THAT'S a Knife

Have you ever seen a cattle trail?
Cows and horses are creatures of habit.  They live near water of some kind and always take the same path to it.

Yesterday, my Dad called me from his hospital room and asked if I would please run out and take some pictures of his horses.  He wanted to show them to his Doctor.  I went to a few different locations because Dad keeps a few here and a few there...

His favorite stud horse resides at the Lower Field.  I have to make it sound really fancy because the Lower Field where the stud resides is actually a wide open field next to the town sewer pond.
Not exactly fancy.
But we like to pretend.

The ground is always unpredictable in that field.  In some places you can barely walk because it's been flooded, horses have made deep tracks in the mud, and then it's dried up... pockets and holes and all.  Yesterday when I pulled up to the Lower Field, the horses were nowhere in sight.  I tried honking and clicking my tongue.  I even went so far as to desperately call their horsey names out.
But horses are high-falutin' and they refuse to respond to rude callers... as is especially the case in the residents of the Lower Field.

Eventually, I climbed carefully over the fence (barbed wire!) and hunted them down.
It didn't take long to spot them once I was inside:

As I headed in their direction, my foot fell in one hole, and I stumbled to gain balance.  Just then I teetered into another hole.
And then I saw it: The Trail.  I hopped quickly over to their sturdy, well-worth path, and I didn't stumble anymore.

It was comfortable and easy.  The next thing I knew, they were on the path as well and we met halfway.
Which is to say: they plowed right past me to the bucket of oats my son was guarding.

My marriage is a well beaten cattle trail.
I've lived so long one way.  The dynamic has always been the same: same patterns, same behaviors, same responses.
And guess what?  It isn't going so well!

At the end of July, I jumped off the cattle trail.  I jumped into the holes and pockets.  I stumbled and I swore a few times.  I cried and I became frustrated.
But I kept at it... what's more, I went over the same places again and again and again.
I began making my very own... new trail.

But the ground is untamed, wild, and scary.  It takes more than one going-over to make a true cattle trail.
It isn't like I can take one day and focus on making a new trail... I've got to start making a new habit, a new trail, a new lifestyle that involves CHANGE  -the everyday kind of change.

The holes aren't as steep today, but they're still there.  I keep faltering and failing.
But on that path, I am free.  I can choose for myself.  I can skip or jump or trudge or swear or let or my hair down or roll around on the ground until I'm covered in dust.

In the last few weeks, I strayed from my path and found myself walking The Old Path.  The Old Path involves letting choices be made instead of my making them.  I've been feeling the tightness in my chest, the stress, the second-guessing.
It's frustrating.  It's FRUSTRATING!

The path that is worn and comfortable is also maddening because it never actually leads to living water... it just leads in circles... waterless, nutrient-void, Godless, insanity-inducing circles.
And there is absolutely NO holes... it's a predictable path that winds around and around and around and around.

Finding myself on the old path was no fun.
It made me throw up my hands at me, at my husband, at the Lord, at porn, at the UNIVERSE!  I cried out from the depths of my soul... and I said!

ugh.

And then I stepped off of the predictable trail and went back into the fray of potholes, rattlesnakes, mosquitoes, weeds, and hard work.
"I just want a machete," I bemoaned to my sponsor, "I don't just want to go back to my new path and trudge methodically.  I want to tear it up and REALLY make it count today."

She said I could.
Because I can't physically go out into a field and trample around (well, I could... but what good would it do?) I have no physical representation of the work I'm trying to do.
There is no physical evidence of SOUL work -no immediate evidence, anyway.

And this is why I ordered a gaggle of hatchet charms.
One is for me to wear on days like today.  The others are for me to give away to women who have machete and hatchet days -days where they need to chop and tear at their new path.  Days where they FIGHT with every fiber in their life blood for the prospect of FREEDOM.

 To have physical representation of the hard work I'm doing is important to me.

This is hard stuff.  This is really hard stuff.  I never thought I would find myself so beaten down that I would have to FIGHT to stand up for my choices and for my right to follow what I feel is right.

In Addorecovery, we were told that we had been trained to ignore our instincts.  Seeing the truth of that in my own life has been gut-wrenching, heart breaking and just AWFUL.  No one wants to look in the mirror and say, "So, I've been letting you down for 9 years..."

Today I can look in the mirror and say, "So, I've been letting you down this last week, but I didn't realize it.  Now I do.  So it will stop now."
Well, I don't say that out LOUD.  I just put my hatchet on, and the Mirror Me understands.

Do you want a hatchet charm too?
I'm too poor to put one on a chain, but I'm happy to send you a single, solo, lonesome but POWERFUL little hatchet charm.

It will make you strong.
Swearsies.

Just leave me a comment telling me you'd like one, and I'll pick a name out of a hat.  Or I'll put the names in a bucket of oats and let the horses choose! Ha!
(Or email me if you're not comfortable leaving a comment... brabadges@hotmail.com)

Then Comes the Anger

Earlier this month, we had our 9-year anniversary. 
During those nine years, I've watched other couples -I've watched how they communicated, how they made decisions, how they interacted.  I was often struck with how brave other wives were... they would buy things without asking their husbands first, make decisions on their own, even go so far as to lay down rules about what they were or were not comfortable with (like violent video games).  They offered up advice that was heard.  They could listen to advice and still think for themselves.  They were equals in their marriage... a concept that had eluded our marriage.

I wanted that.  I wanted it badly.
And as I got into recovery and started to see just how much damage had been done by addiction, I began grieving.
Those grieving days were awful days in our home.  The children ate a lot of cold cereal, and I shed a lot of tears.
I moved into acceptance, and I was relieved to feel that my grieving was -for the most part -over.

But guess what?
I skipped a step.

In the process of observing other couples, I saw one very fascinating trend: the couples I admired the most were upfront with each other -they weren't afraid of reactions or repercussions.  They were honest with each other outright.  They got MAD at each other.
I just couldn't DO that.  I couldn't get mad at my husband.  I couldn't!  I was too scared.  I wasn't strong enough to handle his reaction.  Instead of getting upset with him or at him, I'd walk away and shove the anger down until I couldn't feel it anymore and then I would go and talk things over with him.
Calmly.

Quick question: what happens when you shove emotions down?  Anyone?

Yeah.  They rise up and wail later on.  And they're usually worse than they were when you first shoved them.

Since I snagged up a sponsor and a therapist, my recovery has had some really awesome direction.  It's GOING places.  One of the biggest blessings from it all is that fear and shame are being stripped away.

As fear and shame have stripped away, I've started getting angry.  I'm not scared of my husband anymore.  I'm MAD at him. 

I accept where our relationship is at, but I'm mad about it.
I'm angry because I'm still grieving a healthy relationship.  I feel cheated, and I feel short-changed.  I feel all of these rotten emotions that I felt earlier in my recovery.
When I first felt them, I denied them, ignored them, felt sad about them, wept bitter tears...

And now I'm mad about them.

I think it's wonderful.
I'm finally strong enough to be honest about my every emotion.

I finally feel safe enough to say what I'm thinking when I'm thinking it.

I'm finally -for the first time in NINE years -being TRUE TO MYSELF.
And if that means trudging through a trench of anger, I'll do it.
It's worth it.

There's nothing more rewarding than the freedom that comes from being true to myself.  

With Grace

No one wants help.
Everyone wants to be in control.

We're like a bunch of toddlers, running amok with bank accounts to do our bidding thinking we are somehow in control of life.  We provide ourselves with our needs and we find our own answers. 
God is an antiquated notion, filed away with the smell of Grandma's face cream and homemade bread.
"Comforting, but optional."

And on we blindly go: buying and selling with information at our fingertips.

But things always happen.  Things fall apart.  Information fails us.  Money can't help us. 

We need help.
We aren't in control.

It's addiction, it's accidents, it's cancer, it's house fires and earthquakes and idle Thursdays turned horrific.

Sometimes gently, sometimes firmly, always consistently, the Lord always reminds us:
You are not the boss of this house.

No matter the road, the Lord gives us all the opportunity to learn to accept help gracefully.
He will help.
Angels seen and unseen will help.
Call, ask, receive.

With grace.

Healing for the Afflicted

via theclericalerror.com

I have a friend who was recently diagnosed with cancer. 

They went in and operated on her, removed it, and she's working on recovering now.  Because of the form of cancer she had, she hasn't had to do radiation or chemo.  The cancer was in her thyroid.   And now it's not.
Because she no longer HAS a thyroid.

She wrote about an experience she had soon after her surgery.  A team of two women work in the hospital where my friend had her surgery.  They volunteer their time to give massages and facials to cancer patients.  My friend was the recipient of a free facial, hand massage, foot massage, face massage and make up application.  When she left, she was sent away with a bag of healing gifts: yoga pants, tank top...

And she can go back whenever she feels a need.  for free.

Isn't that amazing?  That was my first thought.  How amazing that there's people out there running facilities like that.  And wonderful. 

And then part of me -the spoiled, pouty child in me -rose up and felt the pang.

What about ME?

Things are my house are a mess right now -a mess in every rotten sense of the word.  There's. STUFF. Everywhere.  I work in the mornings.  He works in the nights.  We pass each other in the driveway as I come home and he heads out.  When we DO have time to talk, it's about addiction and recovery.
We are working through so many emotions, so many old patterns.
Awareness is fairly SEEPING through every nook and cranny of This Old House.

I've become The World's Biggest Flake in forgetting to reply to emails or talk to the Booster Club about serving a luncheon at our class reunion this fall.
I forgot to invite a bunch of people to my son's birthday party last night.
I'm hurting others with my forgetfulness.  I'm offending people.
Because THEY DON'T KNOW... they don't KNOW what's going on over here!

Cleaning my house takes every ounce of energy I have.
Everything feels HEAVY.

Can't someone just remove my thyroid and then let's be done with it?  Can't the cut be in a visible place?  Can't there be a team of two women who call ME and offer to rub my feet and hands and face and give me yoga pants?


This lights a fire under my arse, and has inspired me to start saving my pennies so I can make a difference to other women who need a lift when hard things hit them -hard things that aren't obvious, that don't leave scars or medical records.
But then I realized: what difference will it make if I don't KNOW WHO NEEDS IT?

Will there ever come a day where this is talked about?  When shame will be stifled?  When people will stop saying things like "one's life should be kept to one's self"? (and yes, I said that in my best Mockery Sarcasm voice.  Mockery Sarcasm is my cynical persona).

I wish I had a point in this post.  I wish I didn't sound like a spoiled brat.  I've even started this post a few times and not published it because it made me sound Whiny Brat (my best PMS persona).

After I told my husband I was through investing in our marriage, I went to church and confessed to someone close to me that I'd had a hard week. 
"But at least you don't have a tumor in your head, right?" they responded, referring to a trial someone else in our Stake was experiencing.

At least a tumor is tangible.  At least people TALK about tumors.  There's fund raisers and a congregation of prayers!
Is it because they didn't CHOOSE to have a tumor?  But those who CHOOSE to have an addiction are somehow hushed up and herded out of sight?  What about those of us who live with someone with an addiction?
We didn't CHOOSE it.  And yet we're herded away?  WHY is there even herding going ON?

It's ridiculous that we don't talk about this.
That's all I'm saying.

I'm Angry Pants today.

The best medication will be a donation, best taken with a tall glass of chocolate milk.  You should donate to.  Angry Pants commands:

Nothing Tastes as Good

When I was in the "fun" phase of losing as much weight as I could in hopes of being shexy, I printed up a bunch of slips of paper and taped them to my cupboards in a humanishly weak effort to white-knuckle my way into giving up cookie dough for good.
"Nothing tastes as good as it feels to be thin," they said.

I used pink ink and a curly-girly font.

It was a lost cause.  The harsh reality is that I can make cookie dough with my EYES CLOSED thereby avoiding any and all forms of reading, be they recipe or daunting little dieting mottos.

Today I was triggered, angry, PMSing and hungry.  It all added up to me wanting to escape into something... I sat down at my computer and wondered what TV show I could stream.

I instantly thought of a show I gave up a few months ago.  If I tell you what it is, will you promise not to make fun?  It's Switched at Birth.  Wait... did I already tell you that?  Apparently, I have no shame.  Which, I'm learning, is IDEAL.  So... yay!

Anyway, the show has strayed from the original idea of the complexities of mixed families and physical challenges to boyfriend stealing and Jesus-hating.
Well, not Jesus-hating EXACTLY.  But it felt that way sometimes... like Jesus is some old fashioned idea that only weirdies buy into.

It isn't just Switched at Birth I've given up.  It's a lot more than that.  It's any and all movies that make me uncomfy.  It's music that makes me squirm.
I can NEVER make it to the radio dial fast enough to keep Blake Shelton from singing about "hands down, best ever, make up sex."
Ick! Abort!  ABORT!

Is it because I'm suddenly the biggest square on the block? 
Or is it because my life is so heavy and complicated right now that I absolutely can not gamble with the idea of NOT having the Spirit with me?

Because I'm big into movies (I love stories!) and television shows (I LOVE stories), I always thought one of the hardest things for me to give up would be my shows.  But as it turns out, it isn't hard.  I'm not pining for them or struggling or constantly thinking about what I'm missing.

I'm kicking it with animated flicks and Andy Griffith and Bonanza and LOVING basking in my old classic movies.

And really: no fleeting emotion ever feels as good as having the Spirit with you.
It's not worth the trade.

The jury is still out on the cookie dough though...

Under Pressure

I once watched an ENTIRE VH1 episode about how Vanilla Ice was sued because he ripped off Queen's song titled "Under Pressure" for his immortal hit, "Ice Ice Baby" and while I'll never get those thirty minutes back, I'll always have some trivia bragging rights.

I'm sort of brilliant and pathetic all at once.


I used to impress the world with my ability to sing "Ice Ice Baby" from memory. Not everyone could do that, you know... it's reserved for a special class of the Pathetically Brilliant American Population.
Now I spend my time singing other songs, less rap-related and more Pixar-related.
These days, I've been singing Queen's song with a brilliantly ripped-off beat.

Under Pressure.

Throughout my life, pressure has been a healthy motivator.  It helped me complete homework assignments, take tests, think critically, give speeches!

But I recently came to some realizations about pressure and the part it has played in my marriage.  I'm so grateful the realizations came NOW instead of five years ago.

If I had realized five years ago that I'd spent my marriage feeling pressured to have sex, pressured to perform, pressure to look like a porn star, pressure to behave approvingly, pressure to be "perfect"... I probably would have left my husband in a fit of anger.  I always knew I felt some degree of it along the way, but now I recognize the FULL degree of just how much Pressure has stolen my precious experiences, my sacred memories.  It's as bad as porn at stealthily creeping in and robbing my brain!

The fact that I've realized it now -now that I'm on Step 8 and have almost three years of recovery -has made a big difference in how I've processed this realization.  I'm able to write about it, talk about it to my sponsor, pray about it, honestly voice to my husband when I feel Pressure start to creep in, even if there's no call for it.
Where does the pressure come from?  Him?  Me?  Satan? Society?
Honestly.  Does it matter?
I don't think it does.  The point is, I'm highly triggered over anything remotely pressure-y lately.

I didn't order a box of peaches this year.  Wanna know why?  Because a box of peaches = pressure to can.  And if I don't can, the peaches will taunt me from their box... I'm serious.  Dead serious.  Pressure Peaches are not happening in 2013.

I've given up a few other pressurey activities which a lady never mentions.

I can feel myself bordering on Alicia's version of Rebellion which is mild enough that only dogs and very small children can actually hear it.  But I know it's there.  And God knows it's there.
And that's all that matters.
The Pressure Grooves in my brain are deep-rooted.  I'm running in the other direction for a spell to give my pressure grooves a fighting chance to heal.
It won't last forever, probably.

And my hopes are that in a little while I'll be back to using Pressure as a healthy motivator... My brain will be healed enough to give speeches on the fly like it used to.  It will toss out research papers the night before and not even flinch when asked to talk in church.
Pressure used to be my friendly, slightly-weaker-than-me rival.
In the last nine years, it's turned ugly.  It's taken cheap shots and cheated.

I believe the Lord can heal my pressure issues.  I believe someday that Pressure will once again be healthy.

In the meantime, I'm going to let my hair down and take naps.
Or, as my buddy says, "Let's kick it."

Paralysis

A new friend recently referred me to a quote that has been forefront in my mind for the last week.  It concerns spiritual paralysis.  It's taken from a book When Life Gets Hard, written by Meg Johnson.

"Being spiritually "able" requires very simple steps - the kind of answers always given in Primary.  Praying, reading scriptures, and being nice to others all invite the Holy Ghost and spiritual ability.  Likewise, spiritual paralysis happens with similar simplicity." 

"Being spiritually paralyzed is not a disability I can handle."

"Those who are spiritually disabled look at us as "self-righteous" and "haughty" when we refuse to join them in their unfair judgements, gossip, parties, movies and every other activity that would numb us spiritually.  They wallow selfishly in their spiritual paralysis.  They know where the path is but choose to stay spiritually disabled.  They do not wish to join us, instead, despise us for our valiance and humility - and ability."

Last night, the kids gathered around my iPad and we streamed a Mormon Message.  I was struck at the parallel I found.  Brittany has organs inside her body that are paralyzed.  Watching her handle her condition is remarkable.
Every morning, she administers medications.  She makes her own food.  She can't eat solid food like everyone else -everyone around her is FINE to eat solid food.  It doesn't affect them like it affects Brittany. She makes her own food.  She has tubes attached to her.  All of her food and medicines are stored in a backpack and she wears the backpack with her wherever she goes. 
Because she packs her backpack, she is free.  Her backpack keeps her safe and able.  Because Brittany works so hard on self-care and packing her backpack, her mind and body are free to magnify her talents and give of herself.

Do we not all wear backpacks?  They might not be visible to the naked eye, but they are there.  Every morning, we fill ourselves with light: prayer, reading, music.  We strap inspiration to our backs, we put the Savior in our packs.  Proverbial feeding tubes keeps the nourishment coming constantly.
If we fail to do so, we will become paralyzed.



Meg Johnson goes on:
"As a modern-day Daniel, you have two places to pray- hidden in your closet or right in front of the window.  Sometimes it is right to pray in your closets, but in this instance, being subtle about your standards and still keeping them -  like closing your eyes during the bad scenes - may not be enough.  But if you "pray in front of the window" and stand up in the middle of the show to crawl over everyone in the audience to get out, people might not be so happy with you.

Sometimes when we "pray in front of our window", we're considered arrogant and self-righteous.  Sometimes our friends won't understand our standards.  Sometimes our family will be angry at us for reminding them of our standards.  God does not always close their mouths.

Sometimes those who see our righteous example are not softened, sometimes they are hardened against us."

"As modern-day Daniels, what do we say in our prayers?  Do we ask that the lions' mouths will be closed?  Or do we ask for thicker skin?"

"....courage is not the same as bravery.  When we're brave, we are fearless and confident.  But I rarely feel that way.  Like you, I know people who dislike it when I pray at my window.  I fear that those lions may eat me and that the fires will burn me - but I fear God more.  In my fear, I have little room for bravery.

But I have room for courage.  Courage is not the absence of fear.  Rather, it is the willingness and determination to do what needs doing anyway - despite how we feel.  With courage, we can fall down on our knees right in front of our window, standing tall in our commitment to righteousness, and let the lions eat us.

With courage, we can walk through the fires that burn, and as we do, we will walk with God.  As we are courageous, we will know that if lions eat us, we're going to taste good because the fruits of the Spirit are sweet!

So let the lions eat us as we bear our testimony with our actions and pray in front of our windows.  Let the fires burn us to a standard-waving crisp!  There is nothing on our trail - no lion, no fire, no rock - that we can't handle when we walk with God, even if we can't walk."

As I work to create new pathways in my life and brain, I know that I need thicker skin.
I know that I DO have the courage to fear God more than man if I will but to my feet into action.
I realize the importance of my feeding tubes.
I see the threat of spiritual paralysis -it's debilitating and very real.

And as a good friend once told me:
You work your life around recovery, not recovery around your life.
I might add: even if it means doing it in front of the window.

(Thank you, Jill, for sending me that amazing quote!)

Attacking Hearts

Last night I was so tired.

I didn't have a chance to sit down all day, and when I finally DID sit down at 9 pm, it was only to activate online banking for my new account.  I was so tired, I couldn't enter the right information in the right places.  After taking a step back and letting my mind relax on facebook and recovery blogs, I went back to the banking site and worked it all out. 

And then I curled up with my scriptures.  I haven't been reading them as much lately.  I still read, but lately I've been delving into conference talks and BYU addresses.  Last night I felt strongly prompted to open my scriptures... not my Gospel Library app, but my actual, physical, real-life, pages-turn, SCRIPTURES.  I didn't know why.  My brain was fairly fried.  What could the Lord possibly have to show my in this state?  Maybe He wanted me to fall asleep quickly and He knows reading will do it?
I've never had a "and then I opened my scriptures and THERE was my answer" moment.

But last night.
I used the last ounce of energy I had to pull my Book of Mormon out, and I let it fall open on my lap.  It opened to the Book of Helaman.  I looked down and began reading Chapter 1.  As I read, my heart beat faster, the words spoke peace to my soul.  Answers to questions I didn't know I had bounced up from the words and presented themselves to me.

Recently, I opened up to someone.  I told them my story.  They were sweet and supportive and also... critical.  The Lord has let me know that TALKING is what He would have me do.  I can tell you right now... talking is NOT what I WANT to do because I'm scared of what others will think, but I feel the power of the Lord.  I've never felt this way before.  I've never felt the fearlessness of the Lord permeating my soul... it overpowers my mortal fear.  There's no shame.  There's clarity, calm, concern, love... and I KNOW this is what I must do. 

And as I opened up, I was warned against it.  It might do more harm than good. 
The source of this advice is what made it so hard to hear -I trust this person, look up to them, value them, and have looked to them often as a source worthy of emulating in many ways.  I was shook.  I drove home with a black pit in my stomach, wondering if perhaps I had misunderstood the Lord, if I had talked too much, if I had ruined something.
I doubted.

The experience was a great marker tool for me -it really helped me understand where I really am when it comes to my great fear of the Natural Man.  I can see I have work to do, and honestly?  I think I ALWAYS will have work to do there.  It's one aspect of my life I really struggle with.  I see improvement, but this will be a life-long journey for Alicia.

As I read the story of the Nephites and their wars, I SAW myself.  I saw my small town.  I saw the familiarity between the wars fought in and around Zarahemla and the war waging in this corner of the Internet.

We're used to hearing the name "Coriantumr." 
But what about the name, "Tubaloth."  Do you recall that name?  I didn't.

Tubaloth was the King of the Lamanites.  He employed Coriantumr to fight his battles against the Nephites... indeed, he engaged Coriantumr in fighting a war for him.  He supplied him with an army. 
He stirred his people up to anger against the Nephites.

In the meantime, the Nephites were doing a smash bang up job of stirring themselves up to anger (just typing that out makes me want to quote, "If we were your kids, we'd punish ourselves!")... there had been murders and secrets and contentions and divisions among the people.

In other words, the Nephites in Zarahemla were RIPE.
The Lamanites were CUNNING.

And then verse 18: 
And it came to pass that because of so much contention and so much difficulty in the government, that they had not kept sufficient guards in the land of Zarahemla; for they had supposed that the Lamanites durst not come into the heart of their lands to attack that great city Zarahemla.

That last sentence... did you SEE it?! 
"They had supposed that the Lamanites durst not come into the heart of their lands to attack that great city Zarahemla."

I've HEARD THIS BEFORE!!!  I mean, it's been worded a little different but it sounds something like, "It will never happen to me." or "my kids would never" or "the youth HERE would never" or "My husband would never" or "I love living here... it's so pure."

Whether you define "great city" as a single person or an actual city or family... you cannot let your guard down. 
Tubaloth is akin to Satan.
Coriantumr is akin to Pornography and Lust.

They don't attack from the outskirts of our beings... they attack at the heart, from the inside.  It's a secretive attack that stems from our defenseless center and billows out into an explosive, destructive genocide.

And my talking will do more good than harm.  What stronger reassurance could I have?  Could the Lord be more plain?
The Source is always the best source.

And we -my precious brothers and solid sisters -ARE SOLDIERS.  We are warriors in this battle of souls.

We are Teancums and Moronihahs and Esthers.  We are busting down doors.  We are standing in lion's dens.  There is fire at our feet and demons at our back.

We will fight on.
We will fight together.
And we will fight out loud, in the name of Liberty, in the name of Love, in the name of God.

 

ldsliberty.org

Ten Rules

Clingy

I was sure I could love him enough.
Fill the void.
BE ENOUGH.

I clobbered him with affection, baskets full of sap... I tried losing weight, spicing it up, baking, cleaning.
It wasn't enough.  I wasn't enough.

So I pushed harder, farther, NEVER CONTENT with not being enough.  I had always been enough.  Something like PORN wasn't about to best me. 
I set aside myself.  The only thing that mattered was being enough, being available at all times. 
If porn made him happy, I would be porn.  I would be sexy, available AT ALL TIMES, exciting, new, fresh...

Just typing that truth out makes me hurt.  Did I really DO that?  Yes.  Yes, I did do that.

I would follow him around the house. Available. I wouldn't wear it if he didn't like it, wouldn't bake it if he didn't approve.  I was the first to reach over in the morning and hold his hand... always saying "I love you."  I said it so much, so frequently, it seemed overused and therefore not as sincerely reciprocated (probably because he didn't know how to love back?).
Could he SEE how much I loved him?
Could he FEEL it?
His actions didn't warrant the response I desired, so what did I do?

I pushed harder, farther...
But resentment began to creep in.  I resented him.  I shoved it down. 
Then rejection, dejection, depression, self-loathing began to creep in. 

This weekend, I initiated some kissing.  THAT'S IT.  KISSING.  I reached out for his hand first thing in the morning.

That's all it took to dredge up all of those awful, moldy, rotten old emotions.

I recoiled.  The wave of emotions ran through and through and through me.  Stupid triggers.  STUPID trauma.  STUPID.

I started thinking about detaching.  Detaching is hard.  So many times, I've forced detaching.  I've pulled away even when all I wanted to do was check his phone.  I've left the room, even when all I wanted to do was stay and manipulate information out of him.

As the old emotions of rejection and depression coursed through my soul, I realized something:

Detaching isn't hard.  Detachment is simply the natural consequence of emotional health.  If I turn to my talents and interests (to Heavenly Father)... if I have personal goals and dreams... if I focus on my health and self-improvement, I WILL BE detached.

It won't be forced or complicated or over-thought.
It will just... BE.
And I will soar.

What more?  I WILL BE ENOUGH, and I will see that there never, ever, EVER was a time that I wasn't.
EVER.

EV.
ER.