Friday, December 13, 2013

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.
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?


  1. Great description. I'm praying for you. You are loved & are in the prayers of many who understand the battle and the grime and the loss and the strange feeling of surrender. Do the things you would do if the pain was terminal, if you can. Give the letters as wedding gifts. Plan your funeral, it can only help, it won't hurt anything. ♡♡♡

    1. Thanks :) I did take some time to write letters... just not the kind for my kids, more the angry kind. And yes, surrender does feel strange right up until you feel the freedom!

  2. I've never commented on your blog, but I've read every post. I totally understand how you could wish for cancer. I'm new to the WoPA world, but shortly after D-day I discovered a rapidly changing freckle. I had it removed and biopsied. I cried and was so disappointed when the results came back normal. I had planned on not taking any action if it come back as cancer and not telling my husband until it was too late. It seemed like a welcome finish line when there didn't appear to be any hope of an end to the pain the discovery had caused. That is a crappy place to be and I'm sorry you had to be there. I hope things get better for you.

    1. Your words mean so much to me -I've come back and read them over and over again since Friday and they've brought my comfort. It is SO validating to know there's women out there who are in so much pain that death seems like an acceptable escape route. THAT is how bad it hurts! I'm not weak! I'm not "less than"... It really IS hard! Thank you for validating that and for speaking up. Your words were heaven sent -and I appreciate you.

  3. I am so sorry. I am here if there is anything I can do.

  4. Replies
    1. Thanks so much, Nate -I'm so glad you blog. So very glad. So glad you're in our lives right now.

  5. I love your blog posts. You have a gift to say it like it is. May many blessings rain upon your head...and stay healthy so you can keep encouraging the rest of us.

    1. Oh thank you. The Lord's hand is SO VERY MUCH in my life right now. I don't understand how He can be so intimately aware of me, and I need to write it down so I can recall it later when I feel as if the Heavens are sealed. All I can say is that if He knows ME so very intimately, He knows YOU equally as well. You are loved. Thank you.

  6. Replies
    1. Thank so much, lady!!!!!!!! Thank you SO much.

  7. There is never any shame in being real with how you really feel. And yes, I asked God to take me this week too.

    I think you are a champ...even if this crap absolutely flattens you.