Protecting Myself

Throughout my life, I've had an "ebb and flow" relationship with God.  With God and everyone, including myself.  It never felt really intentional, and as I felt distance to God, I would try and close the gap with prayers, scripture study, service, temple attendance, or anything that I felt would help.

But this time.
Something different is happening.

The ebb is of my own, intentional making.

WHY?  This is the question tugging at my heart and brain.  What is going on?  God has given me some hard answers to prayers, and I've sort of stopped asking him questions because of it.

Is it because I don't trust Him?  Because if I did, I would be asking more questions, opening myself up to more answers, trusting that HE HAS ME.

Maybe.  Maybe it is trust.  I've tried praying about it, talking with God about where I'm at, but it's really hard to talk to God about where I'm at when I don't know where I am, not really.

As I sat in my church meetings on Sunday, someone was talking about living up to our full potential.  They referenced a talk by President Uchtdorf in which he says, "let us not pass through life immersed in the three Ws: wearied, worrying, and whining."

I love words and wordy things, so I penciled the clever alliteration in my notebook, "Wearied, worrying, and whining."  I stared at the three words, and they seemed like a brief character description of myself.

Recovery work really feels like a polishing, grinding, burning, refining, and all of those other pain-inducing words.  It has been hard.  As I feel myself gain some footing on letting go of what I can't control in my marriage and with my relationships, I find myself just incredibly physically sick.
I feel God is saying, "You've learned to let go of Danny, you're learned you can let go of your kids and other relationships, you're learning to let go of your marriage... are you ready to let go of your health?"

This sucks, folks and friends.  It truly sucks.  I come from "hustle" stock -people who hustle like it's a competition.
Well, it is.  And we're winning.

What do you need to hustle?  A good, strong body.  I have Danish ancestry (lots of Danish ancestry) and Native American Ancestry and even some Spanish ancestry.  I am built to last with solid shoulders, long legs and arms with the potential to be filled with lots of hauling, heaving muscles.
I look a bit like a man.
But anyway.

That body -the one that came in 3rd in an arm-wrestling contest in 5th grade, the one who did chair sits longer than most kids, that one that did sit ups and ran miles and pulled weeds and drove tractors... it is DYING on me.
I feel betrayed by my own skin.

Wearied, worried and whining about summed up my sole existence.
How do I stop?  I wrote under the words. With my chronic health issues, how do I stop feeling weary?  worrying? whining?

These are questions for God, I told myself.  And THAT'S when it hit me.

There's no way I'm asking Him about this.  He is the Master Refiner, and refining HURTS and I can't handle more hurt.
Ergo, I built a wall between me and Thee.

Not coming down.
At this point, I don't think I can even handle feedback about how I'm dealing with stuff.  I used to look for ways to be a better person.  I'd come up with programs and goals and charts and stuff, but now I work recovery and the hard stuff FINDS ME before I have a chance to go looking for it.
I feel sanded down today.  Correction: I feel like I'm BEING SANDED and not by the pretty, yummy sandpaper that tickles... but by the coarse stuff that would peel skin off a cat.
Meeee-ouch.

I started to feel some shame about how I'm trying to protect myself, but it melted away.  God gets me.  I don't get God... I feel like a small child, looking up at a mysterious, wonderful world that feels untouchable and saying, "You hurt me and I don't want to hurt anymore."
When I was a kid, I would watch adults at parties and feel the same sort of feeling... those tall people who laugh at jokes I don't understand and say things like, "We'll talk about it when you're older."
Older.
Wiser.
A world away.

I was never content being a child.  I wanted to grow up and solve the mysteries held hostage in the world of adults.

Now that I am an adult, I feel more like a child than ever, and God is the One I'm studying, wanting to unravel his mystery world.

There's one thing I've figured out.  Adults get kids, but kids don't get adults.  And I'm finding that as an adult, I don't get God.  But He gets adults. He understands mortality.
With that little knowledge, I feel safe being where I am and being honest with God about it.

"I'm struggling to pray right now.  I equate You with pain, and I'm hurting a lot."

That was Sunday.

Monday I had counseling.  I was planning on reading my latest Step 4 inventory to my counselor, and I was nervous.  I've done Step 5 before, but it's always a little nerve-shaking saying stuff out loud to someone else.
The day started out fast and hard: kid peed in my bed, dog had the runs. I had health stuff going on, but we somehow all made it out the door and to my work.  My kids go with me, so it can get pretty hectic sometimes.
Yesterday was no exception.
When my shift ended, I loaded us all in the car and all I could think about was heading home.  But a thought crossed my mind, "Get the mail."
I hadn't gotten the mail in weeks because -as I was about to tell my counselor in a few short hours -I struggle with denial, and if I don't GET the mail, then there's NO MEDICAL BILLS.

*MAGIC*

But I listened to the thought I had.
I opened my box and found that there was a package -one I hadn't ordered.  Intrigued, I went back to my car and opened it up.
It was a Himalayan Salt Crystal Lamp, gifted to me from a friend.  I'd had my eye on one of those lamps for over a year!  But I'd reasoned myself out of getting one over and over, and now... here was one.  Sitting in my lap!  I couldn't believe it.
I drove home and plugged it in.

As I read my Step 4 to my counselor over the phone that afternoon, I sat next to my lamp and felt supported.  Every once in a while, I'd reach out and touch it, just to feel loved.

After I finished reading, my session was up.  I hung up the phone and felt raw (like cats probably do after their skin has been sanded off, right?).  I wanted to eat some fudge.  Well, MORE fudge since I'd already down a couple of pieces. I wanted to clean my house and earn my own love.

I decided the healthy thing to do would be to just rest, and when I went to my Amazon Prime Streaming Happy Place, I found that they'd just added a new movie to stream for free -one I'd eyed at the store a few days earlier and snapped a picture of so I wouldn't forget to rent it very soon.

And there it was, just waiting for me.

After the kids went to bed, I curled up next to my lamp and watched a movie.

It turns out that God is strong enough to reach through my protection wall and show me that He loves me deeply and perfectly and that unconditional love isn't pain-free, though it isn't always pain-filled.

God,
I'm grateful and I've cried about it.  I'm still afraid to let my guard down.  Pain still scares me.  Refinement isn't something I'm ready to paint my face and do war dances about... but I'm trying each day in my own way.
I am weary.  I am worried.  I whine.
But I'm also trying and I'm trying really, really hard.  You see me, and I am blown away by your perfect timing and perfect love.
Am I ready for our relationship to flow again?  I don't know.  But you've shown me that for You -on your side -the flow never ebbs.
I don't understand that, but I admire it.
Thank you, and I do love You, even as I stumble.
~Alicia

With Love

I locked you all out for awhile.

It started out from a healthy place... really and truly.  My blog was found by some folk who don't agree with the way I'm living my life, and I shut it down simply to stave off the crazy traffic surge.
"Forty days," I told myself, "A Forty-day break should do it."
During which time I committed myself to a 40-day yoga program (Baron Baptiste) and spent a lot of time re-centering.
The words from The Folks Who Found Me haunted me during this time.  Because, see, they think I'm wrong.
I have a grave fear of being wrong.

I didn't realize how deep this fear ran until I was on the mat during those 30+ days (I didn't finish the program on account of family issues).  As I moved from week-to-week, from position to position, I said to myself, "Alicia, you're doing this wrong."

Alicia, you are bending your knees and you shouldn't.
Alicia, you can't touch your feet and you should.
Alicia, your feet...
Alicia, your hands...

I would try to release tension, mind talk and my own schedule.
Even then, all I could do was, "Alicia, you're not letting go, and you should."

I know you all have an answer for me right now.  I know that my "shoulding" is wrong, and if I had a penny for every person who said, "don't should on yourself" I'd have at least 20 cents.

As I stepped off my mat and went to my kitchen to eat and wash dishes:
Alicia, you're eating wrong.
Alicia, you're washing wrong.
Alicia, couldn't you be cleaner?  healthier?

At work:
Alicia, you could be more efficient.

At the store:
Alicia, you could be saving money better, but you're not.

I have a deep-rooted fear that I'm going to live wrong, and isn't that silly?  Because isn't living wrong a given?  We ALL do it! We are all blessed with weaknesses that are our own uniquely carved pathways leading upward to God!  And don't we know it!  We feel EV.ER.Y step of that uphill incline!

Long story short:
The folks who found my blog took to a forum to discuss exactly what they thought about the way 'm handling things.  And even after I locked my blog down, they shared screen shots they'd taken.

I have spent HOURS surrendering.  And yes:
Alicia, you're feeling this wrong.  If you really believed what you're living, their words wouldn't touch you.

Ouch,Self.

I can argue their points.  I can.  I could apply myself with fervor to their assumptions and perceptions, fight back!  But you know what?  Yeah, you know what, so say it with me, "It doesn't matter."  They can believe what they want, they can say what they want, for it is given unto them.  But one things that rang true time and time again was simply this:

My people are Love People.
They come together to heal and to share.  They uplift, they strengthen.  They say hard things to me, but never out of spite... only out of love.  Christ lived the same way, saying hard things out of love.  And we have to do hard things when we love ourselves.
Please understand that right now in my life, 8 hours of sleep, three meals, and exercise all in one day is VERY hard, but it is the LOVING thing for me to do for me.

The words spoken by The Folks Who Found Me were so hate-filled, so filled with sarcasm and contempt.  It was that very hate that saved me.

There is no truth in hate.
There is no God in hate.
God is truth.
God is love.

I am love.
The Folks Who Found Me are also love, though they aren't feeling it right now.

I will say now that instead of unlocking my blog when I felt I should, I kept it locked out of fear.
Except for that one time when I unlocked it for 5 minutes and locked it again.  I conquered fear for almost 5 full minutes!
Tonight, I'm logging back in from a place of love.  My blog following is very small, my web presence inconsequential.

I don't want to be known or found or shared or loud.
I was a small, tucked away house-by-the-river, barefoot in the kitchen kind of life.

God wants me to share my life anyway.  As soon as I could talk, I shared.
It's a painful thing and a scary thing and sometimes a much-hated thing, but I know how arguing with God goes...
So at the mercy of Him, I'm back.

There is a grand chance I'll be hit with more pain, more doubt and much more opposition.
But God is with me.
Namaste.

Of Mice and Mold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Sea of Tender Mercies

I read my Step 4 to my sponsor today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I AM WORTHY

Because I AM.

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

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

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

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

The End of Numb

I remember the first time I found out about porn.  I caught him.
A newlywed with all her bloom and youth and tight skin pulled over energy and twitterpation... I turned into a different creature.  To say I was devastated would be a gross minimization.
Oh, how I FELT that discovery, how I lived it over and over again in my mind -the worst rerun in the history of TV Land.
I felt sure I would never go through it again.  I didn't know that porn was something that was less like a "whoopsie daisy" and more like the worst kind of blood-deep poison.
But it did happen again.
"And again and again and again!" to quote my favorite Uncle Willy (The Philadelphia Story).

I tried reasoning, shaming, bargaining, saving, preventing, more shaming... I OVER"loved" him.  Nothing worked.
I poured my entire self into the poison.
My life and obsession, my sole hobby... it was Danny.  More than anything, I wanted my marriage covenants to remain intact.  I wanted my family together forever.
I loved Danny.  I loved our marriage.
I understood his weakness, and gosh darn it ALL if I wasn't THE MOST PATIENT wife in the history of the universe.

Do you know how long you can last trying to compete with porn?  Oh, I think the answer is different for everyone.  But for me, personally, it lasted about 6 1/2 years.  At that point, I began doing recovery work.  I read the books, I found support.  I gained education.
I knew I was getting better because the devastation I felt all those years ago was beginning to dissipate.
He would come to me with disclosures (or I would fine evidence), and I shrugged.
Eh.
Meh.
Blah.
Whatever.

Then I would look at myself in the mirror and work on the only thing I had control over: ME.
I continued living with an addict.

I choose my marriage.  I choose my marriage to an addict.  But the only way I could survive it was numbness.

It felt like I was sitting on a couch, watching Groundhog Day over and over again... yelling at the screen, pulling my hair, but in the end... I was utterly powerless over Danny's actions.
The numbness made it go down easier.

Only.
There were certains in my house who weren't numb.  In fact, they were the OPPOSITE of numb.  They're impressionable, sensitive, and internalizing everything.
I watched tears stream down my daughter's face after an outburst from Dad.
"Because I did something bad," she sobbed.

I started realizing that for all the patience I had, for all the CHOOSING MY MARRIAGE I had done... the return, the truth... was ugly.  Facing seemed to feel a lot like heartbreak -something I had shielded myself against.

But the Lord has a way of providing us with what we need, even if we don't want it.
He provided me with truth: hard evidence that no matter how you sliced it:

Danny was not choosing our marriage.
Danny was not choosing me.
There was no real recovery.

I knew -though it killed me -that I couldn't stay.  I wouldn't stay.  Staying in a marriage where I was cleaving unto God and my husband (and fear, while we're at it) was pointless.
I married for ETERNITY.  Not time.  A time marriage made no real sense to me.  I was hell-bent on eternity.

But I could not force it on any other person.
And so the time came when that person had to go away because my marriage -though it began in the Temple -was something I'd feared since I was a child.
It was pointless.

To maintain my peace as a woman of God and a mother of three beautiful children (yea, THE MOST beautiful children), I had to sever ties.  I had to leave my marriage.
God was my guide.

It turns out that I can't live numb... primarily because "living" and "numb" can't actually coexist.
I'm not powerless anymore.  I'm not watching scenes go down at shrugging anymore.
I just can't!
I just can't!  SO MUCH.
Thinking of The Numb Place makes me feel so sad.  Reminders of The Numb Place make me feel sorrow.

I want to LIVE.  I want joy and pain and sorrow and happiness.
I want feelings to come into my body and I want to EMOTE them out: write them, scream them, sing them, talk them!
I want a marriage where my husband CHOOSES ME and LOVES ME and SEES ME AS AN EQUAL and REMAINS WITH ME INTO THE ETERNITIES.

I seal that desire with the death of my marriage.
I seal that desire with baptism by fire.
I seal that desire with love... my failing love of God and His unfailing love for me.

The future is alive, and in His hands.

(and as it turns out, I'm not the patient person I thought I was all these years.  In fact, I have no patience at all.  For anything.  Hello, Character Weakness.)

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.

Sex as Love

Sex is the most important sign of love.

I've believed that line for ages -long before I ever met and married Danny.

Yesterday, I met up for a few blissful hours with one of my college buddies.  It seems kind of inaccurate to describe her that way since -while we were music majors together and spent hours upon hours upon HOURS together through those years -we didn't spend much time together outside of classes.

I thought she had it together... when it came to studying intervals in music theory, they made sense to her.  Me?  I took my workbook home and cried over each interval, wishing I were her.
After graduation, we slowly began bonding online: facebook, my family blog, her family blog... and now we keep in close touch and I count her as one of dearests.
(That's a thing, right?)

As we talked yesterday with little children running around our ankles, she told me how she'd viewed me in college.  She said things like "confident" and "cool."
And -because I can be rude without meaning to be -I laughed out loud and confessed that she just didn't know me at all REALLY back then because if she did, she would have known the truth.

The truth being: I was a reject.

As I thought about this last night and this morning, I came to wrap my mind completely around something that's been in the back of my mind for a few months:

Sex is the most important sign of love.

I believed in high school that I wasn't loved unless I had attention from boys.  In college, I felt worthless because I didn't have boys asking me out as much as I'd like.
Really, what would that number look like?  Three dates a week?  Even that wouldn't have been enough.  Nothing would have.

I base (present tense, because I'm still working on this) my worth on my looks, my value as a sexual being rather than a Godly heir.

I tell myself over and over, "I am more than my body."  It's a mantra I chant when I feel the urges of my mortal skin yanking at my soul.
I am more than my body.  This life is about MORE than what my body wants, whether that's food, attention, control, or WHATEVER.

My friend from college had love to offer me -she had a connection to give, acceptance bounding from her!  And while I did hold some value for a relationship such as she would have offered me, I didn't see it as THE MOST important.
So I focused on boys, on my looks, my clothes.  I didn't run deeper than sex.

And then I married a sex addict (*cue circus music*).

I wanted him to show me love which meant I wanted him to sexually accept me which... well, we know how that story ended up.

There are times where I feel acceptance of myself and love myself TRULY for who I am, what I have to offer, and everything I've done.

And then there's times like these: times of lows and downs where I'm so vulnerable that everyday is battle.  Everyday I have to use my dailies and bottom lines to remind myself that

I am more than my body.

I am a Child of God.

Sex is NOT the most important sign of love.

Sex is NOT the most important sign of love.

Love really has nothing to do with what my body has to offer.

Love is something far deeper than skin -the most powerful force on earth that causes mothers to lift cars, fathers to jump into freezing water to rescue!  It welds families together, drives individuals to higher planes.  It inspires, lifts, and frees.

And sex?
Sex is one small outlet of love -a pretty insignificant one in the big picture of things.

The more I learn about love, the more I let go of sex as the most important form of love...
It's taking years of learning, years of pain, years of trial and error, but learning about love has proven to be the most rewarding journey of my 28 years.

Sex has only served as a saboteur of my journey.  It has it's place in love, YES.  But not until I understand that love is looking into the eyes of a fellow traveler -no matter their sex -and feeling a sexless connection. 
When I can experience true acceptance of self, true acceptance from true friends and family, then I can see clearly the distinction between love and sex.

Sexuality is a cheap, mocking form of connection.

And THAT is what I wish I understood.  That said: I'm not going to complain about the journey it's taking me on.  The truth I'm learning is priceless.

And instead of trying to morph my way into a world where I'm regarded as having value because I'm sexually acceptable, I will find my worth in my God.
His is a love that is drinkable, that when taken in fills you... and I begin to feel that love for not only myself, but for others.
To connect with God is to connect with others and to feel and give and revel in LOVE.

It's no coincidence that sex isn't even in the picture.

The Who

My mom used to always tell me, "If I could give my kids one gift, it would be confidence."

She always wanted to raise confident kids.  I thought it was sweet, and it made my chest swell to hear her say it... kind of like I mattered enough to her that she desired gifts for me.

Now I have three kids of my own, and I'd like to take my mother's idea and say, "If I could give my kids one gift, it would be to know exactly WHO they are."

I never truly understood who I was growing up.  I sought validation from everyone and everything around me.  I wanted others to approve of me, even if it meant shoving down my intuition.  Relationships were formed on what others had to offer me (validation, praise, approval), not out of pure love.

I watched others from a distance who were amazing at forming relationships.  They didn't seem fazed by what the other thought of them, nor did they invest wasted time into wondering if they were "enough" for the relationship.  These people also seemed to have a knack for investing in themselves and doing acts of service.  They developed their own talents and skills and in turn seemed naturally more aware of others' needs.

It baffled me -I could see what I wanted, but I was at a total loss as to THE HOW of arriving there.

I tried.  Oh, how I tried.  I tried to form normal relationships with boys that wasn't riddled with trying to get them to like me, trying to be beautiful enough.  I tried to form relationships with girls that didn't involve me self-sacrificing the crap out of myself to try and somehow fit in.

I had one friend -one lasting true friend -who always showed me the greatest example of this.  I watched her for years wondering how she did it, how she seemed to naturally connect with others no matter their age, race, or physical appearance.  How did she do it?  What's more, how did she continue a relationship with ME so lovingly?  I could be so selfish, so self-interested, so shallow.  She never was.
The truth is, I think, that she loved me.  I never had to earn anything, it was simply just there.  She loves a lot of people, and she's genuine about it all.

It's becoming very clear to me that she's always had more of an understanding about who she is -a daughter of God, a daughter of a King, a literal royal traversing her way through a brief mortal test.

When that fact is understood down deep in my soul, I make different choices.  I don't worry about what others' may or may not think... not only do I not care, I don't give it a second thought.  I make choices that matter: whether that's holding a sick baby or investing in God-given interests, or acting on a prompting.  Life simplifies, and I feel peace.

But that isn't all.
The greatest blessing that's springing from understanding who I truly am is that I see OTHERS for who they truly are as well.  The "less than" and "better than" feelings I've battled for a lifetime are beginning to dissipate.  The beggar woman on the street is suddenly no longer an object, but a sister with a name... and a hot meal, if I can help it.  The celebrities on the screen seem more real, more human, and I find myself feeling equal to them... not in the way society would hold us, but in the way God sees us: children.

Coming to understand this is not a one time "big bang" kind of gift.  It's a life long quest riddled with trials, joys, choices, mistakes, learning, and holy communication with my Father.

And if I could give my kids one gift, it would simply be to have them know WHO THEY ARE.  And I'm pretty sure confidence would follow suit.

At this point in my journey, I'm really enjoying the fruits of spending some time on my own interests.  With Danny's recent disclosure, being true to myself is of paramount importance.  Though it's a work in progress, I've fairly thrown myself into developing my Etsy shop, Kitchen Scratch.  The more I work on it and with it, the more I want to scream to others -seriously GO AND DO what makes you tick, friend!  Each time I finish I project, I feel so good!  I could care less if anything sells because I'm having so much fun.
I set two boundaries for myself with this shop:
1) If I ever felt panic or pressure, I will step away from the shop for as long as it takes.
2) I will make and sell what I love, not what I think others will love.

The more I let myself go and really find antiques and colors and ideas that make my heart soar, the better I feel.  I'm less stressed when I know I'm doing what I should be doing at this point in my life.  Writing, crocheting, digging through antique stores to find treasures!  It's really rewarding, and I'm finding more of myself. 
You should go and do what makes you tick.  Like, now.

 

One of my Christmas gifts from Danny.  And I don't know why, but I feel like I need to tell you I'm wearing a nude undershirt... It looks like skin, but it's not.  Swearsies. 

 

An Inside Job

Years ago in a fit of anger, I accused my husband of loving himself more than me and more than God.  It was wrong of me, but I was hurting so much... it was the only explanation I could come up with for why he rejected me.
Because I wasn't loveable enough to him.

Yesterday I stayed home from work with a sick son.  I had the entire day to STAY HOME.  It was like old times!  I could all of the things I'd been wanting to do but had been too tired! 
So you know what I did?  I crocheted on the couch.

I didn't clean.  I didn't work out.  I didn't dive into any great projects.  I just made hot pads.

One month ago (almost exactly) my husband read his disclosure, and at that time my favorite pair of pants fits wonderfully.  One little month later, I tired to slide them on and it was a BATTLE.  I'm gaining weight, my house is embarrassing.  One toilet is broken and I haven't bothered fixing it. 

I feel like a very fragile person, easily overwhelmed.

As I sat on the couch and looked around my dirty house, I tried to figure out why I wasn't cleaning it. 

The solid truth is: I deserve clean surroundings.  I deserve to have a working toilet in the bathroom.  I deserve new bath towels that aren't frayed.  I deserve fresh air, yoga, and freshly cut flowers on my table.  I deserve good filling food, and I deserve to fit into my favorite pants.

What is holding me back from giving myself these deserved circumstances? 
The answer is awful, guys... I don't love myself enough.  I just don't.  Not right now.  Not today.

Right now I'm gaining weight, I'm tired.  I really am "living one day at at time," just trying to make it to my bed each night. 

And while I know deep down that I deserve better than I'm giving myself, I still find myself overwhelmed at the prospect of proper self-care.
I'm hurting so much right now, going through so many raw ans awful emotions, experiencing powerful triggers -more powerful than I've ever grappled with -and honestly, proper self care would be a full time job right now.  At least 8 hours a day of cooking good food, going for walks, writing, creating!

But I have three kids and a part time job. 

And this is all crappy right now. 

I'm glad I can see reality, see what it is I'm really dealing with, but this is just really crappy.  I don't want to go back to knowing less.  I definitely want to move forward.

And today my prayer is simply, "help me love myself enough to give myself the simple things I deserve."

Coming to grips with the fact that I've had to earn love in my marriage has been harrowing.  I don't want to earn it, I want to just HAVE it.  I want simply to BE LOVED because I'm Alicia.
And it starts right here.  I don't have to earn love for myself.  I can just love me because I'm me.

I think it's called An Inside Job.
Those are hard.

Know Not

Saturday night was pure Hell.

I'm serious.  The only other night that was worse than Saturday night was the night I miscarried seven years ago.
Between having my husband kick my toenail off (yes, that happened), my heavy cramps (TMI?  given that you already know all about the porn addiction we kick around, I highly doubt you'll flinch at the mention of female shhhtuff), my sore throat and congestion, the baby's up every hour-ness, my son's fever, the rain that had my husband out in the middle of the night to cover the dog we just brought home (moment of applause for my husband making K9!)...
To say I wanted the morning to come would be the grossest understatement.

I went to Sacrament alone while my husband kept the kids at home, we switched off after Sacrament Meeting.
I sat behind the organ and fought the feelings of a trigger from the hellish night before (brought on by a movie I watched by myself).

I listened to the speakers... one began reading the scriptures that detailed the Atonement.  He read so rapidly, so methodically.
It almost took my breath away -I wanted to stand up and tell him to stop.  STOP. 
The words he was uttering were not just SOME story -they were an account of my Brother's death, his suffering and pains... MY suffering and pains.  Tears bubbled up to the surface as I contemplated the awful pain of it all -the awful pain that included not only last night but my miscarriage.
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

The words struck me, and the bubbling tears turned to flowing tears.
Not only last night but my miscarriage and my broken heart... the heart broken by the one I held so closely, trusted so fully, loved so truly.

My husband didn't know what he was doing.  Not unlike the soldiers who crucified my Brother, my husband knew on some level what he was doing.  But he didn't really.  He didn't really KNOW he hit me with a car.
He didn't know he put me in a full body cast and still wanted dinner made.
He didn't know he slaughtered my love.
He didn't know he picked me up in my body cast and dropped me, dropped me, dropped me.

He knew not what he did.
But the Savior knew -the Savior KNOWS.  He is bigger than any missing toe nail, any congestion, any lack of sleep, any cramping, birthing, miscarrying, doubt, fear, trigger, uncertainty, mistrust, hurt, failing, and pain.

He is bigger, MUCH bigger than porn.
He KNOWS what He does.
And what He does so fully, so skillfully, so PERFECTLY... is simply LOVE.

Look what I got in the mail today!   Happy Birthday to me!

Painted Lady

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with gratitude that I finally understand to a small extent my true identity.

I know who I am.
I know God's plan.

Seeing myself as a Daughter of a King brings miracles. It puts life into perfect perspective.
It makes crayons and kittens and Debussy important.
It makes media and fashion and clubbing seem so dim.

I got my hair done.  This is actually a sort of saga of epic proportions.  I'll spare you MOST of the details and simply say, "They got it wrong."
I went in for my birthday to get a beautiful natural copper with pretty highlights... and I came out with black hair (purple undertones, baby) and subtle caramel highlights.
They refunded me the cash for the dye job which was downright darling of them, and honestly: even WITH the purple hues going on, it doesn't look bad.  I can live with it.
But I don't like it.

"Great, Alicia.  But what does that have to do with porn addiction?"
Oh! Thanks for asking.  Here:

Having blackish hair makes me look painted.  It also drowns out my eyes unless I apply a hefty amount of eye liner, eye make-up, and mascara.
The ending result is something much less natural and something much more artificial. 

Two years ago, I longed for something like this.  I thought it was what my husband WANTED.  And, by default, I wanted what he wanted because it was my job to make him happy.
Oh, The Evil Untruth!

Anyway, it's hard for me to have unnaturally dyed hair.
It's triggering to look in the mirror because it reminds me of the days when I believed I wasn't enough... that my body and what it had to offer were where my value lied.

But they ARE NOT.

I am enough.  I am natural, masterfully created, unconditionally loved and seen by my Father in Heaven.  And not that I can actually ever KNOW something like this for SURE, but I think he doesn't like my hair either...
I imagine it's like walking into the room of a house you built and find that your child has painted the walls black.
with purple hues.

Ack!

Anyway, all I'm saying is that I'm enough.
You're enough.
And you're loved.

Storm

It rained on my wedding day.

A well-intentioned relative assumed I would be despairing at the idea of it, so she repeatedly sought to comfort me.  I didn't want to thwart her quest because she seemed so important about the whole thing, so I didn't tell her: I love the rain.  I'll take it any day, and the fact that it came on my wedding day was absolute perfection.
It tends to rain on our anniversary almost every year, and I love it.  I think of my wedding day when it gets cloudy outside. 
I curl up on my couch and thread yarn through my fingers... the thunder rumbles and I relax.  Granny square after granny square piles up, and I revel in the myriad of colors -the brightness of the yarn against the grey sky. 
I relax in the storm.

My life lately has been a storm all on it's own.  It's only fitting that the Arizona Monsoons should be in full swing. 
I'm on the brink -the cusp -of really, truly FEELING the truth of who I am. 

My self-worth has always been low, but it's steadily climbing.  I respect myself more than I did last year, ten times more than I did the year before that.  I'm starting to feel the truth.
I am a priceless daughter of an Almighty King.

He knows me.

Satan knows I'm on the brink, and he's been fighting.  He's been waging a war.  I feel as if there's a legion of angels packed tightly around me and a legion of demons packed tightly around THEM. 
This last week has been an absolute battle.

So much stress is on my family right now, so much stress on my husband, my father, my grandfather, my children, and my anxiety is in full swing.  satan has been running rampant, filling my head with lies, doubts, and pollution.
he wants me to believe I'm not worthy of temple attendance, of love, of acceptance.  I'm not strong or valiant or special.  he wants me to doubt my heritage.

he wants to steal my light.

Sometimes, I want to buckle.  Sometimes I just want to sigh and give up.  Just... stop.  But there's a will in me, and it says, "go on."
I bow my head, I brace against the rain, and through tears I push ahead.  I find myself bawling through temple sessions for no other reason than I'm finally SAFE.  satan can not reach me there.

As the storm raged outside my bedroom window yesterday, I pulled yarn through my fingers and I exhaled.
Stormy weather.

I know about stormy weather.  Just before crawling into bed, I pulled my Robert Frost book out and read one of my favorite poems.
My husband doesn't FEEL poetry quite like I feel it.  Words don't reach him like they do me, and I've yet to catch him reading an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel and stopping to gasp and inhale and read sentences out loud to me because they're written so bloody well that they make his heart skip a thumpety-beat.
(Yes, I do that.)
I feel this poem deeply, and I wish there was a "transport feelings button" on me because I want my husband to feel what I feel, to understand the breath and truth of what it means to me.

Frost wrote a poem about loving in the rain.  It seems so Notebooky. 
But "be my love in the rain" is more than a passionate make-out sessions under grey, thundery skies.

It's about devotion.
It's about braving the storm and finding love again and holding fast to it while the weather rages on.

This past week has been an awful, awful storm.  It's easing now, but I wanted to stop and say THANK YOU.  THANK YOU to every single one of you for your sweet, supportive comments on my blog.  Thank you for your emails, your texts, and your prayers.  Thank you.

Never in my life have I had such a strong, devoted support system.  I am blown away at the difference it makes.
And though I'm despairing NOT at the storm and rain but at the fact that there is no such thing as a "Transport Feelings Button"... I will share the poem I've come to cherish so well with you.

A Line-Storm Song

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

Robert Frost

Pain n' Change

I'll never forget the feeling of having a truly broken heart.

It didn't feel anything like having a cheating boyfriend like I thought it did...

It was inexplicable, physical pain.  It rushed through my veins, my soul, my very being.  I sat on the floor of the bathroom and gasped for air, wondering how on earth a person went on living after enduring something so awful.
I felt hopelessness.  I felt anger and fear.  I clutched my chest because it felt like my stomach was trying to change places with it. 

You don't forget pain like that. 

And when I was in the thick of it, I was almost certain there was no life ahead of it.  But there was.  I had to take my shaking self OUT of that bathroom.  I had to pick myself up off the floor and KEEP GOING because time had the rude audacity to not stop.
There was nowhere to go but up.

I desperately searched for a shred of hope, and when I found a shred, I inhaled it.  I began reading about porn addiction and recovery, and I started finding answers.
Months beforehand, I thought I HAD the answers, but my dalliance with the bathroom floor had schooled me otherwise.  Apparently the scripture that admonishes us to "comfort those who stand in need of comfort" does NOT admonish us to "fix those who stand in need of fixing" like I thought it did (I assumed it was a "between the lines" kind of thing).  My life felt suddenly wasteful (I'm being dramatic).
But THERE.  THERE in the books and the websites and the articles and the research that I paid money for ... I felt I finally had answers.
I shared them with a passion.  I was so eager to share the answers.  Surely others NEEDED them as much as I did! We live, after all, in a world parched for answers!

But answers are not the same as truth.
And in my quest for answers, I found truth.  I found a lot of truth, and the more truth I found the less I felt like sharing answers.  The worth of answers was sorely diminished in the Light of Truth.
I have no desire to raise my hand, to give answers.

I don't know what anyone needs.  I have no answers for them.
I don't know what my husband needs.
I can't fix myself, save myself, or rely wholly on myself.

I don't know the answers to anything, come to think of it.

But I know the truth.  The truth is: I know who knows the answers.  I trust Him because He IS the way, the light, the life, and the Truth.

This change in me is a process.  It's unfolding and frustrating and hard and so far from instant.  Sometimes I want to pull my hair out, sometimes I bump into my unchanged self, sometimes I find that The Old Me is a shell covering Who I See Myself As... and that shell is a mixture of steel and concrete and iron and a little bit of Aqua Net.

It's standing fast.
But underneath that shell, I have a determined heart and a Big Brother with a chisel. 

We'll carve Me out yet...

And that broken heart -the one I will never forget and the one I revisit every time I look into the eyes of a woman who has felt it as I have -will be new, shining, and have the ability to stand *just* as fast, yea, FASTER than my hardened shell.

I know this.
The Atonement is alive.
The Sacrifice is real.
Love is why.

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?