Originally published in ESSAY, March 2014

My wife and I were putting away the Christmas tree. It’s an artificial tree with lights wired into it, and we like the way it looks in the front window at night.

But packing it up for storage is a struggle. Starting at the top, we have to fold up each branch snug against the upper one-third of the trunk before detaching that segment from the lower segments and putting it in a box. We have to hold up an entire layer of branches long enough to wrap a cord around them and tie it. The same with the middle third and the lower third. Do you know how many hands and arms that takes? More than four, I can tell you! My wife remarked that the best person to do the job would be an octopus. Branches flopped down in our faces, or a hinge would come out of its socket, causing the branch to swing loose on its wires and tangle with the tree below. We called out instructions to each other, grunted, and laughed.

What was I feeling during this struggle? I was feeling gratitude. Why? I was flashing back to my first marriage. My first wife and I could never work together. Joint projects collapsed into arguments and bad feelings. Looking back I see that, for my part, I wanted to be in control. I believed I was the one who knew how to do the job right. Now, struggling to corral that uncooperative tree, I didn’t have to be in charge. I could cooperate with my partner.

This is not only about recovery in my marriage, it’s about the importance of gratitude in my recovery.

Before recovery, I expected the worst out of life. If something good happened I automatically discounted it. If I completed a task that I had been worrying over, I immediately put it out of mind and fastened upon the next task I could worry about. It didn’t occur to me to pause and celebrate. I kept myself numb with lust and obsession. Events and encounters with others had a grey tinge to them.

In recovery I have a new pair of glasses. My lenses aren’t grey or pink, they are clear, which allows me to spot the gifts that God gives me every day. Often, as with the Christmas tree episode, I am struck by the difference between my life before and after recovery.

When I call another sexaholic or a member calls me, I am reminded that I don’t have to be alone with my disease anymore. When one of my adult children calls to catch me up on family news, I am grateful for how rich and full my life is. I could be a sour old man living alone in a small apartment and masturbating myself to sleep every night.

I’m grateful for a thousand common, everyday things. I’m grateful that I can drive a car competently at my age; that I can walk in full stride, arms swinging, breathing deeply; that I’m a warm-blooded animal. I’m grateful for the microwave oven, for the automatic dishwasher, for the sunlight streaming into my kitchen, for the food on the table in front of me, for my appetite.

With gratitude all around me, I find that resentment, self-pity, fear, and lust have a harder time crowding into my brain. That’s how it works for me.