Controlled Environment

As a 17 year old, I was uncontrollable.  I did what I wanted to do, wore what I wanted to wear, and said what I wanted to say.
I was hopelessly terrified of making mistakes, so I didn't do anything illegal, but I did do crazy stuff.
I wore crazy stuff, listened to crazy music, sang crazy music at the top of my lungs as I shifted gears in my Toyota... and I wrote crazy songs about crazy ex-boyfriends.
I was voted "Most Original" Senior Class Girl... riiiiiiight next to the Most Original Senior Boy who just *happened* to be featured in one of my songs.

*ahem*

Anyway.

The point is, I made my own choices.  I knew what I wanted.
And when the time came, I knew I wanted Danny and marriage, even if it meant living on love and food stamps for a while (and it did).

As we spent our time getting in mud fights and running in the rain and trying to amp ourselves up to capture a tarantula (never got quite brave enough), I started doing something I hadn't done in a long time.
Like... since I was a little girl and lived with my father.
I became submissive.

I watched OTHER wives doing things I would NEVER DO.
They spoke up, spoke out, and even freaked out on occasion.  I patted myself on the back because... I would never... and that made me more civilized, classier, better.
(This is really hard for me to write, just so you know.  I don't like admitting I felt this way.)

The years went on, and my holier than attitude started to shift more toward something a lot like longing.

I wanted to speak up.  I wanted to stand up.  I wanted to freak out!  But I didn't know HOW.  I didn't understand the process behind going a little crazy anymore.

For so many years, I had worked SO HARD on being ENOUGH and GOOD and GOOD ENOUGH and those kinds of girls NEVER FREAK OUT.

I was already fully rejected by my husband in so many ways, and I couldn't risk any. more. rejection.  I just could not do it.  I felt the urge, the desire, but I never gave in.  My holier than attitude became less of an attitude and more of a life line.  It was THE ONLY GOOD THING about not freaking out.

I watched OTHER wives spend money on things they wanted, and sometimes they'd make financial mistakes: spend too much, overdraw, or BUY SOMETHING FRIVOLOUS instead of meat.  Oh, how I longed.
But... meat is better than frivolity.  And I had meat.

OTHER wives said things like, "tough cookie, if you don't like it that's not my problem."
OTHER wives said, "oh well."
OTHER wives seemed to be able to function without constantly wondering if they were pretty enough, witty enough, a good enough cook, housekeeper, and bottle washer.  They didn't read piles upon piles of self-help books. 

Comparison is the thief of joy, YES.
But when your insides are telling you something is wrong... and you look around and start to notice that what you're going through isn't normal or healthy, comparison can be helpful. 

Did you know that in 9 years, I'd never allowed my husband to see me truly angry?  Like... in the moment, emotions running, MAD?!  I would be letting him down if I did, and besides, GOOD PEOPLE don't behave that way -they don't freak out.
(No wonder I got shingles in 6th Grade, holy moly, Batman.)
But in July, I did.  In July, my husband hurt me deeply.  In July, I had almost three years of recovery under my belt.  In July, I'd rediscovered pieces of the girl who sang "Pink Triangle" at the top of her lungs until she was hoarse.

When I was in 8th grade, I had a choir director who used to hold sheet music up in front of his face and say to me every single rehearsal, "Remember, if you're going to make a mistake... make it loud."
You can learn from loud mistakes.  Mistakes are GOOD.  They're progressive tools.  Even though I heard it over and over as a 13 year old, it didn't sink in until almost 15 years later.

In July, I spoke up, spoke out, stood up, and even FREAKED OUT.  Was it a mistake?  At that point, I needed to take that step anyway, even if it meant that I was stepping out of line. 

And I felt -much to my surprise and delight -complete and utter peace.
In July, I left the world where I lived to appease someone else.  I left the world where I had no financial say.  I left the world where I had to answer to anyone else other than my God.

I left the world of emotional abuse.

Now I function in a world where if anyone encroaches -even slightly- on my choices, I have a reaction.  I understand how sacred, how vital, and how holy my choices are.  I understand how important it is to fight for my choices.
I understand God more.
I understand His plan.
I understand that I have no need of cowering.

I took control back -and promptly gave it back to God.  Because as much as I don't like being controlled, I know one thing (and that's about it)... I sure as HELL don't want to try and control what's going on in my life.


I leave it to God.
And rest.

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. 

 

Guilt

A couple of months ago, I got mad at my husband.  I didn't hold back.

My pattern has always BEEN told hold back.  If I really, truly told him how I felt, it would hurt him.  I didn't want to hurt him.  When he was hurt, he acted out.  He mismanaged that hurt.  I couldn't handle the GUILT that came with hurting him.  So I would walk away, shove my emotions deep down and then come back.

In short: I was too scared, too full of fear to be fully honest with my husband.
I thought I was being Christ-like and sort of applauded myself for being so skilled at managing my temper.

I scratch my head at that logic now...

My husband did something addiction-related that was not okay with me.  And when he told me about it, I didn't shove anything down.  I wasn't scared.  I told him EXACTLY how I felt.
I was so mad there wasn't any room for guilt.
In fact, the guilt never came!  It didn't come afterward when he yelled at me.  It didn't come after THAT, when I felt like a third person observer and realized just how messed up our dynamic was.  And it didn't even come after that... when I excused myself from our current marriage and took a figurative taxi cab to a safe room with only my name attached to the address.

It still hasn't come, and I'm amazed.  As concerns my decision to be done with our marriage, I don't feel guilt.

But yesterday, I guilt about something else, something addiction related.

A few days ago, before my husband left for training, he told me that lately I've been mean.  It isn't like me, and he misses me.
I've mulled that over since he said it.
No one has ever called me mean.  At least, not since I was living at home with 5 siblings and MIGHT have taken Easter Candy from the smaller ones who couldn't hurt me.

I phoned a friend who has walked this path before to work through some of my emotions, the greatest of which is anger.  I told her I was mad.
She said (I'm quoting her directly), "Good!"

Good.
Good?

Isn't anger bad?  Isn't not Christ-like?
Enter: Guilt.

I made dinner and read scriptures with the kids.  I did dishes (PS: this isn't very normal for me to do ALL of this in one night, so I have to put it in the story somehow so you'll all be amazed that I made dinner, bathed the children, read scriptures, said prayers, AND did dishes!  all in one night!) and the thought came to me as clear as day.

Why haven't I been mean before?  Before recently?

Why NOW?  The sealing covenant I made has been shattered repeatedly, stomped on!  I have been pushed aside time after time after time for other women in the name of fantasy.  And THROUGH IT ALL, I worked harder to be seen!  And I was not seen.
I birthed children through all of this.  I invested and invested and invested.  At times, I was confessed to daily.  And did I cry?  No.  Did I get angry?  No.  Did I tell him how I really felt?  Only after I hit a breaking point after a few YEARS.  And even then, I wasn't mad.  I was just sad.

Isn't that ODD?
There is something WRONG WITH THAT.

There is something wrong with the fact that I was never mean.  The natural woman would be! The natural woman would be angry and probably mean about it all.  Does that mean it's okay?  I don't know.  Probably not.  But natural?  Oh heck yes!
And it SHOULD be that way.  Women SHOULD be upset when they're pushed aside for something else, something superficial and insatiable.  Women should FEEL their true worth and value in the mess!  They should not only know they are enough but feel it as well.

It wasn't until I felt it -TWO short months ago (nine years into the messity-mess) -that I got mad.

This anger is new to me.  It's coursing though me and confusing me.
My friend who rejoiced in my finally feeling it, encouraged me to write a letter to my husband -an angry letter.
What a good idea!  I went through my day yesterday and tried to compose one in my head, but something stopped me.

It was GUILT.

I can't feel angry.  I can't say *this* or *that*.  It isn't Christ-like.

Today, I will work to surrender my guilt.  Today I will hit my knees and ask God to please take it so I can let loose my unfiltered anger, and if I do act in such a way that displeases God, I will make amends.  But for now?  It needs to come out before my entire soul, both body and spirit, become ill.

The fact of the matter is this: I have felt and endured betrayal and haven't been angry about it.
THAT isn't healthy or natural or doing anyone (except the addict) any good at all.

Finding a healthy way to channel my anger is going to be a new journey -a new challenge -a new discovery.

In the meantime, I'll keep two songs on repeat.


(the lyric video using texts is so safe. The official video is pretty... well, let's just say it didn't do much for improving my anger.)

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.

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.

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.

Tangles

  

via retronaut.com

I don't know if you know this about me.
But.

I'm married to a porn addict.
AND
I have self-worth issues like maaaaad.  Put those two together and what do you have?  A tangled mess of a rat's nest. That's what.

Did you know I don't place much value on myself?  Please don't misinterpret this as a subtle plea for compliments or validation... I promise that's not my aim here, so keep reading with that in mind.

I just.
I don't understand my true worth.

It's bringing me to my Savior and to my knees, but I still don't understand it.  I'm working on understanding it.  I REALLY am. 

While growing up, I thought I had to meet certain physical standards to be loveable.  I didn't understand that I was lovable AS IS, with all of my quirks and talkativeness and thick glasses (yes) and bad haircuts and hand-me-downs.

My self-worth issues came to a gigantic head in High School (because High School is awesome like that) and I went through a crazy bout of depression in the which I consumed my body weight in Raisinettes.  I emerged from my chocolate cocoon completely transformed. 
I.
Quit.
Caring.

I would literally (and I'm using literally the way it's supposed to be used here) roll out of bed, throw on some clothes, grab my back pack and then walk to school.  No make-up.  No hair styled so-so.  No worries or cares if my legs were shaved or whatever.  During that time, I raked in friends like crazy.  I wasn't trying to or meaning to, but I was so comfortable with ME that other people were comfortable with me as well.
I don't know how to dress well at all, and I embraced that in High School.  I quit spending all of my money on one shirt at the mall, and started using my money to buy 5 shirts, 4 pants, a few skirts, and a pair of suspenders at the thrift store.  The shirts didn't go with the pants.  And nothing I bought matched my red bowling-type shoes or my pepto-pink back pack. Or my orange scarf.

The walls of my bedroom became an infinite collage of pictures, magazine articles, anything I ripped out of anything that made me feel positive emotion: it was My Beauty.
I sat on my shag orange rug with my guitar and wrote song about x boyfriends.  I wrote poetry.  I busted open my change jar and went to a rock concert four hours away on a school night and STILL made it to school the next day.  Ever paid for a concert ticket with quarters?  Classic.
I let go of my old way of thinking: that make up and clothes were where my beauty lied.  And as a 16 year old, I embraced ME. 
I moved out of my parent's home when I was 17. 
After I turned 18, I met my husband.  He was drawn to my confidence in myself.

But my low self worth wasn't gone.  Turns out, it was simply lying dormant under layers of my confidence.  When I married a porn addict, it broke through the surface of my confidence.
Everything I'd been and loved about myself?  Gone.  Swept away.  Forever.
For.
Eh.
Verrrrr.

At least, it felt that way. 
I worried so much about my hair, my face, my clothes.  My layers of confidence were sipped up at an alarming rate, but I couldn't see it, couldn't sense it... to me everything happening was simply all TRUTH.  My husband would let me know when I didn't match.  He took me and bought me an entire new wardrobe as a gift. 
I got so many compliments on it, and I felt GOOD. 

I slowly got rid of my thrift store collection. 

My definition of beauty and self-worth shifted back, back, back... back to the days of The Deep Depression.

I'm going through so many old emotions.  SO MANY.
When will I roll out of bed and be okay with that?  With simply BEING? 
When will I stop fussing over my clothes and feel utter confidence strutting out in my thrift store finds?  When will I find a spot of wall to call mine and cover it in absolutely ANYTHING that tells of My Idea of Beauty.
My Beauty.

I don't know. 
I'm a tangled mess right now.  And yes, Raisinettes are involved, so I know I'm on the right track. 
I don't know how to change.  But I know who DOES.  The Master of Change is the Master of Me and I lovingly call him Master.

My three older brothers used to pride themselves and their Boy Scout knot abilities when it came to untangling my necklace chains.
"It takes a true Boy Scout," they'd say, "To untangle Girl Scout tangles."

(har, har, guys.)

Do you think my Master is a true Boy Scout?  Can he untangle this mess? 

I'm scared to be my true self, afraid I will be rejected, afraid I will never completely stop apologizing for talking too much, afraid I will never see BEAUTY in ME.

Master,
Where is Thy Beauty that I may see mine?
THIS article has changed my life for the better.  Whether or not you are a mother, please read it.  It WILL change the way you talk to the women in your life, no matter their size or age.

I Know I Know Nothing

 

I want to raise my children without shame.

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

I want to live fearlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord,
Help my unbelief.
I believe.

Equality in the Kingdom

The night before I rushed my husband and confessed my Evil Doings of '09, he confessed some things to me.  Our confessions were pretty similar.

But after his confession, he was very romantic, taking me in his arms and telling me how pure I was -how he respected me, couldn't believe I'd stuck around...
And I sort of, well, squirmed.  He could sense that I wasn't feeling the feelings he was feeling, and he kept saying, "I wish I could just transfer my feelings to you right now so you would understand."

The trouble was: I DID understand.
I understood After the Confession Comes the Honeymoon.

In 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, and 2010, I loved the honeymoon.  I reveled in it.  It was the place I was SURE we ought to be all of the time and constantly and forever and ever amen.
In the honeymoon phase, I was up on a pedestal.  He was down on his knees. 
I was beautiful.
I was his everything.
He did my dishes, rubbed my feet, bought me gifts.

Of course he did, and he OUGHT to have because I deserved it.  I mean, after all.  AFTER ALL.  Remember what was going on? 
Porn, lies, rinse repeat.  I deserved to be...

WORSHIPED.

I lived for the honeymoon phase, even made extra certain to train my husband by way of positive reinforcement that Honeymooning was THE WAY.  He would do whatever I asked because he felt he owed it to me BECAUSE I TRAINED HIM UP IN THAT MANNER.  And for what it's worth, I'm a helluva trainer.

But the other night when I felt that old familiar feeling... when I felt his words work as a mechanical jack to lift me up higher, higher, higher... I became very uncomfortable.
"You have no idea how much I love you."  *jack, jack, jack*
"You're pure, you're amazing, you're such an amazing woman." *jack, jack, jack*

I finally had to explain to him, "You have to understand that for years, we've always entered a honeymoon phase like this after confessions, so I'm just very leery.  Plus, I know if these are your true feelings you'll naturally act on them as time goes by and I'll FEEL the truth of them, and that's more important than hearing them anyway."

The next night, I came tumbling down, down, down.

As we drove to the Temple last night, I was finally able to put to words what I was feeling.
"I'm grateful, in a weird way, that I had something to confess to you.  I didn't realize I needed to confess it until I realized that you were being transparent about similar things with me, and honestly: I hadn't even thought about it in years.  But when I remembered and recognized it for what it was, I went straight to you and confessed.  And I'm so grateful, because it ripped us right out of... I don't know... After you confess to me, you put me up higher than you.  You feel unworthy.  And I AM royal, but..."
At this point, I started crying because I'm female.
"... YOU are royal and I am not courting a pauper.  We are equal.  My confession put me equal with you.  At least, it helped you to see me as an equal and it tore the pedestal down, and I am so glad.  I am not higher than you.  I'm not better or higher because I don't have a porn addiction.  And I can't tell you enough how SORRY I am that I trained you to believe that I deserved to be higher than you.  I didn't understand how wrong it was.  But I do now, and I regret it."

And then I said it.

"I don't want to be worshiped.  I want to be loved."

He was quiet for a minute, and then he said, "It did feel good to know that you're not as perfect at this stuff as I thought."

In the Temple, I was struck with the idea of equality: this is a big deal for me because I've spent my entire life viewing people in a caste system.
Better than.
Less than.
It's fueled depreciating and judgmental thoughts in me my entire life.

But there in a quiet place where everyone was dressed in white and whispering, I could see them all as my brothers and sisters... royal blood coursing through their veins.
A beautiful aged woman sat next to me, unable to control the tremblings in her body.  I was given the opportunity to help her on occasion, and one time she reached out to touch my hand, but retreated.
She didn't know me.
But oh, I wanted her to hold my hand.  How I wanted to look in her eyes.
My sister, my friend.

I LOVE that woman.  I loved the pregnant woman behind me, and the beautiful familiar face that came in at the last to help with the rest of the workers: the widow of my old metal shop and automotive teacher.  He passed away IN the temple, and what a way to go!

It makes me ache that others have understood this from the time they were small, but I haven't.  I was raised without a present mother.  When I was as small as my baby daughter is now, my mother was suddenly gone, and she never fully mentally returned during my formative years.
My father did the best be could, but I always always always believed in the caste system. 

I loved myself only for WHAT I was -not WHO I am. 
I love myself for my gift to write, to make others laugh, to cook, to serve, to quote movies.
But in my baby state, the state of lying down with nothing to offer but poop and pleas for assistance... I don't love myself.

My prayer now is to understand what I know: that I am a child, a royal, priceless child.
My prayer is to love WHO I am, which love I believe with naturally accompany the knowledge of who I am.
My prayer is to see others in the exact same light.
My prayer is that my marriage to My Son of God will flourish, that our reign will be sanctified and made holy.

The Atonement is an absolute miracle.

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter N:

So remember that time I took a break from my blog?  It turns out the Lord had other plans for me.  As I embarked on my recovery work tonight, I felt an all-too-familiar tingle in my hands... an itch to let my fingers write the truth my heart knows but my brain does not.  The Lord has given me the gift of expression through the written word, passed to me from my grandmother.  I may never be a published author -that does not matter.  What does matter is that when I feel the tingle, I write.  Tonight, I know I will not rest until I've written.  Writing is how I learn, express, feel, teach, and live.  I live by words, thrive on them, compose with them, dwell on them, and apparently can't break up with them -even for a week.

"I don't know how to quit you." 

nor do I want to. 

 "Ugh," my daughter presses the pencil's eraser onto her homework and rubs her frustration out on a misshapen letter 'n', "Why am I so dumb?"

Such a small phrase, uttered so many times by her mother.

But hearing it come from her lips, her tiny, precious, perfect lips... was heartbreaking.  I immediately reach out to her.
"You're awesome.  You're the best.  You're so smart, and I love you.  I made you and I would never make anything dumb," I say.

"Okay," her cheeks flush.  She doesn't doesn't really understand why Mom is being so serious.

I think of my sponsor's challenge issued recently to stop using language that undermines ME.
I think of Martha, of Mary and Martha (and Lazarus, while we're at it).

The Lord has prodded me to study Martha.  He has done this in the past.
"Yes," I say to Him, "I know, I get it.  I'm Martha.  I'm Martha, period.  Careful, encumbered about... busy, busy, busy, too busy to sit at the Lord's feet... but I'll study it again."
I turn to the passage in Luke and read the words I know so well.
"The Better Part."
Mary chooses it.  Martha does not.  tsk, tsk, and shame-I-know-your-name. 

But the Lord prompts me again -read more, read more about Martha.
I flip to the book of John, and I read about Martha.  Jesus loved Martha.  Martha went out to meet Him.  She speaks freely to Him.  She tells Him, "If you had been here, my brother had not died.  But you're here now, and I know you can do anything."
Jesus weeps.

The account of Martha in Luke is NOT the period to the end of Martha's sentence.
One experience does not a Martha make.  There's no such thing as "Martha, period."

I'm not "a" Martha.  In fact, there's no such thing as "a Martha."
Martha is like unto me -a sister, loved by Jesus and our Heavenly Father.  We're busy, Martha and I, we're worried, we have on occasion put our busyness ahead of sitting at the Lord's feet, but we've received the Lord in our homes, we've gone out to meet him when all seemed lost. 
It took courage.
Martha and I -we understand one another.

{ I PLEAD with you at this point to not read any farther until you have clicked HERE and read this small passage.}

And, Lord, I am sorry for speaking down to your daughter for so many years.  For a brief moment over a misshapen letter N, I saw me as you see me.
I am not what I believe I am.  I am a sacred creation, valiant, brave, beautiful in the ways of the heavens, unique, vibrant, soft and hard at the same time, powerless and empowered, wise and clueless, helpless but capable.
I am YOURS.
You made me, and today you took my chin in your hand, stretched forth Thy hand and held Thy creation.  You tilted my eyes up to meet Yours as You spoke the truth that went straight to my hardened, soft soul.
"I would never make anything dumb."

One experience does not a mortal make.
A culmination of choices, trials, afflictions, and consequences does a masterpiece make.

Courage, sisters.  Courage.

Tunnel Blast

 

via kk61.blogspot.com

Last night, I shared my inventories with my sponsor.  I had my inventory categorized under 7 neat little titles: 

Times I Felt God's Presence in My Life

Positive Traits

Times I Saw Myself as a Victim

Thought I Could Save Myself -Didn't Use My Savior

Times I Let Fear Debilitate Me

Times I Didn't Keep My Word

Times I Feared Others More Than God 

As I went through my list, I realized that a GREAT DEAL of my inventory -no matter what category it was found under -all seemed to navigate back to one thing: low self-worth.

I was fine identifying it.  I had low self-worth all growing up and that's why I tended to see myself as a victim, that's why I never took my hurts and pains to the Savior and tried to handle things myself...

But why?  Where the heck did the low self-worth come from?

My sponsor asked me one question that sent my mind spinning.  I went to bed with it on my mind, and when I woke up this morning, the question had found an answer.  And I cried for the little girl I used to be.

I see her as a person apart from myself: she's so beautiful and important and sweet and her heart is so good.

And it ISN'T HER FAULT her mother fell off of a horse and hit her head on a rock.

It ISN'T HER FAULT she was raised by a woman who had a damaged brain.  

It isn't her fault.  She isn't a bad girl.

But she doesn't know that.  And because she doesn't know that, she doesn't feel important.  She doesn't feel loved.  She doesn't understand that her mother isn't like other mothers.  

She remembers being hungry and asking for food, standing by the fridge asking, asking, asking... she remembers her mother slapping her across the face and sending her to her room.

BECAUSE she was A BAD GIRL.

The foundation for my low self-worth was laid when I was a toddler. 

I internalized and self-blamed/shamed myself my entire life.  

I feel like this realization is the final blast in the tunnel.  I'm starting to see light peaking through the other side. 

I'm coming to know myself.

I don't blame my parents.  I admire them for sticking it out, for trying, for working together as Mom's brain healed... and it did heal.  

In high school, my mother and I used to drive to my flute lessons in a nearby city every other week.  I treasured those lessons.  Although my mother was a stay-at-home mom, she was in many ways, absentee.  I clung to those trips like NO other.  They were my opportunity to HAVE a Mom.

During one trip she said, "If I could give my kids anything -anything at all -it would be confidence.  I would instill confidence in them."

I remember her saying that.  I know my mother would never intentionally rob me of my self-worth or do anything to cause or foster low self-worth.  

I'm no stranger -it turns out -to living with someone with a broken brain.

Emotions wash over me today as I can see a little kindergartener in my mind's eye... she's scared of offending, of others, of disapproval, of offending, of not being absolutely agreeable to everyone.

If they love her, she will believe she's loved.

And she doesn't know it, but she's about to spend a life time setting patterns along those lines.  Fear will dominate her life.

UNTIL.

March 27, 2013.

Because now she knows.  Now she realizes.  And now, she will never go back.  Now she can look at the 5 year old doing a puppy puzzle in the Kindergarten room and love her.  Oh, how she loves her.

Oh, how she wishes she could reach through time and stroke her hair and tell her how important she is.

How lucky -how divinely lucky she is to have a blonde-haired Kindergartener at her fingertips without any time travel... she has a daughter: an important, beautiful daughter with hazel eyes and her Daddy's nose, and she can squeeze her, and stroke her hair and tell her:

YOU ARE IMPORTANT.  YOU ARE WHY I'M HERE.  YOU ARE MINE AND I. LOVE. YOU.

More than you will ever know, daughter.

More than you will EVER know.

Until you have a daughter of your own.

The Atonement is real.  The Savior LIVES.  He is present, presently.

I'm so grateful for my husband's addiction.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

I'm a Tool

I like to believe that once upon a time, Heavenly Father sat at a table and made a sort of game out of people-placement.  He made sure not to put too many healers in one corner... not too many seamtresses too close together.  He spent hours arranging, rearranging, finalizing, and then sending us all down to find out for ourselves what our callings were.

I'm a teacher.  I'm a writer.  I'm an entertainer.

A few months ago, my mom said, "We need to gather our family together and do a sort of inventory... see what we all have to bring to the table.  I just feel like if things get bad, it would be nice to know what we each have to help each other out."
I later found out she was talking about food.
But I thought she was talking about skills and stuff.  I went home and sort of agonized because I have this incredible sister in law who can do everything I can do, but she does it BETTER and simplifies it.  If things go bad, they won't need me if they have her.
I say this 100% without guile... I promise.  She is a rockstar.  If things go bad, I'm going to her house.
It did get me a little down on myself.  I mean, there ARE things I do that she doesn't do, but none of them really matter.  At least I didn't think they did.
Until I imagined it...

If things got bad...
If there were fires and bombs and a lack of food, what place would I have in the building up of the people?  I can make them laugh!  I can tell stories!  I'm a story teller -a writer!  I can use my words to teach!
These are all wonderful additions to destitute people!  Down-trodden and depressed people NEED people who can quote comical movies and skits in their entirety!!  Right?!

The thought salved my self-inflicted wounds for the time being.

I label myself as a teacher.  I'm not getting paid to teach, nor do I have a teaching degree.
I label myself as a writer.  I've never held a job where I got paid to write.  And yes, I've applied.  And yes, I've been rejected.
I label myself as an entertainer.  I'm not getting paid to tell stories, write poems, quote movies or anything like that.

But I do things like that because I can't help it.  It's just... me.  And I do things like teach and write and entertain because it brings me true happiness to do it.

I used to strive for recognition for these kinds of things.  I wanted so badly to be discovered as a writer -to have someone read my junk and go mad with satisfaction.
I felt like Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" when he daydreams about turning in his Christmas theme, and his teacher is completely overcome with the awesomeness of his writing.

via

"Listen to this sentence: 'A Red Ryder BB Gun with a compass and a stock and this THING which tells time...' Oh, Ralphie!  A plus, plus, plus..."

And his classmates lift him to their shoulders and parade him around the room...

Anyway, in the midst of my urgency to be noticed something happened: I hit rock bottom.  I realized the true depth of my husband's porn addiction and I was stunned and scared and panicked and suddenly nothing but survival mattered.  I stopped caring about whether or not people thought my writing was witty or funny or cool or whatever.

I just WROTE.

I wrote because I needed to write -I have to write.  My brain is wired to write (even as a small girl, I used to narrate my own life in my head.  I thought all kids did that.  I didn't realize that Constant Mental Compose Mode wasn't the human norm and I walked out of my door to walk to Elementary School and my brain went something like, "The front door creaked open and she set foot into the cutting chill.  A shiver went through her as she pulled her coat up around her ears, trying to seal in the warmth from her mother's oatmeal...").

I stopped dressing my writing to impress, and I just started vomiting words up out of my soul.  When I shared what I'd written, I didn't hear, "You are SUCH a good writer." 

Instead, people would say things like "I needed to hear that today.  Thank you so much for putting into words what I didn't know how."

And the more it happened, the more I could feel my Heavenly Father saying "You're an instrument."

I can use my God-given ability to express myself to try and turn a profit somewhere (if anyone would bother hiring a housewife with no experience).  But Heavenly Father didn't put me down here to turn a profit or to be discovered.  He put me down here to serve a purpose, to do for others what they can't do for themselves and I'm SO HAPPY to do it because so many people have done for me what I can not do for myself!  I want to give SOMETHING BACK if I can!

I can not heal my own infections, perform my own surgeries, match clothes, style hair, decorate my home, organize it... until one of the Lord's instruments takes me by the hand and lifts me.

They're tools.

I'm a tool.

Everyone's a friggin' tool.

via

We sometimes think we have to BE ALL THE TOOLS.  And if we need a tool we don't have, we use a a tool we DO have to do whatever it is that needs doing.  It takes longer and it's more stressful and time consuming than it ever should have to be, but hey.  At least we didn't have to call the neighbor, right?  At least we didn't let our guard down long enough for them to see our vulnerability and weakness.  At least we broke our back and denied someone a chance to serve and create joy in their own life.  Whew!

Needing help is so hard.  ASKING for it is downright agonizing.  Receiving it is hard to stomach.  

Giving it?  Giving it is celestial in every sense of the word.

When I felt prompted to start a recovery blog, I pushed the prompting away.  The internet was the one place in my little life that wasn't touched by the porn addiction in my home.  I could log onto my family blog -the place I go to write every day -and I could let porn go and focus on what my family had done the day before.

After listening to President Monson's talk in conference about following promptings, I knew it was time.  I was sad to let porn addiction affect my "safe" place, but it's been nothing but a blessing for me.  I'm learning so much about myself as I write, and I'm receiving little taps to the brain... they're writing prompts.

I'll be in the middle of doing dishes and *BAM* something whispers in my ear, "You should write about _____."  The more I dwell on the writing prompt, the more ideas flow.  Before my head hits the pillow, I have to get them all out through my keyboard.

I go to bed satisfied, happy, and I sleep soundly (ish.  I mean, as soundly as a pregnant lady in her third trimester can sleep). It feels so good to WRITE!  To compose! To put those words down and watch them work together and to hit the "publish" button and know that it will STAY written... unlike the living room that no matter how many times I clean it, it never stays that way.  I seriously think it has some kind of beef with me.

I love being a tool.

It doesn't profit anything material, but it profits soul cash... and soul cash can never be lost or spent or badly invested.  What's more?  You take it with you when you go.

Tonight I'm grateful for careful people placement and a wide variety of tools.

I realize tonight's post could come across as completely egotistical, but it isn't meant to come across that way.

And anyway.  Can I really be stroking my ego if I'm blatantly calling myself a tool?

That's rhetorical, by the way.  Please don't answer...

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?

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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):

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My first TV crush.  SUCH a heart breaker.

Practically Perfect

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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...

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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?

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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.