Act Naturally

I love Buck Owens.

I also love Loretta Lynne.  My favorite Pandora Station is my Loretta Lynne station.  I crank it when I'm cleaning and belt out cheatin' songs like I MEAN it, man. 
"I'm here to tell you ya gotta lay offa my man if ya don't want to go to fist ciitttyyyyyyy!" 
I sing while I scrub.  I sing when my kids ask me to stop.  I sing when I feel anger.

I also love to bake.  I love cooking.  I've envisioned opening a country cooking restaurant... I've thought up the menu, the decor, the prices, the music in the background (Loretta, Johnny Cash, Buck Owens...) Not that it will ever come to pass.  It's just that I have a wild imagination.

I've always had a wild imagination.  I've never quite grown out of it.  I dream up characters and places and stories.  My kids beg to hear my stories (since my singing just doesn't quite DO it for them).

I have a passion for stories.  I tear through obituaries and family history.  I love movies with good endings and even better characters.

Because I LOVE people.

That's who I am.  I'm social.

I love talking and bantering and laughing.  I love creating something new.  I love working.  I LOVE teaching.

I have this THING for doing things myself.  I love making my own graham crackers and laundry soap and dish rags and hot pads and sock monkeys.

Speaking of which, I've also imagined making my living making sock monkeys that look like historical figures and then writing educational stories about them.  Someday I'll tell you all about the Hitler monkey I made...

I sometimes pretend I'm Amish.  I sometimes pretend it's 1940.  I sometimes pretend I look good with RED lipstick on.
I also sometimes pretend my house is clean.   If I work REALLY hard at it, I can pretend SO well that I relax enough to watch an old movie while my kids complain about how boring black and white movies are.

I plan on teaching them to appreciate them as they grow up because, as I said, I LOVE teaching.

I also love music.  I listen to it constantly.  I teach piano lessons and flute lessons.  And -now don't get excited, but -I've even written a few very ridiculous songs about my x-boyfriends.  I played them for Danny once.  We weren't dating.  We were barely even friends.  I knew it was safe to play my ridiculous songs for him because -HECK -he looked like a model.  Models don't date people in band.
I also knew Danny would go on with his modelesque life and forget all about me and my songs.  Besides all that, I was a fearless woman.  I wore thrift store clothing and embraced my quirky THINGS about me: my awkwardness, my inability to match, my love of nachoes and canned spinach (not together).
How was I to know that Danny wouldn't just go on with his life?
How was I to know that Danny wouldn't actually go anywhere without ME?
How was I to know that those songs drew him in like a moth to a flame?

Falling in love was less like falling and more like finding... finding my way home.

I love home. 
My home is in the country.  It's messy because I'm unforgivably right-brained.  It's happy because I'm happy.
It's full of treasures from the past... true to my nature, most every decoration in my home carries a story with it.
My great grandmother's kettle.
My grandpa's milk bottles from his old dairy business.
Aunt Minnie's crochet hot pad...

This is me.
This is me showing you me.

Heavenly Father is ready for me to show you me.  He's ready for me to TALK, to come out of hiding, to tell you about who I am and where I am and what my husband's name is.  He's ready for me to take this trial and knead it into ME so that it becomes something woven into my very being... the Truth Fruit it's producing will spring naturally from me: through my words and actions.
Will I blow up my facebook feed with anti porn quotes?  Probably not.  That's not something I'd naturally do.  Will I invite you to come sit in my kitchen anytime and visit with me about anything?  Probably.  That's what I do.
Addiction has become a natural part of me.
It's as much a part of me as my passion for people, my love of Grandpa's old dairy, and my imagination.  It's become part of my core.

I am not ashamed like I used to be.
I am not afraid like I used to be.

Addiction doesn't define me, but it is an important part of the elements that are shaping me.
Why hide it?

Heavenly Father is ready for me to TALK.  And should I be surprised?  I'm a professional talker.
I don't feel the tightness in my chest I used to feel.  I don't feel panicked about people KNOWING.

I feel natural.

An House of Merchandise

I've been thinking about John 2.

In this chapter, Jesus went to Jerusalem for the Passover.  He found people using the temple for personal financial gain.  They were buying and selling.

I love verse 15.  "And when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple..."

I believe if this case were taken before a modern-day court, they would classify it as "premeditated."

Christ's "driving out" actions were not an automatic reaction from the scene He found before Him.  They were meditated.  He witnessed a scene and methodically began forming a solution.  He didn't just immediately kick and scream and yell.  Can you imagine the thoughts running through His mind as he made a scourge of small cords?  His eyes were busy, His hands were busy, His mind was working.  He knew what He had to do.

As a farm girl, I love the phrase, "He drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen."  Ask me if I know anything about using cords to drive cattle.  Go ahead.  ASK.

To stand in the midst of a herd of any kind of living anything takes guts.  It does.  To stand in the midst of a herd and take charge?  It takes a whole new level of guts: grit, courage, spit, fire, fearlessness.
Picture dirty jeans and dust on your boots, sweat on your sunburned neck, a breeze on your long-sleeved Wrangler shirt, a WHIP in your hands.
You are commanding.  You are confident.  You are on a mission to move.

The Savior made his scourge, and He moved the herd.

As I thought about the Savior moving people, I thought about the place.  It wasn't in the corrals west of town where I usually move herds... it was IN the Temple.  I thought of my home temple.  And then I thought of my body.
My temple... the one created by my Father.  The one I can't seem to reign in when it comes to chocolate.  The one who created and birthed three glorious children.  The one who has given up four wisdom teeth, two tonsils, and -as of Saturday -one toenail.  It's scarred.  It's stretched.  It has healing power and limitless capacity to learn. 
It is HOLY.

But there are merchants selling temples.  There is a billion (probably trillion) dollar porn industry.  There is prostitution.  There are sex shops and strip clubs and Victoria Secret.  There are lingerie shops.  There are graphic, awful, illegal practices going on with bodies.

This horrifies me.  HORRIFIES me.
It's bad enough that it's happening, that it's spinning out of control, but worse still is that it has permeated the walls of MY home, MY body, MY marriage.  My intimate and personal places where I should be in control have been desecrated, defiled, demoralized.

I move beyond being horrified and start to feel something far worse: numb.
I start to feel numb and hopeless and dark.

And in those moments, I will picture My Brother making a scourge with small cords.  I will picture Him taking it and standing in the midst of the darkened, secretive, huddled herd... and with His word and cord will He drive them OUT of the Temples.
With His cord will He stand at the foot of holiness and command the greed and the glitter and the grotesque...
"Take these things hence."

The Savior is the Savior.
He will drive herds with grit.
And I will be his part of his scourge -I will be one of those small cords.  Shaking off the shackles of shame and fear as I become an instrument in his hands to cleanse!

Porn is Godless.
It's table turning time.

Know Not

Saturday night was pure Hell.

I'm serious.  The only other night that was worse than Saturday night was the night I miscarried seven years ago.
Between having my husband kick my toenail off (yes, that happened), my heavy cramps (TMI?  given that you already know all about the porn addiction we kick around, I highly doubt you'll flinch at the mention of female shhhtuff), my sore throat and congestion, the baby's up every hour-ness, my son's fever, the rain that had my husband out in the middle of the night to cover the dog we just brought home (moment of applause for my husband making K9!)...
To say I wanted the morning to come would be the grossest understatement.

I went to Sacrament alone while my husband kept the kids at home, we switched off after Sacrament Meeting.
I sat behind the organ and fought the feelings of a trigger from the hellish night before (brought on by a movie I watched by myself).

I listened to the speakers... one began reading the scriptures that detailed the Atonement.  He read so rapidly, so methodically.
It almost took my breath away -I wanted to stand up and tell him to stop.  STOP. 
The words he was uttering were not just SOME story -they were an account of my Brother's death, his suffering and pains... MY suffering and pains.  Tears bubbled up to the surface as I contemplated the awful pain of it all -the awful pain that included not only last night but my miscarriage.
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

The words struck me, and the bubbling tears turned to flowing tears.
Not only last night but my miscarriage and my broken heart... the heart broken by the one I held so closely, trusted so fully, loved so truly.

My husband didn't know what he was doing.  Not unlike the soldiers who crucified my Brother, my husband knew on some level what he was doing.  But he didn't really.  He didn't really KNOW he hit me with a car.
He didn't know he put me in a full body cast and still wanted dinner made.
He didn't know he slaughtered my love.
He didn't know he picked me up in my body cast and dropped me, dropped me, dropped me.

He knew not what he did.
But the Savior knew -the Savior KNOWS.  He is bigger than any missing toe nail, any congestion, any lack of sleep, any cramping, birthing, miscarrying, doubt, fear, trigger, uncertainty, mistrust, hurt, failing, and pain.

He is bigger, MUCH bigger than porn.
He KNOWS what He does.
And what He does so fully, so skillfully, so PERFECTLY... is simply LOVE.

Look what I got in the mail today!   Happy Birthday to me!

Hand Free

I love getting my hands on something.  I love learning by mistakes.

I thoroughly slaughtered my sewing machine.  Instead of being mentored on sewing or watching youtube videos, I took my shiny new beginner machine and started going to work.  Two years later, I could sew simple projects like rag quilts, aprons, and pajama pants.  And then my machine quit on me.  Probably because I slaughtered it.
as I said.

I won't even go into what my cooking pans look like, suffice to say I'm a fair cook with ugly, ugly, abused cookware.

But when it comes to something I can't get my hands on... something like relationships, I'm terrified to make mistakes.  I don't want to mess up.  I don't want to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, forget the right things, tread on anyone, tamper, hurt, or maim.

BUT I DO.
Why?  Because we ALL do.  It's part of The Human Experience.

So when I do, I feel shame.  I feel awful.  I feel like I'm failing.

I am not sleeping well at night, and I'm adjusting to working.  My mornings are all spent away from home.  My afternoons usually are filled with piano lessons and house cleaning.  If there's any way to squeeze any kind of nap in, I will take it.

At the end of one such a day, I was so tired.  The older two kids were fighting like crazy. 
I left them alone with TV and took a bath.  In RS that Sunday, someone had mentioned how important it is to NOT leave our kids in front of the TV just because we are tired.  But in my case it was better for both parties to separate.
I soaked in the bath water and listened to my MoTab Pandora station.
When I came out, I found that the kids had disobeyed what I'd asked of them TV-wise.  I didn't yell, but I did shame.
It is truly HARD for me to figure out how to NOT shame.  I'm still learning how to not shame MYSELF let alone other small people in my care.
"I'm disappointed.  I thought I could trust you to do what I ask, but I see now that I can't."

We all got in the car to run an errand, and as we did, the fighting began again.  I asked them to please stop and was hit with, "But he, but she, but Mom!"
So I turned the CD up.  I keep the kids' Primary Music CD in the car.  They love it, and I love listening to them sing along with it.
"If the Savior Stood Beside Me" came blasting through the speakers.
I felt immediate shame.  The Savior would not have approved of how I treated my children.  If the Savior stood beside me, how would I REALLY act?

I would feel fear.  I would feel shame.
I would be SO SCARED OF MAKING MISTAKES, of getting it wrong, of disappointing Him.

This isn't The Way. 

I don't understand how to NOT think and behave the way I do.  I can't get my hands on relationships, both family, friendly, earthly, and heavenly.

I've got step work to do: handing over work to do.

I want to truly FEEL what it's like to not feel shame anymore, to be okay with making mistakes, to let go of the fear that comes with doing something wrong.

I deserve that life, but more importantly: my kids deserve that Mom.

Painted Lady

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with gratitude that I finally understand to a small extent my true identity.

I know who I am.
I know God's plan.

Seeing myself as a Daughter of a King brings miracles. It puts life into perfect perspective.
It makes crayons and kittens and Debussy important.
It makes media and fashion and clubbing seem so dim.

I got my hair done.  This is actually a sort of saga of epic proportions.  I'll spare you MOST of the details and simply say, "They got it wrong."
I went in for my birthday to get a beautiful natural copper with pretty highlights... and I came out with black hair (purple undertones, baby) and subtle caramel highlights.
They refunded me the cash for the dye job which was downright darling of them, and honestly: even WITH the purple hues going on, it doesn't look bad.  I can live with it.
But I don't like it.

"Great, Alicia.  But what does that have to do with porn addiction?"
Oh! Thanks for asking.  Here:

Having blackish hair makes me look painted.  It also drowns out my eyes unless I apply a hefty amount of eye liner, eye make-up, and mascara.
The ending result is something much less natural and something much more artificial. 

Two years ago, I longed for something like this.  I thought it was what my husband WANTED.  And, by default, I wanted what he wanted because it was my job to make him happy.
Oh, The Evil Untruth!

Anyway, it's hard for me to have unnaturally dyed hair.
It's triggering to look in the mirror because it reminds me of the days when I believed I wasn't enough... that my body and what it had to offer were where my value lied.

But they ARE NOT.

I am enough.  I am natural, masterfully created, unconditionally loved and seen by my Father in Heaven.  And not that I can actually ever KNOW something like this for SURE, but I think he doesn't like my hair either...
I imagine it's like walking into the room of a house you built and find that your child has painted the walls black.
with purple hues.

Ack!

Anyway, all I'm saying is that I'm enough.
You're enough.
And you're loved.

We are All Minions

Sometimes I see spiritual correlation in bizarre things.

Example:
I came out of Despicable Me 2 last weekend and told my husband all about the sermon the movie contains.  You don't even have to play it backward to hear the encoded message.  It's blatant.

I watched Gru with his minions... he knew all of their names, what their jobs were, and he kept them working in a way that best worked for his jam factory.
They knew how to laugh and have fun.  They got upset over stupid things and slapped each other around.  They didn't know much about what was really going on around them. 

And then the villian stepped in and claimed them.  He changed them.
He started calling them HIS.
They became animals, devoid of natural emotions.

Eventually, they all got shot up with jam and all was well again.  Yay, recovery! *whistle, whistle*

It's just... SO obvious how much Satan tries to take credit for things that aren't his.  He didn't create the earth or Me, but he likes to think he has ALL OF THE POWER somehow.
It sorta pisses me off.
And by "sorta" I mean REALLY.  Because he is REALLY good at his job.

He reminds me of all of the lazy animals in the story of the Little Red Hen (yes, there's a SERMON there).  Once the work of creation is done, he steps in to eagerly try and claim the fruits of the labor, the harvest.
But no... the "fruits" known as my life are reserved for Him who created me, labored over me and with me.

And speaking of minions and small sermons:

Grasping at Straws

Detaching from my husband is proving to be nearly impossible.

You guys.  SERIOUSLY.

I keep finding myself feeling comfortable, feeling love, feeling at ease.
FEELING.
FEELING is a dangerous thing, this I know.  Feeling equates hurting.  It's written somewhere in my Math: Addiction Edition textbook.

I teach a woman piano lessons every Thursday afternoon.  She's old enough to be my mother, and she gives sound and gentle advice in a voice so quiet I have to lean in toward her to absorb her words.
"What are you doing for your birthday tomorrow?" she asked me.
"Oh, I don't know.  Nothing... well, I don't want to even do NOTHING.  I just don't want it to happen at all.  I'm just too tired, I guess.  Last year I worked so hard to make sure I enjoyed my own day.  I gave myself a pedicure, I made my own fancy cake, I made my own dinner... It just seems like a lot to bother with.  My husband wasn't able to be around, so I took matters into my own hands.  Just thinking about it makes me tired."
She nodded.  She paused.  
"If you're feeling any degree of hurt because of your birthday, it won't be fun to face it.  But you should.  Because just pretending it's not happening is denial and denial is a very bad place, Alicia."

This woman is from Insightful City, USA.  I ain't kiddin.  Or maybe Perception City?

Yes!  Yes, I am in denial that today is my special day.  Last year, I MADE it special for myself because I wanted to prove to ME that I could make ME happy on my own!  And I did!  I was so proud and exhausted.  This year, I don't want to think about it.  I don't want to celebrate it.  I want to pretend that it's just August 16th, 2013... the day after the 15th and the day before the 17th.  Just a notch on the calendar of time.
"If you could go somewhere off by yourself and leave all means of contact behind and honor yourself without worrying about anything else except YOU, do you think that would be beneficial?" she asked.

Yes, yes, yes!  I could let go of expectations from others.  I could honor myself with some self-care.  What a good idea!

Letting go of expectations is a wonderful, safe thing.  It shields me from so much hurt.  It helps keep me from some degree of FEELING.

As I sat in the car with my husband a few days ago, we were laughing and joking and I FELT safe and happy and love.
I immediately balked at FEELING and I edited his name in my phone.  He was no longer known by the sweety-sweet nickname I gave him when we were dating.  He was now simply just known by his first name.

When he found out, he was hurt.  Not so hurt he moped or cried or resented me.
But he was hurt.
He kept his hurt to himself for a few days, but my husband wears his emotions on his sleeve.  He always has.  It didn't take long for him to confess he was feeling hurt and why.
It wasn't just the name-changing in the phone.  It was a few other small things I'd said and done that were along the same lines.

"I get that you're feeling the need for independence, and I get that.  I respect that.  I understand.  But when things happen like this, it feels like you're just grasping at straws to find your independence."

He wasn't being snide or mean.
But he was being right.

I AM.
I am grasping at straws.

I am feeling fear and freaking out when I feel close to him, so I batten down the hatch and do something wild and crazy like... edit his contact info in my phone.

And it's okay for me to freak out and panic.  I might even go so far as to say that it's NATURAL.

I don't understand why I'm so pulled in by him.  He has caused me so much pain and hurt and and and... AND AND AND!!!

So I do something to wall me off a bit more.
Right now, it's okay.  Right now, I'm in a limbo of watching, observing, waiting.  And I am doing hurtful things not TO HURT HIM but to protect ME from FEELING.

I'm grasping at straws.
It's okay.
In so doing, I am hurting my husband.
That's also okay... because I'm not setting out with intention to hurt.

And hurt equates opportunity for proper healing... that's written in my Math: Atonement Edition textbook.

So I'll take some time to honor myself and allow myself to grasp at straws if I feel the need.
Which I very well might.
Because my husband did the dishes and had the kids make me birthday cards while I had a girl night last night AND delivered me a professional bouquet of my favorite flowers.  It was spritzed with the wonderful glitter from the Flower Shop I love so much.
and scheduled me an appointment at a fancy salon for tomorrow.
None of this is actually out of character for him... in our early years, he used to go ALL out for my birthdays, something I'm not accustomed to at all.  Birthdays were never a big deal at my house.  EVER.


Guys.  I want to slobber all over him AND tear his eyes out.
What is HAPPENING?!
Happy #28 to me?

Manage Not

I don't know what's going on.

My husband is being sweet.  He's thoughtful.  He's aware.  He's empathetic.
He's putting an arm around my shoulders.
He's crying when I cry.
He's letting me sleep in and packing a lunch for our daughter (and feeding her cake for breakfast, but hey.  I'm good with that so long as I finally get some degree of precious sleep).
He's reading recovery materials.
He's seeing a counselor (!!!)
He's praying.
He's initiating family prayers, family home evening, family scripture study.
He's apologizing.
He's asking me about work.
He's offering to pay.

And I'm standing by the side wondering WHAT on earth is happening.

'You made it happen,' comes the sly whisper of the serpent, 'Look at his tears, look at his pain, look at his efforts... you made it happen with your words.'

I fight off this lie.  Satan plays on my co-dependency.

My husband tells me he's thinking of quitting his job because the environment isn't conducive to recovery.
He shaves his rough facial hair off.
I see his face for the first time in ages.
He sells his violent video games and inappropriate DVDs to pay for counseling.
He uncovers disclosures that he's buried under a mound of rationalization.
He confesses everything he possibly can think of.
He asks me if I hurt, if I'm okay, what I need.

And I'm standing by the side wondering WHAT on earth is happening.

'You're falling back into his arms,' comes the sly whisper of the serpent, 'Look at your old patterns coming back.  If you fall into old patterns, so will he.'

I fight off this lie.  I have NO CONTROL over my husband.  I do not make choices to influence or smartly manipulate my husband.
I didn't tell him I was done so he would change.
I told him I was done BECAUSE I WAS DONE.

Not ONE week after I told him I was done, the Stake President called me into his office.  He wanted to call my husband to be a counselor in our ward's Elder's Quorum Presidency.
"Can you support him AS A WIFE?" he asked, and his words cut right to my soul.
I had to examine immediately examine myself and face his very pointed question.
"Yes," was my reply.  My husband has leadership gifts, he can see situations with clarity, he can see what needs to go where and when and how to make it happen.  He would do well.  I knew he would.
And it meant more time away which I was okay with.

The meeting with the Stake President feels like something the Lord had planned all along.

I drove home a mess.  I thought I was done with wife-ness.  But it turns out... I wasn't.  Apparently, I wasn't.  APPARENTLY, I was still attached to this relationship.
Anyway, if I wasn't I just promised the Stake President I would support my husband and in so doing anchored my lot to his.

A week or so later, my cousin was facing death -and you have to understand that my family is like the mafia.  We are enmeshed.  I see my cousin at least twice a week.  I know what's going on in his life, who is girlfriend is, what sports he's playing, what classes he's taking.  He teases my kids and blesses my Sacrament and dates my cousin (on the OTHER side of the family).
I hit my knees and then run straight into my husband's arms.

What is happening?!

Someone recently put it very succinctly, "If he's in recovery, you will be drawn to him even while wanting to claw his eyes out."

I leaned over my sink today and washed a dirty pan to make breakfast in.
My husband had just made my daughter's lunch.
"How do I even MANAGE this?" I asked myself.  How do I manage this?  Is this a honeymoon phase?  Honeymoon phases always bring me pain eventually.  I don't want anymore pain.
I have to protect myself from pain.
Boundaries.
Detachment.
I'm getting to close to him. 
Pull back.
Don't invest.

"Are you okay?" he puts on arm on my shoulder, "If you need to talk, you can.  Are you upset?"

Get thee HENCE! What do I DO?! with THIS?!  NICE PERSON!?!?!

HOW DO I MANAGE?!

Manage.
Ah..... the key word that seems to keep popping up.  I somehow still believe it's my job to manage my life.  After all these years and tears and lessons... I still somehow feel like my life is mine to manage.

Forget living day by day.
I'm living moment by moment, trusting the Lord to guide me and help me know when to attach and when to detach.
Maybe it is a honeymoon phase.
Maybe I will get hurt.

Maybe.

Probably?
Likely?

I'm sure my husband will hurt me in the future, and I'm sure I will hurt him... I'm sure I DO hurt him, in fact.  But it's not my job to manage any of the hurt or the pain or any. of. it.

Today, I'm going to cast it all on the Lord.
And go to work.

Broked

"Yeah, I was there," my Dad's cousin said to me when I asked him if he was with my parents the day Mom fell from her horse, "I was 15.  It was just me, your Dad, and your Mom.  She rounded a barrel and as she did, her saddle slipped and her head bounced off the ground."

And that's the moment my mother's brain broke.

She sat in the hospital, in and out of conscious.  Mostly out -her coma lasting 2 weeks.  They tied her hands down so she'd quit pulling at the tubes and cords attached to her body.  Eventually, they had to tie her legs down.
Mom has talented toes that can grip hospital tubing as well as any hand.

She used sign language, even with her arms tied down she could make her fingers communicate, "scissor cut."  She begged her brother using sign language, please... cut.

When she was able to talk, they asked her where she was.
"The church," she said.
Do hospitals look like a church?

She was wrong, of course, but she wasn't wrong.  In her own mind, it made sense.

On Thursday, my young cousin was late for football practice.  In his rush, he plowed through stop signs on his 4-wheeler.  He had to make it to practice -he was a star player.  There's never anyone AT our 4-way or 2-way stops in this little hick town.  Only on Thursday, there was.
And it was a bus.
And my daughter was on it.

Luckily, none of the children were hurt.
My cousin, on the other hand, was curled up on the pavement, aspirating on his own blood.  The local EMT crew is highly trained and have saved many precious lives in our town. 
True story: my son was almost delivered by the boy I used to chase at recess in first grade.  I might have been embarrassed had I not been in horrible pain.
That same boy (*ahem* MAN now) worked tirelessly on my cousin.  He was taken by chopper to the nearest hospital equipped to care for him. 
"It isn't looking good," my husband's co-workers said.
They lost him twice on the chopper.
But he clawed his way back.  Twice.  At the hospital, they did scans and x-rays and found multiple skull fractures, bleeding on the brain, broken bones all over his face...

His brain was broken.

Tears were shed, prayers were said.  The next day, our town decked out in blue to honor my cousin and his friend who was riding with him.  We fasted and prayed.
More scans were done after the fast... all of the broken bones were in the right place.  No long-term brain damage was found.
They downgraded his diagnosis to "severe concussion."  They stitched up a cut on his head and stitched up his ear, and then talked about his coming home in a few days.
It's a downright miracle, though he'll never play contact sports again.

Right now he's tugging on his oxygen, swearing and frustrated.
"Do you know where you are?" his mom asks him.
"At home," he says.

My mom smiles.  She understands.
"I was sure I was wherever I decided I was... I made it make sense to me in my mind, and everyone else thought I was wrong, but I wasn't wrong to me."

My husband didn't hit a bus.  His damage wasn't instantaneous.  He's never so lost as to WHERE he physically is, but I've come to appreciate the fact that he isn't wrong.
Even when he is to me.

As my mom's brain healed, no one told her she was crazy.  No one told her there weren't spies surrounding the house (she knew there was).  No one told her there weren't snakes coiled up on her head.  No one told her she wasn't going to fall through the floor while she bathed.
Everyone understood that Mom was sick, and they let her BE where she WAS.

"There's a snake on my head," she whispered to my Grandpa as she held absolutely still and sat up tense and straight.
"Don't you hate it when that happens?" Grandpa sighed and changed the channel.

Grandpa let Mom's brain BE where it WAS. 

When my husband is wrong, it hurts.  I want to show him how wrong he is.
But do you see anyone running around trying to prove to my cousin that he's NOT at home?  That he IS in a hospital?
No.  He'll figure that out later as his brain heals.

Sexual addiction is a different kind of brain breakage, but the similarities lie in simply letting my husband be where he is while keeping myself safe using boundaries, love, common sense, and self-respect.

It's not about being right or being wrong. 
Because -to him -he ISN'T wrong.  I hear my mom's sweet voice, "I wasn't wrong to me."
Yes, Mom was broken.  But none of us were her doctor.
And I am no Master Healer.

It's hard to let my husband be.  But it's much harder to play Savior.
I can only follow Grandpa's example of acknowledging.
"I'm sorry you feel that way."
It's my own "Don't you hate it when that happens?"

Tonight, we will go visit my cousin.  And if he tells us he's at home, we will nod.
He's working hard to make it make sense in his own mind, and he isn't wrong to himself.

Understanding

I remember hating the word "forgiveness."

It seemed so foreign, so impossible.  It went against every emotions that was raking through my soul.  I clung to President Faust's words to "leave a little place" for it and welcome it when it comes.

One day, it was there.  It was like a miraculous ray of light that burst onto the scene.  It enveloped the past AND -much to my surprise -the future.  Is pre-forgiveness even a THING?

I remember hating the word "detaching."

It seemed so unnatural, so wrong.  It went against every thought that was raking through my brain.  But, like forgiveness, I left a little place for it.

One day, after spending a very pregnant shopping trip at Wal-Mart, it was there.  I seriously QUIT caring.  I let go.  I looked at him and said with genuine care behind my words, "I just don't care anymore."

Both occasions are precious to me -they're milestones I don't share on facebook or during Relief Society's "Good News Minute."
But I hold them close.  They're precious.  I can pinpoint where I was when I felt and realized them completely.

As I came to see that I never truly understood WHO I am, I followed the same protocol.  I decided to continue to study the topic -as I had with forgiveness and detachment -and I left a little place for the truth, so that when I truly recognized, felt and understood that I AM a literal, priceless daughter of God, I would welcome it and write in my journal about THE DAY it came to be.

But something extraordinary has happened.

I can't pinpoint a moment, a day, a time, or an experience.  I can only say that the Lord has given me understanding all along the way.  Some came when I was 8 and 12 and 17 and and and...
But as I sat tall on my bed and said the words, "I'm done" to my husband, I KNEW.  I didn't FEEL it in the moment, but a Daughter of God KNOWS when she's done her part, when she's done all that is required, when it's time to leave.

A week or two before, there had been an altercation between my husband and I.  As he stormed off and out of the scene, I felt the urge to cower... to curl up and hide from the entire situation.  And as I mulled the thought over, a strong voice spoke to me.

"A Daughter of God has no need of cowering."

That empowering moment -along with sitting tall on my bed and declaring my independence -have been gifts of epic proportions.  I've been stronger, shown less fear, and begun to see life entirely differently.
As a result, my own lust issues have taken a dramatic turn for the better... along with seeing myself in my true form, I naturally see others in theirs.  I look around me and see men NOT as instruments to validate my desirability but as brothers.

And as I take this bold step into the dark, I have plunged my entire being into God's hands.
My Father.  My unseen but ever-present and ever-felt Father.

And just like that, my hands have been literally FILLED.  My life has fallen into perfect place.
I found a job that answers not only my own prayers but the prayers of my extended family.
It doesn't pay enough to sustain me and my children, but it pays enough to lightly pad a bank account in the event of divorce or separation.  It's my GO bag.
My husband doesn't want me to go, and he's bearing the heaviness that comes with LIVING WITH a wife who isn't participating in couple-y things while she prepares mentally, emotionally, spiritually and physically to "go it alone." 
I'm paying for my own credit card, my own toiletries, my own anything.

There's been a stream of phone calls, of knocks on the door, a whole lot of "I don't know why I felt I should, but I did."
My daughter has three new pair of shoes -needed, but not at the top of my list right now.  But it was important to HER and SHE is important to HIM.  And through an angel Primary Teacher, my daughter now has church shoes and play shoes that fit beautifully.

A friend showed up on my doorstep with two grocery bags filled with snacks.  Trail mix, fresh fruit, crackers.
Enough to sufficiently stretch the grocery budget that has suddenly expanded with the need to pack daily lunches for my daughter and feed an infant that eats more than any infant I've ever had.
Seriously.  I don't know how she only weighs 13 pounds.  That baby can really eat.

Dad's birthday is Sunday.
In the midst of all of the happenings in my marriage and the life-altering decisions being made, I forgot.  I forgot to buy the ingredients to make Dad's brisket.  He asks for it every year, and he looks forward to it.  And I.
forgot.
The brisket takes special ingredients and planning.  It needs to marinate in a store-bought aluminum roasting pan for 36 hours.
It's a GIFT from ME -something I articulated specifically to my husband that I would pay for on my own.  He offered his checkbook to me with pleading eyes, "please let me pay..."

But I can not break boundaries.

One valuable lesson I've learned in the past two weeks is that

It is a privilege to care for a child of God.

My husband has had that privilege revoked for the present time. 
I will pay for Dad's birthday gift.  But with WHAT?

I don't start my job until Thursday.  My piano students have all quit for the summer and won't begin again until next week -AFTER Dad's birthday.

It's such a small thing -such a very small thing.  Surely, I could just PAY my husband back.  A small loan...
But it didn't feel right.  I held fast to the hope that the money would come.

Today, I went to get the mail.  In it was a package.
Last week, I acted on a prompting to Phone a Friend.  My best friend that has gone through every stage of life with me beginning with infancy and knows what's going on in my marriage, but I don't call her about it.  I don't phone her often.  When she's with me, we don't talk about it.  She lives hours away now, and any time spent TOGETHER I want untainted by porn.
But Monday, after my husband had left for training and I was left to myself and my seriously detached state, I finally cried.
I wasn't crying about my marriage or the detachment or the "is this my life NOW?" ness of it all.  I was too tired, too worn, too far into the acceptance phase.  Is jaded the right word?
The tears were over my children.  They aren't supposed to be in day care.  They're not supposed to share their little triumphs and joys with another mother.  Those are mine.  That is MY dream.
I'm their constant.  They know where I am and what I do and that there's a snack in the late afternoon.

But that's over now.
I called my friend and told her all.  My voice held steady until I brought up daycare, and then the tears coursed down my cheeks... I wasn't ready to leave my children, not even for a few hours, not BECAUSE OF ADDICTION.

My sweet understanding friend cried with me.  She held her sleeping daughter -who rarely sleeps -on her chest and wept on the other side of the line.
And this morning, I went to the Post Office to find a package full of answers, support, and validation.  My friend has always understood more than I have WHO she is.  She sees me clearly because she knows her own identity and worth.

She sent me things that smell sweet, taste sweet... a small trophy of An Undefeated Girl.
And then there was a check... more than enough to pay for brisket ingredients.  It's a symbol of a fresh start, a deposit into My New Life.

And as I sob, I feel the utter bliss and gravity of WHO I am.

I am taken care of.  I am plunged into the hollow of His Hand.  He is lovingly patient and aware of me, and He works mighty miracles through angels on the end of phone lines and the other side of doors.

My prayer is simply that I might have the privilege of being one of those caring angels someday...

That I might always be privy to the privilege of taking care of his children.

The "T" Word

Recovery is awesome.

It has led me to peace, to healing.  It has pulled me out of a life of craziness, a life full of lies believed and lived.
I can keep ME safe.  I can work on ME.  I can control what I can control.
I am finding MY OWN way to MY OWN healing.

BUT.
I have serious trust issues with my husband.  My own healing is hard, but it's moving along.  I'm learning and growing and changing -a new world is opening before my eyes. 

Still, no matter how much the Savior heals me, I have trust issues with my husband.

I have mourned this -I've gone through grief and mourning because I can't trust my husband.  Trust SHOULD be in marriage. 
And that's HIS job.  It's his job to begin to repair that trust, to reinstate that kind of trust.

Right now, he's saying so many things to me -and I DO hear them, but I don't feel them.  I feel almost like an objective listener, like he's a contestant on a reality show about porn addiction and I'm sitting on the couch with my indulgent trail mix.
"What's going to happen next, I wonder..."

I don't trust what he says. 

I don't trust mankind.  MANkind.  I'm sort of disenchanted with the whole sex.  I'm suspicious of men.

The result is that I find myself trusting wholeheartedly in The Lord -more than I ever have in my entire life.  I trust The Lord with my will, my life, my choices, my future, my prayers, my thoughts, my children, my husband, and especially my children.
I haven't always.
In the past, I've relied heavily on others, on google, and on tangible resources. 

I HATE that it's taken something as mean as what I'm going through now to get me to the point where I've dropped any and all trust in mankind and held firmly to my Heavenly Father.  I trust in Him.  I hope in Him.
I will go the distance with Him.

I wish that I could have gotten to this point without having to be pushed so far. 
But it is what it is.

And I'll tell you something else that surprises me: I do not trust myself.  I am part of mankind. 

Only when the Spirit speaks to me do I trust myself.  Only when my gut -the inner voice led and guided by The Spirit -leads me and guides me do I have any degree of trust in myself.

And so I trust only in the Savior, in The Lord, in The Spirit.  And as my husband trusts in and follows the same Master, I begin to trust.

Trust will be rebuilt... but not in men.
Never in men.
 

The "H" Word

Once upon a time, I entered the world of recovery because I was an unmanageable mess.  In a painful process of discovery and education, I began to understand how to live -truly live -again.

This morning, I woke up and and was amazed that despite the Mess that is My Marriage, I still functioned.  I still laughed.
The garden was weeded.
The grass was watered.
The children attended swimming lessons.
I received an hour of training at my new job.
There were phone conversations and sandwiches and make up and baths and a gigantic slip n' slide at the park.

Why?  WHY?
Because there's no hope.  I have no hope.  Without hope, there is no hurt.  Without hope, I'm safe.

At least, that's what I thought.
And then, I met with the Stake President tonight.  He called me for I Didn't Know What, and as he questioned me about a variety of things, he asked me some very pointed questions about my roll as a wife.

I was honest with him.  I told him about my weekend, about my job, about my circumstances -all of which he was completely unaware of.
And then I admitted OUT LOUD -with a quick disclaimer that I wasn't happy about it -that I did have hope.
I did hope that we would be okay.

I drove away from the Stake President's Office.  I went to Wal-Mart.  I bought a bag of dark chocolate covered blueberries.
I ate them on the road home in a nervous, stressful fitful state.
HOPE!  HOPE! 
If I have hope, I'm not safe anymore...

In my shin-length polyester skirt that looks like something out of the 60s (which I actually think it is), I felt stark naked, vulnerable, exposed.  I was a sitting stupid susceptible duck.
After ALL the hurt.
After ALL the years.
After it ALL.

I still felt hope.  I called my sponsor and tried to talk it out, work it out in my head.  I called my husband and started saying things like, "I'm married, but not.  But not single.  But I'm your wife.  But I don't feel like it."
All the while stuffing my mouth with self-loathing and chocolate.
"I promise to forget you ever said the word HOPE," my husband said, "As far as I'm concerned, you don't have any."

I came home, hit my knees in prayer and asked my Father in Heaven OUTRIGHT.
"Does feeling hope mean that I am weak?  stupid? susceptible?"
And the answer came... clearly, distinctly, "Alicia, hope is part of the Atonement.  Your hope is in the Atonement."
Peace flooded through my being.
Except for my stomach, which had to be excused on account of the nausea induced by the bag of chocolate.

I DO feel hope.
I do HAVE hope.

For a few awful hours tonight, I thought my hope was anchored in my husband, and that thought was enough to send me into insanity.  But the truth is, my hope is anchored firmly in the Atonement of Jesus Christ.

The Atonement has the power to change men.
The Atonement has the power to heal broken hearts.

No matter what the future holds, the Atonement applies to it -a blanket, miraculous balm.

I trust in it and I hope in it.
And THAT is something that makes me rather the opposite of weak, naked, susceptible, vulnerable, and stupid.
I don't WANT my husband to forget I ever said it.

Before he left for his training this week, I told him I couldn't say the H word.
But one enlightening conversation and empty bag of chocolate later... I CAN say it, and I WILL say it.

I hope on.