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. 

 

Clingy

I was sure I could love him enough.
Fill the void.
BE ENOUGH.

I clobbered him with affection, baskets full of sap... I tried losing weight, spicing it up, baking, cleaning.
It wasn't enough.  I wasn't enough.

So I pushed harder, farther, NEVER CONTENT with not being enough.  I had always been enough.  Something like PORN wasn't about to best me. 
I set aside myself.  The only thing that mattered was being enough, being available at all times. 
If porn made him happy, I would be porn.  I would be sexy, available AT ALL TIMES, exciting, new, fresh...

Just typing that truth out makes me hurt.  Did I really DO that?  Yes.  Yes, I did do that.

I would follow him around the house. Available. I wouldn't wear it if he didn't like it, wouldn't bake it if he didn't approve.  I was the first to reach over in the morning and hold his hand... always saying "I love you."  I said it so much, so frequently, it seemed overused and therefore not as sincerely reciprocated (probably because he didn't know how to love back?).
Could he SEE how much I loved him?
Could he FEEL it?
His actions didn't warrant the response I desired, so what did I do?

I pushed harder, farther...
But resentment began to creep in.  I resented him.  I shoved it down. 
Then rejection, dejection, depression, self-loathing began to creep in. 

This weekend, I initiated some kissing.  THAT'S IT.  KISSING.  I reached out for his hand first thing in the morning.

That's all it took to dredge up all of those awful, moldy, rotten old emotions.

I recoiled.  The wave of emotions ran through and through and through me.  Stupid triggers.  STUPID trauma.  STUPID.

I started thinking about detaching.  Detaching is hard.  So many times, I've forced detaching.  I've pulled away even when all I wanted to do was check his phone.  I've left the room, even when all I wanted to do was stay and manipulate information out of him.

As the old emotions of rejection and depression coursed through my soul, I realized something:

Detaching isn't hard.  Detachment is simply the natural consequence of emotional health.  If I turn to my talents and interests (to Heavenly Father)... if I have personal goals and dreams... if I focus on my health and self-improvement, I WILL BE detached.

It won't be forced or complicated or over-thought.
It will just... BE.
And I will soar.

What more?  I WILL BE ENOUGH, and I will see that there never, ever, EVER was a time that I wasn't.
EVER.

EV.
ER.

Message from Heaven

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows that.

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

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

So humbling.

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

I'm My Own

  

via fanpop.com

Our Primary class used to meet in the church's kitchen.  There was a shortage of classrooms in the building.

I remember sitting in the cold, metal folding chair next to my best friend as the teacher poured salt into her cupped hand.
"Isn't it pretty?" She asked, her voice soft and sweet. We all nodded.  It was fast Sunday.  Any kind of food -even SALT -looked fabulous.
"Now look..." the tone of her voice took a turn from soft to foreboding.
She sprinkled pepper in the salt.
"It's dirty now," she said, "That's what happens when we sin."
She then went on to tell us how to keep ourselves unspotted.  Maybe the lesson was on the Atonement.  I don't know.  What I DO know is that the salt stuck with me.
Instead of seeing the pepper as an opportunity to draw closer to my Savior, I saw it as a huge no-no. 
I would SAVE MYSELF from it, and I knew I could because I went to church every Sunday and worked hard to do everything right.
Working hard is what I DID.  It's what my family did.  I was up to working my way into Heaven.
No pepper for me!  I'd make SURE of it.

I was never one to want to break rules.  I had a conscience so big it fairly stomped on me.  I never snuck out at night.  Never ditched.  Never talked-back.  Got good grades.  I was dead-set on working my way to Heaven. 
I knew how to do it, too.
*ahem*
Church history, magnify my calling, serve, pray, love, show charity, do my visiting teaching, write in my journal every day, don't fight, read my scriptures, attend the temple, keep my surroundings in order, cook, sew, crochet, work on food storage, get my 72-hour kit, get married in the temple, have babies, FHE, tithing, the word of wisdom, tell the truth, watch only the best media, dress modestly...

The list went on.  It weighed heavy on me at times.  Most of the time, I considered myself as failing.
So, like anyone who is in the business of saving themselves, I punished myself.
I cut myself.  My own sort of sharp lashings.
I knew the phrase "Saved after all I could do" meant that it was up to me to work out my own salvation... to be my own savior.
Saving myself meant judging myself.

Through it all, I did pray.  But my prayers were more of a report than heart-felt communication.  I spoke with only the utmost respect, using my very best Thee-Thous.

More than love, I sought gold-star stickers from the Lord.

The shame I felt as my own savior was immense.  When I stepped out of line -even SLIGHTLY -I was encompassed about with shame.  I took it out on myself because I knew... I KNEW it was my job to handle my own garbage.
I was responsible, and that's what responsible people do.
They don't bother others.  They most certainly don't bother the Lord, who -by the way- had more important issues on His hands than my garbage.  I knew it.
And so I would cut my shoulders which were always perfectly hid by all of my modest shirts, and I would feel immediate relief.  Justice had been served.


As I begin my Step 4 inventory for the second time, I have more clarity.
So I sit down with a blank page and a pen and I write at the top of the page.

"How I Became My Own Savior"

Does your inventory have a title?

Natural Celebs

Being married to someone to who looks at pornography can make you feel really inadequate in the looks department.
But recovery is magic handed to you on a platter of sweat and tears.  And recovery helped me to reverence my natural me.  It helped me drop the ideas of eyelash extensions, breast implants, nip/tuck, layers of make-up... I do dye my hair once a year, but I do that for me.

I always wanted to be a ginger.  My sister stole all the ginger genes in the family.

Anyway.

I used to look in the mirror and see stretch marks and flaws.  There was a too-small mouth, a too-narrow nose, too many moles.

Now I look in the mirror and see something more: I see a choice -a heavenly choice I made before I came to earth -a choice to come and live and choose in a BODY.  It's a majestic creation, formed in the hands of my beloved Father in Heaven who knows me well and is acquainted with me.
It's my mother's nose and my father's mouth.  It's physical representations of the babies that have formed within the chambers of my own flesh. 
It's breathtaking.

It needs tender loving care.  It needs better food.  It needs exercise.

I give it these things now because I understand -not because I want it to be thinner or more perfect or "adequate."

And this morning, I came across a slew of pictures of country stars without make-up.
They are beautiful.
You should have a look -please have a look.

HERE

Barbara Streisand

I attended a make-up class once -it was being taught by a man who had worked closely with celebrities.  He admitted to having an obsession with Barbara Streisand, and couldn't believe his good luck when he found himself in the same make-up room with her.
He wasn't assigned to help her, but when he noticed she was applying her own make-up, he offered his services.
She told him she always did her own make-up.
And then he watched her take a streak of highlighter and put it down the front of her nose...
Have you seen her nose?

 

via fanpop.com

As a make-up artist, this man was trained to study facial features: he was an expert at making little lips look plump, hiding flaws, blemishes, and enhancing beautiful features.

He couldn't believe what he had just seen.

Everyone KNEW Barbara had a big nose... what would drive her to accentuate it by applying a straight line of highlighter down the center of it -bridge to tip?

He couldn't think of one plausible explanation, so he asked her.

"It's my trademark," she said, "It's who I am -it's how people know me."

I thought about Barbara Streisand this morning as I did my dishes (and consequently ended up singing, "Hello, Dolly!" but I digress...) and I thought about a saving conversation I had with a trusted friend last night.

My mind has been a mess lately -it doesn't help that I'm sleep-deprived.  I've tried talking things through in prayer, in writing, with my husband... and I couldn't make sense of anything that was bothering me.

My friend easily sensed this, completely understood my situation, and brought me to a healing realization:

I've come to a broken bridge on my journey.  I can't cross the bridge, and I have NO IDEA how to fix it.

It's time to take some inventory and take it to the Lord.  He alone can fix it.  I need to get to the other side of the bridge, and the Savior will make that possible.

Then she gave me some Step 4 advice: make a list of WHO I AMs... list characteristics and traits that are inherently mine and given to me by a loving Father in Heaven.  She suggested praying for guidance and referencing my patriarchal blessing.

As a teenager, I went through a lost phase.  Didn't most of us, as teens?  I fell into the wrong crowd -I'm not using that cliche to say the kids themselves were wrong, but they were wrong for me.  

Their lifestyles, habits, music, clothing... all were different from mine.  I tried to mesh in.  I REALLY tried.  It was a painful time for me, and the harder I tried to be something I wasn't, the harder my life was.

I went through a depression that kept me home from school on a few days, had me sleeping my Saturdays away, and left my parents completely at a loss.

I started cutting myself -not for attention.  I honestly had no idea how to properly handle emotions, and I never cried.

To quote Pop Princess Taylor Swift, "like, ever."

I felt emotions down inside of me.  I wanted them out.  I didn't know how to get them there, so I found a way.

And it worked for me.  It was a terribly unhealthy coping mechanism, but with my razor on my side, I could find a mutated sense of balance.  It became easier -I thought -to spend time around my new-found friends.

It turned out what I thought was a medicine for my depression was only a poisonous salve.

I still didn't fit in with my friends.  It was an uncomfortable fit... I tried to push it away, but it soon became apparent that they were just as uncomfortable around ME as I was around them.

They didn't feel comfortable asking me to lie.

Or smoke.

And they felt an obligation to keep their language cleaner when I was around.

I did my best to make them feel more at ease around me... I abandoned my own style and tried to take on theirs.

One day, I woke up feeling great.  The heavy cloud of depression had lifted temporarily.  One of my new friends called and asked if she could pick me up to drive around.

(Remember when it was cool -and financially possible -to just drive around?)

I told her to come right over, and I made a decision after hanging up the phone... to be comfortable.

I didn't sift through my clothing to try and mesh with her.  I pulled out my overalls.  I put them on over a plain white tee.  And then I curled my long, brown hair.

My new friends never curled their hair.

I smiled as my bouncing curls dropped around my far and behind my neck -I felt so much like myself.  And in one daring move, I swept up the top half of my hair and put it in a barret.

My friends would not approve, I knew it.

But I felt so at home -so at peace -so comfortable that I didn't care.  I wasn't worried about making them uncomfortable or not.  I was just myself.

My friend pulled into my drive, I got in, and she looked at me.  

I pushed down every urge to make excuses for my get-up (which fairly reeked of country twang), and was surprised when she said, "You look really good."

I muttered out a thank you.

We made our way to her friend's house -he was "of age" and she'd pick him up once a week for a cigarette run.  

She was underage and had her own car.

He was of age and got around a bike.

Theirs was a friendship born of necessity.

(I'm sorry, I just peed my pants a little.  I'm so glad I'm not 15 anymore.)

He sat in the backseat and ran his fingers through my curls.

I was 100% uncomfortable -despite my trusty overalls.  Throughout the entire drive, he consistently made comments that made me uncomfortable.  Whenever we were out of the car, he wanted to be near me, to touch me somehow.

I realized then I needed to get out of there.

And by "there" I mean the world where my friends went to school with blood-shot eyes and lied to their parents about drugs and school -the world where I was completely uncomfortable in my own skin.

That was my Barbara Streisand Day.

That was the day I highlighted my overalls, my lanky long legs, my farmer's tan, my country girl hair.

They're my trademarks.  They are how I know ME on the outside.

Today -tonight -tomorrow I'll be on a journey to see how my Heavenly Father knows me, what he's given me... and then I mean to Barbara Streisand the HECK out of those qualities.

Great Granny

I was named after my great grandmother, Alice.
She died when I was 11, but I was lucky enough to be able to get to know her pretty well before she passed away.  I only lived a few miles from her, and I spent time with her at least once a week.  She was incredibly fond of children, and we always felt so important when we were with her.
She was a story-teller and she lived through (even thrived through) The Great Depression.  She didn't throw anything away.  She gifted us with sock monkeys made from great-grandpa's worn out red heel socks.  She cut the bottoms from her plastic household cleaners (think Downy), tossed in a bunch of yarn and ingenuity, and made tiny baby cradles for all of us grand girls.  She crocheted.  She loved to write. 
She saved all of the pictures from her old Lawson Wood Monkey Calendars and used them to creative fanciful stories to tell us on Sundays.

via animationresources.org

We'd gather around her old mustard yellow rocker as she pulled out monkey pictures... she always made the BEST stories and did all of the voices.

Soon after she passed away, I was given a school assignment to write a poem.
I got REALLY into it.  I was really thrilled with the project, and I put my heart into it.  My teacher was so pleased with my poem that she read it out loud to the class.
A few months later, we were asked to write a short story.  My classmates groaned -but I couldn't WAIT to get my hands on a blank sheet of paper.  Ideas flew through my head as the day went on, and in the end I handed in a 10-page "short" story about a pioneer girl named Alice and her little brother, Hal.  My parents loved the story so much they paraded it in front of my relatives.
As my relatives read, they remarked how I was turning out just like my great-grandmother.

The older I got, the more I heard it: I was turning out just like great-grandmother. 
I acted in school plays in high school and was approached several times by older members in the community -they told me watching me was like watching Alice in her younger years. 
After I was married, I got my hands on her journals.  I read through them and found that I was more like her than anyone else knew... even the way I wrote, my sentence structure, paralleled hers.
Her tendency to worry to the point of irrationality -her sentimentality -the way she was so interested in individuals and their stories.
We aren't anywhere NEAR physically the same.  She was short and frail.  I'm tall and corn fed.

At a Family Reunion last summer, I remarked how small she was -how she probably worried all her weight away.
My Dad's cousin was sitting next to me and she sort of chuckled.
"Well, that and the laxatives," she said.
"The what?" I asked.
"You know..." she shrugged.
"I don't," I said.
"That was a problem for her -her weight.  Her sisters were always kind of big.  She didn't want that.  Even when she was hospitalized, she would sneak off and throw her food up in the bathroom."

I had no idea.
My great-grandmother is my Illusion.  She's my Perfect Person that I admire and look up to in so many ways because I can relate to her so well.
And I suddenly loved her so much more: she struggled with her appearance -with vanity.

Step 4 has taught me just how much I struggle with vanity -how much of a road block it is for me spiritually. 
After hitting rock bottom and starting my recovery process, I came to really love myself no matter what I looked like.  I started to love my weird birth mark, my stretch marks, my pointed nose...
It was a gradual process, but the more I learned about true Christ-like love and the Porn World, the more I loved my natural body -my natural self, just the way it is.  I suddenly abhorred the idea of implants -something I'd contemplated getting in the past, thinking maybe if I was bigger I would be "enough" for my husband and he wouldn't NEED to look anywhere else anymore.
Yeesh.
Hollywood is proof that no matter how good lookin' you are, if he's going to cheat, he's going to cheat.

It surprises me how often I'm triggered with my old vanity though.

A few days ago, we went as a family into the city.  My husband took us all out to eat at a nice sit-down restaurant.  There was a 30+ minute wait to get a table for our now family of 5.
The restaurant was packed, and our family waited near the front entrance of the restaurant.  There was snow covering the ground outside, and it was freezing.  Literally.
Families were coming in clad in snowsuits, boots, heavy coats...
And then a woman came in with her boyfriend.  He was covered in a heavy Carheart coat, thick jeans, and sturdy boots.  She was wearing a see-through black lace blouse, tight jeans, and sexy boots.
When she sat down with her back to us, her shirt revealed her back.  Her bare back.  The shirt was slit up to her black lacy bra.
I looked down at my Mom Bod that just made and cranked out a baby not three weeks before.  I was feeling pretty good about just barely fitting back into my jeans. 
And I was triggered. 
Amid the chaos surrounding us, I texted my husband something along the lines of "Why can't she cover up and give us old married ladies a fighting chance?"
He texted back validations, which I'll admit, I was fishing for.

And there in lies my problem: I want to see women in tight jeans and see through blouses and NOT go to my bad place where I suddenly hate my amazing body.
I mean: I just GREW a tiny, perfect human in my body... what's to hate about that?  Would I trade it for tight jeans and sexy boots?
NO!
Is it my job, as a 27-year old MOTHER of three, to be in a "compete" mindset?
NO!
Do I need anyone's validation?
NO!
So why do I seek it out?  Why do I automatically revert to unhealthy thinking when a young, beautiful woman walks by?
I never used to feel this way, but I can't blame it on my husband's porn addiction.  This one is on me... it's on my vanity.  The addiction merely brought it to light (just like it brought my co-dependecy to light).

Unlike Great Granny, I have steps to help me overcome this.  Thanks to my husband's addiction, I've been led to a guiding light.

Because of the Atonement, I have the opportunity to NOT end up with a cabinet full of laxatives. 
All I need to do is take action.

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

Pumpkin Guts

My Dad is John Wayne.

via: 25.media.tumblr.com
He's got ranch land, farm land, cattle, hosses, boots, cowboy hats, bacon and eggs.  He's grit and iron.  He's burly and his chest hair literally bursts out of his button-up Wranglers.

My Dad was never my friend.  He was my DAD.

I was fine with it.  I had enough friends.  I didn't need friends.  I needed a Dad.

Dad had expectations of his kids.  He didn't expect us to beat out anyone else in life -he didn't even encourage it.  Instead, he fostered an environment of independence... we were challenged daily to out-work only the person we were the day before.
And Dad towered over us, a barrel of a man.  We were terrified of letting him down in any way.

I never snuck out of the house.  I never got detention.  I never rebelled terribly or lied to him or ditched anything... the thought of the consequences at home was too much for me to bear.  It wasn't that Dad was abusive or anything like that.  It was me and my bloody conscious.  If I let him down, I would carry it with me for years afterward, and I didn't want to deal with that.

"Tell me about your Dad," my then-boyfriend-now-husband said to me as we made the long drive home to introduce him to my folks, "What's he like?"  I thought for a minute before answering.  I could have told him that my Dad scared away every boyfriend I'd ever had...
"The minute you meet him, you automatically respect him, and you'd rather die than let him down," was what came out instead.
"I don't understand," he said.
"You will..." I replied.
A few miles outside of my little hometown, we were pulled over for a car-repairish thing (college cars.  What are you gonna do?) and when I handed over my registration the officer saw my Dad's name on it.
"Which one of you two is related to this man?" he pointed to my Dad's name.
"Me," I said, fearing nothing... it's no shameful thing to be related to That Man.
"Daughter?"
"Yeah."
"I know you'll get this taken care of then.  Take care."
And then he left... no repair order.  No warning (we were speeding).  No intimidation.  My boyfriend turned to me with eyes that rivaled dinner plates.
"Who IS your Dad?"
"You'll see..."

Dad is John Wayne.

He's rough and hysterical.  He's the smartest man in the world -with the worst report cards.  His smarts don't come from no stinking books.
They come from dirt, experience, and grease.

Living with a man like that can be hard.  I don't fault him or blame him or hate him.  I don't.  In fact, I love him dearly.
For Christmas, I compiled all of my Cowgirl Poetry (that is just the nuttiest, silliest, fluffiest stuff with no sentiment involved what-so-ever) and made a blurb book out of it for him.  I dedicated the book to him, filled it full of vintage cowgirl clip art and watched him break down and cry when he opened it.
He's a rock... a squishy rock.

But there was shame.  I don't know where it came from.  Maybe from my parents?  Maybe from me?  Maybe I wanted so badly to never, EVER let them down that I took it too far and spent my entire life hiding the bad parts of me rather than facing them?

All I know is that when I was 12 years old, I was strong because (get a load of this crap:) I didn't cry.  I was tough.  I was above tears.
Except I wasn't.  I had just trained myself to push emotions down, to stifle them, beat them, hog tie them, brand them, castrate them...
And then one day they fought back.  I spent two weeks living with my nurturing grandmother because my nerves were so SHOT from the shingles that I couldn't live at home with my big, fun family (and the loud man who happened to be remodeling the bathroom and thought it was super cool to tease me and swing me around and make me miles of uncomfy [he later went to prison for acts which completely validated my uncomfiness]).
One night after my mom had applied a paste made from water and asprins to my shingles, she sat next to me on my grandmother's couch.
"Alicia," she said, tears welling up in her eyes, "You're going to have to learn to get things out.  CRY if you need to... and talk!  Talk everything out!"
For years, I'd been teased about my ability to never, ever, EVER shut up.  I hated it about myself.  It's still something I really struggle with.  I was a horrid burden on adults because I didn't know when to stop, how to stop, or really: WHY.  And the shame crept in, so I quit talking.
After that, my mother -who had been the one primarily irritated by my mouth -became a cheerleader of it.
"Talk!  Talk!  If you don't, you'll DIE!"

I thought about all of this tonight.  I did.
I thought about my shingles and my Dad and shame and John Wayne and the smell of grandma's bathroom mixed with asprin paste.
I thought about it all while my hands were covered in pumpkin guts.
THESE pumpkin guts:

We carved pumpkins early this year.  My daughter has show and tell this week -she's supposed to bring something that starts with the letter "j" and she requested "Jack-o-lantern" which is perfect because we have a few pumpkins growing outside.
I sat with my kidlets around me tonight and I showed them a small-ish pumpkin.
"What is this?"
"A PUNKIN!"
"What is inside of it?"
"GOO!" My daughter giggled.
I told them all about Yuckies.  Pumpkins are delicious -they are part fragrant, wholesome goodness and part... yuckies.
"We are ALL like pumpkins," I told my kids, "We have lots of good in ourselves!"  We spent some time listing good qualities we all have.
"And we all have some yuckies in us as well, and that's okay."

I told them yuckies are a part of life -and we can't get rid of our own yuckies.  We need to realize that when we DO something bad, it's just the yuckies acting out.  WE aren't bad.  We're mostly juicy goodness!
We cleaned our pumpkins out and talked about Heavenly Father and Jesus and how they're the only ones who can get our yuckies out of us.
I illustrated the COOLEST Alma the Younger story (stick figures are my delight), and when I was done I asked the kids:
"What did Mama just talk about?"
*silence*
"We don't know, Mom," my son admitted.
"Al..." I tried giving them a hint, "Allll...."
"ALVIN!" My daughter cried out and immediately starting quoting Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Awesome.

At least the pumpkins turned out.  Will I ever reach jack-o-lantern status?  Will all of my yuckies ever be gone completely?  Will I ever have the humility to ask God to please just take all of my nastiness?
The truth is: I have no idea.

I was terrified to let my own personal John Wayne on Earth know that I was weak.
How do I face my John Wayne in the Sky?

via
Maybe by taking The Real John Wayne's sage advice.
I suddenly have a hankering to watch "Bonanza."
The only cowboy that comes close to even touching John Wayne in rugged sexiness is Little Joe (and yes, I realize that I just made you feel weird because a few paragraphs ago I was calling my DAD John Wayne and now I'm calling John Wayne sexy.  My Dad isn't sexy.  My Dad is the guy who let me put ponytails in his hair and draw pictures on his arm with a ball point pen while he read Dr. Seuss to me):

via
My first TV crush.  SUCH a heart breaker.

Practically Perfect

via

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

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

via

THAT.

Or the essence of that.  Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you call housekeeping help in.

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

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

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

They whisper to each other.

You couldn't care less.

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

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

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

How is your addict?  Well, at this point.

Frankly, Scarlett... 

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

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

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

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

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

And you love.

You celebrate.

You RADIATE.

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

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

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

You feel compassion for the afflicted.

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

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

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

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

You've been cured of Perfectionism.

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

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

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

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

In short: you can give.  Period.

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

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

Shouldn't everyone have a Doctor so Good?

via lds.org

Everyone does.  

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

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

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

Barbie Made Me Pray

Before I began recovery, I hated my body.  I hated that I had more moles and freckles than I should have.  I hated my nose.  I hated my small mouth, my farm girl shoulders, my blind-as-a-bat eyes, my short torso...
and the longer I looked in the mirror, the longer the list.

When I hit rock bottom and realized that my husband has an ADDICTION and there's nothing I can do about it... I was so despondent that I gave up on me.  I dumped my bathroom mirror for someone more suited my needs: my bed.
While my bed and I were in the honeymoon phase, I used my laptop to research my brains out (threesome, anyone?).
I carefully googled porn addiction recovery success stories.
I ordered books.
I journaled.
I read.
I prayed.
I cried, cried, cried.

And somewhere in that mess, my Savior taught me how to love myself.
Now I teach my kids that their freckles and moles are special marks from the angels -they make us all different so the angels can tell us apart (what? like YOU don't lie to children...) and I don't mind my nose.  It's my mom's nose.  My mom is amazing.
My mouth is my Dad's.  My Dad is amazing.  I like my mouth.
I earned these shoulders growing up on a farm, hoeing corn at sunrise and branding cattle until sunset.  Not just every girl gets shoulders like these bad boys... just hold the shoulder pads, please.

I slowly got the courage to look in the mirror again, and what I found surprised me.
I REALLY LIKED ME.  MYSELF.
Suddenly, I WAS ENOUGH for me.  Months before, I had thought I wasn't enough.  I needed bigger boobs, a smaller waist, slender shoulders, less hair here, more tan there...
Maybe THEN he wouldn't look at other women.  Maybe THEN he would only look at me.
I had let Satan completely dupe me into believing that his voice was mine.  His lies were truth.
And when I got away from the mirror and turned to the Lord, I was taught a different story entirely... a TRUE story.
I am enough.  I am beautiful.  I am an amazing, asymmetrical masterpiece with individualized features.  Heavenly Father MADE ME.
I'm humbled.  I'm grateful.  I'm amazed.  I'm suddenly realizing that I need to work out -not because I need to be Barbie, but because I need to take care of the GIFT THAT IS MY BODY.  I need to eat right because a clean system equals a clear mind -a mind clear to receive revelation from my Father in Heaven.

I didn't mind seeing myself in the mirror when I got out of the shower.  I embraced my east/west breast.  I became a champion of my natural self!

And then.

  via
I ran into Barbie.
You can read a full article on her at Healthy is the New Skinny. The lies resurfaced -I heard myself say that she was beautiful, more beautiful than I would ever be. My husband wanted her. He wanted what she represents: perfection.
My brain sizzled in agony for days... until.
Until the Lord gently placed a filter in my brain, and the next time I heard a voice telling me I wasn't enough, I recognized it wasn't my voice at all. It was a dark, threatening voice -The Father of Lies simply doling out his goodies.
 Prayer is so powerful. It is SO powerful.
It is my most powerful weapon -stronger than my combat boots, more rock solid than my helmet, and more constant than any offensive tool I've ever held. It can enlighten, reveal, touch, testify, clarify, peacify, pacify, heal, mend, warn... and banish.
 My voice is back again -I found her huddled in the furthest corner of my brain, bound and gagged. She'll need some intense therapy to get back on her feet.
And hey. Wouldn't you know? Prayer will do that too.