Trauma is For OTHER People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, my peace was obliterated.

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

Exodus 14:14, word for word:

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

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

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

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

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

Fight for me, God.  Fight for me.

A Great and Terrible Fear

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is hard stuff, you know?

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

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

Christmas Valentines

I love my baby.

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

I LOVE my baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

He is here.

Don't stop looking.

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

On the Same Page

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

My husband and I are now companions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First in Five

My husband asked me out today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go on organized dates with no sexual agenda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

via Jeweler on the Roof

To the Right

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

Until now.

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

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

 

Rest Stops

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord, are you ready?

 

The Me in Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FEAR. 

CONFUSION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anti-Fragile

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

  

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

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

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

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

Your year supply will increase.

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

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

Lehi's Dream and Recovery -a Post by Danny

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

This is me... handing off the mic.

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

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

 

(via nealmd.com)

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

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

Lehi doesn't hesitate. He says:

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

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

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

  

(via lds.org)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(via ldswomenofgod.com)

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

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

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

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

 

(via mormonmatters.org)

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