The Old Adage

"It's not about the porn."

I can't even keep track of how many times I've said that.  It's become a sort of blanket statement -it protects me.  It protects me from people who wonder why porn bothers me so much.  I adopted it and even came to believe it because I felt so much shame when anyone would minimize porn.
I felt broken and weak because porn bothered me so much.  Surely, something so trivial shouldn't cause such a WAVE of PAIN in a someone who dares to think of herself as a true, independent, smart and strong WOMAN.
It's just porn.
Their words echoed in my head.

"It's just porn.
At least he's not actually cheating.
It could be so much worse."

And then there's the...
"If it were just porn, I could handle it.
There's so much more going on here.
He doesn't connect at all.
He doesn't see me.
He doesn't even try."

The bigger picture message sent by society is the same:
"Porn is normal.
Porn is common.
Everyone does it.
Porn is no big deal."

And I believed it all.  I knew I still wasn't okay, but I realized we had bigger problems than porn, and that's when I began adding, "It isn't even the porn" to the beginning of my story.
"It's the lies, the behaviors, the secrecy, the shame, the double life..."
AND THEN I was okay.  Then I felt validated in my pain, I felt like I finally had ENOUGH EVIDENCE or something... accepting that porn hurt me just wasn't okay because porn is such a little bug in a sea of awful things that can plague a marriage.

Right?

Thursday night as we drove home from our grocery shopping, Danny and I had a lot to talk about including a big trigger I'd had earlier in the evening.
So I began, "It isn't even about the porn..."
And he said something that struck me to my very center... the kind of feeling I get when I hear TRUTH.
"Stop saying that.  It IS.  It IS about the porn."
I didn't know what to say.  Or how to reply.  Or what he meant.  Was he being mean?  or defensive?  or was he trying to explain something...?
I asked him what he meant, and he spoke with such fire... between his fire and the fire lit in cavity of my chest, I didn't really know what to say or do.
The truth struck me.  And it struck me hard.
 "Alicia, saying it isn't about porn is minimizing.  Porn is the reason for ALL of this... [meaning the issues in our lives and marriage].  Porn is where it all stems from: the disconnect, the addiction, the double-life... and I don't like hearing it isn't about the porn because it makes porn seem like no big deal.  And it IS.  It IS about the porn.  When it comes right down to it, it IS about the porn."

And the truth is:
It IS.
This whole thing IS ABOUT PORN.

So often porn is minimized by others around me, and instead of standing up and fighting for what I believe, I've given into fear of being viewed as weak in others' eyes and minimized along with them, thereby becoming part of the problem.

Is porn THE problem?  No.  Not alone it isn't.
But porn is a DRUG and one of the main gateway drugs into sex addiction.  It was THE GATEWAY drug for Danny, and it is the main problem in what's wrong with our marriage.

My marriage has been RIFE with lies, yes.  Shame, secrets, double living, YES.
There's also been disconnect, manipulation, controlling, rationalization!  YES!

Danny has spent a decade with me and has never fully SEEN me or APPRECIATED me.

WHY?
Because his brained was wired to look at the world from the point of view of, "What does this person or situation have to offer me?" instead of "What do I have to offer this person or situation?"
WHY?
Because he looked at porn and became addicted.  After seeing it once, ONCE, he began implementing patterns of thought and behaviors that would haunt him and his future family.

And I speak from the pain and depths of the soul of a woman robbed...

IT IS ABOUT THE PORN.

And he has cheated on me.
And I have spent an entire marriage unseen and in disconnect.

I vow to bravely live as my own husband dares to... acknowledging porn as the giant it is, giving it the credit is deserves, and standing up as a woman of God to speak my truth, "Porn isn't small.  Porn kills.  It kills love, YES.  But porn kills souls, dreams, and youth."

I make this promise now to myself, to you, and to Danny:
I'll stop saying it.
I'll stop saying, "It isn't about the porn."
Because you're right, Danny.  It IS.  For me, for us... it most definitely is about the porn.

I have been hurt by so many I love that have minimized pornography.  In an attempt to protect myself, I've adopted the attitude that porn isn't even on the radar of what affects me anymore.
And THAT.
That is something to mourn.

I should be posting statistics.  I should be posting scientific findings and pie charts and prophetic quotes.  But I'm not.  Because I don't have to prove my pain anymore.  I don't have to explain it or make you okay with it. 
All I have right now is the experience on my back, and that Experience says, "Porn is worse than hard drugs, and you live with someone who battles an addiction to it.  And you, great girl of God, are on Refiner's Fire.  This fire will burn fear and shame from your core and replace it with Christ: His Strength, His Love, His Confidence in God.  Walk on, and do not faint."

I can not live in fear of what others think -I can not act on that fear, live my life from that place!
I know that the Lord has never minimized my pain -the pain that has stemmed from a rottenly fertile seed planted in my husband's brain nearly 20 years before we ever met.

This whole thing?  This pain I'm going through?  It's about porn.
The rest is symptomatic.

Love is an Open Door

At work yesterday, I read a news article on Yahoo! about a big child-porn bust in NYC.  Reading it made me physically ill.  But after the nausea came the hope.

Maybe.
Just MAYBE.

Folks will read words like, "child porn" alongside of "police chief, rabbi, boy scout leader, nurse..." and start to realize that PORN in all it's devious and heinous forms is not a "Mother's Basement Crime."
It is a street crime, committed by those sworn to protect us, to protect children and to honor the law.

That set mentioned above could probably be plucked from any number of cities.  Child porn isn't an NYC problem, it's a gigantic world-wide problem.

People don't KNOW this.  People don't really know.  I've bumped up against so many who can't fathom why my husband would look at porn because they believe I'm beautiful.  They know I'm not frigid or cold, and I offer love and affection to Danny.
They don't realize that
a) Porn is rampant
b) Porn is a gateway drug to behavior
c) Porn is looked at by at least 75% of men (40% of women?  is that stat right?)
d) Porn has NOTHING to do with the spouse's looks, behavior, actions, efforts, boob size, sexual performance, athletic agility, cooking ability, level of education, nicety factor, or fashion sense.

So I was ill yesterday morning, but underneath my stomach ache floated a beautiful ray of hope.

AWARENESS.
Awareness is being raised because porn and sex addiction are getting wildly out of control.

Perhaps that article and similar articles will open doors of (dare I say it?  think it?  begin to hope for?) UNDERSTANDING for wives, partners, and spouses of sexual addicts?

Reports of the Summit in DC are rolling in, and I'm soaking them up.
I don't recommend the article on the child porn bust (unless your stomach is stronger than mine), but I do recommend:

Scab's post that follows Rebecca through the Summit
And Jacy's post that tells of her experience attending

Raising awareness.
Porn kills love.
Awareness opens doors.
Doors of love.

Love is an open door.
(go ye therefore into your day with Frozen songs stuck in your head.)

Prevention Paranoia

(via homeschooldiaries.com)

Given where I'm at right now:
I assume everyone looks at porn.

The men who cross my path in the mechanic shop: the delivery guys, the parts guys, the oil guys, the construction guys.
They all look at porn.

I operate under the belief that all teenage boys and most teenage girls look at porn.

It's a silent killer that seeps through computer screens and infects everyone it touches.  Feeble filters grow weary trying to block it, and even then: it finds a way where its welcomed.
It finds a way where its not welcomed.

The preacher preaches porn prevention and the choir echoes truth!
Don't let it in!  Take whatever means necessary!  Destroy your tablets!  Disable your WiFi!  Take the cell phones away at 9 pm!  PAINT LAMB'S BLOOD OVER EVERY ELECTRONIC DEVICE!

And yet.
And yet.

Porn is viewed.  Porn is seen.  And recovery is hush-hush.  Taboo, even.  And anyway, if we can PREVENT it, it's not a problem right?  Oh, the fragile human brain and it's fragile reasonings.

I've moved into this new reality where I know the guys I work with look at porn.  Maybe not everyday.  Maybe so.
I accept that a large percentage of my facebook friends are accessing porn with facebook.
I know that porn will find my children.  Or my children will find porn.

I know that I will find porn.  I know that porn will find my husband.

Porn is part of the reality of The Information Age.
Recovery is a part of the reality of The Information Age.

I will do what I can to prevent porn from coming into my home, but I accept that it will and with that acceptance I will teach my children using truth and openness and vulnerability so when -WHEN -that day comes (and it will come), recovery will naturally breach the realms of my relationship with my spouse and pour into the lives of my children.

Maybe not every person who crosses my counter at work looks at porn  -I'm in a very jaded and painful place and drawing very jaded and painful conclusions. 

But my reality in 2014 has been completely altered from my reality pre-2014.

Prevention isn't my answer anymore.
It's only a tool.

Recovery is my answer.

Wives Against Porn Driving

--Before we begin, the winner of the hatchet charm is NATE('s wife).  Please contact me via email at brabadges@hotmail.com and I'll mail it out next week! --

A few months ago, I was struck with how awesome it would be to organize P.U.R.E.
Porn Use Resistance Education.
Get it?  PURE?  It's genius.  Aaaaaaaand total rip off from D.A.R.E.

But anyway.  This post isn't about education.  It's about how yesterday I woke up and began getting ready for work while my husband did a counseling session via webcam with Brannon Patrick.  I wish I could say the BEST thing that ever happened to our marriage was our three wonderful kiddos.  But it's Brannon.  Right now, it's Brannon.

I went around the house in my PJs, getting our daughter ready for school and planning my day in my head.  I worked REALLY hard NOT to hear what was being said in my bedroom... because I didn't want to know.  When I started hearing snippets of the conversation, I'd start singing the first song that came to my head.
"Walkin' the floor
Feelin' so blue.
Smoke cigarettes.
Drink coffee too..."

Since I started working, my classic country music streaming has increased by about 3005% and it's amazing how many old country songs resonate with a jaded lady.

But then my husband popped out and ASKED me to please join him.  So I did, in all of my just-rolled-out-of-bed glory.  Online meetings are the best.
I only talked with Brannon for about 15 minutes, and I really like the guy.
But he totally ruined my day.  No offense, man!

My husband is leaving on Monday morning for a two-month long training.  He will be home on weekends.
"Are you feeling fear?" Brannon asked.
"No," I said.
"Why not?  Is it because you trust him to stay sober or because you don't care?"
"I don't care," I shrugged.
He then told me that was okay... I was in an okay place.
And then he said it... the worst word to hear in a counseling session.

BUT.

"But... eventually you'll need to come to place where you do care, where you can begin to reinvest and fall back in love.  It's a hard thing, Alicia, and it's just not fair."

I like that he uses my first name.  I think he's the only person who calls me by my first name even when he's not mad.

I walked away from that session and just blew up a little.  A LITTLE, not much.
"It's like you're a drunk driver," I said to my husband, "And you HIT me.  I went to the hospital and they were nice to me and loved me and then the nurses patted me on the head and said, 'okay, pretty soon you've got to get back in that car and drive that same road and the same drunk driver will be there with you.  Hope he's sober!"
It's NOT fair.
It's not fair that I've worked SO hard to detach, to be safe, to be empowered.
And where do I find myself?  I'm LONELY, guys.  Straight up, no mincing words... I'm lonely.  This sucks.

It seems like everywhere I turn people are telling me this isn't about me, that I'm not the victim.  But I always end up controlled by this situation -I seem to spin on an axis that revolves around HIS choices, and I always end up hurt OR I end up lonely.  The fact of the matter is: I AM the victim. I HAVE been hit by a drunk.
Of course I can't live in that mentality, but it's okay to own it and be mad about it when I feel the gravity of it.

I appreciate empowerment, but I don't appreciate being lonely.
I appreciate not being hurt and playing the victim, but I don't appreciate how hard and cold I feel.
Brannon had said some of the richest blessings in life come from human relationships, and here I was all walled off and thinking how some of my most awful hurts had come from human relationships.

As I made a bottle in the late afternoon, I thought about this... I hadn't wanted to talk to my husband all day because in 15 short minutes that morning he'd gone from being my husband to being my offender.
I filled baby's bottle and added formula and shook, shook, shook.  As I did, it came to me.  As clear as day, I SAW it.

Yes, I was hit.  Years ago, driving wildly down a dirt road I'd never been on before I was sideswiped by my very own, very unsober husband.
I couldn't believe it, so I didn't.  I haphazardly bandaged my wounds myself and then got back in the car.  I drove a *little* more carefully, but still without much caution.  And again: I was hit.  And again, and again, and again.
For YEARS.  YEARS!  I tried to handle the situation on my own.  I thought it was MY fault, so I tried driving better, I tried making myself more noticeable so my husband would SEEEEEEEEE me and avoid hitting me.  I tried installing GPS for him.
But it was never enough.  The accidents began getting worse, more blood, more tears...
Almost three years ago, it was the worst it had ever been.  I couldn't get up and walk away from that accident.  I just rested in the mess.
Until...
A beautiful man came. He is my Savior.  He had the answers, the tools, the ambulance, and he had the power to heal me and my car.  I turned to him and gave up trying.

He took me in his arms, and I found rest in his hospital.  He was my primary physician and He had a team of specialists working under Him.
A sponsor.
A Therapist.
A Bishop.
My Dad.

Close friends would visit me in the hospital.  Some brought food, some brought music, some brought smiles, and some brought tissues and hugs.

One visitor they couldn't keep out was my husband.  He would visit me daily, if not more.  His visits weren't always nice... in fact, most often they hurt me MORE.  It seemed that even though I'd found my way OFF the rough dirt road, the drunk driver had found a way to manage his mission by simply STANDING by me and TALKING.
Ouch.
Ouch.
Ouch.

There were glimpses of remorse.  There were glimpses of honesty.
And then there wasn't remorse or patience or empathy or apology.

My team of specialists worked under the hand of the Master Physician, and as the years went by my efforts to heal were evident.  The bruises were fading.  I found ways to avoid my husband when he came to visit, and new bruises quit forming.
The breaks, the cuts, the hurt... they were all healing and fading.

One day, I found I didn't NEED to avoid my husband.  In fact, I confronted him.  I stood in the doorway of my own room and I told him
NO.
ENOUGH.

He turned and went away.  I turned and went to bed.
The next day -much to my surprise -my husband was there again.  This time he looked different, he talked differently.
I sensed real remorse, true sorrow.

The next day, it was the same.
This went on for a good while.  At times his visits turned ugly, and I'd ask him to leave.  But for the most part, they were good visits.
The bad visits would send me back to my specialists with anger and spit in my eyes... I would get on my knees and call my Physician and ask, "WHAT IN THE H-E-ECK-ECK I AM SUPPOSED TO DO HERE?!?!?!"

And here's my answer:
choose.

My husband is visiting me in the hospital.  And when I'm ready to leave, I can CHOOSE whether I want to get back in my car (the Master Physician is also a Master Mechanic, in case you were wondering) and get back on that old dirt road.  I know my husband will be there.
I get to make the choice.
My husband doesn't have that control.

Right now, I will observe his visits.  And I have NO idea how to start reinvesting and falling back in love, so I won't.
I'll leave that up to my husband.

And I will rest.
I won't get up or get ready to get back on any road in any car until I know of myself that it's okay.  I will know.

Because of everything going on in my life right now, I haven't been able to post this... but yesterday I remembered one of my specialists was a team led by Dr. Skinner.
I've been working on recovery for nearly THREE years.  And in three years of studying and education, I have never found a program I resonated with more than AddoRecovery.  The free education I gained with AddoRecovery has sustained me and helped me understand many of the WHYs.
I recommend it to so many women, and I will continue to do so.  Forever.



Sidreis' Story (Short) from Addo Recovery on Vimeo.

Betrayal Trauma is REAL.  Even if you can't physically see the blood and the breaks, you can FEEL them.

It's a few days too late to join the latest session (SORRY!) but there's a new one coming up on the 17th of this month.

Please go to addorecovery.com/join... there's a team of specialists for YOU.

Under Pressure

I once watched an ENTIRE VH1 episode about how Vanilla Ice was sued because he ripped off Queen's song titled "Under Pressure" for his immortal hit, "Ice Ice Baby" and while I'll never get those thirty minutes back, I'll always have some trivia bragging rights.

I'm sort of brilliant and pathetic all at once.


I used to impress the world with my ability to sing "Ice Ice Baby" from memory. Not everyone could do that, you know... it's reserved for a special class of the Pathetically Brilliant American Population.
Now I spend my time singing other songs, less rap-related and more Pixar-related.
These days, I've been singing Queen's song with a brilliantly ripped-off beat.

Under Pressure.

Throughout my life, pressure has been a healthy motivator.  It helped me complete homework assignments, take tests, think critically, give speeches!

But I recently came to some realizations about pressure and the part it has played in my marriage.  I'm so grateful the realizations came NOW instead of five years ago.

If I had realized five years ago that I'd spent my marriage feeling pressured to have sex, pressured to perform, pressure to look like a porn star, pressure to behave approvingly, pressure to be "perfect"... I probably would have left my husband in a fit of anger.  I always knew I felt some degree of it along the way, but now I recognize the FULL degree of just how much Pressure has stolen my precious experiences, my sacred memories.  It's as bad as porn at stealthily creeping in and robbing my brain!

The fact that I've realized it now -now that I'm on Step 8 and have almost three years of recovery -has made a big difference in how I've processed this realization.  I'm able to write about it, talk about it to my sponsor, pray about it, honestly voice to my husband when I feel Pressure start to creep in, even if there's no call for it.
Where does the pressure come from?  Him?  Me?  Satan? Society?
Honestly.  Does it matter?
I don't think it does.  The point is, I'm highly triggered over anything remotely pressure-y lately.

I didn't order a box of peaches this year.  Wanna know why?  Because a box of peaches = pressure to can.  And if I don't can, the peaches will taunt me from their box... I'm serious.  Dead serious.  Pressure Peaches are not happening in 2013.

I've given up a few other pressurey activities which a lady never mentions.

I can feel myself bordering on Alicia's version of Rebellion which is mild enough that only dogs and very small children can actually hear it.  But I know it's there.  And God knows it's there.
And that's all that matters.
The Pressure Grooves in my brain are deep-rooted.  I'm running in the other direction for a spell to give my pressure grooves a fighting chance to heal.
It won't last forever, probably.

And my hopes are that in a little while I'll be back to using Pressure as a healthy motivator... My brain will be healed enough to give speeches on the fly like it used to.  It will toss out research papers the night before and not even flinch when asked to talk in church.
Pressure used to be my friendly, slightly-weaker-than-me rival.
In the last nine years, it's turned ugly.  It's taken cheap shots and cheated.

I believe the Lord can heal my pressure issues.  I believe someday that Pressure will once again be healthy.

In the meantime, I'm going to let my hair down and take naps.
Or, as my buddy says, "Let's kick it."

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

An House of Merchandise

I've been thinking about John 2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Porn is Godless.
It's table turning time.

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!