Curious Case of The Inferior Decorator

Last night, our family went looking for a video we'd taken a few years ago of my son singing a tune from, "Calamity Jane" -a musical starring Doris Day who is by all account much too adorable to be Calamity but also much too adorable to be criticized.  It took us awhile to find it because my picture and video files aren't organized -if you know me personally, you aren't shocked over this fact.  We rifled through the years, playing video after video.  I saw my kids grow from diapers to size 8 jeans before my eyes.

It was surreal watching little clips of our life back then.  What stood out -besides the obvious cuteness that is My Children -was the background.  My house.  I watched the decorations shifting and changing, the mess always constant. 
It looks nothing like my house now.  There's still a mess, but it sings a different tune now.
I listened to my voice behind the camera and I felt a gnawing ache in my belly -I ached because I KNEW what The Girl Holding the Camera was going through.  I could see the date each video was taken and I knew, roughly, what was going on around then. 
I remember the month after my rock bottom when God blessed me with three separate highly contagious illnesses that spread through my entire family and kept EVERYONE AWAY and ME AWAY FROM EVERYONE and I sang great and giant praises unto God for it.
I remember the months I spent in bed, trying my best to just GET UP.

And strangely, I remember trying to decorate my house but not really knowing what the heck to do.  I remember trying one thing and then another, never quite content.  I'd spend a day on a wall and walk away at the end of it exhausted and discontented, too tired to bother messing with it for months.  I'd stare at it and just feel... off.
I began to accept myself as an Inferior Decorator.
"It's just who I am," I shrugged myself into apathy.

But you know what?  It isn't who I am.  Am I a professional decorator?  Oh, gosh no.  But guess what I'm not?  I'm not an inferior anything.
I looked at those shifting walls last night and I realized that I was witnessing what happens to a woman when she's completely out of touch with herself. I had neglected myself and been neglected by those who loved me.  I had sustained abuse and wasn't aware of it.
I only knew that my walls were off.  I didn't realize it was because I WAS OFF.
I was out of touch, and I had no idea how to hear myself, how to listen.

Today, I'm typing from the same computer I've typed from for years.  I think of the things these keys have held -the truths, the pains, the tears, the laughter.  I've bonded with this dying, geriatric lap top and I wonder if it sees what's happened.  I wonder if it sees what I see.
The day I opened it up for the first time, I was set on TELLING.  I was set on writing and telling and teaching others.
I love teaching.  It's one part of myself I've never truly lost, though for a time it went completely haywire.  I blogged daily about anything I felt worthwhile, which was truly, truly everything.  Everything, that is, except the truth.
I blogged about mediocre custard filling and posted rushed tutorials on how to make zipper flowers -something I was pretty bunk at, but felt a nagging feeling to shout it from the rooftop anyway.
I poured the sparse amount of life-blood in me into showing others stuff.

I can see why.  I understand my hunger and need to be validated and seen.  I get that.  Given a rewind button, I'd probably do the same thing.  Maybe in a different way?  But knowing what I know about myself, I'm sure I'd run back to that numb, out-of-touch place.

I can't tell you how many times I literally fell asleep on my floor from exhaustion.  Dropped, plopped and woke up at 2 am, flat on my belly, carpet print on my cheek.
It felt absolutely natural to be THAT busy.

Since those videos were taken, things have changed.  They didn't change right away -I didn't even realize HOW MUCH had changed until last night.  What's more: they're still changing.
As I've worked -REALLY worked -recovery, I feel as if I've woken up.  Chancing blasphemy, I'd say that Jesus kissed Sleep Beauty and together, we're building a kingdom.

The glorious proof lies on my walls -I'm not discontented anymore.  I love my walls.  I can HEAR what I want, what I need, and what brings me joy.  I find myself throwing things away and making room for what really thrills me. 
On Saturday, I wore my glasses all day because -I SWARE -my eyes told me they were tired of having contacts forced on them.

As I began working recovery, I was still focused on helping and telling.  I walked into meetings wondering what I had to offer THEM.  I felt a responsibility to use my words to shift the direction of conversation (should it wander into no-no territory) and I would calculate WHAT to say and WHEN and HOW and I made sure I looked nice too.

Somewhere along the lines, Socrates bonked me on the head and I realized that
I
KNEW
NOTHING.

I'm not the first person he's rattled with this profound, life-breathing mantra.

As that truth sunk in (it took a long time), a new world began to unfold.  Suddenly, it wasn't about Alicia and what She had to offer the meetings, people, internet and nature... it was ABOUT the meetings, the people, and nature.
The Sleeping Beauty that awoke wasn't ME at all... not really in the sense I thought -it was my innate, my secret, silenced innate.
And as she awoke, she was STARVING.  She'd been starved for years, and she bloomed as she ate.  I nourished her when I could, and she became louder with every bite of Soul Food.
She is strong today.
She is a strong student.

She walks into nature and wonders what it might teach her.  She looks into the eyes of passing strangers and wonders what parts of God they carry inside of them.  She walks into meetings and wonders what there is to learn that day -because she knows there is SO VERY MUCH, more more than will ever fit in one speck of a lifetime.

She is curious, and the older I get, the more child-like she becomes.  She is my Benjamin Button which is uncanny because WE BOTH have had a school-girl crush on F. Scott Fitzgerald since the 10th grade.
It's all very Barbra Mandrell singing, "I was [flapper] when [flapper] wasn't cool."

What I'm trying to get out here, pal, is that
I
CAN
HEAR.

Which is really, truly something because I didn't know I couldn't until I saw those videos and saw from a third-person perspective what Soul Blockage looks like.

From where I sit now, I can smell the fragrant lilies that I knew I needed from the grocery store last night.  I can see the old cookbooks stacked in a wire basket where a gigantic pile of papers and fabric used to be.  I can feel the familiar tick of the keys I love so much, the kind that feed my soul but (unfortunately) not my belly.

My innate is my teacher.  She is Christ within, teaching me as I listen that though I don't believe it yet, I AM WORTHY.  She prompts me to do crazy things like clean the window over my sink, and I obey... five minutes later as I watch the sun set through a clean, clear window, a message is sent, "You are worth clarity.  You are worth this peace."

She prompts me to rest on the couch, to rest my soul, to meditate, to rest in God.
She prompts me to find the present.  She prompts me to let go of the past, the future, and others.

Her power is beyond comprehension.
And today I can let go of the days behind me when I tied her up and shoved a sock in her mouth. Today I can reach inside of myself.
And I can listen.

This is a miracle, and it bringeth about miracles... like walls that remind me of her:
 

Monsoons

Arizona Monsoons are brilliant.

Arizona Deserts are moody and impatient.  They turn from parched to drenched in seconds and right back again. 
Last night, we saw a storm in the distance.  We gathered up mowers and toys, moved the dogs inside, filled our little oil lamp up, and unplugged big, expensive electronics.  The storm moved quickly in, lighting up the sky.
Rain pelted everything.
Danny stopped up leaks in our leaky house (leaky houses are more healthy than unleaky houses, just so ya know) and I played the piano.
Our kids tried to relax, but with each big BOOM their eyes got wider.  They looked to us for our reaction... if Mom is okay, then I'll be okay.

"Aren't you glad we live in this little cozy house?" I came up to my kids from behind and wrapped my arms around them, tickling them as I added, "Instead of a GIANT HAUNTED MANSION?!?!"
They squealed and screamed and ironically relaxed a little.

I went into my room to get more yarn for the scrap blanket I'm crocheting (gotta do something with all this sick time.  Hey!  Why not make an ugly blanket for the kids to fight over when I'm gone?) and realized as I switched the light in my room on that I was
SO
TERRIFIED.

The fear dark thunderstorms bring is familiar.  It's the same now as it was when I was 8.
The darkness is what does it.  I've literally slept through a Monsoon Flood during the middle of the afternoon.  But a darkened storm?  My timbers shiver.

I realize the storm, the rumblings and the grumblings, brought on the same stress that my marriage used to (and sometimes still).  You never know when there's going to be a BOOM big enough to rattle you, and the only clarity you're given is bright, instantaneous flashes of light so electric they can almost be blinding.
In the darkest place of my marriage, those electric lights were just as scary as the thunder that followed.  In fact, the closer the light came -the more and more I saw what I could do and started DOING IT -the louder the thunder got, the more the storm raged around me.

With each brilliant flash, I was scared.
Could I stand up for myself?
Could I say I was unhappy?
Would I?

I eventually would when it seemed that any other option (meaning NOT speaking up) seemed more hellish than I could fathom.  The ending result was MORE light.  And, unfortunately, more storm.

I was scared to change, scared to detach from the dark storm, scared of confrontation, scared that I wouldn't be enough on my own.

Lightening is confident.  It makes everything around it brighter -lights up the darkest skies.  It brings fire and gives us some of the GREATEST photo ops.

There is lightening inside of every soul.
It can be scary in the middle of a storm, but you know what?  I think it needs to be.  Because the STORM is scary... the storm needs somebody it's own size.
And lightening is equal to the storm.

Do rainbows come after storms?  Is there peace and tranquility?
People say so, but I generally find there's simply more storms.  I also find there's more beauty in the rainy season than any other.

Of Mice and Mold

C.S. Lewis told me that I'm a mere player on the stage -that the REAL me exists outside of the stage -in the darkened wings and the unseen balconies, and that I can't tap into The Real Me until my part is finished, until I've washed off the stage make-up and hung up the costume... in short: until I die.

This makes absolute sense to me because I feel The Real Me at certain sacred times in my life, and each time I do, I find a sense of home that feels even more HOME than the four walls that house me right now. 
Writing does it to me -leaves me with a sense of other-worldliness that feels more like visiting a departed twin I've never met rather than an alien encounter.
Certain songs will transport me to my "other" home, remind me that I'm still playing my part on stage and that there's a wide world waiting in the wings and beyond.
But surely, PRAYER is my biggest, fattest surest freest ticket to my Homeland, to Father and Mother.

Prayer has been my golden ticket in these last years.  I always pick up a ONE WAY ticket, fully intending to never leave God's presence, but something always, always pulls me back to the bright draw of the stage lights.
God knows how I can't let go of that stage.  Even when we're together, it seems like all I can talk about is The Play.  I'm consumed with it.
He knows all about The Play.
He wrote it.  He produces it.  He is the audience, the crew, the set designer.  Alpha and Omega!

I ask Him questions, and sometimes He replies.  Sometimes He raises His eyebrow and sometimes He just smiles while I work out answers for myself.

I'm doing a scene right now titled, "Of Mice and Mold."It's really pretty grotesque.

It hold the familiar old plot line of health issues, one that I can't seem to shake.  Maybe my character plays the part well?  I don't know.  This is something I ask Father when I happen to buy a well-intentioned "one way" ticket. 

The set looks something like a blue-collar rental, adorned with antiques and dirty clothes.  There's a baby painting her own fingernails, a young boy and girl arguing over who called whose imaginary friend stupid, and Me.  Me is wearing my LEAST favorite costume: work clothes.  I'm curled up in the comfiest chair.
There's a television show on in the background, a nearly empty milk carton in the fridge and leftovers on the counter that have grown some fascinating mounds of mold.
And as I sit with a heating pad on my side, hoping to quell the pain roaring from under my right rib and calm the nausea that comes in dreaded waves, a mouse scurries around the edge of the stage.

I want to care, but I'm too tired.  I'm SO tired.

I find that in previous acts, I've had to let go of expectations in my marriage.  I've had to leave my 50th anniversary bash and dreams of grey-haired front porch hand-holding in the hands of The Playwright.
THAT was hard.
I yelled into the blackness of the audience at that point.
"You expect me to go along with this?" My hair curled, my body toned and able, my make-up as pristine as was in my power to procure.
It was my DIVA moment, The Diva Scene.

Of Mice and Mold is unfolding in what feels like YEARS away from The Diva Scene.  I'm not sassy and stamping my feet.  At this point, I'm looked less plucky and more sucky, defeated and tired.

"It's been 5 years," I whisper to the footlights because I know The Director well enough by now to know that HE WILL HEAR ME even if I don't yell, even if I don't stamp, even if I don't speak at all, "and still.  I am being asked to give more of my future.  I am being asked to give all.  I don't know if I can."

Can I surrender my ENTIRE future to God?  Can I trust Him with my health and my kids and my bank account?
With the mice?
I haven't even mentioned the mold!

These are the questions I put at His feet on my Prayer Train visits.
His answers are always so pure and delicious. 
"Stop worrying about The Play, Alicia," He closes His eyes to match my closed eyes, "And let Me."
His calming words make the mice and mold feel like distant pebbles in my shoes -the kind I kick out in an instant. I remember that The Play is a blip on the radar.  It's so easy to forget, so easy to get wrapped up in my lines, the set, the banter.

At that moment, the Real Alicia and The Real Father touch souls so intimately and deeply that I can't imagine ever opening my eyes and breaking our connection.  In that moment, God knows my deepest longings to live a life filled with Mother Teresa's charity, C.S. Lewis' wisdom, and Erma Bombeck's humor.  He knows my shame, my strength, my fears and my hopes.  It is the most vulnerable love I know. I am completely exposed, yet all around me is insurmountable support.

It is Heaven on Earth.
And I CLING to it right up until the mouse scurries across from stage right, and then my eyes fly open.  I'm back.

The Plot floods my mind: get the nail polish away from the baby, keep the chocolate from the dog. Put the fighting children outside, and don't forget to eat even if everything makes me sick.  Do I have any bleach?  Can I make it to the store?  Does anyone have any clean clothes?

My serenity is threatened constantly on stage -maintained only by the heavenly hangover that comes when I access my Real Me, my True Home.
I remember today is just today, and my only job is to be as present as I can be in it for God has a new act around every corner.
The great tragedies only come when I spend my time trying to predict and manage the upcoming acts -to grieve over my mistakes in the acts I left behind.  I try to balance every scene all at once instead of simply playing the one at hand and leaving the managing and writing to God.

Tonight, I touched The Real Me.
This makes the impending tomorrow easier. Though the mold will grow and the mice will somehow find their way from the barn to my home and the pain in my body will insist on playing it's own shadowy part... I remember the Play is just The Play.

And God, who is within and without, knows me very, very well.

Five Years

The other night, I was reading back to 2010 on my family blog. I was only interested in fun old pictures and stories about my kids, but I was reminded of something else:

In December of 2010, I hit my rock bottom. It's been almost five years!

It was shocking to see the differences between Alicia v.2010 and Alicia v.2015.
Physically, I ache for what's happened. In five years, I've aged fifteen years. The stress has taken so much out of me. There's worry lines where there used to be supple skin. My eyes look old, showing the wear and tear recovery takes. I ached for the younger version of me. Only five years ago, I looked so fresh. Today I sit with inflammation and ulcers, I've had my gall bladder and tonsils removed due to inflammation. My hair has thinned considerably and I have gained ten stress pounds from trauma alone.
This is hard for me to sit with.

As I read the words I wrote, I could see a stark change internally as well. My worries and concerns were surface. I worried endlessly about things that were outside of my realm of control. I didn't know myself at all.

As I read the words I wrote, I remembered how I felt when I wrote them. I remembered my insatiable appetite for external validation, for approval from others.
I had a much larger blog following in those years. People wanted to read about my shiny life, about my funny kids and the nice things Danny did during the honeymoon phase of his addiction cycle.
I blogged almost daily.

Today my number of readers has decreased. I blog when I can, when I feel I should either for journaling purposes or because I feel I absolutely MUST... As if God has something He'd like for me to get out of my soul and onto cyber paper.
I do this without thought of disapproval whereas before I sought strictly for approval. This means I've upset people, made them unhappy with what I've chosen to write about on my blog.
So that's progress.

I've traded shiny for tarnish.
I'm okay with that.

I used to believe that really living meant people knowing who I was, admiring me for what I had to offer.
Now I feel that really living means moving to a small house off the beaten path and admiring what God has to offer.

James Allen has said that Christ's tomb isn't something found on foreign soil... It's a deeply personal metaphor existing within. As we roll away the stone of selfishness from our souls, Christ himself is awoken within. His light and light come forth from inside of us. His resurrection has never been a single event. It is a commonplace miracle brought forth usually through excruciating life events: death, betrayal, grief, loss, trauma...
These events offer us a ticket to Christ's resurrection, a chance to REALLY begin to live.

Does this means my worry lines will disappear? That my ulcers will never again send me to my sickbed?
No.
It does mean, though, that I'm finally living. It does mean that I'm seeking Christ instead of Self. I'm not doing it perfectly, but there's a sort of beauty in that fact as well.

"Suppose a person who knew nothing about salt. You give him a pinch to taste and he experiences a particular strong taste.  You then tell him that people in your country use salt in all their cookery. Might he not reply. 'In that case, I suppose all your dishes taste exactly the same: because the taste of that stuff you have just given me is so strong that it will kill the taste of everything else.' But you and I know that the real effect of salt is exactly the opposite. So far from killing the taste of the egg and the tripe and the cabbage, it actually brings it out...
It is something like that with Christ and us. The more we get what we now call 'ourselves' out of the way and let Him take us over, the more truly ourselves we become. There is so much of Him that millions and millions of "little Christ's", all different, will still be too few to express Him fully. He made them all. He invented -as an author invents characters in a novel -all the different men that you and I were intended to be. In that sense our real selves are all waiting for us in Him. It is no good trying to 'be ourselves' without Him... It is when I turn to Christ, when I give myself up to His Personaity, that I first begin to have a real personality of my own. ...
But there must be a real giving up of the self. You must throw it away "blindly" so to speak. Christ will indeed give you a real personality: but you must not go to Him for the sake of that. As long as your own personality is what you are bothering about you are not going to Him at all. The very first step is to try to forget about the self altogether. The real, new self (which is Christ's and also yours, and yours just because it is His) will not come as long as you are looking for it. It will come when you are looking for Him."

~CS Lewis 

Beautiful words.
And so my real, new self emerges... Physically beaten but emotionally and spiritually enlightened. Awareness abounds in my brand new soul and my aging, aching joints alike.

One day at a time I will surrender to God and find myself. And those days will stack themselves neatly into years, and those years will be looked back upon as lived fully: joyfully, painfully... But fully.

The Third Person

Inside of my marriage there is a personage, and that personage IS the marriage.

When I was first married, I was smitten with it.  I'd spent months in preparation -reading magazines (because there was no Pinterest in '04) and dreaming up JUST WHAT KIND OF MARRIAGE I WOULD HAVE.  My wedding seemed so far away and so close, my emotions climbed all sorts of scales I didn't know existed.  Suddenly everyone around me looked married or engaged and all the world existed ONLY for that purpose.
Those early days were bliss and laughter, movies and sleeping in.
But the older the marriage got, I started noticing a few things that were off.  I wondered if other marriages were off too, if maybe my marriage was actually completely normal.
I sometimes fantasized about asking other newlyweds about the hidden, intimate parts of their marriage, just so I could know if my marriage was okay.  I WANTED to believe it was okay... but I had nothing to compare it to.
I read books about marriage.  I held my marriage up to the marital situations in the books and wondered if my marriage needed more books?  or less books?
Surely not counseling.  Because only REALLY SICK MARRIAGES need counseling.  And ours -though maybe MAYBE off a little LITTLE -was most definitely not grouped into the "really sick" category.  In that, I was certain.  Stiffed, starched collar certain.

The years paced on, and as they did I found out that our marriage was most definitely off.  I found I had no voice, or maybe I did and was petrified to use it?  The capable young woman I once was became replaced with a fear-ridden woman who asked for permission about most everything.
I watched other marriages around me and realized that the women had these incredible voices that they used to spend money on household things without asking permission and their husbands were okay with it -proud of them, even!  I watched them buy clothes for their family and make decisions like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Watching it all go down around me, I realized -YES -the problem was ME.  I needed to make decisions more and better!  I needed to be more and better!  I bought MORE BOOKS!

And when the books failed me and when my advice-sources failed me (I'm looking at you, Google), I grabbed my marriage and I took it to the hospital.  I put it in bed. I cared for it carefully, worried about it by night.
When I'd ask my husband if he were interested in coming to the hospital with me, he insisted that our marriage didn't need THAT kind of help.  So I'd watch him from the window of the hospital room.
No one knew how sick the marriage was.
I had a few healthy friends who I allowed in the hospital room.  In a hushed voice, I'd tell them the truth.  I'd tell them honestly about my marriage.
My therapist assured me that I was in the right place.  I was definitely in the right place.
My sponsor assured me that I was in the right place.
But it felt REALLY wrong without Danny.

What a watch-keep I kept, ever lonely, ever longing.  I couldn't listen to music without wanting to break something.  I felt beauty and beautiful things were made for happier, healthier people and white, sterilized life was all I deserved.
I existed in that life for my marriage.  It didn't respond to treatment.  If anything, it only became worse.
I held out hope, as I'd always been taught.
Those who were allowed into my room said the same thing, "It's going to get worse before it gets better.  I'm so sorry."
I felt deflated but strappingly hopeful.  I was capable of hard things.  I grit my teeth.  I oiled my knuckles.

But just as my external environment had let me down, so did my own capabilities.  My books let me down easy.  It was easy to blame them and hate them for not giving desired results.  But when I couldn't give me desired results?  THAT IS PAIN.
I left the hospital and went to the prettiest place I know of: the graveyard.  I sat on a bench that somehow landed in view of BOTH my great-grandmothers' graves and I cried.
WHAT NOW?
WHERE NOW?
WHY?  WHY NOW?

I didn't walk back into the hospital room with my marriage.  I couldn't.  The entire room reeked of stale hope, fool-hearty aspirations.

I simply went to my husband and told him, "I'm done." It wasn't within me to sit with a dying patient anymore.  I had taken all I could.
To my utter and complete surprise, he panicked, turned and RAN to the hospital.  I was at an utter loss -I had assumed he wasn't invested in the marriage.  But he took my place.  He breathed in the stale hope while I built an ice castle on the side of a hill and uncovered my super powers... and let them go.

I took my wedding ring off. I meditated.  I wrote.  I ate a lot of stuff I shouldn't have.  I cried.  I prayed.  I burned.  I redecorated.  I laughed.  I talked a lot.  I made new friends.  I connected with old friends.  I ordered a ukulele. 

My husband would visit sometimes.  He kept me updated on the marriage, though I had lost interest.  At times, a spark of hope would bounce around in my chest cavity just long enough for me to detect and wreck it.
No hope.
Hope is not safe.
"Walls," I would tell my chest cavity as I set plaster in the hole the spark left, "Walls are safe."

Still.  Every visit from my husband brought more sparks, and my plaster supply ran lower all the time.
Still.  Hope proved to be a strong-willed invisible creature with the power to overwhelm cynicism.  It was -as it's sparks so easily proved -downright fiery.

In my castle on the hill, I found Jesus.  At first, Jesus was all mush and cush -total and complete and unconditional love.  But I noticed He came with a few rules that weren't totally mush.  And as I read about Him and walked with Him, I realized that Jesus is a little scary because He is assertive about my salvation and I have NO IDEA how to handle assertive people.  They scare me.  And Jesus was very scary.
I found hope to be exactly like Jesus -because really?  Hope and Jesus are one in the same.
And they are -in a word -fierce.

Jesus walked with me as I left the ice castle.  He walked with me down the hill.  He walked with me into the hospital room.

I was glad He was there.  I needed Him for the shock.
THE PATIENT I LEFT WASN'T THERE.
I mean, my marriage WAS THERE.  But it looked all... different.
I decided to stick around and discover what the different meant, but I resolved that if the patient were different than so ought the room to be.
Windows were flung open, color was added to every white wall.  I opened the door and banned any hushed voicing.

And that's where I am right now.
In that room, trying to reacquaint myself with my marriage.

Some people stop by to visit who don't understand how sick the marriage is or what it's been through and they have all the answers.
"Don't torture yourself," they say, "take it off life support or take it home but STOP torturing yourself."
Those people don't get to come back and visit.
"I've been in this room," some guests will say, "Just remember who you are.  Be as gentle to yourself as you are true."  Those people get VIP treatment.
Jesus comes every time I ask Him to.
He is still fierce and loving, still the most masculine man I've ever met -still the most fascinating.  Still my favorite guest.
Some professionals come.  Some neighbors come.  The kids come, the eldest aware of the sick patient.  The middle child aware of the snacks on the table.  The toddler a bundle of bliss and energy to every guest she touches -including the patient.
Some well-meaning guest try to shuffle visitors past our door, telling them it's none of their business, it's a "behind closed doors" situation... they take our pain personally and try -in a way they view as compassionate and a way I understand well because I've been there -to control what they can.
I have to ask them to leave. I point to #5 on the board where I've written the rules.

1) Be honest
2) Be loving
3) Be true
4) Hug
5) No hushed voices

My patient is healing.
Because I am healing.
Because Danny is healing.
But not before.

It really IS The Third Person, saddled with hopes, dreams and love.  I mourn for it, as I have departed friends.  I sacrifice for it.  I pray for it, fast for it, invest in it, cry myself to sleep over it.

It is as real to me.  It is almost tangible.

Even Jesus died for it as He did for me, as He did for Danny.
And if I hold Christ close WHILE Danny holds Christ close, there is hope for the marriage.

And just as a mother sits over the bed of her sick child, just as a husband refuses to leave the room of his comatose wife, SO WILL WE STAY.
Why?
Because hope.
With our hands enfolded in Christ's, hope springs forth -lighting the entire room aflame.

Take THAT off life support?  You must be mad.
This refining fire is MINE.
With Christ, I will stride forward each day -one day at a time -and I will stay the course, knowing that Christ will never fail me.

Never, no never.
Should Danny choose to let go, I know Christ never shall.

Corrie Ten Boom says, "I have learned to hold all things loosely, so God will not have to pry them out of my hand."

So I endevour daily to hand my will, my husband and my marriage to Christ. They are safer there.

I am safer there too.
The flames of Christ's hope encircle me, and I am secure.

Summer Lovin'

Two summers ago, I got a job.  I opened my own bank account, and I ached deeply.  No one really knew about my pain, and somehow that made the pain worse. The day I started my job, my cousin ended up life-flighting out of town due to a traumatic brain injury.  My grandpa was hospitalized twice.  My dad ended up in the hospital with an awful virus and went from John Wayne to Nearly Dead within a matter of days.  Our family hay barn caught fire.  Grandma's three freezers full of years' beef (raised by them) went out while they were on vacation.
We just wanted to come up for air.
Last summer it was much of the same pattern... Danny and I separated.  My son broke him arm. I had surgery to remove my gall bladder.  And that was just July.
As this summer has begun, I've been sick. I've had nausea and fatigue. I chalked it up to having my gall bladder out last year and have just been pushing through the pain. My sister in law delivered her baby 8 weeks early -everything turned out really well, thankfully. Last week, I went to the pool with my daughter's class to chaperone an end of the year party.  I was sick but trying to power through.  I called the Dr. and set up an appointment for the next day because my pain had begun radiating to my back and I wanted to make sure something wasn't about to rupture before I headed to Utah that weekend for my sister's wedding.
While in the pool, my son had a seizure. He's never had one before and I thought he was dying.  My husband stayed the night with him in the hospital so I could go to my own Dr. appointment the next morning.
The good Dr. evaluated me and made a diagnosis: ulcers.
I wanted to laugh.
OF COURSE it's ulcers.

The meds helped almost immediately.

We attended my son's kindergarten graduation that night -he was well enough to attend -and left for Utah the next morning.  I came home and got a call from my bank's fraud department: someone was spending my cash that wasn't me.

Between all of the madness as I try to put together my sister's reception this weekend (I'm head reception honcho, ole!) I am dealing with life stuff as well.
Boundaries.
A live-wire toddler.
Lack of sleep.
Broken car.


I'm really exhausted.
No amount of self-care is enough to fill my cup for what's coming.  At this point, I'm just battening down the hatches and weathering the storm which I've come to accept as INDEFINITE.

I keep thinking, 'Alicia, stop being such a victim.'  Because every time I HEAR myself SOUND like a victim, I shame myself.
Stop being weak.
Stop complaining.
Stop whining.
Stop.
Just stop.

These are the voices I've heard for my entire life.

As I work on Step 7 and ask God to PLEASE remove my victim-ness, I find him sending me a lot of, well, persecution.
Is He testing me?  To see if I'm TRULY ready to give it to Him?
That's what I kept thinking, but as I've reached out and talked more about it, I realize that I've always confused victimization and actually being victimized.
God is trying to show me the difference.

As my debit card was being spent, I accepted that it sucked.  I reached out and I talked it out.  I called the right people and then I laughed.  Stupid card thefts.  Shoulda stole from someone who actually HAS money.
Give me my $100 back OR ELSE.

Growing up with my Mom was hard because of her traumatic brain injury.  My sister was born 5 years later and naturally has a better bond with her.  As she's been wedding planning, I've ached deeply for all I missed in the mother department, but I rejoice that my sister DOES have it.  I've cried and talked it out with safe people and prayed SO much.  THIS is NOT victimization.  This is healthy emotional living.

Being sick for WEEKS, having my son have a seizure, finding ulcers... this is ALL CRAP.  And it sucks.  It's hard.  I SOUND like a victim when I talk with people.

I am not a surface person.  If you ask me how I'm doing, I TELL IT ALL.  Conversely, I'm not interested in your surface.  I want to know WHO and WHY and WHAT and WHEN while I look into your eyes.  I love people, and I'm fascinated by what makes them tick and why.  I struggle to END conversations because there's always so much more to be said and found out.  Each person is a mystery.

So when I talk, you get to hear about debit card fraud and my mom's brain injury and my gastro ulcer issues because I HATE MYSTERIES and I want you to know me.

But I am not a victim.
I talk about my problems SO I CAN handle them in a healthy way.

This is really hard for me to wrap my mind around.  The voices in my head still call out, "complainer.  Whiner.  Weak mouse baby."

These lies will die hard.

I appreciate those who have been on the listening end who have helped me audibly debunk the lies floating around in my brain.
Satan takes shreds of truth and encases them neatly in lies and then FEEDS THEM TO ME.
He is SO GOOD at it.  He does an amazing job.  Artfully.  Skilled.  Punk face.

I just want to reach out today and say, "Hey, guess what?  I'm not the victim I thought I was.  I'm just being hit crap dovetail-style. But I'm leaning on God, I'm surrendering and the Atonement is working wild miracles in my life. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to take my ulcer meds."

I used to use victimization to get attention and I equated attention with love.
I have made leaps and bounds of progress in that area, thanks to recovery.

I now know that my attempts to use victimization and other manipulation tactics to gain attention were pride and fear-based.
I can now rest in God as the chaos swirls and know that with humility comes serenity.

There is endless chaos in my external environment.
Thank GOD my external environment isn't the one that matters anymore.

May you be reasonably happy in your chaos today is my prayer for you.
Love,
Alicia

Tides A'Changing

I used to write so much more on this blog. I had so much to say, so much to share.

These days I'm hard-pressed to find words.
What can I say that needs to be said?
I've been in recovery longer now than I had been a year ago, surely that warrants more shares. Only I find I've come farther and found I'm quite at the beginning.

The more I work recovery, the more I find there is to work.
How can I help others when I have no idea what The Lord has in mind for them?
Each day... EACH day I face my own character defects, and my soul is filled with the desire to surrender. Sometimes I successfully surrender, sometimes I don't have the faith necessary to surrender completely.

In this state of perpetual pride -one I which I fear I will exist quite indefinitely -I am humbled at least to the point of knowing that I have no answers.

Four days ago, I felt the beautiful, blessed serenity that has come from working recovery daily. My shoulders relaxed, my mind at ease. I felt myself being present and appreciated more fully God's supernal blessings.
I had enough.
I was enough.

And then, three days ago, I was hit with a shame trigger that uprooted it all. I began blaming and feeling like a victim of circumstances. All too suddenly, I didn't have enough, and I wasn't even close to being enough.
I called my sponsor to surrender the shame.
I prayed. And still... I felt myself turn completely and utterly inside, unaware of God's peace. I was hurt easily by any cat that looked at me crossways.
Two days ago, it lingered. Still I prayed, still I faltered.
Yesterday, I just made it to the end of the day before breaking into the kind of tears that make your body shake and require some kind of rough work to get them all out for the moment.
I took a scrubber pad to my dishes, and my dishes caught all of my pain, all of my tears.

Who could I call?
I made a list in my mind, only dismiss it and beg God for what I desired and knew only He could offer.
Peace.

Take sesh this pain.
Danny held me as my tears tapered off, validating my pain which wasn't addiction-related at all, but family of origin related. Can you relate? Yes... Families are the greatest sources of deep emotion, aren't they?

Shame is so powerful. I make decisions from a shameful place.
I know I shouldn't, and I also know that I do it without realizing it. And I've BEEN DOING IT for years. and I didn't realize it until I'd been in recovery for FIVE years.
When I feel shame, I blame. When I'm blaming, I'm a victim.
I recognized my tendency toward victimization two years ago, and only recently did I tie it to the root... And that root is shame.

The farther in get into the puzzles of me, the more puzzle pieces I find.

I seemed to know so much more a few years ago, had more to offer, more answers.
I know now that I have a few answers for myself and they do not coincide with everyone else's answers. What's more... The answers I do have are slim  it fierce and carry me through the answers I don't have which are looming at best and threatening at worst,

What do I have to say?
Not much. And that's a heck of a change from a girl who can't be bothered with silence much.

(My computer cord was viciously mangled by my dog, so I'm typing from my iPad which always ends up messy. Forgives us, won'tcha?)