New Dreams

As a little girl, I dreamed of being a teacher, a writer, an archeologist.
But every single one of those dreams was laced with one constant: children.

I bought yearbooks every year of high school for my kids -expressly so they could browse them when they got older.  I saved old outfits I wore and put them in bins in storage so my kids could look through what their mom wore as a teenager.  Who DOES that?  It never once crossed my mind that I wouldn't have children... not until I miscarried my first pregnancy.

Today I sat on my loveseat with my baby in my lap and my two tired, bed-headed children at my feet and it sunk in like a sinking ship.
This is my last week as a stay at home mom.  This is the last few days of a blessed, living-the-dream era for Alicia.

My time will not be wholly my own. 

I'm grateful for a job and grateful I am able to find one close to home -even one that will allow me to keep my kids with me from time to time.

But this is my last week to savor my true dream, to embrace it and hold it close and inhale every aspect of it.
As the new school year starts, so will my new life.
With a new life comes new dreams.  And that's okay.

The Lord will take care of us: of me, of him, of the children, of our family in whatever form it may take.


I feel exactly like Kathleen Kelly as she's getting ready to close up her Little Shop Around the Corner in "You've Got Mail."

My mentor is standing next to me saying, "Closing the shop is the brave thing to do."
I don't feel very brave.  I feel very scared. 
I've never done well with change, and I never thought "stay-at-home" would be stripped from my title as "mother."  Not like this, not in this way, and not before all of my kids were in school full time.

But it's time for new dreams. 

Breaking Free

(The Man Who Taught Me About Breaking Free)

Last night as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about Ribbon.

Not quite twenty years ago, I rode Ribbon.  She wasn't the most gentle horse, and little kids weren't allowed to ride her.  She was stubborn and spirited -only experienced riders could manage her.

"Take her out as far as you can," my Dad said as I mounted her, "And then turn around and let her run back."

Run?  RUN?!

I'd never done that on a horse before.  I was terrified of animals, but I could manage well enough with the kiddie horses that walked slowly and never chomped at the bit for anything.  But Ribbon?  She might as well have been a fire-breathing dragon.  I was terrified of her and the idea of running her.
The only thing more terrifying than the task at hand was disappointing Dad -the John Wayne of my life.  I never argued with him. 

I started walking Ribbon away from the rest of the horses, away from the truck with a bucket full of grain and oats in the back, away from my Dad...  She didn't mind at first.
But when I took her farther than she wanted to go, she tried to turn around.  My heart pounded with fear.
"No," I said, "No..." my voice was shaking, but I was determined, "We have to keep going."
She fought, she tossed her head, she stomped.
"No," I said, fully aware that she could tell how scared I was, "No, girl."
I forced her down the field, the hacked off, dead remnants of corn at her hooves... farther and farther away.  I looked back to see how far. 
I had to gauge the distance just right -far enough away that she'd have ample time to pick up speed... if I gave into fear and turned around too soon, it would be for naught.  Dad would send me back.  I'd have to start over.
My heart pounded, my hands shook.  I hated Ribbon in that moment.
The feeling was mutual.

In what felt like an eternity, I finally reached the point where I could let her break free. 
I would have to let go of the control I had on the reigns.
I had no idea what was before me.  I was putting my small ten year old life in the hands of an animal I was terrified of.
I pulled back on the reigns and took a deep, halting breath as she came to a fighting halt.
"Okay," I whispered to myself more that Ribbon.  I tugged on the reigns so slightly -gave her a faint HINT that now she could run, and that was all she needed.
She took off.

My heart wanted to beat out of my chest as I slackened my grip on the reigns and felt the ground beneath her hooves.  Control was not mine in that moment.
Her rough gait soon evened into a something surprisingly smooth... I exhaled as exhilaration replaced fear.  I felt the fresh country air breezing past my face.  I felt... strong.

And just as soon as it started, it was over.
"How was that?" My Dad asked as I climbed down.
"Crazy!" I gushed.  I couldn't believe I had done it.  My Dad was so proud.  I was so proud.

I fell asleep last night with that memory -one I hadn't thought of since the day it came to pass in the mid 90s.

Last night, I broke free.
All it took was one slight tug on my reigns, and I turned tail and RAN.

I'm done with this marriage and the man in it.  I'm tired.  I'm emotionless. 

In the coming month, I'm opening my own checking/savings account.  I've also secured a job.  I'm not leaving.  But I'm done investing.  Did I say that already?  That I was done?
It seems to final, so intolerant, so FINAL.

I'm still living with my husband, but I'm not in this marriage anymore, nor do I want it. 
"Investing in this marriage is like pouring water into a bucket that's taken a buckshot round," I told him, "And then getting mad when my feet get wet."

It's all on him now.

I'm running free in the country, seeking independence, and leaning on the Lord -my John Wayne in the sky, prompting me on a journey I've never taken.  I'm afraid.  It's the fire-breathing dragon all over again.
The gait is rough right now -I'm only just beginning.  But if I let go of control, if I hold on for dear life while the ground flies under my feet, if I focus on my Father, I know that before I realize it, I'll be breathing easy and the gait will graduate from rough to even and eventually? to smooth.

And there will be strength.

I do love my husband.  And today, I like my husband (let's not talk about yesterday, okay?). 
I do pray for him and want success for him. 

But I don't want to be married to him anymore.

If my future includes marriage, it won't be to the man I'm sleeping next to tonight.
If my future includes marriage, it will be to someone different.
The marriage will be different.

There will be change.

I have no expectations of my husband, I have no hope. 

I have only the knowledge that I will do the next thing the Lord has for me to do.  Right now, He's prompted me toward independence, toward packing money away, toward loving my own husband as a deeply personal family member and nothing more... pure love.


I'm breaking free.

 

Carry A. Nation

Right now there's a great documentary on Netflix about Prohibition.  It's actually three episodes long, so I let it stream on my iPad yesterday while I fed the baby and felt guilty about not cleaning my house.

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Carrie (or Carry) Nation.
Carrie Amelia Moore Nation, to be exact.  She was vehemently against alcoholism... I mean, this woman was MAD about the whole thing.  Raging mad.
She was 175 pounds and 6 foot tall, and she carried hatchets around with her to vandalize saloons with.

 

She professed to being a bulldog -the likes of which might ramble around Jesus' feet and bark and whatever He didn't like.

She smashed up 5 saloons with rocks before turning to the hatchet.

She's quoted here:

  "I tell you ladies, you don't know how good it feels till you begin to smash, smash, smash!" 

That's all.  That's all I had to say today.  Just that women are strong and capable and fearless.  And I stand by Carrie Nation and her hatchets and her penchant for smashing.

And that as a wife of a porn addict, I have Carrie days.

PTG

  

via

My husband called me last night.

He's away at an annual training for drug task forces.  He told me that Sunday night, he stayed up talking with some of his buddies that had come back from doing one or two or three tours overseas.
"I hate PTSD," one of them said, "I hate the way it's diagnosed and treated... to pull a guy away from his unit, isolate him and put him in therapy... it's awful.  It doesn't help.  But if you take the entire group and keep them together after they've gone through something traumatic, THAT is what's needed.  That's what works.  I don't want a disorder.  I want growth.  Post-Traumatic Growth."

When my husband said that, my chest lit on fire.

Despite the day I'd just had wrangling three kids by myself and downing brownies and movies in an attempt to regulate my hormones (I'm no doctor, but I swear it helps)... I felt something tick inside of me, something resonate, something say to my gut, "TRUTH."

Since doing Addorecovery, I've learned a lot about PTSD.  I found many women resonating with the trauma model MORE than the codependent model. 
But there was ONE THING I didn't like about it: the use of the word "disorder."  It made me feel like a Victim.  It made me feel helpless and tired.  It made my skin feel thin.  It opened the door for me to use excuses to not find my own healing. 
Replacing it with the word "growth" immediately conjures up strength, solutions, resiliency, progress...

I hopped online and found multiple articles about it HERE and HERE.
Read this... found on the above-linked wikipedia page:

 In contrast to resilience, hardiness, optimism, and a sense of coherence, post-traumatic growth refers to a change in people that goes beyond an ability to resist and not be damaged by highly stressful circumstances; it involves a movement beyond pre-trauma levels of adaptation.^[1] It could be possible that people who are highest on these dimensions of coping ability will report relatively little growth.^[1] That is because these people have coping strategies that will allow them to be less challenged by trauma, and the struggle with trauma may be crucial for post-traumatic growth.^[1]

<sup>It makes me want to leap out of my hormone-induced couch coma.

Finding those articles and tapping into that healing, progressive way of thinking has really lit my fire this morning.  To find those articles and then find Jacy's latest post about her Togetherness Project?  
It's enough to make me pop out of my yoga pants and into my fancy jeans with blingy pockets and give today eternal purpose.

When we are untied, joined, and surrounded with support, trauma can be a great catalyst for healing and change.  Trauma can catapult us into a life we never dreamed of having.  It can take the slums out of us.  It can prove our inner strength, show us the sheer, radiant brightness of our inner light, strip off layers from our being that don't serve us anymore.
It can refine, empower, teach, humble, and strengthen us.

Together, in a group and as a system of sisters, we can grow.
We can hearken to the voice of President Uchtdorf and, "Lift Where You Stand"!  
Thee lift me, and I'll lift thee.  

I hope to see you at Jacy's Togetherness Conference... a place where growth is sure to be cultivated and harvested. 
I'll pack my blingy pocket pants.</sup>
 
 

Little Wonders

Last Sunday wasn't awesome.

It started out with an addiction argument, then my husband was called into work right before we were to leave to church.  My calling leaves NO ROOM for tardiness (prelude!) so I bustled all three kiddos and myself out the door.  I made it just in time to play about ten minutes of prelude music.

I blogged about this before.
But I didn't blog the whole of it.

I cried a little in my home behind the organ.  It felt good.  I prayed a lottle in my home behind the organ.  It felt at least as good as crying.

I played postlude, and then I nursed the baby during Sunday School.  And then I taught Relief Society.

The week leading up to my lesson was wrought with pressure and anxiety.  There were disclosures and a sick grandpa.  There were three freezers of fresh beef that went out (we had the biggest cookout you've EVER seen with the best steak).  There was a sick baby and a doctor visit.  There was family stress about family businesses and the uncertainties pertaining to them.  There were tears and anxiety and addiction.

My lesson was, "Not My Will But Thine Be Done."
I joked with the sisters in my Relief Society about how I was sure my chaotic week leading up to this lesson was specifically to personally prepare me to teach.  I told them I hoped at some point in the future they'd all get a chance to teach the same lesson so they might learn the same lesson... "and I hope you'll all get the opportunity to have a horrible week like I did," I said, jokingly.
They knew I was kidding.  They laughed.  They know me.  They like me.  They LOVE me because they're like family.  Some of them actually ARE family.  Most have helped raise me: taught me in school, babysat me, watched me grow, slowed down as I rode my bike down Main Street...


But one had not.  A recent move-in.
After sharing some personal experiences related to my hard week and the answers to prayer I'd received in regards to it, she let me know in no uncertain terms that I was a blessed, ungrateful woman.
That I needed to THANK Heavenly Father for my life instead of telling him how horrible it was.
That I ought to trade shoes with HER.
That I didn't know how good I had it.

She reiterated my ingratitude, my use of the word "horrible"...

I looked down at the lesson and read.  I don't know what I read.  I have no idea what I read.  All I know is that I DID read.  I read the words on the manual as my hands shook and my voice betrayed the tears that were begging to be let loose.
I fought the "flight" reaction.
I read.

When I was done reading, I simply said, "Does anyone have anything to share about what I just read?"
I think the 'ps: I have no idea what I just read' was implied.

After my lesson was over, I was swarmed with support and validation.  My husband had come to church late, and when he saw me, his shoulder was icy... as shoulders often can be after arguments.  As he stood by me, a sister walked by and simply said, "I'm sorry about what that woman said to you.  It was a good lesson."
The ice on his shoulder instantly melted and was replaced by his unmistakable Italian Mama persona.
"WHAT.  HAPPENED?!  WHO?!  WHERE?!"

"Let's just make it to the car," I said, "Let's just make it to the car."
The car was my goal.
The car.
Just make it to the car...

Once the kids were safely buckled in, I let loose.  I let the tears cascade down my cheeks and I bawled a good bawl for thirty minutes.
And then?  I was fine.  I enjoyed the cookout mentioned above without thinking much about the incident.

A few years ago, and incident like that would have completely festered in me.  I would have hashed and rehashed it. I would have felt HATE along with my anger.  I would have sought support and validation for other women.  I would NOT have gotten over it, let alone gotten over it within two short hours (or long, if you count the time spent at the teaching podium).  I would have shoved the tears down and told myself I was too strong to let someone GET to me.  I didn't need to cry.  The emotions would have never escaped, never washed out.

And I realized two things: The Lord KNOWS me.
And: Recovery is changing me.

In the small hours of yesterday morning, I was at my husband's side.  He was in the throws of horrible food poisoning.  No amount of ANYTHING was even touching his awful state.
I was helpless and dealing with a restless baby who woke up every time the toilet was flushed (which was a lot).  As soon as the sun came up and I could leave the baby, I was at the convenience store.
It was 6:30 am.
I was in dirty yoga pants and a dirty t-shirt.  I was holding gatorade, sprite and saltines when who should show up in line in front of me but the newly called Relief Society president!
She told me she was headed out for a family outing, and how was I?
I mumbled something about food poisoning and my husband, and she told me to follow her home... she had some powerful probiotics she'd used when she had been down with food poisoning (from the same restaurant, ew).
What are the odds of that happening?

Later that afternoon when I was sure my husband was well enough to be left alone, I loaded up my baby and started on down the highway to go grocery shopping.
And of course my water pump went out.
And of course a storm was coming.

But I was calm.  I knew it would be okay.  I knew how to get a tow truck.  I knew how to turn my hazards on.  I was worried about being alone (plus baby) on the side of a very busy highway, and before I could get TOO worried, a car pulled up behind me.
It was a cop car... not the scary kind with lights blazing , but the protective, wonderful kind that are full of air conditioning and guns and badges and "you okay, miss? would you like me to stay with you, miss?" and then "are you LDS, miss?"
I later realized my fly had been down through the entire ordeal.  Perhaps the very special view of my garments was his first clue? *head slap*

I had never met this particular cop before (I've met most all of the cops in these parts), and we ended up having a few mutual friends.  He talked about his family, about his wife and how she was broken down as well... how she drove the same vehicle I was driving.
Wonder if her fly was down as well?

I came home from my thwarted shopping trip with a smile on my face.  It was okay.  I knew it was okay.  I knew everything would be okay.

It's okay if things don't go according to MY plans.

I didn't used to know that... not really.  I knew it theory, but I didn't understand it.  I do now.
The RS lesson?  The car breaking down?  The awful night of tending a fussy baby and puking husband?  In the past, they would have each given me a one-way ticket to VictimLand.  But not now.
Now I can roll with it.

And as I roll with it, the Lord has poured his obvious, unmistakable Little Wonders out galore.  He plunked a RS president at the convenience store at 6:30 in the morning.  He plunked a cop on the side of the road... an LDS cop (it helped, not that I'm biased, but it brought an added amount of comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable situation).  He plunked a fresh loaf of bread in my hands after an unpleasant experience.  He plunked a nine year old girl with eager helping hands that changed diapers and fed babies in my living room.

This week, I'm alone.  My husband is gone on training with his work crew, and though I struggle with some very real concerns as to the company he's keeping, I lean on what the Lord has given me.
His Little Wonders are FIRM reminders to me that HE IS IN CHARGE.  Everything will work out as it should.
And really: there's nothing Little about his Little Wonders.

Little Child

I have been feeling strongly prompted the past few days to study up on little children.

I thought it was because I haven't been being a very patient mother lately.  But the Lord has wowed my very simple mind.  By opening this door, I have opened the way to a different way of life -a new heart -a better way.

I'm learning that we fight to surrender.
We grow to become as a little child.

These truths go against the training I've received in the world, but I accept them.

The Lord is teaching me line upon line that I am literally His Child and as I'm understand that, He is opening up a vast world of truth.
Once I understand that I AM A CHILD OF A KING, I am given loving traits to strive for.

Kind
Meek
Submissive
Patient

I study my own children and add to the list

Fearless
Shameless
Pure
Teachable
Forgiving

The greatest person in my household is the 7 month old.

Recently, for one brief, sacred, fleeting moment, the Lord allowed the child in me -more very core- to connect with my husband's core, and the effect was mind-blowing.  I physically felt it in my body.
I felt the greatness of My Husband, his divine greatness.  It came to me that a man with this potential of true manhood and glory was in love with ME.  My senses erupted with an inexplicable sense of joy, and as quickly as it came it left.

My Defenses Of Old kicked in, letting me know that it was NOT OKAY to feel that much emotion or joy because hurt cometh in the morning.

And yet: I can't deny what I felt, what I saw beyond what my physical eyes could witness.

I will continue to study what it means to become like a little child, as King Benjamin entreated.  I will also take absolute heart and hope in the message I found in D&C 29:47

 46 But behold, I say unto you, that little ^achildren are ^bredeemed from the foundation of the world through mine Only Begotten;

 47 Wherefore, they cannot ^asin, for power is not given unto Satan to ^btempt little children, until they ^cbegin to become ^daccountable before me;

The more we become like little children, the less power Satan has to tempt us.  Or at least the more power we will have over him, the less we feel the desire to yield.

The simplicity.

The purity.

It is the most beautiful, literally out-of-this world experience I've ever come up against.  How I long to lay up treasures in my New Found Realm.  How I long to leave my old self behind.  

How I long.

Fixings

A few nights ago, my husband told me that he really wants to get to know me, to see who I truly am.  In the same conversation, he told me some things that didn't sit well with me.

I went to bed a few minutes later conflicted.
I began devising analogies to get him to see things my way.  The tightness in my chest turned to hardness.  I prayed, I prayed, I prayed.
I fell asleep.

The next morning, I went for a walk.  The air was fresh, the sky overcast.  I took deep breaths in, trying to breath the tight, hard feeling out of my chest. 
"Inhale light," I told myself, "Exhale stress..."
I prayed.  I prayed.  I prayed.  Praying is the point of my morning brambles, actually.  It's quieter outside than it is my house.

"What can I do so he will see me?  Should we read my old journals together?  How can we get to know each other?  What activities would be best?"
No answers came.  Even if they did, I would not have heard them because I was too busy stewing over how to get my husband to see things my way.
The tightness increased and spread to my shoulders.  I recognized it, took a deeeeeep breath and focused on being more present.

A yellow butterfly, a green pasture, birds...

"Alicia," came the thought to my tight chest, "You don't have to fix this."
 The stress immediately melted, and I pleaded with Heavenly Father to forgive my pride and TAKE it away. 

Heavenly Father will help my husband *see* me better than I can.
Heavenly Father will help my husband learn what he needs to learn better than I can -because I admittedly have NO REAL CLUE what my husband needs.

Once again, I find myself in need of letting go and letting God.

My husband is seeking the Lord and the Lord is reaching out and guiding my husband.  I'm the meddling maiden aunt.
F'real.

Why is it so hard to GET OUT OF THE WAY?  I have no business telling my husband what he needs, what he should do... I can only let him know what I am uncomfortable with as it affects ME.

The Lord is working miracles in ME.  So suddenly I know what's best for my husband?  Where is this logic coming from?  Blah.
This is the lesson I will learn over and over and over.

I came in the door from my walk, and my husband sat down and told me some experiences he had where Heavenly Father has helped him to see me, my core, my true self. 
In turn, I confessed to him that I'd spent a few hours trying to think of ways to get him to see life as I see it rather than letting him be where he is. 
"I didn't manipulate or control you," I said, "But I WANTED to."

My pride.  My fears.  My will.
This addiction pulls me in like gravity, like a bug to a flame, holding me without actual contact.

It's crap.

I once told my mother that I knew the words, "You need to OBEY" will be written on my tombstone.  I say them to my daughter at least 40 times a day.
I can't help but think Heavenly Father feels the same way.
"You don't have to fix this."
"You don't have to fix this."
"You don't have to fix this."

I love His semantics.  He leaves the choice open to TRY and fix if I'd like to, but I know by past personal experience how that ends.  It involves insanity, tears, chocolate, Adele, and general devastation.

Alicia, you don't have to fix this.
(He didn't say that "this" includes myself, but it does.  I know it does.  And I will suffer until I learn.  It's my MO, people.)

Diamond Lost

My wedding ring is broken.

It broke in the Spring of '12.  The CZ fell out of it.  I've always had a CZ in it.  I HAVE a diamond to put in it, I just haven't ever done it.  My husband proposed with a CZ ring and then made payments on the diamond.  When the diamond arrived, we were so excited... and then we let it sit for about 8 years.  and counting.

Truth is: I like my CZ.  When I looked down That Fateful Day and saw the prongs had broken off and the CZ had fallen out, I was surprised at how sad I felt.  I shouldn't have felt sad, I mean... it was the perfect opportunity to have the real diamond put in!  But I realized then, as Anne Shirley realized her love of Gilbert Blythe the night she learned he was dying, I loved my fake diamond.  It was my own Book of Revelation, so to speak.

I DO love my fake diamond, quite a lot more than my real diamond, in fact.

I retraced my steps and combed over the ground... I wanted my CZ.  Why?  WHY?  I could have easily paid $30 or so and had a new one in my hands, but I wanted THAT CZ. 
It had been there with me through sin and miscarriage, through discoveries and confession.  How I had wanted to tear it off in fits of rage and tears only to be captivated by it's beauty, by the sacrifices made on it's behalf.
Never could I look into the CZ and remain very angry because in it I could see my husband's pleading, nervous eyes... I could see his excitement, his planning, his desire to purchase the ring of my dreams.

I wanted that CZ.
Days went by, and I soon gave up hope.  After all: wasn't I putting my heart into the wrong kind of treasure?  It isn't as if My CZ will follow me to heaven.

Two weeks later, I sat on the bench by my door.  My Dad was standing above me, and we talked over the day.  I glanced down and saw something... probably something the kids left on the floor.  I picked it up with an absent mind only to find that it was, in very fact, MY CZ!
Miracles never cease... and thank goodness my vacuum isn't top-o-the-line.  I'd vacuumed that floor several times and it had missed my lost jewel.

My ring still sits in my jewelry box, naked of a prime diamond.  My CZ sits in her own special spot, my diamond in her box.
My finger is bare.

I've very much married in my mind, so I didn't think much of it... not until I was hit on by a man in the church parking lot.  He managed to hit on me and ask about every woman who walked by as well, intending "to move forward and begin a family as I've been commanded," as he said.
I thought again of my broken ring.  It doesn't fit.  It broke at the beginning of my pregnancy, and my fingers have gone up one blessed size, post-baby.

I admitted to my husband a scheme I'd been scheming.
"I want a new ring made with my CZ," I said.
He didn't understand.  My wedding ring is beautiful.  It is REALLY beautiful.  It's been on the receiving end of compliments from strangers and friends alike.  I adore it.
"Why?" He asked.
 I want a new ring because I want a new marriage.  But I also want my old ring.

It has everything to do with sentiment and nothing to do with being spoiled.  Promise.

There are parts of our marriage I do not want to let go of.  There are parts of our past and our past bond that are sacred to me -my ring is symbolic of those.
BUT.
That ring -and that marriage -is broken.

The ring I want now mirrors the kind of marriage I want: simple, pure, and personal.

  

I want to wear it everyday.  I want to get it covered in bread dough and dish water, freshly cut grass, and garden soil.  I want it there to touch fevered heads, wipe teary eyes, and make peanut butter sandwiches for picnics.  It doesn't draw attention or compliments.  It's sure of what it is, what it represents, and it isn't trying to impress or prove anything.

I want that ring.

I'll have my wedding to wear to weddings and church and receptions and funerals and date nights.  But for everyday reality, give me my simple ring.

I'm not ready for it now.  Our relationship is only just starting to rebuild.  We're only beginning to really see each other.

My old ring says, "I love you."

The ring I want says, "I see you."

The processes of learning to see is a very slow one.  Do I even truly *see* myself?  Do I truly see my husband?

Where there is a pure connection, there will be simplicity, there will be a newness and brightness... there will be tangible hope.

Right now hope feels elusive.  Present! but elusive in it's own mysterious way.

Setting my sights on a ring gives me something tangible.  It's what's right for me.

And like the young couple in love with no money, we will save our quarters for such a ring as that.  

We are starting over.  But not.  But are.

Good Neighbors

I have a wise neighbor.
She's Native American which increases her wisdom by approximately 67%.  She's a retired judge, and she used to run a farm full time... horses, cows, you name it. 
She's learned a lot in her lifetime.

Her family has been connected with mine for years, the bond between us increasing as her mother nursed my mother after The Accident.  She's watched me grow, and now she's watching my children grow.

This morning, I fidgeted with her grape vines while the barn cats bounded around the muddy rain puddles at my feet.  She sat on her side of the fence, weeding her garden.

"Yesterday was a bad day," she said, rolling the earth's clay from her fingers, "But I woke up and looked outside.  It was raining a little bit, and we need the rain.  I went for a walk with my dogs.  I just enjoyed the gift of the day.  There's yesterday's dishes to do and laundry in the house, but I'm not going to let yesterday ruin today.  God doesn't make mistakes with days."

She was living in the moment, breathing in the desert rain.
"Learning more about God in nature than in church," as she puts it. 
"You have to live for the present or you'll end up missing everything."  Everything except regret, I guess.

My husband sat on the edge of our bed last night and told me of some "attack" thoughts he'd been battling.   He's 5 months porn-sober.  No one knows that better than Satan.  And when he's got a good stretch of porn-soberness under his belt, Satan tries to thwart his progress over lust with blatant attacks from unexpected and awful angles.
"I just have to focus," he said, "on what's in front of me now.  When those thoughts come in, I have to work at being present."

God doesn't make mistakes with days.
Mankind makes mistakes, but God's will can not be thwarted.  He doesn't make mistakes.
Not with me.
Not with my husband.
Not with days.

And today, just for today, I won't let Yesterday ruin Today.

The Reciprocation Effect

via ocsoldier.blogspot.com

Last week, I went to my knees in prayer and asked the Lord each day what He would have me do... not because I'm humble like that, not because Step 7 told me to... but because I was stuck, I was despairing, and I could of mine own self do nothing.
Nuh-theen.

I was harrowed about with chaos, so to speak.  I went to my knees because there was nowhere else to go, and the Lord is kind enough to let my life spin out of control because He knows at this point in my life -hopefully not forever -Alicia won't ask of the Lord unless there's nowhere else to go.
Alicia will read books first.
Alicia will consult Google.
Alicia will consult research and her elders...

and when all man made means fail, when she has exhausted every faucet in her mortal reach, she'll fling up her hands and through tears will cry out, "I can't do ANYTHING.  So tell me what to do."

Why am I so unteachable?  Why do I have to keep going through this process?
Why am I so intent on fixing myself?

Each day as I surrendered my unmanageable life, I found simplicity, peace, and perspective. 

Did I tell you about my new calling?  I'm the wahrd arrganist.
This means I spend the hour of Sacrament meeting tucked neatly in a corner behind a blaze of glowing buttons with no children tugging at me.
After a frustrating morning of trying to get everyone to church early so I could play prelude, a fight with my husband over triggers and stupid addiction, and my husband getting called into work... I plunked my baby in my unsuspecting aunt's lap 10 minutes before Sacrament was to start and craned my neck five minutes into my Prelude to see if my other children had found caretakers in the sea of The Community helping to raise my children.
They had.

I exhaled.  As the meeting wore on and I listened to our amazingly valiant youth bear strong testimonies that had been built and strengthened during their past week at Youth Conference, I thumbed through the lesson I was about to teach in Relief Society.
The lesson was on submitting our will to our Father's.  And as we all know -MM best of all -there is no such thing as coincidence.
That lesson was absolutely meant for me.

Through my studies, I stumbled onto Matthew 20.
In the end, the Lord is passing by two blind men.  They call out to him, they are shamed by the multitude surrounding the Savior, but they call out again.
What happened?
Jesus was still.
And then He asked of them, "What will ye that I shall do unto you?"

I stopped short and stared at the scripture.  It touched something deep inside of me, and I went back a few verses to read again.  This time I saw in my mind's eye that the two blind men were actually myself and my husband, calling out, calling out, desperately reaching out for healing despite the shame induced by the crowd.

And the Savior is still.  He has all the time in the world for healing.
"What will ye that I shall do unto you?"

It turns out that AS I WAIT upon the Savior, HE is waiting upon ME. 

Blessings are waiting for us -my husband and I -if we surrender and submit our wills.
Healing awaits as we call out to the Master.
I am blind in so many mortal and confining ways, but of this I see and know for a surety: The Savior is alive.  The Savior is walking by his blind sister and his blind brother, and He is still and asking what He can do for us.
All I have need of is to call out.

Storm

It rained on my wedding day.

A well-intentioned relative assumed I would be despairing at the idea of it, so she repeatedly sought to comfort me.  I didn't want to thwart her quest because she seemed so important about the whole thing, so I didn't tell her: I love the rain.  I'll take it any day, and the fact that it came on my wedding day was absolute perfection.
It tends to rain on our anniversary almost every year, and I love it.  I think of my wedding day when it gets cloudy outside. 
I curl up on my couch and thread yarn through my fingers... the thunder rumbles and I relax.  Granny square after granny square piles up, and I revel in the myriad of colors -the brightness of the yarn against the grey sky. 
I relax in the storm.

My life lately has been a storm all on it's own.  It's only fitting that the Arizona Monsoons should be in full swing. 
I'm on the brink -the cusp -of really, truly FEELING the truth of who I am. 

My self-worth has always been low, but it's steadily climbing.  I respect myself more than I did last year, ten times more than I did the year before that.  I'm starting to feel the truth.
I am a priceless daughter of an Almighty King.

He knows me.

Satan knows I'm on the brink, and he's been fighting.  He's been waging a war.  I feel as if there's a legion of angels packed tightly around me and a legion of demons packed tightly around THEM. 
This last week has been an absolute battle.

So much stress is on my family right now, so much stress on my husband, my father, my grandfather, my children, and my anxiety is in full swing.  satan has been running rampant, filling my head with lies, doubts, and pollution.
he wants me to believe I'm not worthy of temple attendance, of love, of acceptance.  I'm not strong or valiant or special.  he wants me to doubt my heritage.

he wants to steal my light.

Sometimes, I want to buckle.  Sometimes I just want to sigh and give up.  Just... stop.  But there's a will in me, and it says, "go on."
I bow my head, I brace against the rain, and through tears I push ahead.  I find myself bawling through temple sessions for no other reason than I'm finally SAFE.  satan can not reach me there.

As the storm raged outside my bedroom window yesterday, I pulled yarn through my fingers and I exhaled.
Stormy weather.

I know about stormy weather.  Just before crawling into bed, I pulled my Robert Frost book out and read one of my favorite poems.
My husband doesn't FEEL poetry quite like I feel it.  Words don't reach him like they do me, and I've yet to catch him reading an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel and stopping to gasp and inhale and read sentences out loud to me because they're written so bloody well that they make his heart skip a thumpety-beat.
(Yes, I do that.)
I feel this poem deeply, and I wish there was a "transport feelings button" on me because I want my husband to feel what I feel, to understand the breath and truth of what it means to me.

Frost wrote a poem about loving in the rain.  It seems so Notebooky. 
But "be my love in the rain" is more than a passionate make-out sessions under grey, thundery skies.

It's about devotion.
It's about braving the storm and finding love again and holding fast to it while the weather rages on.

This past week has been an awful, awful storm.  It's easing now, but I wanted to stop and say THANK YOU.  THANK YOU to every single one of you for your sweet, supportive comments on my blog.  Thank you for your emails, your texts, and your prayers.  Thank you.

Never in my life have I had such a strong, devoted support system.  I am blown away at the difference it makes.
And though I'm despairing NOT at the storm and rain but at the fact that there is no such thing as a "Transport Feelings Button"... I will share the poem I've come to cherish so well with you.

A Line-Storm Song

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

Robert Frost

Don't Fence Me In

"Good fences make good neighbors." ~Robert Frost

I have boundaries to keep me safe.  They fence addiction in and leave me running free.

I shouldn't have to suffer the consequences of my husband's STUFF.  It's his.

But once upon a time, he lost his temper.  I have boundaries to protect me from his temper.  I have to maintain them otherwise I'll try and pacify his temper... medicate it with whatever means I have to offer: cookies, back rubs, steak, sex.
Every man's dream, right?

I'm retraining my brain to STOP DOING THAT.  In the meantime, my stopping my attempts at medicating doesn't equate him stopping losing his temper.  That's just not how life works.
So he lost it.  I didn't medicate, and I was clear and calm about what I was not okay with.  The aftermath of the temper losing needed some clean up, and he mopped up what he could.
But he couldn't mop up one thing: he broke the latch on the driver's side of the car door when he slammed it.

Where's the boundary for THAT?  Where's the boundary that says he can drive the car with a broken door but I don't have to?  It's HIS stuff, and yet: I find myself on the catching end of it in a small way.

It may seem small, but it's taught me a very great lesson.

Boundaries are vital because I've been prone to accepting abusive behavior.  But boundaries aren't fool proof.
And THANK. GOD.

I DO thank God.
The hurt, the pain, the offense, the injustice of my husband's addiction isn't fair.  I can do everything in my power to protect myself, but pain WILL jump the boundary fence.  Pain, hurt, fear, suffering... they all have fence hopping skills.  And when I suffer at the hands of this addiction, I am given the opportunity to turn to my Savior.  I am given the opportunity to apply the healing balm of the Atonement.
I suffer at the hands of injustice, just like everyone else -including my husband.
My children will hurt me.
My neighbors will hurt me.

And, like the mother of a dear friend said, "Everyone in this life will let you down.  Even your best friends, even your siblings, and even your parents.  But there is ONE PERSON who will never let you down."

The same God I thank for the fact that boundaries are leaky fences.
Were they not, I would find myself fenced IN by boundaries: caged, cold, and distant.

This earth is a Family University, masterfully designed by a loving Father.  We are here for the ultimate education, and this involves practice which involves mistakes which involves learning which means EDUCATION.

I hurt others.
Others hurt me.
And thanks to our loving Father and Brother, and a perfect plan of Salvation and Redemption... we can be a happy family.
You and I... we can be happy, fellow scholars.
My husband and I... we can be happy, fellow scholars because of hurts and pains, because of sacrifices and service, because of the one truth that almost everything can be circumscribed to:

LOVE.

Let People Go

Grandpa is sick.

Grandpa is never sick... Grandpa is the man who breaks his toe in the middle of fixing a tractor and doesn't realize it until he gets home and tries to take his boot off (it had to be cut off) (he was mad about the waste of a good boot).  Grandpa is strong and steady and quiet.

Today, I held back tears as I watched two men move him from his car to his house.  He couldn't move on his own.  I had a few minutes alone with him today and I tried to joke, tried to hear anything jovial come out of his mouth... he usually holds his words in until he has something really worth saying, and it's usually a witty crack. I ached to hear the words that came.
"I'm not worth anything."

Grandpa and I have a special bond.  This quiet man is perfectly matched to my talkative nature.  We understand good music, good comedy and have spent several evenings together watching The Lawrence Welk Show.  My mother confessed she saw him shed a few tears when I was hauled off by an ambulance to birth a baby.  As of late, he's been teaching me weekly organ lessons.

And now, Grandpa is sick.
As I drove home, my daughter spoke from the back seat.
"Mom, I'm feeling sad."
"Why?"
"Because I think great grandpa might die," she began crying.
"Why?" I swallowed hard, trying to feign strength.
"His body isn't working like it should." 

We pulled into our driveway, and I scooped her up.  She sobbed and sobbed and then said something very profound for a six year old.
"It's so hard to let people go."

At that moment, I stopped feigning any kind of anything, and I cried too.  I've always been sentimental.  I used to fight it because I equated sentimentality with weakness, but having children sort of breaks down any barrier you might try to put up on the "stop crying so much" end.

I cried because it IS hard to let Grandpa go.  And I cried because it's hard to let my husband go.  And I cried because it's hard to let ME go.
Surrender was never an easy pill for any soldier to swallow.

Addiction or not, my life is unmanageable unto me.  It always has been.  I've spent my entire life trying to manage, and now I realize... it's not my life to manage.
I did not create me or give me gifts.  I didn't provide children or shelter or money.
This life is mine only because it was given to me by a loving Father.  But ultimately?  I am His.  For my life to be whole and complete, I must surrender my pride, my rebellion, my doubts, my fears, my lusts, my every mortal inclination to Him.
Ultimately.  It's my WILL I have to offer.  It's the ONLY thing I have to give to my Father, and like a toddler with a yet-undeveloped brain, I hold onto it like it is the be-all-end-all.
"MINE!"

This life is the most educational battle I will ever fight: the only battle I'll ever fight with the sole purpose of surrendering.
And people are hard to let go.

Waiting One Day at a Time

I suffer from anxiety.

Example A:
My children ask if they can play at the barn and before they've even made it out of the yard, I've already imagined the hay stack falling on top of them, their little ribs crushed, the phone call to the 911 dispatchers, the trip to the ER...

My body will GO THROUGH the emotions of it all whether it's actually happened or not.  Driving becomes a burden.  My hands grip the wheel, my knuckles turn white.  I don't talk about it -I don't tell anyone that I'm driving in fear of other drivers, that I'm going through the emotions of witnessing my children die in a car accident... because it seems CRAZY.

My husband's addiction brought my anxiety out in a really bad way. 

Recovery has been KEY in my overcoming anxiety.  I know medication isn't right for me, so I work through it using Priesthood blessings, the Atonement, prayer, proven healing methods, and extensive self-care.  AddoRecovery and my counselor gave me some awesome tools to managing my anxiety. 

My anxiety has far less pull than it did 6 years ago, 4 years ago, even 2 years ago.
But sometimes it fights for a seat in the front row, and the past few days have been a battle. 
So much is out of my control right now.  So very much.


My loved ones are enduring trials... physical, financial, and emotional.  My children are each going through something hard.  The baby has been screaming (and IS screaming) uncontrollably.

When life gets to this point, my anxiety is so present.  Every move I make is riddled with worry, fear, second guessing... my chest is tight, my shoulders form into tight knots, my stomach upsets easily. 

It finally all came to an awful head a few days ago and through soft tears I told my husband what I was feeling.
He administered a beautiful Priesthood blessing, and I was able to face the next day with a peaceful mind. 

I can not manage life right now.  Even the things I CAN control seem out of my control.

I recently read an article about Waiting on the Lord.  I can't find it to reference right now because I've got a screaming baby and fighting children and a headache, but the author describes how life-changing it can be to exchange simply waiting into Waiting on the Lord.

Each morning for the past three days, I've prayed with a notepad nearby and asked, "What would You have me do today?"
My pen hovers over the paper as answers come.
"Take care of your sick baby," was Sunday.
"Take care of your children," was Monday.
"Take care of YOU," is Today.

I can do no more than this at this point.  I can do NO more. 
Life is unmanageable for so many other reasons than addiction, and I can't.  can't. can't. handle it.
The Lord sees everything, knows everything, and so I will sit at His feet with a pen and ask, "What can I get for you today?"

I am a waitress.
 

Pain n' Change

I'll never forget the feeling of having a truly broken heart.

It didn't feel anything like having a cheating boyfriend like I thought it did...

It was inexplicable, physical pain.  It rushed through my veins, my soul, my very being.  I sat on the floor of the bathroom and gasped for air, wondering how on earth a person went on living after enduring something so awful.
I felt hopelessness.  I felt anger and fear.  I clutched my chest because it felt like my stomach was trying to change places with it. 

You don't forget pain like that. 

And when I was in the thick of it, I was almost certain there was no life ahead of it.  But there was.  I had to take my shaking self OUT of that bathroom.  I had to pick myself up off the floor and KEEP GOING because time had the rude audacity to not stop.
There was nowhere to go but up.

I desperately searched for a shred of hope, and when I found a shred, I inhaled it.  I began reading about porn addiction and recovery, and I started finding answers.
Months beforehand, I thought I HAD the answers, but my dalliance with the bathroom floor had schooled me otherwise.  Apparently the scripture that admonishes us to "comfort those who stand in need of comfort" does NOT admonish us to "fix those who stand in need of fixing" like I thought it did (I assumed it was a "between the lines" kind of thing).  My life felt suddenly wasteful (I'm being dramatic).
But THERE.  THERE in the books and the websites and the articles and the research that I paid money for ... I felt I finally had answers.
I shared them with a passion.  I was so eager to share the answers.  Surely others NEEDED them as much as I did! We live, after all, in a world parched for answers!

But answers are not the same as truth.
And in my quest for answers, I found truth.  I found a lot of truth, and the more truth I found the less I felt like sharing answers.  The worth of answers was sorely diminished in the Light of Truth.
I have no desire to raise my hand, to give answers.

I don't know what anyone needs.  I have no answers for them.
I don't know what my husband needs.
I can't fix myself, save myself, or rely wholly on myself.

I don't know the answers to anything, come to think of it.

But I know the truth.  The truth is: I know who knows the answers.  I trust Him because He IS the way, the light, the life, and the Truth.

This change in me is a process.  It's unfolding and frustrating and hard and so far from instant.  Sometimes I want to pull my hair out, sometimes I bump into my unchanged self, sometimes I find that The Old Me is a shell covering Who I See Myself As... and that shell is a mixture of steel and concrete and iron and a little bit of Aqua Net.

It's standing fast.
But underneath that shell, I have a determined heart and a Big Brother with a chisel. 

We'll carve Me out yet...

And that broken heart -the one I will never forget and the one I revisit every time I look into the eyes of a woman who has felt it as I have -will be new, shining, and have the ability to stand *just* as fast, yea, FASTER than my hardened shell.

I know this.
The Atonement is alive.
The Sacrifice is real.
Love is why.

Chilling