The Word With Too Much Credit

I just spent four amazing, perspective-shifting days in Utah.  I was able to get some recovery clarity, some hard and solid truth and some firm direction for which I am truly, truly grateful.  In 2010, I found myself grasping for truth and hope, and I feel like this weekend I arrived at my answers.  No more trial and error, no more trodden pathways to retreat, retrench, remodel.

Just truth.
God-inspired truth.
(more on all of this later!)

I have so much to type, so much to process... and coming home was something I looked forward to.  I was able to scoop my babies up and inhaaaaaaale their warmth and sweet smells.  I was able to look into my husband's eyes and finally stop missing him.

As we visited, he told me he'd taught the Elder's Quorum lesson and opened up somewhat about his addiction -he didn't go into specifics, just let the class know he had an addiction.  He was feeling vulnerable about it, kind of exposed.  He then went on to tell me that he planned on talking to his sister that night about it -opening up and letting her know what we'd been going through.

He asked what I thought.
"That's your beef, babe," I said.
And I really believe that.  So WHY did I start crying when we all loaded into the car to visit my grandma and I heard my husband say the words to his sister, "I have a pornography addiction."
My emotions turned to Bubble Gum inside my chest cavity, they inflated, inflated, inflated... taking up every inch of physical space.  And then? They popped.  Stinging tears welled up in my eyes.
Why?
Why was I feeling this way?
What was happening?

I have NEVER been so grateful that Grandma only lives maybe two blocks away.  I broke loose outta that car so fast... collected myself (and three kids) and went inside to talk with my Grandpa about the organ in the Conference Center.  I did NOT want to hear any more of that conversation. 
As we visited, I found my thoughts wandering back to my husband who was still outside spilling IT ALL to his sister.
What would she think of me?

I began to fear judgement.  My shame kicked into gear and fear took hold... fear of being judged by another person.
What if she thinks I'm weak?
What if she thinks I don't appreciate Danny?
What if she thinks I'm a hard arse school Marm with a controlling, self-righteous agenda?

 

No truly God-fearing woman would ALLOW her neck to be seen.  or her lips to move.

The words "just porn" kept ringing in my brain.
At that moment, I wanted to reach up into my brain, outside where my husband was standing, out into society and PLUCK the word "pornography" away from the word "addiction" and FLUSH the dammed word.
Pornography gets far too much credit.

To be frank and honest and frankly honest, if all Danny had was a pornography issue... things would be really different around here.  As a sexual being with sexual feelings, I can empathize with a desire to look at porn.  I can understand the urge and the temptation.

But it isn't porn.
And it isn't *just* porn.
And it isn't the porn that brought me to the point of dumping my marriage anyway.

It was behavior.  It was disconnect.  It was living with someone who emotionally abused me and controlled me and manipulated me.
Part of me wanted to call his sister and explain everything from MY side (hello, Drama.  It's always a bunk of hell to see you).  I wanted to explain the years of disconnection, of fighting tooth and nail to be seen, of doubt and rejection, of loneliness and heart breaks, of feeling like an absolute CRAZY person who needed padded white walls... when breaks turn to shatters and emotional pain became physical.  The cycles of buildup and anger to honeymoon and hugs to build up to honeymoon and around and around... the insanity of not knowing if he truly meant what he said, of believing lies and doubting truth, of losing myself, of the need for therapy to simply help me see that it wasn't untoward to expect a husband who wouldn't fight me when I stood up for myself.
Isolation, secrets.
SHAME.

And in the end, I wanted no more part of my marriage.  Letting go seemed harsh at first, but the freedom and peace I felt kept me.
They kept me sane, safe, and solid.
I moved forward confidently, despite the voice in my head who SCREAMED, "What in the bunk of HELL is going on?!"
I shook but I moved forward, God guiding me with every timid inch I moved.

And pornography?  It was the least of it.
So why.  Why does it get the credit of it's own title?

It shouldn't.
Because as much as porn harms and kills and hurts and works a lot of bloody dirty work (I'm looking at you, sex trafficking), it's getting WAY too much credit for what's going on up in here.

I'm powerless to actually flush the word away.
But I am not powerless to surrender the shame that leaves me wishing I could manage others' perceptions of my decisions.  They might judge me, they might not understand, they might believe that I'm an intolerant, strict statue of a woman with unrealistic expectations.

I can surrender that.
I WILL surrender that.
I have to surrender that.

(But I might also take a good portion of my day and invest it in burning a few papers with the words "pornography addiction" on them.) 

Step One Be Like

I have been in stitches over this proverb all morning.  It is now written by Step One in my 12-step handbook.

I'm adopting it as my new mantra -the perfect blend of humor and wisdom.

Rested Home

 (via fastyling.blogspot.com)

So often, so very often I am met with two responses to this addiction.
First being: I don't know how you do it.  I'd never stay if my husband looked at porn.
Second being: What's the big deal?  It's *just* naked ladies.

Where did the middle ground go?  Did it slip through the cracks somewhere between my two realities?
First being: My husband is not his addiction, and ridding my life Danny to rid my life of addiction?  I have no words.
Second being: It's never just about the naked ladies.  Addiction has never been about the substance to me... it's always been about the behaviors.

Have you ever seen "Sleepless in Seattle"?  Who hasn't right?  Aside from being scripted by one THE most genius screenwriters of all time (rest in peace, my Nora), it is such a great story about a woman in a logical relationship that isn't right for her who leaves it to pursue a completely irrational relationship with someone who feels, as Tom Hanks so beautifully puts it, like Home.
"Only no home that I'd ever known before."

As a young, single LDS woman, I was so repulsed by the engagements dropping around me.  I couldn't believe the amount of couples jumping into marriage... and SO quickly.
I couldn't wrap my mind around it, and finally resigned myself to the only logical explanation I could reign in: They were horny.  All of them.  LDS and repressed and horny.
Poor things.
At that point, I was still technically a teenager and still technically knew everything, and I knew -KNEW -that marriage wasn't all pleasantries.  I figured it involved living with ONE person for a very long time.  It meant irritations, compromises, blending families, puking, finances... and while I was fairly certain that sex was nice and all... surely, SURELY it wasn't worth all THAT.
I judged.  Heaven help me, I JUDGED.
I was so condescending in my assumptions of their first years -which I knew would be just traumatically eye-opening.

And then.
I met.
Danny.

And just like that I went from being a whole and complete person to a half-being.  I found, when I was with Danny, a completeness, a rest.
A home.
It smelled like crocheted afghans, felt like bare feet on a cold kitchen floor, and sounded like children, family, and a crackling fire.  I rested when I was with him.

I had only known him a few weeks before I felt sure that I'd marry him, and then I proceeded to live in a fitful state of denial for a few months.
Surely, I couldn't marry a man I barely knew.  What about the puke?  and the finances?
And just as the thought entered my mind, I felt the sting in the core of my being.
Surely, I couldn't live a life without this man I barely knew.
Was there a raging amount of physical desire there?  Um, yes.  But there was something deeper, something more steeled and holy than I'd ever come up against and the thought of turning my back on it was too much.

Danny fit.
Danny always fit.
Danny is home.

And that is why Betrayal Trauma is REAL.  Because when your home turns on you, it's something fierce.  The only word that comes to mind is: grappling.
When you're grappling, you don't simply turn and walk away from home -never to return.
You also don't hang out and let your home beat your spirit to smithereens just because it's home and homes DO that.
 I mean, how would YOU feel if "Sleepless in Seattle" made a sequel about Tom Hanks cheating on Meg Ryan?  No, the thought makes reason stare!
You find yourself in a sort of hellish limbo filled with fine lines and psychology.


And the insanity!  The insanity that drove Meg Ryan and Deborah Kerr to the top of The Empire State Building drives me! 
I am NOT in the wrong relationship.  I simply am not.
I am in my Rested Home, gone wrong.

Do you find your Rested Home twice in life?  three times?  or is this a once in a lifetime experience I have no control over?
And just like we ALL KNOW Meg Ryan is acting totally irrationally, we are all cheering her on because WE KNOW, we just KNOW, that her pursuit is golden... Tom Hanks is her home, and until she secures it neither SHE or WE will rest.

I had my Rested Home once. 
The "just naked ladies" have stolen my home, wrecked it, sabotaged my Once in a Lifetime crochet-afghan, bare feet on homey hearth experience... and to simply let it roll off is to revel in cowardice.
I am not afraid anymore.

And so it is with insane hope that I dare to hold on to this marriage simply by not letting go.

Maybe my Earthly Rested Home will find me again.  I'm lucky to have lived it when I did.
Whether it does or not, I have found a new realm of rest.
Right now I can invest wholly and completely in my Rest Home Above, in my relationship with my Father.

Unlike Meg Ryan, my insanity lies not in the chase, but in the Stay.  Simply staying put.
Am I crazy?
My head says yes... my heart made it's way to my feet and won't let me leave. 

The Death of the Sitcom Baby

 

(via hammillpost.com)

Sitcom Babies are so convenient. 

They're only around when they're needed for the plot line, and other than that... we rarely see them.  They're with nannies or grannies or never mentioned.  I sometimes even have, "oh, yeah!  They have a baby!" moments.
Even Grandpa Gellar (from Friends) forgets -at the birth of his sitcom grandgirl -that he has a sitcom grandson, because WE NEVER SEE HIM.
But he's there.

That was my recovery.  It was convenient and pulled out when my story needed it.  As the old saying goes, "I worked my recovery around my life, not my life around my recovery."
I didn't know then that recovery in it's truest form isn't convenient AT ALL.
I didn't know then that recovery is much, much more about well-being than comfort.
I didn't know then that someday recovery would cease to be a sitcom baby and would blossom into a fully-formed infant.

Guys, I'm not kidding when I say recovery has come on the scene like a kicking, screaming new baby... fresh home from the hospital.

I feel like a first time Mom -losing sleep, aging, wondering what life was like before recovery, knowing that my life would never go back to the way it was before recovery entered the scene.
And just as my joy is deepened, fully felt, and more appreciated, so is my frustration more apparent, my anger more present, and my own shortcomings magnified.

I went from casually working the steps and attending an online meeting once a week to
THIS.
This.... MY LIFE NOW this.

I'm working the s-anon program with a sponsor, attending s-anon meetings online once a week, attending LifeStar once a week, working my calling as an LDS Service Missionary for the ARP program specific to pornography (which means running meetings in town -but no one comes, so I don't really count that just yet), working with a counselor, a Bishop (yes, for myself), blogging, reading, keeping the kids while Danny does his LifeStar and counseling and Bishop work...
breathing this baby.
Every once in a while, we'll sit next to each other in a darkened living room and either laugh at our exhaustion or wipe tears from our cheeks.
Last night was a wipe tears kind of night.


I went to Parent/Teacher Conferences yesterday.  I sat in the hallway, waiting my turn to go in and read recovery blogs from my phone.  I checked my facebook which was full of notifications on my addiction-related secret and locked down walls.
I then went in and sat across from my daughter's teacher, and she told me that my sweet daughter -who is in FIRST grade -is reading at a FOURTH grade level.
I was pained to listened to her and she told me things I had no idea about, and while I was proud that she was the best reader in her class, it was coupled with sorrow.
I didn't know.
I wasn't aware.
I've been handing her piddly books a 2nd grader might read because I knew she was at a higher level... but I'd obviously missed the mark in a BIG way.
And her teacher knew more about my own daughter than I did.

I'm proud of her, and I'm angry.

I'm angry that my son isn't taught preschool at home like his sister was... because I work now and can't do it.
I'm angry that I'm depressed (how's that for a bundle of WRECKAGE emotion?).

This stupid recovery.
This stupid, consuming, NOT AT ALL CONVENIENT recovery!
Sucking my life away!  Sucking my youth and life away!

But later on when we're home and my oldest has a meltdown, I don't rescue or fix or shame.  I teach her about letting her yuckies out.  I teach her about writing in her journal.  I teach her about being honest with herself.  We talk about the lies we tell ourselves.  We talk about our negative emotions instead of sending them to bed.
And when it comes right down to it, I DO HAVE TIME to teach my son the ABCs and how to write his name, but we spend time whittling instead.  We put our feet in the springtime sunshine, close our eyes and talk about what we can hear.
My daughter may not be dressed in matching outfits or be bathed everyday... but she is held and rocked.  She is sung to and locked eyes with.  She is heard.

And this Recovery is just the new baby in the house.  It's taxing and overwhelming, but it's bringing more than it's taking away.
And we'll find our rhythm soon.

But I definitely don't have it right now.
I can definitely say I work my life around Recovery.

Speaking of new babies, I came across this picture yesterday and it made me smile.  Here are my ACTUAL babies, all dolled up in their blessing clothes:
 

Like Sunday Morning

I'm easy.

I realized it this morning when I was mentally prepping for a Bishop's Training.  I was thinking of the outline Danny and I had typed up together, the prayer that had gone into our planning... and I wondered how it would go.  I began anticipating questions, trying to relax, praying that I'd let the Lord speak through me without ME getting in the way.

I thought about this blog.
I thought about how I've only told three of my real life friends about it.
I thought about how I don't seem to mind people I don't know personally reading my blog about my very intimate life, but I draw the line at my mother.
It's kind of strange, isn't it?

I thought about how 7 years ago, NO ONE knew what was going on in our marriage.
I thought about how 5 years ago, I finally told one person.
And then three years ago, I finally told my parents.
Each time I told anyone about it, I was petrified beyond belief -terrified of the repercussions at home.  I was a'feared Danny would reject me, and the thought of rejection made me physically ill.
Even just a year ago, a few of my siblings didn't even know what was going on.  I was dying to ask my grandmother (who had divorced a sex addict) how she had come to forgive and move on, but I just couldn't... I was TERRIFIED of Danny -I felt responsible for managing my family's perception of him.
One day, I was visiting with her on the phone and it just... spilled out.  I was DYING to know.
I NEEDED to know.
For days afterward, my stomach churned.
What if I messed up?  What if I said something that clued her in?  Tipped her off?
What if she KNEW?

I felt like I was in 5th grade, wearing a bra for the first time... my eyes darting back and forth, wondering WHO COULD TELL I was wearing a (bra).

This morning, I sat next to my husband as he took me surprise and opened up with his story to a Bishop that wasn't his.
His hands shook, but his voice was firm.
He was brave.
Shame was not allowed in the room -not with my husband boldly going forward with shaking hands and a pure heart.

Could it have been just a mere year ago that I was taken physically ill by the THOUGHT of someone knowing our story?

The difference is simply this: I will tell my story where it will make a difference and not where it will prove fodder for drama and gossip.

I'm telling this because I want to take this opportunity to give you permission -because a few of you have asked -to please share my blog where it will make a difference and NOT where it will draw any kind of pitiful attention.
Anyone who will read this and say, "That poor girl..." is not invited to this party.
Anyone who will read this and say, "She knows... thank God in Heaven.  She KNOWS" has VIP status at this party.

We handed our contact info over to the Bishop with similar instructions -if you're working with ANYONE who knows this pain, we would love to simply look in their eyes and appreciate their understanding and empathy.

My blog isn't the kind of blog to be shared on facebook walls, but it is the kind to be private messaged to those you feel prompted to share it with.

And I will also quickly and simply add: if you know me personally and have been reading my blog without my realizing it, please let me know.  Just message me or text me or call me or come over.

Connection means the world to me.  One of my greatest fears is loneliness.
I can handle being left alone (I've actually fought TOOTH AND NAIL for alone time on occasion), but I can not handle FEELING ALONE.

Where I'm at in my little hometown, I often feel very alone.  So if you know me at all, don't ever hesitate to say, "I've been reading.  I know your struggles."

After months of fighting to overcome debilitating fear in this area, I have finally reached an easy place.
On a beautiful Sunday morning.

This is Water

Tonight in Group Therapy, we were shown a really amazing video.

It contains a lot of truth -truth that applies to my recovery right now.  To be present, to connect, to be vulnerable and stop objectifying others around me... that is healing.



"You always have choices," says my sponsor each time I call her.

I always have choices.
Always.

Prevention Paranoia

(via homeschooldiaries.com)

Given where I'm at right now:
I assume everyone looks at porn.

The men who cross my path in the mechanic shop: the delivery guys, the parts guys, the oil guys, the construction guys.
They all look at porn.

I operate under the belief that all teenage boys and most teenage girls look at porn.

It's a silent killer that seeps through computer screens and infects everyone it touches.  Feeble filters grow weary trying to block it, and even then: it finds a way where its welcomed.
It finds a way where its not welcomed.

The preacher preaches porn prevention and the choir echoes truth!
Don't let it in!  Take whatever means necessary!  Destroy your tablets!  Disable your WiFi!  Take the cell phones away at 9 pm!  PAINT LAMB'S BLOOD OVER EVERY ELECTRONIC DEVICE!

And yet.
And yet.

Porn is viewed.  Porn is seen.  And recovery is hush-hush.  Taboo, even.  And anyway, if we can PREVENT it, it's not a problem right?  Oh, the fragile human brain and it's fragile reasonings.

I've moved into this new reality where I know the guys I work with look at porn.  Maybe not everyday.  Maybe so.
I accept that a large percentage of my facebook friends are accessing porn with facebook.
I know that porn will find my children.  Or my children will find porn.

I know that I will find porn.  I know that porn will find my husband.

Porn is part of the reality of The Information Age.
Recovery is a part of the reality of The Information Age.

I will do what I can to prevent porn from coming into my home, but I accept that it will and with that acceptance I will teach my children using truth and openness and vulnerability so when -WHEN -that day comes (and it will come), recovery will naturally breach the realms of my relationship with my spouse and pour into the lives of my children.

Maybe not every person who crosses my counter at work looks at porn  -I'm in a very jaded and painful place and drawing very jaded and painful conclusions. 

But my reality in 2014 has been completely altered from my reality pre-2014.

Prevention isn't my answer anymore.
It's only a tool.

Recovery is my answer.

Arizona Weeds

Do you know what grows in Arizona?
Weeds.  Weeds and childrens.

The foreign exchange students who end up in our little town always say the same thing, "Look at all the brown... look how far you can see..."
Yes, it's true.  I live just miles from Meteor Crater, The Petrified Forest, The Painted Desert... there's just dirt and sand and AIR every dang where.  and weeds, of course.  We can't forget the weeds, which is what I'm here to talk about anyway.

Growing up, I spent my summer mornings pulling weeds in our big family garden.  Dad always planted 100 tomato plants, and Mom always swore it would end their marriage.  She was only MOSTLY kidding.
The weeds were everywhere.  I'm no stranger to weed types in my hometown.

A few days ago, I went outside and pulled weeds.  I'm a grown up now, so I don't have my Dad telling me when and where to remove weeds, so I wait until winter.  In winter, the weeds are dead.  They're yellow and brittle, and I can get rid of them so easily.
But the big ones.
The ones I didn't get rid of when they were small last summer... THOSE ones only give up the top-half of the plant, and the rotted root remains firmly in the ground.
"I'll be back in the spring," it chides.
And I curse it.  and kick it.
stupid, stupid weed.

The root will inevitably spring up to a weed again, and if I don't pull it up BY THE ROOT, it will continue to sprout up the SAME WEED again and again and again and again.
It's annoying.
And then it's irritating.
And then it's infuriating, and before I know it, I'm brandishing a propane-fueled torch and giving that weed a baptism by FIRE.
FIRE.

My entire life -and especially lately -I've bumped into the same issues over and over again: not quite ready to let my root be plucked.  Not quite ready.

One of my weeds lately is not worrying about what others think when it comes to me and God.
I worry about working outside of the home, what others may think of my choice.  I feel like I have to defend myself and my situation and MAKE THEM BE OKAY with me.
I worry about what I feel prompted to share in Relief Society, wondering if others are irritated by my talking. I feel like I have to make them be okay with me.

But I don't.
I don't.

I only need to follow God and be willing to submit to his baptism by blow torch.

(dead camel thorns behind my house)

Stealing Choices

Have you seen the youtube video of the boyfriend who pushes his girlfriend off a cliff... right after he tells her he's not going to push her?
I saw it a few months ago, and again in therapy last night... and then I went off a little about the whole thing because it triggered so many emotions in me.  It always triggers so many emotions.
My hands tingle, and my heart pumps.  I want to reach through my screen and shake the kid who pushes her.

Back off.
Don't make her do something she doesn't want to do.
No means no.

What it all comes down to is sitting by and watching someone else have their choices taken away makes me fume.  I really, really hate it.


  My sponsor has been key in helping me realize that I always have choices. I ALWAYS HAVE CHOICES.

It's a matter of being brave enough to assert that fact, act on it, and stand by it.
It's scary, and others don't always agree with my choices.  That's when I start doubting and stomping on my gut to accommodate others.

But I'm learning, and I'm trying, and every time that guy takes his girlfriend's choice away... I have a reaction.

The Emo Alien

 

I was raised to think logically and reasonably.  This meant that tears were foolish little things that were usually shed over a lack of Big Girl Panties, and anger was something only the criminally-minded gave any reign to.

But here's the thing: I'm just not logical.  and half the time, I'm not reasonable.  
I'm free-spirited and colorful and emotional and sensitive.  When things happen in life, I react emotionally. 

I've always thought it was something in me that needed to be reigned in, squelched, FIXED if not sooner then STAT.

I miscarried and it changed my life.  I cried so hard my body was sore.  I stayed in bed for week and read Jane Austen novels and ate a package of Oreos.
A few years later, a friend of my mine miscarried and... shrugged it off.  Oh, well.  That's that.  Wasn't meant to be.

I felt immediately weak, stupid, and less than.

In fact, I still do.  When I think back to her reaction and my reaction to her reaction, I STILL feel weak, stupid, and less than.  It's something I'm still working through, something I'm still trying to understand in myself.

I'm still trying to accept that it's totally reasonable for me to be an emotional being.

Lately, my mind has been overtaken.  hostily. by an Emo Alien.

My thoughts are negative, sad, and awful. 
And The Emo Alien whispers to me, 'this IS you.  I AM YOU.  You're just LIKE THIS: weak, incapable, negative, sad, stupid, weak, weak, weak!'

I hate The Emo Alien.

This is my friendly reminder to myself -a courtesy call, if you will: The Emo Alien is NOT me, that it's perfectly natural for a free spirit like myself to be more emotional than someone who isn't as free-spirited.  It doesn't make either of us wrong or less than... it simply makes us US, and variety is not only a beautiful quality in mankind, it's VITAL.

I am vital.
The Emo Alien is most definitely not.

Sex as Love

Sex is the most important sign of love.

I've believed that line for ages -long before I ever met and married Danny.

Yesterday, I met up for a few blissful hours with one of my college buddies.  It seems kind of inaccurate to describe her that way since -while we were music majors together and spent hours upon hours upon HOURS together through those years -we didn't spend much time together outside of classes.

I thought she had it together... when it came to studying intervals in music theory, they made sense to her.  Me?  I took my workbook home and cried over each interval, wishing I were her.
After graduation, we slowly began bonding online: facebook, my family blog, her family blog... and now we keep in close touch and I count her as one of dearests.
(That's a thing, right?)

As we talked yesterday with little children running around our ankles, she told me how she'd viewed me in college.  She said things like "confident" and "cool."
And -because I can be rude without meaning to be -I laughed out loud and confessed that she just didn't know me at all REALLY back then because if she did, she would have known the truth.

The truth being: I was a reject.

As I thought about this last night and this morning, I came to wrap my mind completely around something that's been in the back of my mind for a few months:

Sex is the most important sign of love.

I believed in high school that I wasn't loved unless I had attention from boys.  In college, I felt worthless because I didn't have boys asking me out as much as I'd like.
Really, what would that number look like?  Three dates a week?  Even that wouldn't have been enough.  Nothing would have.

I base (present tense, because I'm still working on this) my worth on my looks, my value as a sexual being rather than a Godly heir.

I tell myself over and over, "I am more than my body."  It's a mantra I chant when I feel the urges of my mortal skin yanking at my soul.
I am more than my body.  This life is about MORE than what my body wants, whether that's food, attention, control, or WHATEVER.

My friend from college had love to offer me -she had a connection to give, acceptance bounding from her!  And while I did hold some value for a relationship such as she would have offered me, I didn't see it as THE MOST important.
So I focused on boys, on my looks, my clothes.  I didn't run deeper than sex.

And then I married a sex addict (*cue circus music*).

I wanted him to show me love which meant I wanted him to sexually accept me which... well, we know how that story ended up.

There are times where I feel acceptance of myself and love myself TRULY for who I am, what I have to offer, and everything I've done.

And then there's times like these: times of lows and downs where I'm so vulnerable that everyday is battle.  Everyday I have to use my dailies and bottom lines to remind myself that

I am more than my body.

I am a Child of God.

Sex is NOT the most important sign of love.

Sex is NOT the most important sign of love.

Love really has nothing to do with what my body has to offer.

Love is something far deeper than skin -the most powerful force on earth that causes mothers to lift cars, fathers to jump into freezing water to rescue!  It welds families together, drives individuals to higher planes.  It inspires, lifts, and frees.

And sex?
Sex is one small outlet of love -a pretty insignificant one in the big picture of things.

The more I learn about love, the more I let go of sex as the most important form of love...
It's taking years of learning, years of pain, years of trial and error, but learning about love has proven to be the most rewarding journey of my 28 years.

Sex has only served as a saboteur of my journey.  It has it's place in love, YES.  But not until I understand that love is looking into the eyes of a fellow traveler -no matter their sex -and feeling a sexless connection. 
When I can experience true acceptance of self, true acceptance from true friends and family, then I can see clearly the distinction between love and sex.

Sexuality is a cheap, mocking form of connection.

And THAT is what I wish I understood.  That said: I'm not going to complain about the journey it's taking me on.  The truth I'm learning is priceless.

And instead of trying to morph my way into a world where I'm regarded as having value because I'm sexually acceptable, I will find my worth in my God.
His is a love that is drinkable, that when taken in fills you... and I begin to feel that love for not only myself, but for others.
To connect with God is to connect with others and to feel and give and revel in LOVE.

It's no coincidence that sex isn't even in the picture.