Step 4 -Shame Busting

I'm on Step 4 again.
Third time for me, thanks.

The first time was really hard.  It took 19 months.  I spent about 17 of those filled with shame, unable to put anything to paper, rationalizing what I could and numbing what I couldn't.  I felt like a freak sometimes, like a mortal sometimes.
And then I got a sponsor.  A few weeks later, my Step 4 was done.  Written, processed, read.  OUT LOUD.
I felt so weird saying things out loud.  I wanted to talk about everything little thing, explain stuff away, manage my sponsor's perception of what I'd said, what I'd done, how I'd behaved.

She sat with me with nothing but listening ears and a wide open heart.  It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.  No judgement, no fixing?  What was this world?

I walked away from that conversation with a little more courage and a lot more clarity.  Life started making a different sort of sense... I could see my part more clearly in things.  My proverbial mirror was polished, and I think for the first time I was able to see myself authentically.
It gave me the courage to do it again.
More came up the second time, but it didn't take 19 months.  I didn't reason as much away.

I became more objective about myself -not to excuse myself in any way, but to just write a report of what I found when I sat that proverbial mirror up in front of me.  I saw some things I lacked, some thing I loved... I wrote them down.

Defects is such a mean little word.
All it REALLY means, really, is "things that are actually rooted in righteous stuff that I let run rampant so they got into a patch of loco weed and now I need Jesus even more."

This time around, it feels almost as if I'm falling into that mirror and being taken on a tour I was never ready to take before.  I'm recognizing lusts and appetites my body has, making note of them.  I'm seeing strengths that have popped up in the last 3 years -are any of them former defects?  This is something I'm asking myself, examining patiently.

Patterns, more patterns, are emerging.  Instead of feeling the urge to reason them away or numb them away, I'm kind of fascinated.  Like, "hey, I do that.  WHY do I do that?  What is my soul getting at here?  What am I missing?"

Step 4 has catapulted me down a crazy path where instead of feeling judged by women who organize well and then letting the shame eat away at my worth and center, I now say, "Yeah, organizing is something I will always be working on because my mind doesn't work that way because I have other gifts instead -creative ones that thrive in chaos.  I was shamed about cleanliness a lot, so I need to be patient as I work the surrender process, even in SMALL THINGS like laundry on the floor and cluttered counters."
I talk to God about it, I talk to me about it.  I talk to support people about it (sponsor, friends).
And then I'm free.
The shame dissolves.

I guess I'm excited?  to dig up more?

The truth dawns on me more and more these days: how can my soul be healed and reconciled if I don't know it?  If I am daily shoving it down and denying certain aspects, how can I ever connect fully to myself? to God? to others?

"Know thyself!" said a wise man once, and those words give me a triumphant sort of courage as I put my pen to paper once again, as I set to polishing my mirror yet further.

The Sea of Tender Mercies

I read my Step 4 to my sponsor today.

I expected and anticipated a gigantic vulnerability hangover, and what I got instead was... a big, gigantic bear hug from God in the form of a tender mercy.

My counselor likes the apostle, Peter, and I do too.  I really relate to Peter -He loved God so much but was still mortal and still messed up even though he hated screwing up more than he hated Satan (which was a lot.  Is a lot?  I don't know how this all work, tense-wise).

My counselor showed me a picture of Peter in the water he so infamously fell into (I wonder if Peter ever gets fed up with having his screw ups published in the Bible FOREVER and ALL TIME) and he said, "When we have the courage to step out of the boat, God has tender mercies waiting for us."
That's a brave statement.
Because what if I let go of fear and then FALL FLAT?  What if God forgets about me and I drown?  It's completely possible.

But hearing Jed say it... I don't know, something MOVED inside of me and I thought maybe I could give it a try.  You know, LATER.  I took it slow, but as I put my pen to paper and began writing out my Step 4 for the second time in my little life, I found that my Step 4 was already done.  I'd been thinking about it, God had pointed things out to me without me really realizing it in the moment, and my Step 4 poured out of me.  It's kind of gross writing out weaknesses because then I NOTICE them all of the time.
Oh, look, I'm being selfish again.
Oh, look!  I let fear be the boss again.
Dang it... there I go, feeling like a victim and strategically planning manipulation tactics...

But I showed up and I DID IT.  It took an hour and a half of phone time, and a lot of multi-tasking because of a little toddler repeating, "I NEED YOU!" and "HONEY, HONEY, HONEY!" over and over (seriously irresistible, okay?).

After it was done, I went right into teaching a piano lesson and then I read a book to my daughter.  We played with stickers.  I helped my son.  I relaxed a little before attending Enrichment, and you know what?  I didn't THINK EVEN ONCE about my inventory or what my sponsor thought of me, and that's a huge miracle in my life.
Enrichment ended up being surprising sacred tonight.

I had a sacred experience that taught me and reminded me about Christ's love for me.  Please listen as I report:

My husband was my God.  I LOVE other people, and it is SO EASY for me to make them my center.  I, Alicia, needed someone to RIP that trust to shreds, to sabotage it so fully that I didn't turn to any other mortal.  I needed to turn to God, and since I would not do it voluntarily (I thought I had been and in so doing had allowed my pride to blind me to reality.  A sort of, "I'm all good and OTHER PEOPLE need God now" attitude), I had to be compelled.

I know now that Christ's love is beyond words.  I wonder if there are emotions in heaven that mortals simply aren't capable of -and I feel as if Christ's love holds secret emotions that have no mortal word to do them justice.
Christ's love for Alicia is patient... endlessly patient.  His hunger and passion for me will wait for as long as it takes -a lifetime and more.  He DESIRES me.  He SEES me. He sees me in my entirety: my potential and my weaknesses, my character and my temptations, my worries and my joys, my likes and hates.  He takes it all in and accepts it ALL, loves it ALL, embraces me WHERE I'M AT. He is gentle with me because He knows me intimately.  He knows I'm sensitive.  And He guards me FIERCELY.  His love is protective.  Is it possible to be loved like this?  To be loved by a warrior for peace?
Am I worthy?

I'm logging on tonight (this morning?) to simply report that

I AM WORTHY

Because I AM.

Someday I'll look into Christ's eyes and I will match His passion for me with my passion for Him and stand mystified that a love so remarkably deep can be void of sexual inclinations.

In S-anon we read that in our faulty beliefs, we felt sex was the most important sign of love.  And in my faulty belief system, I still fight that old pattern.  It's infuriating and confusing to have my heart at war with my head, but it is necessary for change to occur, and I need change almost more than I need air.

I stand all amazed for me.
I stand all amazed for you.
I stand all amazed that there can be such a love as Christ's.

May this Christmas season bring about a taste of that love in your life is my prayer this very early morning.

Q:

There's a question I've been wrestling with for the past few days...

It has to do with God's love, and it also has to do with my low self-worth.  Any issue I've had lately has stemmed from that.  My beloved sponsor tells me that we all have weeds that need to be plucked, and as I read those words (emailed lovingly to me), I could see weeds in my mind's eye.  Having grown up farming, I'm no stranger to weeds.
But what sort of plant am I?

And suddenly my mind's eye took hold of me, and I saw the small, flaky, almost snow-like seeds that drift into my yard every spring.  My neighbor has a Chinese Elm Tree.
It's solid and all.  I bet SHE loves it.  It's probably the most fertile tree in town.  Seeds fall from her tree into my yard, and it makes me want to take a blow torch to my lawn.
Because I KNOW.
I KNOW what happens to those seemingly innocent flaky little seeds.  They take root.  They don't take much to thrive on.  I mean: I live in an arid dessert, for crying out loud.  The fact that I can get half a garden to grow is something of a modern-day miracle.
But those seeds?  They don't need any focused attention... they only need to be in the background and they only need to be ignored. 
If I don't deal with them, they spring up, take root, and then proceed to HAUNT me.  I have baby Chinese Elm trees all over my yard.  They're slowly eating away at the plants I actually LIKE.  I wet the elm trees down, soak them overnight and intend to pull them out.
But I never do.
Or I try to and it never works.

Oh, how I HATE those blasted WEEDS.  That's what they are.  Just because they're actually TREES to someone else doesn't mean they're trees to me.  They're weeds to me, and they are UNHOLY.

And there they were: in my mind's eye (as if hanging out and destroying my yard wasn't enough). 

They're growing so close to me -so intertwined with me.  They have the potential to CHOKE me out if I leave them alone.  If I leave them in the background and simply ignore them, they will take over.

But I'm in the process of soaking them.  I've rented a Heavenly Back-Hoe (it was free.  sweet deal) and I'm working HARD on getting rid of them. 

When the seeds to my weeds fell, I was very young. I was very, very young.  So the Chinese Elms have grown up with me. 

GETTING RID OF THEM MAKES ME FEEL VULERNABLE.

I want them gone, but I'm feeling naked without them.  I'm feeling shaky.  I'm nervous and scared in some ways and ready and willing in other ways. 
I feel like a naked, brave baby.

No really.  I do.

And I have to say that as I see those bloody elms (ARG!) in my mind's eye, I see myself as a little child, caught in the middle of them.
I was a really cute little girl... 

Can I just tell you a story?  Just real quick?
When I was six months old, a man (who my mom swears was a model of some kind) was standing behind my mom in the grocery check-out line.  He told my mother I had the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, and then he insisted that I pick out some candy for myself.
I was six months old.  But apparently even THEN I had an eye single to the glory of chocolate.
My chubby little fingers landed on a pack of Rolos.  The man purchased them for me, and my Mom viewed that candy bar exactly like a Blue Ribbon from the county fair.
"Look what I did!"
She put me in the back of her car on a blanket, and drove home while I made a gigantic chocolate mess.

Guys.
I was a darling baby.

And the answer to my question that I've been struggling with lies there-in, caught up in the middle of weeds and elms and a face full of melted caramel: babies.

Q: How is it that God can love me JUST as much as he loves my sister (who is, by all accounts, Alicia version 5.9million) and the drug dealer on Main Street and Humphrey Bogart and Hitler and Princess Di?

(I asked my husband this, and he started to give an answer and suddenly stopped himself and said instead: "How are you feeling about this?" Apparently, someone has been reading recovery materials, haha.)

And my answer? Babies.
We are all babies to the Lord.  We're all darling and standing in the check-out line at the grocery store.  And the Lord is looking on us and saying, "Awwwwww... that is the prettiest person I've ever seen."
The Lord sees through all the weeds to the original plant, the original core! 

He created Babies, and He loves His Babies. 
And Humphrey Bogart is my brother which thing I never had supposed.

I never could wrap my brain around this concept, see, because I didn't believe I was worthy of that much love.  I still don't fully grasp that concept.  I know it, but I don't FEEL it.  You know?

So when a gorgeous woman sits in front of my husband, I'd love to see her as a baby instead of being plunged down into Traumaland.

THIS is my question for General Conference.  THIS is what my heart is open to learning of: Love.

And weeding.
And Traumaland.
But mostly Love.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Nightmares

A few nights ago, I rented "Rise of the Guardians" through our PS3.

  

via catholicbychoice.wordpress.com

My husband bought a big package of licorice, I popped some popcorn, and we all sat under big blankets and watched the movie.

The kids loved it.  Of course they did.  It's about Santa AND the Easter Bunny AND The Tooth Fairy.  I mean, could a movie be any better?  My husband loved it because certain parts made me laugh so hard I cried, and he loves it when that happens.  I loved it because it was all about fear -about conquering fear.

Please stay with me while I tell you about it.  It's going to sound crazy, but staaaay with me.

The Boogie Man is named Pitch Black.  He wants to attack children with fear.  He sends them nightmares and tries to take joy out of their lives.

There are certain Guardians that are called on by The Man in the Moon (staaaaay with me) to protect the children.  There are four Guardians: Santa (named North), the Easter Bunny, The Tooth Fairy, and the Sandman.  Because Pitch Black has grown so strong, the Man in the Moon calls a new Guardian to assist the original four: Jack Frost.

North: Who are you, Jack Frost? What is your center?
Jack Frost: My center?
North: If Man in Moon chose you to be a Guardian, you must have something very special inside.

At this point, North illustrates his point by giving Jack Frost a Matryoshka doll of himself.  Each consecutive shell illustrates North's different character traits: powerful, jolly, mysterious... until the center doll is revealed.  In North's center is a doll that illustrates his grand sense of wonder.

  

via idontlikeitpaintitred.tumblr.com

That was my favorite scene... probably because I just wrote my inventory and had my own Matryoshka Doll experience.  I discovered what was at my center, and I'm using it to fight my own demons.
In my case: mostly fear.

The past few nights, I've been having fear-related nightmares (as opposed to fun-related nightmares? come on, Alicia...) and I wake up with my heart thumping.
My husband cheated on me.
My husband mocked me when he saw me in pain.
My husband left me.
My husband hurt my children.

These are the fears I'm letting go of -these are the fears I thought I HAD let go of.  But here they are at night, hashing up feelings I've dealt with for years.
I've worked hard to heal, and I didn't ASK for these dreams.  I didn't bring them on myself.  They're just... here.
It's like my own personal Pitch Black, creeping up from under my bed to poison my dreams.

I need my own Guardian to conquer my fears. 

Are these MY version of user dreams?  I've been using fear for SO. LONG. that letting it go has proved something of a shock for my brain?  I don't know. I do not know.
All I know is I'm tired.  I don't want to go to sleep, but I want sleep more than, gosh, everything.  I have a three month old, for crying out loud.  The bags under my eyes were already approaching epic proportions.
I wake up every morning filled with emotions toward my unsuspecting husband who has NO IDEA he spent all night making my life hellish.
Poor kid.

Today I'll focus on my center.
Today I'll focus on my Guardian.
Today I won't give fear any credit.

In the Middle

My grandma punches her bread dough.

Most women roll their bread dough out, neatly sealing the edges with water and gently placing the loaf in a prepared pan.  It's the best way to obtain the prettiest loaf.  It's meticulous.

And then?  There's grandma.
*wham! wham! wham!*

My grandmother is the most determined woman I know in real life.  Once she decides she's going to DO something, she does it.  Nothing stands in her way.  She's a never give up, never surrender kind of gal.

 Hers has been a life of projects.

And I think of Grandma every time I punch my bread dough (I use her recipe, of course because that's what you DO with homemade bread.  You make it like Grandma).  She simply places a dab of oil in her loaf pan, places her dough on top of it and *whams!* it.  alot.  repeatedly.
Then she flips the dough and repeats the process.
Then she flips it again and slightly tucks the edges under.  or not.   And just like that, she's done.

This is definitely the quicker way to do it, but it's a pain.  Rolling is a pain as well, just a slower version of it.  Bread making as a whole is kind of a pain in the buns (ha!) but Grandma shortens the pain.  with intensified vigor!  as is her way.

I feel that way about my recovery.  I'm emotionally exhausted.  I'm physically exhausted.  Is it possible to get spiritually exhausted?  I don't know.  But I want to POWER THROUGH Step 4 and 5.  I'm ready to be done with them for the present day (though I know it's impossible to ever just "check" Step 4 and 5 off.  or any step for that matter...) and I'm ready to take it.  I'm ready to look inside myself and rip open memories and past hurts and hurtings and offenses given and taken.
I'm ready to *wham!* my recovery.

And sometimes when I get in the middle of a project (of which I also have many) I start to wonder what I was thinking.  why?  why?  why? do I do this?  and as I wondered why I was putting myself through all of this emotional strain while trying to balance everything else, one of my favorite bands blasted through my Pandora Station.


I'm just in the middle of punching.

It's always like this in the middle. 

It's in the "getting worse before it gets better" stage, and I know -from repeated personal experience -that it always get better.
I would say I've got the loaves to prove it, but I don't.  They're gone.
Grandma's bread is THAT good.

The Windex Step

I stayed up late last night to work on recovery materials. 
I answered 12 hard questions... questions like "Do you feel like you are better than others?"

Instantly I was taken back to the day I was driving down Main Street and saw Skylar (we'll call him Skylar).  He's in his thirties and he still lives at home.  He has a disorder -one that shouldn't be too much of a stunting disorder unless you don't have the drive to fight harder, which he doesn't.  He's content to walk around town a lot.  And he isn't kind.  Or nice.  And he is harboring a list of people he'd like dead.  And whenever I am near him, my inner-creep-alarm goes off.  I never, ever ignore my inner-creep-alarm, especially when I have kids in tow.  And that day as I drove by, I was struck with a thought that has haunted me for over a year now.
"How can Heavenly Father love ME as much as he loves HIM?"
Even as the thought escaped my brain, I was horrified at myself. 
I've always tried to do what's right by following commandments (to the best of my ability) and going to church and on and on... but Heavenly Father's love is NOT earned.  It's freely and equally given.  I'm trying to understand it, trying to wrap my feeble, mortal brain around that concept... and I'm still learning and I still stumbling and so I wrote under that question:
Yes.

Pride?  Check.  Definitely have that...
I continued to answer questions like that, continued to dig up old wounds, past experiences and emotions.
It was draining. 
It was like wearing a bathing suit under florescent lighting in front of a full-length mirror.
Part of me wanted to smash the mirror.
Part of me wanted to smash myself.
But the biggest part of me wants to change...

Just before heading to bed, I jumped over to facebook and found someone had linked to an article written by a Bishop.  I clicked on it and read quickly through it... and then a few words jumped off the screen and seared themselves into the deepest cavity of my brain: the part I'd just overworked:

Mirrors are great motivators, if we've the courage to look them square.

And THAT is my motivation to keep going -keep working through Step 4, no matter how hard it is to see my less-than-desirable characteristics.

Step 4 is my Windex Step.

Here's the link I read in it's entirety.

Loved in Spite Of

After my mom's accident that damaged her brain to a nearly infantile state, she had a two albums she would listen to over and over (and over and over): 
The Man From Snowy River Soundtrack
The Oak Ridge Boy's Christmas Album

Mom has a way of really sticking with her favorite music.  Once she hears something she likes, she plays it over and over (and over and over).  Growing up, she played the Children's Choir singing all of the Primary Songs.
I hated it so much.
I sort of hated myself for hating it and swore that I'd spend the rests of my life being called as Primary Music Chorister as penance for my hatred.
That hasn't come to pass.  Yet, anyway.

The songs were constantly stuck in my head, and my brothers and I would grumble (murmur?) about it daily -but there was one I never minded hearing.

My Heavenly Father Loves Me

Even as I grew up and out of my home, every time I heard My Heavenly Father Loves Me, it would take me back home: back to my old Primary room filled with my old classmates.  I would feel young and warm and happy.

The past few days, I've messed up a lot.  I hesitate to say, "I've failed" because I don't feel like a failure...   Ordinarily, I would feel like a failure, and I would be devastated.  But as I'm working through my Step 4 inventories, I'm seeing ME and seeing that I'm not a failure.  I have certain character flaws, but my character flaws are not me.  I'm messing up a lot, but I'm not a mess up.  For example:

I burned the last batch of cookies.
I forgot to play tooth fairy.
I ate a huge bag of Cadburry mini-eggs (we're talking Sam's Club size here. Apparently when I nurse I have the ability to eat at Feed an Army capacity).
I backed into my own truck with my own jeep and busted lights out on both accounts (first accident in over 10 years).
I had to hire housekeeping help because I couldn't do it myself.
The list goes on (and on)...

And after getting up from the computer where I responded to an email from my mother who was apologizing because she felt, based on my actions toward her at dinner the night before, I had been hurt by her... I began to think of all of the little ways I'd messed up in the past few days.
I walked around the house doing little pick-ups, folding laundry, making cookies (determined NOT to burn the last batch this time), and I suddenly realized I was humming.

I had to stop myself and think about the song I was humming.

Am I the only one who does this?  I start humming a hymn without thinking about it, and once I realize I'm doing it I come to find the hymn I'm humming is an answer to prayers.

I caught myself softly singing, "He gave me my life, my mind, my heart... I thank Him reverently."
And it was like a soft message from my Father in Heaven.  I felt that old familiar HOME feeling again.
Yes, Alicia.  You've been a series of unfortunate events for the past two days.  But I love you.  I love every little clumsy, forgetful, thoughtless piece of you.

Me?
It sometimes blows me away -the power and magnitude of His redeeming love.  I mean.  It's just me.  I'm just that little ol' farmhousewife with her butcher apron on, burning cookies and forgetting birthdays.
Nevertheless...

And to drive His point home, a phone call was placed yesterday in just the way, at just the right time by just the right person to let me know:

Heavenly Father loves me.

Worry Dolls

 

via tc.umn.edu

When I was a very little girl, I was sure my house was going to burn down.  I was SURE of it.  I used to lie awake at night and think about it, run scenarios through my head -50% of which ended in the fatality of either me or one of my parents.  My mother did her best to calm my fears.  She taught a FHE about fire safety, she drew a fire-safety plan for our house.  It hung on the inside of the breakfast cereal cupboard for years, and I studied it -memorized it.

I can still picture it in my mind's eye.

I slept with my shoes beside my bed every night because the one thing that scared me almost as much as a fire tearing through my home and flesh?  getting stickers in my feet as I fled to safety outside.

"You worry too much," my mom said to me.  It's funny: she was always saying that.  She wasn't the only one.  My aunts would say it to me, my brothers, my Dad, my grandma... 

One Sunday evening, I was visiting my grandma.  My beautiful aunt lived with her, and I loved to spend time with her. She always looked so pretty and smelled so wonderful.  And she always had something for me -a piece of candy, a small toy, hand-me-down clothes...  

"They're worry dolls," she said, placing two inside my palm, "You whisper your worries to them before you go to sleep at night, then you place them under your pillow, when you wake up... your worries are gone."

I was fascinated.

She gave some to my siblings and cousins and well, and she joked with us that the dolls were so hideous that they probably just scared worries away.

The brothers laughed at that... but I didn't.  I took it as gospel.  I'd do ANYTHING to stop worrying.

So, every night -FAITHFULLY -I'd whisper my fears and worries to my hideous dolls and I'd place them under my pillow.

I began developing another fear: the fear of losing the dolls.  What would happen then?

Oh, the horror.

As I work on my Step 4 inventory, I see just how much fear has dominated my life -how debilitating it has been.

I think back to Step 2 -The Worry Doll Replacing Step.  I don't need a tiny, ugly doll to scare my worries away.  I only need my Savior to take them.

"I'm afraid if I tell my husband how I feel, he will react ________________."

"I'm afraid my first counselor thinks I'm inadequate in my calling."

"I'm afraid of rising food costs.  What if I can't feed my children properly?"

"I'm afraid my Mom will never be pain-free."

And as I turn my fears over to Him, I whisper "Even if this happens, I will be all right because the Lord will always stand by me and sustain me."

Then I listen for his affirming love -his tangible embrace.

Sometimes it comes.  Sometimes it doesn't need to.  Sometimes the baby cries and I don't have time to focus on fear before falling asleep.

I don't want fear to rule my life anymore.

I don't want to ignore my gut and act to appease others.

I don't want to miss out on opportunities because I'm afraid to fail.

What do I want to do?  Burn a few worry dolls.  

Now if I could only find them...

I'm My Own

  

via fanpop.com

Our Primary class used to meet in the church's kitchen.  There was a shortage of classrooms in the building.

I remember sitting in the cold, metal folding chair next to my best friend as the teacher poured salt into her cupped hand.
"Isn't it pretty?" She asked, her voice soft and sweet. We all nodded.  It was fast Sunday.  Any kind of food -even SALT -looked fabulous.
"Now look..." the tone of her voice took a turn from soft to foreboding.
She sprinkled pepper in the salt.
"It's dirty now," she said, "That's what happens when we sin."
She then went on to tell us how to keep ourselves unspotted.  Maybe the lesson was on the Atonement.  I don't know.  What I DO know is that the salt stuck with me.
Instead of seeing the pepper as an opportunity to draw closer to my Savior, I saw it as a huge no-no. 
I would SAVE MYSELF from it, and I knew I could because I went to church every Sunday and worked hard to do everything right.
Working hard is what I DID.  It's what my family did.  I was up to working my way into Heaven.
No pepper for me!  I'd make SURE of it.

I was never one to want to break rules.  I had a conscience so big it fairly stomped on me.  I never snuck out at night.  Never ditched.  Never talked-back.  Got good grades.  I was dead-set on working my way to Heaven. 
I knew how to do it, too.
*ahem*
Church history, magnify my calling, serve, pray, love, show charity, do my visiting teaching, write in my journal every day, don't fight, read my scriptures, attend the temple, keep my surroundings in order, cook, sew, crochet, work on food storage, get my 72-hour kit, get married in the temple, have babies, FHE, tithing, the word of wisdom, tell the truth, watch only the best media, dress modestly...

The list went on.  It weighed heavy on me at times.  Most of the time, I considered myself as failing.
So, like anyone who is in the business of saving themselves, I punished myself.
I cut myself.  My own sort of sharp lashings.
I knew the phrase "Saved after all I could do" meant that it was up to me to work out my own salvation... to be my own savior.
Saving myself meant judging myself.

Through it all, I did pray.  But my prayers were more of a report than heart-felt communication.  I spoke with only the utmost respect, using my very best Thee-Thous.

More than love, I sought gold-star stickers from the Lord.

The shame I felt as my own savior was immense.  When I stepped out of line -even SLIGHTLY -I was encompassed about with shame.  I took it out on myself because I knew... I KNEW it was my job to handle my own garbage.
I was responsible, and that's what responsible people do.
They don't bother others.  They most certainly don't bother the Lord, who -by the way- had more important issues on His hands than my garbage.  I knew it.
And so I would cut my shoulders which were always perfectly hid by all of my modest shirts, and I would feel immediate relief.  Justice had been served.


As I begin my Step 4 inventory for the second time, I have more clarity.
So I sit down with a blank page and a pen and I write at the top of the page.

"How I Became My Own Savior"

Does your inventory have a title?

If I Didn't Have You

  

via blogs.babble.com

Working the steps daily has been a game-changer for me.  I'm seeing more progress in the past few weeks than I have in a long time.

I've been dealing with a porn addiction in my marriage for 8 years now. 

It wasn't until 2 years ago that I realized I was co-dependent, and I thought I was co-dependent BECAUSE of my husband's addiction, and I resented him for it for a long time.

But as I reached my Step 4 and began writing an inventory, past experiences began to resurface at random times: just as I was getting into bed one night, I suddenly remembered something I hadn't thought about for YEARS.
When I was in grade school (second grade?  third grade?) I ate lunch with a girl named Amber.  One day we sat next to another girl, Mandy.  Mandy had a Little Debbie Fudge Round.  It looked so good -much better than whatever dessert my mom had packed for me. 
Mandy got up to go to the bathroom.
"Take it," Amber had said.
I didn't want to.  I mean, I wanted the dessert, but I knew it wasn't mine to eat.
"Take it, just take it," Amber said.
So I did.
We split it and ate it really fast before Mandy could get back... and it was the by far the WORST tasting dessert I've ever had.  I munched on a combination of guilt and chocolate.
Mandy asked us what had happened to her dessert, and we shrugged.
"I dunno..."

I never told her the truth.
I never stole anything after that.

The thing is: I care more about what other people think of me than I do what GOD thinks of me.  I FEAR others more.

I let go of my Step 4 inventory for a long time.  As I did, things would come to me every once in a while, and now that it's time for me to start Step 4 again, I feel a little more prepared.  I feel like I have more direction.

And I realize something monumental: I NEED RECOVERY from my co-dependency... not because my husband has a porn/sex/lust addiction but because I have issues -I've had them for most of my life!

In high school, I only dated guys that needed saving in some kind of way.  And you know what they say... you marry you who date.
I once dated a guy who needed a research paper written for him.  I was at the top of my English class and had turned in a 10-page research paper with a fat 100% at the top of the page.  He was a transfer student who turned in a 1-page research paper... a bullet-pointed list of facts and a fat F at the top of the page.
Our English teacher paired us together, and she asked me to please tutor him.  We spent hours together, hours in the library, hours at my house, a few hours at his... and I got to control the situation.  I was able to SAVE him from certain failure.
And you know what?  One afternoon when we were working together, he checked his email and his inbox was stock FULL of porn... not just the spam kind.  He tried to cover the screen.
We ended up dating for one week (Thursday to Thursday), and after I broke up with him he actually came into the mom and pop pizza shop I worked at and asking me to please date him again.
"You can help me," he said, "I need help and you can help me."
Something in my gut SCREAMED to get the heck away -jump ship!  and I listened.
"I need to help myself right now," I said.
He scoffed.  "With what?  You've got it all together."
"I'm applying to colleges.  I'm earning money to pay my own way through school.  I've got a million extra-curricular activities, and I need to focus on ME."
My boss asked him to leave.

Thank goodness I listened to my gut on that one.

I realize now -for the first time ever -that I was bound to marry someone who needed saving, even if I wasn't aware of it.
I have asked the Lord so many times, "Why did you LET me marry an addict?"
I see it now as a tender mercy.

Without my husband's addiction, I would have probably never realized the extent of my co-dependency -I would have never gotten any kind of recovery.
(or maybe I would have in a different way -a more painful way)
I would have spent my entire life fearing others more than God, trying to FIX everyone and everything, trying to CONTROL others and their situations in life.
I would have forever tried to be the wrong kind of perfect.

And I know now... I SEE now that if I would have divorced my husband two years ago when I was tempted to, I would have walked right into another "saving" relationship because I hadn't worked to find any kind of recovery for myself.
In the frame of mind I was in two years ago, my HUSBAND was the one with the problems and he was also THE problem... the problem that needed fixed, controlled, saved.

Now I've dropped the idea.  I've let go of him.  I've got bigger fish to fry.
I'm a friggin' mess.
And so I say to my husband as I did to Ryan in the pizza shop all those years ago, "I need to focus on ME right now."
That way if my husband decides against recovery or he dies (which cops sometimes do, but heaven forbid...) then I will be okay on my own. 

Thank goodness for my husband.  I shudder to think of the many relationships I could have ended up in that could have been far worse.

Thank goodness for addiction.
Thank goodness for recovery.

Thank goodness for the Atonement.
Thank goodness for love.