My M.O.

  

retronaut.com

Life lately has been one big mess of apologies from yours truly.

"I'm sorry about what I did four years ago."
"aaaand I'm sorry I kept it from you."
"Sorry about your PS3 controller."
"Sorry I spent money we didn't have."
"Sorry I forgot you spent hours leveling out the dirt in the yard and I let the kids make mud pies out of it."
"Sorry I didn't give recognition to your feelings but expected you to recognize mine."
"Sorry."
"Sorrreeeee."
"Ooops, I'm sorry."

And then my sponsor called.  "How are you?"
"Good."
"Yeah?"
"NOOOOO!"

I can't stop making mistakes.  Little mistakes, big mistakes, frequent, thoughtless...
And I haven't even mentioned the box of brownies I ate and the fact that I haven't filled the gas tank even though I know my husband hates it when it goes below 1/2 a tank because it costs too much to fill it up.

I called my grandmother today -she's a retired midwife and I had some midwifey questions to ask her because of my body's issues.
AND THEN I asked her something I've been wanting to ask her for YEARS.
"How did you forgive Grandad?  How did you come to forgive him?"
Grandad betrayed Grandma a lot. 
"I came to realize that he wasn't sinning against ME," she said, "He was sinning against himself."
I nodded, she couldn't see me.
"And I had to realize that there was only the one Savior, and I was not that Savior."
My nod became more dramatic, still she couldn't see me.
"And it wasn't the adultery that really hurt.  It was the deceit."
 In that moment, she was my kindred spirit.

And she asked me something... if my mother's accident had traumatized me.
"You were only baby," she said, "No one could reason with you or explain to you what had happened, why your main source of comfort and nourishment and love and security was suddenly gone."
I didn't think it had, but I realized it did -it really did.  As I worked through my inventory, I could see that.  I then went on to tell my sponsor today as we visited that not having a "present" mother wasn't wholly bad.

Mom wasn't available to teach me things like cooking.  It made me sad until I realized that the directions for making Macaroni and Cheese were RIGHT THERE on the box!  I could READ them myself!
And I did.
I went to it.  Filled a pot with 6 cups of water, brought it to a boil, added the macaroni, set the timer...
When it went off, I looked at the directions again.
"Drain," they said, in bold letters.
Drain?  Drain?  What the heck did that mean? (I was probably about 9 when I did this.)  I decided it probably wasn't important and kept going with the process.
The pot of mac n' cheese never thickened... I kept stirring, waiting, stirring, waiting... my oldest brother laughed at me, my second oldest brother grabbed a huge bowl of it and congratulated me on my discovery of "Macaroni Soup."
He was trying so hard to be nice...
I messed up.  Plain and simple.
But the next time, I got it right.

That incident was the first of many... I love to get my hands ON things.  I don't learn by listening, I learn by DOING.  My first batch of Strawberry Jam was so thick you could hardly dig a spoon into it.
Turns out I didn't actually really understand what "rolling boil" meant and I rolling boiled that pot to... well, pot.
But I did not stop.  I went through strawberries and pectin so fast.   I tried again.  I made a mess again.  It took hours.  My kitchen was big enough to turn ONE full circle in.  I had ONE SQUARE FOOT of counter space.  I couldn't turn the swamp cooler on because it messed with the range top, so I sweated in the middle of the Arizona summer over a gas stove and I hot water bathed strawberry jam while my first born screamed her colicky lungs out.
And then?  I nailed it.
The angels sang.
I'm sure of it.

"Mom just always said 'Why not?' when we wanted to do anything.  She was too tired to help me do anything, so I'd just find resources and do things myself.  It's turned out to be really good for me -I'm very hands-on and I just have to make mistake after mistake... oohhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

And THERE it was.

The Lord's very personal way of letting me know I'm simply IN mistake mode.
I'm right back over that hot range-top with sweat beading down my face...

Mistakes are my M.O.

If I'm making them, then I'm doing something right. 
A few months after I finally figured out my water-bath canner, my sister-in-law asked me to help her learn how to can.
"Oh, I dunno," I shrugged, "I just read the book that came with my canner." (A canning kit was my 22nd birthday gift from my husband.  He coddles my secret desire to live like the Amish.)
"But I'll mess up and end up wasting the food," she said.
"Waste?"
I was confused.

How was it ever wasted?  Mistakes aren't wastes.  They're catalysts.  They're progressive.
And for me, they're a sign that everything is tickety-boo.
(Okay, so maybe I want to be British AND Amish.  No big deal.)

I hung up the phone, and my mood and mind settled.
Right now, I can't seem to take a right step... and contrary to what I thought,
everything is as it should be.

Taking it Away

A few hours before church started on Sunday, I was snuggling on the couch under a heavy blanket with my sick husband. After arresting a man with a cold, he'd come down with it. I'd kissed him when he came home from work, and then I got it. He was in the thick of it and I was at the start of it. There was nowhere we'd rather be than under a heavy blanket together, our herbal tea nearby.
We were so busy snuggling that we didn't hear our daughter sneak in the room, slide open the door to the bird cage, pull her bird out and take it back into her room with her. She's not supposed to take her bird in her room -she knew it... hence the sneaking.
Minutes later, we heard a wail from her room. My son came bolting out of their room and pronounced, "Her bird just DIED."

We flew out from under the blanket and rushed to our daughter's side. Her eyes were filled with tears, her hands were holding a limp blue parakeet.

 "Blue just DIED," she said, bawling. Blue had been very special to our family. My smarty-pants barely five year old had trained her all by herself. No one taught my daughter how to finger-train parakeets... she just figured it out. Within a few weeks, she had her bird hand-trained. She loved her bird. She played with it and talked to it -it was her favorite. It turns out that she thought it would be funny to SIT on her bird. She had no idea it would kill Blue... she was just trying to have some fun.

We sat as a family around the limp bird. And we all cried. My daughter cried because she was experiencing loss. The rest of us cried because someone we loved was hurting and it was REALLY hard to watch it and not be able to take it away.

My husband went into the city the next morning for a quick appointment, and he confessed that he'd almost stopped at Petco to buy a new bird.
"But we can't do that," he said, "She needs to experience this. It just sucks."
I agreed. But I think "it just sucks" is a gross understatement.

My daughter stayed up late Sunday night and talked with me.
"She was my own daughter," she said through tears, "and now I'm just so heartbroken!"
To hear a six year old say those words is heart-wrenching... seriously.

 "This must be how Heavenly Father feels, to some extent, when we make bad choices," my husband said after we'd finally convinced our daughter that her body needed some sleep, "He could have a hand in all of this -make sure bad things never happen to us as a result of our mistakes, but He doesn't. He respects our free agency."
My daughter is in the process of earning money to buy a new bird. I could buy one for her. In a matter of hours, I could put a brand new blue parakeet in our bird cage. But she needs to suffer the consequences of her actions. You can't SIT on a bird, suffocate it, and then get a new bird in the morning. It would be better to go through the emotions and natural consequences of the choices you've made and feel the PRIDE that comes from earning your way to a new bird. And so we must all earn our own way and feel the emotions and suffer the natural consequences... the ending result is worth it.

Over a year ago, my husband was listening to the Mormon Channel. He was taken in by a talk that discussed the differences between trials and afflictions. I wish I could find the talk -I've been looking for it for the longest time! In essence, the talk said that trials are what happen TO us... afflictions are what we happen to us as a RESULT of our choices.

 2 Nephi 2:2 says:
Nevertheless, Jacob, my first-born in the wilderness, thou knowest the greatness of God; and he shall consecrate thine afflictions for thy gain.

 It is so humbling to know that God will consecrate our AFFLICTIONS for our own gain. I wouldn't blame Him if He didn't -I've done some pretty ridiculous things, made some pretty bad choices that resulted in many afflictions.
And yet.
They've all been for my own gain, and for that: I'll be eternally grateful. I hope my little daughter can learn from this -she's so tender and beautiful. I want to mend her broken heart RIGHT AWAY. But I know she's learning and growing. To take that away would be doing her one of the greatest disservices as a parent.
Dear Heavenly Father,
I understand your ways little more today.
Love,
Alicia

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.

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...

Practically Perfect

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There's a societal epidemic at large... it's attacking homes, families, children.  It's contagious.  It's rampant.

It's feeding off the innocent and the weak.  It's infiltrating the minds of decent humans beings and turning them into...

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THAT.

Or the essence of that.  Whatever.

My husband's addiction cured me of it.  Isn't that crazy?  I'd love to see a doc prescribe it:

"Doctor, I've been having the strangest symptoms.  I wake up frazzled, I spend my day just trying to do the normal routine things a perfect mother should do, and then I go to bed having fallen short.  I hate myself.  I don't know what the matter with me is!  I can't seem to keep up with other normal mothers.  Surely, there's something I can take..."

"Certainly," the doctor says, hardly looking up from his prescription pad.  He's seen cases like this before... many times before.  He's scribbling, scribbling, scribbling, then riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

"Here," he hands you a slip, "Take this down to the pharmacy.  They'll fix you up with a porn addict.  It will be rough at first, but if you can stick with it you're guaranteed to be cured of what ails you now."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor!  Thank you very much!"

You pick your addict up, take him home, and chaos ensues.

He's sweet and helpful, and then he's irritable and selfish.  You try to please him like a perfect host should, and he balks.  But then he apologizes.  He isn't so bad... unless he steps on a lego, or stubs his toe, or it's windy, or the temperature of the house is slightly uncomfortable, or or or...

On top of hosting an addict, you're baking and crafting and lesson-planning.  You're canning and sewing and writing timely thank-you notes.  Your hair is kept.  Your clothes are in style (more or less).  You're constantly cleaning.

After two days, you crack under the pressure.  You just can't DO it ALL anymore.  

You sob, you pray, and your addict knocks on the bathroom door (because that's where you do all your crying, right?) and wonders about dinner.

You stand up, use your handmade apron to wipe the mascara pouring from your eyes and you order take out.

Then you call housekeeping help in.

Your hair gets flung into a ponytail and you opt for sweats and a comfy tee -things that are hardy enough to not need the sissy protection of a handmade, vintage-style apron.

You run to the store and buy the peaches already in cans.  You put the sewing machine away and buy the $7 butcher apron in the kitchen aisle.

You cancel piano lessons, t-ball, and dance class.  You pull your children close to you.  You spend your afternoons in hammocks reading insightful, life-changing literature.  When your neighbors walk by in their sporty "workout" clothes and flashy iPods, you wave and mutter something like, "ehhhmm" without looking up from your book.

They whisper to each other.

You couldn't care less.

You spend more time alone, more time praying, more time asking The Good Doctor about life and yourself and fear.

You start to remember what YOU like to do instead of what the neighbors are doing.  The Good Doctor, who has treated you all your life, reminds you of what made you happy when you were 4, 10 and 14.  You start taking your journal to the hammock with you.

The pen calluses your hands -the words pour from your heart straight to your page, teaching your mind things it didn't know.  

How is your addict?  Well, at this point.

Frankly, Scarlett... 

Eventually you emerge from your hammock and sweats.  You start a soothing self-care routine of all-encompassing health.

It's yoga, it's meditation, it's prayer, it's lots of water and more veggies and less doughnuts.

You cleanse your mind, your soul... your surroundings.  

Your hobbies become you -your life starts to take shape as you realize your beauty, your worth, your potential to become so much more than a Stepford Wife.

You're less censored in your speech, more open about your weaknesses.  You take pictures, even if the house is dirty.  You GET IN those pictures, even if you look like an unidentifiable abused amphibian.  People don't like this about you, but for the first time in your life: you. don't. care.  because you're feeling good that you even made it through the gigantic pile of dishes without losing yourself in a heap of mold, or something.

And you love.

You celebrate.

You RADIATE.

You visit your cousin without jealousy over her newly renovated home.  Your competitive spirit that came out to play the minute you walked through your sister-in-law's home simply dies.  

Your mouth doesn't even twitch when she repeatedly announces that she wants to be THE BEST anything and everything there ever was.

Instead of feeling a sense of inadequacy, a sense of failure, a sense of destitution...

You feel compassion for the afflicted.

You drive your addict back to the Pharmacy.  When you first met him, you would have never believed what you were about to say.

"Thank you for your pornography addiction," you shake his hand, "Really, thank you."

And then you peel outta the parking lot, your ponytail flapping in the breeze.

As you drive home, you feel the strength of your immune system.  You're a survivor.  You crank your tunes and treat yourself to a Route 44 Ocean Water at Sonic.

You've been cured of Perfectionism.

You call The Good Doctor, and gush out your thanks even though it may or may not be in a timely manner.  His tone is all warmth as he encourages you to share what you've learned.  

How do you share your message of healing?  your remedies?

You be REAL.  You go to church even if you don't look put together.  You open your home to visitors, even if there's laundry on the couch (and floor).  

And since you've stopped worrying about yourself so much, an entirely new world unfolds in front of your eyes -a world FULL of people inflicted with all manner of diseases!  And while you can't cure or even TREAT what they have, you can show compassion and give them something to eat when they're too tired to cook.  You can give them something to laugh about when they profess that there IS NOTHING TO LAUGH ABOUT.  

In short: you can give.  Period.

Living With a Porn Addict has taught you that a life of keeping up, of "doing it all" is really a cheap substitute for the rich life that was waiting for you.

Oh, that Good Doctor.  That wonderfully great Good Doctor -who, as a matter of fact -was listening intently to your complaints, who knew just what was needed, and who knows it all.

Shouldn't everyone have a Doctor so Good?

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Everyone does.  

And while he may not have SENT me a porn addict, he certainly worked through him to cure me of my Perfectionism.

I went from a quest to attain mediocrity to a quest to embrace reality, and I gotta say: oh, life is so good.

EVEN with my small rental, my inability to decorate like Martha Stew, my pointed nose, and my inability to ever really finish the laundry... life is OH so imperfectly good.

I'm a Real {Girl}!

A few days after I gave birth, I found myself doubled over in pain.  I had a low-grade fever.  I couldn't stand up straight.  I writhed over the pain in my abdomen.

The ER was over an hour away, but my husband made it there just under one hour.

From my hunched over position in the waiting room, I looked at shoes.  I'm not a shoe fan so much as I'm fascinated with people.

As a young girl, I used to read the obituaries in the newspaper -not in a morbid way, but in a "what was their story?" kind of way.  I loved it when the senior citizens that had passed on had pictures of their youthful selves next to their obituary.

I especially loved the old pictures of war time soldiers.

One pair of shoes walked by... they were my shoes.  I had a pair exactly like them at home, and they were my favorite.  I'd bought them ages before in high school because my mom thought they were ugly.   I'd worn them on the first date I had with my now-husband.

And there.  On the sleek hospital tile in front of me were my shoes.  I braved the pain to heighten my gaze... who would wear the same shoes?  They looked exactly like brick red bowling shoes.

Who?

It was a very old, concerned grandmother sporting a walker and a sea foam green muumuu.

I was proud, in a way.  And I wondered about her -her story, why she was there, why she was wearing my shoes...

Minutes later, I was in a hospital bed.

"On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?" A doctor asked.

"Ten," I said, scrunched up in the bed, "It feels like labor... only I don't get a fun prize in the end."

*silence*

*awkward silence*

"She's just kidding," my husband kindly said what I was too tired to say.

"Oh," the doctor nodded.

"We're going to give you some morphine," a nurse said.

Morphine.

I'd never had morphine before.  Heck, I hardly bothered with Advil.  My body is so sensitive to anything I put in it, I have to steer clear of Dr. Pepper unless there's monthly crampiness involved.

"You just had a baby?" Another nurse asked.

"Yeah," I started to cry.  Coming off that pregnancy hormone is no joke.

"You're going to need to pump..."

And that's when it hit.  

Warmth.  It started in my head and moved methodically down the length of my body to my toes.

"Are you feeling that?" The first nurse asked.

"Yeah," I think I said.  Did I?  Did I say it?  or did I just think it?  My body relaxed.  I rolled over on my back and the tension in my entire body melted away.

They said something about wheeling me to a room. 

What was that about tucking my arms in?  Oh, good.  Someone did it for me.

My bed started moving.  Doors started opening.  My husband was there, so I was okay.  I knew if he was there, talking, I would be okay.  

They wanted to move me into a hospital bed... they need me to move.  Am I?  Am I doing it?  Are they helping me?  My husband's hands were there, so I knew I was okay.

We're going to need to put a catheter in.

We're going to leave you with the pump.

Would you like some water?

I just stared at the wall.  Do whatever you want to me, Nurse Lady.  Rough me up, medicate me, roll me to the ground, throw rotten tomatoes at my hospital gown... I don't care.

I don't feel.

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My husband brushed back my hair, kissed my head, apologized because he was about to leave.

...just have to get the kids squared away and I'll be right back...

and then he was gone.

The Nurse came back.

Are you feeling all right?

Would you like some water?

Do you want the television on or off?

The door opened or closed?

I just stared at the wall.  Didn't answer.  I wasn't awake.  I wasn't asleep.  I couldn't FEEL anything.  I couldn't THINK about anything (first time in my life).  I was alive, but I wasn't living.

There was a voice nearby.  Another patient.  A man.  He was talking incessantly.  No one was talking back.

He was making a call, maybe?

His voice was my white noise, and I heard him but I didn't listen to him.

As the day ended and night came, my husband was by my side again and the pain returned.

"Would you like some more morphine?" the nurse asked.

"YES!" I said, "So you better give me something else..."

After coming out of my morphine-induced euphoria I realized that morphine and I liked each other WAY too much to ever "just be friends."  It would be an all-or-nothing situation.

And as my husband and I became wrapped up in an episode of "The Big Bang Theory," I was a little upset with myself.

I'd had HOURS that afternoon to listen in on a cell phone conversation -to get to hear someone's STORY.  The writer in me loves nothing more than to hear someone else's story, but while the morphine was rolling in my system, the writer was dead.

I still think about morphine.  If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can remember the warmth of the drug spreading from my head to my feet... I can remember the feeling of not feeling, not caring, the numbness, the utter bloody numbness...

And I know: Morphine is dangerous unto me, man.  Dangerous.

But what if I could get it today?  for free?  What if it was just waiting in my medicine cabinet?  

Would I take it?

Would I take it at the end of a long, hard day?  Would I take it when I was stressed?  embarrassed?  lonely? ashamed?  depressed?

What if I could take the emotions and the caring and the living and feeling AWAY  -even for just a few minutes?  I deserve a reprieve, surely.  I might come out the other end feeling worse, but if I've had a break I can handle it better.

Plus... there's always more, right?  I mean, it's just sitting there.  It's FREE (hypothetically speaking, of course).

And that -reader -is how I came to have compassion on my porn addicted husband.

It all started with a horrible infection and fat dose of morphine (of which I will never take again unless I'm doubled over in unbearable pain and even then -one dose is my absolute limit).

His morphine is free.  It's there all. of. the. time.

When he feels any negative emotion, he can wipe it all away for a brief period.  He can UNfeel, unplug, and live without being alive.

The side effects of my dose wore off within a few hours.  The side effects of his?  Reader, please.

Getting rid of those bad boys will take YEARS.  The longer he's numbed himself, the more he's reshaped his own brain.  

His drug slowly melted his ability to truly feel, to truly live, and then in some warped, twisted, awful turn of events he suddenly found himself NEEDING porn TO feel rather than to not.

Addiction is a beast.

So euphoric, appealing, and beautiful in the beginning.

And then -like Pinocchio's Pleasure Island -it turns on you, physically changing you into an ass.

via

This picture is the very essence of addiction: the addict staring at himself.  The innocent, loving Pinocchio looking into something of a mirror and seeing... THAT.  

Some days, I live with an ass.

Some days, I live with a sweet, loving Pinocchio (Growing Nose Syndrome included).

Do I understand him?  No, not completely.

But I understand the utter momentary BLISS of numbness, and I cling to remember that -not because All Day I Dream About Morphine, but because it gives me human compassion.  It reminds me that our bodies want escape.

It doesn't make it right.  It just serves to remind me.

We all have a ride with our name on it on Pleasure Island... Satan has tailored each to our individual tastes, preferences, styles, and interests.  They're attractive.

Are they irresistible? 

The answer to that question will be what shapes our very beings and lives.

And we can't go around judging the asses on the Roller Coaster (or Crazy Train) when we're comfortably bunked down on the Ferris Wheel, tails wagging in the wind.

We just can't.  

And we all have our own addictions.  We do.  They might seem a little less harsh than explicit sex, but anything that takes our agency away qualifies.  

I am riding that Ferris Wheel, man.  I've got my brownies and cake and cookie dough (and cavities) and I am flyin' high.

I am a sugar addict.

And I.  am an ass.

Are you one too?