Saving vs. Rescuing

My anxiety has come in surges throughout my life.
Thanks to therapy, step-work and a greater understanding of God's will and ways... I can at least see that my anxiety is ANXIETY and not truth.

Danny's been in the house for a few weeks, and my anxiety is full-swing.
I'm picking at my skin unconsciously.  My dreams are restless and filled with various versions of my worst fears: getting in a car accident and then going unseen by everyone and wondering IF I'M ALLOWED TO NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION.  I try to take a nap and my mind fills with worries... what if the baby goes outside? What if she gets into the cow trough?  She will die.  Where is the baby?  Is the baby dead?  What was that noise?  Did someone cough?  IS IT EBOLA?!?!

In my early days of seeking recovery, I opened up to someone.  It was scary and freeing all tied up in one glorious stomach knot.  When I finished telling my story, I was hit with one of Brene Brown's most hated comebacks.
At least.
"At least he's trying."
I had felt safe opening up to this sweet woman who had divorced her first husband over sex addiction.
"You don't want to know the pain of divorce," she said.  I walked away from her feeling very put in my place.  I reminded myself in a holy pit of shame to be grateful BE GRATEFUL BE GRATEFUL instead of focusing on the negative.

Years later I can say with shameless confidence, "You don't want to know the pain of staying, either."
 It's not a contest -it's simply that life is hard and staying in a marriage where addiction is and has been present is it's own barrel of monkeys.

I focus on my dailies.
Pray, scriptures, self-care, healthy breakfast, lemon water

My anxiety goes through the roof if I lose focus which tends to happen.  This is really scary stuff.

Yesterday, I didn't take care of myself at all.  I think I did one daily.  My day was really busy and full, and sometimes that happens.  I decided to make today a "make up" day.  I made sure to ALL of my dailies in the morning.  I spent time on my body today: bath, face scrub... I went for a picnic with my kids, bathed my baby.  I ate healthy food (and some not so healthy).
This morning on my walk, I listened to President Monson's last conference talk -Ponder the Path.
As I listened to him talk about the Savior's example, I wondered at the phrasing used in the Parable of the Lost Sheep.
So often as members, we are called on to "Rescue."
Rescue.
The Savior didn't call on us to SAVE but to rescue, to find.

I listened to the last half of his talk twice and wondered some more.

What IS the difference between rescuing and saving?  I know there are very important differences, but I felt some urgency to define exactly what they are for me right now.

I thought of the Parable of the Lost Sheep, and I thought of Brigham Young's urgent call to rescue the saints crossing the snowy plains.
I asked friends and family.
I came across this quote on the LDS Church's Facebook Page:

“I think that being courageous for someone else would be standing up for others who can't stand up for themselves, protecting those who can't protect themselves, and truly putting it into heart and mind and action of loving your neighbor. And I think doing that is as courageous as you can get when you're doing it for others.” —Kurt

As I thought about it, I realized that what Kurt was saying went in line with what I was pondering... rescuing someone else is doing for them what they can't do for themselves.  Others agreed with this line of thinking, and it is true.  It is.

But it still felt murky.

I realized after some reading an old Ensign article that the difference between rescuing and saving has NOTHING to do with the external circumstances and EVERYTHING to do with internal motivation.

In short, to rescue someone is a charitable act on the Savior's part while saving someone is a frantic, fear-based act on our own part.

Saving:
When I tried to save Danny, I truly thought I was being charitable, but if I were ever questioned about WHY I was doing what I was doing (making suggestions, leaving articles out, snooping, FOREVER TRYING TO GET HIM TO SEE the truth), I guarantee the FIRST words out of my mouth would have been, "Because I'm afraid ____________________"
He'll lose his soul.
Our marriage covenant will be for naught.
He'll cheat.
He'll mess up our children.
He'll hurt me.
We will get divorced.

And so I tried to save Danny, save myself, save my kids, save the world!
This did NOTHING for my anxiety, by the way.

My Saving Prayers were so specific.  I asked God for SPECIFICS of what I WANTED.
"Please help Danny SEE what he's doing.  Please help him to feel the Spirit.  Please make sure Danny comes with me to church because IT'S SO HARD GOING ALONE."

When I save, we do things MY way.

Rescuing:
When I try to engage in the act of rescuing, I find myself wearing anti-porn garb.  I share educational articles WHEN PROMPTED and not when I'm in a panic over the fact that 90% of the church is unaware that 90% of men are looking at porn.  Rescuing is raising awareness, it's speaking out.  Rescuing is taking meals to sick people, donating clothing where it's needed.  Rescuing is done most effectively when I've taken care of myself properly... when I'm fed right and my mind is calm and my thoughts are clear.  Rescuing is having a mind clear enough to hear God whisper the name of a sister in my ear.  It's being able to hear God prompt me in my Next Right Thing.  Sometimes the Next Right Thing is rescuing my child from a shaming teacher.  Sometimes it's listening to her as she talks through a day she didn't realize affected her deeply until she begins speaking.
Rescuing is "first observe, then serve."
Rescuing is the verb form of charity.

Tears come to my eyes as I think of the bloody, cold pioneers trapped on the plains... what they must have felt when they saw their rescuers rushing toward them!  So often I've seen a figurative version of that scene play out in my own mind:
My family crumpled together, alone and shivering and ready to give up.
The prayers of our friends and loved ones mounted up on angel's wings come billowing toward us and I'll be dammed if our marriage isn't saved on those prayers alone.

 

(bedard fine art)

So yes -rescuing is praying, "Take care of my loved one, Lord.  Help me accept Thy Will for Them, for Me.  Help my accept Their Free Will."

When I rescue, I do things GOD'S WAY.

I do believe the work being done to combat lust and sex addiction on every hand is a pioneering work.  With every outstretched hand, a victim is given hope.

“Perhaps their suffering seems less dramatic because the handcart pioneers bore it meekly, praising God, instead of fighting for life with the ferocity of animals,” wrote historian Wallace Stegner of the handcart pioneers and their rescue. “But if courage and endurance make a story, if human kindness and helpfulness and brotherly love in the midst of raw horror are worth recording, this half-forgotten episode of Mormon migration is one of the great tales of the West and of America.^"

 ^{In the midst of raw horror.}

^{I think we can all nod our heads on that one.}

<sup>The road to God -to Zion -is smoother for some.  It's sunnier and there's more flowers.  Their trial is not the road.
But mine is.  Would that I had more humility that it might not be so, but my face is Zionward, and I will press on.

I will rescue as I am called on by God to do, and I relinquish to God my own ego-driven, fear-ridden, shame-soaked urgency to save any soul, including my own.</sup>

The Kraken

My battles -my most hard-fought and bloodying battles -are fought with my fears. I have one gigantic fear that rules with an iron fist: The Mother Fear. She has babies that sprout from her like long tentacles. I can whack and battle the tentacles whack-a-mole style, and it doesn't bother me much. But when The Kraken itself is awakened, I know I'm in for at least 3 days of warfare.
I am so afraid.
SO SO AFRAID.
That at some point, I'm going to make a mistake. In this instance, I'm afraid of staying married (it might be a mistake!) and I'm afraid of getting divorced (it might be a mistake!).

What if I mess up? 
What if I do this wrong? 
What if?

Monday morning, a trigger awoke the Kraken and I spent all day wondering about my current state of limbo. I received crazy amounts of outside advice from people who usually only speak to me to find out what time of day it is.

"Make a decision and go with it. God doesn't want you in limbo. Staying AND going could both be right -just pick one and GO."
"Be compassionate for him. Try and forgive."

These voices only compounded my fear that I was IN FACT totally and royally screwing this all up.

I prayed to God for help.
Pleaded.
Screamed.
The violent sea grew more treacherous by the hour, and I knew God could calm it and me. But there was nothing in those prayers -just silence. A silent God, dangerous water, and a sea monster.

I only want to do what God wants me to do.
Please, GOD, what is the answer? 
Silence. Fear. It was ripping me to shreds.

 I kept very busy with work and teaching lessons and mothering and feeding everyone, and in one "quiet" moment, I opened my browser so I wouldn't have to THINK about the Kraken. As I scrolled through the names on my wall, one popped out at me.
Call her, the thought came. Did I even have her number? I did some digging, and YES, I did. I'd never spoke on the phone with her. We'd exchanged emails before, and though she wasn't well known to me, I'd always felt this woman to be kindred -no hint of Stranger Danger on my end. I texted her, asking if we could talk. We set up a time, and I went back into battle mode until that time crept around.

When I heard her voice, all sense of etiquette went out the window. Instead of niceties, I poured my yuck-ities into the phone.

Should I stay or should I go? 
I'm going to make a mistake, right? 
I'm so scared. 
God is silent, no direction. 
Is He waiting for ME to just MAKE a choice -both ARE right and God is waiting for ME to choose?
Am I doing this wrong? 
AM I LIMBO-ING WRONG?!?! 

Her voice was calm, something I craved amidst the tossing water around me. She spoke truth from experience, and though I can't remember her exact words, I remember her message:

You can not selectively numb. If you are numbing pain and fear, everything -including the good and God -is being numbed as well. God is not silent. 

She confessed to me that she'd felt prompted to call ME a few days earlier but hadn't on account of us not "knowing" each other. "God put your name in my head," she said, "He has not forgotten you, and He isn't silent in your life." Numbing. YES. I've been numbing. I work three hours in the morning and come home to shove lunch in my mouth and take a nap before teaching lessons, and then it's homework, dinner... and inbetween times the house is always dirty, so I can always, always be cleaning.

I don't have time or space to FEEL.
The next day I shared this insight with my dearest piano student -one who is old enough to be my mother and wise enough to be my grandmother -and she said, "Alicia, you have been betrayed.  Your trust has been betrayed, and you. went. numb.  You have to go numb to survive."

My mind flashed back to three years ago, before I became pregnant with my now-toddler, and I was PERFECT.  I was fit, my house was clean, there were freezer meals and fresh linens.  I worked out every day and wore my skinny jeans and aired the house out with PERFECTION.
But really?  REALLY?  I was fully and completely numb.  I was in total control of my own life, and I didn't NEED God because.
I got this.

Danny's life was chaotic and spinning out of control under the surface, but on the outside?  He was RIGID and in control.  My perfectionism lined up perfectly with his agenda.
Clean house.
Warm dinners.
Routine.  Regime.  Rigidity.

I was finally enough.  And yet, I couldn't feel anything.  I didn't care if he looked at porn.  I didn't care if he didn't.  I didn't write much of anything.  And while the house sparkled and shined, my music became dusty and forgotten.

"It's like being in a snake hole," my friend continued, "You're perfect and doing your best.  You look just right and act just right and eat just right and know that SURELY the snake that lives in the claustrophobic, dark hole will never strike at you because you're GOOD and sweet.  But the snake always strikes.  And you always get bit.  The hole is dark.  There is no light and no hope."
My heart wanted to beat out from it's rightful place and fall onto the piano in front of us.
She knows my pain.

In ALL of the outside voices, God had sent me TWO OF HIS OWN VOICES to let me know that
1) I am numbing
2) It's natural
3) It isn't His way
4) He is here for me
5) When I'm ready
6) It's okay that I'm not
7) BE GENTLE with myself

In all my years of being rejected, controlled, manipulated, and lied to, I never ONCE lost it.  I never yelled or screamed or broke or threw anything... because in my broken thinking, ANGER is a mistake.
And I'm PETRIFIED when it comes to making mistakes.

I have a (growing) pile of things I want to burn -ready to scorch them out of my life.  I have a poster covered in my idea of what I've lost in this addiction.  I want to burn in.
I have phrases that trigger deep resentment and pain -I want to write them on a plate and SMASH them.
I want to beat a tree with a baseball bat and swear and shout and shake my fists at God and Danny and say, "THIS. HAS. TOTALLY. SUCKED."

But if I'm too busy, I will never do it and I will never feel it and I will exists in survival mode where things aren't felt or feeled and everyone swirls around me in comfortable chaos.

I shared this with Danny and he offered to get some defensive training gear from work.  He said he could wear it while I beat him with my fists and feet.  I know that isn't conventional, but I do believe it would be healing for me and quite possibly for him.

Most of my dear sister who I would love to have by my side during a big fat burning session live hours and/or days away, but this last week God put someone in my path who lives just minutes from me, and who offers no judgement, only love.  And she approves of fires.

I gathered up my intense week and brought it to counseling Friday morning and dumped it on my counselor.
"Can you just listen for a while... while I talk?" I asked.  He nodded because he's nice, and I shared it all.
The Kraken, the fear, the outside chatter, the monumental phone call, the snake hole, the tactical gear, the fire.
I cried and sputtered out, "I can't feel this.  I can't be angry.  HOW do I let myself LET IT OUT?  Even thinking about it makes me feel awful."

He said, "When someone is physically injured as deeply as you have been emotionally injured, they are put into A COMA so they don't have to endure pain.  Your numbing is natural.  There is a better way, but don't shame yourself for becoming numb.  It makes sense that you did."
He showed me a picture of Peter, the apostle.  Peter had fallen in the sea and Christ was lifting him up.
"Peter didn't like to make any mistakes," my counselor said, "He was asked to step out of his own safety boat and into the unpredictable water.  He succumbed to fear instead of faith and Christ IMMEDIATELY lifted him up.  He didn't wait and let him flail around in the water to teach him a lesson, he IMMEDIATELY saved him."

I stared at the picture and saw my fear in Peter's eyes.
"And Alicia," my counselor said.
"Yeah?"
"The Kraken is imaginary.  Don't forget that part of your metaphor."

The Nie Bed

Two weeks ago, my soul was dark.  My life felt dark, and though there was an undercurrent of peace, the top waters of my life were chaotically tossing and heaving.

"I don't want to be married like this," I told my counselor, "I can't be married like this. I am so alone, especially when he's here."

Admitting it out loud is always painful and real.  Hearing words I've only thought is harsh.  Why?  Because I've never been honest like this.  I've never THOUGHT harsh and hard things and then SAID them.

My counselor listened to me and suggested as I work on my own healing, I channel Stephanie Nielson's journey through her change and shift in perspective.
And since I was on an honesty kick, I told him I really, really, really didn't want to read Nie anything.
Ever.

It isn't that I hate HER.  My reasons really have nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
Stephanie's plane crash happened on my birthday, less than 2 hours away from where I live.  St. Johns, Arizona is about 90 minutes from Joseph City, Arizona.
I read about her story the next morning in the news.  I opened her blog and binge-read with the rest of the world.
I cried a lot. 100% for Stephanie and her pain.
Days went by and I read more.

As a stay-at-home Mormon mother -7 months pregnant with a boy and chasing a 20 month old girl around -her words touched me deeply, and I found myself looking at the world wildly different.
I found myself questioning my priorities and wondering how Stephanie would handle my life.  I tried to be like her, see my life as she saw her own.

But there was one difference between her life and my life.
And it wasn't the plane crash.

My husband is a sex addict.

While I was about to give birth to our second child, I was also enduring daily porn usage by my husband.  My son was born and I found myself reading less and less Nie.
My tears became 70% for Stephanie and 30% for me because her blog had glossy descriptions of her husband's unfailing ability to SEE her.
The ratios gradually flipped, and I quit reading Nie because I didn't want to hurt so much anymore.

When my counselor suggested I turn to her and study her story and life, I felt an old twinge of sadness and I told him I couldn't.  I wouldn't.
But his suggestion never left my mind.  I put my toes in the Nie water by asking a few friends if they'd read her book.  They had.  They liked it.  They weren't a puddle of tears.
I sat on the idea for a few days, and then when I fell sick over the weekend, I jumped into the Nie water.

One-click buy and 60 seconds later, I was curled up with my iPad reading, "Heaven is Here."
I cried a lot, and I cried hard.  I read the book in two days, and it took me over a week to recover.

I hated my counselor for suggesting it.  I hated that my pain wasn't visible.  I hated that Stephanie's husband was patient.  I hated that Stephanie had overwhelming passion for her husband.
I found myself jealously craving her hospital bed and the opportunity to just REST while my family took my kids because I CAN'T MOTHER LIKE MY CHILDREN NEED ME TO.

In the 6 years since my son was born and I'd quit reading Nie, I'd gone from a woman who devoted herself to marriage and home to a mother who worked part-time to save money up in case she had to support herself.
I'm separated from my husband.
He lives in the camp trailer I've affectionately named Dog House and I live in the manufactured home next to him.  Our kids have cried hard tears of fear, and my house isn't clean.
Like, ever.

You can't see my scars, but they are there.  I see them everyday, even if no one else does.

In the week following the reading of Nie, I cried a lot and couldn't WAIT to get my words on my counselor.
WHY?
WHY had he asked me to read about Stephanie?!

What could the wife of a SEX ADDICT possibly gain from reading about a woman with a devoted husband?  Do I have the safety of knowing my husband would stay by my side if I were burned?  I don't.  I really don't.  What I DO have is years upon years of struggling with image to keep up with what kept my husband's interest... a losing battle, and devastating losses have been sustained there.
Christian calls her darling.
He loves her for HER, not what she has to offer.
I cried so hard for myself when I read that book, and the trauma felt was harrowing.

Six days later, I watched a movie about a man and a woman that belonged together but could never QUITE make the connection.  There was always a boyfriend in the way or a pregnant girlfriend or an alcohol problem.  When they finally come together 15 years after they SHOULD have, she is hit by a bus and dies.
DIES.
The movie ended with thoughts about how things could have gone differently if the man had simply made different choices early on, and as the credits rolled at midnight, I found myself just fuming.
I was shaking and angry.

Fifteen years is too long.
So much is being missed.
Stephanie and Christian.
Building lives and homes together...
More kids.
Memories we never made and can't get back.
The FUTURE felt in those first kisses.
Pissed away, pissed away, pissed away.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my hair back with shaking hands.  I pulled a sweater on and marched myself out to The Dog House.
I woke my husband up and for the first time EVER, I took the honesty I'd tapped into with my counselor and I let it shake all over my husband.
Did I yell?
No, but I didn't feel like I needed to.
Did I cry?
Some.
Did I swear?
Once.
Did I shame?
No.

I told him how mad I was... how OF ALL HE HAD MISSED IN OUR MARRIAGE,
I
ME
ALICIA
was his biggest loss.

I could see my own worth in Stephanie and the fictional woman who'd been hit by a bus.

AS I AM, I HAVE SO MUCH TO OFFER.  Just by being, I brought a WORLD of AWESOME to my marriage and relationship. 
I deserved better.
I unleashed my own self-hate for not standing up for myself sooner, for coddling what I thought was just a little (and natural) porn habit.


I might not have passion for my husband right now, but I have stumbled upon something more important: passion for myself.

Stephanie's painful story taught me how a woman healing from wounds should be treated.  She taught me that it's okay to be irrational and say things you wouldn't normally say.
It became clear to me that my husband could and should be patient with me as I heal, and if he isn't... he needs to go away.
I can't clean my house and teach my toddler Chinese while the homemade gluten free noodles boil on low.
I can make sure we pray.  I can make sure we're honest with each other about how we're doing and what we're feeling.  I can hold my daughter while she tells me about her fears of Daddy not coming back home.
I can listen to my son tell me about the latest Power Rangers episode he watched while I sat through my weekly s-anon meeting online.

In short, I can give myself permission to see the hospital bed I'm in, even if others can't or don't or won't.
What's more: I can begin to see past hurtful words said by others to their own invisible hospital beds.
And like Christian was patient with his healing wife, so to can I work to be patient with those healing around me.

I can stand up for myself as I heal, and love will begin to seep through the cracks made by fear.

Fightin' For My Own Hand

Last year, I typed up a list of my boundaries and read them out loud to Danny.
My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking... I was terrified.

What would he think?
What would he SAY?
What would his reaction be?
What if he didn't approve?

I had prayed about my list and been pretty thorough as I typed it out.  I'd combed over it time and time again before printing it.  We won't even TALK about how long it took me to tell Danny I needed some time with him to TALK about SOME THINGS.

But I did it.

That piece of paper was my permission slip -my training ground.  I fell back on it when my gut told me something was off. 

My boundaries kept me safe.

I HATE NOT FEELING SAFE.  As a Beehive, I wrote the infamous "What I Want in My Future Husband" list, and THE FIRST thing on it?  Security.
As a blinking 12-year old, I wanted to be safe more than I wanted anything else in a man. 

In Addorecovery, I learned that in the course of being married to a man with an addiction, I'd been slowly trained to ignore my gut.  The truth of that statement hit me hard and fast -like a blow.  The realization was at once shocking and hair-raising.  I couldn't believe it, and yet...

For YEARS, I would operate under Danny's thumb... ever submissive, ever resentful.  I felt his hold on me and I didn't quite know what to do about it.  I loved him deeply, and I didn't want to upset him by arguing or making a fuss -neither of which I actually really knew how to DO anyway.

My boundary list was my baby step into those waters.

They let me make a fuss when I felt controlled, manipulated, or scared.
They let me argue when I felt unheard, unseen or brushed aside.

I followed my boundaries with the courage of a shaking, late-summer leaf.  Barely hanging on, but HANGING ON.

Fear was my constant companion, as always.  But I began to find that each time I stood up for myself, the fear had less power.  I slowly began gaining courage.
I found myself needing my paper less and less as boundaries became a natural part of my life rather than an awkward ritual carried out each time I felt tightness in my chest or a knot in my stomach.

I came to find out that instead of RESENTING DANNY for not keeping me safe, I could MAKE MYSELF SAFE by listening to my gut and the Spirit and SPEAKING UP. 

God meant for me to speak up.  That's why he gave me this voice, this spirit, this fighting soul that refuses to buckle... that senses and feels every emotion so deeply. 
I can put words to what I feel.
I will put words to what I feel.
And I will HONOR what my soul is telling me with complete honesty.

No more will I calculate and plan HOW to say it, how to bring it up, how to lessen the blow.
No more will I shake and shiver and avoid.
No more will fear of other people -husband included -keep me squashed in a tired, damp corner where only rats remind me that -once again -I've allowed myself to be beaten down.

I am not aggressive, but I can be assertive.
I can be fully honest, as the Savior would have me be, and as He is.
I can take His advice and give no thought beforehand to the things I might say, but I can simply open my mouth when I feel so moved and let the words come, let His truth pour forth from the depths of my soul.

I can let His light come through when the darkness threatens to pull me under.

I can surrender what others may think or say about my actions because I know -I KNOW NOW -that my words and actions, when honest and unflinching -belong to the Lord. 

If the Lord be with me, who can be against me?  Or rather, what does it matter if they are?

No more will I control my own voice, try to put it where I believe it ought to be (which -honestly -I sometimes believe IS in that dark, ratty corner)... but I will give my voice unto God.

For He will uphold me when I feel fear, and He will carry me through those awful moments when I don't think I CAN SPEAK MY TRUTH... because I usually can't.  But HE CAN if
I
WILL
BUT
OPEN
MY
MOUTH.

No More Tissues

I'll never forget the day I was done crying.

For six years of marriage, I had shoved down my tears in favor of comforting my husband.  And when I hit rock bottom and six years' worth of hot tears came raging to the surface, I couldn't stop.  I cried for months.  No one knew my pain.

I talked with the Bishop now and then, but kept that relationship as small as possible -stripped it bare of what I was really going through.  My own shame kept me from opening up.  I didn't talk, I didn't tell... I was married to an addict, a porn addict, and the shame I felt was binding.
But one day I told someone who wasn't on The Shame List of people it was okay to talk to -she wasn't a Bishop.
I didn't want to tell her because the thought of someone else KNOWING made me physically ill.  What would Danny say if he found out I had talked about his stuff with someone else?  a friend?  another woman?
Still, something drove me to open my heart.  And I did.
I'm pretty sure it's easier to jump out of a plane with a parachute strapped to your back than it is to take that first plunge.
Why?  No parachute.

For days afterward, I felt ill.  I shook.  I felt deceitful.  I felt like I was lying to my husband by not telling him that I had told someone.  I was terrified he'd tell me not to tell anyone else, not to talk to her, and at that time... I needed the safety of space, the safety of being able to talk unfiltered, to share my pain and hurt.
And I DID.
For months, she would call. 
"How are you?"
I would answer and the answers were never witty or funny or nice in any way.  They were riddled with grief, with hopelessness, with false beliefs about my abilities, identity and nature.  I would apologize for my negativity, and she would listen and say, "I am so sorry you're going through this."
So many tissues.  I used up so many tissues.  SIX YEARS of tears came flowing out in six months!  Meltdowns were no respecter of persons or holidays or convenience.
The children watched Netflix and sat on clean laundry.
I gained ten pounds.

My dear, sacred friend continued to call.  The One Who Knew.  
Then came one day in late summer.  She called on a bad day.  I picked up the phone.
"How are you?" she asked.
And, like I had for many months prior, I told her.  I laid bare my soul.
Only this time?  I HEARD myself.  It was an out-of-body experience.  I listened to my depression, I heard my tone of voice... the darkness in my soul.
I hung up the phone and DID something.  I did the dishes. 

As I washed, I felt the urge and push and desire for something... MORE. 

I didn't want tissues anymore.
What did I want?
A life without tissues had seemed impossible, and to find myself wanting to move on?  I felt lost.  I needed guidance.  I needed...
...
TOOLS.

I wanted to WORK at something, I wanted to dig up something, uncover something!  But all I had on my side were a pile of tissues and a dirty house!
I had no direction, no one to talk to... the only person I knew who had gone through this had divorced her husband, and I didn't feel that was a path I needed to take.

So I talked again.  I TOLD another person.  Again, the shame was sickening, but the rewards were worth it.  She suggested a support group.  I began attending and looking into the eyes of women who understood my pain. 
The more support I found, the less pain I felt and the more tools I had!

My soul became a tool box, hungry to be filled.  Each meeting, each phone call, each new person I felt prompted to open up to became a stepping stone, a tool, a fresh face in my pathway.

And my tissues.
My sweet, valiant, loyal tissues.
I reserved a drawer in my tool box just for them.  Where they were once a lifeline, they did become a enemy to my progression... a trap, so to speak.
 For although I needed my time to feel and process the victimization, there came a beautiful and glorious day when I was ready to put my toes into the water of hope. 
I just needed someone to take my hand and guide me toward the stream.

And as I filled my toolbox, it was constantly shifting.  Is this for me?  Is THIS for me?
I rearranged and tried new tools, different brands...

This weekend, I turned and checked my toolbox out to find -most blessedly -that my toolbox is past it's shaping phase.  I can now open up shop and fully go hard and fast to work.

My tools:

• Monthly meeting with my Bishop where I hold NOTHING back but lay aside my shame and open up.  My Bishop is safe -my Bishop has not traumatized me.  I know I can open fully up to him, and I do.  He gives me spiritual guidance and inspired direction from God.
• Regular meetings with a sex addiction therapist.  My online meetings with Brannon Patrick have been pivotal in my recovery.  Having someone look me in the eyes and say, "Alicia, you have rights.  You don't have to live under the thumb of addiction" was freeing and hopeful and validating.
• Education!  Support!  YOU!  I'm looking RIGHT AT YOU! Reading books and blogs and finding true joy in my unending and ever-satisfying quest for truth!  The more I know and learn about addiction, vulnerability, truth, transparency, and LOVE... the stronger and more resilient I become.
• Daily work in a 12-step program (s-anon for Yours Truly) with a sponsor who is safe -more concerned about my well-being than my comfort.  I can call her and spill it all, and she can lovingly guide me, speak truth when I can't see clearly, and say things like, "Go eat something healthy, okay?" when I'd rather eat cookie dough. Working the steps daily means working surrender daily, and surrender is one of my greatest tools that brings me closer to
• GOD.  Each of my tools above brings me closer to God.  He is at the center and the outskirts of my recovery.  He is in my core and around my being.  He IS Alpha and Omega. 

My tissues are blessed and sacred.
I don't minimize or downplay the months they camped by my side.
I needed those months, and am FOREVER grateful to my friend who listened without judgement or advice.  Without those vital months, I never would have HEARD myself.  I never would have come to a point where I was ready to seek out and fill a tool box.

But here I am, tools in hand.

My life is filled with HOPE and LOVE.  Because I lived without them, I know and can FEEL the stark difference.  So I issue a prayer to my God and to those traveling this path, no matter where they might be on it:

Give me tools.  Give me tools.  Give me tools.
The tissues will take care of themselves.

Fear-Be-Gone!

I have something pretty awesome to share with you today.
Something pretty awesomely amazing.
Some truth, some courage, and some plate smashing -no tarp required!

Last month, I received an email from a man named Cameron.  He told me about his brave wife, Heather.

Once upon a time, Cameron and Heather had a beautiful baby, Lily.  A short time later, Heather was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer (mesothelioma) and was given 15 months to live.

Fifteen months to mother, fifteen months to love, fifteen months to LIVE.

Heather had a life-saving surgery on February 2nd... her left lung was removed.  That was EIGHT years ago, you guys.  EIGHT... a far cry from 15 months.

Each year on February 2nd, Heather and Cameron (and Lily!) invite their friends and family to join them around a bonfire where they write their greatest fears on plates and SMASH them.

It's Lung Leavin' Day.
Cameron says:

 The purpose of LungLeavin’ Day is to encourage others to face their fears!  Each year, we gather around a fire in our backyard with our friends and family, write our biggest fears on a plate and smash them into the fire.  We celebrate for those who are no longer with us, for those who continue to fight, for those who are currently going through a tough time in their life, and most importantly, we celebrate life!

They've asked me to share their story because they want YOU to know that February 2nd isn't just another Groundhog Day.
It's the eight year mark for Heather!  It's a celebration of life, of love, of loving life, and loving memories of those whose greatest fears were realized.

Most of all, it's about not letting fear control, cripple, or debilitate.
CLICK HERE

Scroll down and read Heather's story.  And though her story is different from our story in the details, one vein of truth remains in all of our stories: FEAR is real and powerful.
My therapist encourages me to simply give voice to my fears, how spelling them out will automatically take their power away.
Heather and Cameron know this -and they're giving us all the chance to WRITE our fears on a virtual plate and watch as our fears are shattered before our eyes.

Do it for yourself.
Do it because there's others out there fighting.
Do it for love.

A Great and Terrible Fear

I just have to ask: is there ANYone out there who thrives on rejection?  Anyone who is like, "Don't like me?  Ha!  Bring it on..."

Because I'm terrified of being rejected.  It goes into remission sometimes, and those are the days when I forget about etiquette and bras.

Since my husband's disclosure two weeks ago, the fear of rejection has been triggered multiple times daily.  It's like looking a hungry roaring lion right in the face.  Five, six times a day.
GAH!

The magazine covers make me panicky.  The movies make me queasy.  My children tell me they don't like me and I feel like Rome has BURNED.  I find myself getting angry, leaving the room to bury my head into my 9-foot long pillow and making myself delve into my scary mind, "What is this about really?"
It's all coming back to rejection, to not being enough.

I can pray, go to God, surrender!  I can look in the mirror and say to myself what I say daily to my own children, "YOU ARE LOVED!"
I can DO things that I love -things that fulfill me.  Craft, write, yoga... I know what I can DO.

I just wanted to pop in and let you all know that I'm wearing my bra, I'm very aware of etiquette, and there's ravenous, roaring lions encircling my personal space.
No biggie.
(ha.)

This is hard stuff, you know?

I read Danny's latest post at 2 am last night after I stayed up late and beat him in a game of Playstation Frisbee Golf (I'm beyond exhausted, thanks for asking)... and right now, I feel his ache for peace.

I ache for peace.  I can find peace in the Lord... after all, He's the one who closed up the lion's mouths. 

I Blame Me

"Do you get triggered when he comes onto you?" My therapist asked.
"Yeah," I nodded.
"What do you do?"
"I change the subject.  I make a joke... I find a way to escape the situation without confrontation."
"You need to be honest," he said.

I need to be honest.

It sounds so simple!  But it ISN'T simple at all... not for me.  Words seem to choke in my throat even as they come out.
Fear chokes them.  Fear has incomparable choking powers.

What am I afraid of?
I asked myself this yesterday during church.
What keeps me from being honest about how I'm really feeling when my husband triggers me without realizing it?

He will feel bad, and it will be my fault.
In essence: I believe I will make him feel bad.

I will tell him I need space, and he will feel lonely and rejected.  I've always "saved" him from those emotions (I thought I did, but let's be honest... I'm not capable of saving anyone, including myself).  He will feel sad and maybe even angry, and IT WILL BE MY FAULT.

His negative emotions are my fault.  I don't want to manage his negative emotions, so I avoid confrontation like the plague.

I realize none of this is actually true... I realize that I need to be honest, and I know that his negative emotions aren't REALLY my fault.  I also know that my husband is a grown man: capable, responsible and smart.  He can handle his own emotions. 

I know the truth -I know the real truth... I hope someday soon, I'll really begin to believe it.

Backspace Buttons

(via retronaut.com)

A few months ago, my husband prayed to know how to best see me.  The answer he received to read what I'd written.

So he started reading my blog.  At first, I didn't want him to.  It was my space, my safe place.  I began censoring myself, afraid of upsetting him or saying something he didn't approve of.
"I've been reading your blog," he said to me one day.
"Yeah," I nodded.
"You're censoring yourself," he said. 
I'd been caught.
"Can I just say something?" he reached gently up and tucked a stray hair behind my ear, "It's bull yish."

Only he didn't say "yish..."

And he was right.  I knew he was right.  He told me not be afraid, to just let it out... But something always held me back: fear, guilt, shame.

But something sort of clicked for me recently.  I can't say what it was EXACTLY, but I'm venturing a pretty solid guess on it being my understanding more than I ever have who I truly am: A Child of God.
I don't censor myself anymore, and I find myself feeling joy knowing my husband is reading what I'm writing.  I don't write certain things so he will read them, I don't NOT write certain things because I know he'll be reading... I just write.

Last week, I brought up a blog post I'd written.  My husband said, "Oh, I haven't read your blog in a while."

And I was surprised to find my feelings unduly hurt.  I didn't react or say anything about it -I wanted to figure out WHY I was feeling that way.
What in the world would bring something like that on?  It seemed so petty!

I found the answer in my own words as we drove home from our big bi-weekly grocery shopping trip.
"I'm more me when I write than at any other time."

In some odd way, I felt like my husband hadn't been visiting the true me.  That he'd just sort of forgotten about her -or WORSE -that she wasn't worth a howdy?

It sounds crazy, I know.
Right now, my husband is away at K9 training.  He's gone all week and home on weekends.  He'll be gone for 9 weeks.  I work every every morning (during the week) from nine until at least noon.  He starts training at noon and works until ten.
I go to bed at ten.
So we text and we call whenever we can slide in a few minutes conversation.

The training is 5 1/5 hours away, and my husband -instead of leaving Sunday night -left very early Monday morning so he would be able to have a few more precious hours with his family.

Our weekend together was good -it was GOOD.  I was surprised.  I'd had no expectations for it, but it turned out to be solid, grounded and good.  There was no bad media.  Dad helped with chores.  Mom made popcorn balls from popcorn Dad popped.  The kids played with cow skulls...
(living by a ranch is serious business)

And as the weekend came to a close, my head was resting on my husband's chest... his long arms were gently draped across my thick pajamas.
I listened quietly to his heart beat, his breathing... It occurred to me how fragile he was compared to mountains, oceans... how precious every tiny function of his body was.
If his heart were to simply stop beating?
If his nose were to simply stop breathing?
How devastating it would be -how much he mattered -how much more did one small man matter (small in the scheme of things, I mean) than all the mountains, all of the oceans, every canyon?

Every faculty of my husband's is a miracle from my creator.

I wanted my husband to know that at 9 pm last night, but he was still in training and I would be going to bed soon.  So I WROTE it to him.  I wrote a beautifully composed email full of realizations, real life, and a few big words.
And then as I crawled into bed later that night, my phone rang.  It was my husband.  We actually had a few minutes to talk!  Want to know what I said?
"Uh huh.  Hmm.  Oh.  Cool.  Nice..."

I'm classy, what can I say?

But that's the WHOLE of it.  I'm more ME when I write than when I talk.  He hung up the phone with me and read an entire email full of what I actually, REALLY wanted to say but couldn't form into audible sentences!
I've always been like this, since I was a kid.

And THIS is exactly why I'm nervous to meet everyone at The Togetherness Conference... because what if all I can say is, "Uh huh.  Hmm.  Oh.  Cool.  Nice." ?

There are no backspace buttons in real life, and that scares the yish out of me.

But the only thing worse than facing a group of women who know my darkest secrets but not my last name... is not facing them.  Because this is SO right.
See you soon.  I'll be on a flight out of Phoenix on Thursday morning.
Pray for my anxiety and my husband who will be dealing with my anxiety over my kids -more particularly my Baby who loves her mother more than any other earthly thing (and it's mutual).

It's only a few days away!

Then Comes the Anger

Earlier this month, we had our 9-year anniversary. 
During those nine years, I've watched other couples -I've watched how they communicated, how they made decisions, how they interacted.  I was often struck with how brave other wives were... they would buy things without asking their husbands first, make decisions on their own, even go so far as to lay down rules about what they were or were not comfortable with (like violent video games).  They offered up advice that was heard.  They could listen to advice and still think for themselves.  They were equals in their marriage... a concept that had eluded our marriage.

I wanted that.  I wanted it badly.
And as I got into recovery and started to see just how much damage had been done by addiction, I began grieving.
Those grieving days were awful days in our home.  The children ate a lot of cold cereal, and I shed a lot of tears.
I moved into acceptance, and I was relieved to feel that my grieving was -for the most part -over.

But guess what?
I skipped a step.

In the process of observing other couples, I saw one very fascinating trend: the couples I admired the most were upfront with each other -they weren't afraid of reactions or repercussions.  They were honest with each other outright.  They got MAD at each other.
I just couldn't DO that.  I couldn't get mad at my husband.  I couldn't!  I was too scared.  I wasn't strong enough to handle his reaction.  Instead of getting upset with him or at him, I'd walk away and shove the anger down until I couldn't feel it anymore and then I would go and talk things over with him.
Calmly.

Quick question: what happens when you shove emotions down?  Anyone?

Yeah.  They rise up and wail later on.  And they're usually worse than they were when you first shoved them.

Since I snagged up a sponsor and a therapist, my recovery has had some really awesome direction.  It's GOING places.  One of the biggest blessings from it all is that fear and shame are being stripped away.

As fear and shame have stripped away, I've started getting angry.  I'm not scared of my husband anymore.  I'm MAD at him. 

I accept where our relationship is at, but I'm mad about it.
I'm angry because I'm still grieving a healthy relationship.  I feel cheated, and I feel short-changed.  I feel all of these rotten emotions that I felt earlier in my recovery.
When I first felt them, I denied them, ignored them, felt sad about them, wept bitter tears...

And now I'm mad about them.

I think it's wonderful.
I'm finally strong enough to be honest about my every emotion.

I finally feel safe enough to say what I'm thinking when I'm thinking it.

I'm finally -for the first time in NINE years -being TRUE TO MYSELF.
And if that means trudging through a trench of anger, I'll do it.
It's worth it.

There's nothing more rewarding than the freedom that comes from being true to myself.  

An House of Merchandise

I've been thinking about John 2.

In this chapter, Jesus went to Jerusalem for the Passover.  He found people using the temple for personal financial gain.  They were buying and selling.

I love verse 15.  "And when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple..."

I believe if this case were taken before a modern-day court, they would classify it as "premeditated."

Christ's "driving out" actions were not an automatic reaction from the scene He found before Him.  They were meditated.  He witnessed a scene and methodically began forming a solution.  He didn't just immediately kick and scream and yell.  Can you imagine the thoughts running through His mind as he made a scourge of small cords?  His eyes were busy, His hands were busy, His mind was working.  He knew what He had to do.

As a farm girl, I love the phrase, "He drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen."  Ask me if I know anything about using cords to drive cattle.  Go ahead.  ASK.

To stand in the midst of a herd of any kind of living anything takes guts.  It does.  To stand in the midst of a herd and take charge?  It takes a whole new level of guts: grit, courage, spit, fire, fearlessness.
Picture dirty jeans and dust on your boots, sweat on your sunburned neck, a breeze on your long-sleeved Wrangler shirt, a WHIP in your hands.
You are commanding.  You are confident.  You are on a mission to move.

The Savior made his scourge, and He moved the herd.

As I thought about the Savior moving people, I thought about the place.  It wasn't in the corrals west of town where I usually move herds... it was IN the Temple.  I thought of my home temple.  And then I thought of my body.
My temple... the one created by my Father.  The one I can't seem to reign in when it comes to chocolate.  The one who created and birthed three glorious children.  The one who has given up four wisdom teeth, two tonsils, and -as of Saturday -one toenail.  It's scarred.  It's stretched.  It has healing power and limitless capacity to learn. 
It is HOLY.

But there are merchants selling temples.  There is a billion (probably trillion) dollar porn industry.  There is prostitution.  There are sex shops and strip clubs and Victoria Secret.  There are lingerie shops.  There are graphic, awful, illegal practices going on with bodies.

This horrifies me.  HORRIFIES me.
It's bad enough that it's happening, that it's spinning out of control, but worse still is that it has permeated the walls of MY home, MY body, MY marriage.  My intimate and personal places where I should be in control have been desecrated, defiled, demoralized.

I move beyond being horrified and start to feel something far worse: numb.
I start to feel numb and hopeless and dark.

And in those moments, I will picture My Brother making a scourge with small cords.  I will picture Him taking it and standing in the midst of the darkened, secretive, huddled herd... and with His word and cord will He drive them OUT of the Temples.
With His cord will He stand at the foot of holiness and command the greed and the glitter and the grotesque...
"Take these things hence."

The Savior is the Savior.
He will drive herds with grit.
And I will be his part of his scourge -I will be one of those small cords.  Shaking off the shackles of shame and fear as I become an instrument in his hands to cleanse!

Porn is Godless.
It's table turning time.

Hand Free

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn't The Way. 

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

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

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

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

Breaking Free

(The Man Who Taught Me About Breaking Free)

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

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

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

Run?  RUN?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all on him now.

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

And there will be strength.

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

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

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

There will be change.

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

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


I'm breaking free.

 

Message from Heaven

At Camp Scabs, Yoga Amber read this quote to us as we were all stretched out in final relaxation:

 

I knew I'd heard it before, but as I listened to it in my relaxed, aware state it became very empowering.  The next Tuesday, I attended Enrichment and the subject was "Who I am is a Gift from God."  Everything discussed went right along with this quote so well that I shared it at the end.  I'm sure the ladies had heard it before, but you can almost never hear it enough.

In church on Sunday, the Relief Society teacher shared this quote.

And then my sponsor, unaware of my seeing this quote and hearing at so many turns, emailed it to me.

I started seeing the quote as less of "ooh, neat" and more of "SOMEone really wants Alicia to hear this."

Two nights ago, I crawled into bed.  I checked facebook one last time before nodding off and found this quote yet again.

One of my husband's old mission companions posted it on his wall.  I read it over again, this time realizing that Heavenly Father REALLY wants me to hear it, listen to it, take it to heart, internalize it.

He's beating me over the head with it because that's what I need before I'll take a hint.

He knows that.

As I read it over, tears of gratitude and love washed over me.

Yet again, I looked Heavenward and spoke from my Heartvoice, "Me?  You have time for Me?"

So humbling.

So touching, rewarding, undeserving, profound and absolutely lovely.

The Truth

via chadgracia.com

Benjamin Franklin devoted his life to searching out truth.  As a youth, he devoured literature, spending what little money he had on books.
I wonder what he'd do with the Internet at his fingertips?  I don't imagine he'd ever leave his house!

Ours is The Age of Information!  His?  The Age of Common Sense (not officially, I just made that up.  But it feels official, doesn't it?).  Instead of feeling like I don't have to work as hard to find truth, I feel exactly the opposite.

Information does not equal truth.
Ben Franklin didn't have enough information.  I have entirely too much.

Alicia is devoting her life to searching out truth as rigorously as did Uncle Ben (not to brag, but we are distantly related through a sister) (okay, I'm totally bragging).

Ben Franklin had to man handle truth out of the world.  Like the farmer in the desert, he had to pull truth from the earth with sweat and muscle.

Alicia has to weed truth out of the world.  Like a sleek scientist in the lab, I have to dissect truth from sources with patience and prayer.

In coming to Know Myself(!) I've come to know that chaos does not become me.  While facebook is buzzing with articles about Mothers on iPhones and articles defending Mothers on iPhones, articles about modesty, articles about modesty from another angle, and something about wearing pants to church...

I'm shutting my laptop.  I don't care if people wear pants to church.  I don't care if moms are on iphones or  playground swings or couches or drugs. I have no control over those situations. The articles were swarming with "shares" and "likes" and "comments."  And the Spirit would softly prompt, "This is not for you."
And I would walk away.  I never read any of those articles, but the modesty articles about swimwear peaked my interest for obvious reasons.  I started to read, I started to study.  I donned my lab coat and worked overtime, dissecting, searching, combing, thinking...
And the more comments I read, the more crazy I started to feel.  The tornado of information and opinions began to swirl around me, the velocity of it's pulling force was more than I could handle.
I was overcome with that age old feeling of "out of control." 

I recognize it so well.  In the past, I welcomed it, accepted the thought tornado as truth and reveled in the storm, however fleeting.
Now I calm the crazy, step away from the situation, halt behaviors, and pray.
Still the nagging question hung on in the back of my mind, "What was the truth?  Was Jessica Rey right?  Were the other sites right?  Where was the truth?"
In prayer, I found My Truth, My Answer.

Fear and Love.

I knew it was right because it was so simple and profound.  It wasn't covered in words, draped in flowery language or examples or backed up scientific data.  What's more: it's my truth not only for modesty, but for life eternal.
The truth I have found has changed my perspective and my life.  I can feel it changing my heart as well.
The truth is simply:

Anything done out of love is right.  Anything done out of fear is not.

If I dress modestly because I'm afraid of what others will think of me -whether because I'm afraid people will lust or the Matronly Mother of the ward will reject me if I don't... then it isn't right.

If I dress modestly because I love myself, because I love others, and because the Lord loves me and I love Him... it IS right.
The same is true of immodesty.  If I dress immodestly because I fear rejection from men, it isn't right... and so on.

This broad truth spans every facet of my life.  I find myself questioning my choices, which I've come to know have primarily been fear-based.

Am I cleaning the house because I'm afraid of my husband's temper?
Am I having sex because I'm afraid of his bad mood?
Am I serving because I'm afraid people will think I'm selfish if I don't?
Am I working out because I'm afraid of not being enough?

Or

Am I cleaning the house because I love the feeling of peace that stems from order?
Am I having sex because I love my husband intimately?
Am I serving because I love the Lord?
Am I taking care of my body because I love it?

Truth, for me, can be boiled and dissected down to the absolute core.  Once the opinions, words, and information have been pulled away, the truth reveals itself and peace ensues.
Truth is always simple.
Truth is always plain.
Truth is always constant.

Truth for Benjamin Franklin was love, courage, faith...
and so it is for Alicia.
It's a mortal experience to uncover it, from Adam on down to Alicia.

And I'm not surprised in the least that this truth, along with all other truths, takes it root from Love and spits out Fear.
If I could leave one truth to my children, that would be it.

Are you acting out of Fear? or Are you acting out of Love?

We're the Same

  

via retronaut.com

When we were first married, I used to facetiously insist that my husband and I match and share everything.
"We have to be the same," I would say, "Because we're married."

It drove him crazy, and I loved it.  I would order what he'd order at restaurants.
"Because we're married," I'd whisper and wink seductively.
And he'd roll his eyes and laugh.
"You're weird."
"Yeah, and you married me... how do you feel now?"

Yesterday, I taught a piano lesson to a grandmother.  I love teaching her because she's so full of truth and she gets as worked up over my new table as I do.
"We all need that one person,"she said to me over the F scale, "That we can swear at in anger and they will still love us without judgement because they know our hearts."

She is so right.

That person, for me, is my Savior.
But how wonderful and glorious would it be if I had another person like that... and that person were my husband?  Provided the Savior is the FIRST person I go to for safety, the idea of having my spouse be another person I can swear at and still be received with love?  The idea seems ethereal.

When my husband came home from work, I confessed to him that I was afraid to make mistakes in front of him.
"I know I have a temper... I'll try harder to..."
But I cut him off there.  That wasn't what I was driving at. 
"The thing is," I said, "I don't think you're comfortable making mistakes around me either... I think we both feel like the other will judge our actions."
And he nodded.
And then we had a moment... the kind of moment Nicholas Sparks DOESN'T expound on.  The "hey, we both suck at marriage and we suck TOGETHER" kind of moment.

Okay, so we don't suck at marriage totally... but you understand what I'm saying.  It was special.  A Dear Diary kind of thing.  Or Dear Bloggery.  Whatever.

I took his face in my hands, looked into his eyes and said, "I want to feel comfortable making mistakes in front of you."
And then we both laughed, but I wouldn't let go of his bearded face, "Say it back to me... do it.... do it..."
"I want to feel comfortable making mistakes in front of you," he echoed.
"Even if it's hard," I said.
"Even if it's hard," he echoed.
"Even if it's scary," I said.
"Even if it's scary," he echoed.
"Even if it hurts," I said.
Instantly, his eyes filled with fear.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked.
I dropped his face and laughed.

Oh, we have a long row to hoe.
We are the same... because we're married.
Turns out, I was right all along.  Sad...

Very Afraid

Becoming aware of JUST HOW MUCH I've let fear rule my life has been overwhelming.

I work out because I'm afraid of gaining weight.
I'm afraid if I gain weight, my husband won't love me.
I'm afraid if my husband doesn't love me, he will reject me.
Fear of rejection.
Rejection from him, from my own self, from others.

I'm afraid to let the kids take too many risks.
I'm afraid to be 100% honest with my husband about my feelings because it might upset him.
I'm afraid he'll lose his temper.

My chest is tight for most of the day.
I'm afraid of what others think of me.
I'm afraid I'll wreck the car because my vision is terrible.
I'm afraid I'll be responsible for their death somehow.
I'm afraid I'll be responsible for their choices later in life.
I'm afraid of letting the people I love down.
I'm afraid I'm letting fear keep me from my dreams.
Did you hear that?  I'm AFRAID of FEAR.
Isn't there a word out there for that?  There's some kind of phobia name for that.  I know there is.

I try to keep my distance from contagious people, from angry people, from dominant-personality people.

I'm starting to let go of many of these fears, and I'm grateful for awareness.  I could have gone my entire life trapped and bound by fear, never fully LIVING.

My wonderful counselor said I need to employ one of those awesome therapy acronyms.
A
D
D

Aware: become aware of the fear
Demystify the fear
Distract

I am aware that I am very afraid.
As far as Demystification?

I Know I Know Nothing

 

I want to raise my children without shame.

I want to view mankind, myself, and my husband in an equal light.  I want to break free from the "less than" and "better than" chains that bind me.

I want to live fearlessly.

I want to eat right because I love my body and not because I'm afraid of gaining weight/physical ailments.

I want to exercise because I LOVE my body and not because I'm afraid of what others think or afraid of hating myself because my pants pester and squeeze at my hips.

I want to forgive my Grandad for the damage he caused his family, my mother -the foolish traditions of my Grandad were unwittingly passed down to me.

I want to TRULY UNDERSTAND WHO I AM.  I know I am a Child of God.  But I know I don't fully understand what that means.

I do not know how to do any of these things.  I am powerless to manage them. 
I don't feel like I'm failing... I feel empowered in my admittance, and I embrace the freedom of not knowing.

I have no answers.  I have no self-help tools.  I know nothing.

Lord, help thou my unbelief.
Lord, I love, but I also fear.  Fear is of The Father of all Lies... fear is a lie.  The opposite of Love is Fear.

To love, to understand love, to let go of fear... to have the freedom to shed my prideful layers and show my vulnerability -I will connect with Thee, with myself, with my family, with all.

Lord,
Help my unbelief.
I believe.