Anniversaries

(dating tip for the Single Girl, 1938)

My husband doesn't forget anniversaries.

He remembers the day we became an official couple, the day we said "I love you," the day we became engaged... he remembers that on the way to meet his family, we stopped at a gas station and bought a huge bag of Reeses Pieces which I consumed out of nervousness (I'd never met anyone's parents I didn't already know).  He remembers the overalls I wore the night we stayed up talking until 4 am.  He remembers the sweats I was wearing the day we met for the first time. 

I woke up this morning and didn't realize that today is one of the lesser anniversaries -the kind other people forget but my husband does not. It wasn't until I glanced at my phone in my half-awake stupor and saw the date that it hit me.  I texted my husband a quick, "Happy Anniversary.  Love you."  And on his insistence, I secured a sitter and we spent 2 full hours alone tonight.  Well, alone plus the people at Sonic and Wal-Mart.

We talked.
We talked about what we would tell ourselves nine years ago (when we were dating), but when my husband said something about "I'd tell myself to get a handle on this whole porn thing" something just... flipped inside of me.  I didn't want to talk about This Whole Porn Thing.
I wanted porn to take a backseat (for lack of better phraseology).

We ate ice cream and talked about buffalo hunting, buffalo sighting, bucket lists, putting "see a real live buffalo" on our bucket list.
We talked about Santa, and we both learned that each of us figured out the whole "Santa" thing when we'd asked for toys that weren't sold in stores (he wanted a flying suit.  I wanted a four foot treasure troll).  When we were denied, we KNEW. 
I didn't know that about my husband.  I didn't know he was as smart as me.
(That's a little joke, just in case you don't know me well enough by now).

We talked about weeping willow trees and I learned that he hates them.  He learned that they're my favorite of All The Trees (we're not sure how to reconcile this yet.  I won't even get started on our opposing Sour Cream views, bloody World War III).

We talked about daisies dyed to look patriotic.  I told them I couldn't stand dyed flowers because they just... they're the hookers of the floral section, okay? all painted up unnatural waiting for someone to take them home...
He bought me white daisies.  My second favorite flower.

Porn has infected our relationship, and I can't always NOT talk about it.  I can't always put porn in the backseat (which, incidentally, is it's favorite spot).  Sometimes when we're alone, I spew porn education, quotes, data, scriptures, information... and if he asks me to please stop, it's like putting a kink in a hose (oh my gosh, I'm on a freakin ROLL with the awful phrasing tonight).
 Eventually it all spews out and attacks anyone and everyone standing nearby.

And should my husband have wanted to talk about porn, we would have.  But it turns out, we really DO have so much more to talk about.
Did you know it's illegal to own a skunk as a pet in at least 15 states?
There's a dead skunk nearby... it's roadkill and it's so gross.  The Arizona sun is making it stink to high hell.
 As I drove my son's friend home today, I said, "Oh, poor skunk... it went to Heaven."
"Heaven?" the little boy asked.
"Yeah."
"Why?" Kids love that word, bless their little hearts.
"It got hit by a car."
"My mom didn't hit it," he said, defensively.
"I don't think she did," I said, "It probably happened last night.  Skunks usually only come out at night."
"It went to Heaven at night?" He asked.
"I think so."
"Hmmm... the only place I go at night is Mee-Maw's house."

Okay, it made me laugh so hard I had to bite my cheek.

And that's what we talked about tonight.
Happy Smaller Anniversary to us.  Happy unhookery daisies on the table. 
Happy glimpses of hope.
Happy.

Message from Heaven

At Camp Scabs, Yoga Amber read this quote to us as we were all stretched out in final relaxation:

 

I knew I'd heard it before, but as I listened to it in my relaxed, aware state it became very empowering.  The next Tuesday, I attended Enrichment and the subject was "Who I am is a Gift from God."  Everything discussed went right along with this quote so well that I shared it at the end.  I'm sure the ladies had heard it before, but you can almost never hear it enough.

In church on Sunday, the Relief Society teacher shared this quote.

And then my sponsor, unaware of my seeing this quote and hearing at so many turns, emailed it to me.

I started seeing the quote as less of "ooh, neat" and more of "SOMEone really wants Alicia to hear this."

Two nights ago, I crawled into bed.  I checked facebook one last time before nodding off and found this quote yet again.

One of my husband's old mission companions posted it on his wall.  I read it over again, this time realizing that Heavenly Father REALLY wants me to hear it, listen to it, take it to heart, internalize it.

He's beating me over the head with it because that's what I need before I'll take a hint.

He knows that.

As I read it over, tears of gratitude and love washed over me.

Yet again, I looked Heavenward and spoke from my Heartvoice, "Me?  You have time for Me?"

So humbling.

So touching, rewarding, undeserving, profound and absolutely lovely.

The Truth

via chadgracia.com

Benjamin Franklin devoted his life to searching out truth.  As a youth, he devoured literature, spending what little money he had on books.
I wonder what he'd do with the Internet at his fingertips?  I don't imagine he'd ever leave his house!

Ours is The Age of Information!  His?  The Age of Common Sense (not officially, I just made that up.  But it feels official, doesn't it?).  Instead of feeling like I don't have to work as hard to find truth, I feel exactly the opposite.

Information does not equal truth.
Ben Franklin didn't have enough information.  I have entirely too much.

Alicia is devoting her life to searching out truth as rigorously as did Uncle Ben (not to brag, but we are distantly related through a sister) (okay, I'm totally bragging).

Ben Franklin had to man handle truth out of the world.  Like the farmer in the desert, he had to pull truth from the earth with sweat and muscle.

Alicia has to weed truth out of the world.  Like a sleek scientist in the lab, I have to dissect truth from sources with patience and prayer.

In coming to Know Myself(!) I've come to know that chaos does not become me.  While facebook is buzzing with articles about Mothers on iPhones and articles defending Mothers on iPhones, articles about modesty, articles about modesty from another angle, and something about wearing pants to church...

I'm shutting my laptop.  I don't care if people wear pants to church.  I don't care if moms are on iphones or  playground swings or couches or drugs. I have no control over those situations. The articles were swarming with "shares" and "likes" and "comments."  And the Spirit would softly prompt, "This is not for you."
And I would walk away.  I never read any of those articles, but the modesty articles about swimwear peaked my interest for obvious reasons.  I started to read, I started to study.  I donned my lab coat and worked overtime, dissecting, searching, combing, thinking...
And the more comments I read, the more crazy I started to feel.  The tornado of information and opinions began to swirl around me, the velocity of it's pulling force was more than I could handle.
I was overcome with that age old feeling of "out of control." 

I recognize it so well.  In the past, I welcomed it, accepted the thought tornado as truth and reveled in the storm, however fleeting.
Now I calm the crazy, step away from the situation, halt behaviors, and pray.
Still the nagging question hung on in the back of my mind, "What was the truth?  Was Jessica Rey right?  Were the other sites right?  Where was the truth?"
In prayer, I found My Truth, My Answer.

Fear and Love.

I knew it was right because it was so simple and profound.  It wasn't covered in words, draped in flowery language or examples or backed up scientific data.  What's more: it's my truth not only for modesty, but for life eternal.
The truth I have found has changed my perspective and my life.  I can feel it changing my heart as well.
The truth is simply:

Anything done out of love is right.  Anything done out of fear is not.

If I dress modestly because I'm afraid of what others will think of me -whether because I'm afraid people will lust or the Matronly Mother of the ward will reject me if I don't... then it isn't right.

If I dress modestly because I love myself, because I love others, and because the Lord loves me and I love Him... it IS right.
The same is true of immodesty.  If I dress immodestly because I fear rejection from men, it isn't right... and so on.

This broad truth spans every facet of my life.  I find myself questioning my choices, which I've come to know have primarily been fear-based.

Am I cleaning the house because I'm afraid of my husband's temper?
Am I having sex because I'm afraid of his bad mood?
Am I serving because I'm afraid people will think I'm selfish if I don't?
Am I working out because I'm afraid of not being enough?

Or

Am I cleaning the house because I love the feeling of peace that stems from order?
Am I having sex because I love my husband intimately?
Am I serving because I love the Lord?
Am I taking care of my body because I love it?

Truth, for me, can be boiled and dissected down to the absolute core.  Once the opinions, words, and information have been pulled away, the truth reveals itself and peace ensues.
Truth is always simple.
Truth is always plain.
Truth is always constant.

Truth for Benjamin Franklin was love, courage, faith...
and so it is for Alicia.
It's a mortal experience to uncover it, from Adam on down to Alicia.

And I'm not surprised in the least that this truth, along with all other truths, takes it root from Love and spits out Fear.
If I could leave one truth to my children, that would be it.

Are you acting out of Fear? or Are you acting out of Love?

Peace

Sitting on a borrowed yoga mat, preparing to leave Camp Scabs, my eyes were closed as I listened to Yoga Amber.
She was telling us to think of a word.
"It could be love, it could be joy..." she prompted.

Because I am a devout lover of words, I quieted my mind and let the word find ME.

Peace.

Peace, I leave with you.  Peace I give unto you.
Prince of Peace.
Peace on Earth.

Since returning home, I've been on a journey to find peace.  My home is not a peaceful place.  Growing up, my home was never a peaceful place. 

I want to be delivered.  I want to escape. 
But I also want this marriage, this home, this Man. 

What if I'm the only one in my house concerned about peace?  How does that work?
I read 2 Peter Chapters 1 and 2 last night.  Chapter 1 was interesting.  Chapter 2 wanted to rip my heart out.  I physically ACHE for my husband.  When I look into his eyes and and see how heavy his soul is, when I listen to him talk, when I see tears form in the eyes of this wonderful Man, I ache. 
Reading Chapter 2, I cried.  I felt fear -I know this addiction could sever me from him for eternity, and I don't want that.  I love him.  I LOVE him.

I read verse 18:
 18 For when they ^aspeak great swelling words of ^bvanity, they ^callure through the ^dlusts of the flesh, through much wantonness, those that were clean ^eescaped from them who live in error.
 
"Those that were clean ESCAPED from them who live in error."
What does that mean?  Divorce?
No.  It means "boundaries." 

Boundaries are My Great Escape.  They are my deliverance.
Boundaries keep me from being a fix, an object, and trapped.  They give me the self-respect to walk away when I am on the receiving end of bottled up negative emotions my husband doesn't know how to handle. 

The Lord delivered Noah, Lot and Moses.  He led up Lehi out of Jerusalem. We know the women were given the choice of deliverance as well.

Why not, then, for me?
The Lord will provide a means, a choice, an escaped marriage.
The Lord's way is peace.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

We went to the city last week for a couple of Dr. appointments and some grocery shopping.  The day was strenuous, and I longed for the days when going to the city was something I looked forward to.

Those were the days when I walked out of my front door with nothing but my wallet and a date and didn't end up saying things like "we don't eat the gum under the tables."

After a long day of allergy testing for my husband and shot getting for our baby, we were tired.  My make-up had melted off in the Arizona sun.  My husband and I had spent the week prior in complete emotion disconnect that had mounted into a mountain of yuckiness.  I wasn't looking forward to our day in the city one bit.
He felt rejected.
I felt hopeless.
The kids felt depraved of generosity because we wouldn't buy them everything they wanted.

We stopped on the way home at the Wal-Mart nearest to our home to grab a few things, and as I stood in the check out line and managed three kids on my own (a pox on whoever thought it would be a gas to put toys and candy right at the eye level of the childrens)... I was totally focused on the task at hand.
"No."
"Don't touch."
"Don't run."
"If you put your fingers on that, they will get smashed."
"That's not ours."
"Can you put this up there for Mommy?... watch out for the eggs!"
"Scoot over, please."

And things were going pretty well.  My voice never raised.  The Childrens minded for the most part.
And then.
The baby DROPPED her favorite toy: a soft book that makes crinkle noises when you hug it.  She immediately began fussing, and I started to reach around the cart (I was on the end side of the cart, the baby faced away from me)...
and the person in line behind me picked it up before I could even make any headway. 
I met their eyes to thank them and was surprised to realize it was one of my friends!  She'd been standing there all along!  I quickly thanked her and apologized for not SEEING her there sooner.
"It's okay," she laughed, "I could see you were in The Grocery Zone and I didn't want to mess that up.  It's not easy going shopping on your own, and you were doing so awesome I didn't want to throw a wrench in it."

What a sweet, forgiving friend.

And I wonder: will they all be so forgiving when I snap out of The Recovery Zone?  I plan to always work recovery for the rest of my life, but right now it's a life line.  I'm honed in.  I'm focused.  So much of my time and energy goes into THIS.  Watching educational videos, reading, praying, learning, texting, meetings...
I'm discovering and learning so much!!!  I'm learning about me and life and love and Heavenly Father.  I'm learning and changing and growing!I'm adopting a new mantra, "If you've got it all together, you're doing it wrong."

Through it all, I pray that my friends and family, who I value so very dearly, will still be behind me AND still be willing to pick up my baby's dropped toys.  or my dropped toys.

I hope they know my heart.

I Relate

For so many years I would say, "I trust you" to my husband, but I didn't really.  I WANTED to trust him, and I felt like if I said it enough times it might actually appear.  Like Beetlejuice!

What I didn't realize was that I was just putting my head in the Lion's mouth.

Today, I'm proud to own my distrust.

I'm no longer a player in the circus.
I'm no longer performing.
The Porn Carnival must and will go on without my head in the lion's  mouth.

Running With Empty

I've had a lot of empty sex.

It's the worst. 
It takes on so many forms and tries to fool you into thinking vapid things matter.  But they don't.  And when all is said and done, the unholy emptiness of it all consumes you.
It's the worst.  Did I already say that?  Well it is.

As a kid, I was fascinated with media sex.  It was so hard to fast forward through the *bad* parts.  I was so curious and eager to know more.  There was mystery to it all.

Today?  I can't stand sex scenes, sultry scenes, or scenes that imply sultriness or sexiness.  And it isn't because my husband is addicted to porn.  It's because of Empty Sex.  Media sex IS empty sex.  Porn is empty sex.  Empty Sex reminds me that I've had so much of it, even the smallest dose is lethal to my sanity.

Empty Sex.
It's all black and empty and there's something sickening about the way it cannibalizes on itself.
It makes me feel worthless and hungry. 

My appetite for true love has been pushed past starvation.  It's blinking back at me with a bloated belly and sad eyes and saying, "For only three cents a day, you can save this poor starved inner child."
Somewhere between my childlike curiosity and my husband's addiction, I fed the wrong appetite.  I fed the lust and starved the love and in the end all I got was Empty.

"More sex," the books say, "If your marriage is feeling off, have more sex."
"It's your duty as the wife."
"LDS people are just too frigid.  More sex is the answer!"

More sex!
More sex!
More!
More!

Sex isn't the answer to anything.  At. All.

It isn't a need.  It isn't a cure.  It isn't the be-all-end-all.

And I'm angry because I don't even know what sex actually, really is.  To me, it's always been the answer to his bad day.  It's always been my way of desperately seeking connection.  It's always been an answer to something.
It was never the right answer, as I can tell you from bitter experience.  Instead of learning the hard way the first time, I thought somehow -someway -I could change the results by adding more.
More sex.

All I have to show is years and years of Empty. God forsaken. Sex.


I have the right to discover what it means to be truly loved for who -and not what -I am or am able to do or offer.
I have the right to uncover the truth about intimacy, about sex and lust and how trust somehow fits into it all so seamlessly.

I have the right to walk out of the Hell that fear and shame have created for me.


I have the right to leave Emptiness in Hell.

 

Overnighter

 

My husband just got home from an overnight work thing-y.

I enjoyed him being gone... not in the "good, he's GONE" kind of way, but in the "yay! less dishes!" kind of way.

I visited with my sisters-in-law and listened as they expounded on their inability to sleep if their husbands are gone, and then I went home at 10:15 pm and slept soundly... alone in my bed.

Years ago, it was a different story entirely.  When my husband worked graveyards, I was a mess.  I would call him constantly.

"Would you drive by and spotlight the house?"

"I think I heard something..."

"Where are you?"

I tried not to hassle him, so I would spend a lot of time tossing and turning with a pit of fear in my stomach.

All that time alone, at night, alone, with his smart phone...

Toss, turn, toss, turn.

Now I enjoy being alone, having the kids to myself, eating easy stuff for dinner, leaving messes out for longer, and watching whatever I want without having to compromise. 

Progress, right?  It felt like progress right up until the point when he came home and I felt like I was just waiting for the bomb to drop.
"I had a hard time."
"It was a rough night."

Nothing.  He said nothing about it.  I couldn't shake it.
Was he going to confess?  Was it in my future?  Was he too scared?  Should I just ask?
"No," my gut said, "Let it the heck go."
All day I shook it off, and we fell asleep next to each other in a half-stupor (kids make us tired).

This morning I finally said, "This is weird.  Okay?  This is just weird.  I feel like I'm waiting for you to come and disclose something after having stayed overnight somewhere."
"I've stayed places without problems before," he said.
"I know that... it's just... this is like a weird adjustment for me."
"Nothing happened," he chuckled.

Nothing happened.
It's true.  He's not lying.  And instead of me patting him on the back and giving him thumbs up, I'm standing off to the side and scratching my head.

This is weird.
What do I do with this reality?

 

Tangles

  

via retronaut.com

I don't know if you know this about me.
But.

I'm married to a porn addict.
AND
I have self-worth issues like maaaaad.  Put those two together and what do you have?  A tangled mess of a rat's nest. That's what.

Did you know I don't place much value on myself?  Please don't misinterpret this as a subtle plea for compliments or validation... I promise that's not my aim here, so keep reading with that in mind.

I just.
I don't understand my true worth.

It's bringing me to my Savior and to my knees, but I still don't understand it.  I'm working on understanding it.  I REALLY am. 

While growing up, I thought I had to meet certain physical standards to be loveable.  I didn't understand that I was lovable AS IS, with all of my quirks and talkativeness and thick glasses (yes) and bad haircuts and hand-me-downs.

My self-worth issues came to a gigantic head in High School (because High School is awesome like that) and I went through a crazy bout of depression in the which I consumed my body weight in Raisinettes.  I emerged from my chocolate cocoon completely transformed. 
I.
Quit.
Caring.

I would literally (and I'm using literally the way it's supposed to be used here) roll out of bed, throw on some clothes, grab my back pack and then walk to school.  No make-up.  No hair styled so-so.  No worries or cares if my legs were shaved or whatever.  During that time, I raked in friends like crazy.  I wasn't trying to or meaning to, but I was so comfortable with ME that other people were comfortable with me as well.
I don't know how to dress well at all, and I embraced that in High School.  I quit spending all of my money on one shirt at the mall, and started using my money to buy 5 shirts, 4 pants, a few skirts, and a pair of suspenders at the thrift store.  The shirts didn't go with the pants.  And nothing I bought matched my red bowling-type shoes or my pepto-pink back pack. Or my orange scarf.

The walls of my bedroom became an infinite collage of pictures, magazine articles, anything I ripped out of anything that made me feel positive emotion: it was My Beauty.
I sat on my shag orange rug with my guitar and wrote song about x boyfriends.  I wrote poetry.  I busted open my change jar and went to a rock concert four hours away on a school night and STILL made it to school the next day.  Ever paid for a concert ticket with quarters?  Classic.
I let go of my old way of thinking: that make up and clothes were where my beauty lied.  And as a 16 year old, I embraced ME. 
I moved out of my parent's home when I was 17. 
After I turned 18, I met my husband.  He was drawn to my confidence in myself.

But my low self worth wasn't gone.  Turns out, it was simply lying dormant under layers of my confidence.  When I married a porn addict, it broke through the surface of my confidence.
Everything I'd been and loved about myself?  Gone.  Swept away.  Forever.
For.
Eh.
Verrrrr.

At least, it felt that way. 
I worried so much about my hair, my face, my clothes.  My layers of confidence were sipped up at an alarming rate, but I couldn't see it, couldn't sense it... to me everything happening was simply all TRUTH.  My husband would let me know when I didn't match.  He took me and bought me an entire new wardrobe as a gift. 
I got so many compliments on it, and I felt GOOD. 

I slowly got rid of my thrift store collection. 

My definition of beauty and self-worth shifted back, back, back... back to the days of The Deep Depression.

I'm going through so many old emotions.  SO MANY.
When will I roll out of bed and be okay with that?  With simply BEING? 
When will I stop fussing over my clothes and feel utter confidence strutting out in my thrift store finds?  When will I find a spot of wall to call mine and cover it in absolutely ANYTHING that tells of My Idea of Beauty.
My Beauty.

I don't know. 
I'm a tangled mess right now.  And yes, Raisinettes are involved, so I know I'm on the right track. 
I don't know how to change.  But I know who DOES.  The Master of Change is the Master of Me and I lovingly call him Master.

My three older brothers used to pride themselves and their Boy Scout knot abilities when it came to untangling my necklace chains.
"It takes a true Boy Scout," they'd say, "To untangle Girl Scout tangles."

(har, har, guys.)

Do you think my Master is a true Boy Scout?  Can he untangle this mess? 

I'm scared to be my true self, afraid I will be rejected, afraid I will never completely stop apologizing for talking too much, afraid I will never see BEAUTY in ME.

Master,
Where is Thy Beauty that I may see mine?
THIS article has changed my life for the better.  Whether or not you are a mother, please read it.  It WILL change the way you talk to the women in your life, no matter their size or age.

Chunk and Step 5

Because it sorta feels that way.

We're the Same

  

via retronaut.com

When we were first married, I used to facetiously insist that my husband and I match and share everything.
"We have to be the same," I would say, "Because we're married."

It drove him crazy, and I loved it.  I would order what he'd order at restaurants.
"Because we're married," I'd whisper and wink seductively.
And he'd roll his eyes and laugh.
"You're weird."
"Yeah, and you married me... how do you feel now?"

Yesterday, I taught a piano lesson to a grandmother.  I love teaching her because she's so full of truth and she gets as worked up over my new table as I do.
"We all need that one person,"she said to me over the F scale, "That we can swear at in anger and they will still love us without judgement because they know our hearts."

She is so right.

That person, for me, is my Savior.
But how wonderful and glorious would it be if I had another person like that... and that person were my husband?  Provided the Savior is the FIRST person I go to for safety, the idea of having my spouse be another person I can swear at and still be received with love?  The idea seems ethereal.

When my husband came home from work, I confessed to him that I was afraid to make mistakes in front of him.
"I know I have a temper... I'll try harder to..."
But I cut him off there.  That wasn't what I was driving at. 
"The thing is," I said, "I don't think you're comfortable making mistakes around me either... I think we both feel like the other will judge our actions."
And he nodded.
And then we had a moment... the kind of moment Nicholas Sparks DOESN'T expound on.  The "hey, we both suck at marriage and we suck TOGETHER" kind of moment.

Okay, so we don't suck at marriage totally... but you understand what I'm saying.  It was special.  A Dear Diary kind of thing.  Or Dear Bloggery.  Whatever.

I took his face in my hands, looked into his eyes and said, "I want to feel comfortable making mistakes in front of you."
And then we both laughed, but I wouldn't let go of his bearded face, "Say it back to me... do it.... do it..."
"I want to feel comfortable making mistakes in front of you," he echoed.
"Even if it's hard," I said.
"Even if it's hard," he echoed.
"Even if it's scary," I said.
"Even if it's scary," he echoed.
"Even if it hurts," I said.
Instantly, his eyes filled with fear.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked.
I dropped his face and laughed.

Oh, we have a long row to hoe.
We are the same... because we're married.
Turns out, I was right all along.  Sad...

In My Own Skin

As a kid, I used to spend my summer frequenting the nearby indoor pool.  I spent nearly all of my own money on the pool fee, and it was so worth it.  I loved nothing more than coming home from hours of swimming and dunking myself in a hot bath, and then wrapping myself in warm sweats while I relaxed in front of a movie.

I read through my old journals and my old blog sometimes, and I feel a sort of disconnect from the girl who wrote them.
Who stole my brain when I turned 12?  I started thriving on fear, on stuffing emotions and instincts down, and living FOR others, on letting my opinions and preferences be sacrificed on the altar of Likeability.
I cared more about being LIKED than I did about MYSELF.

And then I married someone with an addiction to porn.  The craziness took hold, and I lost myself.  I gave myself up to a world stained with hard words, deep wounds, and lust-filled sex that left me feeling empty and wondering what was wrong with me.

But that's changing.

As I gathered with 14 other women in a cabin detached from civilization, I told them the condensed version of my story.
"I feel like my story is so shallow," I said.  Others stories I heard were riddled with stories of affairs, prostitution...
And then one woman spoke up, "There's no comparison between our stories.  Just because a husband only looks at porn doesn't make a story shallow.  Porn is just the gateway drug.  Every woman here who has had a husband sleep with someone else can tell you that it started with porn."
Heads around the room nodded silently in agreement.
The woman continued, "The fact that you're here and that you both recognize that this is a problem isn't shallow.  It's awesome."

Clouds parted for me.  I knew that -I guess I did.  But it's possible to KNOW something without UNDERSTANDING it.  And when she said that, something clicked on my insides.

I became more comfortable in my own skin, in my own story.
As I've slowly picked up the pieces of myself that I inadvertently discarded over the years, I've taken part in the most thrilling Awakening.
I've discovered what I makes me so happy inside that I can't contain myself.  I know where to reach to find my happiness.
I have the gift of Animation, the gift of curiosity, the gift of sentimentality, the gift of imagination, creativity, humor, laughter!  What I have to offer the world is important -and my definition of success has drastically changed.
I love to get my hands on my yarn and crochet vintage hot pads that actually STAY done (unlike the dishes).

I love to write, to feel words handed to me as I place my fingers on my keyboard.
I love sunsets.
I love to feel olive oil in my fingers as I work it through soft flour in the tortilla-making process.
I love to apply and inhale my essential oils.
I love family history work -old pictures and people and stories... nothing in this world thrills me or ignites my inner passionmore than stories, people, and pictures (did I just sort of confess that my favorite section in the newspaper is the obituaries?  Well it is.  No shame here).
I love music.  I make it with my instruments, I teach it to my students, I listen to it almost constantly.
I love teaching in all its forms (except the potty training form).
I love my religion.

But.
But as I've traversed The Awakening, I've also noticed that I have a tight chest.  And not in a good feel-good sexy kind of way... more of in an anxiety-pressure-OHMYGAWSH kind of way.

I have to constantly conscientiously be aware of it, why it's there, what put it there, release, relax, let go...

I find the tightness in public places: when the teacher in Sunday School asks us to share an experiences we might have related to the topic.  I want to share something that will make me look awesome.  I want to be admired.  My chest tightens with the pressure I put on myself.

I find the tightness in watching my children play.  I don't want them taking risks. What if they get hurt on my watch?  Their Dad will be so angry.  My chest tightens as I feel controlled.

I find the tightness as I drive.  Anxiety grips my chest and the tightness radiates to my knuckles as I grip the steering wheel as if it's my link to life.

I find the tightness as I eat.  I've got to hurry and eat, you know, because there's things to do. 
I find the tightness in a box and with a fox and in a house and with a mouse and in the dark and in the rain and on a train.
I kid you not.

My state of awareness is exhausting.  But it's paying off in spades. 
I let go of the tightness in my chest this weekend.  I didn't worry if my shirt was too loose, if I was showing more skin than I should.  I didn't worry if my legs were too white, if my clothes weren't cute, if my hair looked frizzy and undecided (it matches it's wearer so well).
I let go.

I took my baby to the river and put her feet in.  I nursed her in the open for God and everyone (who actually wasn't anyone at all) could see.  I prayed with her splashing her pretty red toenails in the water.  I spent time in the hammock with her cooing to the trees overhead.

And I know now that when I follow my natural instincts -the ones I have been silencing for YEARS upon years upon years -the tightness dissipates.
Yesterday, I was supposed to get the mail and finish making a sock monkey.  But I went to the playground instead.  I made playdough instead of folding the laundry.
At it was so hot yesterday... so very hot.  So I put us all in clothes we could get wet in and I ran us ALL through the sprinkler outside. 
I drip-dried on the porch with a book and a kitten.
Then I came inside, took a hot bath, and put sweats on.

I recognize myself again.  I know this girl. 
I KNOW THIS GIRL.

She is me.  I remember.
The Awakening is enriching, exciting, hard, hard, hard, wonderful, and worth it. 

Very Afraid

Becoming aware of JUST HOW MUCH I've let fear rule my life has been overwhelming.

I work out because I'm afraid of gaining weight.
I'm afraid if I gain weight, my husband won't love me.
I'm afraid if my husband doesn't love me, he will reject me.
Fear of rejection.
Rejection from him, from my own self, from others.

I'm afraid to let the kids take too many risks.
I'm afraid to be 100% honest with my husband about my feelings because it might upset him.
I'm afraid he'll lose his temper.

My chest is tight for most of the day.
I'm afraid of what others think of me.
I'm afraid I'll wreck the car because my vision is terrible.
I'm afraid I'll be responsible for their death somehow.
I'm afraid I'll be responsible for their choices later in life.
I'm afraid of letting the people I love down.
I'm afraid I'm letting fear keep me from my dreams.
Did you hear that?  I'm AFRAID of FEAR.
Isn't there a word out there for that?  There's some kind of phobia name for that.  I know there is.

I try to keep my distance from contagious people, from angry people, from dominant-personality people.

I'm starting to let go of many of these fears, and I'm grateful for awareness.  I could have gone my entire life trapped and bound by fear, never fully LIVING.

My wonderful counselor said I need to employ one of those awesome therapy acronyms.
A
D
D

Aware: become aware of the fear
Demystify the fear
Distract

I am aware that I am very afraid.
As far as Demystification?

I Know I Know Nothing

 

I want to raise my children without shame.

I want to view mankind, myself, and my husband in an equal light.  I want to break free from the "less than" and "better than" chains that bind me.

I want to live fearlessly.

I want to eat right because I love my body and not because I'm afraid of gaining weight/physical ailments.

I want to exercise because I LOVE my body and not because I'm afraid of what others think or afraid of hating myself because my pants pester and squeeze at my hips.

I want to forgive my Grandad for the damage he caused his family, my mother -the foolish traditions of my Grandad were unwittingly passed down to me.

I want to TRULY UNDERSTAND WHO I AM.  I know I am a Child of God.  But I know I don't fully understand what that means.

I do not know how to do any of these things.  I am powerless to manage them. 
I don't feel like I'm failing... I feel empowered in my admittance, and I embrace the freedom of not knowing.

I have no answers.  I have no self-help tools.  I know nothing.

Lord, help thou my unbelief.
Lord, I love, but I also fear.  Fear is of The Father of all Lies... fear is a lie.  The opposite of Love is Fear.

To love, to understand love, to let go of fear... to have the freedom to shed my prideful layers and show my vulnerability -I will connect with Thee, with myself, with my family, with all.

Lord,
Help my unbelief.
I believe.