My brother likes to joke with me about the way "The Road Not Taken" is interpreted.
"I shall be telling this with a sigh," he says, "doesn't have one meaning. A sigh of relief? Regret? Is the road not taken actually the road we SHOULD have taken or the road we're glad we escaped?"
Honestly, I don't think even Robert Frost knows. He's a sort of master of the double-meaning poem.
But what I'm about to tell you has everything to do with roads taken.
My grandmother's mother was an extraordinary woman. She had spunk and zest and a sense of humor. I've been very blessed in the "who came before me" department. My grandmothers on all sides have been downright amazing, incredible women.
Esther had many spiritual experiences in her life that were not commonplace. She recorded them, and here's the one I've been thinking a lot about lately:
"Not long after I found out the church was true for myself, I had a most unusual experience. It was in broad daylight just before noon. I was walking to the house and this voice stopped me and said, "Stop -I would like to show you the story of your life." So I stopped and he showed me the road I was going and it was just like I was doing and he said, "I don't want you to follow this road. I will show you the road I want you to do." It was a terrible road and I had many trials to go through and would stop and cry and then take up my troubles and go on and I said, "God, I don't want to follow that road." He said, "That is the road I want you to do." Then he showed me the kind of person I would be if I followed the road I was going. I never did any bad, but nothing good on this road. Then he showed me what I would be if I followed the road he wished me to go and I looked and I was a glorified being. I have tried to go that road, but I'm not sure I have or not."
I never knew grandmother Esther very well, but it is entirely possible that she had this experience for her posterity.
Could she have known that almost 100 years later, her great-granddaughter would be reading her words like a direct answer to prayers?
So often, I've found myself doubting myself.
This weekend, my beautiful sister came home from her mission. She spoke to our home ward with a Spirit so strong the entire chapel was SILENT. I haven't been in a silent chapel since I attended a Singles' Ward.
I looked at her, the way she'd changed and grown and I looked at myself and wondered...
Did I screw up big time? Did I somehow jump into a marriage with a porn addict because I was too caught up in lust that I missed out on what I SHOULD have done?
Reading my great-grandmother's words brought me a kind of peace... I'm on the Glorified Being Road. I'm on the road where I'm doing bad -making so many mistakes. But if I'm doing bad that also means I'm DOING which means I'm bound to get it right once in a while because my heart is in the right place.
I can see my beautiful grandmother in her youth with her bobbed hair (scandal!) and animated eyes, traveling a dusty, rough, dark road with a few suitcases loaded with troubles.
And I am her.
I don't want to walk this road either.
But the only thing worse than this road is the other road.
Which is to say: the only thing worse than doing THIS is NOT DOING THIS.
Friday morning, after I argued with my husband I sat and cried and then I picked up my troubles and moved on.
Sometimes we need a good cry, but victory lies in PICKING UP and MOVING ON.
Give the tears their spot on the road, let them fly. But do not stop. Do not be content to suffer, Alicia. Do not be content with a life of martyring.
This IS the road the Lord would like me to follow because it's leading me in a jagged upward path to Him.
Push ahead on the dusty road.
Push through the darkness and the potholes.
Push.
Push.
Push.
Rouge your knees and roll your stockings down and PUSH!
I went the wrong way... you know the arrows they paint on the parking lot asphalt? I ignored them. I giggled and ignored them. It was a typical Alicia thing to do. Alicia never follows the arrows.
In essence, if the arrow dictate what we SHOULD do, Alicia will probably giggle and go the other way which is why I never read Twilight.
Or Harry Potter.
But I digress...
My husband happened to be with me. He was irritated. As his irritation mounted, my giggling became nervous. As his irritation crossed the line to anger, my giggling quit.
I wasn't fitting perfectly into the parking spot because I had come in from the wrong direction. I was having to reverse, pull forward, reverse, pull forward...
In all honesty, if I had been with one of my girl friends, we would have laughed about it. And I could sense that in my gut. This was such a silly thing -such a laughable thing. Why was he getting angry?
"It's not a big deal," I said, "You don't need to act like a jerk."
He got out of the car before I had finished parking, slammed the door and stormed off toward the store.
I didn't understand. I started to feel shame, guilt, fear.
When I caught up with him, I asked him what was wrong.
"I don't appreciated being called a jerk," he was still very angry. I began to cave.
"I didn't call you a jerk... I said you were acting like one. There's a difference. I don't think you're a jerk. You're a good man. I would never call YOU a jerk...Are you mad at me?"
I then went on to prove my love for him, which love I was sure would be enough to pull him out and away from porn.
It never did.
I think about that car parking incident from time to time.
My husband doesn't realize how controlling he can be. I don't think he conscientiously TRIES to control. But I can see it. I realize it, and I don't want any part of it anymore.
I want to go against the arrows.
I want him to trust me to run the house, the laundry, and the kids MY way when I'm in charge. I don't want to cower under pressure when I can tell he disapproves of my ways.
His ways, to him, are THE ways.
He's like math. One answer for every problem.
I'm like English. There's more than million ways to write the same sentence, and chances are I'm going to test them all out and use the one that strikes my fancy the mostest.
I'm tired of fearing my husband.
For the past few days, I was absolutely stark-raving ANGRY about this. Also: me being stark-raving angry is pretty unimpressive.
I gave the anger the place it needed and even went so far as to misuse it against my husband, something I rarely do because I'm too scared.
So in a way, raising my voice to him was a sort of sign and token that I'm shaking off my fear of my husband. And I'm not angry anymore. Not today.
Today I breathed.
Today I took a detox bath.
Today I listened to my detox bath music.
Today I rubbed essential oils all over my temples and neck and chest and wrists.
Today I'll ride horses with my kids while my husband is out of town. I'll eat homemade cinnamon rolls and I'll laugh and I'll do whatever it takes to keep the presence of angels 'round about me.
Heaven knows they chase the Dementors away.
Okay, so I watched the MOVIES... I just didn't read the books ;)
When I was in college, my older brother was serving a mission. He left his movie collection at home, and because I am his little sister, I did exactly what little sisters do: I busted into that bizznass.
I snagged up his Horatio Hornblower collection. Have you seen this series?
It's amazing. I mean, it's REALLY amazing. And I should also add: I watched it when it aired for the first time on A&E and fell in love with Horatio. Hunky, dunky.
There's one scene where he runs from one cannon to the next, his curiously large mouth screaming, "FIRE!....FIRE!.....FIRE!....."
My roommates and I rewound that part (yeah, they were VHS) so many times. We couldn't get over how BIG his mouth was, and it became our motto when things got to be rough.
FIRE! We would cheer each other on. FIRE! We wrote it on our Community Quote Wall, forever attached to the old 1940's adobe walls. FIRE!
(I dare you to not stare at his mouth. DARE. YOU.)
That was 10 years ago. Gosh. Has it really been that long?
A few days ago, I was reading in 3 Nephi. In Chapter 12, the first two verses talk about baptism by fire. I've read the passage before and passed over the words without a second thought.
"After ye are baptized with water, behold, I will baptize you with fire."
"They shall be visited with fire."
Yeah, yeah. Let's get to the Beatitudes already...
But the other morning, I couldn't stop looking at it: FIRE.... FIRE....
I was baptized when I was 8. I was a giggling 8 year old who could hardly pay attention to what was going on for the thrill of it all. Everyone was looking AT ME and giving ME stuff and hugging ME and they were all so proud of ME.
It was a big deal for a middle child.
I was baptized, and I swore I would never, ever sin again.
Much like that one time I got married and promised I would never, ever let myself go.
*chortle*
kids...
I was baptized with water.
Right now? It's fire.
It's hot right now. There's heat around me -heat IN me -heat above me -heat below me.
I'm immersed in the heat.
And because of it, there is one thing I have come to know for absolute certainty:
MY SAVIOR LIVES.
MY FATHER IN HEAVEN LIVES.
I am converted.
And if you bring it down a few verses:
"Behold, do men light a candle and put it under a bushel? Nay, but on a candlestick, and it giveth light to all that are in the house."
The fire that is surrounding me right now -the fire that I am immersed in -it will remain with me always. Though not every walking day of the rest of my life will be like this, though I may not be here blogging daily five years from now, the fire will remain with me: a small flame on a candle. But a FLAME nonetheless.
(I might go so far as to say an eternal flame, but I don't want anyone walking away from this post singing 80's ballads.)
And the next verse is very Step 12:
"Therefore let your light so shine before this people."
For the past few months, I've felt prompted to study up on what it means to be a man. It seemed like a strange topic to study up on, but it was so interesting that I couldn't set it aside.
Was it because I am raising a little man?
I didn't know. I just kept studying, kept reading, absorbing every word, usurping every ideal.
Yesterday I sat in front of my computer screen and met online with a counselor who said simply said:
"You need a man, Alicia. You need a man man."
During my week break, I asked my Dad -who is aware of our situation -to come and give me a blessing before my husband came home. He was more than happy to oblige. I had to update him on our situation, and he said, "You need to look around and see if there's anyone else out there who could measure up to what you've got."
I want to scream, "NO! No there isn't!"
But the truth is that there IS someone out there who won't try to manipulate, who won't push back when I stand up for myself, who will teach my son exactly what it means to be a man, who will unplug and take time to do these things. Absolutely, there is.
The road in front of us is a rough, hard road.
"Are you willing to take it? Is it going to be worth it?" the counselor asked.
These kinds of questions make me squirm. They feel like bitter pills... medicine -I need to take them to get well, but the side effects? oh, they bring me down: depression.
I need a MAN man.
There are times when I see a MAN man in the man I married. My last counseling session was a week ago. I spent three days afterward in a down sort of mood (pills, pills, emotional pills!), and then I came down with a head cold. All the while, I wasn't sleeping through the night. Add that all up and what do you get? A deliriously messy house.
I'm serious.
Through it all, I hadn't had any empathy. I had been manipulated and I had had to set a new boundary which only added to my worn-out state.
Yesterday, I was still feeling the effects of my cold. My body was aching, my head was foggy. My husband came home and turned the news on. What was going on in Boston was of the utmost interest to him (as a cop), but the spirit it brought into our already spirit-starved home was more than I wanted to play with. I left the house and picked up my daughter from a birthday party. It didn't take me long to realize I didn't want to go home. So? I didn't. I only stopped in long enough to tell my husband that I was taking the kids west of town to our family land.
It's my Holy Places place.
He hopped in the car with us, leaving the news still on in the background of our messy house.
As the sun set, we skipped rocks into a great and spacious puddle. The kids blew bubbles and we clucked our tongue at my Dad's old horse. We had a stare-off with the cattle, we hid in the tall bushes, we watched my grandpa and his brother walking the fields out in the distance.
My husband became impatient to leave.
I was in no hurry to get back home. I knew what awaited me there.
I wanted fresh air, I wanted to breathe, I wanted to watch my kids play in the same dirt I did as a toddler.
When we pulled into the driveway, I didn't budge. I had driven home as slowly as I could get away with. In my car, there was the soundtrack to The Man from Snowy River playing. There was the last shreds of a beautiful desert sunset, there was peace.
My husband placed a warm hand on top of mine.
"What is it?" He asked. There was genuine empathy in his voice, and it brought me near to tears.
"I'm sick, I haven't been sleeping, and I really don't want to face the house," I said.
"Okay," he didn't move his hand from mine, "Get a chair, get a book, and spend some time alone outside while the sun sets. Let me take care of the house."
I really needed that. I REALLY needed that.
I know what I need now. I wrote down a list of what I need as a woman, and essentially what that list entails is one simple truth:
I NEED A MAN.
Last night, I had a man man. So my answer to those hard, pillish questions is -as of today -yes. yes, this is worth it. I hate that the answer to that question fluctuates.
But I'm so grateful for my loving Father in Heaven who has taken me by the hand -whose Spirit is constantly at my side no matter what my home feels like. There are angels on my right and left, bearing me up.
I know it.
I can feel it.
Their presence is tangible.
God will not leave me helpless, hopeless, or alone.
As of late, I've felt like I'm living in boundary mode -constantly unsafe.
Should I be surprised that as I'm becoming more and more aware that I'm becoming more and more hesitant to keep on keepin' on? I shouldn't be. But I am.
It's like:
I'm ready for a new marriage with the same man. I love that man. I love MY man. But this marriage we're in? The patterns we've created?
I'm ready to cash them in -hand them over to the Lord in exchange for The Good Stuff.
HOWEVER.
It's scary. There's another part of me that is afraid of what the future holds. It's easier to keep on keepin' on because it's what I've done for nearly NINE years. Nine years can't be reprogrammed in nine hours, nine days, or nine weeks.
My husband doesn't like me right now.
That scares me because I'm afraid that our marriage will never heal. I feel a sense of hopelessness -I feel like he will continue to view me as "super recovery Alicia" (his words) and never see that "super recovery Alicia" is actually just Alicia Alicia. Maybe someday he WILL see that, and he'll hate me all the more. Maybe he'll want out. Maybe he'll feel stuck. Maybe he'll resent me more than he already does.
Maybe he'll call me selfish and negative again.
This. is. so. hard. for me. In my entire life, I've only ever been loved. I've never been called selfish or negative. I've worked hard at being loved, at being liked, at being only pleasing -even taken it to unhealthy levels (raise your hand if you feel me there).
I'm scared to hold to boundaries.
I'm afraid of an unknown future, but OF THIS I WILL SAY:
The only thing I'm more afraid of is the present, of existing forever in this marriage the way it is right exactly right now.
So I will strap myself in. I will fold my arms. I will bow my head. And I will jump out of this airplane.
Scabs and Jane talked about fine lines awhile ago, and so many people have referenced back to their posts because seriously. our lives are a myriad of fine lines, tight ropes, what-have-yous.
And today I find myself hopping from one side to the other, never really landing on that line or rope or what-have-you.
I spend half of my time in shame, wondering WHY the house isn't clean, why I have no energy, why I'm not thinking of others.
And then I spend the other half of my time feeling calm in the mess, satisfied to rest, and comfortable in my oblivion to the outside world.
Healthy thinking is somewhere in the middle, and I'll get there.
I always do.
Wanna know how I know? Because I've done this before. I swing far right, bounce far left, ricochet... with every bounce, every ricochet, I hit closer to home. Eventually, I get there.
I'll get there.
Today I'm getting closer. I'm actually in jeans, which is more than I can say for the last 10 days. And my tub is clean, which is also more than I can say for the last ten days.
But you know what else? If I had come off of last week on top of game... if I had come off unaffected... THAT would be unnatural.
My emotions went the rounds on Saturday ALONE.
Now I'm detoxing.
Detoxing, detoxing, relaxing, breathing.
Months ago, Scabs issued a challenge to capture our version of Insanity. I read her post about it. I read her challenge. But it didn't click with me. I couldn't pin-point my Insanity.
But two days ago, I stood over a sink of hot, soapy water and watched the sun set.
My husband and I are in the process of researching and preparing to buy a house. One possibility came our way, and I couldn't. I couldn't. Could not go with it. My husband wanted to know why, and I had to admit: there was no window over the sink, and I can't work with that. I live in the kitchen, bro. My best crazy cowgirl poems are written while bread is baked and my mind wanders the open hills over my kitchen sink. I gotta have my space. I can live happily in a small house -so long as there's a big, fat window over the sink.
Did you know I earned $600 once? It's a pretty big deal, actually. In three months, I made $600 by babysitting, crocheting, making sock monkeys, and teaching piano lessons. I wanted to whisk my husband away for his 30th birthday. So I pushed myself to the absolute limit AND beyond to make that money. At the time I was also playing piano part-time for the high school choirs. And I was teaching preschool from home. And I was working in the Young Women program in our ward.
And I loved it. I loved DOING all of that because everywhere I turned, there was validation. There were women who thought I did it all and who told me so. They praised me. They were so impressed. They wished they were like me. They loved my crafts, my aprons, my vintage hot pads, my homey sock monkeys... I loved telling everyone ALL about it. I'd sigh, "Oh, I've been up since 5 am... so much to do. I've got this and this and THIS and after that I've got to change and head over to x then y and I can't leave out z..." "Oh, you're so amazing," was always the reply. "I don't know how you do it." They would say.
Until one day. I have about 8 aunts that are among the most amazing women in the world. One of them is a great example of time management and emotional stability. She came over to drop her son off for preschool. I gave her my tired schpeel. "I've been up since 5. I got the kids out of bed, went to the school to play the piano and I made it home just in time... right after I'm done here I've got to finish up two craft orders and I have three piano lessons this afternoon." And then she said something that changed my life a little.
"Why?"
Is it any coincidence that while I was doing it "all" my husband was in the THICK of his addiction? Yeah... my rock bottom came just weeks after I earned that $600.
That one word has stuck with me for nearly three years now: WHY. I finally have an answer. It came to me over a beautiful Arizona sunset and sink full of hot, soapy water.CONTROL. And then something clicked in my brain and I realized my Insanity. Readers, forgive me, for I have not read any other Insanity posts. So if my Insanity resembles your Insanity, I'm not deliberately ripping you off... but I wouldn't be surprised if some of our Insanities were twinners, sister wives, soul sistah, Gossip girls...
In any case. Here:
via ehow.com
My Insanity is calm.
She sits in a clean house.She paints her nails beige and her lips nude.She baking bread for the neighbors.Nothing from a box for my Insanity.Everything in it’s proper place.Everything labeled.Everything trendy.Her clipboard is always on hand.She has the answers.She needs no help.Schedules, routines, control.
Control.
My Insanity is a pill.
She goes down easy.Habits are like that.I absorb
her, she makes me brave.I answer all
the questions.I serve all the people. I dominate the conversation.
Control.
My Insanity fills me with regret.
She records my shame on her clip board.What I should have said.What I should have done.What I lack.What I need.Why I’m not
enough.Shame.Fear. Rinse. Repeat.She hold the control in the palm of her
beautifully slender fingers.
Control.
My Insanity is Control.
My Sanity is loud.
She never sits.She
dances, lounges, bounces, walks, lies… She paints her nails mustard
yellow.They clash with her guitar
frets.Her lips are always plastered in
glittered lip gloss, flavorful and delicious.She bakes bread or she buys bread.She eats bread.Everything
in a place, though seldom proper.No
labels to confine.The closet sags with
thrift store finds, Grandpa’s old family dairy bottles and great-grandmother’s
doilies adorn her home.She knows
nothing.She asks for help.She offers help.Live daily, let go, surrender.
Surrender.
My Sanity is a balm.
I apply her when discomfort arises, she rolls on smoothly.Healers are like that.My soul absorbs her, she makes me
confident.I ask all the questions.I serve a Greater Purpose.The tension in my gut that builds during
conversation slowly relaxes.
Surrender.
My Sanity fills me with serenity.
She records my unfiltered thoughts in a myriad of
journals.What I feel.What I think.What I fear.What I wonder.What I am.Honesty, poetry, song lyrics, movie quotes.Her farm girl fingers cramp up… She drops her
favorite pen and allows her hands to rest.
Last night, I broke a boundary I had put in place for my On My Own week (in the which I belt Les Mis at the top of my lungs while I vacuum. and shower. and curl my hair).
I talked to my husband.
Okay, before you sarcastically gasp and fan your face let me just say: I accidentally skyped him for over 2 hours. TWO HOURS! FACE TIME! We laughed a lot, and we talked a lot, and we laughed some more.
I got to bed around one in the mornin.
So I slept in.
YESTERDAY:
Yesterday I woke up early (on my own, per theme) and I did an hour of healing yoga:
It felt amazing (I streamed it from my Amazon Prime account -for free!) and after I was done, I logged onto youtube and streamed Music and the Spoken Word episodes (did you know they had those on youtube? Awesome) while I studied my scriptures for over thirty minutes.
As the day wore on, I pulled out my sheet music and played The Hush Sound:
I took a bath. I even shaved my legs because I wanted shaven legs and not because I looked at the calendar and realized that it was "time" for "shaved" "legs."
You know what I mean...
I pulled out the guitar and I taught the kids how good it feels to sing, "Hey Jude" at the top of their little lungs.
We shook our booties to our dancing game. We ate grilled cheese for dinner which might have been boring had I not cut and stacked the sandwiches *just so* and pronounced dinner not JUST Grilled Cheese, but The Tower of Sandwiches!
I pull out my best Circus Ringleader voice for special occasions (like last night, when I'm too lazy to crack open a CAN of tomato soup and would rather the kids be happy with just cheese and bread, buttered and fried).
It was a great day.
We ended it by Skyping with Dad, and when the kids were done talking (read: making faces and noises), I hopped on to tell him one quick, funny story about our oldest.
Two and a half hours later, I logged off.
I slept in because I got to bed late. I did yoga this morning with a crying baby in the background (not exactly a healing experience...) and I also woke up with PMS, a swollen sore on the inside of my bottom lip that I can't seem to NOT bite repeatedly, and a missing cat.
And I'm like.
ugh.
I keep wanting to text my husband.
"Pics are paid for, so no worries."
"Can't find Spatsy the Catsy. Hope he turns up."
"My pants don't fit today..."
"I started buying us tickets to a Jimmy Eat World concert and then realized we have a baby and can't go."
"I read the book of Enos this morning, and I'm pretty sure it was written in 2013. Just sayin."
My son has been on the verge of tears all day.
My daughter is LOVING it, as older siblings tend to do...
My baby is darling. when she's being held.
Overall, it's still been a good day. But WHY why why do I break boundaries? Why do I do that? I threw off my groove!
Trying to get it back has been a struggle.
I just needed someone to talk to about it -someone who understood WHY he's gone and WHY I can't just call him and talk it all out.
Tonight I will work on my recovery stuff On My Own. I'll get to bed earlier. Tomorrow I'll wake up earlier and fit in my yoga and MoTab.
And after a morning of playing Indians with a gaggle of pint-sizers, I have a counseling appointment.
In the meantime, do you know if you can take Midol while nursing?
(I jest.)
(kinda.)
So remember that time I took a break from my blog? It turns out the Lord had other plans for me. As I embarked on my recovery work tonight, I felt an all-too-familiar tingle in my hands... an itch to let my fingers write the truth my heart knows but my brain does not. The Lord has given me the gift of expression through the written word, passed to me from my grandmother. I may never be a published author -that does not matter. What does matter is that when I feel the tingle, I write. Tonight, I know I will not rest until I've written. Writing is how I learn, express, feel, teach, and live. I live by words, thrive on them, compose with them, dwell on them, and apparently can't break up with them -even for a week.
"I don't know how to quit you."
nor do I want to.
"Ugh," my daughter presses the pencil's eraser onto her homework and rubs her frustration out on a misshapen letter 'n', "Why am I so dumb?"
Such a small phrase, uttered so many times by her mother.
But hearing it come from her lips, her tiny, precious, perfect lips... was heartbreaking. I immediately reach out to her.
"You're awesome. You're the best. You're so smart, and I love you. I made you and I would never make anything dumb," I say.
"Okay," her cheeks flush. She doesn't doesn't really understand why Mom is being so serious.
I think of my sponsor's challenge issued recently to stop using language that undermines ME.
I think of Martha, of Mary and Martha (and Lazarus, while we're at it).
The Lord has prodded me to study Martha. He has done this in the past.
"Yes," I say to Him, "I know, I get it. I'm Martha. I'm Martha, period. Careful, encumbered about... busy, busy, busy, too busy to sit at the Lord's feet... but I'll study it again."
I turn to the passage in Luke and read the words I know so well.
"The Better Part."
Mary chooses it. Martha does not. tsk, tsk, and shame-I-know-your-name.
But the Lord prompts me again -read more, read more about Martha.
I flip to the book of John, and I read about Martha. Jesus loved Martha. Martha went out to meet Him. She speaks freely to Him. She tells Him, "If you had been here, my brother had not died. But you're here now, and I know you can do anything."
Jesus weeps.
The account of Martha in Luke is NOT the period to the end of Martha's sentence.
One experience does not a Martha make. There's no such thing as "Martha, period."
I'm not "a" Martha. In fact, there's no such thing as "a Martha."
Martha is like unto me -a sister, loved by Jesus and our Heavenly Father. We're busy, Martha and I, we're worried, we have on occasion put our busyness ahead of sitting at the Lord's feet, but we've received the Lord in our homes, we've gone out to meet him when all seemed lost.
It took courage.
Martha and I -we understand one another.
{ I PLEAD with you at this point to not read any farther until you have clicked HERE and read this small passage.}
And, Lord, I am sorry for speaking down to your daughter for so many years. For a brief moment over a misshapen letter N, I saw me as you see me.
I am not what I believe I am. I am a sacred creation, valiant, brave, beautiful in the ways of the heavens, unique, vibrant, soft and hard at the same time, powerless and empowered, wise and clueless, helpless but capable.
I am YOURS.
You made me, and today you took my chin in your hand, stretched forth Thy hand and held Thy creation. You tilted my eyes up to meet Yours as You spoke the truth that went straight to my hardened, soft soul.
"I would never make anything dumb."
One experience does not a mortal make.
A culmination of choices, trials, afflictions, and consequences does a masterpiece make.
Just now. We hugged and kissed and I held my tears in until he drove off and wiped all traces of them away before facing the kids. Like a champ.
The hydraulic gauge on the screen broke.
My daughter's bike tire went flat.
The same daughter is running a temp and has a fever.
Got an early morning call from the Dr. who let me know I have some baby-related leftovers still running amok in my baby-growing parts.
My husband took our family car because our other "car" isn't fit for driving on highways...
"And that's just today!" said the mother, with all the brightness sarcasm could muster.
Alright, so I'm not exactly moving forward with a perfect brightness of hope. Because really? It sorta sucks. He has left for a week at a time before, but it's always been because of work. Now he's taken time off work and left for a week because of THIS. And I hates it. We hates it. I think even our kittens are uncomfortable with the whole situation.
My emotions are 100% on the surface. I cried a lot during conference (good cries). I cried a total of three times when I watched Les Miserables. I had some sort of weird run-in with what can only be described as trauma (apparently I have some trauma leftovers in my pornography-recovery-brain parts).
It all started when my husband took me gently in his arms and gently, softly, tenderly kissed my forehead. I burst into tears and cried so hard I couldn't talk.
Not like me. And also: what the heck?
I also cried the next morning.
My codependency has been flaring up something fierce... and I need to be physically removed from my husband right now.
The kids think it's going to be one big, fat sleepover in the living room. And they're right.
I'm also secretly grateful that my oldest is running a fever. I want her home today. I want us all together.
And so I'm logging off. This is me tipping my hat to ya and yours.
I'll be spending this week with my kids, with myself, with the Lord and with Step 6.
and a windstorm. I hope he drives safe. What if he doesn't? What if he wrecks? What if he DIES? What if I have to spend the rest of my life with a broken screen and flat bike tires and the GUILT that will come knowing it was ME who sent him away -out into the windstorm and his untimely death?!?!?!
*inhale*
Say it with me:
Even if this happens, I know I will be all right because the Lord will always stand by me and sustain me.
I've asked him to leave for a week -not a punishment, not as a trial separation, not as anything except I prayed about how to handle and deal with my present state of life, and the answer I got was: it's time. It's time to spend some time apart.
I fought it at first, but I've learned the hard way just how devastating it is to ignore the Spirit.
He took a week off of work, and off he's going. What will he be doing exactly? I haven't the foggiest. And I'm okay with that. I feel the Spirit telling me to back off from him.
"I only want to know when you slip," I said to him two days ago, "That's all. If you feel prompted to tell me more, go for it. If not, I think it's time for me to take a giant step back."
I expected him to rage a little, push back, fight it... but he said, "I agree."
And that's that. for today.
His recent disclosures have revealed some more work that I need to do. I thought I had certain issues sort of "checked off" and now I realize they're plaguing me as much as ever. And my codependency is so much a part of me that changing it is a big process. I need some space.
For starters, I'm fixing the lights in my cars. I backed my jeep into my truck and broke one headlight and one taillight. My husband hopped online and bought new ones, and he was texting me...
"I found a taillight for $25 -sweet!"
and it suddenly hit me. What in the frack was going on?! I hit the truck! I broke the lights! I should be the one fixing what I messed up! So I texted him back, "Thanks for finding that -I should be the one to do it."
They came in the mail yesterday, and today. I'm putting them in.
Thank goodness my Dad is a mechanic. I'm going to go to the shop while I do it -that way if I start to mess up or have questions, I can go to a mechanic for answers -not my husband.
My grandma has a solid oak table she picked up at a second-hand store. My current kitchen table is aching for the dump, and so I'm working side-by-side with grandma to strip the table of stain and paint. I'm going to sand and stain and all that jazz -a great project while my husband is gone.
My grandmother is probably the least codependent person in the world. I think I can learn a lot from her, staining and otherwise.
I'm taking organ lesson from Grandpa, every Tuesday night for an hour I sit at his organ and he sits on the couch and I play and he sits there silently, injecting a quiet, "try the piano stop on the upper" or a "try that again but with your right hand on the lower." And just when I start to think he's sitting on the couch silently cringing and hating every slow, drawn-out song I'm playing, he says, "You've got a nice touch -real nice touch."
I'm secretly aspiring to be the ward organist someday. Grandpa can't be there EVERY Sunday. The man has to be allowed to get sick (though he never does).
I will find time to dance with the kids, and I will find time to encourage them to face their fears as well.
My week apart from my husband will be a week of empowerment -a week of pioneering it, fixing it, parenting it, doing it my own way. And I'm going to take a week "off" from the Internet -at least, certain and most parts of it.
I will still host the online meeting on Tuesday.
I will still use my email.
I will not be facebooking or blogging here. I will remove the facebook app from my phone (I only put it on my phone at the end of my pregnancy).
And my prayer is simply this, "I've only got a week -work in me during that week. Let it not be for naught."
There's a question I've been wrestling with for the past few days...
It has to do with God's love, and it also has to do with my low self-worth. Any issue I've had lately has stemmed from that. My beloved sponsor tells me that we all have weeds that need to be plucked, and as I read those words (emailed lovingly to me), I could see weeds in my mind's eye. Having grown up farming, I'm no stranger to weeds.
But what sort of plant am I?
And suddenly my mind's eye took hold of me, and I saw the small, flaky, almost snow-like seeds that drift into my yard every spring. My neighbor has a Chinese Elm Tree.
It's solid and all. I bet SHE loves it. It's probably the most fertile tree in town. Seeds fall from her tree into my yard, and it makes me want to take a blow torch to my lawn.
Because I KNOW.
I KNOW what happens to those seemingly innocent flaky little seeds. They take root. They don't take much to thrive on. I mean: I live in an arid dessert, for crying out loud. The fact that I can get half a garden to grow is something of a modern-day miracle.
But those seeds? They don't need any focused attention... they only need to be in the background and they only need to be ignored.
If I don't deal with them, they spring up, take root, and then proceed to HAUNT me. I have baby Chinese Elm trees all over my yard. They're slowly eating away at the plants I actually LIKE. I wet the elm trees down, soak them overnight and intend to pull them out.
But I never do.
Or I try to and it never works.
Oh, how I HATE those blasted WEEDS. That's what they are. Just because they're actually TREES to someone else doesn't mean they're trees to me. They're weeds to me, and they are UNHOLY.
And there they were: in my mind's eye (as if hanging out and destroying my yard wasn't enough).
They're growing so close to me -so intertwined with me. They have the potential to CHOKE me out if I leave them alone. If I leave them in the background and simply ignore them, they will take over.
But I'm in the process of soaking them. I've rented a Heavenly Back-Hoe (it was free. sweet deal) and I'm working HARD on getting rid of them.
When the seeds to my weeds fell, I was very young. I was very, very young. So the Chinese Elms have grown up with me.
GETTING RID OF THEM MAKES ME FEEL VULERNABLE.
I want them gone, but I'm feeling naked without them. I'm feeling shaky. I'm nervous and scared in some ways and ready and willing in other ways.
I feel like a naked, brave baby.
No really. I do.
And I have to say that as I see those bloody elms (ARG!) in my mind's eye, I see myself as a little child, caught in the middle of them.
I was a really cute little girl...
Can I just tell you a story? Just real quick?
When I was six months old, a man (who my mom swears was a model of some kind) was standing behind my mom in the grocery check-out line. He told my mother I had the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, and then he insisted that I pick out some candy for myself.
I was six months old. But apparently even THEN I had an eye single to the glory of chocolate.
My chubby little fingers landed on a pack of Rolos. The man purchased them for me, and my Mom viewed that candy bar exactly like a Blue Ribbon from the county fair.
"Look what I did!"
She put me in the back of her car on a blanket, and drove home while I made a gigantic chocolate mess.
Guys.
I was a darling baby.
And the answer to my question that I've been struggling with lies there-in, caught up in the middle of weeds and elms and a face full of melted caramel: babies.
Q: How is it that God can love me JUST as much as he loves my sister (who is, by all accounts, Alicia version 5.9million) and the drug dealer on Main Street and Humphrey Bogart and Hitler and Princess Di?
(I asked my husband this, and he started to give an answer and suddenly stopped himself and said instead: "How are you feeling about this?" Apparently, someone has been reading recovery materials, haha.)
And my answer? Babies.
We are all babies to the Lord. We're all darling and standing in the check-out line at the grocery store. And the Lord is looking on us and saying, "Awwwwww... that is the prettiest person I've ever seen."
The Lord sees through all the weeds to the original plant, the original core!
He created Babies, and He loves His Babies.
And Humphrey Bogart is my brother which thing I never had supposed.
I never could wrap my brain around this concept, see, because I didn't believe I was worthy of that much love. I still don't fully grasp that concept. I know it, but I don't FEEL it. You know?
So when a gorgeous woman sits in front of my husband, I'd love to see her as a baby instead of being plunged down into Traumaland.
THIS is my question for General Conference. THIS is what my heart is open to learning of: Love.
We spent the weekend with my inlaws and all of my husband's siblings. I was even able to squeeze in a Saturday lunch with Scabs.
Sunday morning, I ate candy, made orange rolls for breakfast, and went to church. It was going to be a great meeting: my inlaws were scheduled to speak in church, and I was looking forward to hearing the hymns, taking the Sacrament...
I sat down in the combined Relief Society/Priesthood meeting and felt a little out of place. I haven't been to Relief Society in years because of my callings in Young Women and Primary. The lesson was on finances and debt and all that jazz. A hymn was sung, a prayer was said, a teacher got up and started speaking, and then a gorgeous woman came in late and sat down directly in front of my husband.
Which was fine, I told myself.
I was paying attention to the lesson on ... she was wearing the most beautiful clothes. Surely, my husband noticed.
It doesn't matter.
Listen. Listen to the lesson. Listen to the input from the class.
She's kissing her husband... they seem so happy.
It doesn't MATTER.
I close my eyes and I pray. I open my eyes.
Listen. Listen to the lesson.
I could never fit into her clothes in a million years. I'm farm stock. I married a city boy. He likes small women, and he married a Pioneer Woman.
It doesn't matter.
She's a daughter of God. I'm a daughter of God.
This is madness.
Triggers are stupid madness.
I pray, I pray, I pray.
I try to surrender.
The closing hymn can't come soon enough.
Who cares about debt anyway?
Once home, I walk into the room we're staying in and I lie down on the bed. I'm tired. I'd been fighting triggers ALL weekend.
Maybe my working the 12-steps harder makes Satan work on ME harder? I don't know. But by the time the weekend was coming to a close, I was worn out.
I'd spent most of the weekend praying my brains out.
My father-in-law getting after my kids sets me off. I pray.
The drive down, fear and anxiety take over. For the first time since I was pregnant with my first born, I have an anxiety attack. I pray, pray, pray and I text my sponsor.
My husband is snapping at me, and I ask him to just talk about whatever is bothering him to get it off his chest.
He does. I irritated him when I dotdotdot, and the list ends up being longer than he or I anticipated.
I haven't talked to my husband about any of my Step 4 realizations because we haven't had time to connect with each other. When we get away to do some Easter Bunny shopping, I tell him about the root of my low self-worth. He expounds a very little on how he's noticed thisorthat and how he's relieved to see that I'll be taking steps toward change.
And the beautiful woman sitting in front of me? I was a battered boxer by the time that trigger hit -swaying, bloodied, sweating, but STANDING.
I wasn't about to drop. So I prayed and let go, prayed and let go...
On the drive home from church, my husband talked about the importance of attending all three blocks.
What? Only months ago, my Bishop expressed his concern that my husband wasn't attending all three blocks...
The day before, my mother in law told me how impressed she was that we didn't allow our kids to be exposed to Black Opps II.
"My son just told me that game isn't allowed in your home."
What? Only last WEEK, we got into a fight over that specific game being played in front of our children. Me against, he for.
What? What?
Prayer, prayer, giving away, letting go...
And yeah. I was tired by the time church was over.
My husband lied down next to me, taking me in him arms, asking what was wrong.
"I'm tired," I said.
"Tell me the truth..." he prodded.
"It is the truth," I said.
He prodded more, and I told him I was struggling with a lot of emotions stemming from recovery, that was seriously just TIRED.
He pulled out hi scriptures and read a few things to me, told me a few stories from his mission, and he ended up by saying, "We we just do what the Savior wants, everything will be okay."
We talked about the One Woman in his ward that always steers the Sunday School conversation away from the core truths of the gospel and into strange deep territory where we all discuss the effects of music on brain cells or methods of baptism in the Catholic church.
He suggests that I pray to not have hard feelings toward her BEFORE I walk through the church doors.
"When you're feeling feelings like that," he said, "You can't feel the spirit."
He gives more examples.
I listen. At least, I MEANT to listen. I think I did...
And when he stopped talking, I just said:
I do want to do what the Savior wants me to do. I would love more than anything to just sit and listen to the Relief Society lessons, to just listen and feel the Spirit. But how was I supposed to know that a beautiful woman would sit in front of us and set off emotions inside of me? I didn't WANT the emotions set off. I didn't want to have to focus on giving emotions away and praying and letting go. I just wanted to listen and feel the Spirit of the lesson. But I had to focus on using tools to give away, let go, and not let a trigger take over the day. And I'd much rather just not notice a beautiful woman, not wonder if you're looking, not care that she's easily 4 sizes smaller than I am... to just SEE a daughter of God, a sister, and immediate love for her instead of immediate, unintended animosity toward her. I'm TIRED of this. I'm SICK of learning this lesson and I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE. At least I don't right now. So when I say I'm TIRED, I'm being serious. I'm tired.
Immediately, he pulled my head into his shoulder.
"I understand that," he said, "I understand being tired and not wanting to feel the way you do and constantly fighting. I understand. I'm sorry you're feeling this way right now."
"I'm fine," I said, "I just want to rest for a while and I'll come and join the family."
"Did I help?" He asked as he got up and went to join his family.
"It isn't your job to help," I said.
"But did I?"
"When you told me you were sorry and told me you understood, that helped," I said.
"Oh... "
The scriptures, the stories... they didn't help.
I don't want to be fixed by him. I don't want answers from him. Is this how he felt when I was doing the same thing to him?
Babe, read this!
Try this!
Pray for this!
I feel so much like a child. My daughter is THE most independent creature on God's Green Earth, and she knows best. She's constantly under my feet... "helping."
She knows that if I just did it her way, tried things the way she thinks they should be done... they would be BETTER.
Her intentions are so good, and I don't want to discourage her, but when I have a mission -a job to do -I need her OUT from under my feet so I can just get it done.
How many years has the Lord regarded me thus?
You're intentions are honorable, Alicia, but please, please, please move out of the way. I'm trying to work. My ways are higher than your ways. Trust me.
I'm moving out of the way, Lord.
I'm not suggesting scriptures, I'm not out to save anyone or anything.
I don't know what my husband needs. I don't know how to fix him.
All I know is I can't make it through one weekend without constant prayer. The 12-steps aren't actually STEPS. They're a slide. A tunnel slide. And I'm climbing UP that slide.
Sliding back, hiking up, dodging all of the triggers sliding down under me with their hands gleefully in the air.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
And I'm clawing, grasping, grunting, sliding back, finding my footing again... grumbling over the triggers, my gaze alternates between heaven and earth.
On the drive home, I find that I don't have much to say. I'm not trying to manipulate my husband in a round-about way into talking about his addiction or struggles. I'm not trying to finagle a confession or denial.
He makes a comment about his Twitter account.
The one he told me he was going to deactivate.
"Do you still have it then?" I ask.
He hardly ever checks it. He only gets in and right back out.
And I pray, and surrender, and let go, and pray, and pray, and pray...
I won't try to fix him. I won't try to fix anybody but myself.
Instead, I think about my patriarchal blessing. It tells me I was valiant in my premortal life.
Valiant? I know what it means. But do I really? I ask my husband what it means to him. He doesn't know exactly. I use my smart phone to look it up.
Boldly courageous, brave, stout-hearted.
Everything I always WISHED I was. I briefly wonder if I got the wrong blessing.
But no. It couldn't be.
I am valiant.
I am brave and stout-hearted, and boldly courageous.
And this will be my focus today. To uncover that quality in my mortal tabernacle.
Do they make 5-hour energy for the SOUL? Because mine needs a serious boost right about now.
