Gentle, Stinging Lessons

via
The Lord has been teaching me hard things about myself.  He's gently shown me how I fear men more than God.
He's taught me that I've feared my husband more than I have Him.  Incidentally, my husband has feared ME more than his Savior.  He cared more about MY forgiveness than Christ's forgiveness.
We had replaced our Savior with each other, and we hadn't even realized it.

He's taught me the detrimental extent of my vanity.
He's taught me how manipulative I've been.
He's taught me I've been codependent for most of my life -it wasn't something I developed because of my husband's addiction.
He's taught me that I've spent most of my life playing the victim.

He's teaching me WHY I manipulate (without meaning to) and WHY I play the victim and WHY I've been codependent and WHY I'm so blanking vain.

Along the way, he's teaching me about the good in me as well... and thank goodness because if I hadn't been able to see any good in me through all of this, there's no telling what I might do.
Maybe write a one-hit album full of angst and anger and darkness and RAW emotion and then overdose on something-or-other?  Who knows.

This week, through lots of tears and emotions completely amplified by my pregnancy, I have been taught that I'm not here to be seen.
I'm simply here to be faithful, to keep the commandments and develop "take it with you" characteristics.

He has called me to be faithful.
The simplicity of it is freeing.

via

An Anonymous Letter

Dear Sister,

You know me.
You go to church with me.  I teach your children.  I brush shoulders with your parents.  I see you on the street and at the store.  We've been inside each other's houses.  We've served together.

And in all that time, I've never told you.
My husband has a lust addiction.  He looks at porn.  He likes it when he does it -he gets caught up in the moment and he stares at other women, lusts, leers, and lingers for hours.  He flips through their pictures, studies their videos.
And I sleep.  or do the shopping.  or take the kids to the park.

I wish I could say I was blissfully unaware.  I'm not.  I know -much like the woman who knows her husband is cheating on her though she may lack physical proof.

I can't tell you that because you wouldn't understand.  You would think he was a pervert -a bad, disgusting sex maniac.
He isn't.
He is human. He's a great father, a protective husband.  He's a caring, thoughtful son. He tries.  When he isn't acting out, he hates his addiction.  He hates himself.

Our home is a sanctuary only so far as I can make it.  I can set up filters, throw out DVDs I don't feel comfortable having... but where there's a will, there's a way.
He can upset the beautiful sanctuary of my home in a few clicks of a button, a few taps on a screen...
And the sacred sanctuary is obliterated.
Our home is infiltrated with filth.
It doesn't matter how much I clean, organize, or let light in... the spirit of porn settles into the cracks, as filthy as nicotine stains.
I crave true sanctuary.
I close my eyes and imagine myself walking the halls of the Temple.  I can feel the cleanliness and purity surround my soul, and all is well.

I weep for sanctuary lost.  I weep because no matter how hard I try, I can't keep lust out of my own home.  And I'm angry because I can't keep lust out of my church building.
I'm angry with you.
I shouldn't be.  I shouldn't be angry with you because it isn't Christ-like.
But you're making my life so much harder... you're so beautiful.  I can't compete with you, and I refuse to try.  I'm not glamorous.  I won't wear flowers in my hair the size of cantaloupe.  My heel-height is limited by my already towering frame.  I will never own a pair of shiny red stilettos like yours.
You're married, and your children are so beautiful.  Of course they are -they get it from you.
You're married.
You're MARRIED.
So why?  Why is your skirt so tight that the fabric is stretched to the MAX over your perfectly fit and plump booty?  Why is your blouse cut so low that we can see down into the valley?  Why is your make-up so smokey-eyed?
Do you know the young men are looking at you?  Did you know they're preparing for missions?  Do you know they HATE that they want to look at you?  It makes them feel dirty -it makes them feel bad.  They're staring at the body of a married woman.  They're good boys.
Do you know that my lust-addicted husband is looking?
It irritates him that you dress like that, and at the same time... it's HARD for him.  He attends church for sanctuary.  He does not find it.
What he does find is a thong line, perfectly visible through a tight khaki skirt.

I watch you jog by my house.  You're wearing a sports bra, or a tight tank top.  Your shorts are so short.  So very, very short.
You are tan, and your body is disciplined and taut.
I wish I didn't know all of that.  I wish I didn't know what the bottom of your rear end looks like -what your stomach looks like, what the top of your breasts look like.
I don't need to know all of that.
After I come home from church or see you run by, I have to face myself in the mirror.

For years, I battled not being good enough... not being sexy or glamorous or taut or tan.  It was ugly, very very ugly.  Today I'm much better, but the old feelings return now and then, usually after I come home from church or see you run by my house.
I spend an hour in front of the mirror trying to give myself smoky eyes, and in the end I only end up with a look that screams "battered hooker."
I try to put on my tallest heels, and I totter slowly forward and stumble and finally kick the damn things off.
I'm too pregnant to be sexy.
I have tight clothes.  I put them on, thinking, 'I could pull this off, right?'
But I can't.  Literally.  Once I get them on, I can't pull them off.

I want to feel badly about the whole thing, but when I look in the mirror again -when the make up is gone and I've got my style of clothes back on and my ballet flats back on: I feel that old familiar homey comfort and I'm home again.  I'm me again.  I love me.

You aren't healthy for me to have around, and I want to tell you to stop.  I want to tell you to go shopping for new, looser clothes.  I want to tell you that PORN and LUST are running rampant and that you're feeding the beast.
And when I say "I want to tell you" what I really mean is "I want to YELL at you."

Is it your fault my husband looks?  No.  It isn't.
Am I still angry at you?  Yes.  I am.
Is it your fault you're gorgeous? No.  It isn't.
Am I still angry with you?  Yes.  I am.

You would understand if your husband had spent your entire marriage looking at other women -lusting for them, wanting them, dreaming about them...

It's a horrible ride.

Please look in the mirror and ask yourself why you do it and BE HONEST.  Are you trying to look your best for YOU?
I don't think you are.
Are you trying to look your best so men will notice?  I do believe so.

Please understand that we are all susceptible to lust.  Please understand that someone just like you almost lost her entire family to a flippant affair.
And she was just as beautiful, just as fit, and just as church-going as you are.
Her skirts were just as tight.
They made me equally uncomfortable.

I wanted to write this letter to her, but I never did.  She's a good woman.  You're a good woman.
But I'm still angry.
I don't expect my anger to be validated...
I just expect to air it out in this letter and be done with it.

I also expect it to be renewed every time you run by my house in a sports bra and cheeky shorts.

If you're not doing anything today, would you mind reading THIS? and then THIS?
I don't believe you are oblivious to what you are doing, and that makes me angry.
I also don't believe you realize the extent of the horrible effect you are having, and that gives me some degree of compassion... but not enough to override the anger.

And so I say, because I can't say it to your face:
Cover up!
You're making a spectacle.

Regards,
Me

The Opposite of Co-Dependency

Every Saturday night, my Grandpa tunes into pbs.  He watches Lawrence Welk.  Just as soon as it's over, "Keeping Up Appearances" comes on and Grandma joins him on the living room couch.
Every opportunity I have, I join them.  Last Saturday as I watched Keeping Up, I noticed that Hyacinth -the main character, is the absolute opposite of co-dependent... and she drives me and everyone around her crazy.




I've had a hunch the past few months that some degree of co-dependency is actually healthy.  To depend on mankind around us... to be aware of them and to risk making ourselves uncomfortable for their sake -it isn't all bad.
Knowing how to to toe the line between Turning the Other Cheek and Emotionally Healthy can definitely be tricky... at least for me.
So long as I find myself somewhere between a doormat and Hyacinth, I know I'll make it out all right.  Should I ever end up like one or the other, THEN I'll be worried.

Illusion Marriage

I went through a real mourning period early last year.  I hadn't lost anyone close to me, but I had lost -forever -what I thought was my ideal romance.

 

via

I'd dreamed of it as a child.

I'd completely planned my wedding before I reached the ripe old age of 9, and I held fast to it all.  When I met my husband, I knew... I just KNEW: he was The One.  He was the one who was different.

When his porn "problem" reared it's ugly head in our marriage, I battled it with all the energy of a scorned woman.  PORN was the Other Woman in our marriage -she had infiltrated my fairy tale.  She needed to be demolished.  Our house needed to be purified, sanitized, sterilized.

You should have seen me at work.  I was a full time Master o' Control.  I checked the computer, his phone, our DVD collection, his brain... and I never let him shower without making sure he wasn't acting out.  I never made a trip to the grocery store without texting him at least 5 times to make sure he wasn't acting out.  If he was tempted, I had a list for him.

How To Be Perfect, by: Your Loving Wife.

I dropped my friends, my hobbies, my interest... MYSELF.  I put it ALL into the Porn Eradication Act.

Five years later, my husband came to me with a confession.  He'd been acting out.  He'd been lying.  I sent the kids to my mom's and when he got home from work, we sat together over a Large take-out pizza and discussed everything so matter-of-factly.

"So it is what it is," I said, "Let's just do this.  We know what we need to do."

"Yes," he nodded.

At this point, I had eased up on my policing.  His sobriety had improved.  A few months went by, and I lightly and jokingly asked how he'd been doing.

I expected him to lightly joke back.  I expected a good report.

Instead I got an immediate countenance change -hung shoulders, hung head...

"I'm not doing good," he said to his shoes.

This time it was MY turn for a countenance change.  I was floored -decked -utterly shocked.

"WHAT?!" Was all I could say.  My tone surprised him.  He looked up and immediately moved forward to hold me.

I balked.  I refused to let him touch me.  I began to cry... the kind of startled cry a child produces when their pet parakeet is suddenly 'et up by the neighbor's cat (totally happened to me once.  No lie).

"I had no idea..." I sputtered, "I only asked... I didn't think..."

And then I fled -Disney Princess style -to the bathroom.  I locked the door.  I sat in the tub.  I pulled the shower curtain closed and I cried myself senseless.

How was I supposed to preserve My Fairy Tale?  The Porn was beating ME and I wasn't the one with the porn problem!

At that point, I gave up.  I quit exercising (what was the point?).  I quit watching what I ate (what was the point?).  I quit cleaning (what was the point?).  I quit socializing (what was the point?). 

I gained ten pounds (his fault).

And I saw no hope in my future.  

I'd planned my entire little life to get married and live my ideal marriage... and through no fault of my own it had been snatched from me.

I was a GOOD PERSON.

I deserved a GOOD MARRIAGE.  I deserved to have MY IDEA of a GOOD MARRIAGE.

And it slowly dawned on me that I would never have it.  My husband's porn problem wasn't a problem.  It was gripping addiction.

How I hated the word -it rolled so destructively from my tongue. 

I married Prince Addict.

It was disaster of epic proportions.

There was a movie made in the Good Ol' 90's titled "Sabrina."  It is a modern remake of an old black and white starring Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart.

 

via

Both movies have their own appeal, and I love them both equally.  But the modern one has a line that I love with all my heart.

Sabrina is in LOVE with David.

David notices Sabrina in the way a neighbor might notice you got a new car.  Might.

 

via

Sabrina's father is so concerned with her infatuation that he ships her off to Paris for awhile.  While in Paris, her boss notices that Sabrina seems distracted.  Sabrina confesses her LOVE.  Her boss tells her that David sounds like an illusion.  She then goes on to say, "Illusions are dangerous people.  They have no flaws."

My Illusion Marriage was dangerous to me... it had no flaws.

I sort of lived out my Illusion Marriage when I was enforcing The Porn Eradication Act.  I would sometimes pretend there was no porn, and he would pretend there was no porn and we would swim around the sharks with ease and glee.

During these times, I would get upset.  I would get grouchy.  I would have bad days.

He would call me on them -it wasn't okay that I was upset... not in the Illusion Marriage.  

In the Illusion Marriage, we took turns playing victim and rescuer.  On my bad days, I was the victim.  He would pull me up OUT of my bad mood because it was his job.  When he tried and I still stayed in my bad mood...

Well.

That wasn't allowed.

And it went both ways.  We behaved that way, you understand, because we LOVED each other.  We loved each other enough to pull one another up.  What a gloriously wonderful responsibility!

But later on... later on when I had ran weeping from the shark-infested waters, I sat on the shore, gained ten stress pounds watching my husband flirt with imminent death, and just stopped making him happy.

I went against everything Dr. Laura had ever taught me!

When my husband had a bad day and came home grouchy, I let him.  Once I actually loaded my kids and I up in the car and took off on him stating, "We're leaving.  You can't act like this toward us.  We haven't done anything wrong.  We'll come back later when you've cooled off.  You need a break."

And I drove away, hands a'shakin.

I was terrified.

When we came home, he was significantly more calm.  He was unapologetic, but it didn't matter.  What mattered was that he wasn't treating me or my lovely kids unfairly.

A few weeks after that, I was the grouchy one.  I was the one with the attitude problem.  Instead of trying to fix my mood -to lift me -he only put his hands squarely on my shoulders.

"You are a grouch," he said, looking straight into my eyes, "Here's some gas money.  Leave.  Go take a break."

He was trying to be confident about the whole thing, but I could see the trepidation behind his eyes.  He was scared I might react... I might be hurt by him, offended, upset.

I only hugged him to me and cried all my make-up off onto his t-shirt.  I was so grateful for him.

"Thank you," I said.

Two hours later, I came home.  

I came through the front door and tossed my husband a bag of his favorite candy.

"What this for?" he asked, looking up from his video game.

"For calling me a grouch," I said, "You called me out, gave me money and told me to leave.  It meant a lot.  Thanks."

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm way nicer than you are..."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"When I'm a grouch, you call me out and then YOU leave and you never give me any money," he said, making sure his arms were 100% around me when he said it so I couldn't slap him.

And then I laughed so hard I cried.

Right at that moment I realized that we were building partners.

The Real Marriage we are building from the rubble of the Illusion is so good I'm nearly scared.  It isn't all good, and usually the good is fleeting and rare.  But it's not finished.  It's slow and steady going.

We're not building one of those cookie cutter houses in city neighborhoods that all look like the one right next to it.

We're building the groundwork for a real monument.  It's painstaking and horrible and hard.  Neither one of us knows if it's a project that we'll see through to the end.  All we know is that right now.  today.  there's a job at hand.  So we're working on it.  I'm working on one end.  He's working on another.  

There's bad weather and communication hiccups and financial tension.

BUT the small successes keep us going, and they are each SO good that they keep me just hopeful enough to ride out the next day.

Goodbye, my Illusion Marriage.

You were such a shoddy friend.

The Life Not Lived?

  

via
I have this friend.

She graduated the same year I did.  She went to college like I did.
I graduated with an Associate of the Arts degree.  My new husband graduated with me.  We walked side-by-side clad in cap and gown.  We didn't know it at the time, but we had a little one brewing inside me.

My friend also graduated with an Associate of the Something degree.  Then she graduated with a Bachelor degree.  Then she moved to New York and worked as a journalist.
Then she moved home and was paid to write and do writingish things.
She married.
I had another child (bringing the grand total to two).

We have similar interests, similar tastes, and we can carry on a conversation for hours if we felt so inclined (or the children would let us).
I enjoyed watching her mother her first child.  I was even more ecstatic when she told me she was expecting her second.
We are presently pregnant together.

I told her about my husband's addiction.  It all came spilling out one day, and she listened so lovingly and well.  She continued to listen for hours and months afterward as I played the victim and blamed and found not a single ray of sunshine in my life.

She confessed that she and her husband have a great marriage -no deep problems to speak of.  He cooks, he cleans, he works, he supports her in her aspirations and dreams.  They read poetry by candlelight and they enjoy delving into cultures of all kinds together.  They're a perfect team.

Yesterday, I missed her.  I texted her.
She texted back.
She's studying for her GRE.  She's going to start the processes of getting her Master's degree.
I texted back my applause and I called her a go-getter, ever grateful that I she couldn't sense the fact that I was crying.
I couldn't even figure WHY I was crying -what did it matter?  My best friend in the entire world just graduated with her Master's degree a few months ago and I was nothing but proud!  I was excited for her -genuinely applauded her, praised her and "liked" every single graduation-related photo she posted on facebook.

So why.
WHY did I burst into tears?  I couldn't figure myself out at all.  Minutes later, my phone rang.  It was my OB's office calling to let me know I had failed my first glucose test and would have to come in for the yucky 3-hour one.
And I cried some more.

I sat myself down to try and figure out what in the HECK was going on with me.  It didn't take me long to realize it.

My journalist friend has lived and done so many things I've only dreamed of.  And now she's going on to get a Master's degree.  It's incredible.

I can't  even get a Bachelor degree right now.  Between my pregnancy (and impending newborn) and my calling (Primary President) and my two kids and that little thing I'm grappling with called My Husband's Porn Addiction... I can't handle one more thing.  I can't.  I would crack.

I'm jealous of her marriage, and I resented my husband for a good hour over it.
I resented my co-dependency and all the years I lost LOSING myself in his stuff!  I policed three years of my life away!

via

What could those years have been for me?  Where could I have gone?  What could I have done?  What opportunities did I miss because I thought I was doing my SAVING duty to husband?

That's why I was crying.  For the first time, I realized that I was so sucked into all this porn crap that I stopped really and truly living.  And I'm angry.  I'm mad about that.  I'm mad at myself for allowing it to happen.  I'm mad at my husband.
It's pointless anger -as most anger is.  There's no point in worrying about "What Might Have Been."
What Might Have Been is a dangerous, dangerous island.

But between THAT and the failed glucose test and the fact that my children had fought with me for over 7 hours (7 and a half, actually.  But who's keeping track?) because their room wasn't clean... I cried.  And when my husband came home from work, he stayed clean away from me.
When it came time to run to the store, he said, "You're grouchy.  Go alone.  Take a break.  Here's gas money.  Here's chocolate money."
And I bawled into his shirt for a good twenty minutes.

How incredibly grateful I am for him.
I came back two hours later to sleeping children, dinner, and a movie (comedy.  I needed comedy).

As I waited for the movie to start, I talked about everything I'd been crying over.  I asked my husband's opinion on it.  Despite his addiction, he's blessed with remarkably good sense.  He's very down to earth.  I'm very not.
I value his level head.
"Don't let it bother you.  It won't make any difference to worry about it, so don't," he said.

Ha.
He makes the funniest jokes.

Only he wasn't kidding.  I didn't bother telling him how impossible it was for me to just NOT worry about it -to just let it go.
"I'll pray about it," I shrugged.
"Or don't," he shrugged back, "You can't give stuff like that more credit than it deserves."
"Until I work it all out in my mind, I will," I said.  And then we watched a movie.

And then my kids puked all night.
But anyway.

Today I went to a funeral for a prominent member of our small community.
He wasn't suit-and-slick hair prominent.  He wasn't wealthy prominent.
He was giving.  And he wore overalls a lot.
He laughed a lot and loved a lot and touched so many lives and was such a solid rock in our little town that when he died we all just sort of rocked back on our heels and wondered how on earth life would ever be the same.  It won't -not really.  Life won't be BAD, but without him... it just won't feel right for a good long while.
I listened to his children -stalwart men and women who were a big part of The Village that Raised Me -turn into children themselves as they cried at the pulpit.
"I love you, Dad," they said.
Tears once again sprung to my eyes... I reached up and put my hand on the back of the man next to me: my own father.
Then one of the sons got up and talked about the Savior.  He talked about service -about who is greater than who and what and where and all that.  And THEREIN was my answer.
I'm not here to get a degree.  I can, if I want to.  I have my agency.
Have I missed out on opportunities?  Yeah, I'm sure I have.  Does that really suck?  Well, yeah.

BUT on the flip side, I have a good and great life -a simple life.  I have gained so much from my Policing Years that I have NEW and DIFFERENT opportunities to serve and share and love.  And I've learned so very much about the gratifying difference that can be felt between self-service and service-service.
It's inspiring.

I will still have days where I feel less-than.  I will still have days where I feel angry.
When my friend graduates with her degree and begins a lofty writing career, I'll probably be up to my elbows in my pantry.
And that will be okay -so long as I know for a surety that In The Pantry is where the Lord would have me be.
Because if I've learned one thing from all this porn addiction frenzied MADNESS... it's that if you rely on the arm of Jehovah and put yourself on the path he'd like you to be on, you WILL find true JOY.
True joy doesn't mean every day will be happy.  You're going to have hard days.  But when you're in tune with the Spirit, you can always have joy.
Yesterday was awful.  I failed in so many ways, but today it all came around at a funeral.
I sat next to my earthly father who smells like Stetson and looks so handsome in his nice Western suit... he always wears his grandfather's bolo ties on special occasions (like Sundays and funerals) and I was overcome with gratitude for a GOOD, solid DAD.
He's a rock.
I have a rock on earth, and I have an Immovable Mountain of a Father on high.

As I listened to a son, grieving his Rock on Earth, speak of greatness and service as one in the same, I felt My Mountain on High tap my on the head.
"There's your answer," He said, "There it is."
And then I humbly bowed my head and said to Him, "Give me opportunities to do Thy work... let me be a tool."

Soon after that I reached over to my Dad and scratched his back... just because I could -because he was there.  As I left the church I did the same to my Grandpa.  I reached over and rubbed his back that doesn't stand quite as straight as it used to.
I did it because I could.
Because he's here.

Tonight, I'll go see Grandpa again.  I can't not.  Because the man who died -the great, wonderous man who survived being a POW in WWII was a grandfather to my best friend in the entire world.  She can't hug her grandpa tonight, but I can hug mine.  So I will.

Grandpa didn't go on a mission.  He didn't serve in a war.  He stayed home and worked the family farm so his brothers might have those chances.  And who do I look to as the greatest of the greats of men?
My quiet, hunched cowboy grandpa.  I love him dearly.  Self-serving?  Never.
My best friend -my dear friend who lost her own grandfather -has her Master's degree.  No children yet -but soon.  Never once have I seen her place herself above anyone else.  Never once have I seen her seek praise -to go after worldly ambition.
Last year, she came to visit with me during a holiday break.  We spent hours giggling and laughing and talking about our crushes in junior high.
"What's your calling now?" I asked after a few hours of visiting, feeling like maybe we ought to know what the other had actually been doing.
"Stake Relief Society President," I could tell by the way she said it that she didn't WANT to say it at all.
"That's a GROWN UP PERSON calling!" I couldn't help but say.
"I know," she nodded, "But it isn't too bad.  I actually don't have to do anything.  The Lord makes all the decisions and I just tell my counselors what to do."
And we laughed some more because of all the people on earth who can make me really pee my pants: SHE is number one.

My other friend -my journalist friend -she loves attention and notice and praise.  She wants to be applauded, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Perhaps the reason I burst into tears was that I see those same qualities in myself, but I hate that about me.
I want to be like my grandpa -like my best friend.

My recovery and the 12-step program is teaching me how to attain humility.

So have I ever really missed out on opportunities?  Not the ones that truly matter to me.  In fifty years, I won't give a rat's you-know-what about a dusty degree on a shelf because I know that for ME (this doesn't apply to everyone, I know) it will simply represent a few grueling years where I ignored my young children and was a monster to live with.
My degree-getting days may come later -they may not.  These days are not my degree-getting days.
It doesn't matter.
In Faith, I'll Rely On the Arm of Jehovah.

 

via

This post has been so long, so wordy, and so so so long.  But it feels so good to just SPLAT it all out.  If you actually read through the entire thing, you deserve a batch of my mom's cookies.  And they're the best.  No foolin'.

I'm a Tool

I like to believe that once upon a time, Heavenly Father sat at a table and made a sort of game out of people-placement.  He made sure not to put too many healers in one corner... not too many seamtresses too close together.  He spent hours arranging, rearranging, finalizing, and then sending us all down to find out for ourselves what our callings were.

I'm a teacher.  I'm a writer.  I'm an entertainer.

A few months ago, my mom said, "We need to gather our family together and do a sort of inventory... see what we all have to bring to the table.  I just feel like if things get bad, it would be nice to know what we each have to help each other out."
I later found out she was talking about food.
But I thought she was talking about skills and stuff.  I went home and sort of agonized because I have this incredible sister in law who can do everything I can do, but she does it BETTER and simplifies it.  If things go bad, they won't need me if they have her.
I say this 100% without guile... I promise.  She is a rockstar.  If things go bad, I'm going to her house.
It did get me a little down on myself.  I mean, there ARE things I do that she doesn't do, but none of them really matter.  At least I didn't think they did.
Until I imagined it...

If things got bad...
If there were fires and bombs and a lack of food, what place would I have in the building up of the people?  I can make them laugh!  I can tell stories!  I'm a story teller -a writer!  I can use my words to teach!
These are all wonderful additions to destitute people!  Down-trodden and depressed people NEED people who can quote comical movies and skits in their entirety!!  Right?!

The thought salved my self-inflicted wounds for the time being.

I label myself as a teacher.  I'm not getting paid to teach, nor do I have a teaching degree.
I label myself as a writer.  I've never held a job where I got paid to write.  And yes, I've applied.  And yes, I've been rejected.
I label myself as an entertainer.  I'm not getting paid to tell stories, write poems, quote movies or anything like that.

But I do things like that because I can't help it.  It's just... me.  And I do things like teach and write and entertain because it brings me true happiness to do it.

I used to strive for recognition for these kinds of things.  I wanted so badly to be discovered as a writer -to have someone read my junk and go mad with satisfaction.
I felt like Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" when he daydreams about turning in his Christmas theme, and his teacher is completely overcome with the awesomeness of his writing.

via

"Listen to this sentence: 'A Red Ryder BB Gun with a compass and a stock and this THING which tells time...' Oh, Ralphie!  A plus, plus, plus..."

And his classmates lift him to their shoulders and parade him around the room...

Anyway, in the midst of my urgency to be noticed something happened: I hit rock bottom.  I realized the true depth of my husband's porn addiction and I was stunned and scared and panicked and suddenly nothing but survival mattered.  I stopped caring about whether or not people thought my writing was witty or funny or cool or whatever.

I just WROTE.

I wrote because I needed to write -I have to write.  My brain is wired to write (even as a small girl, I used to narrate my own life in my head.  I thought all kids did that.  I didn't realize that Constant Mental Compose Mode wasn't the human norm and I walked out of my door to walk to Elementary School and my brain went something like, "The front door creaked open and she set foot into the cutting chill.  A shiver went through her as she pulled her coat up around her ears, trying to seal in the warmth from her mother's oatmeal...").

I stopped dressing my writing to impress, and I just started vomiting words up out of my soul.  When I shared what I'd written, I didn't hear, "You are SUCH a good writer." 

Instead, people would say things like "I needed to hear that today.  Thank you so much for putting into words what I didn't know how."

And the more it happened, the more I could feel my Heavenly Father saying "You're an instrument."

I can use my God-given ability to express myself to try and turn a profit somewhere (if anyone would bother hiring a housewife with no experience).  But Heavenly Father didn't put me down here to turn a profit or to be discovered.  He put me down here to serve a purpose, to do for others what they can't do for themselves and I'm SO HAPPY to do it because so many people have done for me what I can not do for myself!  I want to give SOMETHING BACK if I can!

I can not heal my own infections, perform my own surgeries, match clothes, style hair, decorate my home, organize it... until one of the Lord's instruments takes me by the hand and lifts me.

They're tools.

I'm a tool.

Everyone's a friggin' tool.

via

We sometimes think we have to BE ALL THE TOOLS.  And if we need a tool we don't have, we use a a tool we DO have to do whatever it is that needs doing.  It takes longer and it's more stressful and time consuming than it ever should have to be, but hey.  At least we didn't have to call the neighbor, right?  At least we didn't let our guard down long enough for them to see our vulnerability and weakness.  At least we broke our back and denied someone a chance to serve and create joy in their own life.  Whew!

Needing help is so hard.  ASKING for it is downright agonizing.  Receiving it is hard to stomach.  

Giving it?  Giving it is celestial in every sense of the word.

When I felt prompted to start a recovery blog, I pushed the prompting away.  The internet was the one place in my little life that wasn't touched by the porn addiction in my home.  I could log onto my family blog -the place I go to write every day -and I could let porn go and focus on what my family had done the day before.

After listening to President Monson's talk in conference about following promptings, I knew it was time.  I was sad to let porn addiction affect my "safe" place, but it's been nothing but a blessing for me.  I'm learning so much about myself as I write, and I'm receiving little taps to the brain... they're writing prompts.

I'll be in the middle of doing dishes and *BAM* something whispers in my ear, "You should write about _____."  The more I dwell on the writing prompt, the more ideas flow.  Before my head hits the pillow, I have to get them all out through my keyboard.

I go to bed satisfied, happy, and I sleep soundly (ish.  I mean, as soundly as a pregnant lady in her third trimester can sleep). It feels so good to WRITE!  To compose! To put those words down and watch them work together and to hit the "publish" button and know that it will STAY written... unlike the living room that no matter how many times I clean it, it never stays that way.  I seriously think it has some kind of beef with me.

I love being a tool.

It doesn't profit anything material, but it profits soul cash... and soul cash can never be lost or spent or badly invested.  What's more?  You take it with you when you go.

Tonight I'm grateful for careful people placement and a wide variety of tools.

I realize tonight's post could come across as completely egotistical, but it isn't meant to come across that way.

And anyway.  Can I really be stroking my ego if I'm blatantly calling myself a tool?

That's rhetorical, by the way.  Please don't answer...

I'll Be Yar Now

In possibly the greatest movie ever made (The Philadelphia Story), a woman named Tracy kicks her alcoholic husband out of the house -but not before she snaps one of his golf clubs over her knee:

via

Tracy Samantha Lord.

She's regal, self-disciplined and intolerant.

 

via

She was glad to be rid of her addict.

She moved on with her life and became engaged to a self-made man.  They're on the brink of a wedding when her x-husband shows up.

While away from her, he's gotten into recovery.  He isn't drinking anymore.

While away from her, she didn't get into recovery because she didn't have a problem.

HE had a problem.

Throughout the movie, she's wittingly accosted on just about every side.  She's forced to look into a mirror of sorts.

She's called all sorts of names she doesn't like.  

Her father tells her she lacks an understanding heart -that without it, she might as well be made of bronze.

Her x-husband, C.K. Dexter Haven, calls her a "goddess" -and he isn't being complimentary.

Read these lines, please:

Tracy: You seem quite contemptuous of me all of a sudden.

Dexter: No, Red, not of you, never of you. Red, you could be the finest woman on this earth. I'm contemptuous of something inside of you you either can't help, or make no attempt to; your so-called 'strength' - your prejudice against weakness - your blank intolerance.

Tracy: Is that all?

Dexter: That's the gist of it; because you'll never be a first-class human being or a first-class woman, until you've learned to have some regard for human frailty. It's a pity your own foot can't slip a little sometime - but your sense of inner divinity wouldn't allow that. This goddess must and shall remain intact. There are more of you than people realize - a special class of the American Female.

via

And then there's George -her fiance.  He "compliments" her in a way that smacks her right in the face and she realizes just what she's become -just the kind of image she's putting off.  It's horrifying.

George: You know, we're gonna represent something, Tracy, you and I in our home, something straight, sound, and fine. Then perhaps your friend Mr. Haven will be somewhat less condescending.

Tracy: George, you, you don't really mind him, do you? I mean, the fact of him...I mean...that he ever was my lord and master. That we ever were...

George: I don't believe he ever was, Tracy, not really. I don't believe that anyone ever was - or ever will be. That's the wonderful thing about you, Tracy.

Tracy: What? How?

George: Well, you're like some marvelous, distant, well, queen, I guess. You're so cool and fine and - and always so much your own. There's a kind of beautiful purity about you, Tracy, like, like a statue...

Tracy: George -

George: Oh, it's grand, Tracy. It's what everybody feels about you. It's what I first worshiped you for from afar.

Tracy: George, listen -

George: First, now, and always! Only from a little nearer now, eh, darling!

Tracy: I-I don't want to be worshiped. I want to be loved!

George: Well, you're that too, Tracy. Oh, you're that all right.

Tracy: I mean really loved.

George: But that goes without saying, Tracy.

Tracy: No. No, now it's you who doesn't see what I mean.

via

George is on the left.

Yesterday I came to the stark realization that though I haven't snapped an golf clubs or kicked my husband out... I had him convinced he was living with a Goddess.

I was a saint.

HE was a sinner.

I beat it into him every time he confessed.  I showed a gross intolerance for human frailty.  I was better than him, and though I professed to myself that I'd never let it show -I DID -and I did it on purpose.

Two mornings ago, my husband tried to open up to me -tried to show me his frailty.  And I didn't mean to, but I reverted back to a statuesque bronze representation of a woman, grilling him about his motives, adjusting him, fixing him.  He immediately shut me out.  I felt awful for the rest of the day.  

I apologized to him for it.

He told me how hard it is to open up to me.

Unlike Tracy, I did get into recovery.  But that doesn't change the fact that my husband still fears the "withering glance of the Goddess."  He's afraid of what might happen -my reaction, my judgements. 

It suddenly hit me: my husband doesn't feel like he can hurt me.  He's already hurt me so deeply with his addiction that he isn't allowed to cause me any other sort of discomfort in any other area of our lives together, even if keeping his peace does damage on his end.
I've trained him to believe that.

"Listen," I said, "If I'm barking at you, fixing you, crossing a line and lecturing you and you don't like it... you have a right to tell me.  You have every right to hold up your hand and say, 'Please stop' and it will upset me.  It will make me mad.  I'll be uncomfortable and shocked, but you don't have to put up with that behavior from me just like I don't have to put up with bad behavior from you.  You have every right to say something if I'm crossing a line and making you uncomfortable.  You don't just have to put up with it because you're an addict and I'm a saint."
I spit the word "saint" out as if it were the crudest word ever invented on the face of the modern earth.  I hate what I've made out of that word.

He looked stunned.  

It was devastating for me.  I suddenly felt as hopeless as Tracy sounded when she said, "I don't want to be worshipped.  I want to be loved."

I'm healthy enough to NOT let my husband get away with behavior that is detrimental to my healing.  I've found the strength to tell him, "I'm not okay with what you're doing.  Either you stop, you leave, or I leave for a while."

He has the very same right.  

Just because he's the one who hurt me doesn't mean he's PRIMARILY the one responsible for fixing everything.  Does he carry some weight in that area?  Yeah.  But not all.

I carry some.

The Savior carries it all.

My husband can't turn bronze into flesh.  He can't create and install an understanding heart.

The SAVIOR can and the Savior did... 

I'll never forget the feeling of having a stone, cold heart.  I felt so numb inside -so dead.  It eventually melted away and gave way to flesh again, but not because my husband fixed it... not because I fixed it... 

I felt justified in having it.  It was a natural consequence of the scars I bore, and I wore my stone heart with pride.  I let my husband see it whenever he had the chance because it brought him shame and self-loathing and seeing THAT brought me a sense of pride and validation.

For a very little while.

For a long while after that, I realized that my stone heart was heavy.  It scraped my insides and refused to feel emotion like I wanted it to.  I tried to fix it, but I couldn't.

I finally admitted that I had no control over it, and I asked the Lord to please perform a sort of heart transformation.  I asked several times.  It wasn't an immediate thing or an overnight thing... it was grueling to give up my pride, but it was necessary.

And it was worth it.  

I'll never forget the warmth that slowly flooded through my soul as the gradual transformation took place.

I have FELT it.  

My husband is still gun-shy of The Goddess.  I can tell him that I've changed, but it doesn't mean much because past experience has taught him otherwise.

Sound familiar?  My husband can tell me he's changed.  I don't believe him.

So yesterday we faced each other.  Looked into each other's eyes and said something like, "I'll keep going if you will, but don't judge me if I pee my pants out of sheer terror on the way."

And then I said, "Give me chance.  Open up to me even if it's scary and GIVE ME A CHANCE to show you my fleshy heart."

In a sense, I said -as Tracy Samantha Lord said to CK Dexter Haven just minutes before she remarries him after ditching George -"... I'll be yar now.  I promise to be yar."
And I love Dexter's reply, "Be whatever you like.  You're my redhead."

via
And for the record: my husband has never been jealous of my unbridled love for Cary Grant, and he's bought me a collection of Grant's movies to prove it.  You should come over so we can watch them sometime.
We'll start with The Philadelphia Story.

Dwarf Angel Sealing Crasher

After my husband and I were sealed, we stood together as a couple and hugged our family as they passed by us out of the sealing room.
There were a lot of smiles, a lot of tears (who cries at weddings?  Me.) and a lot of hugs.
I didn't want to let go of my Dad.  I was clutching him and crying.  It was as if a voice inside of me was saying, "I don't want to grow up, Daddy.  Take me to Neverland!"
He looked at my mom and asked what he always asks when I show unbridled sentiment.
"Why is Alicia crying?"
My Mom always pats him and tells him not to worry about it.
So he shrugs his "I don't understand women" shrug and walks off.
Soon after my Dad walked away, a tiny woman approached my husband.  She seemed almost like a dwarf angel -her back was hunched, her hair white.  She gripped my husband's arm and looked expectantly up at him.  He stooped down until his head was next to hers.
"Always treat her like a queen," she whispered loud enough so I could hear, "Even when she doesn't deserve it."
He smiled, nodded, and the woman loosened her grip only to transfer it to my arm.
I stooped.
"Always treat him like a king, even when he doesn't deserve it," she said, her eyes twinkling with a lifetime of hard-earned wisdom.
Her words sent a sort of tingle through me.  I smiled, and she slowly made her way out of  the sealing room. I turned to my brand new husband.
"Who was that?" I asked.
"I thought you knew," he said.  We shared a "what the heck?" moment only as long as we could before the next relative was in front of us.

She was The Dwarf Angel Sealing Crasher.

I thought a lot about her advice during our first few years.  I took it as gospel rather than advice.
And really -it sort of is gospel.
For someone else.

I realize that unconditional love isn't about getting.  It's about giving.
Right now, I can't give.  I can't treat him like a king.  I can't plan creative date nights or get excited about love or gush or giggle or even shave my legs on schedule.

My love for my husband is not unconditional.
That said: I'm not withholding creative date nights out of punishment.  I'm also not applying the old, "Fake it 'til you feel it" line.
The truth is: It's hard for me to invest fully in something when I know it isn't solid.  I can't blindfold myself to uncertainty and carelessly throw my cash in the pile.
I'm going to get hurt again.  My heart is going to get broken again. I'm going to grapple with the harness of betrayal again.

I'm only doing today what I feel is right to do today.

via
I miss the days where I listened to Norah Jones and giddily planned surprise date nights.  I miss the relationship where I could read books about marriage and love and dating and have them apply to us.  I used to devour relationship advice columns and blogs.  Now when I come across a book, an article, a column... I shrug it off.
It was written for someone else.
It doesn't apply to us anymore.

What DOES apply to us?  Well, nothing right now.  We're in two different places.
I say marriage counseling applies to us.
He says it doesn't -not right now.  We can figure it out on our own.
I try to reach out into thin air and choke the words "on our own" as they come out because I hate them so very much.  They're so unwelcome, yet they keep stopping by and barging into my home in all their egotistical pomp.  I want them to die.

Today I'm bitter, and that's okay.  I used to hate myself for feeling bitterness -as if I were a bad person for feeling natural feelings.
But I've traveled this road long enough to know that when the bitterness comes, I don't need to pay it any mind.  It will come, sit down beside me for a while and then leave.
Bitterness has ears of perfection -it can hear my THOUGHTS.  It can hear that today I'm yearning for parts of relationship that I just can't have right now.  Even before I can finish my thoughts, Bitterness has haphazardly thrown a piece of toast in it's mouth as it's throwing on it's galoshes and yanking on a sweater... it's racing out the door and making a beeline for my brain.
I don't have to entertain it or host it or even be nice about it.
I just have to let it be.
And then it will be gone because even Bitterness is smart enough to know when it's not receiving due attention.

I wonder what the Dwarf Angel Sealing Crasher would say to me today?
Maybe she'd tell me to pray.  or maybe she'd tell me to work.  or maybe she'd offer to watch my son while I took a long, over-indulgent nap.
Or maybe she'd stick to her old saying because she -unlike me -understands about unconditional love.

Pumpkin Guts

My Dad is John Wayne.

via: 25.media.tumblr.com
He's got ranch land, farm land, cattle, hosses, boots, cowboy hats, bacon and eggs.  He's grit and iron.  He's burly and his chest hair literally bursts out of his button-up Wranglers.

My Dad was never my friend.  He was my DAD.

I was fine with it.  I had enough friends.  I didn't need friends.  I needed a Dad.

Dad had expectations of his kids.  He didn't expect us to beat out anyone else in life -he didn't even encourage it.  Instead, he fostered an environment of independence... we were challenged daily to out-work only the person we were the day before.
And Dad towered over us, a barrel of a man.  We were terrified of letting him down in any way.

I never snuck out of the house.  I never got detention.  I never rebelled terribly or lied to him or ditched anything... the thought of the consequences at home was too much for me to bear.  It wasn't that Dad was abusive or anything like that.  It was me and my bloody conscious.  If I let him down, I would carry it with me for years afterward, and I didn't want to deal with that.

"Tell me about your Dad," my then-boyfriend-now-husband said to me as we made the long drive home to introduce him to my folks, "What's he like?"  I thought for a minute before answering.  I could have told him that my Dad scared away every boyfriend I'd ever had...
"The minute you meet him, you automatically respect him, and you'd rather die than let him down," was what came out instead.
"I don't understand," he said.
"You will..." I replied.
A few miles outside of my little hometown, we were pulled over for a car-repairish thing (college cars.  What are you gonna do?) and when I handed over my registration the officer saw my Dad's name on it.
"Which one of you two is related to this man?" he pointed to my Dad's name.
"Me," I said, fearing nothing... it's no shameful thing to be related to That Man.
"Daughter?"
"Yeah."
"I know you'll get this taken care of then.  Take care."
And then he left... no repair order.  No warning (we were speeding).  No intimidation.  My boyfriend turned to me with eyes that rivaled dinner plates.
"Who IS your Dad?"
"You'll see..."

Dad is John Wayne.

He's rough and hysterical.  He's the smartest man in the world -with the worst report cards.  His smarts don't come from no stinking books.
They come from dirt, experience, and grease.

Living with a man like that can be hard.  I don't fault him or blame him or hate him.  I don't.  In fact, I love him dearly.
For Christmas, I compiled all of my Cowgirl Poetry (that is just the nuttiest, silliest, fluffiest stuff with no sentiment involved what-so-ever) and made a blurb book out of it for him.  I dedicated the book to him, filled it full of vintage cowgirl clip art and watched him break down and cry when he opened it.
He's a rock... a squishy rock.

But there was shame.  I don't know where it came from.  Maybe from my parents?  Maybe from me?  Maybe I wanted so badly to never, EVER let them down that I took it too far and spent my entire life hiding the bad parts of me rather than facing them?

All I know is that when I was 12 years old, I was strong because (get a load of this crap:) I didn't cry.  I was tough.  I was above tears.
Except I wasn't.  I had just trained myself to push emotions down, to stifle them, beat them, hog tie them, brand them, castrate them...
And then one day they fought back.  I spent two weeks living with my nurturing grandmother because my nerves were so SHOT from the shingles that I couldn't live at home with my big, fun family (and the loud man who happened to be remodeling the bathroom and thought it was super cool to tease me and swing me around and make me miles of uncomfy [he later went to prison for acts which completely validated my uncomfiness]).
One night after my mom had applied a paste made from water and asprins to my shingles, she sat next to me on my grandmother's couch.
"Alicia," she said, tears welling up in her eyes, "You're going to have to learn to get things out.  CRY if you need to... and talk!  Talk everything out!"
For years, I'd been teased about my ability to never, ever, EVER shut up.  I hated it about myself.  It's still something I really struggle with.  I was a horrid burden on adults because I didn't know when to stop, how to stop, or really: WHY.  And the shame crept in, so I quit talking.
After that, my mother -who had been the one primarily irritated by my mouth -became a cheerleader of it.
"Talk!  Talk!  If you don't, you'll DIE!"

I thought about all of this tonight.  I did.
I thought about my shingles and my Dad and shame and John Wayne and the smell of grandma's bathroom mixed with asprin paste.
I thought about it all while my hands were covered in pumpkin guts.
THESE pumpkin guts:

We carved pumpkins early this year.  My daughter has show and tell this week -she's supposed to bring something that starts with the letter "j" and she requested "Jack-o-lantern" which is perfect because we have a few pumpkins growing outside.
I sat with my kidlets around me tonight and I showed them a small-ish pumpkin.
"What is this?"
"A PUNKIN!"
"What is inside of it?"
"GOO!" My daughter giggled.
I told them all about Yuckies.  Pumpkins are delicious -they are part fragrant, wholesome goodness and part... yuckies.
"We are ALL like pumpkins," I told my kids, "We have lots of good in ourselves!"  We spent some time listing good qualities we all have.
"And we all have some yuckies in us as well, and that's okay."

I told them yuckies are a part of life -and we can't get rid of our own yuckies.  We need to realize that when we DO something bad, it's just the yuckies acting out.  WE aren't bad.  We're mostly juicy goodness!
We cleaned our pumpkins out and talked about Heavenly Father and Jesus and how they're the only ones who can get our yuckies out of us.
I illustrated the COOLEST Alma the Younger story (stick figures are my delight), and when I was done I asked the kids:
"What did Mama just talk about?"
*silence*
"We don't know, Mom," my son admitted.
"Al..." I tried giving them a hint, "Allll...."
"ALVIN!" My daughter cried out and immediately starting quoting Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Awesome.

At least the pumpkins turned out.  Will I ever reach jack-o-lantern status?  Will all of my yuckies ever be gone completely?  Will I ever have the humility to ask God to please just take all of my nastiness?
The truth is: I have no idea.

I was terrified to let my own personal John Wayne on Earth know that I was weak.
How do I face my John Wayne in the Sky?

via
Maybe by taking The Real John Wayne's sage advice.
I suddenly have a hankering to watch "Bonanza."
The only cowboy that comes close to even touching John Wayne in rugged sexiness is Little Joe (and yes, I realize that I just made you feel weird because a few paragraphs ago I was calling my DAD John Wayne and now I'm calling John Wayne sexy.  My Dad isn't sexy.  My Dad is the guy who let me put ponytails in his hair and draw pictures on his arm with a ball point pen while he read Dr. Seuss to me):

via
My first TV crush.  SUCH a heart breaker.

Not Rated

Sometimes I read about couples in recovery that actually do stuff together.
We're not one of those cool couples.  I mean, we talk about maybe doing something else besides sitting and watching TV together, but those conversations never last very long and are usually ended by
"Want to watch Cheers again?"

A few nights ago, we sat next to each other on the couch and I totally SHOOK UP our routine.  Instead of watching a funny sitcom (I can only handle so many episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond before I want to kick Raymond in the nuts because a grown man should have a limit to how much whining is allowed in one  fictional, scripted lifetime), I brought up our Netflix queue and clicked on:

via

I actually had to go in and change my parental controls so we were able to watch it.
Reefer Madness was made in 1930, and for 1930... it was a downright scandal!
Don't tell my mother, but in one scene.
I saw a woman.
In.
Her.
Bra.

It almost felt exactly like 1975 would have.

My husband and I fast-forwarded through all of the educational mumbo-jumbo and went straight to the meat of the matter.
Bill and Mary are going steady.  They say things like "swell" and "gee" a lot.  They take a few innocent turns down Peer Pressure Rd, and before anyone knows what's what:
Bill loses his virginity.
Mary gets shot in the back.
Mary's little brother gets high, drives a car at the racing speed of 45 (gasp!) and HITS a man and then RUNS.
The woman Bill gives it up to (also a regular pot head) throws herself out of a window.
Bill is framed for Mary's murder and is so stoned when she's killed that he actually believes he did it.
Ralph (I think his name was Ralph) tries to take advantage of Stoned Mary shortly before she takes a bullet to the back... and somewhere during the trial in the which Bill is convicted of Mary's murder... Ralph goes certifiably insane and kills his drug dealer with a fire poker.
He is sentenced to spend the rest of his life in an institution.  See Ralph?  See Ralph toke?

via
The movie is just over an hour long... if you fast forward through all the boring educational stuff, it's much less than that.
As we crawled into bed that night, I asked my husband if he had been shocked into changing his perspective on Mary Jane.
We had a good laugh and went to bed.

Am I allowed to laugh at addiction?

I think I am... especially when it's cloaked in a blazer and saying things like, "C'mon, Bill... I thought you were on the level."

For My Headstone:

via

Ma Kettle Style

via
Quite a while ago, I was in the middle of standing over a hot stove, canning and blanching and boiling.  My phone rang.  On the other line was a dear friend.
"What are you doing?" She asked, "Do you have time to talk?"
"Oh yeah," I said, balancing the phone on one ear and topping hot jars with hot lids, "I'm just canning."
"Whoa."  Her voice was suddenly serious, "Aren't you afraid you're going to die?"
I laughed, "Die?  What are you talking about?"
"I refuse to can," she confessed, "I'm deathly afraid one of the jars will burst the minute I put it in the hot water bath and a shard of glass will slice my jugular."
I laughed even harder.  Hearing people's craziest fears is one of my joys in life.  I once met a girl who refused to drive behind people who were smoking because she knew -she just KNEW -that one day they would drop their hot ciggy bud on the asphalt and it would bounce right up into her engine thus making her own car EXPLODE.
I have a few crazy fears: one involves a snake I'm sure is hiding somewhere in the piping behind the throne in my powder room.  The other is that one day the train barriers are going to malfunction and I'm going to ignorantly drive straight into the pathway of an oncoming locomotive.

Anyway.

I actually HAVE had jars burst while I've canned.  I was thinking of them yesterday as I stood over a hot stove and canned two batches of ketchup.  We haven't had hardly any tomatoes this year.

via
This year, my husband and I have scavenged our garden for any HINT of tomatoes.  They are so scarce that I've promised Heavenly Father over and over, "I'll never complain about canning tomatoes again -I've learned my lesson."
Our cherry tomatoes have done just fine, so we combined them with our meager full-sized tomato harvest and by some MIRACLE were able to make 2 whole batches of ketchup (I can normally make 5 or 6 at least).
Not one jar burst.
I've wised up since my jar-bursting years.

Since I've been married, I've always had a small kitchen.  Canning has always been a cramped sort of ordeal, and keeping my jars hot to prepare them for the hot water bath had always been a trial.
One stove top burner was being used for my canner.
One was being used to boil lids.
One was being used to boil whatever it was I was making (jam, ketchup, salsa, and on and on).
One was being used to keep jars hot.

It really didn't work at all.  Jars burst all over the place and I lost so many diced tomatoes in those days.

Along the way, I've learned a few trickies.  I boil water in my microwave in a bowl and heat my lids up in that instead of on the stove top.  It works like magic.
And I preheat my oven to WARM and set my clean jars on a cookie sheet.  They're always hot and ready when I need them.
I haven't lost a jar in ages.

I thought about that yesterday as I filled my hot jars with hot ketchup and put them in the hot water bath.  
I recently read a talk by Neal A. Maxwell in which he says that life is tutorial in nature.  Life lessons are found just about everywhere... even, I've found, in canning and preserving.
While blanching and freezing corn earlier this harvest season, my kids were appalled at the amount of worms they kept finding as they husked corn.  They squealed and jumped and whined and beat the corn against the giant black trash bag I'd set out for them to use.
"The worms only bother the sweetest ears of corn," I said, and then chuckled because I sounded exactly like Ma Kettle giving advice to a bullied child.

via
And how's this for Ma Kettle advice?
"If you put a cold jar in hot water, it'll crack under pressure."

via
I can't force my "cold" husband into the hot waters of recovery because he isn't ready.
I couldn't force my (STONE) cold heart into recovery before it was ready.
And you can't send children into the world without putting them in a hypothetical oven all their life -warm them up and prepare them for the hot water of reality.

Right now, I'm stuck on Step 4.
I picked an abundance of cherry tomatoes earlier this week and then fell sick.  While I blew snot on the couch, the tomatoes rotted.  I knew they were rotting.  But I didn't bother to lift the lid of the box they were in...  the guilt of not taking care of them would overwhelm me.
So I let them sit.
And sit.
And yesterday, I armed myself with two pairs of food-service gloves and I delved into the box.  I sifted through the slime and mold and fruit flies.  I held my pregnant breath -the one whose ability to smell has been so wonderfully enhanced.
I picked the firm, juicy beautiful red cherry tomatoes out of a watery rotting pile.
It was a physical representation of Step 4... facing the rotting parts in our box of life, pulling out the good from the bad.
The good went on to become two delicious batches of homemade ketchup.  They were juiced, boiled, mixed with other ingredients, and ladled into prepared, waiting hot jars.
When they entered the hot water, they were ready. They took it like champs.
They came out all shiny and wonderful and gleamy.  Their lids popped and sealed, and I sat back feeling something like the Queen of Sheba.
Despite the fact that my nose was puffy and red from blowing (still sick, still sick).

via

I think it's time. It's time to DO my Step 4.
And as always: it's time to be patient with my husband's personal jar-warming process.  I'm seeing my desire for him to get into the water clearly now... I want to push the issue, much like I did a few years ago when I canned.  I can push the issue and watch jars explode all over the place.
OR
I can watch him at work, see if his own recovery attempts -though different from mine -will be enough to prepare him for the hot waters of recovery.
In the meantime, I'll get my Ma Kettle on and bake a few loaves of bread.

(My go-to wheat bread recipe that is always eaten in it's entirety within a few hours of coming out of the oven.)
It's getting really chilly out there, and nothing warms the soul like homemade wheat bread topped with butter and honey.
If you're feeling the effects of fall, do yourself a favor:
Fill your crock pot with apple juice and toss in handful (or two if you're a bad arse) of red hots (or cinnamon rounds, whatever they're calling them these days). Turn the heat to high and let your house fill with the scents of autumn.  After a few hours and a few stirring sessions, you'll have yourself a hot crock of apple cider.
And a happy soul.
Trust me on this.

Practically Perfect

via

There's a societal epidemic at large... it's attacking homes, families, children.  It's contagious.  It's rampant.

It's feeding off the innocent and the weak.  It's infiltrating the minds of decent humans beings and turning them into...

via

THAT.

Or the essence of that.  Whatever.

My husband's addiction cured me of it.  Isn't that crazy?  I'd love to see a doc prescribe it:

"Doctor, I've been having the strangest symptoms.  I wake up frazzled, I spend my day just trying to do the normal routine things a perfect mother should do, and then I go to bed having fallen short.  I hate myself.  I don't know what the matter with me is!  I can't seem to keep up with other normal mothers.  Surely, there's something I can take..."

"Certainly," the doctor says, hardly looking up from his prescription pad.  He's seen cases like this before... many times before.  He's scribbling, scribbling, scribbling, then riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

"Here," he hands you a slip, "Take this down to the pharmacy.  They'll fix you up with a porn addict.  It will be rough at first, but if you can stick with it you're guaranteed to be cured of what ails you now."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor!  Thank you very much!"

You pick your addict up, take him home, and chaos ensues.

He's sweet and helpful, and then he's irritable and selfish.  You try to please him like a perfect host should, and he balks.  But then he apologizes.  He isn't so bad... unless he steps on a lego, or stubs his toe, or it's windy, or the temperature of the house is slightly uncomfortable, or or or...

On top of hosting an addict, you're baking and crafting and lesson-planning.  You're canning and sewing and writing timely thank-you notes.  Your hair is kept.  Your clothes are in style (more or less).  You're constantly cleaning.

After two days, you crack under the pressure.  You just can't DO it ALL anymore.  

You sob, you pray, and your addict knocks on the bathroom door (because that's where you do all your crying, right?) and wonders about dinner.

You stand up, use your handmade apron to wipe the mascara pouring from your eyes and you order take out.

Then you call housekeeping help in.

Your hair gets flung into a ponytail and you opt for sweats and a comfy tee -things that are hardy enough to not need the sissy protection of a handmade, vintage-style apron.

You run to the store and buy the peaches already in cans.  You put the sewing machine away and buy the $7 butcher apron in the kitchen aisle.

You cancel piano lessons, t-ball, and dance class.  You pull your children close to you.  You spend your afternoons in hammocks reading insightful, life-changing literature.  When your neighbors walk by in their sporty "workout" clothes and flashy iPods, you wave and mutter something like, "ehhhmm" without looking up from your book.

They whisper to each other.

You couldn't care less.

You spend more time alone, more time praying, more time asking The Good Doctor about life and yourself and fear.

You start to remember what YOU like to do instead of what the neighbors are doing.  The Good Doctor, who has treated you all your life, reminds you of what made you happy when you were 4, 10 and 14.  You start taking your journal to the hammock with you.

The pen calluses your hands -the words pour from your heart straight to your page, teaching your mind things it didn't know.  

How is your addict?  Well, at this point.

Frankly, Scarlett... 

Eventually you emerge from your hammock and sweats.  You start a soothing self-care routine of all-encompassing health.

It's yoga, it's meditation, it's prayer, it's lots of water and more veggies and less doughnuts.

You cleanse your mind, your soul... your surroundings.  

Your hobbies become you -your life starts to take shape as you realize your beauty, your worth, your potential to become so much more than a Stepford Wife.

You're less censored in your speech, more open about your weaknesses.  You take pictures, even if the house is dirty.  You GET IN those pictures, even if you look like an unidentifiable abused amphibian.  People don't like this about you, but for the first time in your life: you. don't. care.  because you're feeling good that you even made it through the gigantic pile of dishes without losing yourself in a heap of mold, or something.

And you love.

You celebrate.

You RADIATE.

You visit your cousin without jealousy over her newly renovated home.  Your competitive spirit that came out to play the minute you walked through your sister-in-law's home simply dies.  

Your mouth doesn't even twitch when she repeatedly announces that she wants to be THE BEST anything and everything there ever was.

Instead of feeling a sense of inadequacy, a sense of failure, a sense of destitution...

You feel compassion for the afflicted.

You drive your addict back to the Pharmacy.  When you first met him, you would have never believed what you were about to say.

"Thank you for your pornography addiction," you shake his hand, "Really, thank you."

And then you peel outta the parking lot, your ponytail flapping in the breeze.

As you drive home, you feel the strength of your immune system.  You're a survivor.  You crank your tunes and treat yourself to a Route 44 Ocean Water at Sonic.

You've been cured of Perfectionism.

You call The Good Doctor, and gush out your thanks even though it may or may not be in a timely manner.  His tone is all warmth as he encourages you to share what you've learned.  

How do you share your message of healing?  your remedies?

You be REAL.  You go to church even if you don't look put together.  You open your home to visitors, even if there's laundry on the couch (and floor).  

And since you've stopped worrying about yourself so much, an entirely new world unfolds in front of your eyes -a world FULL of people inflicted with all manner of diseases!  And while you can't cure or even TREAT what they have, you can show compassion and give them something to eat when they're too tired to cook.  You can give them something to laugh about when they profess that there IS NOTHING TO LAUGH ABOUT.  

In short: you can give.  Period.

Living With a Porn Addict has taught you that a life of keeping up, of "doing it all" is really a cheap substitute for the rich life that was waiting for you.

Oh, that Good Doctor.  That wonderfully great Good Doctor -who, as a matter of fact -was listening intently to your complaints, who knew just what was needed, and who knows it all.

Shouldn't everyone have a Doctor so Good?

via lds.org

Everyone does.  

And while he may not have SENT me a porn addict, he certainly worked through him to cure me of my Perfectionism.

I went from a quest to attain mediocrity to a quest to embrace reality, and I gotta say: oh, life is so good.

EVEN with my small rental, my inability to decorate like Martha Stew, my pointed nose, and my inability to ever really finish the laundry... life is OH so imperfectly good.