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.

Fire

A few months ago, I was sitting in the Temple when I blessed to see in my mind's eye a block of fire.  The flames weren't wild and untamed, rather they were uniform, every angle of the square block plainly visible.  I could see myself walking toward the fire.  I entered it, and I did not thrash -I walked boldly, slowly forward.  As I did, my outer layers were burned away.  I emerged from the block of fire a shining, gleaming core of refined, precious metal.

I've often thought of that experience as I've traversed these past few months.  It was a direct message from God -sent before it was vitally necessary. 

These past few weeks have been so hard on me.  Satan is working overtime.  The Lord is making His awareness of me plainly seen -He HAS to, otherwise I'd fall.  I'd be crushed under the blackness of demons.  But God is in my life -in the details, in the decisions, in the dark of night when I'm alone, and in the brightness of day when three children look to me for validation and love.

His message is loud and clear, "I AM HERE AND I KNOW YOU INTIMATELY."
It matches Satan's exactly.

For the past few weeks, the message coming over the Sunday pulpit has been "Hasten the Work."  The Stake President is saying it, the Bishop is saying it, the Sunday School Teachers, the Relief Society teachers, and I hunker behind the piano or organ and think about what I don't have to offer.
I haven't been visiting teaching in months.
I haven't been as present for my Mom as I should be (she just had surgery on her knee).
The babysitter bathed my daughter and clipped her nails because I hadn't.
I've missed the birthdays of people I dearly care about.
I haven't sent a single package to my sister since she moved away.

The list of my failings goes on.

During these past three weeks, I have forgotten that I'm walking boldly through a block of fire.  I'm not stooping or bending or looking behind me to see if someone needs a casserole... my eyes are pressed firmly forward.  My spine straight, my shoulders back, my head up.

I can't help but feel that when the Lord sends his message of "Hasten" He is speaking directly to and about His people.  Baptisms are important, yes!  But coming fully unto Christ OURSELVES -that is hastening in it's finest form.

As I look around me, I can see many, many of the people I love dearly (but apparently forget to send cards to when they age a year) being refined with FIRE.  This isn't a slow process.  It is HASTENING.  The Lord is hastening His work and calling on His people to draw near unto Him with full hearts and purpose written upon their souls.
Many of His precious children are afflicted, and He issues an invitation to healing -His infinite incomprehensible Atonement.  The 12-step program and education on addiction have led me personally to it, line upon line.  I can choose to take it or to leave it. 
Taking it means fire.  Taking it means tears.  Taking it means burned off layers.

Taking it means LIVING.

A few months ago, a sweet brother stood at the pulpit and tied his pornography addiction into the message of his talk.
And there before me stood a MAN, a man on fire, a man shedding layers, a living breathing Adam -his progress hastening before my very eyes.

The Lord has a job for each of us to do, and He will prepare us in His precious fire, in His own precious time.

I can rest in the Lord, knowing that I am being hastened.
I have chosen to live.

Getting Real

I have a new sponsor, and her name is Rhyll (sounds like "real").

As a word person, I'm getting carried away with the whole thing.
"Sorry I missed your call, I was on the phone with my sponsor," I text my husband.
"How was it?" he'll text back.
"Rhylly good."

And then I giggle out loud for no one but myself to hear.

Two weeks ago, I attended a group meeting online.  Rhyll was in attendance and she said something I wanted to share with you (with her permission).

"As children we are taught not to be mad, and we are taught that it is our job to fix others."

As she spoke, I had a  (get ready for this because I haven't even typed it and I'm already giggling) Rhyllization.

Yes!  Yes, that IS exactly what I was taught.  And the dysfunctional flip-side of that is simply that I shove my anger down and then expect OTHERS to fix me.  At least, I used to.  How many emails did I send, venting blaming anger?  How many phone calls did I make?
My friends would help fix me.  They would give advice, offer suggestions, validate my emotions.

The things I was upset about weren't always huge, but when you're dealing with trying to cope with a sexual addiction in the home and have no resources or help and then someone does something untoward like PUKE or ring the doorbell, it's a small travesty.

You know what I mean...

And in those moments, I'd call my friends and unload -not about the addiction, never about the addiction!  It was the Voldemort of Mormon Mommyhood!  Instead I would vent about the stain on the carpet and the small drama of this or that.  It always seemed so much bigger than it really was, and I knew why.  I knew it was because of the addiction, but denial was the ruler of those days.  So I'd whine into my keyboard or cell phone and my friends on the other line would validate me.

Never turning to my Savior.
Never landing on my knees.
Never surrendering.

In turn, I saved my friends in their hours of need.  I was always available to fix their issues and problems.  I had answers!  I had advice!  I knew what they needed! 

Today I lie in a mist I like to call "My Socrates Phase."
I don't know what anyone really needs.  I have no answers.  I know I know nothing. 

I'm working on surrendering my control issues.
I'm working on surrendering my loneliness and subsequent temptations to attach to old men (don't ask... or do, since talking about it helps).
I'm working on surrendering my fear of man.
I'm trying to surrender my tendencies to self-medicate with food and escape.

How do I surrender?  On my knees, on the phone, in the box!
I'm finding my small child-self coming back out as I discover my true identity as a Child of God, and as this transformation takes place, I see a prime opportunity to RETEACH myself something:

It's okay to be angry, and I am not the Savior.

Here's to putting down the magnifying glass and picking up my mirror!
Here's to putting down the Oreos and picking up the carrots!
Here's to surrender box shopping!
Here's to more Rhyllizations!

Wives Against Porn Driving

--Before we begin, the winner of the hatchet charm is NATE('s wife).  Please contact me via email at brabadges@hotmail.com and I'll mail it out next week! --

A few months ago, I was struck with how awesome it would be to organize P.U.R.E.
Porn Use Resistance Education.
Get it?  PURE?  It's genius.  Aaaaaaaand total rip off from D.A.R.E.

But anyway.  This post isn't about education.  It's about how yesterday I woke up and began getting ready for work while my husband did a counseling session via webcam with Brannon Patrick.  I wish I could say the BEST thing that ever happened to our marriage was our three wonderful kiddos.  But it's Brannon.  Right now, it's Brannon.

I went around the house in my PJs, getting our daughter ready for school and planning my day in my head.  I worked REALLY hard NOT to hear what was being said in my bedroom... because I didn't want to know.  When I started hearing snippets of the conversation, I'd start singing the first song that came to my head.
"Walkin' the floor
Feelin' so blue.
Smoke cigarettes.
Drink coffee too..."

Since I started working, my classic country music streaming has increased by about 3005% and it's amazing how many old country songs resonate with a jaded lady.

But then my husband popped out and ASKED me to please join him.  So I did, in all of my just-rolled-out-of-bed glory.  Online meetings are the best.
I only talked with Brannon for about 15 minutes, and I really like the guy.
But he totally ruined my day.  No offense, man!

My husband is leaving on Monday morning for a two-month long training.  He will be home on weekends.
"Are you feeling fear?" Brannon asked.
"No," I said.
"Why not?  Is it because you trust him to stay sober or because you don't care?"
"I don't care," I shrugged.
He then told me that was okay... I was in an okay place.
And then he said it... the worst word to hear in a counseling session.

BUT.

"But... eventually you'll need to come to place where you do care, where you can begin to reinvest and fall back in love.  It's a hard thing, Alicia, and it's just not fair."

I like that he uses my first name.  I think he's the only person who calls me by my first name even when he's not mad.

I walked away from that session and just blew up a little.  A LITTLE, not much.
"It's like you're a drunk driver," I said to my husband, "And you HIT me.  I went to the hospital and they were nice to me and loved me and then the nurses patted me on the head and said, 'okay, pretty soon you've got to get back in that car and drive that same road and the same drunk driver will be there with you.  Hope he's sober!"
It's NOT fair.
It's not fair that I've worked SO hard to detach, to be safe, to be empowered.
And where do I find myself?  I'm LONELY, guys.  Straight up, no mincing words... I'm lonely.  This sucks.

It seems like everywhere I turn people are telling me this isn't about me, that I'm not the victim.  But I always end up controlled by this situation -I seem to spin on an axis that revolves around HIS choices, and I always end up hurt OR I end up lonely.  The fact of the matter is: I AM the victim. I HAVE been hit by a drunk.
Of course I can't live in that mentality, but it's okay to own it and be mad about it when I feel the gravity of it.

I appreciate empowerment, but I don't appreciate being lonely.
I appreciate not being hurt and playing the victim, but I don't appreciate how hard and cold I feel.
Brannon had said some of the richest blessings in life come from human relationships, and here I was all walled off and thinking how some of my most awful hurts had come from human relationships.

As I made a bottle in the late afternoon, I thought about this... I hadn't wanted to talk to my husband all day because in 15 short minutes that morning he'd gone from being my husband to being my offender.
I filled baby's bottle and added formula and shook, shook, shook.  As I did, it came to me.  As clear as day, I SAW it.

Yes, I was hit.  Years ago, driving wildly down a dirt road I'd never been on before I was sideswiped by my very own, very unsober husband.
I couldn't believe it, so I didn't.  I haphazardly bandaged my wounds myself and then got back in the car.  I drove a *little* more carefully, but still without much caution.  And again: I was hit.  And again, and again, and again.
For YEARS.  YEARS!  I tried to handle the situation on my own.  I thought it was MY fault, so I tried driving better, I tried making myself more noticeable so my husband would SEEEEEEEEE me and avoid hitting me.  I tried installing GPS for him.
But it was never enough.  The accidents began getting worse, more blood, more tears...
Almost three years ago, it was the worst it had ever been.  I couldn't get up and walk away from that accident.  I just rested in the mess.
Until...
A beautiful man came. He is my Savior.  He had the answers, the tools, the ambulance, and he had the power to heal me and my car.  I turned to him and gave up trying.

He took me in his arms, and I found rest in his hospital.  He was my primary physician and He had a team of specialists working under Him.
A sponsor.
A Therapist.
A Bishop.
My Dad.

Close friends would visit me in the hospital.  Some brought food, some brought music, some brought smiles, and some brought tissues and hugs.

One visitor they couldn't keep out was my husband.  He would visit me daily, if not more.  His visits weren't always nice... in fact, most often they hurt me MORE.  It seemed that even though I'd found my way OFF the rough dirt road, the drunk driver had found a way to manage his mission by simply STANDING by me and TALKING.
Ouch.
Ouch.
Ouch.

There were glimpses of remorse.  There were glimpses of honesty.
And then there wasn't remorse or patience or empathy or apology.

My team of specialists worked under the hand of the Master Physician, and as the years went by my efforts to heal were evident.  The bruises were fading.  I found ways to avoid my husband when he came to visit, and new bruises quit forming.
The breaks, the cuts, the hurt... they were all healing and fading.

One day, I found I didn't NEED to avoid my husband.  In fact, I confronted him.  I stood in the doorway of my own room and I told him
NO.
ENOUGH.

He turned and went away.  I turned and went to bed.
The next day -much to my surprise -my husband was there again.  This time he looked different, he talked differently.
I sensed real remorse, true sorrow.

The next day, it was the same.
This went on for a good while.  At times his visits turned ugly, and I'd ask him to leave.  But for the most part, they were good visits.
The bad visits would send me back to my specialists with anger and spit in my eyes... I would get on my knees and call my Physician and ask, "WHAT IN THE H-E-ECK-ECK I AM SUPPOSED TO DO HERE?!?!?!"

And here's my answer:
choose.

My husband is visiting me in the hospital.  And when I'm ready to leave, I can CHOOSE whether I want to get back in my car (the Master Physician is also a Master Mechanic, in case you were wondering) and get back on that old dirt road.  I know my husband will be there.
I get to make the choice.
My husband doesn't have that control.

Right now, I will observe his visits.  And I have NO idea how to start reinvesting and falling back in love, so I won't.
I'll leave that up to my husband.

And I will rest.
I won't get up or get ready to get back on any road in any car until I know of myself that it's okay.  I will know.

Because of everything going on in my life right now, I haven't been able to post this... but yesterday I remembered one of my specialists was a team led by Dr. Skinner.
I've been working on recovery for nearly THREE years.  And in three years of studying and education, I have never found a program I resonated with more than AddoRecovery.  The free education I gained with AddoRecovery has sustained me and helped me understand many of the WHYs.
I recommend it to so many women, and I will continue to do so.  Forever.



Sidreis' Story (Short) from Addo Recovery on Vimeo.

Betrayal Trauma is REAL.  Even if you can't physically see the blood and the breaks, you can FEEL them.

It's a few days too late to join the latest session (SORRY!) but there's a new one coming up on the 17th of this month.

Please go to addorecovery.com/join... there's a team of specialists for YOU.

Patience in Safety

I'm safe.

Right now, I'm sitting alone in my two-bedroom house listening to Andrea Bocelli.  The breeze is floating through my kitchen window, teasing my no-heat curls. 
There is peace in my home.
There is a strong sense of peace in my mind.
My life is calm.

Three years ago, I was crumpled up on my bed feeling out of control and absolutely crazy.  I was angry at my husband.  I was sad in general.  I was jealous of everyone else and their marriages (or lack of marriages, honestly).  I was feeling fear of the future, shame for being a terrible mother, shame for being a terrible person.
I felt pressure to get information on addiction.
I felt pressure to get better -to simply STOP being angry and sad.
My life was chaotic and tearful.

What changed? 
I'm sitting in the same kitchen I had then.  I'm married to the same man.  We are parenting the same children (plus the tiny, cute, perfect, wonderful one we just happened to add a few months ago). 

What changed?

I CHANGED.

I maintain my brave, naked baby status.  I'm shedding all of my defense mechanisms -if they are not God, I do not need them.  I've abandoned the idea of earning my salvation.  I've stopped trying to save myself and my entire family.  I am not the captain of this ship.
I'm not St. Alicia.
I am no saint -except in the sense of belonging to a church titled "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."
I'm not perfect, I'm not putting off that I am, I'm not holding myself to the standard of perfection, and I'm not holding you up to it, either.

Do you want to mess up?  Do you want to yell at your husband?  Do you want to peel potatoes all over your kitchen floor in anger?  Do you want to slam cupboards? 
It's okay.
It's okay to mess up.

I know that now because I am safe.
I'm safe enough and strong enough to let myself mess up.
Three years ago, I was scared to mess up.  I was scared to do anything that wasn't "right" by the standards of the books and experts.  I was in a constant danger zone, and I was unwilling to protect myself.

Like the uneducated tourist, I stood up tall in my canoe.
In the middle of the pond.
In the middle of a lightening storm.
And my Savior stood bravely by my side.  I didn't run to Him for cover and I hardly ran to Him for comfort.  My canoe rocked, rain thundered down,
and lightening eventually struck.

The education came after the lightening strike.  I learned important educational things (like what lightening looks like, how it reacts to water and humans, and why we should avoid putting ourselves in it's angry path) but I learned something far more valuable:
The Savior is there for me -to comfort, shield, protect, warn, love, and listen.

The water is so attractive.  I love the water.  It gives back -it provides me with entertainment, food, even pleasure.  I found that even after lightening struck, I wanted to go back in.  Yes, EVEN when there was lightening.  Even when it was dark.  Even when the water was dangerous and I wasn't safe.

I was always struck.
With each strike and each hurt, I would bury myself in my Savior's arms.  I would release only to bury myself in books.  I would educate myself.  I absorbed every new concept that kept me safer.
I built a thick-walled cabin where I could run when the lightening came.
My sanctuary!

After identifying lightening, I was more vigilant about avoiding it.  I became so aware, I even began to notice storms BEFORE they hit my water.  I could see them coming... feel their approach in my gut, see slight evidence in the change of the sky, and barometer.
I would hit my knees BEFORE the storm hit, climb into my cabin, surround myself with my hobbies, my music, yoga, hot chocolate, my copy of The Philadelphia Story, and I would wait the stresses of the storm out.

The water reached out of the storm and tried to fasten a hold on my cabin.
It succeeded once.  My Sanctuary made of wood became warped and damaged. 

Once again, I learned.  I turned to my Savior.  I turned to education, and I applied about three gallons of protectant to my sanctuary.

I had tasted the bitter pain of lightening -the suffering, the hurt, the awful helplessness.
And now I have sanctuary.
Now I am safe.

I have no control over the lightening storms.  I have no control over my water.  All I have is a worn, rusted canoe, my Savior, my cabin, and me.
The only thing missing from this picture is patience.

With patience, I can remain not only SAFE but SANE.  I need patience for the storms.  I need patience for the water.  I need patience to pair up with my serenity.

Staying safe is all well and good and wonderful.  Staying safe means I'm LIVING again -it means I've set aside the crazy-tourist-in-a-canoe lifestyle and adapted a more self-reliant life.  I've taken my safety and happiness into my own hands, standing up to the lightening even when it scares me... finding refuge in my Savior and my cabin.
But I'm not patient with the water.  If I can develop patience in my situation, oh how sweet will my safety be.

The Savior has calmed me and He has the ability to calm the water.
I have the ability and education to know how to remain safe.
The water has the ability to choose.
So do I.

And I will safely, safely wait.

  

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