Out of Captivity Into Good

I've been reading up a bit on the story of Joseph and his brothers... I want to get into the meat of Moses' story, and Moses' story really begins with Joseph.

I didn't intend to get anything out of Joseph's story, really.  As I cracked open my Old Testament, I really felt like I was just perusing an intro... so I was surprised when I was stopped in my tracks at Joseph's words.  I was surprised to find that I NEEDED Joseph's story more than I needed Moses' story right now.

A few months ago, my mother confessed to me that my Dad had made a remark to her about my light. 
"It's gone out," he said.  His words echoed a blessing he'd given me, "Alicia, you have many people around you who love you and are worried about you.  They can tell something is wrong.  The light you carry with you has been dimmed..."
He went on to promise -through the grace of God -that light would be restored.

Before I met Danny, I didn't give too much thought to what others thought of me.  I wore crazy clothes and I did crazy things.  I didn't get into trouble, but I was comfortable with how unconventional I was.  I made friends with like-minded people, and my last year of high school and first year of college were so precious to me. 
It's safe to say, I think, that during that time my light was burning brighter than ever.

My high school was down the dirt road from the house I grew up in, and we always ate breakfast as a family (though dinner as a family was harder to muster).  I'd often stroll out of the house wearing whatever struck my fancy that day: sarong over capris, a skirt with a tee, a bright orange scarf...
One day I bounded out of the house wearing a sheer (but shiny!) light pink over-sized button-up shirt (over a white shirt) and my hair done up in double buns on my head.
My Mom told me later that day that as I'd walked proudly to school, she'd told my Dad that I looked ridiculous.
"I think she looks classy," he said.
He said the same thing about my pink Superman beanie.
Dad was a pretty classy guy himself.  He has always paid careful attention to his appearance when it mattered -not so much on the pasture, under a car, or standing over a cow he's branding/milking/herding... but at church.  He always dressed so nicely.  His boots were often polished, his shirt pressed.
Basically, this made his closet perfect for raiding because -you guys -he SAVED ALL OF HIS WESTERN CLOTHES FROM THE 70's.
And though he made little attempts to connect with us as teens (he really had no idea what to do with us when we turned 11)... he would always give a loving nod to his flowered-up Wrangler shirts getting a second chance at fashion.
"Nice shirt."

Reading Joseph's story reminded me of my own Father -how proud he'd been of my "classy" taste in fashion, my fearless bird-flipping to Calvin Klein and American Eagle.
When I married Danny, there came into the picture a change... he understood fashion and matching and the whole "belt and shoes must be the same color" thing.  He helped teach me the ways of matching, and I was truly grateful.
Except in the course of learning matching, I lost a piece of my light.
As time went on, I wouldn't get dressed without Danny's approval.  His addiction and my wanting to please became entangled in a dysfunctional lust affair, and it didn't take long for me to feel as if I'd been taken from my father's house, had my flair ripped from my back... I felt like I was in a pit, trapped and scared, and the one who helped me find my way down was someone I had loved dearly and trusted with my life.

I felt as if I'd been bought by the porn industry -it ruled me.  I competed, idealized... It took over my choices, my life.  I dressed according to media expectations.
I listened to Brene Brown's TED talk, "Listening to Shame" and felt a little ill when she said:
" ...some research by Mahalik at Boston College. He asked, what do women need to do to conform to female norms? The top answers in this country: nice, thin, modest and use all available resources for appearance."

That's the industry that bought me: unrealistic expectations for appearances and sexual relations as well as a warped definition of the word "perfect."

As I climb out of the prison and back up the ranks of emotional, spiritual, mental and physically healthy living,  I find the flickering light inside of me beginning to spark.
Each time I go with my gut, the flame burns a little brighter.
Each time I give into fear, the flame dies down.

It's some kind of dance filled with fine lines and grey spaces.

It's hard work, and sometimes I want to give up.  Sometimes I DO give up.  Sometimes I spend a day behind closed blinds numbing out with movies and snacks.  
But the progress is real.

I'll never forget the first time I saw a Cosmo magazine... I mean REALLY SAW IT.  I used to "see" them and feel longing, sadness, "I'll never look like that."
For the first time, I SAW the Cosmo magazine and realized the lies my brain had been believing as truth.
The woman on the cover was unnatural because she'd been altered.  And it was unattractive.

My appetite for reality -for the beauty in God's creations AS IS seems to be insatiable.  Every time I see crow's feet or freckles, moles and thick thighs with pock marks... I breathe in the LIFE and think, "God is truly amazing."

I can see the lies. 
I am returning to truth -to God.
  
Like Joseph of old, I have my Heavenly Father restored to me.  Recently, my father remarked to my mother, "She's back.  She's come back again."

I had lost my father -what's more: he had lost his daughter.  What a painful, preventable tragedy.

After Joseph's earthly father passed away, his brothers were afraid of Joseph's vengeance.
From Genesis:

 15 ¶And when Joseph’s brethren saw that their father was dead, they said, Joseph will peradventure hate us, and will certainly requite us all the evil which we did unto him.

 16 And they sent a messenger unto Joseph, saying, Thy father did command before he died, saying,

 17 So shall ye say unto Joseph, Forgive, I pray thee now, the trespass of thy brethren, and their sin; for they did unto thee evil: and now, we pray thee, forgive the trespass of the servants of the God of thy father. And Joseph wept when they spake unto him.

 I remember a time when Danny asked me to please read, "The Peacegiver."  I'd read it before.  I didn't feel as if I SHOULD read it again, but Danny was insistent.  I finally gave in.  He seemed impatient for me to read, to make it through.

"Did anything stand out to you?" he would ask.

It turns out, he was wanting me to forgive him.  

"Forgive, I pray thee now..."

Joseph's response is insightful:

18 And his brethren also went and fell down before his face; and they said, Behold, we be thy servants.

 19 And Joseph said unto them, Fear not: for am I in the place of God?

Joseph recognizes his role.  He recognizes that he is not God, and his brothers have need of seeking forgiveness from God more than they have need of seeking the forgiveness of Joseph.

For so long, I felt as if Danny OWED me this apology.  I truly believed Danny had sinned against ME and only me.  It makes sense that I felt this way because I had often put myself into the role of Savior, constantly trying to save Danny from his own addiction... each time Danny acted out it felt more like he was sinning against ME because I exchanged my own progression for saving Danny.

He then goes on to say:

 20 But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.

 21 Now therefore fear ye not: I will nourish you, and your little ones. And he comforted them, and spake kindly unto them.

That passage hit me hard yesterday... the line, "God meant it unto good."

 

I look at my life now, my perspective, my relationship with God, my new found friends, my light, my core, my LIFE.

God meant it unto GOOD, and it IS good.

I think of those who have gone before, how they have helped to rescue me and "save much people alive."  So many people have endured so much abuse, hate and horrors and go on to "save much people alive."

It's Step 12.

My Heavenly Father and My Earthly Father have been returned to me, and I feel the sweet nectar of forgiveness.  I see how God is God in all of this -God will take Danny and I can let go of Danny.

I can hand back "The Peacegiver" and say to him, "Fear ye not."

 

I may not have my crazy clothes back, just as Joseph may not have his coat of many colors... but I have freedom.

And with this freedom, I will live and nourish and comfort and speak kindly.  With this freedom, I will seek to cleave unto God, and though I will fail as mortals do, I will simply keep practicing.

Today I will practice by staying home with my sick child, looking in the eyes of my toddler and pray for forgiveness.  I will take care of my body by treating it a detox bath and some healthy food.  I will pray my latest favorite prayer, "What you do have be do today?  Who would you have me serve?"

And I will embrace my free spirit, even if that means the living room doesn't get vacuumed.  

I will let freedom be the theme of the day -in Christ, I am free.

 

The End of Numb

I remember the first time I found out about porn.  I caught him.
A newlywed with all her bloom and youth and tight skin pulled over energy and twitterpation... I turned into a different creature.  To say I was devastated would be a gross minimization.
Oh, how I FELT that discovery, how I lived it over and over again in my mind -the worst rerun in the history of TV Land.
I felt sure I would never go through it again.  I didn't know that porn was something that was less like a "whoopsie daisy" and more like the worst kind of blood-deep poison.
But it did happen again.
"And again and again and again!" to quote my favorite Uncle Willy (The Philadelphia Story).

I tried reasoning, shaming, bargaining, saving, preventing, more shaming... I OVER"loved" him.  Nothing worked.
I poured my entire self into the poison.
My life and obsession, my sole hobby... it was Danny.  More than anything, I wanted my marriage covenants to remain intact.  I wanted my family together forever.
I loved Danny.  I loved our marriage.
I understood his weakness, and gosh darn it ALL if I wasn't THE MOST PATIENT wife in the history of the universe.

Do you know how long you can last trying to compete with porn?  Oh, I think the answer is different for everyone.  But for me, personally, it lasted about 6 1/2 years.  At that point, I began doing recovery work.  I read the books, I found support.  I gained education.
I knew I was getting better because the devastation I felt all those years ago was beginning to dissipate.
He would come to me with disclosures (or I would fine evidence), and I shrugged.
Eh.
Meh.
Blah.
Whatever.

Then I would look at myself in the mirror and work on the only thing I had control over: ME.
I continued living with an addict.

I choose my marriage.  I choose my marriage to an addict.  But the only way I could survive it was numbness.

It felt like I was sitting on a couch, watching Groundhog Day over and over again... yelling at the screen, pulling my hair, but in the end... I was utterly powerless over Danny's actions.
The numbness made it go down easier.

Only.
There were certains in my house who weren't numb.  In fact, they were the OPPOSITE of numb.  They're impressionable, sensitive, and internalizing everything.
I watched tears stream down my daughter's face after an outburst from Dad.
"Because I did something bad," she sobbed.

I started realizing that for all the patience I had, for all the CHOOSING MY MARRIAGE I had done... the return, the truth... was ugly.  Facing seemed to feel a lot like heartbreak -something I had shielded myself against.

But the Lord has a way of providing us with what we need, even if we don't want it.
He provided me with truth: hard evidence that no matter how you sliced it:

Danny was not choosing our marriage.
Danny was not choosing me.
There was no real recovery.

I knew -though it killed me -that I couldn't stay.  I wouldn't stay.  Staying in a marriage where I was cleaving unto God and my husband (and fear, while we're at it) was pointless.
I married for ETERNITY.  Not time.  A time marriage made no real sense to me.  I was hell-bent on eternity.

But I could not force it on any other person.
And so the time came when that person had to go away because my marriage -though it began in the Temple -was something I'd feared since I was a child.
It was pointless.

To maintain my peace as a woman of God and a mother of three beautiful children (yea, THE MOST beautiful children), I had to sever ties.  I had to leave my marriage.
God was my guide.

It turns out that I can't live numb... primarily because "living" and "numb" can't actually coexist.
I'm not powerless anymore.  I'm not watching scenes go down at shrugging anymore.
I just can't!
I just can't!  SO MUCH.
Thinking of The Numb Place makes me feel so sad.  Reminders of The Numb Place make me feel sorrow.

I want to LIVE.  I want joy and pain and sorrow and happiness.
I want feelings to come into my body and I want to EMOTE them out: write them, scream them, sing them, talk them!
I want a marriage where my husband CHOOSES ME and LOVES ME and SEES ME AS AN EQUAL and REMAINS WITH ME INTO THE ETERNITIES.

I seal that desire with the death of my marriage.
I seal that desire with baptism by fire.
I seal that desire with love... my failing love of God and His unfailing love for me.

The future is alive, and in His hands.

(and as it turns out, I'm not the patient person I thought I was all these years.  In fact, I have no patience at all.  For anything.  Hello, Character Weakness.)

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.

The Who

My mom used to always tell me, "If I could give my kids one gift, it would be confidence."

She always wanted to raise confident kids.  I thought it was sweet, and it made my chest swell to hear her say it... kind of like I mattered enough to her that she desired gifts for me.

Now I have three kids of my own, and I'd like to take my mother's idea and say, "If I could give my kids one gift, it would be to know exactly WHO they are."

I never truly understood who I was growing up.  I sought validation from everyone and everything around me.  I wanted others to approve of me, even if it meant shoving down my intuition.  Relationships were formed on what others had to offer me (validation, praise, approval), not out of pure love.

I watched others from a distance who were amazing at forming relationships.  They didn't seem fazed by what the other thought of them, nor did they invest wasted time into wondering if they were "enough" for the relationship.  These people also seemed to have a knack for investing in themselves and doing acts of service.  They developed their own talents and skills and in turn seemed naturally more aware of others' needs.

It baffled me -I could see what I wanted, but I was at a total loss as to THE HOW of arriving there.

I tried.  Oh, how I tried.  I tried to form normal relationships with boys that wasn't riddled with trying to get them to like me, trying to be beautiful enough.  I tried to form relationships with girls that didn't involve me self-sacrificing the crap out of myself to try and somehow fit in.

I had one friend -one lasting true friend -who always showed me the greatest example of this.  I watched her for years wondering how she did it, how she seemed to naturally connect with others no matter their age, race, or physical appearance.  How did she do it?  What's more, how did she continue a relationship with ME so lovingly?  I could be so selfish, so self-interested, so shallow.  She never was.
The truth is, I think, that she loved me.  I never had to earn anything, it was simply just there.  She loves a lot of people, and she's genuine about it all.

It's becoming very clear to me that she's always had more of an understanding about who she is -a daughter of God, a daughter of a King, a literal royal traversing her way through a brief mortal test.

When that fact is understood down deep in my soul, I make different choices.  I don't worry about what others' may or may not think... not only do I not care, I don't give it a second thought.  I make choices that matter: whether that's holding a sick baby or investing in God-given interests, or acting on a prompting.  Life simplifies, and I feel peace.

But that isn't all.
The greatest blessing that's springing from understanding who I truly am is that I see OTHERS for who they truly are as well.  The "less than" and "better than" feelings I've battled for a lifetime are beginning to dissipate.  The beggar woman on the street is suddenly no longer an object, but a sister with a name... and a hot meal, if I can help it.  The celebrities on the screen seem more real, more human, and I find myself feeling equal to them... not in the way society would hold us, but in the way God sees us: children.

Coming to understand this is not a one time "big bang" kind of gift.  It's a life long quest riddled with trials, joys, choices, mistakes, learning, and holy communication with my Father.

And if I could give my kids one gift, it would simply be to have them know WHO THEY ARE.  And I'm pretty sure confidence would follow suit.

At this point in my journey, I'm really enjoying the fruits of spending some time on my own interests.  With Danny's recent disclosure, being true to myself is of paramount importance.  Though it's a work in progress, I've fairly thrown myself into developing my Etsy shop, Kitchen Scratch.  The more I work on it and with it, the more I want to scream to others -seriously GO AND DO what makes you tick, friend!  Each time I finish I project, I feel so good!  I could care less if anything sells because I'm having so much fun.
I set two boundaries for myself with this shop:
1) If I ever felt panic or pressure, I will step away from the shop for as long as it takes.
2) I will make and sell what I love, not what I think others will love.

The more I let myself go and really find antiques and colors and ideas that make my heart soar, the better I feel.  I'm less stressed when I know I'm doing what I should be doing at this point in my life.  Writing, crocheting, digging through antique stores to find treasures!  It's really rewarding, and I'm finding more of myself. 
You should go and do what makes you tick.  Like, now.

 

One of my Christmas gifts from Danny.  And I don't know why, but I feel like I need to tell you I'm wearing a nude undershirt... It looks like skin, but it's not.  Swearsies. 

 

Hand Free

I love getting my hands on something.  I love learning by mistakes.

I thoroughly slaughtered my sewing machine.  Instead of being mentored on sewing or watching youtube videos, I took my shiny new beginner machine and started going to work.  Two years later, I could sew simple projects like rag quilts, aprons, and pajama pants.  And then my machine quit on me.  Probably because I slaughtered it.
as I said.

I won't even go into what my cooking pans look like, suffice to say I'm a fair cook with ugly, ugly, abused cookware.

But when it comes to something I can't get my hands on... something like relationships, I'm terrified to make mistakes.  I don't want to mess up.  I don't want to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, forget the right things, tread on anyone, tamper, hurt, or maim.

BUT I DO.
Why?  Because we ALL do.  It's part of The Human Experience.

So when I do, I feel shame.  I feel awful.  I feel like I'm failing.

I am not sleeping well at night, and I'm adjusting to working.  My mornings are all spent away from home.  My afternoons usually are filled with piano lessons and house cleaning.  If there's any way to squeeze any kind of nap in, I will take it.

At the end of one such a day, I was so tired.  The older two kids were fighting like crazy. 
I left them alone with TV and took a bath.  In RS that Sunday, someone had mentioned how important it is to NOT leave our kids in front of the TV just because we are tired.  But in my case it was better for both parties to separate.
I soaked in the bath water and listened to my MoTab Pandora station.
When I came out, I found that the kids had disobeyed what I'd asked of them TV-wise.  I didn't yell, but I did shame.
It is truly HARD for me to figure out how to NOT shame.  I'm still learning how to not shame MYSELF let alone other small people in my care.
"I'm disappointed.  I thought I could trust you to do what I ask, but I see now that I can't."

We all got in the car to run an errand, and as we did, the fighting began again.  I asked them to please stop and was hit with, "But he, but she, but Mom!"
So I turned the CD up.  I keep the kids' Primary Music CD in the car.  They love it, and I love listening to them sing along with it.
"If the Savior Stood Beside Me" came blasting through the speakers.
I felt immediate shame.  The Savior would not have approved of how I treated my children.  If the Savior stood beside me, how would I REALLY act?

I would feel fear.  I would feel shame.
I would be SO SCARED OF MAKING MISTAKES, of getting it wrong, of disappointing Him.

This isn't The Way. 

I don't understand how to NOT think and behave the way I do.  I can't get my hands on relationships, both family, friendly, earthly, and heavenly.

I've got step work to do: handing over work to do.

I want to truly FEEL what it's like to not feel shame anymore, to be okay with making mistakes, to let go of the fear that comes with doing something wrong.

I deserve that life, but more importantly: my kids deserve that Mom.

Broked

"Yeah, I was there," my Dad's cousin said to me when I asked him if he was with my parents the day Mom fell from her horse, "I was 15.  It was just me, your Dad, and your Mom.  She rounded a barrel and as she did, her saddle slipped and her head bounced off the ground."

And that's the moment my mother's brain broke.

She sat in the hospital, in and out of conscious.  Mostly out -her coma lasting 2 weeks.  They tied her hands down so she'd quit pulling at the tubes and cords attached to her body.  Eventually, they had to tie her legs down.
Mom has talented toes that can grip hospital tubing as well as any hand.

She used sign language, even with her arms tied down she could make her fingers communicate, "scissor cut."  She begged her brother using sign language, please... cut.

When she was able to talk, they asked her where she was.
"The church," she said.
Do hospitals look like a church?

She was wrong, of course, but she wasn't wrong.  In her own mind, it made sense.

On Thursday, my young cousin was late for football practice.  In his rush, he plowed through stop signs on his 4-wheeler.  He had to make it to practice -he was a star player.  There's never anyone AT our 4-way or 2-way stops in this little hick town.  Only on Thursday, there was.
And it was a bus.
And my daughter was on it.

Luckily, none of the children were hurt.
My cousin, on the other hand, was curled up on the pavement, aspirating on his own blood.  The local EMT crew is highly trained and have saved many precious lives in our town. 
True story: my son was almost delivered by the boy I used to chase at recess in first grade.  I might have been embarrassed had I not been in horrible pain.
That same boy (*ahem* MAN now) worked tirelessly on my cousin.  He was taken by chopper to the nearest hospital equipped to care for him. 
"It isn't looking good," my husband's co-workers said.
They lost him twice on the chopper.
But he clawed his way back.  Twice.  At the hospital, they did scans and x-rays and found multiple skull fractures, bleeding on the brain, broken bones all over his face...

His brain was broken.

Tears were shed, prayers were said.  The next day, our town decked out in blue to honor my cousin and his friend who was riding with him.  We fasted and prayed.
More scans were done after the fast... all of the broken bones were in the right place.  No long-term brain damage was found.
They downgraded his diagnosis to "severe concussion."  They stitched up a cut on his head and stitched up his ear, and then talked about his coming home in a few days.
It's a downright miracle, though he'll never play contact sports again.

Right now he's tugging on his oxygen, swearing and frustrated.
"Do you know where you are?" his mom asks him.
"At home," he says.

My mom smiles.  She understands.
"I was sure I was wherever I decided I was... I made it make sense to me in my mind, and everyone else thought I was wrong, but I wasn't wrong to me."

My husband didn't hit a bus.  His damage wasn't instantaneous.  He's never so lost as to WHERE he physically is, but I've come to appreciate the fact that he isn't wrong.
Even when he is to me.

As my mom's brain healed, no one told her she was crazy.  No one told her there weren't spies surrounding the house (she knew there was).  No one told her there weren't snakes coiled up on her head.  No one told her she wasn't going to fall through the floor while she bathed.
Everyone understood that Mom was sick, and they let her BE where she WAS.

"There's a snake on my head," she whispered to my Grandpa as she held absolutely still and sat up tense and straight.
"Don't you hate it when that happens?" Grandpa sighed and changed the channel.

Grandpa let Mom's brain BE where it WAS. 

When my husband is wrong, it hurts.  I want to show him how wrong he is.
But do you see anyone running around trying to prove to my cousin that he's NOT at home?  That he IS in a hospital?
No.  He'll figure that out later as his brain heals.

Sexual addiction is a different kind of brain breakage, but the similarities lie in simply letting my husband be where he is while keeping myself safe using boundaries, love, common sense, and self-respect.

It's not about being right or being wrong. 
Because -to him -he ISN'T wrong.  I hear my mom's sweet voice, "I wasn't wrong to me."
Yes, Mom was broken.  But none of us were her doctor.
And I am no Master Healer.

It's hard to let my husband be.  But it's much harder to play Savior.
I can only follow Grandpa's example of acknowledging.
"I'm sorry you feel that way."
It's my own "Don't you hate it when that happens?"

Tonight, we will go visit my cousin.  And if he tells us he's at home, we will nod.
He's working hard to make it make sense in his own mind, and he isn't wrong to himself.

Breaking Free

(The Man Who Taught Me About Breaking Free)

Last night as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about Ribbon.

Not quite twenty years ago, I rode Ribbon.  She wasn't the most gentle horse, and little kids weren't allowed to ride her.  She was stubborn and spirited -only experienced riders could manage her.

"Take her out as far as you can," my Dad said as I mounted her, "And then turn around and let her run back."

Run?  RUN?!

I'd never done that on a horse before.  I was terrified of animals, but I could manage well enough with the kiddie horses that walked slowly and never chomped at the bit for anything.  But Ribbon?  She might as well have been a fire-breathing dragon.  I was terrified of her and the idea of running her.
The only thing more terrifying than the task at hand was disappointing Dad -the John Wayne of my life.  I never argued with him. 

I started walking Ribbon away from the rest of the horses, away from the truck with a bucket full of grain and oats in the back, away from my Dad...  She didn't mind at first.
But when I took her farther than she wanted to go, she tried to turn around.  My heart pounded with fear.
"No," I said, "No..." my voice was shaking, but I was determined, "We have to keep going."
She fought, she tossed her head, she stomped.
"No," I said, fully aware that she could tell how scared I was, "No, girl."
I forced her down the field, the hacked off, dead remnants of corn at her hooves... farther and farther away.  I looked back to see how far. 
I had to gauge the distance just right -far enough away that she'd have ample time to pick up speed... if I gave into fear and turned around too soon, it would be for naught.  Dad would send me back.  I'd have to start over.
My heart pounded, my hands shook.  I hated Ribbon in that moment.
The feeling was mutual.

In what felt like an eternity, I finally reached the point where I could let her break free. 
I would have to let go of the control I had on the reigns.
I had no idea what was before me.  I was putting my small ten year old life in the hands of an animal I was terrified of.
I pulled back on the reigns and took a deep, halting breath as she came to a fighting halt.
"Okay," I whispered to myself more that Ribbon.  I tugged on the reigns so slightly -gave her a faint HINT that now she could run, and that was all she needed.
She took off.

My heart wanted to beat out of my chest as I slackened my grip on the reigns and felt the ground beneath her hooves.  Control was not mine in that moment.
Her rough gait soon evened into a something surprisingly smooth... I exhaled as exhilaration replaced fear.  I felt the fresh country air breezing past my face.  I felt... strong.

And just as soon as it started, it was over.
"How was that?" My Dad asked as I climbed down.
"Crazy!" I gushed.  I couldn't believe I had done it.  My Dad was so proud.  I was so proud.

I fell asleep last night with that memory -one I hadn't thought of since the day it came to pass in the mid 90s.

Last night, I broke free.
All it took was one slight tug on my reigns, and I turned tail and RAN.

I'm done with this marriage and the man in it.  I'm tired.  I'm emotionless. 

In the coming month, I'm opening my own checking/savings account.  I've also secured a job.  I'm not leaving.  But I'm done investing.  Did I say that already?  That I was done?
It seems to final, so intolerant, so FINAL.

I'm still living with my husband, but I'm not in this marriage anymore, nor do I want it. 
"Investing in this marriage is like pouring water into a bucket that's taken a buckshot round," I told him, "And then getting mad when my feet get wet."

It's all on him now.

I'm running free in the country, seeking independence, and leaning on the Lord -my John Wayne in the sky, prompting me on a journey I've never taken.  I'm afraid.  It's the fire-breathing dragon all over again.
The gait is rough right now -I'm only just beginning.  But if I let go of control, if I hold on for dear life while the ground flies under my feet, if I focus on my Father, I know that before I realize it, I'll be breathing easy and the gait will graduate from rough to even and eventually? to smooth.

And there will be strength.

I do love my husband.  And today, I like my husband (let's not talk about yesterday, okay?). 
I do pray for him and want success for him. 

But I don't want to be married to him anymore.

If my future includes marriage, it won't be to the man I'm sleeping next to tonight.
If my future includes marriage, it will be to someone different.
The marriage will be different.

There will be change.

I have no expectations of my husband, I have no hope. 

I have only the knowledge that I will do the next thing the Lord has for me to do.  Right now, He's prompted me toward independence, toward packing money away, toward loving my own husband as a deeply personal family member and nothing more... pure love.


I'm breaking free.

 

Don't Fence Me In

"Good fences make good neighbors." ~Robert Frost

I have boundaries to keep me safe.  They fence addiction in and leave me running free.

I shouldn't have to suffer the consequences of my husband's STUFF.  It's his.

But once upon a time, he lost his temper.  I have boundaries to protect me from his temper.  I have to maintain them otherwise I'll try and pacify his temper... medicate it with whatever means I have to offer: cookies, back rubs, steak, sex.
Every man's dream, right?

I'm retraining my brain to STOP DOING THAT.  In the meantime, my stopping my attempts at medicating doesn't equate him stopping losing his temper.  That's just not how life works.
So he lost it.  I didn't medicate, and I was clear and calm about what I was not okay with.  The aftermath of the temper losing needed some clean up, and he mopped up what he could.
But he couldn't mop up one thing: he broke the latch on the driver's side of the car door when he slammed it.

Where's the boundary for THAT?  Where's the boundary that says he can drive the car with a broken door but I don't have to?  It's HIS stuff, and yet: I find myself on the catching end of it in a small way.

It may seem small, but it's taught me a very great lesson.

Boundaries are vital because I've been prone to accepting abusive behavior.  But boundaries aren't fool proof.
And THANK. GOD.

I DO thank God.
The hurt, the pain, the offense, the injustice of my husband's addiction isn't fair.  I can do everything in my power to protect myself, but pain WILL jump the boundary fence.  Pain, hurt, fear, suffering... they all have fence hopping skills.  And when I suffer at the hands of this addiction, I am given the opportunity to turn to my Savior.  I am given the opportunity to apply the healing balm of the Atonement.
I suffer at the hands of injustice, just like everyone else -including my husband.
My children will hurt me.
My neighbors will hurt me.

And, like the mother of a dear friend said, "Everyone in this life will let you down.  Even your best friends, even your siblings, and even your parents.  But there is ONE PERSON who will never let you down."

The same God I thank for the fact that boundaries are leaky fences.
Were they not, I would find myself fenced IN by boundaries: caged, cold, and distant.

This earth is a Family University, masterfully designed by a loving Father.  We are here for the ultimate education, and this involves practice which involves mistakes which involves learning which means EDUCATION.

I hurt others.
Others hurt me.
And thanks to our loving Father and Brother, and a perfect plan of Salvation and Redemption... we can be a happy family.
You and I... we can be happy, fellow scholars.
My husband and I... we can be happy, fellow scholars because of hurts and pains, because of sacrifices and service, because of the one truth that almost everything can be circumscribed to:

LOVE.

Let People Go

Grandpa is sick.

Grandpa is never sick... Grandpa is the man who breaks his toe in the middle of fixing a tractor and doesn't realize it until he gets home and tries to take his boot off (it had to be cut off) (he was mad about the waste of a good boot).  Grandpa is strong and steady and quiet.

Today, I held back tears as I watched two men move him from his car to his house.  He couldn't move on his own.  I had a few minutes alone with him today and I tried to joke, tried to hear anything jovial come out of his mouth... he usually holds his words in until he has something really worth saying, and it's usually a witty crack. I ached to hear the words that came.
"I'm not worth anything."

Grandpa and I have a special bond.  This quiet man is perfectly matched to my talkative nature.  We understand good music, good comedy and have spent several evenings together watching The Lawrence Welk Show.  My mother confessed she saw him shed a few tears when I was hauled off by an ambulance to birth a baby.  As of late, he's been teaching me weekly organ lessons.

And now, Grandpa is sick.
As I drove home, my daughter spoke from the back seat.
"Mom, I'm feeling sad."
"Why?"
"Because I think great grandpa might die," she began crying.
"Why?" I swallowed hard, trying to feign strength.
"His body isn't working like it should." 

We pulled into our driveway, and I scooped her up.  She sobbed and sobbed and then said something very profound for a six year old.
"It's so hard to let people go."

At that moment, I stopped feigning any kind of anything, and I cried too.  I've always been sentimental.  I used to fight it because I equated sentimentality with weakness, but having children sort of breaks down any barrier you might try to put up on the "stop crying so much" end.

I cried because it IS hard to let Grandpa go.  And I cried because it's hard to let my husband go.  And I cried because it's hard to let ME go.
Surrender was never an easy pill for any soldier to swallow.

Addiction or not, my life is unmanageable unto me.  It always has been.  I've spent my entire life trying to manage, and now I realize... it's not my life to manage.
I did not create me or give me gifts.  I didn't provide children or shelter or money.
This life is mine only because it was given to me by a loving Father.  But ultimately?  I am His.  For my life to be whole and complete, I must surrender my pride, my rebellion, my doubts, my fears, my lusts, my every mortal inclination to Him.
Ultimately.  It's my WILL I have to offer.  It's the ONLY thing I have to give to my Father, and like a toddler with a yet-undeveloped brain, I hold onto it like it is the be-all-end-all.
"MINE!"

This life is the most educational battle I will ever fight: the only battle I'll ever fight with the sole purpose of surrendering.
And people are hard to let go.

Equality in the Kingdom

The night before I rushed my husband and confessed my Evil Doings of '09, he confessed some things to me.  Our confessions were pretty similar.

But after his confession, he was very romantic, taking me in his arms and telling me how pure I was -how he respected me, couldn't believe I'd stuck around...
And I sort of, well, squirmed.  He could sense that I wasn't feeling the feelings he was feeling, and he kept saying, "I wish I could just transfer my feelings to you right now so you would understand."

The trouble was: I DID understand.
I understood After the Confession Comes the Honeymoon.

In 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, and 2010, I loved the honeymoon.  I reveled in it.  It was the place I was SURE we ought to be all of the time and constantly and forever and ever amen.
In the honeymoon phase, I was up on a pedestal.  He was down on his knees. 
I was beautiful.
I was his everything.
He did my dishes, rubbed my feet, bought me gifts.

Of course he did, and he OUGHT to have because I deserved it.  I mean, after all.  AFTER ALL.  Remember what was going on? 
Porn, lies, rinse repeat.  I deserved to be...

WORSHIPED.

I lived for the honeymoon phase, even made extra certain to train my husband by way of positive reinforcement that Honeymooning was THE WAY.  He would do whatever I asked because he felt he owed it to me BECAUSE I TRAINED HIM UP IN THAT MANNER.  And for what it's worth, I'm a helluva trainer.

But the other night when I felt that old familiar feeling... when I felt his words work as a mechanical jack to lift me up higher, higher, higher... I became very uncomfortable.
"You have no idea how much I love you."  *jack, jack, jack*
"You're pure, you're amazing, you're such an amazing woman." *jack, jack, jack*

I finally had to explain to him, "You have to understand that for years, we've always entered a honeymoon phase like this after confessions, so I'm just very leery.  Plus, I know if these are your true feelings you'll naturally act on them as time goes by and I'll FEEL the truth of them, and that's more important than hearing them anyway."

The next night, I came tumbling down, down, down.

As we drove to the Temple last night, I was finally able to put to words what I was feeling.
"I'm grateful, in a weird way, that I had something to confess to you.  I didn't realize I needed to confess it until I realized that you were being transparent about similar things with me, and honestly: I hadn't even thought about it in years.  But when I remembered and recognized it for what it was, I went straight to you and confessed.  And I'm so grateful, because it ripped us right out of... I don't know... After you confess to me, you put me up higher than you.  You feel unworthy.  And I AM royal, but..."
At this point, I started crying because I'm female.
"... YOU are royal and I am not courting a pauper.  We are equal.  My confession put me equal with you.  At least, it helped you to see me as an equal and it tore the pedestal down, and I am so glad.  I am not higher than you.  I'm not better or higher because I don't have a porn addiction.  And I can't tell you enough how SORRY I am that I trained you to believe that I deserved to be higher than you.  I didn't understand how wrong it was.  But I do now, and I regret it."

And then I said it.

"I don't want to be worshiped.  I want to be loved."

He was quiet for a minute, and then he said, "It did feel good to know that you're not as perfect at this stuff as I thought."

In the Temple, I was struck with the idea of equality: this is a big deal for me because I've spent my entire life viewing people in a caste system.
Better than.
Less than.
It's fueled depreciating and judgmental thoughts in me my entire life.

But there in a quiet place where everyone was dressed in white and whispering, I could see them all as my brothers and sisters... royal blood coursing through their veins.
A beautiful aged woman sat next to me, unable to control the tremblings in her body.  I was given the opportunity to help her on occasion, and one time she reached out to touch my hand, but retreated.
She didn't know me.
But oh, I wanted her to hold my hand.  How I wanted to look in her eyes.
My sister, my friend.

I LOVE that woman.  I loved the pregnant woman behind me, and the beautiful familiar face that came in at the last to help with the rest of the workers: the widow of my old metal shop and automotive teacher.  He passed away IN the temple, and what a way to go!

It makes me ache that others have understood this from the time they were small, but I haven't.  I was raised without a present mother.  When I was as small as my baby daughter is now, my mother was suddenly gone, and she never fully mentally returned during my formative years.
My father did the best be could, but I always always always believed in the caste system. 

I loved myself only for WHAT I was -not WHO I am. 
I love myself for my gift to write, to make others laugh, to cook, to serve, to quote movies.
But in my baby state, the state of lying down with nothing to offer but poop and pleas for assistance... I don't love myself.

My prayer now is to understand what I know: that I am a child, a royal, priceless child.
My prayer is to love WHO I am, which love I believe with naturally accompany the knowledge of who I am.
My prayer is to see others in the exact same light.
My prayer is that my marriage to My Son of God will flourish, that our reign will be sanctified and made holy.

The Atonement is an absolute miracle.

The Road Taken

   

via retronaut.com

My brother likes to joke with me about the way "The Road Not Taken" is interpreted.
"I shall be telling this with a sigh," he says, "doesn't have one meaning.  A sigh of relief?  Regret?  Is the road not taken actually the road we SHOULD have taken or the road we're glad we escaped?"
Honestly, I don't think even Robert Frost knows.  He's a sort of master of the double-meaning poem.

But what I'm about to tell you has everything to do with roads taken.

My grandmother's mother was an extraordinary woman.  She had spunk and zest and a sense of humor.  I've been very blessed in the "who came before me" department.  My grandmothers on all sides have been downright amazing, incredible women. 

Esther had many spiritual experiences in her life that were not commonplace.  She recorded them, and here's the one I've been thinking a lot about lately:

"Not long after I found out the church was true for myself, I had a most unusual experience.  It was in broad daylight just before noon.  I was walking to the house and this voice stopped me and said, "Stop -I would like to show you the story of your life."  So I stopped and he showed me the road I was going and it was just like I was doing and he said, "I don't want you to follow this road.  I will show you the road I want you to do."  It was a terrible road and I had many trials to go through and would stop and cry and then take up my troubles and go on and I said, "God, I don't want to follow that road." He said, "That is the road I want you to do."  Then he showed me the kind of person I would be if I followed the road I was going.  I never did any bad, but nothing good on this road.  Then he showed me what I would be if I followed the road he wished me to go and I looked and I was a glorified being.  I have tried to go that road, but I'm not sure I have or not."

I never knew grandmother Esther very well, but it is entirely possible that she had this experience for her posterity.
Could she have known that almost 100 years later, her great-granddaughter would be reading her words like a direct answer to prayers?

So often, I've found myself doubting myself.
This weekend, my beautiful sister came home from her mission.  She spoke to our home ward with a Spirit so strong the entire chapel was SILENT.  I haven't been in a silent chapel since I attended a Singles' Ward. 
I looked at her, the way she'd changed and grown and I looked at myself and wondered...

Did I screw up big time?
Did I somehow jump into a marriage with a porn addict because I was too caught up in lust that I missed out on what I SHOULD have done?

Reading my great-grandmother's words brought me a kind of peace... I'm on the Glorified Being Road.  I'm on the road where I'm doing bad -making so many mistakes.  But if I'm doing bad that also means I'm DOING which means I'm bound to get it right once in a while because my heart is in the right place.

I can see my beautiful grandmother in her youth with her bobbed hair (scandal!) and animated eyes, traveling a dusty, rough, dark road with a few suitcases loaded with troubles. 
And I am her.
I don't want to walk this road either.

But the only thing worse than this road is the other road.
Which is to say: the only thing worse than doing THIS is NOT DOING THIS.

Friday morning, after I argued with my husband I sat and cried and then I picked up my troubles and moved on.
Sometimes we need a good cry, but victory lies in PICKING UP and MOVING ON.

Give the tears their spot on the road, let them fly.  But do not stop.  Do not be content to suffer, Alicia.  Do not be content with a life of martyring. 

This IS the road the Lord would like me to follow because it's leading me in a jagged upward path to Him.

Push ahead on the dusty road.
Push through the darkness and the potholes.
Push.
Push.
Push.
Rouge your knees and roll your stockings down and PUSH!

Woman Seeking Man

For the past few months, I've felt prompted to study up on what it means to be a man.  It seemed like a strange topic to study up on, but it was so interesting that I couldn't set it aside. 
Was it because I am raising a little man?

I didn't know.  I just kept studying, kept reading, absorbing every word, usurping every ideal.
Yesterday I sat in front of my computer screen and met online with a counselor who said simply said:
"You need a man, Alicia.  You need a man man."

During my week break, I asked my Dad -who is aware of our situation -to come and give me a blessing before my husband came home.  He was more than happy to oblige.  I had to update him on our situation, and he said, "You need to look around and see if there's anyone else out there who could measure up to what you've got."

I want to scream, "NO!  No there isn't!"
But the truth is that there IS someone out there who won't try to manipulate, who won't push back when I stand up for myself, who will teach my son exactly what it means to be a man, who will unplug and take time to do these things.  Absolutely, there is.

The road in front of us is a rough, hard road.
"Are you willing to take it?  Is it going to be worth it?" the counselor asked.

These kinds of questions make me squirm.  They feel like bitter pills... medicine -I need to take them to get well, but the side effects?  oh, they bring me down: depression.

I need a MAN man.

There are times when I see a MAN man in the man I married.  My last counseling session was a week ago.  I spent three days afterward in a down sort of mood (pills, pills, emotional pills!), and then I came down with a head cold.  All the while, I wasn't sleeping through the night.  Add that all up and what do you get?  A deliriously messy house.
I'm serious. 
Through it all, I hadn't had any empathy.  I had been manipulated and I had had to set a new boundary which only added to my worn-out state.

Yesterday, I was still feeling the effects of my cold.  My body was aching, my head was foggy.  My husband came home and turned the news on.  What was going on in Boston was of the utmost interest to him (as a cop), but the spirit it brought into our already spirit-starved home was more than I wanted to play with.  I left the house and picked up my daughter from a birthday party.  It didn't take me long to realize I didn't want to go home.  So?  I didn't.  I only stopped in long enough to tell my husband that I was taking the kids west of town to our family land.
It's my Holy Places place.

He hopped in the car with us, leaving the news still on in the background of our messy house.

As the sun set, we skipped rocks into a great and spacious puddle.  The kids blew bubbles and we clucked our tongue at my Dad's old horse.  We had a stare-off with the cattle, we hid in the tall bushes, we watched my grandpa and his brother walking the fields out in the distance.
My husband became impatient to leave.
I was in no hurry to get back home.  I knew what awaited me there.
I wanted fresh air, I wanted to breathe, I wanted to watch my kids play in the same dirt I did as a toddler.

When we pulled into the driveway, I didn't budge.  I had driven home as slowly as I could get away with.  In my car, there was the soundtrack to The Man from Snowy River playing.  There was the last shreds of a beautiful desert sunset, there was peace. 
My husband placed a warm hand on top of mine.
"What is it?" He asked.  There was genuine empathy in his voice, and it brought me near to tears.
"I'm sick, I haven't been sleeping, and I really don't want to face the house," I said.
"Okay," he didn't move his hand from mine, "Get a chair, get a book, and spend some time alone outside while the sun sets.  Let me take care of the house."

I really needed that.  I REALLY needed that. 

I know what I need now.  I wrote down a list of what I need as a woman, and essentially what that list entails is one simple truth:

I NEED A MAN.

Last night, I had a man man.  So my answer to those hard, pillish questions is -as of today -yes.  yes, this is worth it.  I hate that the answer to that question fluctuates.
But I'm so grateful for my loving Father in Heaven who has taken me by the hand -whose Spirit is constantly at my side no matter what my home feels like.  There are angels on my right and left, bearing me up.
I know it.
I can feel it.
Their presence is tangible.

God will not leave me helpless, hopeless, or alone.

My Father in Heaven is a MAN.

I Will Try To Fix You

Easter.
Easter was yesterday.

We spent the weekend with my inlaws and all of my husband's siblings.  I was even able to squeeze in a Saturday lunch with Scabs.

Sunday morning, I ate candy, made orange rolls for breakfast, and went to church.  It was going to be a great meeting: my inlaws were scheduled to speak in church, and I was looking forward to hearing the hymns, taking the Sacrament...

I sat down in the combined Relief Society/Priesthood meeting and felt a little out of place.  I haven't been to Relief Society in years because of my callings in Young Women and Primary.  The lesson was on finances and debt and all that jazz.  A hymn was sung, a prayer was said, a teacher got up and started speaking, and then a gorgeous woman came in late and sat down directly in front of my husband.

Which was fine, I told myself.
I was paying attention to the lesson on ... she was wearing the most beautiful clothes.  Surely, my husband noticed.
It doesn't matter.
Listen.  Listen to the lesson.  Listen to the input from the class.
She's kissing her husband... they seem so happy. 
It doesn't MATTER. 
I close my eyes and I pray.  I open my eyes.
Listen.  Listen to the lesson.
I could never fit into her clothes in a million years.  I'm farm stock.  I married a city boy.  He likes small women, and he married a Pioneer Woman.
It doesn't matter.
She's a daughter of God.  I'm a daughter of God.
This is madness.
Triggers are stupid madness.
I pray, I pray, I pray.
I try to surrender.

The closing hymn can't come soon enough.
Who cares about debt anyway?

Once home, I walk into the room we're staying in and I lie down on the bed.  I'm tired.  I'd been fighting triggers ALL weekend. 
Maybe my working the 12-steps harder makes Satan work on ME harder?  I don't know.  But by the time the weekend was coming to a close, I was worn out.
I'd spent most of the weekend praying my brains out.

My father-in-law getting after my kids sets me off.  I pray.
The drive down, fear and anxiety take over.  For the first time since I was pregnant with my first born, I have an anxiety attack.  I pray, pray, pray and I text my sponsor.
My husband is snapping at me, and I ask him to just talk about whatever is bothering him to get it off his chest. 
He does.  I irritated him when I dotdotdot, and the list ends up being longer than he or I anticipated.
I haven't talked to my husband about any of my Step 4 realizations because we haven't had time to connect with each other.  When we get away to do some Easter Bunny shopping, I tell him about the root of my low self-worth.  He expounds a very little on how he's noticed thisorthat and how he's relieved to see that I'll be taking steps toward change.
And the beautiful woman sitting in front of me?  I was a battered boxer by the time that trigger hit -swaying, bloodied, sweating, but STANDING.
I wasn't about to drop.  So I prayed and let go, prayed and let go...

On the drive home from church, my husband talked about the importance of attending all three blocks.
What?  Only months ago, my Bishop expressed his concern that my husband wasn't attending all three blocks...
The day before, my mother in law told me how impressed she was that we didn't allow our kids to be exposed to Black Opps II.
"My son just told me that game isn't allowed in your home."
What?  Only last WEEK, we got into a fight over that specific game being played in front of our children.  Me against, he for.
What?  What?
Prayer, prayer, giving away, letting go...

And yeah.  I was tired by the time church was over.
My husband lied down next to me, taking me in him arms, asking what was wrong.
"I'm tired," I said.
"Tell me the truth..." he prodded.
"It is the truth," I said. 
He prodded more, and I told him I was struggling with a lot of emotions stemming from recovery, that was seriously just TIRED.
He pulled out hi scriptures and read a few things to me, told me a few stories from his mission, and he ended up by saying, "We we just do what the Savior wants, everything will be okay."
We talked about the One Woman in his ward that always steers the Sunday School conversation away from the core truths of the gospel and into strange deep territory where we all discuss the effects of music on brain cells or methods of baptism in the Catholic church.
He suggests that I pray to not have hard feelings toward her BEFORE I walk through the church doors.
"When you're feeling feelings like that," he said, "You can't feel the spirit."
He gives more examples.
I listen.  At least, I MEANT to listen.  I think I did...

And when he stopped talking, I just said:

I do want to do what the Savior wants me to do.  I would love more than anything to just sit and listen to the Relief Society lessons, to just listen and feel the Spirit.  But how was I supposed to know that a beautiful woman would sit in front of us and set off emotions inside of me?  I didn't WANT the emotions set off.  I didn't want to have to focus on giving emotions away and praying and letting go.  I just wanted to listen and feel the Spirit of the lesson.  But I had to focus on using tools to give away, let go, and not let a trigger take over the day.  And I'd much rather just not notice a beautiful woman, not wonder if you're looking, not care that she's easily 4 sizes smaller than I am... to just SEE a daughter of God, a sister, and immediate love for her instead of immediate, unintended animosity toward her.  I'm TIRED of this.  I'm SICK of learning this lesson and I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE.  At least I don't right now.  So when I say I'm TIRED, I'm being serious.  I'm tired.

Immediately, he pulled my head into his shoulder.
"I understand that," he said, "I understand being tired and not wanting to feel the way you do and constantly fighting.  I understand.  I'm sorry you're feeling this way right now."

"I'm fine," I said, "I just want to rest for a while and I'll come and join the family."
"Did I help?" He asked as he got up and went to join his family.
"It isn't your job to help," I said.
"But did I?"
"When you told me you were sorry and told me you understood, that helped," I said.
"Oh... "

The scriptures, the stories... they didn't help. 

I don't want to be fixed by him.  I don't want answers from him.  Is this how he felt when I was doing the same thing to him?
Babe, read this!
Try this!
Pray for this!

I feel so much like a child.  My daughter is THE most independent creature on God's Green Earth, and she knows best.  She's constantly under my feet... "helping."
She knows that if I just did it her way, tried things the way she thinks they should be done... they would be BETTER.
Her intentions are so good, and I don't want to discourage her, but when I have a mission -a job to do -I need her OUT from under my feet so I can just get it done.

How many years has the Lord regarded me thus? 
You're intentions are honorable, Alicia, but please, please, please move out of the way.  I'm trying to work.  My ways are higher than your ways.  Trust me.

I'm moving out of the way, Lord.

I'm not suggesting scriptures, I'm not out to save anyone or anything. 

I don't know what my husband needs.  I don't know how to fix him.
All I know is I can't make it through one weekend without constant prayer.  The 12-steps aren't actually STEPS.  They're a slide.  A tunnel slide.  And I'm climbing UP that slide.
Sliding back, hiking up, dodging all of the triggers sliding down under me with their hands gleefully in the air.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
And I'm clawing, grasping, grunting, sliding back, finding my footing again... grumbling over the triggers, my gaze alternates between heaven and earth.

On the drive home, I find that I don't have much to say.  I'm not trying to manipulate my husband in a round-about way into talking about his addiction or struggles.  I'm not trying to finagle a confession or denial.
He makes a comment about his Twitter account.
The one he told me he was going to deactivate.
"Do you still have it then?" I ask.
He hardly ever checks it.  He only gets in and right back out.

And I pray, and surrender, and let go, and pray, and pray, and pray...

I won't try to fix him.  I won't try to fix anybody but myself. 
Instead, I think about my patriarchal blessing.  It tells me I was valiant in my premortal life.
Valiant?  I know what it means.  But do I really?  I ask my husband what it means to him.  He doesn't know exactly.  I use my smart phone to look it up.
Boldly courageous, brave, stout-hearted.

Everything I always WISHED I was.  I briefly wonder if I got the wrong blessing.
But no.  It couldn't be.

I am valiant.

I am brave and stout-hearted, and boldly courageous. 
And this will be my focus today.  To uncover that quality in my mortal tabernacle.

Do they make 5-hour energy for the SOUL?  Because mine needs a serious boost right about now.

Tunnel Blast

 

via kk61.blogspot.com

Last night, I shared my inventories with my sponsor.  I had my inventory categorized under 7 neat little titles: 

Times I Felt God's Presence in My Life

Positive Traits

Times I Saw Myself as a Victim

Thought I Could Save Myself -Didn't Use My Savior

Times I Let Fear Debilitate Me

Times I Didn't Keep My Word

Times I Feared Others More Than God 

As I went through my list, I realized that a GREAT DEAL of my inventory -no matter what category it was found under -all seemed to navigate back to one thing: low self-worth.

I was fine identifying it.  I had low self-worth all growing up and that's why I tended to see myself as a victim, that's why I never took my hurts and pains to the Savior and tried to handle things myself...

But why?  Where the heck did the low self-worth come from?

My sponsor asked me one question that sent my mind spinning.  I went to bed with it on my mind, and when I woke up this morning, the question had found an answer.  And I cried for the little girl I used to be.

I see her as a person apart from myself: she's so beautiful and important and sweet and her heart is so good.

And it ISN'T HER FAULT her mother fell off of a horse and hit her head on a rock.

It ISN'T HER FAULT she was raised by a woman who had a damaged brain.  

It isn't her fault.  She isn't a bad girl.

But she doesn't know that.  And because she doesn't know that, she doesn't feel important.  She doesn't feel loved.  She doesn't understand that her mother isn't like other mothers.  

She remembers being hungry and asking for food, standing by the fridge asking, asking, asking... she remembers her mother slapping her across the face and sending her to her room.

BECAUSE she was A BAD GIRL.

The foundation for my low self-worth was laid when I was a toddler. 

I internalized and self-blamed/shamed myself my entire life.  

I feel like this realization is the final blast in the tunnel.  I'm starting to see light peaking through the other side. 

I'm coming to know myself.

I don't blame my parents.  I admire them for sticking it out, for trying, for working together as Mom's brain healed... and it did heal.  

In high school, my mother and I used to drive to my flute lessons in a nearby city every other week.  I treasured those lessons.  Although my mother was a stay-at-home mom, she was in many ways, absentee.  I clung to those trips like NO other.  They were my opportunity to HAVE a Mom.

During one trip she said, "If I could give my kids anything -anything at all -it would be confidence.  I would instill confidence in them."

I remember her saying that.  I know my mother would never intentionally rob me of my self-worth or do anything to cause or foster low self-worth.  

I'm no stranger -it turns out -to living with someone with a broken brain.

Emotions wash over me today as I can see a little kindergartener in my mind's eye... she's scared of offending, of others, of disapproval, of offending, of not being absolutely agreeable to everyone.

If they love her, she will believe she's loved.

And she doesn't know it, but she's about to spend a life time setting patterns along those lines.  Fear will dominate her life.

UNTIL.

March 27, 2013.

Because now she knows.  Now she realizes.  And now, she will never go back.  Now she can look at the 5 year old doing a puppy puzzle in the Kindergarten room and love her.  Oh, how she loves her.

Oh, how she wishes she could reach through time and stroke her hair and tell her how important she is.

How lucky -how divinely lucky she is to have a blonde-haired Kindergartener at her fingertips without any time travel... she has a daughter: an important, beautiful daughter with hazel eyes and her Daddy's nose, and she can squeeze her, and stroke her hair and tell her:

YOU ARE IMPORTANT.  YOU ARE WHY I'M HERE.  YOU ARE MINE AND I. LOVE. YOU.

More than you will ever know, daughter.

More than you will EVER know.

Until you have a daughter of your own.

The Atonement is real.  The Savior LIVES.  He is present, presently.

I'm so grateful for my husband's addiction.

 

 

 

 

 

What Might Have Been

  

via zazzle.com

How many times have I been triggered by "what might have been?"  Countless times.  How many times have a shed tears thinking about the marriage I thought we should have had... how many times?
I was triggered by this a few months ago and ended up in the Mother's Lounge with tears streaming down my face.
Triggers are so slealthy.  I wish I could plan my bad days so they wouldn't coincide with things like church and mascara.
I'm sure I'll still be triggered by it sometime in the future.
BUT.
The time that passes between each trigger is getting longer, and the lessons learned between each meltdown are getting more poignant, more sacred, more precious...

I appreciate all of you so much.  I wish we weren't separated by miles and anonymity.  And I even wish we could all meet up and just look into each other's eyes and feel the love and concern we all have for one another... I'm not talking just about the spouses of addicts -I'm talking about the addicts.  The addicts that blog have given me so much.  I've learned so much and felt so much.  Their honesty has made my heart swell with compassion.  Their anger has widened my sense of empathy.  I KNOW anger.  I appreciate honesty.
I feel like the ugly blue Avatar people, "I see you..."

In a recent post by someone battling addiction, he wondered if it were necessary for wives to go through this (being married to someone with a sexual addiction).  And I walked away from the computer wondering.  I can't tell you how much some of your posts make me THINK, people.  I start digging through my soul, picking at my brain, asking question after question after question and coming to all sorts of starting realizations.

Have I mentioned how badly I'd like to hug you all?
I would.

When I first hit my rock bottom, I felt prompted to talk to my oldest bother.  At this point, I hadn't told anyone in my family though I live within a few miles of a bunch of them (parents included).  The thought of opening up to someone seemed extremely daunting, but at the same time, it also felt extremely imperative.  Once my Father in Heaven whispered the name of my brother in my ear, I got out of that empty bathtub, wiped the tears off my eyes, and walked out the front door.
My husband stood behind me, hunched and scared.  "Are you coming back?" He asked, softly.
"I don't know," I answered.
My brother wasn't home, but it was Sunday afternoon so I knew where he was.
Grandma's house.  I pulled into her drive, walked in the house and prayed that the acting skills I'd honed in high school would kick into full gear.
"Hey, there's something going on with my car," I said to my brother, "Would you mind taking a look really quick?"
"Sure," he followed me outside -it wasn't an untoward request. He's a mechanic, just like Dad.
Once we stepped outside, my voice began to shake, "There's nothing wrong with the car, can we go somewhere and talk?"
I'd never talked to my brother like this before -ever.  I mean, I don't think we'd ever hugged or said, "I love you" more than MAYBE 5 times... it just isn't how our family functions.
We went to his empty house, and I melted down.  I told him everything.  I didn't ask my husband's permission to talk about it.  I just DID because I needed to.  After 6 years, I had to talk to someone for ME.

My brother is an amazing man.  Most men are amazing in their own way.
He testified to me about the Atonement, about the power of change, about the miracle of the Savior's sacrifice.
And he cried.  He broke down and cried.
My brother never cries.  The last time I saw him cry was the month after he lost his 9-month beautiful blue-eyed daughter (who looked SO much like him) to a heart condition.  Before that?  Well, he cried when he read Arizona law and found out it was illegal to own an armadillo in our state.  He was 12.
But that day, he was crying.  He wasn't crying about his sweet baby girl, but he was crying because he'd seen the power of real change -the power of change of heart -in a man he'd taught on his mission.  And then he said something I'll never, ever -in all my eternal life -forget.
The tears were gone from his eyes as he said, "I'm scared to think where my testimony would have been if I hadn't lost my daughter."
What?
That's exactly what I said, "What?"
"I thought was I doing good," he said, "We did scriptures every night, church every Sunday, Family Home Evening every week, I prayed, we prayed as a family, I served a mission... but I wasn't anywhere near where I needed to be spiritually.  I used to be afraid of death, of losing my wife of kids -but I'm not anymore.  It happened, and I'm fine.  It's given me more to live for.  If my wife dies, I'll be okay.  If another one of my kids dies, I'll be okay.  It won't be easy, but it will be okay.  I know that now.  I wish I could transfer what I know to people, but I can't.  They have to feel it for themselves to know it."
And then he gave me a blessing that carried me through the next few months of my life.
Obviously, I DID go back home...

And since reading Warrior's blog post, I've been wondering to myself, "WAS this necessary?  If so, why?"
My answer -I'm certain -is personal to me.  It's not a blanket answer that applies to everyone in this situation.
But my answer is -without a doubt -YES.

I could have gone through life without being married to an addict, but I would have never discovered the overpowering effect of fear in my life.
Do you know how disgusting it is to look back on 27 years of life and chalk SO much of my negative experiences off to FEAR?
Fear of others.
Fear of failure.
Fear.
Fear.
Fear.
It makes me want to tear my hair out!  But I'm AWARE now.  Fear will NOT rule the rest of my life.  It will not ROB me of living!
I would have never learned that without my husband's addiction.  I would have never learned myself, come to discover my core, my center, myself...

I would have lived a half-life, content to medicate with chick flicks and brownies.  I would have lived a Life of Coping.

I would have spent my days living as a victim -no matter the situation -because that's how I've always lived my life.

I would have spent my life unable to expand my ability to love: love myself, love others, love the Lord.  Mine would have been a life of sarcasm, criticisms, jealousy.

Could I have been brought to these realizations another way?  Sure, probably.  But I can't envision a trial so all-encompassing so as to bring each of these to my realization at once.  They would have come slowly, through several different trials, and thank GOODNESS they came right now.
I'm 27.  There's still time for me to have children without fear, to teach my children to live without fear... to show them how to experience life without shame, without victimization...

This is the trial I want.  This is the trial I am grateful for.

Because of this trial, I was able to take my lanky, white farm girl self to a zumbathon on Friday night and dance with about 40 other people and truly enjoy it.
I went in my track pants (which were covered in spots of flour from the sugar cookies the kids and I made).  No make-up.  My hair was thrown into the messiest mess of a pony tail... and I had a blast.
I took my kids with me -one bounced around will all the confidence in the world.  The other?  Looked up at me with his big, fearful eyes and said, "Mom, I just want to watch."
Oh, how it made my heart ache.  I KNOW that feeling.
And now I know that the only thing worse that putting yourself out there is the feeling of regret that comes when you sit on the sidelines.
"The rule is... you have to try," I said to him, "You always have to at least try."
Thirty minute later, he was down on the ground doing kick spins and making laps around the ladies trying to dance.
As we drove home he said, "Mom, I fink I have mad skills."

And I smiled.
I felt the exact same way... I had danced with almost no inhibitions, no thought of what others were thinking of me and old tennis shoes and stiff country limbs.  I'm usually plagued with overwhelming fear and worry and so I just... don't participate.  don't go.  don't LIVE.

Fear is losing power in my life.

My "What Might Have Been" Life is looking less like a glorified missed opportunity and much MORE like a bullet dodged.

Does it hurt?  suck?  make me cry?  Yes.
But I WANT it.
Maybe I'm a masochist at heart?  Maybe we all are to some extent... except we don't enjoy the pain.  We just enjoy the sweet, healing, miraculous powers of the Atonement.
It makes us want our trials.

It makes us scared to think where we might have been without them.