Time Off

I haven't been doing any step-work for a while now.

I haven't been doing as much studying -though I have done some.

And it makes me feel vulnerable in the Recovery World.  I'm taking steps back in my own recovery, and instead of recognizing it and using it to fuel my "I GOT THIS" fire, I'm looking at it and just feeling so bloomin' tired.

Sometimes recovery is just the pits.  To be honest, I don't want to think about it right now.  I want to think about having a baby and how to handle post partum stuff and what to do with the next YEAR of my life in the which I adjust to having an infant -something I haven't had for 4 years.

As much as I wish my recovery wasn't moving backward, I need to let it go... just for a while.

It's hard for me to not give my all to it -to not work hard at detaching and healing.  But I'm so exhausted in every possible way right now.

Know what I did today?  The dishes.
Period.
And I'm am SO ready for bed.

I really hate this.  I'm used to being able to clean my house in one day -to start at one end and whirlwind my way to the other end.  I come out on the other end reeking of sweat and grime.  I end up look like crud.  And it feels awesome.
Recovery work gives me the same kind of satisfaction -I like to work at it, whirlwind my way through soul-searching questions, come out the other end emotionally spent... but that feeling of learning something new about yourself, the insights, the knowledge... it feels awesome.

But right now.
I.
just.
can't.

And I'm tired of feeling like a failure because I can't right now.
And I'm tired of taking steps back.

I need some time off.
What better time than right now, when there's a baby due at any moment?

Take That!

My mind is busy.
and tired.
VERY tired.

There's no room for porn addiction.

When my husband and I had an addiction-related difference of opinion yesterday, I felt heavy.  I don't want to deal with porn addiction right now.

I want it to vanish for a few months -just until my hormones balance out a little and the baby sleeps at least four hours at a time.

I can function on four hours at a time.

But porn addiction doesn't vanish.  It isn't convenient.  It isn't on a beck-and-call schedule.
It just... is.

It always is.  It is during the holidays and during pregnancies and during moves and raises and housework and birthdays and anniversaries and deaths.

But right now: there's no room for it.  I can not handle it.  After our difference of opinion, I felt no need to argue my point, to defend my stance or to talk at all, really.  So I didn't.
I don't agree with him.
He doesn't agree with me.

I took the matter to the Lord.  I laid down on my bed (because kneeling isn't really an option right now).  I closed my eyes.
I pleaded.
"Take this.  Please just TAKE this.  I can't go through these emotions.  I can't think about this.  I can't talk about this.  There's nothing left of me for this.  I can't dwell on it.  I can't face it, handle it, learn from it or or or..."
I fell asleep in the middle of the prayer.
Forty minutes later I woke up.

It was gone.
He took it.
I quit trying to take it.  I gave up.  I admitted that I couldn't take it anymore and I asked Him to.
And he DID.

My heart is filled with gratitude and humility.
I feel awful handing my crap over to someone else... I feel like it's MINE.  I HAVE TO HANDLE IT.  It's my job.  I'm a responsible person who handle their own stuff.  I do not pass it off on someone else.
But what about when I can't handle my own stuff?
HE can.  I am never alone.  I have a partner, and it isn't my husband.  It's my Savior -it's my Father in Heaven.
I just love Him so much -so very much.

I can DO today because he took my... stuff.

 

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Waiting to Break?

I'm trying not to be.
But I'm worried.

I don't know if I can do it: Primary President, new mother battling hormones, porn addict husband, mommy to two, PASG facilitator...

Sometimes I wish people KNEW, you know?  I wish people knew what was going on so they understood why I get frazzled easily or why I forget things or why I cry for "no good reason."
Could I handle a new baby and my calling?  I think so.
Can I handle my calling, a new baby, AND then all this addiction stuff?  It looks like I'm going to.

I know from past experiences that the Lord will bless me if I'm willing to get down in the dirt of it all -get my hands dirty, so to speak.  He will not leave me helpless.

Because even if other people don't KNOW... HE knows.  He knows very well.
He knows.

Calm Before the Storm

 

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I've been through labor and delivery twice before.

I know what's coming.  I've been prepping my house, mind and body for it.  And now that the clothes are out, the car seat cover has been washed, the hospital bags are packed and there's food in the freezer...
I'm just waiting.

I've never been this prepared for a baby before.  I have no idea what it's like to be prepared to have a baby.  Will recovery be easier because I have taken measures to help it along the way (something I've never done before)?

Every night, my sleep is restless.  My dreams are invaded with Baby.  I wake up sore and tired every morning.
When will she come?

I've officially carried this baby longer than I did my son.
My daughter was born at 37 weeks and 1 day.

I am 36 weeks and 5 days.

I'm waiting, waiting, waiting.
When?
When?
When?

Should I sleep with my contacts in -just in case I go into labor in the middle of the night?  Should I wear my robe to bed?  Sleep with a waterproof bed liner, just in case my water breaks (though it never has on it's own)?
Is my phone charged?
Are my shoes by the bed?

When?
When?
When?

It's taking over my BRAIN.  But it isn't foreign to me.  I've had my brain taken over before -or I should say: I've LET my brain be taken over before.
I'm more prepared than I ever have been for my husband to relapse.  My recovery has progressed farther than it ever has.  I'm more healthy in every way (hence the fact that I'm more PRESENT for this baby.  I've been so wrapped up in my husband's addiction that I wasn't able to properly prepare for my other babies).

But I still don't know how I will handle it... how I will recover.
And then there's the question:
When?
When?
When?

I'm allowed to let the "When?" of Baby take over my mind -it's only natural.
But I'm NOT going to to let the "When?" of Addiction set up residency.

I don't know how I'm going to recover from Baby.  I'm scared out of my mind to go through the inevitable -it feels like a brush with death.  I've given birth all natural before, and I felt every. thing.
I lost control, people.  I yelled.  I left welts in my husband's hands.  I shook and cried and begged for pain meds -and was told no... there was no time.  The baby was coming too fast.
And when it was all over and I had a big-eyed baby in my arms: I was one with heaven.

To access heaven, sometimes we have to brush death.

So it is with addiction -whether you're the addict or the one in love with addict.  There is heaven at our fingertips if we are willing to brush death to get at it.  If we're willing to ache, to go through emotions, to yell, to cry, to shake, to leave welts...
Heaven awaits our efforts.

Right now, I know it's coming.
It is the calm before the storm.

Prayer is non-optional.
There will be angels on my right hand and left to bear me up, whether I'm in a hospital bed or hiding under the covers in my own bed (we've all been there).

Right now is the time to prepare.

Recovery Husband

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My husband has a sexual addiction that has the potential to forever wreck his family.

But my husband IS NOT his addiction.  

I could understand leaving him if he was his addiction -if his addiction defined him.

But last night:

I spent hours doing family history research, looking for a name for this sweet baby coming into our lives, and in the middle of reading about my greatgreatgreatgreat grandmother's alcoholic and abusive father (who beat her so hard she had scars for the rest of her life)... my husband pulled me up from the computer.

He walked me into our bedroom and bathroom where he'd ran a hot bubble bath for me.

There were candles and my favorite pandora station playing softly.

I soaked and soaked and soaked -the water was boil-a-lobster, just the way I like it.  My body aches ALL over, and the hot water felt so good on my tired muscles.

After my bath was over, my husband wrapped me in hot towels (he'd put them in the dryer).  

Then he gave me a massage, keeping me wrapped in hot towels the entire time.

And then he gave me a Priesthood Blessing.

I've been so stressed, so so so stressed about labor and delivery.  I'm worried about the baby and I'm worried about recovery (post-partum) and I'm worried, SO WORRIED and it's interfering with my balance.

His blessing was a balm -He blessed me with peace and calm, blessed me to know what was best for my body, blessed me to know the difference between false concerns and real concerns.

It ended with, "Know that He loves you very much."

I do know that He loves me, but what a world of good it did to HEAR it!  

I slept better last night than I have in a long time.  I woke up, ate a few cookies and put the kids in front of the TV.

I'm 36 weeks and 1 day.  I was exactly this far along when I gave birth to my son.

I'm really, really tired.

I wanted something for breakfast -something filling and wonderful and healthy, but I didn't have the energy to make anything.  So I ate some cookies instead.

Then there was a knock on the door.  My friend from down the street brought me a warm quiche and took my daughter with her.

"I'll get her off to school," she said.

I DO know that my Father in Heaven loves me.  He sends me quiches and babysitters and massages... He can read my mind, my thoughts, and hear my every prayer.

"Please give my husband some degree of empathy," I prayed one night last week, "I don't expect him to understand what I'm going through, but this is so hard.  Please.  Help."

And the Lord sent me a huge dose of Recovery Husband and topped it off with warm breakfast quiche.

My husband really IS like that.  He's thoughtful and aware.

"Why did you do all of this?" I asked him last night after thanking him profusely.

"Because you're carrying a baby," he said.

My prayer was one of gratitude last night.

Thank you for sending me Recovery Husband.  Thank you for reminding me why I stick this out.

Thank you hearing me.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you.

Shipwrecked

  

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I haven't been sleeping well.

The night before last, I was awake from 4 am to 6:30 am.  I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, and I finally got up and watched a black and white western with Roy Rogers and The Sons of the Pioneers.

Last night, I pleaded with my Heavenly Father, "Please, PLEASE let me sleep... I'm so tired."

And I did sleep -and I dreamed.

I was on a ship.  I was really somebody on that ship -not just a passenger.  I was in constant contact with the Captain.

Our ship sailed happily along with most of our jovial passengers congregating in the main dining area.  There was bright music, happy laughter...

And then, in the black of night, we were attacked -harshly and brutally attacked.  Wood from our ship was sent flying into the air, and the Captain was yelling at me.  

We weren't exactly armed to fight back, so we mostly just... took it.  

Before I knew it, I was in the air, taking in as much air as I could -the plunge was inevitable.  

I looked up just before going under... the sky was a mass of explosions and flying debris.  I didn't expect to come back up, but I did.  Much to my surprise, the ship was still floating.

It was injured.  It limped.

I found my way to the main dining area.  The Captain was there.  

So were a few forlorn passengers.

I looked at my Captain with a questioning look -what would we do now?

"Go on as usual," was all he said.

So I lit a few kerosene lanterns, and I began pouring beverages.  

No one spoke of the attack, the wreck, or the losses.  No one smiled.  Everyone just... was.  The cheery music that once graced the dining room had been replaced with a single violinist -it's tune melancholy.  I only stayed for a few minutes before leaving in search of the captain.

"I can't take this," I said to him, "Everyone wants to carry on like nothing has happened."

"It's their comfort," he replied, calmly, "The best thing we can do for them is to carry on like nothing has happened.  Their lives have been altered, and the least we can do is give them their dining room -the one place they can find some escape."

So I went back.

I smiled.

I could see the dining area now as a place of refuge -a sort of dilapidated haven.  It needed a lot of work because it had been blasted, but it was still standing.  The passengers clung to it.

"You're so brave," a woman said to me as she left the area, her hand on my protruding belly, "To go through all of this and still find the strength to bring a baby into all this..."

(from our family photo shoot a few days ago)

And I woke up.

I blinked up into the darkness, taking in the dream.  The captain I had worked so closely with was my husband.

That ship was us.

Our relationship has been battered, attacked, blow to bits... but it still floats.  It's sad and pathetic, and you can almost HEAR the whiny violin solo through the wreckage.

But we cling to our dilapidated haven -those parts of our lives that are as untouched by the porn addiction as they can be.  We carry as on usual, we smile, and we eat and drink.

We want our passengers to feel as untouched by the attack as they can -it isn't their burden to carry.

They're just kids.

The haven is their home.

We're working on rebuilding our poor ship -I'm working on beautifying the haven and hiring a few more musicians (because really -that violinist needs some serious help).  

We're doing our best to anchor in the harbor of The Lord and rebuild. 

It's a slow, painful process.  My husband is doing most of the work -I'm doing what I can on my end.

And I'm birthing kids.

I shudder to think what we would do if we didn't have The Harbor.

I couldn't trudge through a lifetime with a limping ship, injured passengers, and that bloody melancholy music.  

I'd rather throw myself to the sharks.

Potty Mouth

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If there's one thing that makes me really uneasy -that really gets under my skin... it's swearing.
I swear.  I swore on this here blog once.
But I do not swear in front of my kids, and I hardly ever swear out loud.  I'm not saying this to sound self-righteous or to somehow stick my nose up to people who do swear.
I'm only saying that swearing makes me uncomfy, so I don't do it.  I don't like being around it.  It makes me squirm the same way bugs make other people squirm and the same way nails on the chalkboard make other people squirm.

When my husband and I were dating, he never swore.  Not-a-once.
And then we were married.  The hunt was over.
And the swears began coming out of my new husband's mouth.  I didn't want to nag because I wanted to be a perfect little wife,  but I did let him know that it bothered me.
Years later, the swearing had increased.  Instead of asking him and nagging him to stop, I simply wrote him a letter and left it out for him to read.
"Please understand that I fight to keep the spirit in our home.  I work hard at it, and you have the ability to destroy the work I've done with four letter words."
Now.
This may all seem eye-rolling dramatic to some of you, but I should also say that nothing much bothers me or gets under my skin.  I don't care about toilet seats or clothes on the floor or hair in the sink.
After writing that letter, I even gave up on the whole "swearing" thing.  I just dropped it.  It wasn't worth it.

Well, now I have two extremely sweet children.
And lately, it's been a constant battle to keep their mouths clean -my husband's swearing has gotten much, much worse and half the time he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
In the meantime, I've got a four year old boy who stubs his toe and says, "Sunnuvva bitch!"
And I've got a five year old daughter who caught her parents making out in the kitchen and sweetly asked, "Why in the hell are you guys kissing?"
She's also taken the opportunity to tell guests that, "We don't say cock or bitch at our house because they're naughty words."
*head slap*

Every time one of my sweet little kiddos swears, I let my husband know.  Every time my husband swears, I let him know.
How can I say, "We don't say those words," to my kids when ten minutes later, my husband is playing a video game and swearing up a storm?
I have no clue.

He's getting tired of me getting upset over something he doesn't feel is a big deal.
I'm getting tired of hearing my little ones sound like Spawns of Sailors.

His addiction has taught me that I have no control over him -over his actions.  I have control over mine.
And I get that -I can do that.
I can live with a porn addicted man, but I can't stomach SWEARING.  Isn't that nuts?

 

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I can fight to keep porn out of my home.  I can set up blocks, filters, throw out movies, delete music... but I can't keep swearing out.

I should clarify that I don't care if my husband swears... I just care if he brings it home and spouts off with the kids and I around.
I want it left at the door with the porn.

Also -being 35 weeks pregnant has grossly increased my level of intolerance.
Which is why I came here to type out my thoughts before I go to battle -once again -over the swearing.
I can't take another day of explaining to my kids that, yes, Daddy says it but NO you may not say it.  That's not the kind of parenting I feel good about.

The Taker

I'm working as a church service missionary right now -I'm a facilitator for the PASG program in our area.
I'm a Primary President right now.
I'm 35 weeks pregnant today.
And I'm a taker.

I take, take, take from everyone around me.

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I call my mom when I'm short of flour or sugar or eggs.  I call my neighbors for babysitting help.  And I'm ALWAYS on the receiving end of goods and goodies.
"Here, take my super trendy maternity dresses," said my fashion-forward friend.
"Here's a nursing cover I made for you.  And here's some jam.  And here's a dinner," said my friend who is no stranger to the world of porn-addicted husbands.
"Here's some diapers and a pan of desserts," said the mother of one of my Primary kids  (who told her mom that I needed them -what a sweet kid).
"Here's some homemade applesauce and pumpkin muffins," said my friend down the street with three kids of her own.

I hate being a taker.  I hate it.
That isn't to say that I don't love my nursing cover (oh my STARS it is adorable!  I hung it on my wall!) or that I didn't polish off the apple crisp that landed on my doorstep yesterday.

I just feel so in debt.
I feel like it will never be possible for me to thank enough or give enough back -ever.  It bothers me.

As I thought about it, I realized that this is an opportunity for me to gain more understanding of the Atonement.
I've been a taker all my life, whether I've realized it or not.

The Savior has given His all for me, and I take it.  I take it every day.  I can never, ever repay that debt... but I vow to die trying.
And those who give to me... those I take from... they're simply doing the same thing: doing their best to repay a debt.
Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:37–40.)
 
I appreciate my family and friends who serve me with love.
And I promise that even though I can't begin to repay, I can always serve you with love in my own way.

It isn't easy being a taker -the natural woman in me doesn't like it one little bit.  But it's humbling me and teaching me that taking is part of life and necessary for salvation.
Incidentally, giving is also part of life and necessary for salvation.

Today I'm going to slowly do some cleaning and then take some time to write a few thank you notes.
I can't give much right now, but I can give some.  A few cookies, a few notes of gratitude -surely that's something I can do today.

I know Heavenly Father has seen the givers that have come to my door during this pregnancy.
They're all paying on their debt through love, charity, and kindness -qualities that will go with them throughout the eternities.
I'm grateful for them.
And even though it can be a hard pill to swallow, I'm grateful to be a taker.
I didn't used to be a taker... I used to handle my husband's addiction "on my own" and those were the darkest days of my life.
When I opened up my door to the Savior and to loving friends and family... and I TOOK from them...
I began to live again.

How grateful I am that we all have each other.

Recovery Me

My husband called me selfish.

He wasn't mean about it or anything.  It wasn't said out of anger or spite, and his voice level was calm and low.
"It just isn't like you," he said one night, "It's just that you're being..."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Selfish," he said, "And it's so weird because it's not like you at all."

Ah.
"I am being selfish," I said, "I know it seems awful to you, but it's what I need right now."



My husband called me bossy.

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He wasn't mean about it or anything.  It wasn't said out of anger or spite, and his voice level was calm and even a little teasing.
"You can't tell me what to do.  I don't like being bossed."

Ah.
"I am being bossy," I said, "I know it seems awful to you, but I'm pregnant."
"I know," he said, "That's why I've been nice about it."

The thing is: I don't know if I'm being selfish and bossy because I'm pregnant or because I'm gaining some grounds in recovery.
I don't know if I am actually being selfish in a lot of areas.  I used to be SO available to him.  I used to do cute dating things and pamper him on bad days.  In the meantime, I was never available to me.
So, at the risk of upsetting the dysfunctional harmony of our home, I switched it up.  I became available to me.  I do cute things for other people (and our kiddos) and pamper me on bad days.

And I got bossy.
I never was before.  He was always the bossy one.  He made most every decision in our marriage, and I was more of a child than an equal partner.  When things didn't go the way I wanted them to, I would hunker down and suffer in silence.  I kept quiet when deep down inside of me, something was telling me not to -whether it was my heart or my gut or the both of them combined, I shoved them out of the way.  I quit being true to myself.
So, at the risk of upsetting the dysfunctional harmony of our home, I started standing up for myself.
"If you send one more text while you're driving and the kids and I are in tow, I'm going to snatch your phone out of your hands and throw it out the window," I said a few weeks ago, after spending years ignoring the gut feeling telling me to SPEAK UP.  My tone was teasing, but he caught my meaning.
"I'm going to get blood work done whether it coincides with your appointments or not.  I've put it off long enough, and we need to make sure the baby is okay."
"I'm going HERE."
"I'm doing THIS."

He's been so patient with me through this EMOTIONAL pregnancy, and he's pinning hopes on my selfishness and bossiness taking a hike once the baby's a few weeks old.

But will it?
And can he stand to live with Recovery Me?
Because I can't stand to live without Recovery Me.

Loyal Bulldog

 

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My husband is loyal.

He's stayed with jobs that have sunk him financially because he wanted to stand by his boss (pre-wife and kids).  He's stood by friends, family, you-name-its.

When I was hospitalized with an infection, he hardly left my side.  He fought the doctors for me.  It made the nursing staff swoony, and they often complimented me on him.
"You don't know how lucky you are," they would say when they checked my vitals, "You would be surprised how many husbands aren't anything like that."
Yes, yes.
Very lucky.

So why?  Why is my loyal husband so... not loyal?
It's something that has plagued me all of my marriage.
"He is so loyal," his mother would say to me so very often.
"Yes, yes," I'd say.
"Very loyal," I'd say.
And then my mind would race.  If he's so bloody loyal, where the heck do I rank?  Beneath financially bankrupt bosses that take advantage of free labor?
Eh?

For the past week, this question has been on my mind... only this time it's a little different.  Usually I replay the question in my mind, and then I bask in The Land o' Victims.
I'm not worth being loyal to.
He's loyal to HIMSELF alone... always looking out for #1 (eye roll).
Men (spit!)...
And then I would eat cookie dough.

This time I didn't sail to the Land.  I just... thought a thought.  I mulled it over in my brain.
Why?  WHY?  He's so loyal...
Loyal.
Loyal.
He IS loyal.  HOW is he loyal?

He doesn't flirt with other women.  He doesn't have a facebook account.  He doesn't reconnect with old girlfriends.  He doesn't fantasize about other women.
His phone is never hidden from me.  He leaves it out, lets me answer it, lets me text from it and read texts on it if I really want to.  Which I usually don't because I have once or twice and it's a huge yawn-fest.
He won't even spend a few dollars without asking me first, and he's the one who is primarily in charge of the finances.
I dwelt on all of this, and then my thoughts branched beyond the realms of sexuality.
I thought of my hospital stay, how he'd been right there.
I thought of the little boy in Primary who had disrespected me without me even knowing it... I had been teaching sharing time.  My husband is a Primary teacher.  He heard a kid being disrespectful toward me (I didn't hear it because I'm not awesome enough to be that aware), and he immediately brought the disrespect to a screeching halt.
And then there was his sister... she'd spent an entire evening texting him about how I'd done him wrong over something I wrote on facebook (I know, I know.  I thought we were grown ups too...) and while she was poking her nose in to DEFEND her brother's honor, he made his stance very clear: he's with me.  And then he insisted she oughta be with me too.
He almost got into a fight with a gaggle of boys who asked me via cardboard sign to flash them.
You should see him when I get cut off in traffic or when the sandwich I order isn't quite up to snuff...

He is, people, my loyal bull dog.

So what's the DEAL with this PORN thing? My thoughts took a turn.  And then it dawned on me.  I mean, I already knew it, but I didn't KNOW it, know it.  You know?

He isn't doing this to me.

He's trapped -his agency has been compromised to some extent.
"It's like something takes a hold of me," he told me once in a revealing conversation, "I can physically FEEL it inside -it pulls me and it makes me feel powerless."

He isn't doing this to me.
He was doing this BEFORE me.
This has nothing to do with me.

Does it hurt me?  Oh, more than anyone who hasn't gone through it would know.  But he doesn't MEAN to. He doesn't WANT to.

For so many years, it felt like he was doing this TO me.  It did.  It still does on some days, but as I detach and I work on recovery, the easier it is to feel the truth of that statement:

My husband is loyal.  He isn't doing this to me.  Not really, really.  Even though it may FEEL like he is, I need to keep a corner pocket in my brain for this week's thoughts...
No matter how much it hurts, no matter the pain, the tears, the heart break:
I can take it personally, or I can choose freedom from being a victim.
Most days I'm safely home.  But some days, I still set up camp in the Land o' Victims.  And when I do, I need to remember the truth that has been taught to me this week.
It doesn't excuse him.  It doesn't excuse his behavior.  It isn't a free pass.
But it's a free pass for me -a free pass out of the Land.

I can type that.  I can write that.  Living it is a different story entirely -one that I'm learning very slowly.  This week, I'm so grateful for the lesson I've been taught.
How many times have we learned something we already "knew?"
I'll be honest: I'm not super excited to APPLY this principle -I'd much rather he stay sober.
But I'm grateful for truth.
I'm grateful for his loyalty in all it's forms.
I'm most sincerely grateful that my Savior is the perfect model of loyalty, and that He's always there for me, in hospitals, on facebook, in the middle of the night, in fits of tears, and smiles of glee...
He's here.  Always here.

Scattered Apples

A few weeks ago, I took my kids to my great-grandmother's apple trees.  They were LOADED this year, and as I picked apples and the kids picked apples I couldn't help but think of my great-grandmother.  She would be so happy to know that we were there, picking her apples.  I decided then and there that as soon as I'm settled in some land of my own, I'm planting some apple trees so my great-great grandkids can come and pick and eat and enjoy.  The idea of spoiling grandchildren after you're gone?  Genius!

I was referred to an article a few months ago -it detailed how a woman reacts to her husband having a porn addiction.  I tucked it in my File of Goodness (the pack of stuff I take with me to my ARP meetings).  A few weeks ago, I actually READ it.

I don't have it on hand right now -I hope you'll forgive me.  The author relates a woman discovering her husband's porn addiction to carting apples around.

A woman can be pushing a cart of apples... she's doing great, she's doing fine... and then her cart tips, her apples scatter.  Instead of heading down her course, she's suddenly a frantic mess. She drops her cart and runs after apples.  She runs right, left, north, south, up, down...

Everything sort of falls apart around her.

And so it was (and sometimes still is) with me.  

"What is wrong with me?" we all ask ourselves, time and time again.  Of course we think of the women our husband looks at -their sexiness, their appeal, their cellulite-less-ness... but I found myself applying this question outside the bedroom.

I would look at women around me with their heads on straight.  Their houses were organized for the most part.  They had hobbies and interests and accomplished things.

I, um, watched a lot of BBC and ate a lot of cookie dough.

Oh, and I policed the CRAP out of my husband.

Checked his phone, checked his email, called him, texted him, hung up helpful quotes, read helpful books, BOUGHT helpful books for him...

I traded myself for a rotten cart of spilled apples.

What was wrong with me?  Why couldn't I seem to simply LIVE like these other women?  

The more I thought about it, the more cookie dough I ate.

A few months ago, I was watching old home videos from when my older kids were still in diapers.  The video was adorable.

My house?  Holy mother of messiness -it was BAD.  And my house right now is dirty.  Really dirty.  But it's still cleaner than it was when that video was taken, and that's REALLY saying something.  I'm 34 weeks pregnant and I can't mop, for crying out loud.  But it's okay.  

My kitchen counter -though it needs a thorough scrubbing -isn't covered in piles of fabric and paper and a dusty sewing machine.

My living room -though obviously LIVED in -is easily recognizable as a living room and NOT a hoarder's haven.

I didn't even really realize it until I pulled those old home movies out, BUT MY APPLE CART IS HEADED DOWN THE HIGHWAY AGAIN!  It's not a speed wagon by any means, but I've got my wobbly cart going at a slow and steady pace.  I can see now in hindsight what was wrong with me.  I'd lost my apples, people.  Lost 'em.

This -readers -will be the FIRST baby I've had where I've had it together enough to bake and freeze meals, organize under the bathroom sinks, and have baby clothes washed and ready to go.

With my first baby, my sister-in-law took pity on me and took care of ALL of that while I was in the hospital giving birth.

I came home from the hospital with my second child and found that my mother and aunt had completely washed and sanitized my house.  And I know it was NO SMALL FEAT.  That house was an atrocity.

It seems as though the more I applied the Atonement and CLEANED MY BRAIN OUT, the cleaner my house became.  It wasn't something I did conscientiously... it was just a natural consequence of it all.  I wasn't even aware of it.

This time, everything feels brand new to me.  I'm a nervous wreck.  I'm stressed.  My nose keeps bleeding and I keep getting headaches.

I don't know what my deal is... I've DONE this twice before.  The first time, I was alone the first four months and I DID IT.

This time, I'll have help.  My husband will be here.

"Are you nervous?" I asked him late last night while we put our house through a major overhaul, moving furniture and making room for baby.

"Not at all," he said, "I'm nervous to watch you go through labor and I worry about complications... but I'm not nervous at all about bringing her home."

And I retreated to the kitchen to ask myself that lingering question.

"What is WRONG with me?"

Except this time, I know.  I know nothing is wrong with me -nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.  I'm having a baby.  Of course I'm nervous and scared and stressed and flying between fits of tears and giggles of glee.

With my first two pregnancies and new babies, I was picking up scattered apples... and when my apples scattered, they FLEW.

Today, I'm more okay... my rickety cart is full, and I'm moving slowly on -with trepidation galore.

How blessed we all are to have the Atonement.  When I wasn't applying it in my life, I wasn't living.  I'm not utilizing the Atonement to it's full potential today.  I don't understand it fully -do you?  does anyone?

But I'm learning.  I'm taking baby steps, falling down, getting up, and taking more baby steps...

And I'm scared out of my mind.

But hey.

At least the top of the fridge is clean.  ish.

Hulky Bruce

via

I've been struggling for a while now to label my husband's shifts in attitudes.
Jekyll and Hyde?
Bi-polarish?

So many times women have said, without knowing our situation, "If my husband had a porn problem, I would leave him.  THAT'S my line."
I always nod along.  I'm sure that IS their line, but when it comes right down to it -when that "line" is crossed, we start to really find out about ourselves.

I know a woman who raised a large family with her husband of many, many years.  While his daughter was in high school, he did prison time for having inappropriate relations with her.  He did his time, he is a registered sex offender, and he and his wife are still married to this day.
His wife is a very grounded woman.
He is a very somber, humble man.  There's not a lick of "I got away with it" in his countenance.

THAT is my line.  If you harm my kids, buddy, I'm gone.  But I've spent years hurting and healing and hurting and healing... my trust is broken, my faith in my husband wobbly, and something like that would definitely send me running for cover -running away forever.

And as I listen to women insist that if their husband has a porn problem they would leave, I wonder about myself.
Am I just not strong enough?
Am I just stupid?

But the thing is.  I know something about people with porn problems that they don't.
People with porn problems can still be nice, giving, warm, wonderful, funny, and repentant.
The porn doesn't define them until... well, until it does.  And even then, it isn't obvious to the outside world -it isn't even obvious to them.  I see it in my husband, and I've finally found a label for it.
My husband is my Bruce Banner.
He is also my Hulk.

He white-knuckles trying to control the beast -he tries, he hates his Hulk, and he uses all kinds of tools to right the monster.
But something will trigger it, and he will lose control.
And he really does smash.
Smash what trust he's built.
Smash my faith in him.
Smash the kids' little feelings when things get taken out on them that shouldn't.
Smash my bruised heart (sorry, there was no way around being sappily dramatic on that one).
Smash, smash, smash.

And then he comes out of it: he flies out of acting out into a pile of crap, exposed, naked, vulnerable, embarrassed, humbled, and resolved to shove his Hulk out of the picture for good.

The thing is: I can't leave Bruce Banner.  Who would?  No one with half a brain.
The other thing is: I CAN leave Hulk.  I don't freaking have to live with that monster.

I didn't always know that.  I didn't realize that I could take the Bruce and leave the Hulk.  I thought they were one in the same, marrying one meant marrying the other.
But I didn't marry the Hulk.
And whenever he comes around to smash, I'm leaving.  Or I'm barring the door.  Either way, there's no place for him here.
And guess what?  I'm AM strong enough.  I'm NOT stupid.
What's more: I've learned more about myself than I ever thought possible.  It isn't all good, but I'm grateful to be learning it.  I'm grateful a "line" has been crossed.  It's hard and it hurts and sometimes I scream and sometimes I cry and sometimes I write angry letters to women who wear skirts so tight I can see their thong line.
But it's also revealing, and everything I'm learning I get to take with me later on.
I've lived with the Hulk long enough to learn what I've needed to learn from him, and I don't need him anymore.  I don't WANT him anymore.
I'll stick with my good doctor.
For now.