I Don't Know Stuff

They say we're living in The Information Age.

But I really think we're living in The Answer Age.

Everyday I'm bombarded with answers!  They blow up my facebook feed, headlines, even my phone line.
Stay at home as a mother.
But don't.  Don't stay at home.
Let babies sleep, but wake them up.  Make them take naps -no wait, DON'T.
Wear pants to church!  But also remember that you should absolutely NEVER wear pants to church, and there's a bunch of meme pics of Elder Holland to back it up.
Give cake to gays!  But for the love, don't EVER bake a cake for gays.

There's answers for addiction, for relationships, for marriage, for parenting, for lifestyles!

A few days ago, I began to be bothered.  NOT by the insane amount of answers being shoved into my face at any given moment (because we all know you don't have to be online to have someone have answers for you!) but because I felt stupid.

STOOPID.

In the sea of answers, I seem only to be on the receiving end.
And that must mean -by default -that I am stupid.  Right?
All right, so that's a false belief, but before you diagnose me and give me an answer, please just listen for a few minutes...

I don't have the answers to addiction.  I don't have the pathway down.  I can't sit here and type out what you should be doing or shouldn't be doing or what to tell your Bishop or which boundary you need.  I can't laden you with comforting answers or set you on a path or put you on my back and carry you down my path, expecting you to see the RIGHTNESS of it all as you observe.

Because all I have is questions.

Through this whole thing, I've resigned myself to a few unchangeable truths in my own life.

1) I really don't know anything which doesn't make me stupid -rather, it sets me free.
2) God knows everything.
3) He doesn't tell me everything, and I reserve the right to resent Him for it now and then instead of handling this truth how I feel I'm "supposed" to (which is to stuff my anger down and go to church.  Now I shake my fist to the sky and go to church which is different because my stress level has gone down.  Follow?  No?  That's okay.  I barely follow and I'm living it).

In the past week and a half, I have bit laid out flat with all kinds of stuff that makes me mad at God, one of which being my brother and his wife who suffered through 7 years of infertility and the eventual loss of their second child to a heart condition have now lost a baby at 20 weeks gestation.
Twenty weeks of development, not only of her frail body but of her parents' hopes and dreams, her older siblings hopes and dreams... gone.  Just very, very gone.

That on top of a few other, "are you KIDDING me?"s has brought me and my depression to a place where I'm sort of just moving through it all, not reacting or feeling like myself, but moving from appointment to appointment -gratefully overwhelmed with doing so I can't be overwhelmed with FEELING.
God has given me too much to do because He knows if I weren't doing, I'd simply be in bed, covers over head.
That is ONE thing He's let me know.
"Just keep going forward," He said to me when I asked Him if my schedule was too full.  Ahhhh, HE filled it for me.  My gift of having things to live for.

But as I got ready for work on Tuesday and felt anger toward Him for not letting me know WHY our family is suffering in so many ways, a good friend a few states away (I think you know her as Jane) sent a poem my way that read:

"I SHALL know why, when time is over,
And I have ceased to wonder why;
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky.
He will tell me what Peter promised,
And I, for wonder at his woe,
I shall forget the drop of anguish
That scalds me now, that scalds me now. "
~Emily Dickinson

My answers lie where Emily's lie: in heaven.  Even reading that poem minutes after shaking my fist to the sky, I found God giving me my #3 truth all over again.
I KNOW, Alicia.  I KNOW, so don't worry so much.  Just keep asking questions.

Truth #4:
I have no answers for you.  I will respect you enough to let you tell your own story and find your own answers while simply sharing my story.

My days are filled with me content to not know enough to participate in online arguments, happy in my question quest, but reserving the right to let God know how irritating it is that He keeps so much to himself even though I truly know what a beautiful gift it actually is.
Not all beautiful gifts are 100% irritation-less.
 (*cough* kids *cough*)

Truth #5:
I used to have answers.  I used to give advice and hand out "HERE'S THE WAY" tickets.  And sometimes letting go of that makes me feel dumb.

But abandoning a world where I insist on having answers has freed me.
There's no pressure anymore.

There's only a world of exploring questions and asking God for my own truth.

I won't wear pants to church, but will you?
I would totally bake a cake for a gay couple but don't hold an opinion on your answer to the same situation.
I let my baby sleep, but would you?

I can't walk you through this path of addiction.  But I can tell you that God has walked me through it.  And sometimes I pretend He sings songs to me... songs about calling and answers.
I smile each time I hear the line, "and if you court this disaster, I'll point you home."
What?  Me?  Court disaster?  Please...
(By the way, it's 8:30 in the morning, and I'm currently dealing with the stench of burned milk.  I forgot I let the burner on, okay?  It happens.)




This is me coming to acceptance with not having answers and owning that THAT doesn't make me -by default -shallow, dumb, stupid, or clueless.

It makes me free.

Mirrors of Me

I cleaned the Temple on Saturday night.

I really love cleaning the Temple, and it's all totally selfish.  I love the quiet busy-ness of it -how there's hardly anyone around and there's work to be done.  I love getting my hands on the details of the Temple without a sweet elderly lady standing nearby shooting me a weirded out eye... yes, cleaning the Temple means I can take time to study the patterns in the carpet, the stitching in the doilies, the cool room tucked under the staircase.

I always, always learn something when I clean the Temple.

(I make it sound like I go ALL the time.  I don't.  I've been twice.  Twice whole times.)

Saturday night, Danny and I stole away to the Temple, a 45 minute drive away. 

On the drive over, Danny said something that really upset me.  Like... the kind of thing that makes you want to open the car door and just rolllllll on outta there.  But I couldn't. 
I was hurt, and I wanted to be alone.  I changed into my Temple Dress (they don't make those awesome white scrubs long enough for my legs-which-know-no-bounds), got my cleaning assignment and went to it... alone.  My heart was ICE cold, and it felt good to really pour my energy into cleaning.

I went into the Bride's room and wiped the table tops off.  I dusted the chairs, and I looked at the beautiful picture of Esther hanging up.
Brave Esther.
I could feel emotions stirring inside of me that chipped away at my Ice Heart.
Down the hallway I went, dusting pictures that each took a turn chipping away, chipping away, chipping away.
I finally ended up at the end of the hallway, standing next to a painting of the Savior, His arms outstretched, beckoning.  And the chipped ice began to melt.
A very little.

I made my way into the Celestial Room to dust, and the second I walked through the door the Ice around my heart completely vaporized, vanished!  I felt only peace, only calm... but there were no pictures!
I'd never noticed it before.  There wasn't one single painting hanging in the Celestial Room.

I carefully ran a dry cloth over the back of the couches and chairs, careful not to mess too much with the gold leafing going on.  I bent down to dust the legs of a chair, and as I came up I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the giant hanging mirrors.

And there it was.

THERE was the painting that hung in Heaven.

It was me.

All of the paintings that decorated the hallways brought me close -in feeling and emotion -to Heaven.  But there in the Celestial Room, there was no need of bringing my emotions closer to Heaven... because I was IN Heaven, and staring back at me was proof that Heaven simply wasn't complete without me.

Heaven isn't complete without his Children.  ANY of His children.

Fear Not, I am With Thee.
O Be Not Dismayed
For I am Thy God
And Will Still Give Thee Aid.

I heard His words penetrate my soul, His ever-familiar means of communicating through hymns brought me comfort.

I moved again across the room to a different table, soaking up the time I had completely alone in the Celestial Room.

As I made my way around, I again caught a glimpse of myself in the OTHER gigantic mirror.  Again, words were spoken to my soul, but this time it was the voice of my first sponsor.

"It's between you and God, Alicia.  This is only between you and God."

And there -alone in the closest space to Heaven on earth -I felt the truth of it.

Lately, I've struggled with that... with well-intentioned (?  sometimes I wonder) people who know what's going on in my life trying to reason me out of my hurt, minimize it, generalize it, turn it into some distant statistic.

It always leaves me wondering WHY I'm so weak and can't just pick up and be grateful that Danny didn't "actually" sleep with someone else.

Seriously?  Two sarcastic thumbs up!

It's been really difficult for me to narrow my support circle because I've only EVER expanded it, and it's even harder to LET GO of people who just don't get it, who won't get it, and who only serve as anti-Serenities.

But really? This isn't about my support circle or my family or even my husband.
It's about me and God and the mirrors that hang in the Heavenly Room that let me know:

On the walls of Heaven hang the likenesses of brave Alicias.

And in this moment right now, today: that's all that matters to me.

On a Binge

Isn't there something in all of this addiction education about the part of our brain that regulates when we tell ourselves "no"?
I think there is.  I'm too tired to Google it, frankly.  Want to know why?

Because.
I just spent the last.
TWO.
DAYS.
Watching an entire television series.

Granted, the series only lasted a season... as it should have because it was total malarkey -but still:  STILL.

I didn't tell my brain "no."  Not even once.  I had a stomach bug yesterday, and I just watched and watched.
And today I didn't have a stomach bug, but I watched some more.

Last week (or was it two weeks ago?) I watched 6 hours of a British TV show.  CHAINFULLY!

I DO this.  I do this.
I love stories.  I love them.  I'm picky about characters, mostly.  Plots?  They could be absolute malarkey (see above ^^^^) but if I fancy the characters, I can't stop watching. 

And just as our infamously immortalized creepy kid-friend says, "I see dead people," I'm here to announce that "I become obsessed over fake people."

In High School, I was religious about Maury and watched so many episodes that I once busted out in the middle of my honors English class with a pretty dead-on "Upset Audience Member" impression that no one ever let me forget.
Was it MY fault Brandon decided to make his book report on Oedipus Rex LIVE and turn it into a really twisted rendition of Jerry Springer involving members of my own peer group?  No!  Okay?  I couldn't help busting out widdit.

Says the crazy, white mathlete.
(and for the record, you could remove the comma between "crazy" and "white" and still have a pretty accurate description of me.)

Which brings me to my next point: I kind of adore acting.
Which is actually -if you think about it -my first point... I love characters.

The truth is I have different personas I bust out on my kids and husband when I get in a rut, when I get tired of hearing my own voice my own way.  I make up stories constantly.

And I watch stories constantly.

I have since I was tiny.  Little.  Little tiny.
When the mother raising you is a brain-trauma survivor and doing her best to simply try and cope with life, you sorta spend a lot of time watching TV.
The good thing is I loved it. (The bad being, of course, that I operated under the false belief that my mother hated me so much she made me watch TV.  I thought she loved me so much she let me watch TV.  So that's something worth celebrating, right?)  I loved every minute of it.  I loved Bonanza the most and Sleeping Beauty on special occasions.  My first crush was MacGuyver and my second was Uncle Jesse from Full House.

And I'm just coming here to tell you this because after spending two days watching a show full of amazing characters and a flimsy plot line...
I am angry.
At myself?  No.  At the STUPID WRITERS OF THE SHOW because the ending was so ridiculous and stupid!  SO STUPID!
My stomach bug was better than that ending.

I'm just a little surprised at the reaction I'm having to this.  Yes, it's partially hormones.  But the other partially is just... me. 

How is my story addiction serving me?
Welp, I can quote a lot of movies and quote them well AND use voices.  So... I'm pretty indispensable in the case of the apocalypse.  Let's face it, with all that mayhem swirling around, the voice of funny-girl entertainment is going to be ranked right up there with the voice of reason and the lady who stowed away a million kegs of lipstick to use for trading.

That's all I have to say tonight.
That I have a problem and this is my "writing about problems" place.
And Bonanza NEVER let me down this hard.  Pa Cartwright would never ever.

And maybe I'll just start writing my own television series about a crazy white comma optional girl who grew up in a rigid home watching hours of CMT and eventually married a man who turned out to have a sexual addiction and the end -whatever it may be -will leave the readers fully satisfied and feeling complete because even in the plot line is flat line, the characters are pretty characteristic.

And really: that's what I love most about my story.
The characters.

Admission: I do binge on my own characters, and I've never had enough of the smallest one these days.  Seriously, can 14 month olds BE anymore awesome?  Best inventions ever. 
When it comes to characters in stories -be they small or tall or addicted or lonely or absolutely certain they were a dog in another life -I can't say no.

I can't say no to characters or people.
It's one of my God qualities, I think.  God feels that way about us... that intense interest.
He just doesn't BINGE CHAINFULLY because He already know how all the series in the whole entire world end.  Super jealous of that, by the way.

I'm just glad that even as I binge on TV and try to figure out the waters of depression (Vitamin D, more walks, leafy greens, surrender y prayer, tissues...) He is here. 
Binging on me always.
It sounds weird, but it brings me an inordinate amount of comforting safety.

The Sound of Silence

I once stood in a sweaty crowd, mashed between some very fat men wearing wife beaters and a few old women with their hair dyed hot pink and neon purple.
I was at a Sex Pistols concert.  And not because I actually LIKED the Sex Pistols but because I wanted to go and have the experience.
I poured back into my college home somewhere around 3 am smelling like beer, and fell asleep content to have checked something off my list.

It was how I came out of my silence.

For years leading up to that experience, I'd been gradually pulling myself out of depression.  High School is just hard.  It is.
I've met ONE person out of at least a thousand that admitted to loving high school, and I felt very sad for them.
Because life -if it's anything -is only UP from there.  And anyone who longs for those years must lead a pretty sad present.

As I emerged from my silence, my darkness... I was life itself.  I lived, really I did.  I lived as much life as life would allow without trespassing too harshly on my own honor. 
I kissed boys I shouldn't have and ended up smashed between sweaty fat men at rock concerts, yes.  But I also wrote poetry, thrift shopped, and gave endlessly into my insatiable appetite for music.

I loved country -classic, modern -it didn't matter.  I loved folksy and artsy and independent and hated how much I loved Eminem (stupid talented stupid).
I went from Reba to Weezer to LFO to Simon and Garfunk.

I thought of them tonight... Simon and Garfunk.

Hello darkness, my old friend.

I find myself plunked back into the place I was before the sex pistols.  I'm in silence and darkness.  I've been fighting it, somehow feeling like this diagnosis was reserved only for the weak -for those who aren't brave or gritty enough to face life with a machete and a She-Ra bra.

Can a step one disclosure really do this to someone?  It isn't like he told me anything I didn't already know -really.  The muchness of it was a blow, I'll admit.  But so much of a blow that it's wounded me THIS DEEP?  Am I really this crazy?  

And then the awful thought came... like it always comes.  A broken record playing in my mind...

What is wrong with me?

And then I remembered that in July my life changed entirely. 
ENTIRELY.
I was gritty and tough.  I DID have some kind of mental machete out.  I forged a path to a job, a bank account.  I rolled my sleeves up and rolled in mud like I'd been born in it. 
But then Grandpa got sick and almost died.
And then my cousin hit a bus.
And then Dad was in ICU at Barrow's Neurological Institute.
Then Danny got a new job and was gone for 9 weeks.
Then Mom got her knee replaced.
Baby's first birthday, Danny's birthday, Christmas, New Year's, my daughter's birthday...

Before I knew it, I was sitting on the couch thinking how impossible bathing my children felt.  How feeding 5 people everyday made scaling a mountain seem like child's play.

What is wrong with me?

In our group therapy last week, we were asked to write down our response -as a loved one -to trauma.  I looked at their list of examples, and dismissed a few including hopelessness.

Oh, no -that's not me.  I'm stronger than hopelessness.  I'm braver than that.  I know better than to be hopeless.

But I looked in my soul mirror last night and finally decided to be honest with myself... I'm going through depression.

I take heart in knowing that I pull out of depression in a pretty loud way, so there's something amazing at the end of this darkness.
 

Hello darkness, my old friend.

I've come to talk with you again.

Because a vision softly creeping,

Left it's seeds while I was sleeping.

And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains

Within the sound of silence.

I can't put a time limit on this, but I can recognize it and stop wondering what's wrong with me.  I can lean into it without letting it beat me.  I can emerge from it Sex Pistols style.

Never Enough

Dear Lust,

I've been chasing you for years -you've been my goal, my focus.  I set my sights and ran, determined to compete with you and come out on top.  But once unleashed, you only fed and grew.

You were ever present, yet elusive.  An air of mystery floated around you.  You surrounded my home, my mind, my soul... so thick it was almost tangible.  Almost.  almost.
When it comes to touch, though, to actually FEELING you -there's no such thing.

You don't feel anything.

You don't allow feeling things to touch you.

I know that now.  I didn't before.  I only spent hours trying to hold you hostage, pick your brain and have power over you -enough to control you, reign you in and manipulate you to what I would have you be.

I just needed more make up, thinner legs, bigger boobs, better style, longer eyelashes, more shapely hips, a bubble butt, bigger lips...
I needed sexier lingerie, smoother legs, longer hair.
Curlier hair!
Straighter hair!

To chase you, I needed to have an unreachable ideal of perfection and mystery all wrapped up into a beaten body.
Your pull was alluring -shimmering pink, soft glow, luscious perfume, music I couldn't get enough of. 
I chased, I chased, I chased... determined to match up, determined to channel Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, and Marilyn Monroe.
Never enough.
Never enough.

Only when I quit chasing you did I have time to really study.  I read, I watched.  I prayed.  I wrote.  I observed.  And though your hollow glow hung heavy around me at all times, I began to see through it.

Beyond the shimmer and the scent was something black.  The shimmer was a tantalizing mask -only a mask. I had been chasing a mask.

The reality of it hit me hard.  I felt angry with you for not being honest with me.  I felt angry with myself for allowing myself to be duped.  I felt frustration.  I felt lost.  I had spent myself on you -I was mostly gone!  Only a shred was left of the girl in me who had dreams beyond you.

Oh, how I nursed that shred.

You stayed -despite having been found out.  For although I had seen through you, I had not yet peeled your mask off.  Your pink aura had shifted to black, but the power and control in you remained strong still.  And that was enough for you... sucking choices, sucking joy, sucking life... sucking the life blood from the veins of a young family.

My shred grew slowly, surely, resolutely. 

I took her to the mirror and put her up so she could see.  Your blackness overcame my body, telling it how awful it looked, criticizing it's every natural curve and crease.
The voices in my head grew and grew, forcing themselves into my soul through any possible opening -each breath I took was filled with black filth: breathing in black, taking it into my vital organs.  Breathing out the woman I'd been nursing...
I tried putting her back in, tried breathing her back into her place, tried to find my footing.

You're never enough
You'll never be enough

Finally, I SPEAK UP.  Throwing everything I know about looking into a mirror in the garbage, I look directly at my body and speak up:

I love you.

I appreciate what you've done.

I love you.

I love you.

You scattered that day.  That is the day I ripped your mask off and found what really lied beneath your mask.  There was no beauty, nothing to be desired... you are an appetite with no fill line, no bottom, no boundaries.

You feast on life and spit back death.
Your grip is fast, firm, and full of lies.

You are gluttony personified, monster-ified.
And I am horrified.

Today I asked my husband a question I "shouldn't" have.  But my therapist told me not to should on myself, so I asked.  I wanted honesty and answers, even if it meant hurting... and in his answer, my husband told me about you.
"Even if you had more ______________, it wouldn't have been enough.  It would never be enough.  Nothing is ever enough for lust."

And that's when it hit me:  For 9 years, I've never been enough.  I've spent 3 years relearning that I AM ENOUGH, but the truth of it is I never will be enough for you. 

I want to feel sad.  I want to feel a pull to BE MORE and BE ENOUGH, but it turns out that for the first time since ripping your mask off, I truly am ready to let go of the chase -to FULLY let go and dispel The Awful Black Cloud from my space and soul.

Lust, I will never be enough for you, and I'm Dear Johning you.
It's not me, it's you.

We are never, ever, ever getting back together.


Like ever.

~Alicia  

Red Pain

I haven't thought about my razors in at least a year.
It's been well over ten years since I threw the last one away, one I had pried carefully from my disposable pack of razors I used to shave my long teenage legs.

I never cut for attention.
I never cut to toe the line between mortality and escape (death).

I just wanted to free the pain.  I felt Red Pain, and when I could see my pain in red, everything made sense again.
I could face school again, as long as no one bumped up against me too close in the hall.
It didn't take long for scars to form, for cuts to open on scars.  Those ones hurt the most, and I knew they did... so I saved those cuts for the pain that hurt the most. 

It was how I freaked out.

It was how I let my two year old baby inside of me out -the one who didn't know a life without freaking out when she felt the urge: kicking, screaming, bawling...

Freaking out, I felt, was NOT okay.  I had been taught it wasn't okay.  Pick up, carry on, it will pass, and in the meantime, dry your eyes, won't you?  No one wants to see you like that.

So my pain went down, down, down, until one day when I needed to see it.  No amount of expression was enough: no amount of writing or music could free the pain.  There was too much, it was too heavy.
Trying to free it with my pen and paper was like poking an insignificant hole in the Hoover Dam.
Slooooooooowwww leak.  Too slow.
The pain from my pen and paper was grey and black and white.
I had Red Pain.  I needed to see it so I could deal with it.

No one ever saw my shoulders anyway.  I never wore anything to show them because good girls don't, and I was good.  Always good, too scared to be anything but good.  So my shoulders took it.

You can't even see the scars anymore.  They've finally -only recently -faded out.

Last night, I found myself longing for my old razors.  The Red Pain is back, and even still -I do not know how to freak out.
I have some sort of barrier in my soul, harnessing pain and harassing me from the inside out.
Don't do it.  Don't scream, don't kick.
Terrified to make a mistake, terrified of consequences, terrified of his reaction.

I need to see my pain now.
I prayed, I took myself to the piano and HAMMERED out songs lyrics that said what I was feeling.

The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling,
We could have had it all...
Rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hand,
And you played it to the beat.

Over and over, harder and harder until it wasn't enough and I needed more.  So I played "Good Life" mockingly, as if the song was some sort of shallow misrepresentation of reality.  Over and over and over.

In sweet progression, I continued trying to release my pain... but it was only black and white pain.  It wasn't enough.  It was a slow leak.  But I kept going.

But the tigers come at night.
With their voices soft as thunder...
As they tear your hope apart.
And they turn your dreams to shame...

He took my childhood in his stride,
But he was gone when autumn came.

Over and over and over, but the pain was still just black as night on a sheet of snow.  I wanted to see my red pain.
I went to the tub, and the water just couldn't get hot enough.

Stupid cold pipes.
My skin was barely pink.  My pain isn't pink.  In frustration I scrubbed my skin, and the pink turned into a deeper shade of rose -still pink, only deeper.
I scrubbed more and harder, trying to let the red pain out.  I used a coarse brush, scrubbing...
It burned, but it never gave me more than pink pain.

It came to me there in my real and vulnerable moment before God and a few angels -which at this point I'm SURE are surrounding my family around the clock, even if we aren't behaving ourselves like we ought to when angels are around -that the Red Pain has already been suffered and seen.

I remembered that He knows my pain.
How in the HELL did He bear it and not die instantly?  The collective pain of just MY life -my cutting, my sins, my miscarriage, my labors, my losses, my grief -it would break me, kill me! 

And there in my red pain, I thanked Him for knowing it.  Because I was suddenly not alone in it.
I still wanted to feel it.
But I also wanted to hand it over.

I have no idea how to hand it over because there's SO much of it.
I have no idea how to freak out and turn that slow leak into a full-on dam break.
I don't know how to freak out.
I don't know how to stop abusing my piano.
I don't know if I can hand the red pain over.  I always handled it myself.  I saw it and dealt with it and closed the case on it.

Last night, I wrapped myself in warm fleece jammies and went to bed, my body still burning but not enough for me to feel any better.

I dreamed I was on stage, sitting on a ledge over the performers.  I was completely exposed, completely naked, and too high up to get down easily.  Everyone could see me, and everyone DID see me, but no one looked me in the eye.  They were looking at my body.
I tried hiding it, turning it... I tried texting my husband for help of any kind -help getting down, a coat?  anything?
But I couldn't reach him.  I had no phone, no way to reach out -no way to get a word out.

At that moment of panic, a warm coat fell over my shoulders.  A woman sat next to me with a smile on her face and talked to me about her kids, her own coat at home, and the program going on below.

You know the difference between knowing and understanding?  Like knowing you're a child of God and then finally UNDERSTANDING it?  It's a totally different kind of education.
For three years before Danny's disclosure, I knew about addiction.  I studied it and became well-versed.
Broken brain
Frontal lobe
Can't choose
No agency
Can't connect
Minimize

And then Danny's disclosure came, and everything I KNEW... I finally UNDERSTOOD.  I finally UNDERSTAND.  And the pain I felt before is rearing it's ugly head at a new awfully painful level.  I could tell people what I was going through before... I could even kind of feel it.  But now.  Now I can't even tell people what I'm going through because there's hardly an English word out there that sums it up.  Except maybe "bloody." 

My past has been taken, my youth taken advantage of and tossed aside, my trust has been priced worthless, and my love never fought for, though still I gave, gave, gave, hoping to be enough someday -hoping to earn it.

Yesterday I sat with Danny in an online group session, and we were given a big presentation on the basics of sexual addiction.  It was nothing new... in fact, I'd seen an almost identical presentation given by Brannon only months before at The Togetherness Conference.  But hearing it all post-disclosure brought emotion raging back with power and force.

My soul is aching for me to freak out.
It's the Red Pain.  It's back.

When I take things on my own shoulders, I feel exposed and helpless... left to my own designs to figure things out, forgetting that IF I DO FREAK OUT I will feel better, and I will feel warm -as warm as a coat given by a friend when I'm in my most vulnerable and exposed state  -and less alone.
Because then I can HEAR the pain, free the pain, and send it off in a great big balloon to heaven where my Savior will take it.

Only He understands The Red Pain.

172

I was asked tonight to share a piece of my testimony at Enrichment -to pick a hymn and share how it has strengthened my testimony of the Savior.

When I was asked, a hymn immediately came to mind.  I just finished sharing, and I'm feeling... well... silly.  Other women shared their experiences through tears and I cried with them because they talked about serious health issues and serious health issues with babies who didn't get to stay on earth.

And Alicia's share just seemed so shallow, so surface... whatever anything else is, it ought to be real.  But I couldn't be real tonight.  I couldn't get up and share my experience as it REALLY was because it would have read exactly like what I'm about to write.
I want to be real.
I want to share what the story really reads like. 
And this is my real place, so here it goes.

When I was pregnant with my now one-year old, I needed to go the Temple.  The heaviness of my husband's addiction was weighing on me.  I felt hopeless and scared.  I had questions that needed answered and fears that needed squashed.  I wanted to feel safe, held, and loved. 
Going to the Temple when I'm pregnant isn't easy because I need to pee every 15 minutes.
Going to the Temple when I'm pregnant without my husband isn't easy.
Going to the Temple alone period isn't easy.
Paying for sitters for the other two...

But I made a way, found a way, FORGED a way.  I found one sitter for one child, another for another (putting them both together with one sitter would have been downright mean at that point, trust me.)

I got myself ready, loaded us all up (no small feat), AND?
The car wouldn't start.
So I loaded us into the truck which is small, rattley and kind of scary (only one seat belt works).
I dropped one child off, and rain started to fall.  I dropped the other child off and the sitter forgot and was not home.  I took the other child back to the other child and begged the sitter with all the emotion of a pregnant woman whose freshly curled hair was now frizzled and damp.
The A/C didn't work in the car. (I live in Arizona, just wanted to toss that reminder out there to the masses.)
And then, for whatever reason, the wipers quit.

By then I was running late.  But it was Tuesday afternoon, so the Temple would be fairly slow.  I went as fast as I could stand (seriously, that truck is terrifying).  And because the radio is broken (of course it is), I sped in silence.
At least, the AIR around me was silent.  My thoughts ran a mile a minute, panicked and rushed and crazy.  As they spun through my head, I began humming without realizing it.  When I caught myself humming, I paid close attention to the song coming through my lips.

"Fill our hearts with sweet forgiving.  Teach us tolerance and love..."

Tears brimmed to my eyes.  A direct message.  A direct message TO ME from my Heavenly Father who knew my hurts, my struggles and my need for tolerance and love.

"Let our prayers find access to Thee, in Thy holy courts above."

Because I felt so distance, THAT WAS my prayer.  Hear me, O God.  Won't you?

Instead of focusing on my thoughts, I focused on my humming and my humming turned to singing, and 45 minutes later, I turned into the Temple.
Which was PACKED.  Because a Tuesday afternoon is the perfect time for a gigantic family reunion, right?  And I'm not kidding -that family was GIGANTIC.  (Mormons, obviously.)

I barely made it, but made it I did.  And I prayed my bladder and I through that session.  As I walked into the light of the Celestial Room, there were people. everywhere.
Happy people... LOUD people.

I have nothing against this family, but I swear... unChristlike thoughts were welling up in my pregnant body like... like... well, negative emotions in a pregnant body.  And so I bowed my head and played the song in my mind, slowly, peacefully... and amidst the noise and family conversation going on, I connected to God.  I found access to Him in His holy courts above.

That song was a message sent directly to me from my loving Heavenly Father who knows me well -intimately, even.  Who loves me AS IS without any plaudits or plaques or trophies. 
He is interested in my life, the details of it.
He has messages for me.

Tonight, I shared one of my Valentines with a group of women and felt superficial about it.  But I didn't feel good about sharing it ALL.  Maybe the share was more for ME than anything... maybe I needed a reminder.

Either way, I wanted to share it all with SOMEone, and I'm glad of you.  Have I ever told you that?  I show my real valentines to you.  And that really means so much more than you can ever know.

Controlled Environment

As a 17 year old, I was uncontrollable.  I did what I wanted to do, wore what I wanted to wear, and said what I wanted to say.
I was hopelessly terrified of making mistakes, so I didn't do anything illegal, but I did do crazy stuff.
I wore crazy stuff, listened to crazy music, sang crazy music at the top of my lungs as I shifted gears in my Toyota... and I wrote crazy songs about crazy ex-boyfriends.
I was voted "Most Original" Senior Class Girl... riiiiiiight next to the Most Original Senior Boy who just *happened* to be featured in one of my songs.

*ahem*

Anyway.

The point is, I made my own choices.  I knew what I wanted.
And when the time came, I knew I wanted Danny and marriage, even if it meant living on love and food stamps for a while (and it did).

As we spent our time getting in mud fights and running in the rain and trying to amp ourselves up to capture a tarantula (never got quite brave enough), I started doing something I hadn't done in a long time.
Like... since I was a little girl and lived with my father.
I became submissive.

I watched OTHER wives doing things I would NEVER DO.
They spoke up, spoke out, and even freaked out on occasion.  I patted myself on the back because... I would never... and that made me more civilized, classier, better.
(This is really hard for me to write, just so you know.  I don't like admitting I felt this way.)

The years went on, and my holier than attitude started to shift more toward something a lot like longing.

I wanted to speak up.  I wanted to stand up.  I wanted to freak out!  But I didn't know HOW.  I didn't understand the process behind going a little crazy anymore.

For so many years, I had worked SO HARD on being ENOUGH and GOOD and GOOD ENOUGH and those kinds of girls NEVER FREAK OUT.

I was already fully rejected by my husband in so many ways, and I couldn't risk any. more. rejection.  I just could not do it.  I felt the urge, the desire, but I never gave in.  My holier than attitude became less of an attitude and more of a life line.  It was THE ONLY GOOD THING about not freaking out.

I watched OTHER wives spend money on things they wanted, and sometimes they'd make financial mistakes: spend too much, overdraw, or BUY SOMETHING FRIVOLOUS instead of meat.  Oh, how I longed.
But... meat is better than frivolity.  And I had meat.

OTHER wives said things like, "tough cookie, if you don't like it that's not my problem."
OTHER wives said, "oh well."
OTHER wives seemed to be able to function without constantly wondering if they were pretty enough, witty enough, a good enough cook, housekeeper, and bottle washer.  They didn't read piles upon piles of self-help books. 

Comparison is the thief of joy, YES.
But when your insides are telling you something is wrong... and you look around and start to notice that what you're going through isn't normal or healthy, comparison can be helpful. 

Did you know that in 9 years, I'd never allowed my husband to see me truly angry?  Like... in the moment, emotions running, MAD?!  I would be letting him down if I did, and besides, GOOD PEOPLE don't behave that way -they don't freak out.
(No wonder I got shingles in 6th Grade, holy moly, Batman.)
But in July, I did.  In July, my husband hurt me deeply.  In July, I had almost three years of recovery under my belt.  In July, I'd rediscovered pieces of the girl who sang "Pink Triangle" at the top of her lungs until she was hoarse.

When I was in 8th grade, I had a choir director who used to hold sheet music up in front of his face and say to me every single rehearsal, "Remember, if you're going to make a mistake... make it loud."
You can learn from loud mistakes.  Mistakes are GOOD.  They're progressive tools.  Even though I heard it over and over as a 13 year old, it didn't sink in until almost 15 years later.

In July, I spoke up, spoke out, stood up, and even FREAKED OUT.  Was it a mistake?  At that point, I needed to take that step anyway, even if it meant that I was stepping out of line. 

And I felt -much to my surprise and delight -complete and utter peace.
In July, I left the world where I lived to appease someone else.  I left the world where I had no financial say.  I left the world where I had to answer to anyone else other than my God.

I left the world of emotional abuse.

Now I function in a world where if anyone encroaches -even slightly- on my choices, I have a reaction.  I understand how sacred, how vital, and how holy my choices are.  I understand how important it is to fight for my choices.
I understand God more.
I understand His plan.
I understand that I have no need of cowering.

I took control back -and promptly gave it back to God.  Because as much as I don't like being controlled, I know one thing (and that's about it)... I sure as HELL don't want to try and control what's going on in my life.


I leave it to God.
And rest.

Fear-Be-Gone!

I have something pretty awesome to share with you today.
Something pretty awesomely amazing.
Some truth, some courage, and some plate smashing -no tarp required!

Last month, I received an email from a man named Cameron.  He told me about his brave wife, Heather.

Once upon a time, Cameron and Heather had a beautiful baby, Lily.  A short time later, Heather was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer (mesothelioma) and was given 15 months to live.

Fifteen months to mother, fifteen months to love, fifteen months to LIVE.

Heather had a life-saving surgery on February 2nd... her left lung was removed.  That was EIGHT years ago, you guys.  EIGHT... a far cry from 15 months.

Each year on February 2nd, Heather and Cameron (and Lily!) invite their friends and family to join them around a bonfire where they write their greatest fears on plates and SMASH them.

It's Lung Leavin' Day.
Cameron says:

 The purpose of LungLeavin’ Day is to encourage others to face their fears!  Each year, we gather around a fire in our backyard with our friends and family, write our biggest fears on a plate and smash them into the fire.  We celebrate for those who are no longer with us, for those who continue to fight, for those who are currently going through a tough time in their life, and most importantly, we celebrate life!

They've asked me to share their story because they want YOU to know that February 2nd isn't just another Groundhog Day.
It's the eight year mark for Heather!  It's a celebration of life, of love, of loving life, and loving memories of those whose greatest fears were realized.

Most of all, it's about not letting fear control, cripple, or debilitate.
CLICK HERE

Scroll down and read Heather's story.  And though her story is different from our story in the details, one vein of truth remains in all of our stories: FEAR is real and powerful.
My therapist encourages me to simply give voice to my fears, how spelling them out will automatically take their power away.
Heather and Cameron know this -and they're giving us all the chance to WRITE our fears on a virtual plate and watch as our fears are shattered before our eyes.

Do it for yourself.
Do it because there's others out there fighting.
Do it for love.