Seen Trials and New Guidelines

I'm truly sick.
Two days ago, I was balled up in a blanket on the couch watching (yet another) version of Jane Eyre and wanting to just disappear.
My surgery date is still pending, but I go in to schedule it on Wednesday.  I'm getting rid of my gall bladder because it's not working.  I mean: every dang day IT ISN'T WORKING. 

But this is common.  It happens to lots of people -mostly women.
I know this because I personally know SCADS OF WOMEN walking around without gall bladders.  Factor in those I don't know?  Sheesh.  Gall bladder issues are rampant, folks.
The great thing about it is I can hop onto facebook and get great answers and advice in seconds.  The unprecedented great thing about it?  People show up. 
My visiting teacher brought food TWICE.  Children are picked up and whisked away.  Phone calls, texts... I didn't realize that would happen when I asked for quick, "what do you do before having a knife stuck in you?" advice online.

Being sick has deepened my depression.  When I can't do anything or think clearly, I just sink. 

I'm so grateful for seen trials.  So grateful.
Seen trials bring pure love to your doorstep.

We live in a wonderful age where we can talk about bodily gas out loud, online, over the phone... and we're all pretty much okay with it.  We can say things like, "hey, make sure you abuse stool softeners two days before the surgery" and laugh ourselves silly.

Years ago, that wasn't the case.
Years ago, you didn't talk about stuff like that.  It was only to be handled behind closed doors.

I hold on to the hope that someday in the future porn addiction can be and will be talked about and addressed as openly as dead gall bladders.

Someday... maybe porn addiction will be a seen trial.

As awareness of it grows, the church has come out with new guidelines which I haven't fully read yet (I've read #1,2, and 11 so far).

So far it seems wonderful.  No replacement for my 12-steps, but a wonderful resource.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some Wal-Mart brand Slim Fast to nurse.
Want some too?  Tea time tomorrow at 2?  Anyone?  Anyone?  I promise probably not to fall asleep.

Are We Human?

This last week I had such an awkward trigger.

You know what my triggers are like?  They're little events that flip on a little switch that illuminate an ENTIRE ROOM FULL of related bologna.
After I double-sneezed a few days ago, my 5 year old son raised his eyebrows, "Mom, do you have issues?"

Yes, son.  But you'll learn more about that when I pay for your therapy in 15 or 20 years.

I want so desperately to feel safe in my marriage.  I want so desperately to feel safe... period.  I don't want to stifle my hunger for safety and security because I believe it's natural and wonderful to need it.  A life without that desire seems kind of, well, scary and cold and something that creeps in the alley of a Tim Burton film.

The thing is: when I'm around other men I feel safe with, my brain takes hold and goes to places I seriously hate... I hate that they're there, I hate that I feel them, I hate that I GO TO THEM.

I just kneel and say, "God, I have these feelings where I WANT safety with this person, and I ended up listening to that old song and facebook searching for that old boyfriend, and although I hate that I'm feeling and thinking these things, the fact of the matter is... I AM."
I then call my sponsor who says, "You're human."

HUMAN.

What a thing to be.

I can deny it all I want, but at the end of the day -no matter what mirror I'm looking in -I'm human.  I'm a hurt human, a funny human, a human who hurts other humans, a flawed human, a lovely human with lovely imperfections, a human with needs.

And I need safety.
My body needs safety.
My brain, my soul, my ME needs security.

I can find it all when I turn myself over to God which is both exhilarating and terrifying, one of those "so glad I did it even though I didn't want to" kind of experiences.

Like cliff jumping?

Oxygen Shortage

A little over 18 months ago, I was rolled onto my side, clinging to a hospital bed and ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN that death was a breath away.
The pain.  Oh my gosh, THE PAIN!  It was the most intense physical experience of my life. 
Danny was standing next to me, but he wasn't on the bed with me.  He wasn't feeling what I was feeling.  In short, he didn't know.
"My body is breaking," I cried out, desperate for someone -ANYONE -to realize and see!  SEE!
"Your body isn't breaking," Danny said.
I hated him in that moment.  My brain went into a tail spin.  I realized that everyone in the room THOUGHT I WAS FINE.
But I wasn't.

I knew I wasn't fine, but no one else could feel it.  In fact, they were certain I was fine!
"Your body isn't breaking."
The contractions weren't letting up.  Before one would let go, another would start.  There was no break, no rest, no regrouping, no recentering... there was a shortage of oxygen getting to my brain.
I couldn't THINK straight.

My body responded to the pain and that was that.
"I'm dying," I told my husband, desperate for him to TRULY SEE that I was -in very fact -DY.ING.
"You're not dying," he tried to soothe me.
Again, I felt crazy.  No one that wasn't me didn't seem to realize the seriousness of the situation.  I bypassed my husband and looked at a nurse.
"CAN'T YOU GIVE ME ANYTHING FOR THIS PAIN!?!"
She seemed surprised.
"Oh!  Yes!"
Apparently when I'd said a few months before that I wouldn't be having an epidural while I was in the hospital that I was one of those women who was against pain medication while birthing babies.  But I wasn't.  I just strongly felt I should have an epidural.  It was a gut feeling, so I went with it.
The hospital staff was obliging.  TOO obliging.
The nurse ran out of the room to order and get me some relief, and THAT'S when it happened.
That's when the baby decided maybe she ought to debut.

The nurse came back in, her hands filled with magic vials, "What happened?  I was gone for a minute!"
The baby happened.
Calm, serene, plump, quiet.  They placed her in my arms, and still.  STILL.  The pain was fierce.  I begged for medication.
"It will interfere with your bonding," the Dr. warned.
Oh my gosh, WHAT BONDING?  I was hurting so much I could barely focus.
It wasn't until a few hours after she came that I finally felt bonded to my baby and her cute little elf-like skin tags on her ear.  Her imperfections were just perfect to me.  I breathed her in.  I'd had two babies before, but this one?  Something was different.  I knew her.  I'd known her before.  It was a sort of foreign kind of "you're HERE" kind of reunion.
The pain -the seemingly lethal pain -brought me an immeasurable gift.

The trials in life right now seem to be just like those contractions.
Marriage broken.
Cousin hit a bus the same day Alicia starts job.  Dies twice on helicopter, makes miraculous comeback despite brain trauma.
I leave my full-time Mommying in the past and fully underestimate how hard it will be emotionally.
Grandpa in hospital.
Dad works shop and Grandpa's ranch.  Overdoes it.
Dad in hospital with viral infection.  Nearly loses the fight, transfers to ICU down int he Phoenix area. 
Alicia fields job without training because her boss (Dad) is in the hospital.
Dad comes home.
Danny leaves for 2 months to train for his new position (K9).  He's home on weekends.  The break is very timely.  As much as Alicia needs help, the marriage is just so fragile.
Mom goes into the hospital -knee surgery.
Thanksgiving comes -family tension causes a boundary Alicia hated enforcing.
Baby turns one -Alicia forgoes a baked cake and instead sticks a candle in a ho-ho.  Ole!
The next day, Danny and Alicia sit in front of the computer where Brannon is "present" as Danny reads his full disclosure.  Everything addiction related.  Alicia listens.  The session ends.  Alicia leaves town with cash and writes a very angry letter in a bed and breakfast while entertaining a fantasy about cancer... the kind that kills you.
Christmas.
Holidays.
Sicknesses.
Mom gets her other knee replaced.
Alicia starts to realize something is OFF and realizes she's going through depression.
The depression wreaks a strange sort of havoc in her life and Alicia struggles to understand what the eff is going on.
The baby begins walking and Alicia gives up on any chances of being able to sit on a clean floor.
Behind the mess of the depression and the actual literal mess of the house, the marriage situation is confusing at best and straining and worst.
But we work hard.  Counseling, group therapy, weekly meetings -both online and in person.  Sponsors.  Talking, connecting, honesty.
And then the group therapy ends abruptly.
As does counseling.
Danny's boss puts pressure of holy pressure on him.
Alicia's gall bladder begins assigning her a seat on the bathroom floor.
Each day she's sick -nausea follows eating.  Rinse repeat.  Surgery in July.

And guess what?
I'm at the "MY BODY IS BREAKING" point.  I can't breathe or see clearly anymore.  To everyone around me, I'm not breaking.  I'm fine.
But I'm on the table again.  Looking around for a blessed nurse with magic vials.
So many nurses are thronging me -food is brought in now and then, children are taken from time to time, house cleaning help both hired and volunteered is given.  The Lord is taking sweet and precious care of me as I cling to the hospital bed and cry out in desperation, "I AM DYING."

I used to wonder at people who couldn't seem to get enough help, who still despite seemingly having their basics needs me still struggled to just SMILE.  I judged them. 

And the Lord -in His sweet wisdom -is stripping me WHOLLY of that judgement.

All things will work together for our good.
I'm grateful for the suffering -it's setting a course for the way I will live out the rest of my life.  My priorities are shifted (and shifting), and if anything... if NOTHING else... the Lord is preparing me to serve His children with pure charity, unmarked by judgement.

I feel ungrateful writing these things.  I feel like a whiner.  I feel FEAR that people will hear my words and judge me because my basic needs are met and I'm still crying out from the bathroom floor, "Can't you give me anything for this pain?"

Today and everyday I will simply do the next right thing.
Living one day at a time?  When things are good.  Today I will live one moment at a time, one situation at a time.  One hour at a time. 

For when the oxygen returns to my brain, I will behold a mysterious, miraculous gift... imperfect and perfect, grand and small, a sort of birthing experience in it's own right.
And I know at that point -I will bond with it and look back on this laborious treachery as a worthwhile investment.

But for today, I'll just do the next right thing.

 

Learning Curve

Things have been so frustrating lately.

I sometimes wonder if life is truly STILL hard right now or if I'm just the world's biggest whiner.  As Danny and I have individually worked on our stuff, we seem to be falling short in a lot of places...

These past two weeks, we've been hit with losing not just my lifestar group but his as well.  We've also lost our counselor.  Thanks to a gall bladder that's gone bad, I've been getting sick after I eat no matter what I eat (though some food is less mean than others), and thanks to an insurance change I can't get it out until July -I've known it's been bad for months.  Danny's been under some incredible stress at work.
And we somehow have zero dollars.
I look around and see a broken house, a broken car, and how badly -HOW BADLY -I want to just burn this rental and move.  These walls have seen so much pain, so many old memories I want to leave behind.

As we begin again, each with a focus on God, I want fresh walls.
Not to mention that we're going to need some fresh walls soon anyway... three kids in one room isn't going to work forever.
But again -there's no money.  Despite our best efforts to pay off what debt we have (which isn't too much) and save a little -there's no money.

We've had some hard conversations, said a lot of prayer... and I don't know but that the Lord is closing some doors and not immediately opening any more.

I truly do feel grateful for this frustrating time because I can feel it stretching me.  I feel myself moving closer to God.

I'm learning a few things as I wade through this muck.

#1) When surrendering, it is VITAL that I be honest with the Lord about what I'm feeling.  I need to TELL HIM my awfulest, darkest thoughts as they are, not as I would have them.  So often my surrender prayers have been, "I don't want to feel this way.  I hate that I feel this way.  Please take it away" when they would have been more effective had I simply said, "I am having horrible thoughts, [detail horrible thoughts], and I truly desire to not be stuck in these horrible thoughts.  Please take them, please help my day not be overrun by these horrible thoughts."  After a major trigger on Saturday, I wasn't able to call a sponsor -or anyone, really -but I was able to lock myself in a bathroom stall and surrender and sob.  I came out and was able to be present for a family function without dwelling on or being squashed by the trigger.  Victory.

#2) Though I find courage and hope in being strong, and I loved being able to "pull myself up by the bootstraps" in years' past... I now find a new strength being offered to me.  I am a strong woman -for nine years, I've been muscling my way through living with an addict.  But that strength is superficial.  I find that I can't handle what's before me.  I can't grow money on a tree to buy a house.  I can't make the right counselor appear.  I can't help Danny at work.  I can't.  I can't!  But I can carry on, and I can carry on with hope, because GOD CAN.  THEREIN lies the greatest strength OF ALL TIME.  God has his own set of sturdy boot straps that he hoists me up in.  Today I can be reasonably happy because I CAN'T and GOD CAN.

#3) As I go through Step 4, I have found a few defects of character that are also strengths.  Where do I draw the line?  How can ask for the defects to be removed if they're also strengths?  Where's that fine line?
As I sat in the Temple on Saturday, the answer came to me so simply and clearly: when I use my character strengths for the building up of myself and my pride, they become defective.  When I use them for God, for His building up and in His service, they become my strengths.

#4) When there's a weakness that needs to be addressed, the Lord will find a way to address it.  Right now, I again need help.  I have needed more help since July than I ever have in my entire life.  My house has been cleaned, food has been brought, listening ears have been given, childcare, money... it is SO HARD for me.  So very hard.  One of my character weaknesses is control.  I am capable and therefore must and will handle everything on my very own.  Except that I can't, and being THERE and HELPING OTHERS is kind of one of the greater points of this life.  Yesterday, I fed the sister missionaries.  I signed up to feed them last month, not realizing that when the day would come, I'd be sick and cash-less.  I had some fish and some rice -not enough for the sisters AND my family, but it would be okay.  Something would work out.  My visiting teacher brought me food last night... fish and gluten free bread.  I had to smile at just how much Christ was feeding me bread and fish through one of his valiant servants.  The Lord has something for me to learn in all of this, and apparently I'm not learning it.  I hope I learn it soon... I'm working to be submissive, but I feel like such an inconvenience to so many.  An inconvenience and incapable lazy woman who isn't parenting right because she's too caught up in other stuff.  (Hello, Shame -we meet again.)

#5) This video pretty much sums up everything I'm learning and will always be learning and quite possibly will never fully grasp:

What My Recovery Looks Like

Years ago, I functioned under the assumption that recovery was what my husband did for his problem.

And my recovery?  Well.
It would naturally sort of take form when Danny's STUFF was all taken care of and his hands were brushed clean, hat doffed, all that.
It was like waiting for the three good fairies to come and spell me into a slumber of ignorance... only to awake when all the crap was over and done with.

Thorns cut?
Fight done?
Dragon slayed?  
Sweet, NOW wake the princess.  But not a minute before...

It makes sense.  It does.  It makes logical sense. 
But it doesn't make actual REAL LIFE, HANDS ON sense.  I found myself in the bulk of life -in the day to dayness of it all -just completely and utterly toeing the line of insanity.  One soft nudge, one gentle breeze and I plummeted. 

I can't tell you how many times that happened.  I really can't.  It wasn't once.  It was a lot more than once.
While it does tug at my heart strings that I seem to need to fall REPEATEDLY before a light bulb flickers dimly over my head... I DO take heart in the fact that -no matter how long it takes me to figure it out -I eventually will start moving away from The Cliffs of Insanity.
Inconceivable!

And while I feel the hungry itch to put what my own recovery looks like into words tonight, I will start by saying, "It's not at all like sleeping."
There's no fairies.

My recovery is simple.
And it's not easy.
THAT'S how I know it's right for me.  If there's ever anything in my life that is simple and pushes me... it's usually TRUTH.

My recovery means surrender.
It means finding myself in day to dayness and feeling insane.  Is it because I enforced a boundary?  Because I opened up to someone about my life and story and can't manage what happens next?  Is it because someone snapped at me in the line at Wal-Mart?  Is it because my house is messy and I suddenly find myself the butt end of my own shame jokes?
YES.
And the beat goes on, by the way.  Plenty more insanity where that came from.

My recovery comes in at that point.  Those situations are inevitable.  When they come up, I have a choice.

I can REACH IN.
or I can REACH OUT.

Reaching in involves everything that is indulgent and peace-but-for-a-small-moment.
It also kind of carries a demotivational poster that reads, "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips."
But I digress...

Reaching out is how I surrender.  I send up a prayer and connect with God.
Heavenly Father, I can not manage or control what it going on.  I can't.  I can't.  I can't. 
I pour my heart out and remind God that I AM BROKEN.
And then God reminds ME that I'm broken. 

At that point, I pick up my phone.
I dial.
I talk.  I talk to someone who isn't at the end of a facebook account.  I have to do more than that.  I have to put myself out there more.  I need to be willing to dial and say, "I am broken."
Whether into an answering machine or not... it yields the fruits of peace.

THEN I write.  Then I take to facebook or Amish pen t' paper.  THEN I send it out into the wild blue cyber.

THAT'S WHAT I DO EVERYDAY.
Because every day.  EVERY day, I come up against situations that make me feel crazy, that remind me that I CAN'T and that put a beautifully clean mirror up in front of me to show me that though I walk upright on two perfectly capable size 9 feet and stand tall... I am very broken, and beautifully so.
The kind of broken that turns clay into pottery and paint into majesty...

I hate that mirror.  I love that mirror.  I sit in front of it and write copious notes.  I observe what I see and I write it down.  I pray to God and ask Him to show me what HE sees in the mirror -what He would like ME to see, and I write.
I share my findings with someone I trust.
Hear that? 
I REACH OUT.

Using what I find, I begin the Clay To Vase Refining Process.
I prayerfully go about how to do it...
Who needs to be part of this process?
What needs to go?
What needs to stay?
What needs to be brought out?
What needs to be mended?

And then I put my feet to the pavement.
Sometimes it's an army crawl.
Sometimes it's a power walk.
Sometimes it's rolling forward because my legs have HAD it.

But any way you look at it, it's CONNECTION with the world around me.
REACHING OUT.

 I have a swear.
Something I just can't allow.
It goes something like, "boot straps" or "big girl panties."
When it comes to recovery, these just do not apply.  Okay, Alicia?  There's no room LEFT in your BODY for emotions to be stuffed down. 
Picking up and carrying on and being big and not feeling.  NUMBING.  GOING IN and getting in my own head about my own shortcomings is just.
Just!
futile.
So damn futile.

Recovery is the art of connection, vulnerability, and intimacy.

It looks a lot like someone else's job.
But it just isn't.
It's wholly and completely mine. 

In truth: I try diligently to work my recovery every day.
Some days, I don't end up working it.  I get to the end of the day and find myself in a straight jacket plastered in splatters of Nutella, and then I remember.
Oh yeah.  Recovery.  Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.
Which is 100% more awareness than I had in June of 2012, so I still count that as progress.
not perfection.

I have dailies to keep me on the path of serenity, to remind me that there's a better way.

Work step 12 at least once daily.
Read my scriptures first thing in the morning.
Give one thing daily (a hug, a smile, gratitude, babysitting, a hot pad...)
Email a list of what I eat each day to my sponsor (Nutella happens)

I have bottom lines I strive not to cross.

Don't make jokes about my weight.
Don't report my work outs to my husband.
Don't daydream or plan our 10 year anniversary (fantasizing and daydreaming are amazing at shooting me up with pleasant numbness)
No ring shopping (I have serious fantasy issues.  It comes with being a creative writer.  I should really be channeling my creative imagination into more profitable places.  Stupid Groupon.)

I fail a lot.
And when I fail, it is not fun to REACH OUT. 
But reaching out is the key to all of this: to breaking chains and forging bonds, to clearly understanding God's love and seeing it in the eyes of those I address as Sister and Brother.

The fruits are sweet, so sweet that "sweet" seems like toddlerspeak as I try to put words to how incredible the miracle of recovery is -how incredible The Atonement is.

I have the right to choose, thanks to my Savior and My God.
I choose to reach out TO THEM and to their children.

I choose healing.
Every day, I am given the opportunity to make that choice.

Thanks be to Crissy for putting to paper (Amish Style) something I flippantly joked about earlier... her willingness to sketch me with a cape is pretty much the best Amish stunt that's ever come my way.

Thank you, Crissy girl.
You make me feel like I have He-Man's power.
 By the power of Greyskull...

 

PS: do I spy a hatchet necklace?!  PRETTY sure I need this framed to go next to my Undefeated Woman trophy.  Awesome.  Just balls to the wall AWESOME.

A Time to Talk

Apparently there's this whole recovery phase inside of the recovery bubble.  It's the "recovering from a traumatic week while you're working recovery" phase.

My house went to heck. 
And that's okay.

Because messy houses don't matter as much as I thought they did, and -good news -you can pay any number of people to come and clean for you.  There's always 17 year old girls looking to earn a few bucks, and they don't mind doing dishes. 

This past weekend, the Lord sent me an overwhelming answer.  I spent a week calling out to him from my lone and dreary soul, and His answer was direct and beautiful.  His answers aren't always so, and I see the amazing blessing of this weekend for what it is.
Two people I know in real life -people I knew as a kid -have come into my life and have said, "Hey.  Me too."

This weekend has been full of visiting and connecting and authenticity -really so beautiful.  And the house was a mess, but it didn't matter.

There's a Robert Frost poem I love...


A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit. 

I love the lines "I don't stand still and look around... on all the hills I haven't hoed."

There's always hills to hoe, always work to be done.  But neighbors matter more.
If there's anything recovery work has taught me, it's how much neighbors matter, how much support means, and how the dishes can go to hell.

How grateful I am after a week of scary loneliness with nothing but my figurative weeds to keep me company... to have two friendly faces stop by and call to me from the road.

Real human connection is priceless.
And vital.
More vital than I ever realized.

 

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