. Our phone calls grew into weekly events. He never asked me to come back. Instead, we talked about his background—something we'd never done before—and about God.

"I've always been adventurous," Peter said. "And I began looking at porn at a young age with my buddies. By the time I turned eleven, I was sexually active. At fifteen, I left home to hitchhike around the states, and I indulged in every sexual act you can imagine.

"When I met you, I thought I could settle down and forget everything I'd done. But I couldn't turn off my thoughts. My mind was like a cable porn channel: sex, sex, sex, twenty-four-hours a day."

He started phoning on a daily basis. The more we talked, the deeper his repentance grew, and he begged my forgiveness.

"I've been going to the same church you went to," he said. "I've also found someone to hold me accountable. He knows a lot about marriage problems and really understands the sexual struggles men can have."

Peter never asked me to return; he only seemed interested in my happiness. During one of our conversations, he confessed: "I'm a sex addict. I can't control my filthy mind without God's help. My friend is showing me how my past promiscuity is running roughshod over my life. We meet after Sunday services and pray together, then he gives me homework to do for the following week." For the second time, hope rose inside.

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