Never Enough

Dear Lust,

I've been chasing you for years -you've been my goal, my focus.  I set my sights and ran, determined to compete with you and come out on top.  But once unleashed, you only fed and grew.

You were ever present, yet elusive.  An air of mystery floated around you.  You surrounded my home, my mind, my soul... so thick it was almost tangible.  Almost.  almost.
When it comes to touch, though, to actually FEELING you -there's no such thing.

You don't feel anything.

You don't allow feeling things to touch you.

I know that now.  I didn't before.  I only spent hours trying to hold you hostage, pick your brain and have power over you -enough to control you, reign you in and manipulate you to what I would have you be.

I just needed more make up, thinner legs, bigger boobs, better style, longer eyelashes, more shapely hips, a bubble butt, bigger lips...
I needed sexier lingerie, smoother legs, longer hair.
Curlier hair!
Straighter hair!

To chase you, I needed to have an unreachable ideal of perfection and mystery all wrapped up into a beaten body.
Your pull was alluring -shimmering pink, soft glow, luscious perfume, music I couldn't get enough of. 
I chased, I chased, I chased... determined to match up, determined to channel Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, and Marilyn Monroe.
Never enough.
Never enough.

Only when I quit chasing you did I have time to really study.  I read, I watched.  I prayed.  I wrote.  I observed.  And though your hollow glow hung heavy around me at all times, I began to see through it.

Beyond the shimmer and the scent was something black.  The shimmer was a tantalizing mask -only a mask. I had been chasing a mask.

The reality of it hit me hard.  I felt angry with you for not being honest with me.  I felt angry with myself for allowing myself to be duped.  I felt frustration.  I felt lost.  I had spent myself on you -I was mostly gone!  Only a shred was left of the girl in me who had dreams beyond you.

Oh, how I nursed that shred.

You stayed -despite having been found out.  For although I had seen through you, I had not yet peeled your mask off.  Your pink aura had shifted to black, but the power and control in you remained strong still.  And that was enough for you... sucking choices, sucking joy, sucking life... sucking the life blood from the veins of a young family.

My shred grew slowly, surely, resolutely. 

I took her to the mirror and put her up so she could see.  Your blackness overcame my body, telling it how awful it looked, criticizing it's every natural curve and crease.
The voices in my head grew and grew, forcing themselves into my soul through any possible opening -each breath I took was filled with black filth: breathing in black, taking it into my vital organs.  Breathing out the woman I'd been nursing...
I tried putting her back in, tried breathing her back into her place, tried to find my footing.

You're never enough
You'll never be enough

Finally, I SPEAK UP.  Throwing everything I know about looking into a mirror in the garbage, I look directly at my body and speak up:

I love you.

I appreciate what you've done.

I love you.

I love you.

You scattered that day.  That is the day I ripped your mask off and found what really lied beneath your mask.  There was no beauty, nothing to be desired... you are an appetite with no fill line, no bottom, no boundaries.

You feast on life and spit back death.
Your grip is fast, firm, and full of lies.

You are gluttony personified, monster-ified.
And I am horrified.

Today I asked my husband a question I "shouldn't" have.  But my therapist told me not to should on myself, so I asked.  I wanted honesty and answers, even if it meant hurting... and in his answer, my husband told me about you.
"Even if you had more ______________, it wouldn't have been enough.  It would never be enough.  Nothing is ever enough for lust."

And that's when it hit me:  For 9 years, I've never been enough.  I've spent 3 years relearning that I AM ENOUGH, but the truth of it is I never will be enough for you. 

I want to feel sad.  I want to feel a pull to BE MORE and BE ENOUGH, but it turns out that for the first time since ripping your mask off, I truly am ready to let go of the chase -to FULLY let go and dispel The Awful Black Cloud from my space and soul.

Lust, I will never be enough for you, and I'm Dear Johning you.
It's not me, it's you.

We are never, ever, ever getting back together.


Like ever.

~Alicia  

Attacking Hearts

Last night I was so tired.

I didn't have a chance to sit down all day, and when I finally DID sit down at 9 pm, it was only to activate online banking for my new account.  I was so tired, I couldn't enter the right information in the right places.  After taking a step back and letting my mind relax on facebook and recovery blogs, I went back to the banking site and worked it all out. 

And then I curled up with my scriptures.  I haven't been reading them as much lately.  I still read, but lately I've been delving into conference talks and BYU addresses.  Last night I felt strongly prompted to open my scriptures... not my Gospel Library app, but my actual, physical, real-life, pages-turn, SCRIPTURES.  I didn't know why.  My brain was fairly fried.  What could the Lord possibly have to show my in this state?  Maybe He wanted me to fall asleep quickly and He knows reading will do it?
I've never had a "and then I opened my scriptures and THERE was my answer" moment.

But last night.
I used the last ounce of energy I had to pull my Book of Mormon out, and I let it fall open on my lap.  It opened to the Book of Helaman.  I looked down and began reading Chapter 1.  As I read, my heart beat faster, the words spoke peace to my soul.  Answers to questions I didn't know I had bounced up from the words and presented themselves to me.

Recently, I opened up to someone.  I told them my story.  They were sweet and supportive and also... critical.  The Lord has let me know that TALKING is what He would have me do.  I can tell you right now... talking is NOT what I WANT to do because I'm scared of what others will think, but I feel the power of the Lord.  I've never felt this way before.  I've never felt the fearlessness of the Lord permeating my soul... it overpowers my mortal fear.  There's no shame.  There's clarity, calm, concern, love... and I KNOW this is what I must do. 

And as I opened up, I was warned against it.  It might do more harm than good. 
The source of this advice is what made it so hard to hear -I trust this person, look up to them, value them, and have looked to them often as a source worthy of emulating in many ways.  I was shook.  I drove home with a black pit in my stomach, wondering if perhaps I had misunderstood the Lord, if I had talked too much, if I had ruined something.
I doubted.

The experience was a great marker tool for me -it really helped me understand where I really am when it comes to my great fear of the Natural Man.  I can see I have work to do, and honestly?  I think I ALWAYS will have work to do there.  It's one aspect of my life I really struggle with.  I see improvement, but this will be a life-long journey for Alicia.

As I read the story of the Nephites and their wars, I SAW myself.  I saw my small town.  I saw the familiarity between the wars fought in and around Zarahemla and the war waging in this corner of the Internet.

We're used to hearing the name "Coriantumr." 
But what about the name, "Tubaloth."  Do you recall that name?  I didn't.

Tubaloth was the King of the Lamanites.  He employed Coriantumr to fight his battles against the Nephites... indeed, he engaged Coriantumr in fighting a war for him.  He supplied him with an army. 
He stirred his people up to anger against the Nephites.

In the meantime, the Nephites were doing a smash bang up job of stirring themselves up to anger (just typing that out makes me want to quote, "If we were your kids, we'd punish ourselves!")... there had been murders and secrets and contentions and divisions among the people.

In other words, the Nephites in Zarahemla were RIPE.
The Lamanites were CUNNING.

And then verse 18: 
And it came to pass that because of so much contention and so much difficulty in the government, that they had not kept sufficient guards in the land of Zarahemla; for they had supposed that the Lamanites durst not come into the heart of their lands to attack that great city Zarahemla.

That last sentence... did you SEE it?! 
"They had supposed that the Lamanites durst not come into the heart of their lands to attack that great city Zarahemla."

I've HEARD THIS BEFORE!!!  I mean, it's been worded a little different but it sounds something like, "It will never happen to me." or "my kids would never" or "the youth HERE would never" or "My husband would never" or "I love living here... it's so pure."

Whether you define "great city" as a single person or an actual city or family... you cannot let your guard down. 
Tubaloth is akin to Satan.
Coriantumr is akin to Pornography and Lust.

They don't attack from the outskirts of our beings... they attack at the heart, from the inside.  It's a secretive attack that stems from our defenseless center and billows out into an explosive, destructive genocide.

And my talking will do more good than harm.  What stronger reassurance could I have?  Could the Lord be more plain?
The Source is always the best source.

And we -my precious brothers and solid sisters -ARE SOLDIERS.  We are warriors in this battle of souls.

We are Teancums and Moronihahs and Esthers.  We are busting down doors.  We are standing in lion's dens.  There is fire at our feet and demons at our back.

We will fight on.
We will fight together.
And we will fight out loud, in the name of Liberty, in the name of Love, in the name of God.

 

ldsliberty.org

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.

Shoe's On the Other Foot

My husband came home yesterday, and when I asked him how his day went, he simply said, "I need to talk to you.  Can we sit down?"

Oh, pits.

He is working hard on Step 1 as he's found it in the book, "Clean Hands, Pure Heart."  Since doing so, he's had some realizations.  They keep bubbling up to the surface.  Two days ago?
"Two things, babe... I need to tell you two things."
And yesterday?
"Two things, babe... I need to tell you two things."

I trust that he's being as honest as he can right now.  I reached a place months ago where the sting and hurt of his addiction was taken away.  It was a miracle -a direct blessing from accessing the Atonement in ways I never had before.  I bore testimony of it from the stand (without going into detail, promise).
But yesterday's realizations combined with the realizations from a few days ago really added up.  It's a sign that my husband is making some strides -the fact that he's being so open and honest and willing to come to me and be transparent.

But I felt pain yesterday.  I told him as much.
"It hurts," I said, and not a tear escaped my eyes, "and I feel a panicked sort of fear of the future."
There's this side to my husband I never knew about!  I thought I knew about it, but I didn't -the things he's telling me, the realizations he's having -I'm taken aback.
Who is this guy?

I was honest with him about how I was feeling, and he was willing to listen and apologize without minimizing, manipulating, or rationalizing.
"I now know that if I recall something and try to rationalize it away -try to think of reasons I shouldn't tell you -that is a sign I NEED to tell you, and I need to tell you as soon as possible."
When he spoke those words to me, I felt more respect for him than I ever thought possible.  The humility, the courage... I was in awe of the man on the couch next to me.
It made me wonder if I was as honest with him as he was being with me.

For some much-needed distraction, we turned on a television show I had selected -one I'd been wanting to watch with him.  The older two kids weren't home, so we indulged in a more grown-up show.
The thing is... I didn't check the rating.
What the EFF kind of rookie mistake is THAT?!  And yeah: it was awful.  Like: worse than anything I've ever seen.  Soft porn?  That's pushing it.  It was horrific unto me.
I jumped up from the couch, but our TV is too big for me to stand in front of and I didn't have a remote.
It was this rush of panic for both of us... TURN IT OFF, TURN IT OFF, TURN! IT! OFFFFFF!
"Sorrrrrrry," I said.
"Honey, did you even look at the rating?"
"No." I said as he clicked on the description...
"It's TV-MA."

The rest of the evening, he poked fun at me for it.
Our relationship sort of thrives on teasing, which may or may not be healthy.  I don't know.  What I do know is that I threw porn in my own and my husband's path.  That stuff is SEARED onto my brain.  I haven't watched much grown-up TV lately, and to go from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to that?
Scarred.
Scarred for life.

As we crawled into bed (after watching something MUCH more appropriate), I curled up next to him, told him I loved him, and then told him I needed the couch -just some space to think.
I wrote, I prayed, I took care of a kid with a nightmare and nursed the baby.

My husband came out of our room with his shoes on.
"I'm going out for candy."
He's like a child.  with a license.  and a wallet.
"Want anything?"
"You know I do."
"I'll be back with a Brownie."
We're hopeless...

After he left, and all of the children were asleep I sat down to WRITE something I've felt prompted to write for a few weeks now: I need to write about my own lust issues.
I hesitate to do this because I'm scared.
I'm afraid of being a hypocrite.
I'm afraid of your rejection and condemnation.

But the Lord prompted me to write, so I WAS writing.  And smack dab in the middle of my typing, it hit me.

Oh.  My.

Something I thought I didn't need to tell him -something I had forgotten about, or shoved so far down in my brain I hadn't thought about in years -something I had convinced myself he didn't need to know because it would do more harm than good -his words about rationalization ran through my mind and at 1 am with a half-eaten brownie by my side I tore my way into my bedroom and breathed a sigh of relief that he was still awake.
"I need to talk to you."

What happened was over four years ago.  To sum up?  I sought lust hits from another man we knew personally.  There was never any physical contact, but there WAS a great deal to be honest about.

**post edit: I ought to mention here that the things I confessed and disclosed definitely NEEDED to be brought up with my husband, no doubts about it.  I don't feel comfortable giving specifics.  Maybe someday I will, but today just trust me: it's worse than you think.**

My husband's recent realizations have all been about women we know personally.  They've hurt me and they've stung and they've opened up a whole new can of triggers.  And to see that I had been guilty of doing exactly what he'd done that hurt me, and to have to come to the ONE MAN who had inspired me so much only that afternoon and HURT him...
I was even tempted to say, "Before I start, let me just say that I forgive you for what you've told me recently."
Manipulative, manipulative, manipulative.

By 2 am, we were both sawing logs -I was on the couch, he was on the bed.

This morning, I woke up to find I'd spilled my milk (because who eats a brownie without milk?) RIGHT onto my husband's PS3 controller and ruined it.  He woke up to me saying, "I'm. so. sorry. but..."

I didn't stop there, either.  It's 9 AM and I've already broken our can opener and tagged my husband's toes in the bathroom door.

Later on, I'm hosting a party in honor of my little kindergarten graduate.

And I feel I want to apologize to my fellow wives: I'm sorry I'm guilty of doing things that have caused you so much pain.  Though I was never fully addicted to porn, I was fully addicted to lust.
My addiction goes far beyond what you might imagine "typical" in a wife of an addict.  It began before I WAS a wife of an addict.

And though it hasn't been an issue in YEARS, and I can say with full confidence and clarity that my heart is new and changed, I'm still sorry.

I hope my husband won't bury his anger, hurt, or frustration toward me simply because he feels he has no right to it.

Right now, I've got to go shopping.  I need to buy a cake mix and a PS3 controller.
And a box -a BOX -of brownies.

I do so love you all.

Hit On and Run

  

via thomasmarzano.wordpress.com

I got hit on last night.

It was 11:30 pm.

My day had been emotionally taxing... a two-bath-er (if you know what I mean).  My husband is cycling, and I'm in the thick of working daily on the 12 steps which, in essence, means the Lord has a jackhammer on the thick candy coating I've been sporting for most of my life.  The REAL me is trying to get out.  It's hard.
Recovery is hard.

And at 11:30 pm after a long talk with my husband and a long day with myself, I just wanted a brownie.  Of course I was out of sugar.  So of course I had to put my tennis shoes on to go out and buy a brownie instead of make some.
But get out of my PJ's?  Take down my messy pony tail?  Put on make-up?
Psh.

So I trekked to the truck stop across town (which also happens to be the nearest gas station, but anyway) and I went inside and sort of panicked because they were out of Little Debbie brownies.

What's a girl to do?  I sighed... and picked up some Nutty Bars for my husband, a package of Swiss Rolls for me (an agreeable alternative) and then saw that the pork rinds were buy one get one and grabbed two of those.
My husband likes them.
I've eaten frog legs, rocky mountain oysters, and cow tongue, but you can't pay me to eat pork rinds.  *shudder*

And then I stood in the front of the candy bars, like any chocoholic would after an emotionally stressful two-bath-er day, and I stared blankly at them.
Someone approached me from the right, and asked, "Junk food run?" in such a familiar tone that I figured it was someone I knew (which is pretty much everyone in a small town).
I looked up and quickly realized: I had no idea who he was.
And I suddenly remembered: everyone I knew was in bed.  It was 11:30 for crying out loud... in a small, Mormon community.
I nodded like an idiot.  And that's when it happened... he walked behind me close enough to SMELL my frizzy hair (the humidity from the bath water never fails to frizz me), lowered his tone and said
"How you doin' tonight..."
And I ran.
Flight.
Flight.
FLIGHT!

It's significant to me.  It is.  For several reasons I'm going to share with you and no one else.
1) I have a lust addiction of my own -one which I haven't really come out with or dealt with because I didn't realize the extent of it until recently.
2) In the past when I've been hit on, it has consumed my thoughts.  I'd think about it for weeks afterward.  I liked it, but I hated that I liked it.
3) Yesterday, I hated it.  I was 100% freaked out by it.  I genuinely hated it.
4) I haven't thought much about it since it happened.
5) I see this as progress in my own lust addiction.
6) I underestimated the power of two bags of Pork Rinds.
7) My pajamas give off a prostitute vibe.  Stupid flannel.
8) When my gut tells me not to go to a truck stop alone at 11:30 at night, I will listen.  No matter how bad I want a brownie.
9) Restraining my husband's cycling anger when his wife has been mistook for unmarried and easy... isn't easy. 
10) Recovery is hard.  Did I say that already?

Miracles

   

via nal.usda.gov

I'm not okay with others not being okay with me.

I'll go to great lengths to make sure others are okay with me at the expense of my own comfort (I hate this.  I'm working hard on this).  In my marriage, I went to great lengths to make sure my husband was okay with me at the expense of my own peace... which is miles of worse.

I wanted to be different than other couples with problems.
I wanted to be tougher than issues.

I wanted to be okay.

So I said I was.  I guess I figured that maybe if I said it enough, I would begin to feel and believe it as well because what I actually was feeling was NOT okay.
But I hated that I wasn't okay, so I escaped.  I shoved the feelings down so I wouldn't have to truly experience them.  I watched a lot of movies.  I ate a lot of junk.
I spent a lot of time online.

And when he asked me how I was doing, I would say, "I'm okay."
And I would give the same report to the Lord, "I'm okay."

For some reason, I was content to have being OK be my goal -probably because I was so torn up inside that truly being okay seemed like a dream.  I'd forgotten what it felt like to be okay.  Just plain okay.

What was I?
I was hurt.  I was angry.  I was confused.  I was reeling.

With each near-daily confession from my husband, emotions swirled around me in a chaotic panic, begging to be unleashed.
But I was stronger than my emotions.
So I resisted the strong pull to give them any credit or reign... and I said, "I'm okay."

Last night, my husband opened up to me and confessed he realized he'd been acting out on his lust addiction in other ways -as in: ways that don't include porn.
I listened.
When he finished talking, his eyes were full of terror, apprehension, shame... I could hear his thoughts.
'How is she going to take this?'

And I answered out loud, "I'm okay."
We put the kids to bed, he went to bed, and I stayed awake.  I wrote and prayed and searched for pain.
Where is it?  Where is the pain and the anger?  Shouldn't they BE here?
I'm ready to give them reign for a little while.  I'm ready to feel them, handle them, learn from them.  I won't stifle them or pretend I'm stronger than them.
I recognize they aren't facts... I recognize that they are necessary... I recognize that they have a purpose.

I close my eyes and focus on what my husband has said to me.  I breathe in and breath out.  My brain hunts for any shred of emotion.
And finds peace. 

This can't be right.
This can't be normal.
There has to be more to this.

I pray and I pray and I feel only peace and clarity and then my thoughts wander and I think about the baby's upcoming blessing, the laundry waiting to be washed the next morning, the chicken that needs to thaw.
I think about a friend of mine who is going through a miscarriage and  has a white-knuckling porn addicted husband, and I think about how I want to save her.
I think about how I want to save everyone.
I wonder WHY. 
Saving is the Savior's job.  Why would I want such a heavy responsibility?  Why would I be so pompous as to presume that I have saving abilities?
I pray, I write.
I realize and write my fears: I'm afraid of my husband cycling because it brings anger.  I'm afraid of anger.
But I can divorce the anger.  I can leave.  I don't have to be around cycling anger, I write.
My fear dissipates.
I'm afraid my friend will endure unimaginable pain unless I intervene.
But she is in God's hands, I write.
Be still, I write.
Know that He is God, I write.
Let Go and Let God, I write.

I read a talk about serving for the right reasons because I found myself serving a woman yesterday and wanting to save her from the physical pain that was ailing her.  I wanted to jump in and start controlling certain aspects of her life.
Do I serve to save? I write.
Do I serve to serve the Lord? I write.

And I read a talk that gives me clarity.

"Observing and then serving is not always convenient and doesn't always fit our own timetable...Sometimes we are tempted to serve in a way that we want to serve and not necessarily in the way that is needed at the moment...ask, "Am I doing this for the Savior, or am I doing this for me?" [and] our service will more likely resemble the ministry of the Savior."

~Linda K. Burton

 And then I sit back.  I exhale.

I take in my miracle, let myself believe in it... I let myself believe that there isn't pain around the corner.  I let myself believe that I'm not a victim.  I let myself believe that I am more than okay.

And I FEEL it because it is genuine and true.

I feel genuine and true forgiveness -I hadn't even sat down to search out forgiveness.  I sat down to absorb, to meditate, and forgiveness found it's way to me as I put my pen to paper.

I feel forgiveness, I write.  It stops me in my writing tracks... and I realize that I didn't forgive IN that moment, but that I had forgiven him months ago.  Is that possible?  Is preforgiveness actually a THING?  

I stop skeptically searching for pain, and I bask in soft peace.

Miracles make it easier to sleep.

An Anonymous Letter

Dear Sister,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a horrible ride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regards,
Me