2 Years

Two years ago yesterday I hit my rock bottom.

I was crumpled up in a sobbing mess in my kids' empty bathtub.  It was such a hopeless, painful place to be.  With each new wave of sobs, it felt like my ribs were trying to crush my innards.
I had nowhere to go -nowhere to turn -no words.

And that's when my life changed.

Because when you have nowhere to go -nowhere to turn and absolutely NO WORDS there's One who will be there and understand... even when all the "words" you have to offer are painful innard-crushing sobs.

In two years, I've learned so much more than I ever thought I wanted to know about porn. 
Two years ago, I liked my husband but I didn't feel LOVE for him.  I hated his addiction.  I contemplated divorce.  I weighed my options.  I cried for 6 months.  I devoured literature about pornography addiction.  I prayed more than I ever have. 

Today I'm a different person.
I definitely love my husband.  MOST definitely.
I'm grateful for his addiction.  I hate what it's DONE to our relationship -rather, what we've let it do to us, but I'm grateful for what it's taught me.
I'm still weighing my options, and I fully realize that despite the marital advice that we received from so many... divorce actually IS an option -it's a reality -it's woven into the fabric of sexual addiction.  While I don't hope for it, I keep a small pocket in my brain for it.  I have a Plan B for it.  I hope I never need to use it.  I'm not done crying... but I am, for the most part, a functioning member of society.  I still devour literature about porn addiction.  I still pray like mad.

It's a ratty sort of anniversary.
But I'm proud of it in my own weird way.

I'm still standing.
What's more: I'm standing taller -because of my Savior and His Atoning Sacrifice (and with a great deal of help from the 12-step program).

I Don't Care

The 39th week of pregnancy is hell.
I imagine everyone is hell is walking around 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant.  Because seriously.  Nothing is worse.
You're physically limited, emotionally out of control, and there's nothing you can do about it except WAIT.

About one week before my baby was born, my husband and I left our kids with a sitter and went grocery shopping.  Walking around the store was one big mass of contractions and "honey, you have GOT to walk slower."
We were an hour late picking our children up solely because I was so slow-going.

With so much going on in my mind and body, I didn't have one inch of room left in me to CARE about my husband or think about his addiction, but as we drove home from our grocery date I felt prompted to ask him how he was doing.

I hesitated.
Mostly because I truly didn't care.  I was beyond caring whether he was looking at other women, how often he was, where he was...

But I couldn't shake the feeling, so I took a deep breath.  and I took the plunge.
He unloaded.  He opened up the deepest, most hidden-est parts of his SOUL.

He's been slipping, he confessed.
I listened as he talked -thankfully the nearest grocery store is a 30 minute drive from home, so he had plenty of miles of talk.
And when he was done, he waited nervously for my reaction.  Which was:
"Thank you for being so honest -I really appreciate it... I just don't care, you know?"

They call me Princess Tact down at the office.

Interestingly, my reaction seemed to open up MORE of my husband's soul.  Apparently, the less I care, the safer he feels talking to me.  And he HAS talked... since that day he has been 100% transparent.
Not all the news has been good news, but still.
I don't care.
Maybe my heart is two sizes too small? 
Or maybe I'm just more healed that I realized.
Maybe all I needed was a new little one in my life to help me step back, slow down, and realize that I'm doing okay.  I'm doing all right.  I'm even doing a little better than I thought I was.
Because for the first time in 8 years:
I don't care about porn.

Time Off

I haven't been doing any step-work for a while now.

I haven't been doing as much studying -though I have done some.

And it makes me feel vulnerable in the Recovery World.  I'm taking steps back in my own recovery, and instead of recognizing it and using it to fuel my "I GOT THIS" fire, I'm looking at it and just feeling so bloomin' tired.

Sometimes recovery is just the pits.  To be honest, I don't want to think about it right now.  I want to think about having a baby and how to handle post partum stuff and what to do with the next YEAR of my life in the which I adjust to having an infant -something I haven't had for 4 years.

As much as I wish my recovery wasn't moving backward, I need to let it go... just for a while.

It's hard for me to not give my all to it -to not work hard at detaching and healing.  But I'm so exhausted in every possible way right now.

Know what I did today?  The dishes.
Period.
And I'm am SO ready for bed.

I really hate this.  I'm used to being able to clean my house in one day -to start at one end and whirlwind my way to the other end.  I come out on the other end reeking of sweat and grime.  I end up look like crud.  And it feels awesome.
Recovery work gives me the same kind of satisfaction -I like to work at it, whirlwind my way through soul-searching questions, come out the other end emotionally spent... but that feeling of learning something new about yourself, the insights, the knowledge... it feels awesome.

But right now.
I.
just.
can't.

And I'm tired of feeling like a failure because I can't right now.
And I'm tired of taking steps back.

I need some time off.
What better time than right now, when there's a baby due at any moment?

Take That!

My mind is busy.
and tired.
VERY tired.

There's no room for porn addiction.

When my husband and I had an addiction-related difference of opinion yesterday, I felt heavy.  I don't want to deal with porn addiction right now.

I want it to vanish for a few months -just until my hormones balance out a little and the baby sleeps at least four hours at a time.

I can function on four hours at a time.

But porn addiction doesn't vanish.  It isn't convenient.  It isn't on a beck-and-call schedule.
It just... is.

It always is.  It is during the holidays and during pregnancies and during moves and raises and housework and birthdays and anniversaries and deaths.

But right now: there's no room for it.  I can not handle it.  After our difference of opinion, I felt no need to argue my point, to defend my stance or to talk at all, really.  So I didn't.
I don't agree with him.
He doesn't agree with me.

I took the matter to the Lord.  I laid down on my bed (because kneeling isn't really an option right now).  I closed my eyes.
I pleaded.
"Take this.  Please just TAKE this.  I can't go through these emotions.  I can't think about this.  I can't talk about this.  There's nothing left of me for this.  I can't dwell on it.  I can't face it, handle it, learn from it or or or..."
I fell asleep in the middle of the prayer.
Forty minutes later I woke up.

It was gone.
He took it.
I quit trying to take it.  I gave up.  I admitted that I couldn't take it anymore and I asked Him to.
And he DID.

My heart is filled with gratitude and humility.
I feel awful handing my crap over to someone else... I feel like it's MINE.  I HAVE TO HANDLE IT.  It's my job.  I'm a responsible person who handle their own stuff.  I do not pass it off on someone else.
But what about when I can't handle my own stuff?
HE can.  I am never alone.  I have a partner, and it isn't my husband.  It's my Savior -it's my Father in Heaven.
I just love Him so much -so very much.

I can DO today because he took my... stuff.

 

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Waiting to Break?

I'm trying not to be.
But I'm worried.

I don't know if I can do it: Primary President, new mother battling hormones, porn addict husband, mommy to two, PASG facilitator...

Sometimes I wish people KNEW, you know?  I wish people knew what was going on so they understood why I get frazzled easily or why I forget things or why I cry for "no good reason."
Could I handle a new baby and my calling?  I think so.
Can I handle my calling, a new baby, AND then all this addiction stuff?  It looks like I'm going to.

I know from past experiences that the Lord will bless me if I'm willing to get down in the dirt of it all -get my hands dirty, so to speak.  He will not leave me helpless.

Because even if other people don't KNOW... HE knows.  He knows very well.
He knows.

Calm Before the Storm

 

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I've been through labor and delivery twice before.

I know what's coming.  I've been prepping my house, mind and body for it.  And now that the clothes are out, the car seat cover has been washed, the hospital bags are packed and there's food in the freezer...
I'm just waiting.

I've never been this prepared for a baby before.  I have no idea what it's like to be prepared to have a baby.  Will recovery be easier because I have taken measures to help it along the way (something I've never done before)?

Every night, my sleep is restless.  My dreams are invaded with Baby.  I wake up sore and tired every morning.
When will she come?

I've officially carried this baby longer than I did my son.
My daughter was born at 37 weeks and 1 day.

I am 36 weeks and 5 days.

I'm waiting, waiting, waiting.
When?
When?
When?

Should I sleep with my contacts in -just in case I go into labor in the middle of the night?  Should I wear my robe to bed?  Sleep with a waterproof bed liner, just in case my water breaks (though it never has on it's own)?
Is my phone charged?
Are my shoes by the bed?

When?
When?
When?

It's taking over my BRAIN.  But it isn't foreign to me.  I've had my brain taken over before -or I should say: I've LET my brain be taken over before.
I'm more prepared than I ever have been for my husband to relapse.  My recovery has progressed farther than it ever has.  I'm more healthy in every way (hence the fact that I'm more PRESENT for this baby.  I've been so wrapped up in my husband's addiction that I wasn't able to properly prepare for my other babies).

But I still don't know how I will handle it... how I will recover.
And then there's the question:
When?
When?
When?

I'm allowed to let the "When?" of Baby take over my mind -it's only natural.
But I'm NOT going to to let the "When?" of Addiction set up residency.

I don't know how I'm going to recover from Baby.  I'm scared out of my mind to go through the inevitable -it feels like a brush with death.  I've given birth all natural before, and I felt every. thing.
I lost control, people.  I yelled.  I left welts in my husband's hands.  I shook and cried and begged for pain meds -and was told no... there was no time.  The baby was coming too fast.
And when it was all over and I had a big-eyed baby in my arms: I was one with heaven.

To access heaven, sometimes we have to brush death.

So it is with addiction -whether you're the addict or the one in love with addict.  There is heaven at our fingertips if we are willing to brush death to get at it.  If we're willing to ache, to go through emotions, to yell, to cry, to shake, to leave welts...
Heaven awaits our efforts.

Right now, I know it's coming.
It is the calm before the storm.

Prayer is non-optional.
There will be angels on my right hand and left to bear me up, whether I'm in a hospital bed or hiding under the covers in my own bed (we've all been there).

Right now is the time to prepare.

Recovery Husband

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My husband has a sexual addiction that has the potential to forever wreck his family.

But my husband IS NOT his addiction.  

I could understand leaving him if he was his addiction -if his addiction defined him.

But last night:

I spent hours doing family history research, looking for a name for this sweet baby coming into our lives, and in the middle of reading about my greatgreatgreatgreat grandmother's alcoholic and abusive father (who beat her so hard she had scars for the rest of her life)... my husband pulled me up from the computer.

He walked me into our bedroom and bathroom where he'd ran a hot bubble bath for me.

There were candles and my favorite pandora station playing softly.

I soaked and soaked and soaked -the water was boil-a-lobster, just the way I like it.  My body aches ALL over, and the hot water felt so good on my tired muscles.

After my bath was over, my husband wrapped me in hot towels (he'd put them in the dryer).  

Then he gave me a massage, keeping me wrapped in hot towels the entire time.

And then he gave me a Priesthood Blessing.

I've been so stressed, so so so stressed about labor and delivery.  I'm worried about the baby and I'm worried about recovery (post-partum) and I'm worried, SO WORRIED and it's interfering with my balance.

His blessing was a balm -He blessed me with peace and calm, blessed me to know what was best for my body, blessed me to know the difference between false concerns and real concerns.

It ended with, "Know that He loves you very much."

I do know that He loves me, but what a world of good it did to HEAR it!  

I slept better last night than I have in a long time.  I woke up, ate a few cookies and put the kids in front of the TV.

I'm 36 weeks and 1 day.  I was exactly this far along when I gave birth to my son.

I'm really, really tired.

I wanted something for breakfast -something filling and wonderful and healthy, but I didn't have the energy to make anything.  So I ate some cookies instead.

Then there was a knock on the door.  My friend from down the street brought me a warm quiche and took my daughter with her.

"I'll get her off to school," she said.

I DO know that my Father in Heaven loves me.  He sends me quiches and babysitters and massages... He can read my mind, my thoughts, and hear my every prayer.

"Please give my husband some degree of empathy," I prayed one night last week, "I don't expect him to understand what I'm going through, but this is so hard.  Please.  Help."

And the Lord sent me a huge dose of Recovery Husband and topped it off with warm breakfast quiche.

My husband really IS like that.  He's thoughtful and aware.

"Why did you do all of this?" I asked him last night after thanking him profusely.

"Because you're carrying a baby," he said.

My prayer was one of gratitude last night.

Thank you for sending me Recovery Husband.  Thank you for reminding me why I stick this out.

Thank you hearing me.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you.

Shipwrecked

  

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I haven't been sleeping well.

The night before last, I was awake from 4 am to 6:30 am.  I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, and I finally got up and watched a black and white western with Roy Rogers and The Sons of the Pioneers.

Last night, I pleaded with my Heavenly Father, "Please, PLEASE let me sleep... I'm so tired."

And I did sleep -and I dreamed.

I was on a ship.  I was really somebody on that ship -not just a passenger.  I was in constant contact with the Captain.

Our ship sailed happily along with most of our jovial passengers congregating in the main dining area.  There was bright music, happy laughter...

And then, in the black of night, we were attacked -harshly and brutally attacked.  Wood from our ship was sent flying into the air, and the Captain was yelling at me.  

We weren't exactly armed to fight back, so we mostly just... took it.  

Before I knew it, I was in the air, taking in as much air as I could -the plunge was inevitable.  

I looked up just before going under... the sky was a mass of explosions and flying debris.  I didn't expect to come back up, but I did.  Much to my surprise, the ship was still floating.

It was injured.  It limped.

I found my way to the main dining area.  The Captain was there.  

So were a few forlorn passengers.

I looked at my Captain with a questioning look -what would we do now?

"Go on as usual," was all he said.

So I lit a few kerosene lanterns, and I began pouring beverages.  

No one spoke of the attack, the wreck, or the losses.  No one smiled.  Everyone just... was.  The cheery music that once graced the dining room had been replaced with a single violinist -it's tune melancholy.  I only stayed for a few minutes before leaving in search of the captain.

"I can't take this," I said to him, "Everyone wants to carry on like nothing has happened."

"It's their comfort," he replied, calmly, "The best thing we can do for them is to carry on like nothing has happened.  Their lives have been altered, and the least we can do is give them their dining room -the one place they can find some escape."

So I went back.

I smiled.

I could see the dining area now as a place of refuge -a sort of dilapidated haven.  It needed a lot of work because it had been blasted, but it was still standing.  The passengers clung to it.

"You're so brave," a woman said to me as she left the area, her hand on my protruding belly, "To go through all of this and still find the strength to bring a baby into all this..."

(from our family photo shoot a few days ago)

And I woke up.

I blinked up into the darkness, taking in the dream.  The captain I had worked so closely with was my husband.

That ship was us.

Our relationship has been battered, attacked, blow to bits... but it still floats.  It's sad and pathetic, and you can almost HEAR the whiny violin solo through the wreckage.

But we cling to our dilapidated haven -those parts of our lives that are as untouched by the porn addiction as they can be.  We carry as on usual, we smile, and we eat and drink.

We want our passengers to feel as untouched by the attack as they can -it isn't their burden to carry.

They're just kids.

The haven is their home.

We're working on rebuilding our poor ship -I'm working on beautifying the haven and hiring a few more musicians (because really -that violinist needs some serious help).  

We're doing our best to anchor in the harbor of The Lord and rebuild. 

It's a slow, painful process.  My husband is doing most of the work -I'm doing what I can on my end.

And I'm birthing kids.

I shudder to think what we would do if we didn't have The Harbor.

I couldn't trudge through a lifetime with a limping ship, injured passengers, and that bloody melancholy music.  

I'd rather throw myself to the sharks.

Potty Mouth

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If there's one thing that makes me really uneasy -that really gets under my skin... it's swearing.
I swear.  I swore on this here blog once.
But I do not swear in front of my kids, and I hardly ever swear out loud.  I'm not saying this to sound self-righteous or to somehow stick my nose up to people who do swear.
I'm only saying that swearing makes me uncomfy, so I don't do it.  I don't like being around it.  It makes me squirm the same way bugs make other people squirm and the same way nails on the chalkboard make other people squirm.

When my husband and I were dating, he never swore.  Not-a-once.
And then we were married.  The hunt was over.
And the swears began coming out of my new husband's mouth.  I didn't want to nag because I wanted to be a perfect little wife,  but I did let him know that it bothered me.
Years later, the swearing had increased.  Instead of asking him and nagging him to stop, I simply wrote him a letter and left it out for him to read.
"Please understand that I fight to keep the spirit in our home.  I work hard at it, and you have the ability to destroy the work I've done with four letter words."
Now.
This may all seem eye-rolling dramatic to some of you, but I should also say that nothing much bothers me or gets under my skin.  I don't care about toilet seats or clothes on the floor or hair in the sink.
After writing that letter, I even gave up on the whole "swearing" thing.  I just dropped it.  It wasn't worth it.

Well, now I have two extremely sweet children.
And lately, it's been a constant battle to keep their mouths clean -my husband's swearing has gotten much, much worse and half the time he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
In the meantime, I've got a four year old boy who stubs his toe and says, "Sunnuvva bitch!"
And I've got a five year old daughter who caught her parents making out in the kitchen and sweetly asked, "Why in the hell are you guys kissing?"
She's also taken the opportunity to tell guests that, "We don't say cock or bitch at our house because they're naughty words."
*head slap*

Every time one of my sweet little kiddos swears, I let my husband know.  Every time my husband swears, I let him know.
How can I say, "We don't say those words," to my kids when ten minutes later, my husband is playing a video game and swearing up a storm?
I have no clue.

He's getting tired of me getting upset over something he doesn't feel is a big deal.
I'm getting tired of hearing my little ones sound like Spawns of Sailors.

His addiction has taught me that I have no control over him -over his actions.  I have control over mine.
And I get that -I can do that.
I can live with a porn addicted man, but I can't stomach SWEARING.  Isn't that nuts?

 

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I can fight to keep porn out of my home.  I can set up blocks, filters, throw out movies, delete music... but I can't keep swearing out.

I should clarify that I don't care if my husband swears... I just care if he brings it home and spouts off with the kids and I around.
I want it left at the door with the porn.

Also -being 35 weeks pregnant has grossly increased my level of intolerance.
Which is why I came here to type out my thoughts before I go to battle -once again -over the swearing.
I can't take another day of explaining to my kids that, yes, Daddy says it but NO you may not say it.  That's not the kind of parenting I feel good about.

The Taker

I'm working as a church service missionary right now -I'm a facilitator for the PASG program in our area.
I'm a Primary President right now.
I'm 35 weeks pregnant today.
And I'm a taker.

I take, take, take from everyone around me.

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I call my mom when I'm short of flour or sugar or eggs.  I call my neighbors for babysitting help.  And I'm ALWAYS on the receiving end of goods and goodies.
"Here, take my super trendy maternity dresses," said my fashion-forward friend.
"Here's a nursing cover I made for you.  And here's some jam.  And here's a dinner," said my friend who is no stranger to the world of porn-addicted husbands.
"Here's some diapers and a pan of desserts," said the mother of one of my Primary kids  (who told her mom that I needed them -what a sweet kid).
"Here's some homemade applesauce and pumpkin muffins," said my friend down the street with three kids of her own.

I hate being a taker.  I hate it.
That isn't to say that I don't love my nursing cover (oh my STARS it is adorable!  I hung it on my wall!) or that I didn't polish off the apple crisp that landed on my doorstep yesterday.

I just feel so in debt.
I feel like it will never be possible for me to thank enough or give enough back -ever.  It bothers me.

As I thought about it, I realized that this is an opportunity for me to gain more understanding of the Atonement.
I've been a taker all my life, whether I've realized it or not.

The Savior has given His all for me, and I take it.  I take it every day.  I can never, ever repay that debt... but I vow to die trying.
And those who give to me... those I take from... they're simply doing the same thing: doing their best to repay a debt.
Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:37–40.)
 
I appreciate my family and friends who serve me with love.
And I promise that even though I can't begin to repay, I can always serve you with love in my own way.

It isn't easy being a taker -the natural woman in me doesn't like it one little bit.  But it's humbling me and teaching me that taking is part of life and necessary for salvation.
Incidentally, giving is also part of life and necessary for salvation.

Today I'm going to slowly do some cleaning and then take some time to write a few thank you notes.
I can't give much right now, but I can give some.  A few cookies, a few notes of gratitude -surely that's something I can do today.

I know Heavenly Father has seen the givers that have come to my door during this pregnancy.
They're all paying on their debt through love, charity, and kindness -qualities that will go with them throughout the eternities.
I'm grateful for them.
And even though it can be a hard pill to swallow, I'm grateful to be a taker.
I didn't used to be a taker... I used to handle my husband's addiction "on my own" and those were the darkest days of my life.
When I opened up my door to the Savior and to loving friends and family... and I TOOK from them...
I began to live again.

How grateful I am that we all have each other.

Recovery Me

My husband called me selfish.

He wasn't mean about it or anything.  It wasn't said out of anger or spite, and his voice level was calm and low.
"It just isn't like you," he said one night, "It's just that you're being..."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Selfish," he said, "And it's so weird because it's not like you at all."

Ah.
"I am being selfish," I said, "I know it seems awful to you, but it's what I need right now."



My husband called me bossy.

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He wasn't mean about it or anything.  It wasn't said out of anger or spite, and his voice level was calm and even a little teasing.
"You can't tell me what to do.  I don't like being bossed."

Ah.
"I am being bossy," I said, "I know it seems awful to you, but I'm pregnant."
"I know," he said, "That's why I've been nice about it."

The thing is: I don't know if I'm being selfish and bossy because I'm pregnant or because I'm gaining some grounds in recovery.
I don't know if I am actually being selfish in a lot of areas.  I used to be SO available to him.  I used to do cute dating things and pamper him on bad days.  In the meantime, I was never available to me.
So, at the risk of upsetting the dysfunctional harmony of our home, I switched it up.  I became available to me.  I do cute things for other people (and our kiddos) and pamper me on bad days.

And I got bossy.
I never was before.  He was always the bossy one.  He made most every decision in our marriage, and I was more of a child than an equal partner.  When things didn't go the way I wanted them to, I would hunker down and suffer in silence.  I kept quiet when deep down inside of me, something was telling me not to -whether it was my heart or my gut or the both of them combined, I shoved them out of the way.  I quit being true to myself.
So, at the risk of upsetting the dysfunctional harmony of our home, I started standing up for myself.
"If you send one more text while you're driving and the kids and I are in tow, I'm going to snatch your phone out of your hands and throw it out the window," I said a few weeks ago, after spending years ignoring the gut feeling telling me to SPEAK UP.  My tone was teasing, but he caught my meaning.
"I'm going to get blood work done whether it coincides with your appointments or not.  I've put it off long enough, and we need to make sure the baby is okay."
"I'm going HERE."
"I'm doing THIS."

He's been so patient with me through this EMOTIONAL pregnancy, and he's pinning hopes on my selfishness and bossiness taking a hike once the baby's a few weeks old.

But will it?
And can he stand to live with Recovery Me?
Because I can't stand to live without Recovery Me.

Loyal Bulldog

 

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My husband is loyal.

He's stayed with jobs that have sunk him financially because he wanted to stand by his boss (pre-wife and kids).  He's stood by friends, family, you-name-its.

When I was hospitalized with an infection, he hardly left my side.  He fought the doctors for me.  It made the nursing staff swoony, and they often complimented me on him.
"You don't know how lucky you are," they would say when they checked my vitals, "You would be surprised how many husbands aren't anything like that."
Yes, yes.
Very lucky.

So why?  Why is my loyal husband so... not loyal?
It's something that has plagued me all of my marriage.
"He is so loyal," his mother would say to me so very often.
"Yes, yes," I'd say.
"Very loyal," I'd say.
And then my mind would race.  If he's so bloody loyal, where the heck do I rank?  Beneath financially bankrupt bosses that take advantage of free labor?
Eh?

For the past week, this question has been on my mind... only this time it's a little different.  Usually I replay the question in my mind, and then I bask in The Land o' Victims.
I'm not worth being loyal to.
He's loyal to HIMSELF alone... always looking out for #1 (eye roll).
Men (spit!)...
And then I would eat cookie dough.

This time I didn't sail to the Land.  I just... thought a thought.  I mulled it over in my brain.
Why?  WHY?  He's so loyal...
Loyal.
Loyal.
He IS loyal.  HOW is he loyal?

He doesn't flirt with other women.  He doesn't have a facebook account.  He doesn't reconnect with old girlfriends.  He doesn't fantasize about other women.
His phone is never hidden from me.  He leaves it out, lets me answer it, lets me text from it and read texts on it if I really want to.  Which I usually don't because I have once or twice and it's a huge yawn-fest.
He won't even spend a few dollars without asking me first, and he's the one who is primarily in charge of the finances.
I dwelt on all of this, and then my thoughts branched beyond the realms of sexuality.
I thought of my hospital stay, how he'd been right there.
I thought of the little boy in Primary who had disrespected me without me even knowing it... I had been teaching sharing time.  My husband is a Primary teacher.  He heard a kid being disrespectful toward me (I didn't hear it because I'm not awesome enough to be that aware), and he immediately brought the disrespect to a screeching halt.
And then there was his sister... she'd spent an entire evening texting him about how I'd done him wrong over something I wrote on facebook (I know, I know.  I thought we were grown ups too...) and while she was poking her nose in to DEFEND her brother's honor, he made his stance very clear: he's with me.  And then he insisted she oughta be with me too.
He almost got into a fight with a gaggle of boys who asked me via cardboard sign to flash them.
You should see him when I get cut off in traffic or when the sandwich I order isn't quite up to snuff...

He is, people, my loyal bull dog.

So what's the DEAL with this PORN thing? My thoughts took a turn.  And then it dawned on me.  I mean, I already knew it, but I didn't KNOW it, know it.  You know?

He isn't doing this to me.

He's trapped -his agency has been compromised to some extent.
"It's like something takes a hold of me," he told me once in a revealing conversation, "I can physically FEEL it inside -it pulls me and it makes me feel powerless."

He isn't doing this to me.
He was doing this BEFORE me.
This has nothing to do with me.

Does it hurt me?  Oh, more than anyone who hasn't gone through it would know.  But he doesn't MEAN to. He doesn't WANT to.

For so many years, it felt like he was doing this TO me.  It did.  It still does on some days, but as I detach and I work on recovery, the easier it is to feel the truth of that statement:

My husband is loyal.  He isn't doing this to me.  Not really, really.  Even though it may FEEL like he is, I need to keep a corner pocket in my brain for this week's thoughts...
No matter how much it hurts, no matter the pain, the tears, the heart break:
I can take it personally, or I can choose freedom from being a victim.
Most days I'm safely home.  But some days, I still set up camp in the Land o' Victims.  And when I do, I need to remember the truth that has been taught to me this week.
It doesn't excuse him.  It doesn't excuse his behavior.  It isn't a free pass.
But it's a free pass for me -a free pass out of the Land.

I can type that.  I can write that.  Living it is a different story entirely -one that I'm learning very slowly.  This week, I'm so grateful for the lesson I've been taught.
How many times have we learned something we already "knew?"
I'll be honest: I'm not super excited to APPLY this principle -I'd much rather he stay sober.
But I'm grateful for truth.
I'm grateful for his loyalty in all it's forms.
I'm most sincerely grateful that my Savior is the perfect model of loyalty, and that He's always there for me, in hospitals, on facebook, in the middle of the night, in fits of tears, and smiles of glee...
He's here.  Always here.

Scattered Apples

A few weeks ago, I took my kids to my great-grandmother's apple trees.  They were LOADED this year, and as I picked apples and the kids picked apples I couldn't help but think of my great-grandmother.  She would be so happy to know that we were there, picking her apples.  I decided then and there that as soon as I'm settled in some land of my own, I'm planting some apple trees so my great-great grandkids can come and pick and eat and enjoy.  The idea of spoiling grandchildren after you're gone?  Genius!

I was referred to an article a few months ago -it detailed how a woman reacts to her husband having a porn addiction.  I tucked it in my File of Goodness (the pack of stuff I take with me to my ARP meetings).  A few weeks ago, I actually READ it.

I don't have it on hand right now -I hope you'll forgive me.  The author relates a woman discovering her husband's porn addiction to carting apples around.

A woman can be pushing a cart of apples... she's doing great, she's doing fine... and then her cart tips, her apples scatter.  Instead of heading down her course, she's suddenly a frantic mess. She drops her cart and runs after apples.  She runs right, left, north, south, up, down...

Everything sort of falls apart around her.

And so it was (and sometimes still is) with me.  

"What is wrong with me?" we all ask ourselves, time and time again.  Of course we think of the women our husband looks at -their sexiness, their appeal, their cellulite-less-ness... but I found myself applying this question outside the bedroom.

I would look at women around me with their heads on straight.  Their houses were organized for the most part.  They had hobbies and interests and accomplished things.

I, um, watched a lot of BBC and ate a lot of cookie dough.

Oh, and I policed the CRAP out of my husband.

Checked his phone, checked his email, called him, texted him, hung up helpful quotes, read helpful books, BOUGHT helpful books for him...

I traded myself for a rotten cart of spilled apples.

What was wrong with me?  Why couldn't I seem to simply LIVE like these other women?  

The more I thought about it, the more cookie dough I ate.

A few months ago, I was watching old home videos from when my older kids were still in diapers.  The video was adorable.

My house?  Holy mother of messiness -it was BAD.  And my house right now is dirty.  Really dirty.  But it's still cleaner than it was when that video was taken, and that's REALLY saying something.  I'm 34 weeks pregnant and I can't mop, for crying out loud.  But it's okay.  

My kitchen counter -though it needs a thorough scrubbing -isn't covered in piles of fabric and paper and a dusty sewing machine.

My living room -though obviously LIVED in -is easily recognizable as a living room and NOT a hoarder's haven.

I didn't even really realize it until I pulled those old home movies out, BUT MY APPLE CART IS HEADED DOWN THE HIGHWAY AGAIN!  It's not a speed wagon by any means, but I've got my wobbly cart going at a slow and steady pace.  I can see now in hindsight what was wrong with me.  I'd lost my apples, people.  Lost 'em.

This -readers -will be the FIRST baby I've had where I've had it together enough to bake and freeze meals, organize under the bathroom sinks, and have baby clothes washed and ready to go.

With my first baby, my sister-in-law took pity on me and took care of ALL of that while I was in the hospital giving birth.

I came home from the hospital with my second child and found that my mother and aunt had completely washed and sanitized my house.  And I know it was NO SMALL FEAT.  That house was an atrocity.

It seems as though the more I applied the Atonement and CLEANED MY BRAIN OUT, the cleaner my house became.  It wasn't something I did conscientiously... it was just a natural consequence of it all.  I wasn't even aware of it.

This time, everything feels brand new to me.  I'm a nervous wreck.  I'm stressed.  My nose keeps bleeding and I keep getting headaches.

I don't know what my deal is... I've DONE this twice before.  The first time, I was alone the first four months and I DID IT.

This time, I'll have help.  My husband will be here.

"Are you nervous?" I asked him late last night while we put our house through a major overhaul, moving furniture and making room for baby.

"Not at all," he said, "I'm nervous to watch you go through labor and I worry about complications... but I'm not nervous at all about bringing her home."

And I retreated to the kitchen to ask myself that lingering question.

"What is WRONG with me?"

Except this time, I know.  I know nothing is wrong with me -nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.  I'm having a baby.  Of course I'm nervous and scared and stressed and flying between fits of tears and giggles of glee.

With my first two pregnancies and new babies, I was picking up scattered apples... and when my apples scattered, they FLEW.

Today, I'm more okay... my rickety cart is full, and I'm moving slowly on -with trepidation galore.

How blessed we all are to have the Atonement.  When I wasn't applying it in my life, I wasn't living.  I'm not utilizing the Atonement to it's full potential today.  I don't understand it fully -do you?  does anyone?

But I'm learning.  I'm taking baby steps, falling down, getting up, and taking more baby steps...

And I'm scared out of my mind.

But hey.

At least the top of the fridge is clean.  ish.

Hulky Bruce

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I've been struggling for a while now to label my husband's shifts in attitudes.
Jekyll and Hyde?
Bi-polarish?

So many times women have said, without knowing our situation, "If my husband had a porn problem, I would leave him.  THAT'S my line."
I always nod along.  I'm sure that IS their line, but when it comes right down to it -when that "line" is crossed, we start to really find out about ourselves.

I know a woman who raised a large family with her husband of many, many years.  While his daughter was in high school, he did prison time for having inappropriate relations with her.  He did his time, he is a registered sex offender, and he and his wife are still married to this day.
His wife is a very grounded woman.
He is a very somber, humble man.  There's not a lick of "I got away with it" in his countenance.

THAT is my line.  If you harm my kids, buddy, I'm gone.  But I've spent years hurting and healing and hurting and healing... my trust is broken, my faith in my husband wobbly, and something like that would definitely send me running for cover -running away forever.

And as I listen to women insist that if their husband has a porn problem they would leave, I wonder about myself.
Am I just not strong enough?
Am I just stupid?

But the thing is.  I know something about people with porn problems that they don't.
People with porn problems can still be nice, giving, warm, wonderful, funny, and repentant.
The porn doesn't define them until... well, until it does.  And even then, it isn't obvious to the outside world -it isn't even obvious to them.  I see it in my husband, and I've finally found a label for it.
My husband is my Bruce Banner.
He is also my Hulk.

He white-knuckles trying to control the beast -he tries, he hates his Hulk, and he uses all kinds of tools to right the monster.
But something will trigger it, and he will lose control.
And he really does smash.
Smash what trust he's built.
Smash my faith in him.
Smash the kids' little feelings when things get taken out on them that shouldn't.
Smash my bruised heart (sorry, there was no way around being sappily dramatic on that one).
Smash, smash, smash.

And then he comes out of it: he flies out of acting out into a pile of crap, exposed, naked, vulnerable, embarrassed, humbled, and resolved to shove his Hulk out of the picture for good.

The thing is: I can't leave Bruce Banner.  Who would?  No one with half a brain.
The other thing is: I CAN leave Hulk.  I don't freaking have to live with that monster.

I didn't always know that.  I didn't realize that I could take the Bruce and leave the Hulk.  I thought they were one in the same, marrying one meant marrying the other.
But I didn't marry the Hulk.
And whenever he comes around to smash, I'm leaving.  Or I'm barring the door.  Either way, there's no place for him here.
And guess what?  I'm AM strong enough.  I'm NOT stupid.
What's more: I've learned more about myself than I ever thought possible.  It isn't all good, but I'm grateful to be learning it.  I'm grateful a "line" has been crossed.  It's hard and it hurts and sometimes I scream and sometimes I cry and sometimes I write angry letters to women who wear skirts so tight I can see their thong line.
But it's also revealing, and everything I'm learning I get to take with me later on.
I've lived with the Hulk long enough to learn what I've needed to learn from him, and I don't need him anymore.  I don't WANT him anymore.
I'll stick with my good doctor.
For now.

Gentle, Stinging Lessons

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The Lord has been teaching me hard things about myself.  He's gently shown me how I fear men more than God.
He's taught me that I've feared my husband more than I have Him.  Incidentally, my husband has feared ME more than his Savior.  He cared more about MY forgiveness than Christ's forgiveness.
We had replaced our Savior with each other, and we hadn't even realized it.

He's taught me the detrimental extent of my vanity.
He's taught me how manipulative I've been.
He's taught me I've been codependent for most of my life -it wasn't something I developed because of my husband's addiction.
He's taught me that I've spent most of my life playing the victim.

He's teaching me WHY I manipulate (without meaning to) and WHY I play the victim and WHY I've been codependent and WHY I'm so blanking vain.

Along the way, he's teaching me about the good in me as well... and thank goodness because if I hadn't been able to see any good in me through all of this, there's no telling what I might do.
Maybe write a one-hit album full of angst and anger and darkness and RAW emotion and then overdose on something-or-other?  Who knows.

This week, through lots of tears and emotions completely amplified by my pregnancy, I have been taught that I'm not here to be seen.
I'm simply here to be faithful, to keep the commandments and develop "take it with you" characteristics.

He has called me to be faithful.
The simplicity of it is freeing.

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An Anonymous Letter

Dear Sister,

You know me.
You go to church with me.  I teach your children.  I brush shoulders with your parents.  I see you on the street and at the store.  We've been inside each other's houses.  We've served together.

And in all that time, I've never told you.
My husband has a lust addiction.  He looks at porn.  He likes it when he does it -he gets caught up in the moment and he stares at other women, lusts, leers, and lingers for hours.  He flips through their pictures, studies their videos.
And I sleep.  or do the shopping.  or take the kids to the park.

I wish I could say I was blissfully unaware.  I'm not.  I know -much like the woman who knows her husband is cheating on her though she may lack physical proof.

I can't tell you that because you wouldn't understand.  You would think he was a pervert -a bad, disgusting sex maniac.
He isn't.
He is human. He's a great father, a protective husband.  He's a caring, thoughtful son. He tries.  When he isn't acting out, he hates his addiction.  He hates himself.

Our home is a sanctuary only so far as I can make it.  I can set up filters, throw out DVDs I don't feel comfortable having... but where there's a will, there's a way.
He can upset the beautiful sanctuary of my home in a few clicks of a button, a few taps on a screen...
And the sacred sanctuary is obliterated.
Our home is infiltrated with filth.
It doesn't matter how much I clean, organize, or let light in... the spirit of porn settles into the cracks, as filthy as nicotine stains.
I crave true sanctuary.
I close my eyes and imagine myself walking the halls of the Temple.  I can feel the cleanliness and purity surround my soul, and all is well.

I weep for sanctuary lost.  I weep because no matter how hard I try, I can't keep lust out of my own home.  And I'm angry because I can't keep lust out of my church building.
I'm angry with you.
I shouldn't be.  I shouldn't be angry with you because it isn't Christ-like.
But you're making my life so much harder... you're so beautiful.  I can't compete with you, and I refuse to try.  I'm not glamorous.  I won't wear flowers in my hair the size of cantaloupe.  My heel-height is limited by my already towering frame.  I will never own a pair of shiny red stilettos like yours.
You're married, and your children are so beautiful.  Of course they are -they get it from you.
You're married.
You're MARRIED.
So why?  Why is your skirt so tight that the fabric is stretched to the MAX over your perfectly fit and plump booty?  Why is your blouse cut so low that we can see down into the valley?  Why is your make-up so smokey-eyed?
Do you know the young men are looking at you?  Did you know they're preparing for missions?  Do you know they HATE that they want to look at you?  It makes them feel dirty -it makes them feel bad.  They're staring at the body of a married woman.  They're good boys.
Do you know that my lust-addicted husband is looking?
It irritates him that you dress like that, and at the same time... it's HARD for him.  He attends church for sanctuary.  He does not find it.
What he does find is a thong line, perfectly visible through a tight khaki skirt.

I watch you jog by my house.  You're wearing a sports bra, or a tight tank top.  Your shorts are so short.  So very, very short.
You are tan, and your body is disciplined and taut.
I wish I didn't know all of that.  I wish I didn't know what the bottom of your rear end looks like -what your stomach looks like, what the top of your breasts look like.
I don't need to know all of that.
After I come home from church or see you run by, I have to face myself in the mirror.

For years, I battled not being good enough... not being sexy or glamorous or taut or tan.  It was ugly, very very ugly.  Today I'm much better, but the old feelings return now and then, usually after I come home from church or see you run by my house.
I spend an hour in front of the mirror trying to give myself smoky eyes, and in the end I only end up with a look that screams "battered hooker."
I try to put on my tallest heels, and I totter slowly forward and stumble and finally kick the damn things off.
I'm too pregnant to be sexy.
I have tight clothes.  I put them on, thinking, 'I could pull this off, right?'
But I can't.  Literally.  Once I get them on, I can't pull them off.

I want to feel badly about the whole thing, but when I look in the mirror again -when the make up is gone and I've got my style of clothes back on and my ballet flats back on: I feel that old familiar homey comfort and I'm home again.  I'm me again.  I love me.

You aren't healthy for me to have around, and I want to tell you to stop.  I want to tell you to go shopping for new, looser clothes.  I want to tell you that PORN and LUST are running rampant and that you're feeding the beast.
And when I say "I want to tell you" what I really mean is "I want to YELL at you."

Is it your fault my husband looks?  No.  It isn't.
Am I still angry at you?  Yes.  I am.
Is it your fault you're gorgeous? No.  It isn't.
Am I still angry with you?  Yes.  I am.

You would understand if your husband had spent your entire marriage looking at other women -lusting for them, wanting them, dreaming about them...

It's a horrible ride.

Please look in the mirror and ask yourself why you do it and BE HONEST.  Are you trying to look your best for YOU?
I don't think you are.
Are you trying to look your best so men will notice?  I do believe so.

Please understand that we are all susceptible to lust.  Please understand that someone just like you almost lost her entire family to a flippant affair.
And she was just as beautiful, just as fit, and just as church-going as you are.
Her skirts were just as tight.
They made me equally uncomfortable.

I wanted to write this letter to her, but I never did.  She's a good woman.  You're a good woman.
But I'm still angry.
I don't expect my anger to be validated...
I just expect to air it out in this letter and be done with it.

I also expect it to be renewed every time you run by my house in a sports bra and cheeky shorts.

If you're not doing anything today, would you mind reading THIS? and then THIS?
I don't believe you are oblivious to what you are doing, and that makes me angry.
I also don't believe you realize the extent of the horrible effect you are having, and that gives me some degree of compassion... but not enough to override the anger.

And so I say, because I can't say it to your face:
Cover up!
You're making a spectacle.

Regards,
Me

The Opposite of Co-Dependency

Every Saturday night, my Grandpa tunes into pbs.  He watches Lawrence Welk.  Just as soon as it's over, "Keeping Up Appearances" comes on and Grandma joins him on the living room couch.
Every opportunity I have, I join them.  Last Saturday as I watched Keeping Up, I noticed that Hyacinth -the main character, is the absolute opposite of co-dependent... and she drives me and everyone around her crazy.




I've had a hunch the past few months that some degree of co-dependency is actually healthy.  To depend on mankind around us... to be aware of them and to risk making ourselves uncomfortable for their sake -it isn't all bad.
Knowing how to to toe the line between Turning the Other Cheek and Emotionally Healthy can definitely be tricky... at least for me.
So long as I find myself somewhere between a doormat and Hyacinth, I know I'll make it out all right.  Should I ever end up like one or the other, THEN I'll be worried.

Illusion Marriage

I went through a real mourning period early last year.  I hadn't lost anyone close to me, but I had lost -forever -what I thought was my ideal romance.

 

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I'd dreamed of it as a child.

I'd completely planned my wedding before I reached the ripe old age of 9, and I held fast to it all.  When I met my husband, I knew... I just KNEW: he was The One.  He was the one who was different.

When his porn "problem" reared it's ugly head in our marriage, I battled it with all the energy of a scorned woman.  PORN was the Other Woman in our marriage -she had infiltrated my fairy tale.  She needed to be demolished.  Our house needed to be purified, sanitized, sterilized.

You should have seen me at work.  I was a full time Master o' Control.  I checked the computer, his phone, our DVD collection, his brain... and I never let him shower without making sure he wasn't acting out.  I never made a trip to the grocery store without texting him at least 5 times to make sure he wasn't acting out.  If he was tempted, I had a list for him.

How To Be Perfect, by: Your Loving Wife.

I dropped my friends, my hobbies, my interest... MYSELF.  I put it ALL into the Porn Eradication Act.

Five years later, my husband came to me with a confession.  He'd been acting out.  He'd been lying.  I sent the kids to my mom's and when he got home from work, we sat together over a Large take-out pizza and discussed everything so matter-of-factly.

"So it is what it is," I said, "Let's just do this.  We know what we need to do."

"Yes," he nodded.

At this point, I had eased up on my policing.  His sobriety had improved.  A few months went by, and I lightly and jokingly asked how he'd been doing.

I expected him to lightly joke back.  I expected a good report.

Instead I got an immediate countenance change -hung shoulders, hung head...

"I'm not doing good," he said to his shoes.

This time it was MY turn for a countenance change.  I was floored -decked -utterly shocked.

"WHAT?!" Was all I could say.  My tone surprised him.  He looked up and immediately moved forward to hold me.

I balked.  I refused to let him touch me.  I began to cry... the kind of startled cry a child produces when their pet parakeet is suddenly 'et up by the neighbor's cat (totally happened to me once.  No lie).

"I had no idea..." I sputtered, "I only asked... I didn't think..."

And then I fled -Disney Princess style -to the bathroom.  I locked the door.  I sat in the tub.  I pulled the shower curtain closed and I cried myself senseless.

How was I supposed to preserve My Fairy Tale?  The Porn was beating ME and I wasn't the one with the porn problem!

At that point, I gave up.  I quit exercising (what was the point?).  I quit watching what I ate (what was the point?).  I quit cleaning (what was the point?).  I quit socializing (what was the point?). 

I gained ten pounds (his fault).

And I saw no hope in my future.  

I'd planned my entire little life to get married and live my ideal marriage... and through no fault of my own it had been snatched from me.

I was a GOOD PERSON.

I deserved a GOOD MARRIAGE.  I deserved to have MY IDEA of a GOOD MARRIAGE.

And it slowly dawned on me that I would never have it.  My husband's porn problem wasn't a problem.  It was gripping addiction.

How I hated the word -it rolled so destructively from my tongue. 

I married Prince Addict.

It was disaster of epic proportions.

There was a movie made in the Good Ol' 90's titled "Sabrina."  It is a modern remake of an old black and white starring Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart.

 

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Both movies have their own appeal, and I love them both equally.  But the modern one has a line that I love with all my heart.

Sabrina is in LOVE with David.

David notices Sabrina in the way a neighbor might notice you got a new car.  Might.

 

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Sabrina's father is so concerned with her infatuation that he ships her off to Paris for awhile.  While in Paris, her boss notices that Sabrina seems distracted.  Sabrina confesses her LOVE.  Her boss tells her that David sounds like an illusion.  She then goes on to say, "Illusions are dangerous people.  They have no flaws."

My Illusion Marriage was dangerous to me... it had no flaws.

I sort of lived out my Illusion Marriage when I was enforcing The Porn Eradication Act.  I would sometimes pretend there was no porn, and he would pretend there was no porn and we would swim around the sharks with ease and glee.

During these times, I would get upset.  I would get grouchy.  I would have bad days.

He would call me on them -it wasn't okay that I was upset... not in the Illusion Marriage.  

In the Illusion Marriage, we took turns playing victim and rescuer.  On my bad days, I was the victim.  He would pull me up OUT of my bad mood because it was his job.  When he tried and I still stayed in my bad mood...

Well.

That wasn't allowed.

And it went both ways.  We behaved that way, you understand, because we LOVED each other.  We loved each other enough to pull one another up.  What a gloriously wonderful responsibility!

But later on... later on when I had ran weeping from the shark-infested waters, I sat on the shore, gained ten stress pounds watching my husband flirt with imminent death, and just stopped making him happy.

I went against everything Dr. Laura had ever taught me!

When my husband had a bad day and came home grouchy, I let him.  Once I actually loaded my kids and I up in the car and took off on him stating, "We're leaving.  You can't act like this toward us.  We haven't done anything wrong.  We'll come back later when you've cooled off.  You need a break."

And I drove away, hands a'shakin.

I was terrified.

When we came home, he was significantly more calm.  He was unapologetic, but it didn't matter.  What mattered was that he wasn't treating me or my lovely kids unfairly.

A few weeks after that, I was the grouchy one.  I was the one with the attitude problem.  Instead of trying to fix my mood -to lift me -he only put his hands squarely on my shoulders.

"You are a grouch," he said, looking straight into my eyes, "Here's some gas money.  Leave.  Go take a break."

He was trying to be confident about the whole thing, but I could see the trepidation behind his eyes.  He was scared I might react... I might be hurt by him, offended, upset.

I only hugged him to me and cried all my make-up off onto his t-shirt.  I was so grateful for him.

"Thank you," I said.

Two hours later, I came home.  

I came through the front door and tossed my husband a bag of his favorite candy.

"What this for?" he asked, looking up from his video game.

"For calling me a grouch," I said, "You called me out, gave me money and told me to leave.  It meant a lot.  Thanks."

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm way nicer than you are..."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"When I'm a grouch, you call me out and then YOU leave and you never give me any money," he said, making sure his arms were 100% around me when he said it so I couldn't slap him.

And then I laughed so hard I cried.

Right at that moment I realized that we were building partners.

The Real Marriage we are building from the rubble of the Illusion is so good I'm nearly scared.  It isn't all good, and usually the good is fleeting and rare.  But it's not finished.  It's slow and steady going.

We're not building one of those cookie cutter houses in city neighborhoods that all look like the one right next to it.

We're building the groundwork for a real monument.  It's painstaking and horrible and hard.  Neither one of us knows if it's a project that we'll see through to the end.  All we know is that right now.  today.  there's a job at hand.  So we're working on it.  I'm working on one end.  He's working on another.  

There's bad weather and communication hiccups and financial tension.

BUT the small successes keep us going, and they are each SO good that they keep me just hopeful enough to ride out the next day.

Goodbye, my Illusion Marriage.

You were such a shoddy friend.

The Life Not Lived?

  

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I have this friend.

She graduated the same year I did.  She went to college like I did.
I graduated with an Associate of the Arts degree.  My new husband graduated with me.  We walked side-by-side clad in cap and gown.  We didn't know it at the time, but we had a little one brewing inside me.

My friend also graduated with an Associate of the Something degree.  Then she graduated with a Bachelor degree.  Then she moved to New York and worked as a journalist.
Then she moved home and was paid to write and do writingish things.
She married.
I had another child (bringing the grand total to two).

We have similar interests, similar tastes, and we can carry on a conversation for hours if we felt so inclined (or the children would let us).
I enjoyed watching her mother her first child.  I was even more ecstatic when she told me she was expecting her second.
We are presently pregnant together.

I told her about my husband's addiction.  It all came spilling out one day, and she listened so lovingly and well.  She continued to listen for hours and months afterward as I played the victim and blamed and found not a single ray of sunshine in my life.

She confessed that she and her husband have a great marriage -no deep problems to speak of.  He cooks, he cleans, he works, he supports her in her aspirations and dreams.  They read poetry by candlelight and they enjoy delving into cultures of all kinds together.  They're a perfect team.

Yesterday, I missed her.  I texted her.
She texted back.
She's studying for her GRE.  She's going to start the processes of getting her Master's degree.
I texted back my applause and I called her a go-getter, ever grateful that I she couldn't sense the fact that I was crying.
I couldn't even figure WHY I was crying -what did it matter?  My best friend in the entire world just graduated with her Master's degree a few months ago and I was nothing but proud!  I was excited for her -genuinely applauded her, praised her and "liked" every single graduation-related photo she posted on facebook.

So why.
WHY did I burst into tears?  I couldn't figure myself out at all.  Minutes later, my phone rang.  It was my OB's office calling to let me know I had failed my first glucose test and would have to come in for the yucky 3-hour one.
And I cried some more.

I sat myself down to try and figure out what in the HECK was going on with me.  It didn't take me long to realize it.

My journalist friend has lived and done so many things I've only dreamed of.  And now she's going on to get a Master's degree.  It's incredible.

I can't  even get a Bachelor degree right now.  Between my pregnancy (and impending newborn) and my calling (Primary President) and my two kids and that little thing I'm grappling with called My Husband's Porn Addiction... I can't handle one more thing.  I can't.  I would crack.

I'm jealous of her marriage, and I resented my husband for a good hour over it.
I resented my co-dependency and all the years I lost LOSING myself in his stuff!  I policed three years of my life away!

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What could those years have been for me?  Where could I have gone?  What could I have done?  What opportunities did I miss because I thought I was doing my SAVING duty to husband?

That's why I was crying.  For the first time, I realized that I was so sucked into all this porn crap that I stopped really and truly living.  And I'm angry.  I'm mad about that.  I'm mad at myself for allowing it to happen.  I'm mad at my husband.
It's pointless anger -as most anger is.  There's no point in worrying about "What Might Have Been."
What Might Have Been is a dangerous, dangerous island.

But between THAT and the failed glucose test and the fact that my children had fought with me for over 7 hours (7 and a half, actually.  But who's keeping track?) because their room wasn't clean... I cried.  And when my husband came home from work, he stayed clean away from me.
When it came time to run to the store, he said, "You're grouchy.  Go alone.  Take a break.  Here's gas money.  Here's chocolate money."
And I bawled into his shirt for a good twenty minutes.

How incredibly grateful I am for him.
I came back two hours later to sleeping children, dinner, and a movie (comedy.  I needed comedy).

As I waited for the movie to start, I talked about everything I'd been crying over.  I asked my husband's opinion on it.  Despite his addiction, he's blessed with remarkably good sense.  He's very down to earth.  I'm very not.
I value his level head.
"Don't let it bother you.  It won't make any difference to worry about it, so don't," he said.

Ha.
He makes the funniest jokes.

Only he wasn't kidding.  I didn't bother telling him how impossible it was for me to just NOT worry about it -to just let it go.
"I'll pray about it," I shrugged.
"Or don't," he shrugged back, "You can't give stuff like that more credit than it deserves."
"Until I work it all out in my mind, I will," I said.  And then we watched a movie.

And then my kids puked all night.
But anyway.

Today I went to a funeral for a prominent member of our small community.
He wasn't suit-and-slick hair prominent.  He wasn't wealthy prominent.
He was giving.  And he wore overalls a lot.
He laughed a lot and loved a lot and touched so many lives and was such a solid rock in our little town that when he died we all just sort of rocked back on our heels and wondered how on earth life would ever be the same.  It won't -not really.  Life won't be BAD, but without him... it just won't feel right for a good long while.
I listened to his children -stalwart men and women who were a big part of The Village that Raised Me -turn into children themselves as they cried at the pulpit.
"I love you, Dad," they said.
Tears once again sprung to my eyes... I reached up and put my hand on the back of the man next to me: my own father.
Then one of the sons got up and talked about the Savior.  He talked about service -about who is greater than who and what and where and all that.  And THEREIN was my answer.
I'm not here to get a degree.  I can, if I want to.  I have my agency.
Have I missed out on opportunities?  Yeah, I'm sure I have.  Does that really suck?  Well, yeah.

BUT on the flip side, I have a good and great life -a simple life.  I have gained so much from my Policing Years that I have NEW and DIFFERENT opportunities to serve and share and love.  And I've learned so very much about the gratifying difference that can be felt between self-service and service-service.
It's inspiring.

I will still have days where I feel less-than.  I will still have days where I feel angry.
When my friend graduates with her degree and begins a lofty writing career, I'll probably be up to my elbows in my pantry.
And that will be okay -so long as I know for a surety that In The Pantry is where the Lord would have me be.
Because if I've learned one thing from all this porn addiction frenzied MADNESS... it's that if you rely on the arm of Jehovah and put yourself on the path he'd like you to be on, you WILL find true JOY.
True joy doesn't mean every day will be happy.  You're going to have hard days.  But when you're in tune with the Spirit, you can always have joy.
Yesterday was awful.  I failed in so many ways, but today it all came around at a funeral.
I sat next to my earthly father who smells like Stetson and looks so handsome in his nice Western suit... he always wears his grandfather's bolo ties on special occasions (like Sundays and funerals) and I was overcome with gratitude for a GOOD, solid DAD.
He's a rock.
I have a rock on earth, and I have an Immovable Mountain of a Father on high.

As I listened to a son, grieving his Rock on Earth, speak of greatness and service as one in the same, I felt My Mountain on High tap my on the head.
"There's your answer," He said, "There it is."
And then I humbly bowed my head and said to Him, "Give me opportunities to do Thy work... let me be a tool."

Soon after that I reached over to my Dad and scratched his back... just because I could -because he was there.  As I left the church I did the same to my Grandpa.  I reached over and rubbed his back that doesn't stand quite as straight as it used to.
I did it because I could.
Because he's here.

Tonight, I'll go see Grandpa again.  I can't not.  Because the man who died -the great, wonderous man who survived being a POW in WWII was a grandfather to my best friend in the entire world.  She can't hug her grandpa tonight, but I can hug mine.  So I will.

Grandpa didn't go on a mission.  He didn't serve in a war.  He stayed home and worked the family farm so his brothers might have those chances.  And who do I look to as the greatest of the greats of men?
My quiet, hunched cowboy grandpa.  I love him dearly.  Self-serving?  Never.
My best friend -my dear friend who lost her own grandfather -has her Master's degree.  No children yet -but soon.  Never once have I seen her place herself above anyone else.  Never once have I seen her seek praise -to go after worldly ambition.
Last year, she came to visit with me during a holiday break.  We spent hours giggling and laughing and talking about our crushes in junior high.
"What's your calling now?" I asked after a few hours of visiting, feeling like maybe we ought to know what the other had actually been doing.
"Stake Relief Society President," I could tell by the way she said it that she didn't WANT to say it at all.
"That's a GROWN UP PERSON calling!" I couldn't help but say.
"I know," she nodded, "But it isn't too bad.  I actually don't have to do anything.  The Lord makes all the decisions and I just tell my counselors what to do."
And we laughed some more because of all the people on earth who can make me really pee my pants: SHE is number one.

My other friend -my journalist friend -she loves attention and notice and praise.  She wants to be applauded, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Perhaps the reason I burst into tears was that I see those same qualities in myself, but I hate that about me.
I want to be like my grandpa -like my best friend.

My recovery and the 12-step program is teaching me how to attain humility.

So have I ever really missed out on opportunities?  Not the ones that truly matter to me.  In fifty years, I won't give a rat's you-know-what about a dusty degree on a shelf because I know that for ME (this doesn't apply to everyone, I know) it will simply represent a few grueling years where I ignored my young children and was a monster to live with.
My degree-getting days may come later -they may not.  These days are not my degree-getting days.
It doesn't matter.
In Faith, I'll Rely On the Arm of Jehovah.

 

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This post has been so long, so wordy, and so so so long.  But it feels so good to just SPLAT it all out.  If you actually read through the entire thing, you deserve a batch of my mom's cookies.  And they're the best.  No foolin'.

I'm a Tool

I like to believe that once upon a time, Heavenly Father sat at a table and made a sort of game out of people-placement.  He made sure not to put too many healers in one corner... not too many seamtresses too close together.  He spent hours arranging, rearranging, finalizing, and then sending us all down to find out for ourselves what our callings were.

I'm a teacher.  I'm a writer.  I'm an entertainer.

A few months ago, my mom said, "We need to gather our family together and do a sort of inventory... see what we all have to bring to the table.  I just feel like if things get bad, it would be nice to know what we each have to help each other out."
I later found out she was talking about food.
But I thought she was talking about skills and stuff.  I went home and sort of agonized because I have this incredible sister in law who can do everything I can do, but she does it BETTER and simplifies it.  If things go bad, they won't need me if they have her.
I say this 100% without guile... I promise.  She is a rockstar.  If things go bad, I'm going to her house.
It did get me a little down on myself.  I mean, there ARE things I do that she doesn't do, but none of them really matter.  At least I didn't think they did.
Until I imagined it...

If things got bad...
If there were fires and bombs and a lack of food, what place would I have in the building up of the people?  I can make them laugh!  I can tell stories!  I'm a story teller -a writer!  I can use my words to teach!
These are all wonderful additions to destitute people!  Down-trodden and depressed people NEED people who can quote comical movies and skits in their entirety!!  Right?!

The thought salved my self-inflicted wounds for the time being.

I label myself as a teacher.  I'm not getting paid to teach, nor do I have a teaching degree.
I label myself as a writer.  I've never held a job where I got paid to write.  And yes, I've applied.  And yes, I've been rejected.
I label myself as an entertainer.  I'm not getting paid to tell stories, write poems, quote movies or anything like that.

But I do things like that because I can't help it.  It's just... me.  And I do things like teach and write and entertain because it brings me true happiness to do it.

I used to strive for recognition for these kinds of things.  I wanted so badly to be discovered as a writer -to have someone read my junk and go mad with satisfaction.
I felt like Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" when he daydreams about turning in his Christmas theme, and his teacher is completely overcome with the awesomeness of his writing.

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"Listen to this sentence: 'A Red Ryder BB Gun with a compass and a stock and this THING which tells time...' Oh, Ralphie!  A plus, plus, plus..."

And his classmates lift him to their shoulders and parade him around the room...

Anyway, in the midst of my urgency to be noticed something happened: I hit rock bottom.  I realized the true depth of my husband's porn addiction and I was stunned and scared and panicked and suddenly nothing but survival mattered.  I stopped caring about whether or not people thought my writing was witty or funny or cool or whatever.

I just WROTE.

I wrote because I needed to write -I have to write.  My brain is wired to write (even as a small girl, I used to narrate my own life in my head.  I thought all kids did that.  I didn't realize that Constant Mental Compose Mode wasn't the human norm and I walked out of my door to walk to Elementary School and my brain went something like, "The front door creaked open and she set foot into the cutting chill.  A shiver went through her as she pulled her coat up around her ears, trying to seal in the warmth from her mother's oatmeal...").

I stopped dressing my writing to impress, and I just started vomiting words up out of my soul.  When I shared what I'd written, I didn't hear, "You are SUCH a good writer." 

Instead, people would say things like "I needed to hear that today.  Thank you so much for putting into words what I didn't know how."

And the more it happened, the more I could feel my Heavenly Father saying "You're an instrument."

I can use my God-given ability to express myself to try and turn a profit somewhere (if anyone would bother hiring a housewife with no experience).  But Heavenly Father didn't put me down here to turn a profit or to be discovered.  He put me down here to serve a purpose, to do for others what they can't do for themselves and I'm SO HAPPY to do it because so many people have done for me what I can not do for myself!  I want to give SOMETHING BACK if I can!

I can not heal my own infections, perform my own surgeries, match clothes, style hair, decorate my home, organize it... until one of the Lord's instruments takes me by the hand and lifts me.

They're tools.

I'm a tool.

Everyone's a friggin' tool.

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We sometimes think we have to BE ALL THE TOOLS.  And if we need a tool we don't have, we use a a tool we DO have to do whatever it is that needs doing.  It takes longer and it's more stressful and time consuming than it ever should have to be, but hey.  At least we didn't have to call the neighbor, right?  At least we didn't let our guard down long enough for them to see our vulnerability and weakness.  At least we broke our back and denied someone a chance to serve and create joy in their own life.  Whew!

Needing help is so hard.  ASKING for it is downright agonizing.  Receiving it is hard to stomach.  

Giving it?  Giving it is celestial in every sense of the word.

When I felt prompted to start a recovery blog, I pushed the prompting away.  The internet was the one place in my little life that wasn't touched by the porn addiction in my home.  I could log onto my family blog -the place I go to write every day -and I could let porn go and focus on what my family had done the day before.

After listening to President Monson's talk in conference about following promptings, I knew it was time.  I was sad to let porn addiction affect my "safe" place, but it's been nothing but a blessing for me.  I'm learning so much about myself as I write, and I'm receiving little taps to the brain... they're writing prompts.

I'll be in the middle of doing dishes and *BAM* something whispers in my ear, "You should write about _____."  The more I dwell on the writing prompt, the more ideas flow.  Before my head hits the pillow, I have to get them all out through my keyboard.

I go to bed satisfied, happy, and I sleep soundly (ish.  I mean, as soundly as a pregnant lady in her third trimester can sleep). It feels so good to WRITE!  To compose! To put those words down and watch them work together and to hit the "publish" button and know that it will STAY written... unlike the living room that no matter how many times I clean it, it never stays that way.  I seriously think it has some kind of beef with me.

I love being a tool.

It doesn't profit anything material, but it profits soul cash... and soul cash can never be lost or spent or badly invested.  What's more?  You take it with you when you go.

Tonight I'm grateful for careful people placement and a wide variety of tools.

I realize tonight's post could come across as completely egotistical, but it isn't meant to come across that way.

And anyway.  Can I really be stroking my ego if I'm blatantly calling myself a tool?

That's rhetorical, by the way.  Please don't answer...