Trauma is For OTHER People

The first time someone suggested that I'd been traumatized by my husband's addiction, I scoffed inside.  Look, I know this whole thing is super duper hard and confusing... but trauma?  It made me feel like some sort of feeble, crying, cowering, hurting woman.

Which I actually was.
But I didn't like *thinking* of myself in that light.

As I continued in my recovery, more trauma education rolled in, and I hated how much it resonated with what was going on in my life (or had gone on in the past).  And after a few months, I accepted it.

Hi, my name is Alicia and I'm a trauma survivor (sounds so much better than trauma victim, yes?).

A few days ago, I was watching a few videos online with my husband.  He had been up late the night before watching some innocent and clean music videos (The reality show sort where people with raw talent audition).  We watch them together a lot.
I held my crochet hook in my hand and focused on my stitches as my husband flipped through videos, "Watch this one, listen to this... honey, you gotta see this part."
The singers were beautiful women.  Talented women.  My heart began picking up pace.  My stitching became faster... as a young blonde with flawless skin took the stage, I couldn't take it anymore.
"I can't watch her anymore," I blurted out, "I just keep thinking how in the past you've ________________."
"Okay," my husband said and switched to a different video, "I promise there wasn't any lusting on my side, I just like the music."
But it was too late.  The reaction had hit.  Pretty soon, I couldn't see my stitches through my hot tears.  I set my project down and relocated to my bathroom.
I locked the door and took my place in the middle of the floor and let it come out.  I sobbed.  Really hard.
I prayed.  Really hard.
I could hear my sponsor's voice echoing in my head, "Alicia, your peace has been taken.  What can you do to get it back?"

I called my sponsor and left a voice mail.  I texted.
And then I did what any grown up girl would do and I hid under my covers.
*knock knock* "Honey, are you okay?"
"I want to be alone!"
"Is there anything you need that I can do?"
"No, just need to be alone."

And after I'd recovered somewhat, I let him in his own bedroom and began all over again... the tears, the shaking shoulders.  And through it all I just kept saying, "What the HECK?!  Why am I having such an intense reaction?"
"Because you've been dealing with trauma, and you have some pretty fresh wounds right now," my husband said.

There's that word again.  TRAUMA.
And now I fully embrace it because -friend -what happened the other day was crazy ridiculous.  To end up sobbing uncontrollably on my bathroom floor because a pretty girl with blond hair can sing nicely doesn't make any sense... unless there's underlying trauma that is triggered by pretty girls on screens, doin' what they do.
My fear of rejection that is still in full-bloom was triggered BIG time by something seemingly small.

And just like that, my peace was obliterated.

As I sat in Sunday School yesterday and gave myself my own sermon instead of listening (it happens, okay?), I found a scripture that hit home with me pretty hard:

Exodus 14:14, word for word:

And in one swift scripture, the One who I had always viewed as serene and calm became a solid, beefed up SOLDIER.

My Lord is FIGHTING FOR MY PEACE.
The Prince of Peace holds peace in so high a regard that He will FIGHT for it.

I think of King Benjamin on the front lines, fighting for peace.  I think of Abe Lincoln, fighting to preserve a Union.  These stalwart men each hold a small piece of the Lord -a peacemaking warrior.

The Savior is the ultimate definition of a man, and I can lean into Him, fall into His arms, knowing that while I'm in the midst of an intense trigger, He can comfort me with one hand and fight for me with the other.  My sacred reverence for God has taken on a new realm of admiration... I find myself admiring God as I do Teancum (have you READ about that guy?!) and it brings me an immense feeling of safety.

Safety is what I need most when I'm triggered.

Fight for me, God.  Fight for me.

A Great and Terrible Fear

I just have to ask: is there ANYone out there who thrives on rejection?  Anyone who is like, "Don't like me?  Ha!  Bring it on..."

Because I'm terrified of being rejected.  It goes into remission sometimes, and those are the days when I forget about etiquette and bras.

Since my husband's disclosure two weeks ago, the fear of rejection has been triggered multiple times daily.  It's like looking a hungry roaring lion right in the face.  Five, six times a day.
GAH!

The magazine covers make me panicky.  The movies make me queasy.  My children tell me they don't like me and I feel like Rome has BURNED.  I find myself getting angry, leaving the room to bury my head into my 9-foot long pillow and making myself delve into my scary mind, "What is this about really?"
It's all coming back to rejection, to not being enough.

I can pray, go to God, surrender!  I can look in the mirror and say to myself what I say daily to my own children, "YOU ARE LOVED!"
I can DO things that I love -things that fulfill me.  Craft, write, yoga... I know what I can DO.

I just wanted to pop in and let you all know that I'm wearing my bra, I'm very aware of etiquette, and there's ravenous, roaring lions encircling my personal space.
No biggie.
(ha.)

This is hard stuff, you know?

I read Danny's latest post at 2 am last night after I stayed up late and beat him in a game of Playstation Frisbee Golf (I'm beyond exhausted, thanks for asking)... and right now, I feel his ache for peace.

I ache for peace.  I can find peace in the Lord... after all, He's the one who closed up the lion's mouths. 

Christmas Valentines

I love my baby.

I love her when she's messy, when she rubs snot all over my blouse, when she's screaming, when she's hurting, when she's blissfully running around without a diaper on, when she's sleeping or talking or angry.

I LOVE my baby.

She gets in my personal space constantly.  There's no such thing as "personal space" to her, actually, and she never regulates her volume whether she's screaming in my ear or cooing in her bed.

I'm vulnerable with her.  I don't hide tears or stifle laughter.  I don't care what I'm wearing.  She sees my every emotion and act.  Our relationship is one of pure love and even intimacy -I know my baby's every interest and charm, every emotion and discovery.
I imagine my relationship with my Father in Heaven resembles it.  No matter what mess I make, no matter if I scream or hurt or laugh or pray in the shower, He LOVES His baby.

Because our relationship is intimate, He knows me very personally.  Because He isn't visible, He sends me personal Valentines... tailored to fit me, sweet, gentle reminders.  You? are loved.

Just as my baby is wildly different than my older "babies," so are you different from me.  But there is no variation in love -I love my olders equally as much, but I have to communicate it differently because THEY are different.
One understands through words, one through actions... one through quality time, one through an audience ("Mom, watch. Are you watching, Mom?  Did you see?  Now watch THIS.")

Heavenly Father manifests His love for me in ways that I understand completely, and it brings me to tears... tears of, "He KNOWS."  He knows me, and He loves me.  It's overwhelming.  Lately, as I said, I've been capturing His Valentines to me through pictures.  I invited you to the party, and my heart was touched, my eyes welled with tears.  He speaks to you differently than He speaks to me.
Even as I read your words and looked at your pictures, I felt that familiar, overwhelming feeling all over again.

He KNOWS.
And so your Valentines became my Valentines in a way, and it was such an uplifting experience that I'm creating an entire project out of it all.  Since beginning my long road on recovery, I've learned more about love than I ever thought possible and just like *that* Valentine's Day became my favorite holiday.  The idea of making the spirit of Valentines last 365 days a year makes me fairly giddy.

THANK YOU for sending me your pictures.  It is nearing the end of the month, and from this month forward, I'm going to begin publishing a Monthly Valentine Installment.  Whether full of mine own Valentines or the Valentines of my friends, it is the same degree of warm fuzzy feeling... and a wonderful reminder that HE KNOWS.
So please.  Please.  Don't stop snapping quick pictures of scenery, children, screen shots of quotes and music... whatever touches your intimate heart in a way that only God can, if you feel like sharing... there is a place for you.

Thank you for allowing me the privilege of seeing and hearing your Christmas Valentines.
At this point, I would ask that you please turn off any and all electronics (unless you're using them to view this), hunker down with some hot cocoa and enjoy this month's edition.
Merry Christmas, you wonderful you.

 

 

 

 Last night, I sat with someone I love very dearly as she related to me God's startling manifestations in her life: how the day before she'd been in a very dangerous situation and the Lord had preserved her life.  It wasn't the first time it had happened to her.  Through her tears, she bore testament to God in her life.

He is here, my sweet sisters -my stalwart brothers.  

He is here.

Don't stop looking.

(if I missed publishing your Valentine this month, please message me -I had Valentines come in from every facet of media.  I worked hard to publish them all and would absolutely HATE to miss one.  If I did -please set me straight.)

On the Same Page

On Sunday, I sat by and watched as my husband was set apart by the Stake President as a Church Service Missionary over the ARP specifically for pornography. 

My husband and I are now companions.

For a few weeks -even before we knew my husband would have this calling -I'd felt prompted to set up a meeting with the Stake President to tell him two things.
1) I'm quitting my calling.
2) You know where to find me if I'm needed.

I'm not usually a quitter, but after nearly two years of holding my support group and having no one come, it became difficult to face the feelings of loneliness I faced each week in the parking lot of the seminary building. 

That all changed a few weeks ago as I listened to the Stake President address the adults.  His message was one of hastening.  As I listened to him, it really sunk in that I AM A MISSIONARY.  I'm set apart!  I left that meeting with firm resolve to magnify that calling.

My husband and I faced him on Wednesday night and offered our missionary services.
Can we train Bishops?
Can we line up firesides?
Can we educate the members?

With a plan to move forward in our work, we stepped out of the Stake Center and in the middle of the freezing winter night, I wrapped my arms around my companion.  I appreciate his humility -his willingness to look the Stake President in the eye and admit what he's been through, both in sin and emotion.  He spoke of the seriousness of pornography, it's more-powerful-than-meth quality: both of which he hadn't realized until he'd read He Restoreth My Soul and written his Step 1 inventory.
And which I hadn't REALLY realized until I listened to his Step 1 inventory.

This morning I woke up early and in a dark house where the only noises I could hear were heavy breathing from little chests.  I turned my phone on and saw my husband had written a new post. 
It was about seeing God in his life.

This last weekend as I escaped to the city, I decided to spend the day looking for just that: manifestation that God was in my life.
It started with coming over a hill and seeing the desert lit up with brilliant winter sunlight with the snow-capped Peaks in the background (quick brag: I've totally been on top of the Peaks.  A few years ago, I rode up the ski lift with my husband and we were pelted in hail in early September.  As we rode up, I was overwhelmed at the beauty of creation.  My husband spit off the side of our seat to see how far it would fall.  Men and women are so different.  The end.)

The pictures taken of Arizona are never quite enough.  This really is a breath-taking State.

I found God in the last grid-form journal on the shelf.  Lined journals stifle my ability of expression, and I prefer grids.  They don't boss me around.

My favorite Bed and Breakfast is ALWAYS booked on weekends, but the weekend I went every room but one was open.  It was a miracle.  And a gift from God.  Even the owners were amazed, and out of the goodness of their heart gave me a radical discount on the room.

God took complete care of me that day.
And each day.
Including TOday.

My husband is going to look for signs that God is in his life today.  I'm going to accept the same challenge and take picture proof.

And to put in a plug yet again for Frost.  My love for Frost blooms in the winter as I try each year to take a Frostwalk in the snow and quote poetry with friends.  I issue to my friends and they to me the same invitation I issued my husband last weekend.
And now I issue it to you.
-you come too.

I'd love to see pictures of God's love manifested in your life.  I want to publish them here in a blog post full of hope -a post that will give us each a stronger testimony that God is in OUR details.  Take pictures today, will ya?  Send them to me, will ya? 
Some of you have my cell phone number.  Text me.
Everyone has my email (brabadges@hotmail.com).  Email me.

I want to publish your picture with the WHY of it.  Name optional.

Can you do that for me today? Pretty please?  or as my Dad would say, "Pretty please with monkey snot on top?"
(He's a charmer, that one.)

Today, my husband and I are on the same page.  With everything we're going through, this is a red-letter occasion.  Join us in celebration of our same-pageness, our same calling-ness, and our same loving God.

First in Five

My husband asked me out today.

It seems like such a given, right?  Husbands asking wives out... except that in July I told my husband I wouldn't go on dates with him (unless he wanted to attend the Temple together).  It's a boundary that helped me feel safe.  I didn't want my marriage, so why invest?

As I sat in the aftermath of The Great Bucket of Water to the Face, I found myself ring shopping.  I didn't understand it, but I didn't fight it either.
Was it because I finally saw reality and was okay with moving forward with it?
Was it because I work primarily with men and find myself missing the protection a ring has to offer?
Was it because I'm a girl and girls like shopping for shiny things?

I don't know.  I just felt okay looking for rings, so I did.

This year -for the first time ever -I read Anne of Green Gables.  As I read it, I was a little freaked out because I related SO much to Anne.  Her talking, her INCESSANT talking, her imagination, the way she romanticized everything right down to her reflection.  Reading her thoughts was like frolicking through my Little Girl brain.  Of all the Hollywood relationships, her love and then marriage to Gilbert Blythe is one of my favorites.  Their time together is fraught with misunderstanding, fights, caring, compassion, thoughtfulness, encouragement, competition, and every other REAL emotion human connection has to offer.  Gilbert believes in Anne and encourages her to pursue her dreams and develop her gifts.  Anne feels the same way about him.  As they begin their life together, Anne sports a delicate gold ring with a pearl on top.  Why?  Because she had envisioned diamonds to be the most romantic gem in the world... right up until she saw one.  She was so disappointed that she never got over it.  It wasn't what she thought it was going to be.  She insisted on a pearl ring.

As I thumbed through images of rose gold rings with champagne diamonds, I somehow stumbled into an etsy shop full of delicate rings.  One stood out, fairly screaming at me... delicate, gold, single pearl on top.

And that's what I want.
My current wedding ring is still broken, and I have no plans to put it back on.  ever.

I left home Saturday morning -the "morning after" -and came home Sunday noon-time.  I spent my Saturday morning on a massage table and my afternoon rifling through antique shops.

My drive to the city is usually riddled with anxiety and white knuckles, but as I drove over icy roads and through holiday traffic, I was unfazed.  I'm terrified of car accidents, but on Saturday I thought about what a welcome relief one would be.  It would stop time.  No one checked into a hospital for a car accident ever keeps track of time.  Life slows down, people feed you, your children are taken care of.  And you don't have to do anything but focus on letting your body heal.

As the massage therapist worked her steady hands into my flesh that morning, her soothing voice became almost bossy, "You have no choice but to take care of yourself physically.  The stress... the stress has done so much damage.  Can you feel me working heavy burdens out of your body?"
Answer: Yes.  The most wonderful "ouch" ever.

As the sun went down behind the San Francisco Peaks in the city, I called the owners at my favorite Bed and Breakfast and asked if they might have -by some wild chance -the room under the stairs open.
The Harry Potter Room, they like to call it, though it's actually the house's old pantry room.
I could feel in my gut I needed to get stay away from home for the night, but I wanted a small room... a quiet room in an actual house where there was limitless hot water and a thick robe and complimentary chocolate milk.
Three years before when I'd hit my own rock bottom, I holed up in a tiny room at a  Bed and Breakfast and wrote in a journal and cried and prayed.  This trip was to be no different.

Because tender mercies are very REAL, The Harry Potter room was available.  I poured myself into the red sheets and wrote.

The night after The Bucket of Water in my Face, I dreamed of a woman... she was standing on a barren street corner in a dirty wedding dress.  She was a shell of a woman who once was.  She was getting ready to be married again, but she had no feeling left, no love, no purpose.  I tried to tell her that she was strong.  In reply, she walked me down a hallway filled with memories of her first marriage.  There was a table adorned with her tastes: colors, flavors, styles.  There was a wedding cake.  There were snap shots... each one featuring a beautiful young bride with bright gleaming eyes.
She didn't feel the same about them anymore... her memory of her own past had been altered.

As I sat in bed with my chocolate milk by my side, I felt like the girl from my dreams.  She was a sort of modern Miss Havisham in her own right.

But my pen gives me power of expression, and I used that power to take my memories back.  I went through each memory that had been taken from me and I took it back.  I wrote myself a list of advice... a general guide for what I should have done.

Don't chase.
Ask more question about this and that.
Insist on better medical care.
You are not a fix.

I went into detail in each paragraph of advice, telling my old self how to do, what to do.

Don't ditch class.
Buy him gifts that are not sexual.
Don't have sex on your honeymoon.

Go on organized dates with no sexual agenda.

As the words poured out of me, I was angry.  It was unfiltered, righteous indignation.  The guilt that normally prevents me from honest anger was not allowed in the Harry Potter room.

At midnight I set my pen down, locked my door with the original skeleton key and fell asleep to the sound of downtown city living: trains, sirens, bass thumping in the distance...

The next morning, I woke up on my own before 6 am.  I stepped into the shower and set the water as hot as I can stand it (boil a lobster has always been my default shower setting).  I sat on the shower floor and let the hot water and steam cleanse me.  Water, both literal and living, has been on the forefront of my recovery journey.  After I'd soaked and steamed and cleansed for long enough, I wrapped myself in a lovely thick robe and climbed back into bed.

I put the pen to paper and once again wrote my truth.  My angry words from the night before were a few pages and a hot shower behind me...and I wrote an unexpected invitation.

"I finally truly see reality, and as I face it with wild desire to escape, I welcome you into it.  My bare memory walls need to be filled... I am going to be hard to live with for awhile as I exert my voice and give reign to my inner core... and with that, I issue an invitation... you come too."

And so it was with nervousness in his voice that he called and asked me on a date.
Lots of couples can go for five months without a date.  It seems like no big thing, just another Wednesday night, right?

But for us -tonight -we are starting over.
It's a delicate pearl ring and Robert Frost kinda thing.

via Jeweler on the Roof

To the Right

I've had this blog for just over a year, but I think it's important to note that I've been blogging for YEARS.  I mean, I've been blogging since before it was cool (hello, 2005).  I still blog.  I have a family blog that I used to blog daily on, but I've quit lately because.
Because I've been writing THIS blog.  Through all of this -and by "this" I mean years and years of writing intimate details about my husband and our glass-house living, my husband never touched the stuff.

Until now.

So... to the right (your right).  Under my picture... 

Look out, world.  I'm contagious.  I wonder if I can get him to take up crochet?  Joking, babe.  Mostly joking.

 

Rest Stops

Trickle disclosures are like Chinese Water Torture.  They hit the same nerve again and again and again...  At first, I appreciated the honesty, but after a few I'd had enough.

"I just want to hear it all at once."
Because, as we all know, having a bucket of cold water thrown on your face is much better than Chinese Water Torture.  Or something.

This morning I sat on my bed next to my husband and he threw a figurative bucket of water on my face while our therapist watched via webcam.  At the end of it, we didn't hug.  I didn't tell him I appreciated his honesty.  Instead, I fixed my eyes on the keyboard of my lap top and thought about my past.  My memories.  They were all very real to me -my realities.

But in one swift hour, they were stolen.  Remember Whoville?  And the Grinch?  And how he slithered and slunk?  My husband's addiction slithered and slunk like a thief in the night and stole my past.  What I thought was... wasn't.

Up to this point, I thought I was dealing with loss.  That's why I was sad.  When we lose something, we are sad.  I've lost insignificant things and I've lost very significant things... and each time I've learned something.  I've learned along the way how to deal with loss.  The grieving process, tissues, family, love, Christ.

Through this whole addiction recovery process, I've been going through "loss" emotions.  Lost hopes, lost dreams... but today I experienced something more than loss.  Loss was there, YES.  But it was sort of distant.  I'm pretty much through grieving the loss I've experienced at the hands of addiction.
But standing in front of Loss was a robber, a thief, a Sex Addiction Grinch.
I woke up today.  I walked out into my memories and I found bare walls riddled with crumbs much too small for the other Whos' mouses.

I feel violated.
I feel like I can't trust anyone but myself.
I feel trespassed on.

As my husband laid it all out on the line, I listened to him tell me what my past was REALLY and thievery aside, I felt a comforting sort of validation next to righteous indignation.

All of those times I thought I was crazy, I wasn't.
All of those times I thought something was wrong with me, there wasn't.
All of those times I went against my better judgement, I shouldn't have because I KNEW what was right.

I knew.  I KNEW.
I regret second guessing.  I regret not staying true to myself.

I CAN trust myself because I KNOW.  I can trust GOD because HE KNOWS.
I don't trust my husband.  More than I didn't trust him yesterday.  But I don't have to worry about that.

As I shifted my fixed gaze from the computer keyboard to some vague spot on our bedroom wall, I wanted rest.  So I stretched out on the bed.
And there.  There on my bed it came to me... what I really wanted.
Ready?
It's cancer.  The terminal kind.  The kind that makes it easy to set affairs in order, to make sure the right songs are sung at my funeral and the right people get my jewelry.  The kind that gives me time to write letters to my kids to be opened at later dates.  The kind that give my husband the golden opportunity to finally have sex with someone hotter.  The kind that give my children a better mother: one who gives regular baths and serves three meals a day (it's harder than it seems, okay?).  And the kind that gives me a wonderful escape -one that leads me right back into the safe arms of my Savior.
And people would pray for me and my children.  People would know I was hurting.

This afternoon I sit in a pool of reality, and it's murky.  I really hate it.

The Murky Pool is a rest stop.  on a long, uphill climb. on the side of a steep mountain.  Behind me lies darker days where I couldn't see what was REALLY around me.  Looking ahead, I see exactly what I have to deal with.
For that, I'm grateful.  To my husband?  Double edged answer.  Yes?  and No.


December 13th, 2013
Dear Diary,
Today I faced a Grinch in a Murky Pool.  And it sucked.

Everyone in The Murky Pool wants out.  It's the worst rest stop in the history of histories.  Cancer is a way out because it kills you.  The other way out of the Murky Pool is surrender.

I can surrender my anger, my husband's past sins.  It doesn't feel natural to stand on the edge of The Murky Pool, arms outstretched, cold wind blowing my wet body.
Jumping is scary.
Jumping is so scary.

So I fall instead.  I close my eyes and tell Him I can't handle this.  And I fall.
And just before I scream out of sheer terror, His loving arms lift me up and cradle me.  And I find The Ultimate Rest Stop.  I'm cleansed from The Murky.  I'm polished, dressed, refined.  When it's time, He puts me back on the path and I begin the climb again.

I know that as I climb, His arms will ALWAYS be there and I will jump off most every cliff.  Some days I will dive, some days I will jump, some days I will muster a fall.

But the fact of the matter is that there is simply parts of the path -like The Murky Pool -that are not meant to be traversed.  It was never my job to ramble and stew around the murk until I figured out how to clean it.  It's only my job to surrender it to God.

Here am I.
Arms outstretched.
Murk dripping from my body.

Lord, are you ready?

 

The Me in Me

In high school, I tried so hard to be accepted.  I looked around at what other kids wore and liked and tired SO HARD to mirror it.

How I longed -physically ACHED -to be like the quiet kid in the corner who dressed normal and talked a normal amount and got normal grades.  He blended in perfectly.

Because my parents owned a farm and leased ranching property and ran a mechanic shop, I earned my own money for everything.  This meant I couldn't be like other kids.

Other kids wore brand new Calvin Klein and I wore Wal-Mart or Good Will or (heaven forbid anyone from school see me in it...) Wrangler.

But I can only try so hard for so long to stifle the me inside of me before I hit rock bottom and embrace the me in me.
Rock Bottom back then hit me my junior year.  Around that time I gave up on Calvin Klein ($30 for a shirt that your brother shrinks in the dryer! Forget it) and I started learning to really love thrift shopping.
Did you know that I can't coordinate or match?  I don't understand it.  So I bought what stood out to me which means I bought stuff that stood OUT.  The more color, the more I liked it, the more I wore it.
I started paying VERY CLOSE attention to the me in me.
She would guide me in every decision -what to order, what to wear, where to walk.  She liked Weezer and The Judds and Sublime and Reba.  She hated techno and Anime.  She loved old western ANYthing and took a crazy amount of joy in raiding her Dad's closet (because, guys, he wore western clothes in the 70s and saved them.  Isn't that the greatest gift EVER?).
She loves anything made before 1982 and actually prefers if it's been previously owned.  She pours over old pictures at antique shops.

And -at the risk of coming across as a haughty mess -I really like her.  I like giving her her way.

A few years later, I was married (moment of silence for the fact that juniors in high school are quite possibly only a few years from marriage.  What the HECK?!).  As I lived the married way, The Me in Me was put aside, ignored and eventually trampled.
She's a fighter -I'll give her that.  She never once left or was completely silent.  She was always there.

I don't want to do this.
You shouldn't do that.
Choose this.
NO, Alicia.
YES, Alicia.

But I went against her.  And when I did, She let me know.
When I didn't give her her way, I felt betrayal -SELF-betrayal.  But I didn't know what to do with it because I was lost.  I didn't know how to give her her way anymore.  I didn't know how to stand up and say, "This is what I'm going to do."

FEAR. 

CONFUSION.

Just like my junior year of high school, I hit another sort of rock bottom.  This rock bottom was harder, colder, lonelier, and meaner.
But she was there.

Go call your brother.
Go get a blessing.
Go see the Bishop.

I put my fingers to the keyboard and let her type.  I print out her words.  I read them to my husband.

And this is how it starts: I begin writing scripts by putting my hands to the keyboard.  She lets her words out and I read them.  I rehearse them.  I pray for courage and then I read them.  I write out scripts for every situation I can think of.  I let her write my boundaries.  I only poise my fingers over the keyboard -She does the work.  The words-on-paper give me strength.  I memorize them and use them when she starts feeling uncomfortable, offended or unsafe.
It is a forced relationship... one in which I have to be very aware of.

She and I hammered on that way for a long time.  Her voice, my words. 
And then one day She came out without the keyboard in the way.  Her voice, my voice.  A boundary was set and enforced without a paper carrier... it just came out.

Our forced relationship resumed it's natural state and I found myself once again basking in giving her what she asks for -our playground is The Land of the Previously Owned and we find joy in simplicity, in children, and in music.  When I feel uncomfortable, I don't need my script anymore.  When I feel unsafe, I don't need a previously determined plan.  I simply SAY it and then DO SOMETHING about it.
Honesty and Can-Do... it's Her way.

She's stronger than I am right now, but I take heart in her voice, taking courage in knowing inside of me... is Me.

Anti-Fragile

A few days ago, I read a post that hasn't left my thoughts.  Here's why:

  

In other words, being resilient is good.  But being anti-fragile is really living.  

As I read the article in it's entirety, I was fascinated.  I highly highly recommend taking a few minutes (it's a little long, but I promise it's worth the read) and reading the article.  It will inspire you to pay off debt and plan for life to hit you with it's best shot.

You'll no longer be fazed by flat tires and traffic delays.

You'll use your spending money for your on-the-side job... you know, the one that involves a little piece of your hopes and dreams.

Your year supply will increase.

Okay, I can't make any guarantees, but as the wife of a porn addict I will definitely say this much: I'm shooting for Hydra Status.

And Life?  Go ahead and chop me.  Chop me and see what happens.

Lehi's Dream and Recovery -a Post by Danny

 Alicia's note: My husband came to me and asked if he could post a little on my blog, and I thenceforth because the most excited girl in addiction blogland.

This is me... handing off the mic.

Hello everyone, my name is Danny...This is where you all say, "Hi Danny." Little 12-step humor there :-D

Anyway, I recently read Lehi's dream in the Book of Mormon and after reading it felt prompted to share what came to me. I don't know why I'm supposed to share it but felt strongly that I should.

 

(via nealmd.com)

When I read the story of Lehi's dream it seemed to apply to addiction. I had not ever really thought of this applying to addiction, but as I recently read the story and thought about it, it seems so clear. Let me give a back story first...

In the story, Lehi is met by an angel and is asked to follow him. As Lehi follows the angel, he eventually finds himself in a "dark and dreary waste." Lehi said he was in this place "for the space of many hours." At this point, Lehi realizes he'd better ask for the Lord's help. He said he asked that the Lord would have mercy on him. As Lehi puts his trust in the Lord and asks for his help, he sees a "large and spacious field." Lehi says while in the field, he beheld a tree. He says that he could see that this tree had fruit "whose fruit was desirable to make one happy."

Lehi doesn't hesitate. He says:

"And it came to pass that I did go forth and partake of the fruit thereof; and I beheld that it was most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. Yea, and I beheld that the fruit thereof was white, to exceed all the whiteness that I had ever seen. And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of it also; for I knew that it was desirable above all other fruit." 

The next thing Lehi wants is for his family to partake and he immediately looks for them. He sees a river of water and sees Nephi, Sariah, and Sam standing at the head of the river. Lehi calls to them to come and partake and they do. He sees Laman and Lemuel and likewise calls out to them but they do not come to partake of the fruit.

Lehi further describes the iron rod and straight and narrow path that led to the tree. He also describes the mist of darkness that arises and the great and spacious building. He describes those who became lost in the mist, those who partook of the fruit but felt ashamed because they were scorned by those who were in the building, and those who partook of the fruit and stayed despite the scorning.

  

(via lds.org)

We then learn in 1Nephi 11 that Nephi wants to know the meaning of what his father saw. Nephi is shown the tree and also tells of the beauty of the tree. He tells the spirit that he wants to know the "interpretation" of the tree. Nephi is shown the birth of the Savior and after seeing His birth, is asked if he knows the meaning of the tree. Nephi responds, "Yea, it is the love of God, which sheddeth itself abroad in the hearts of the children of men; wherefore, it is the most desirable above all things." Nephi is shown the ministry of the Savior and is told that the iron rod is the word of God which leads to the fountain of living water or the tree of life both of which represented the love of God.

Finally Nephi is shown the baptism of Christ, He saw more of His ministry, and the miracles he performed. He saw the the twelve apostles of the Savior, and is also shown the judgment and crucifixion of Christ. After this we learn that the meaning of the building is the pride of the world -that this pride fights against the Savior and His servants. The angel tells Nephi that the pride of the world would eventually fall and great would be that fall.

Now you're probably wondering when I am going to get to how this relates to recovery. Truth be told the part that came to me the strongest came in the first part of this vision but as I have studied it further, more has come so bear with me here I'm finally getting to it. :)

To me, this relates to addiction in a very real way. All of us in the recovery world, whether the addict or a family member of someone in addiction, have traveled in that dark and dreary waste. Many, like Lehi did with the angel, have tried to follow the Lord and do what's right. The addict is asking "I'm trying to do what's right, why can't I stay away from this?" The family member is asking "I'm trying to do what's right, why is this happening to me?"

While in the dark and dreary waste, we eventually reach a point where turning to the the Lord is the only option we have if we want out of the wasteland we find ourselves in. When I found the 12 steps and began to work them, I started to find answers. Although it may took some time and a LOT of prayer, eventually the Lord gives me clarity as He did Lehi. I was able to see clearly where I needed go in order to get out of the dreary waste and into recovery.

Think back to what Lehi said after he was taken from the dark and dreary waste. He said that he beheld a large and spacious field. When I read this I pictured in my mind's eye: Lehi coming out of a thick forest to a large and spacious field. I thought about how difficult it is to see while in the thick of the trees and how easy it is to see everything when in the clearing. I also pictured myself in Lehi's shoes coming to that same clarity. As I have clung to and incorporated the words of recovery, (which are essentially the words of the Savior), I have begun to taste of it's fruits.

When this happens, truly happens, our souls are filled with inexplicable joy. It is everything that we longed for for so long!!! It is every bit as beautiful as described by Nephi. We finally are able to find peace. We begin to feel of God's inexplicable love for us. Which I have personally begun to experience.

Now this DOES NOT mean it's over. To me recovery, like living the gospel, is not something that is arrived at or something we just get. It is something that must continually be worked at. The farther we get in recovery, the more the Lord will teach us. We may have read the 12 steps a million times. Doesn't matter, the Lord can still teach us if we are willing. Do you know how many times I've heard this particular story? A LOT!!! And yet, the Lord thought me something new here. The addict and the family member alike will have to cling to the iron rod to stay on the straight and narrow path of recovery.
 

(via ldswomenofgod.com)

Like Lehi, when we taste of the fruits of recovery , we want the same for those we know who are addicted or affected by a loved one's addiction. We may call out to them and they may be like Nephi, Sariah, and Sam and come and partake, or they may be like Lamen and Lemuel and ignore us. They may even be like those in the spacious building and their pride may get in the way of their need for recovery. I think I was, to some extent, in that building... thinking recovery was for those who were really sick, thinking my addiction was only a little problem that I could overcome on my own. But like in Lehi's dream, my pride fell, and in my world, great was the fall of it.

Lastly we may even experience ridicule from those in that building. It may be family members or friends. It may be those who we reach out to who we KNOW need recovery. It may be those who have sought our help or advice. My prayer is that we will NOT be ashamed but will stay strong and cling to the Savior.

I hope that this makes sense. It seemed so clear to me when I read it. I guess because to me, the way that it is explained in Nephi as it pertains to the gospel, and the way it was revealed to me as it pertains to recovery, are one and the same. Because to me the gospel and recovery are one in the same.

It the Savior who heals us in both aspects of our lives.

 

(via mormonmatters.org)

Alicia's note: From here on out, should Danny choose to share anything else, you will be able to find all of his posts under the label "Danny" in my purdy little label cloud to our right. And just so you know, you should encourage him to write more.  again.  and more.

Happy Hatchet Day

 

Grateful for you.

Grateful for God.

Grateful for family.

Grateful for hatchets.

Fire

A few months ago, I was sitting in the Temple when I blessed to see in my mind's eye a block of fire.  The flames weren't wild and untamed, rather they were uniform, every angle of the square block plainly visible.  I could see myself walking toward the fire.  I entered it, and I did not thrash -I walked boldly, slowly forward.  As I did, my outer layers were burned away.  I emerged from the block of fire a shining, gleaming core of refined, precious metal.

I've often thought of that experience as I've traversed these past few months.  It was a direct message from God -sent before it was vitally necessary. 

These past few weeks have been so hard on me.  Satan is working overtime.  The Lord is making His awareness of me plainly seen -He HAS to, otherwise I'd fall.  I'd be crushed under the blackness of demons.  But God is in my life -in the details, in the decisions, in the dark of night when I'm alone, and in the brightness of day when three children look to me for validation and love.

His message is loud and clear, "I AM HERE AND I KNOW YOU INTIMATELY."
It matches Satan's exactly.

For the past few weeks, the message coming over the Sunday pulpit has been "Hasten the Work."  The Stake President is saying it, the Bishop is saying it, the Sunday School Teachers, the Relief Society teachers, and I hunker behind the piano or organ and think about what I don't have to offer.
I haven't been visiting teaching in months.
I haven't been as present for my Mom as I should be (she just had surgery on her knee).
The babysitter bathed my daughter and clipped her nails because I hadn't.
I've missed the birthdays of people I dearly care about.
I haven't sent a single package to my sister since she moved away.

The list of my failings goes on.

During these past three weeks, I have forgotten that I'm walking boldly through a block of fire.  I'm not stooping or bending or looking behind me to see if someone needs a casserole... my eyes are pressed firmly forward.  My spine straight, my shoulders back, my head up.

I can't help but feel that when the Lord sends his message of "Hasten" He is speaking directly to and about His people.  Baptisms are important, yes!  But coming fully unto Christ OURSELVES -that is hastening in it's finest form.

As I look around me, I can see many, many of the people I love dearly (but apparently forget to send cards to when they age a year) being refined with FIRE.  This isn't a slow process.  It is HASTENING.  The Lord is hastening His work and calling on His people to draw near unto Him with full hearts and purpose written upon their souls.
Many of His precious children are afflicted, and He issues an invitation to healing -His infinite incomprehensible Atonement.  The 12-step program and education on addiction have led me personally to it, line upon line.  I can choose to take it or to leave it. 
Taking it means fire.  Taking it means tears.  Taking it means burned off layers.

Taking it means LIVING.

A few months ago, a sweet brother stood at the pulpit and tied his pornography addiction into the message of his talk.
And there before me stood a MAN, a man on fire, a man shedding layers, a living breathing Adam -his progress hastening before my very eyes.

The Lord has a job for each of us to do, and He will prepare us in His precious fire, in His own precious time.

I can rest in the Lord, knowing that I am being hastened.
I have chosen to live.

Hated

For the past few weeks, I have had a battle raging inside of me.

Life incidents have set in a motion of smug snowball of self-loathing, but I didn't notice it until the snowball was so big it was knocking constantly against my heart and soul.

I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me -intolerant hatred was pouring out of my mind constantly.  I felt heavy and sad.  Voices stirred from the back of my mind, "This IS YOU.  This is how YOU REALLY ARE."

I knew it wasn't true, but it felt so so true.
I've been criticized in small ways lately, and the criticisms have come from varying sources -each one small, each one adding a thick layer onto my muddy snowball.
After a conversation with my sponsor, I was able to vocalize what was really going on.

"I hate myself right now, and as a result, I hate everything."
This hate doesn't spring from anything inside of me.  I am not a hateful person.

But Satan hates me.  Satan hates women in general and reserves a special sort of hatred from women individually -knowing us as well as we know ourselves, yea, even better -he coils around our most sacred attributes, our most poignant feelings and twists them, turns them, manipulates them into filth.
Hatred is filth.

Battling Satan's hatred for me has been HARD.  It isn't something that goes away when the baby is crying or takes a sabbatical when I'm trying to make dinner for four in a messy house with no husband.
It is constant -as unchanging as the Savior's love.
The darkness is almost tangible.

I wonder what I have to offer -why I even bother getting up when all I ever do is leave my children to work and come home to a dirty house that my aching body can't grapple with.
I'm too tired to even cry, so I pick up a crochet hook and weave beautiful colors together in an effort to create something lovely.
Creating is my specialty -the specialty of all women.
We create beauty in every form imaginable.  We arrange flowers and produce laughter, we stitch fabric and buy throw pillows, we gather ingredients and our kitchens smell like home, we pay more attention to our dress, our hair, even pining over which color of eye shadow ought to be used for date nights.  We can delight every sense with our natural gifts: perfumes, silk, vibrant colors, uplifting music...
In short, we create and nurture life in every form... working hand in hand with our Father in Heaven, whether or not we are marked to create life in this mortal realm on not, women are unconquerable creators.

Satan hates us.  We stand for everything he despises.  We are the anti-demons.
Just as I weave brightly colored yarn through my fingers to create sturdy blankets and hats, so does Satan weave his blackened hatred through the tapestry of my soul.

This morning, I woke up to a blog post that sent healing tears down my cheeks -the tears that would not come these past few weeks have finally fallen.
Thank you, Jane.
I saw God today.

Remember you are LOVED.  Remember you are also HATED.  And don't ever confuse the two.

Getting Lost

On the third day of our honeymoon, my husband and I got lost in San Diego.  It's not hard to do.  Every street has the exact same name and they run circles around each other for fun.

As we drove around looking for a beach using a map (no GPS back then!) and our guts (no smartphones either!) we wound up driving aimlessly around, wasting gas and precious honeymoon time.

My new husband became frustrated.  I sensed his frustration, and knew right away it was my responsibility to medicate it, improve it, REMOVE it!  It was my duty.  I was, after all, his sweet new wife.  So I pulled our (film) camera out and began snapping pictures.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"It's LOST DAY!" I said and asked to please stop looking so mad and start looking more "lost" so the pictures would reflect the day accurately in our honeymoon scrapbook (which still hasn't been made, thanks for asking).

Lost Day.
It was the most memorable day of our honeymoon filled with random pictures of places we saw and people we passed.  Our faces look sad, confused and pathetic (I posed us accordingly) (see picture above ^^^^). 

Lost Day became a game.

Being lost isn't always bad.  In fact, I might go so far as to say: it's never really bad at all unless you're under the age of 5.

Lately, I've been feeling like Alicia has been lost in the world of recovery work. 
I have a job because my husband has an addiction.
I go to meetings every week because my husband has an addiction.
I study addiction materials.
I make addiction calls.
I have an addiction sponsor.
I set up appointments with a reflexologist to help me manage my stress and physical pain caused by the trauma sexual addiction has brought into my life.

WHERE AM I in all of this?  Where is the girl who crochets and sews and writes and laughs?  Where is the girl who can look at a seemingly bad situation and find a LOST DAY in it all?

As I've thought about this, something rang true.  It rang LOUD and it rang CLEAR.

Right now.  Today.  I am more FOUND than I've ever been.

I am not lost right now.  Addiction recovery doesn't define me... it "finds" me.
I cannot get lost in recovery work.  I can only find more of myself as I practice the principles of the Atonement and come unto Christ daily.

When I come to Christ and my eternal Heavenly Father, I come to know them.  Coming to know them means coming to know myself.
I am a part of Them.  They have given parts of themselves to me!

Recovery has simply revealed as much to me.
As I continue to work it, it will continue to reveal more of me.

My life has San Diego days, when everything feels like I'm running in identical circles... and during those Lost Days, I can do what Alicia does.
Crochet something bright, crank Loretta Lynn, and take pictures of it all.  It's not 2004 anymore.  I have tools today that I didn't have on our honeymoon or for many years thereafter. 

I have GPS and a smartphone to go with my recovery materials and sponsors.

But how did I find those tools?
I got lost.

Getting lost isn't always bad.

Locked Down

This morning I paid a visit to my locked Recovery board on Pinterest.  It's full of educational articles, inspirational quotes, and relaxation yoga.



There's a link to some great Detox bath recipes.

And a few things that make me rethink the way I do yoga breathing:

My recovery board is my safe place -hidden and tucked away like the notes my friends used to pass me in elementary school.
For My Eyes Only.

After going through my relaxation routine this morning, I'm going to slather myself in essential oils and take care of my sick son.  I'm going to open windows and let fresh air in.  I'm going to listen to Italian Arias and clean my kitchen so I can bake bread.
There will be an old movie on the screen and a baby at my feet.

Today, I will take on the theme of the month and just be grateful.
Or, as my daughter said in family prayer last night, "Thank thee for everything except drugs."

It's Not About Words

 

I'm a word nerd, an English nerd, the one walking around getting ticked when apostrophes are in the wrong place.

So I'm a little taken aback at the realization that I had this weekend... I called my back-up sponsor (I need two.  I'm a special case) and said out loud, "Honesty isn't about words at all.  Words have nothing to do with it."

I always knew when my husband was lying, even if I didn't admit it to myself.  How did I know?  His behavior.  My gut said, "He is LYING, Alicia.  LY-ING!"  But I didn't want to accuse him, and I wanted to think the best of him... so I gave him the benefit of the doubt for a few months and then broke down in tears when the truth came out.
Was I mad at him because he was lying and I couldn't trust him?
Or was I mad because I knew and didn't trust myself?
Both.

Last weekend was hard.  My husband was home and I got to hang out with both sides of him. 
The weekend was spent with his family, all bunked up in different rooms at a motel.  The men hunted while the women took the children to the park.  We went out to the forest as a family and took camo-optional pictures.  We came home exhausted, and I went out to buy dinner for everyone because Hot n' Ready has improved my quality of life by 100%.
My husband came home from hunting to find his entire family eating up a meal I'd paid for and was touched.
As we walked pizza boxes out to the dumpster together (awww, I know...) I felt his heavy coat around my shoulders.
"You looked cold," he said.
Yes!  I WAS cold, but I didn't notice it until I was warmed up under his coat.
His gesture wasn't forced -it wasn't a "let me show off how awesome I am to impress my wife" kind of a thing.  It was simply that he could tell I was cold, he loved me, and he could protect me.  So he did.
At that moment, I felt it.  I FELT the care, the love, the concern.
Tears brimmed my tired eyes and I couldn't believe I was so moved by such a seemingly small incident.  He didn't use words.  He didn't SAY "I am aware of you and you are safe with me"... he lived it instead.

Hours later, my husband was using words .  He was apologizing.  He was sorry for the Jekyll that had come out unexpectedly.
And that time, I felt nothing.

As we spoke on the phone during the week, he said things to me I've been DREAMING of hearing for years.
"I truly see you."
"I am blown away by the person you are."
"I'm in awe, in total awe. I can't believe I get to come home to YOU."
And I feel... nothing.

I've been so worried about whether or not I'm keeping myself safe during this very strange period in our marriage where I'm not exactly married but have a husband.

This weekend let me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am just the right amount of unattached.  And it all happened naturally.  I LONG to feel truth in his words.  I long to feel the sincerity of apology. I long to feel the butterflies, the tingles, the Cloud-9ness of his wonderful words.
But I DON'T.
Because they're words.

And words have nothing to do with honesty.

If the words he's saying are actually true, he will live them.  And then, like a warm, wool coat over my shivering shoulder... I will FEEL them.

Into Me See

I wrote a guest post today for Jacy, and I'd love for you to read it!

At the Togetherness Project, Dr. Skinner talked about intimacy.  I equate intimacy with sex, but he said intimacy isn't about sex... at least, not primarily.  Intimacy is better pronounced, he said, as "into me see."

It all goes back to Avatar, I swear.

But I've been thinking about what he said, and I've been reading the book "Captivating" by Stasi and John Eldredge.  There's a lot to be said about intimacy, and I got squirmy when the authors began suggesting that women should strive to be intimate with Christ -to be romanced by Heavenly Father.

I felt like Marty McFly's mom, "This is all wrong... When I kiss you, it's like I'm kissing... my brother."

The authors suggested that the Lord woos us through beauty.  He desires us, He longs for us, He sees us and knows us and works tirelessly on our behalves.  They encourage women to look for signs of his love -I believe Elder Bednar calls them "tender mercies."

I set the book aside and let the words sort of... digest.  Did they sit right with me?  No.  Why not?
Because!
Because EW!
It's Heavenly FATHER!

And then I remembered "Into Me See."
And my soul hungered, faltered, and fell.

I want that.  Can I have that?  He wouldn't like what I have to offer.

I then realized in one swift and awful moment that I've never had intimacy in my marriage (or life? I don't even know.  My brain would explode if I tried to think that far back at this point).  I've never been seen beyond a certain point.
I've had sex.  Yes.
So I've always assumed that I've been intimate.
But sex is sex and intimacy is Into Me See.
If you have trouble grasping the difference, you can watch some Hollywood movies.  Or don't.  Because they're garbagey.

I read an article yesterday about Jimmy Stewart.  He mentioned his wife (of which he only had The One) and this is what he had to say:

“I could tell right off that she was a thoroughbred. For me it had been love at first sight. She was the kind of a girl I had always dreamed of. The kind you associate with open country, cooking stew and not fainting because it was made of cut-up squirrels. She’d look at home on a sailboat or a raft; in a graceful swing from a tree branch into the swimming pool.”

(Q: Why does it seem blush-inducing complimentary and NOT borderline offensive that he referred to his wife as a "thoroughbred"?
A: Because he's Jimmy Stewart, and he can make offensive things sound complimentary.)

I have read that quote at least 5 times, and it still gets me.  He SEES his wife.  Open country, cooking stew!  Nothing about her legs or breasts or clothes!  He gives us an in-depth look into his wife and we feel like we KNOW her without him saying a word about Her Looks.

He into-her-sees and as a result, WE into-her-see.  And THAT.  That right there is intimacy.  It's contagious and warm and more gratifying, fulfilling and satisfying that any amount or variety of  any kind of sex out there.

I want it.
I waaaaaaant it!

I've spent years searching for that deep connection.  I searched websites and companies dedicated to helping married people "date."  I created THIS basket and THAT game.  I planned and schemed and curled my eyelashes!  I worked out.  I baked!  I cleaned!  I read self-help books!
I WAS GOD!  The almighty, powerful!  I could save and fix and create and do it ALONE!

(Are you laughing right now?  or crying?  Either is an acceptable reaction.)

I turned everywhere but TO God because I thought (without realizing it) that I WAS God.
Ironically, God is the ONLY one who can fill my vessel.  My vessel is bottomless, ever in need of fulfillment and connection.
Who can fill an endless vessel?
Living Water, The Great I Am.

It's time to seek out that intimacy -it's time to truly understand a concept of connection that has alluded me since... forever.
It's time to seek more fully the Valentines from God.
Yesterday I was given three.  One of which was a Mormon Message titled Wrong Roads:




And one was an blatant over-abundace of gleeful giggles -no doubt in my mind they were Heaven sent.

The third was a woman testifying through tears of her own sweet Valentine from the Lord -and listening to her bear testimony that SHE was not only not forgotten but personally know and intimately loved by God was a gift all it's own to me.

Today I'm praying that the Lord will please send a Valentine that looks and behaves exactly like a housekeeper.
It never hurts to ask, right?

I will continue to battle my belief that what I have to offer is not enough to be worthy of intimacy, my fear that I'll fall short of the Lord's approval because of my character weaknesses.  But I will battle it today with God and not Google, with Christ and holy connection.
And?  *gulp* Intimacy.

Forgiveness is Hard

I have experienced the utter miracle of being able to forgive my husband for looking at porn -for looking and lusting and desiring other women.

It used to seem so impossible, and it was!  It was impossible for a very long time, but I always kept in on the radar.  And one day, it came.  It opened windows in my brain and let fresh air, sunshine, music, and beauty in.  Life seemed lighter, more hopeful and lovely.  It was a miracle -miracle is the ONLY word that even comes close to describing it, and even then it seems to fall a little short.

At the encouragement of my sponsor, I met with the Bishop yesterday.  She encouraged me to have regular meetings with him.  I couldn't figure out why, but since she's rhylly insightful, I always hearken to her counsel -at least to try it on for size and see if it's for me or not.

"How are you feeling about forgiveness?" He asked.
And I was stumped.  I had no answer.

I HAVE forgiven him.  I have!  It was hard, but I forgave him for the porn.

But guess what?  I'm still feeling anger, I'm still grieving.  I'm still hurting.
I still have need of forgiving my husband for other hurts -for his Jekyllness, his anger, his outbursts, his taking of my safety... I don't even want to go on with the list for reasons I'll outline below.

It was an inspired question for me.  My Bishop made it overwhelmingly and lovingly clear that he felt inspired to ask it and wanted me to know that he wasn't attempting to pressure me into something I wasn't ready for, and there was no shame in not being ready.

Forgiveness is officially back on the radar.
I'm not ready for it, and here's why:
#1) Needing for forgive means that I have been hurt which means I've been weak enough to let him hurt me again.  And by weak I mean stupid.
#2) Needing to forgive means that I'm accusing someone of hurting me.  Accusing people is not nice.  It's unChristlike.  I want to be Christlike, so I can't go around telling the Lord that his beautiful son hurt me. 

I didn't realize I felt that way until last night.
Those are my forgiveness roadblocks right now.

I listened to an interview Polly and her husband did with The Mormon Channel, and I heard them talk about Jekyll.  They described him as being an enemy of his spouse, and it really does feel that way.  My husband loves me, but I don't feel love when the other side of him comes out.  I feel... everything my enemy would WANT me to feel: unsafe, small, unloved, ridiculous...
And it brought to mind the words of Oscar Wilde.  If inner peace simply isn't reason enough to strive for forgiveness, there's always this:

I've had a lot of honest clarity lately... it's becoming abundantly clear that I've got so much work to do.  I've been working recovery for almost THREE YEARS and I have SO MUCH work to do.  I want to be depressed about it, but because I've been working recovery for three years, I can testify that I've gained more than I've lost and in a funny sort of way, I'm excited to gain more.

Last night, I faced some honesty with regards to intimacy.  It was no fun, and I'll probably cry a river into my bath this morning.
And then blog about it later.
Have I ever thanked you for always being there for me?  You're a doll.

I Blame Me

"Do you get triggered when he comes onto you?" My therapist asked.
"Yeah," I nodded.
"What do you do?"
"I change the subject.  I make a joke... I find a way to escape the situation without confrontation."
"You need to be honest," he said.

I need to be honest.

It sounds so simple!  But it ISN'T simple at all... not for me.  Words seem to choke in my throat even as they come out.
Fear chokes them.  Fear has incomparable choking powers.

What am I afraid of?
I asked myself this yesterday during church.
What keeps me from being honest about how I'm really feeling when my husband triggers me without realizing it?

He will feel bad, and it will be my fault.
In essence: I believe I will make him feel bad.

I will tell him I need space, and he will feel lonely and rejected.  I've always "saved" him from those emotions (I thought I did, but let's be honest... I'm not capable of saving anyone, including myself).  He will feel sad and maybe even angry, and IT WILL BE MY FAULT.

His negative emotions are my fault.  I don't want to manage his negative emotions, so I avoid confrontation like the plague.

I realize none of this is actually true... I realize that I need to be honest, and I know that his negative emotions aren't REALLY my fault.  I also know that my husband is a grown man: capable, responsible and smart.  He can handle his own emotions. 

I know the truth -I know the real truth... I hope someday soon, I'll really begin to believe it.

Vulnerable Boundaries

(one of Dr. Skinner's slides at The Togetherness Conference)

Random Sample of what's going on in my house right now:

Him: Come here I want to show you something.
Me: I can't.
Him: Yes, you can.
Me: Don't tell me what to do.
Him: Quit being mean.

Doors slam.  Bottom lips come out to play.
But seriously... that actually happened, and both of us were a little disturbed by it.  I mean, we're ADULTS, but we were sounding exactly like our small children.

My therapist applauded me for holding my ground.  I felt my choice was being taken away and I stood boldly and said, "Don't tell me what to do."  I spoke and held a boundary.
I wasn't yelling or defiant.  In fact, I was scared.

"What you can do instead," said my therapist, "is be honest about where you are.  Be vulnerable when you hold your boundaries."

I have been in such a confused and lonely place.  I have a MARRIAGE but I don't.  I have a relationship but it's dysfunctional.  I can't change it or fix it.  I can only detach and feel lonely and wait and watch.
But what if I can't ever re-attach?  Am I destined to stay in this cold, dank corner forever?  never to trust or depend on any man EVER AGAIN?

My ability to connect with people -and eventually this will *hopefully* include my husband -is to foster my ability to be vulnerable.
It's raising my hand in a Relief Society lesson on choosing spiritual needs over physical wants and saying, "I know this concept is important, but I struggle with it.  I need to remember to have compassion for myself because it's only natural to want to give into physical desires.  We have them for a reason."
It's reading poetry I've written in front of a crowd.
It's saying, "I'm sorry, I can't help with that.  I really wish I could."
It's apologizing to my kids and being honest about my mistakes with them.
It's saying prayers with them and letting them hear me talk to God about my failings.
And while I can't be safely vulnerable with my husband all of the time right now, I can be vulnerable in my boundaries.

Instead of saying, "Don't tell me what to do" which shows no insight into what's really going on with me, I can be honest and say, "Whoa, you just set off some old emotions.  I'm feeling controlled (or I'm feeling like you're taking my choice) so I need some space."

I don't foresee that going over well a'tall. 
BUT.

It's time for me to be fully honest, even if it's uncomfortable.
It's time for me to tell my husband how I truly feel instead of change the subject when he comes onto me and I feel triggered.
I owe myself integrity.

I'm always telling my kids, "When you do something that scares you, it makes you stronger."

It's time for me to live that truth, to face situations and let go of the outcomes. 

The bottom line is that I'm not willing to sacrifice the art of being vulnerable.  Right now, I'm very much in a place where it would be easy to wall myself off, but I will fight to maintain my self-honesty and ability to be vulnerable with myself and others.

The fact is: I'm not going to stay in this cold and lonely place.  I will connect again.  Whether it's to my husband or not, I will connect again.
When that time comes, I want to be able to be fully honest and vulnerable with myself and others.\

Other Men

I miscarried our first pregnancy. 

It was awful... it was seriously awful.  When I was curled up in the chapel area in the hospital, trying to find some peaceful sleep, I blocked out porn.  A person shouldn't have to think about her husband looking at porn while she's coming to grips with shattered dreams and loss.  I put a pin in it, so to speak.

Once home, I didn't get out of bed for a solid week.  Once I faced the world again, I decided to get a job.  I applied to be a manager at a local movie theater.  I landed the job, and although I had no experience actually WORKING in a theater, the staff was really sweet and helped me out. 
One guy in particular was really sweet.
Like, really.

He was also charming and attentive.  He knew I was married.  And I knew I was married.
So why didn't I keep my distance?  I didn't kiss him or flirt with him, but I crossed a mental line. 
Why?
Because you can't put a pin in porn addiction... at the time I didn't SEE it as porn addiction.  All I knew was that my husband couldn't stop looking at other women, and that there was something tangible missing in our marriage that I tried to fill so many different ways: more sex, thoughtful gifts...
What was missing?  A connection -a real connection.

I didn't discourage Sam at the theater.  I liked that he liked me.  I knew he was trouble -even the owners had warned me.  Their exact words were, "Beware of Sam.  You're married, but you're pretty.  All he cares about is the pretty."

After I'd worked there for a month, I found out I was pregnant.  Sam overheard me tell the owners that I was suffering from morning sickness (I still hate popcorn because the smell of it nauseates me now).  And that was that.  Suddenly reality hit Sam.
"Wait," he said, "You're PREGNANT?"
"Yeah," I nodded.
"Ohhh," he said.  But it sounded more like, "ewwww."

A few weeks later, my husband and I moved.  We packed up our studio apartment... well, HE packed up with his Mom's help while I helplessly sat on the floor and tried not puking.  We moved four hours away, bringing the addiction with us wherever we went.
We brought a little one into our life and moved again.
The addiction was there.  The connection I so craved was sparse.
After I had our second, I found myself drawn to someone in our ward.  I didn't flirt with him, I didn't kiss him or even touch him.
But the draw was there.  He would never know anything about it, but I was very aware of the inner fight going on inside of myself.

And just like in the case of Theater Sam, I told no one.  Nothing had happened, so why say anything?

Right now, my husband and I are distant.  We are far apart, and more than EVER, I crave connection.
Guys, I am LONELY.

I find myself enjoying the old cowboys who come into work and call me by the names they call their horses: Darlin', Sweets...
My counselor is a healthy man who SEES me.  I'm drawn to that.

It isn't just ONE man... it's ANY man I perceive as safe!  The Connection Craving is strong right now.

BUT.
THIS.
TIME.

I know what to do.  I know who to tell.  And I DO tell.  I talk to my husband about it.  I even told my counselor about it.
"How does your husband feel about it?" he asked.
"He likes you too," I said.  And then I laughed really hard at the whole situation.  I demystified it.

I call my sponsor. 
I pray.
I write it out -I physically put the words on paper -and I surrender the feelings.  Not once, not twice, but AS MANY TIMES AS IT TAKES.

My longing for connection is healthy, and it will be filled.  I'm not destined to live a lonely life.  I will keep my desire through surrender.  I won't squelch it or shame myself.
But how do I keep it without acting on it?  Because if I were to act on it right now, it would be bad...

I surrender.

And I listen to the voice of my counselor say, "Talk about it.  Don't hide this craving.  If you do, you will be caught off guard in a bad situation."

I am susceptible.
And unhealthy men have a sort of radar for lonely, vulnerable women.

Lonely.
Vulnerable.
It's like looking in a mirror...