With What Is

My mom is really good at games.  She fills out crosswords in record time, answers trivia questions with ease, and loves to watch game shows when she gets a chance.  Growing up, Jeopardy! came on right around the time Mom started making dinner, and I think it helped her manage the stress that came from feeding 7 other people for the THIRD time in one day, knowing she'd be doing it again and again and again.
"What is."
It was the most common "answer" to all of the Jeopardy! trivia.
Except it wasn't an answer, it was a question.  The maddening paradox of Jeopardy! is the "answer in the form of a question" rule because, of course, the questions were actually answers.

This last week, I found myself stuck in a place I like to call "What Is." It's a place where I find answers to questions.  Rather, it's a place where I WAIT for answers to questions.
I LOVE research.  I think I inherited my mother's hunger for information, but it came without the ribbons and fanfare... I am absolute BUNK at games and trivia and I can only finish crosswords with a cheat sheet.

Research lights me on fire, especially when I'm researching PEOPLE.  The best pay off in research in ANSWERS.  I love getting answers.

But what happens when you don't get them as you're looking for them?  What happens when there's no book to look in?  Nothing to punch into the Google search bar?  No person to call for YOUR OWN answer?

This is the place, "What Is."
Sitting in "What Is" has proven time and time again to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life.  I squirm because I am NOT patient.  The lack of answers becomes more painstaking than the actual question.

There's a Zen saying -a humorous one -that goes, "Don't just do something -sit there."
Yes, it's funny.  But it is also SO FREAKING SPOT ON for me.  (I'm reading about Zen-like stuff right now.  More about that soon...)

I happened to read an article in a church magazine this last week that was really, really hard for me.  It was about pornography and there was truth in it, but I felt (and feel) there was something off.
So what IS IT?
WHY am I feeling this?

I was triggered.  I reached out and prayed, I called my sponsor.  I processed and I still felt a painful stab in my heart -I felt OFF all around, and I couldn't seem to burst out of the feeling of it all.

I WANTED TO BE OKAY while I waited, while I sat with What Was. Being calm in stressful situations is a personal goal of mine, and I was frustrated with myself -that I WASN'T calm while I waited for answers from God.  In short, I was impatient with myself and impatient with God's lack of answer.
And that double-fold impatience because heavier than the questions I had!

I was annoying myself.

Leading up to this point, God had carefully prepared me. I had gotten back into doing my dailies, and the day I'd read the article, I was in a good place emotionally, physically and spiritually. In the days leading up to my reading the article, I'd been reading a book loaned to me by a friend -it isn't a recovery book at all, but IT ACTUALLY IS.  It's a book about yoga, and as I read it, I feel like my soul is getting a massage, and sometimes I fall asleep because it just FEELS so good.

Days before reading the article, I read a passage in the book that put words to something I'd been trying to put words on for years... the place known as "What Is."

"Through patience, you can possess your soul.  When you catch yourself speeding through life, when you feel you must meet expectations and that so much of being left undone or that you're not succeeding as quickly as you think you should be, you must remember that real growth doesn't come from pushing through or breaking out of anything.  Rather, it comes through a gentle melting in.  The path of patience asks you to be okay with what is, stare it straight in the eye, and open to and learn from what's happening rather than contracting into fear, frustration, and a hidden drive to meet your expectations at any costs.  We must remember that when everything has to be right, something usually isn't." ~Baron Baptiste, "40 Days to Personal Revolution"

As I talked with my sponsor and processed my swirling reaction, I said, "I need to MELT IN."  The next day after I called her again to be accountable for my lack of serenity that was still hanging on, I left a message on her phone and then looked up at my husband and said, "I need to figure out how to be calm and find peace in WHAT IS."
So many prayers were said.
Tears popped to my eyes as I tried to force open a heart that felt hard during General Conference.

 I was reminded of another passage in the book that absolutely fascinated me.

"Each year, I conduct a weeklong bootcamp in the mountains of Montana.  A Lakota elder medicine man takes us through a sweat lodge ceremony, in which up to ten of us sit close together in a pitch-dark tent around a blazing fire, praying and chanting.  I always notice an interesting phenomenon: certain people insist on sitting right by the little exit flap of the tent.  They are adamant, claiming they must be near the door.  I have witnessed these same people break down into intense emotions, fear, and often racking sobs.  You later hear them say that as the steam and heat increased and filled the space with full intensity, they were sure that something terrible was going to happen.  They convinced themselves to stay by saying that if they were near the door, they would be able to make it through to the end.  The truth is that even if they didn't sit by the door, they would make it through.

In our total commitment to inner revolution and growth, we don't get to sit near the door.  We don't get to duck out if the process becomes uncomfortable.  We learn to stay with ourselves, no matter what." ~Baron Baptiste, "40 Days to Personal Revolution"

On Sunday, some solid answers came.  Mercifully short timing.

How can I learn to be okay while I sit in "What Is"?
There's no trivia answers, no outside answer, nothing I can read or study or outline or memorize... the answer is deeply personal to me and found deep within myself.

I can only access it by delving inside -by STAYING WITH MYSELF, no matter what.

I hope I'll get better at it, and I know it will take a great deal of practice.  My impatience is truly one of my grandest stepping stones to God (that's just a nice way of saying it's my biggest thorn in my side).

This morning, I walked outside into the fresh, crisp morning and let my toes enjoy the wet grass -it rained last night... the heavy, gorgeous kind of rain where the sheets fall so fast it looks like mythical creatures are dancing in mid-air.  This morning, everything was new.  I let my bare feet soak up the wet green grass.
How much longer will our grass be green?
I don't think about it.  I can't live in the future.  It's just a shadow of the present, as my pretend-friend James Allen says.
I keep quiet.  I had purposefully NOT checked social media before heading outside.  I pay attention to my breath, and it feels like I'm oxygenating anew my entire being -the stale air from my bedroom was exiting through my mouth as I breathed in the brand new air from the after-storm.
My mind begins to wander and I practice being gentle about pulling it back.  I'm mildly successful.  I begin my prayers, and find that as I pray and give thanks for what it around me and with me, I want to drop my hands down to my side, palms facing forward.
With my mind still and calm, my eyes closed, my palms open, mirroring my heart, I tell God I am ready.
At that exact moment, the sun burst forth from behind a dark rain cloud.  Though my eyes remained closed, I could feel the light.  I could "see" the light changing, everything brightened up behind my eyelids, and I felt God's warm love wash over me completely.

In that moment, I found that What Is was in my front yard, and that God lives forever in What Is.
What Is isn't always painful, but it always has the potential to be peaceful and it always is a place where I can learn, grow and increase in wisdom and humility.

What Is.
It's elusive and also?  The only place we really have.
The past can't be be fully lived in.
The future can't be fully lived in.
Trying to live from from either of them produces only pain, regret, and a shallow kind of life.

The present is What Is.

(I feel like I need to add a disclaimer: I took the pictures AFTER being present.  I didn't snap them in the moment because snapping pictures has the potential to sometimes take me OUT of the moment. Amen.)

Building Towers

I don't remember Heaven, not really... but it seems that part of me -perhaps a bigger part of me than I can grasp -suffers from severe homesickness. It's an ironic sort of homesickness -the more I feed it, the more it grows.  And I realize that it isn't actually a sickness at all but a HEALER in every way.

When I first sat down and really talked with Danny, it felt as if something deep within me was all at once excited and rested to be... could it be?... reunited.  I didn't know Danny.  I had never met him.  It was simultaneously the weirdest and most natural feeling in the world.

The part of my brain that's forgotten Heaven was confused and scared.  The part of my brain (? soul?) that remembers Heaven sort of exhaled, as if it had been anticipating my meeting Danny for years.  His voice was strange and familiar.  His hands were new and also home.  His hug was the hug of a newly-found friend and also the hug of someone I'd sung, "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again" to.
It felt good.
It felt scary.
It felt natural.
It made no sense and complete sense all at once.

A piece of homesickness was given remedy that day.  It was proof of Home.  I'd felt for some time that there was a Home for me out there.  Meeting and marrying Danny was a piece of my Home Puzzle... but there's SO MUCH MORE.  I can feel it.

There's a part of me that hungers -ever hungers -for something MORE.  I don't mean materially, don't mistake me.  I mean -emotionally?  Is it emotion?  Or is there something out there that is MORE, even, than emotion?
I've always had this hunger.
I've always been a deep-feeling, passionate person, and as such I've always felt a constant dissatisfaction with the world at hand.
That's not to say that I've dismissed joyful moments or failed to live and bask in the present -though at times, many times, I have.  I'm only trying to say that I've got a hole in my heart.
I've heard some in the SA world refer to it as a "God Hole" and while I believe that, I still feel like my hole is more aptly titled, "The Home Hole."
I am not at home, no matter where I go.  I used to pity Christ when He spoke of having no place to lay his head, but pity isn't what Christ sought at all... Christ simply spoke truth of how He felt about Earth.  It wasn't His home, and He wasn't at home in it at all.  Earth was where He went for a mission.

I've sought to fill my Home Hole in so many ways -SO many.  I've sought out intense emotions, trying desperately to reach a level of unearthly emotion, trying to feel ANYTHING strongly, powerfully.
I've sought for years for more and more proof of home, and in so doing I've developed My Vices.
My Vices, unlike my Home Sickness, are ACTUALLY sicknesses who also grow abominably the more they are fed.  They bring no healing.  They are malignant.

The more I shop, the more I eat, the more I tear down others, the more movies I watch, the more I dive into the Earth and try and make it my home... the larger grows my Home Hole.

I think of the descendents of Noah, building a tower toward Heaven.  So often I was taught that the Tower of Babel was a symbol of wickedness.  But yesterday as I looked up in the darkness at the ceiling over my bed, I thought about those inherently GOOD people building what they felt was a needed and necessary building.



They sought to muscle their way back home. This I understand!
They gathered up their friends -they all spoke the same language and they all had the same hole in their heart, and they built a tower to home!  To Heaven!  But they forgot -again, let's hold hands with irony -about God. They formed and fed vices with their tower. Their tower became their house of worship, but they had replaced God with their own selves and in so doing had built up A House of Vices.
But God didn't forget about them, just as He's never forgotten about Alicia.
God took from them their unity of voice which they were using for desecration, and He cursed them with the inability to understand one another, thereby saving them.

My Vices look like theirs, though their story is ancient and mine is circa 2010.  My search for home often (or eventually) lacked a God-center and by default was mortal-centered.

So often I've reached for food, for money, for beauty and validation -so that I might reach Heaven in some way.  I didn't understand Heaven, really, and that's why I did it.  My innate was crying out for home and I sought out home as best I could with where I was and what knowledge I had.
And God, in His familiar mercy, is saving me.  Though my saving doesn't involve a curse, it does involve a lot of pain... and therein I can empathize with the descendents of Noah.

Glennon Melton has said:

"People think of us addicts as insensitive liars but we don’t start out that way. We start out as extremely sensitive truth tellers."

I built my vices from a hungry place -I was starving for Home.  I sought it out in the wrong places, but I sought it out regardless.

I built my Babels and they all failed me.
I love C.S. Lewis's thoughts in The Screwtape Letters.  He speaks at this point as a Devil:

Prosperity knits a man to the World.  He feels that he is "finding his place in it," while really it is finding its place in him.  His increasing reputation, his widening circle of acquaintances, his sense of importance, the growing pressure of absorbing and agreeable work, build up in him a sense of being really at home in earth which is just what we want. ... The truth is that the Enemy, having oddly destined these mere animals to life in His own eternal world, has guarded them pretty effectively from the danger of feeling at home anywhere else. 

As I am facing my 30th birthday next month, I find that I'd much rather be 30 with the knowledge that has come with 30 than be 21, sitting in the dirt with my building blocks, trying to muscle my way back home.
It is a really yucky and hard place to be.

Ironically (yeah, we're still there), the most rested place I've ever been is completely racked with homesickness.

Give me not of this world, God, but offer up pieces of Home on Earth that I might make myself Fat upon my Longing for Home.
Give me a rose, a breeze, a baby's curl.  Give me a song filled with strains of Home, and a evening spent in the company of those who kept company with me at Home.
Give me meat and bread of body and soul.
Shower thy blessings upon me as I reach my hungry, childish arms up toward Thee.
I cry unto Thee for comfort, for love, for peace.

Give me no place on Earth to lay my head for therein lies risk of losing my peace-giving sense of Longing.

This is my Sabbath prayer and my Step 7.
Amen.

Of Mice and Mold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shame - Pride - Ouchy

I carry a lot of shame about my body.
I think ALL American women -thanks to culture and society -feel body shame.  Maybe not all, but it feels like all.

I had that shame before I married Danny, but marrying someone with an irresistible appetite for pornography upped that shame considerably. 

This past week, I realized that I've gained weight.  I don't keep a scale around, but I noticed my clothes just not fitting right.  I felt bloated and heavy.  I can see a change in my face.

In the last year -through the separation -I've gained weight.
While my marriage and family and self went through it, I didn't pay attention to what I was eating.  I used food as a comfort, an escape... a God in it's own right.
I ate chocolate before facing a scary confrontation, making a big phone call.
And then I ate chocolate afterward.

I ate to the point of sickness a few times -my body is exceptionally prone to sickness these days, having no gall bladder and an acute hunger for things like bacon.

Realizing I'd gained weight was more than a little upsetting.  It was SHAMEY.  I felt SO MUCH SHAME.
I felt worthless, ugly.  I wanted to stay home and hide.
This is crazy talk, my friends.  It is CRAZY.

I know it's crazy and THAT brings on more shame.  Like, "Hey, Alicia is totally aware that she's being crazy and SHE IS NOT STOPPING.  What an idiot."

My body shame morphed quickly into bad friend shame (I'm horrible at being a good friend) and bad neighbor shame (The kids flooded my neighbor's shed last autumn and they locked their faucet and won't have us feed their animals anymore.  Fair enough).
Bad Housekeeper Shame.
Bad At Finances Shame.
Broken Car Shame.
Small House Shame.

The shame ball rolled bigger, bigger, bigger and pretty soon it turned into PRIDE.  I began comparing myself, my bad neighborness, my messy house ness, my ugly car ness.
I'm thinner than _______ and bigger than _________.
Better than.
Less than.

The more pride I feel, the more YUCK I feel.  I begin blaming, rationalizing.  I see people less.  I judge people more.  When I talk with others, it's usually ABOUT others.
THIS BRINGS ON MORE SHAME.

And the web forms and grows and grows and forms.

In this state, I am ripe pickings for triggers.
This weekend, I was hit, hit, hit.

Granted, I went to a wedding reception and the bride sang, "Love Me Tender."  I BOOKED it outta there.
I spent an evening listening to a congregation discuss "saving others."
May day.  Seriously.

There were a few situations with Danny that left me feeling unseen and crazy as a daisy.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I was SPENT.
I ate cold cereal for lunch and slept for 4 hours.

Today I feel better.
The shame ball is gone.  I weigh the same as I did last week.  My house is dirty.  My car is broken.  My house is still a small trailer rental.  My dog barks outside pretty much nonstop.
I forgot a birthday.

But I'm okay.
I'm enough.

What disintegrates the shame ball?
God does, yes.  That is true.  Sometimes, though, it just takes a few hard days -some TIME - using my tools. Reaching out to God, praying honestly, calling a sponsor.  An extra dose of the right kind of self-care.
It's like proactive waiting.
Or something.

I'm grateful it's gone for now.  I'm tired and grateful.

No Filter

I have to be fully honest here about what's gone on the last few weeks.

I've had to log off online media because it's triggering my hopelessness in mankind. 
The sweet girls who just graduated high school and who attend church faithfully who are living double lives they don't think anyone else can't see... but we can.  On facebook, I can see a double life.  When you're checking my groceries and I look into your eyes, I KNOW.  I know about the pictures online, the offers to make videos, the sexting.  As much as I learn about sex addiction, I'm surprised that I'M STILL SURPRISED at who this addiction is touching.

I read articles that really downplay the spouse's pain -as if we simply need to forgive or get divorced.  Sex addiction is not cut and dry.  It isn't clear or easy.  It's predictable, so I'll give it that.

I can't read another article about loss or death right now -there's SO MANY painful stories.  There's so many in need of money, love, time, and help.

I don't want to see Kim Kardashian's oily butt on my newsfeed.

I don't want to see articles about how schools are teaching safe sex to 5th graders.

I don't want to be enraged or hit with pain or cry over situations I can't control anymore.

I had to log off.  I HAD TO.  I feel things SO DEEPLY I exhaust and annoy myself.  My counselor suggested I look into gaining education on being a highly sensitive person, and while I definitely am highly sensitive when it comes to FEELING EMOTIONS, I am not sensitive in any other way.  I thrive with noise and crowds.  I don't mind smells (when I'm not pregnant).

I'm needing a lot of help these days, and I hate that.  I've spent SO MANY YEARS just being TOUGH.  I've dealt with this addiction for TEN YEARS.  I've handled it.  I've managed.  I've been treading water, keeping my head just above the surface -taking on the world and doing it well, then feeling immediately resentful of everyone asking me to do ANYTHING.  I turn from empowerment to victim repeatedly.  It's a dysfunctional cycle that serves me well, and I'm productive and fruitful from the outward glances.

But GOD DOESN'T WANT THAT ANYMORE.
God doesn't want me treading on the water.  He wants me walking on it -toward Him, toward everything that is serene and calm... rising above the murky water.

He's taking sweet care of me, and it's overwhelming.  I feel like a starving, freezing pioneer out on the plains in the throws of a sacred rescue effort.  My life and salvation JUST MIGHT be saved simply on the prayers of those faithful, amazing people who love and care deeply for me. 

I've been given food, house cleaning, clothes, listening ears and love.  God has POURED out support and all at once I feel grateful and weak -I've never been such a charity case before.  I pray that God will call on me to send out to rescue someday that I might use whatever means necessary to build up and support those who have NOTHING left in them but the will to do The Next Right Thing that God has for them to do... to be able to serve them, feed them, and help them fully without judgement.

God is taking special care of me.
I don't know why, and as I do my step 4 inventory and make a list of my weaknesses, I REALLY don't know why.  I am prideful and undeserving.

Surely I don't need the turkey my neighbor gave me -surely if I just managed my own life better I could provide for MYSELF and someone else MORE IN NEED could benefit from the turkey *tread tread tread*
Surely I don't need house cleaning help.
Surely I don't need a box full of gifts for my children from a Secret Santa. 
Surely?
*tread tread tread*

I have taken, taken, taken.  God has given, given, given. 
I am not worthy -I have done NOTHING TO EARN THIS, and God has taken me in His arms and simply said, "Alicia, you don't have to manage the world's pain anymore.  You don't have to read articles that hurt, you don't have to serve the world... you just have to heal.  And you are hurting deeply right now.   But you're being brave.  You're choosing to hurt on the way to healing because THAT'S what healing takes... it takes you putting down your Cape of Toughness and putting on my cloak of meekness and letting yourself FEEL, HURT, and HEAL.  So heal, daughter.  I'm patient.  I love you simply because you are mine.  Your worth is beyond measure simply because you are you.  Rest.  Let me furnish your turkey.  You have healing to do.  Come, follow me."

You guys, I am speechless and overwhelmed.
God is so good and He knows me.  ME.  And I am small! 

So don't give up.
Keep going.  Keep reaching for The Next Right Thing.
Thy pain and afflictions shall be but for a moment.

Stop treading and rise above the water.  Christ is there, waiting for you to choose Him.

Fightin' For My Own Hand

Last year, I typed up a list of my boundaries and read them out loud to Danny.
My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking... I was terrified.

What would he think?
What would he SAY?
What would his reaction be?
What if he didn't approve?

I had prayed about my list and been pretty thorough as I typed it out.  I'd combed over it time and time again before printing it.  We won't even TALK about how long it took me to tell Danny I needed some time with him to TALK about SOME THINGS.

But I did it.

That piece of paper was my permission slip -my training ground.  I fell back on it when my gut told me something was off. 

My boundaries kept me safe.

I HATE NOT FEELING SAFE.  As a Beehive, I wrote the infamous "What I Want in My Future Husband" list, and THE FIRST thing on it?  Security.
As a blinking 12-year old, I wanted to be safe more than I wanted anything else in a man. 

In Addorecovery, I learned that in the course of being married to a man with an addiction, I'd been slowly trained to ignore my gut.  The truth of that statement hit me hard and fast -like a blow.  The realization was at once shocking and hair-raising.  I couldn't believe it, and yet...

For YEARS, I would operate under Danny's thumb... ever submissive, ever resentful.  I felt his hold on me and I didn't quite know what to do about it.  I loved him deeply, and I didn't want to upset him by arguing or making a fuss -neither of which I actually really knew how to DO anyway.

My boundary list was my baby step into those waters.

They let me make a fuss when I felt controlled, manipulated, or scared.
They let me argue when I felt unheard, unseen or brushed aside.

I followed my boundaries with the courage of a shaking, late-summer leaf.  Barely hanging on, but HANGING ON.

Fear was my constant companion, as always.  But I began to find that each time I stood up for myself, the fear had less power.  I slowly began gaining courage.
I found myself needing my paper less and less as boundaries became a natural part of my life rather than an awkward ritual carried out each time I felt tightness in my chest or a knot in my stomach.

I came to find out that instead of RESENTING DANNY for not keeping me safe, I could MAKE MYSELF SAFE by listening to my gut and the Spirit and SPEAKING UP. 

God meant for me to speak up.  That's why he gave me this voice, this spirit, this fighting soul that refuses to buckle... that senses and feels every emotion so deeply. 
I can put words to what I feel.
I will put words to what I feel.
And I will HONOR what my soul is telling me with complete honesty.

No more will I calculate and plan HOW to say it, how to bring it up, how to lessen the blow.
No more will I shake and shiver and avoid.
No more will fear of other people -husband included -keep me squashed in a tired, damp corner where only rats remind me that -once again -I've allowed myself to be beaten down.

I am not aggressive, but I can be assertive.
I can be fully honest, as the Savior would have me be, and as He is.
I can take His advice and give no thought beforehand to the things I might say, but I can simply open my mouth when I feel so moved and let the words come, let His truth pour forth from the depths of my soul.

I can let His light come through when the darkness threatens to pull me under.

I can surrender what others may think or say about my actions because I know -I KNOW NOW -that my words and actions, when honest and unflinching -belong to the Lord. 

If the Lord be with me, who can be against me?  Or rather, what does it matter if they are?

No more will I control my own voice, try to put it where I believe it ought to be (which -honestly -I sometimes believe IS in that dark, ratty corner)... but I will give my voice unto God.

For He will uphold me when I feel fear, and He will carry me through those awful moments when I don't think I CAN SPEAK MY TRUTH... because I usually can't.  But HE CAN if
I
WILL
BUT
OPEN
MY
MOUTH.

Are We Human?

This last week I had such an awkward trigger.

You know what my triggers are like?  They're little events that flip on a little switch that illuminate an ENTIRE ROOM FULL of related bologna.
After I double-sneezed a few days ago, my 5 year old son raised his eyebrows, "Mom, do you have issues?"

Yes, son.  But you'll learn more about that when I pay for your therapy in 15 or 20 years.

I want so desperately to feel safe in my marriage.  I want so desperately to feel safe... period.  I don't want to stifle my hunger for safety and security because I believe it's natural and wonderful to need it.  A life without that desire seems kind of, well, scary and cold and something that creeps in the alley of a Tim Burton film.

The thing is: when I'm around other men I feel safe with, my brain takes hold and goes to places I seriously hate... I hate that they're there, I hate that I feel them, I hate that I GO TO THEM.

I just kneel and say, "God, I have these feelings where I WANT safety with this person, and I ended up listening to that old song and facebook searching for that old boyfriend, and although I hate that I'm feeling and thinking these things, the fact of the matter is... I AM."
I then call my sponsor who says, "You're human."

HUMAN.

What a thing to be.

I can deny it all I want, but at the end of the day -no matter what mirror I'm looking in -I'm human.  I'm a hurt human, a funny human, a human who hurts other humans, a flawed human, a lovely human with lovely imperfections, a human with needs.

And I need safety.
My body needs safety.
My brain, my soul, my ME needs security.

I can find it all when I turn myself over to God which is both exhilarating and terrifying, one of those "so glad I did it even though I didn't want to" kind of experiences.

Like cliff jumping?

Learning Curve

Things have been so frustrating lately.

I sometimes wonder if life is truly STILL hard right now or if I'm just the world's biggest whiner.  As Danny and I have individually worked on our stuff, we seem to be falling short in a lot of places...

These past two weeks, we've been hit with losing not just my lifestar group but his as well.  We've also lost our counselor.  Thanks to a gall bladder that's gone bad, I've been getting sick after I eat no matter what I eat (though some food is less mean than others), and thanks to an insurance change I can't get it out until July -I've known it's been bad for months.  Danny's been under some incredible stress at work.
And we somehow have zero dollars.
I look around and see a broken house, a broken car, and how badly -HOW BADLY -I want to just burn this rental and move.  These walls have seen so much pain, so many old memories I want to leave behind.

As we begin again, each with a focus on God, I want fresh walls.
Not to mention that we're going to need some fresh walls soon anyway... three kids in one room isn't going to work forever.
But again -there's no money.  Despite our best efforts to pay off what debt we have (which isn't too much) and save a little -there's no money.

We've had some hard conversations, said a lot of prayer... and I don't know but that the Lord is closing some doors and not immediately opening any more.

I truly do feel grateful for this frustrating time because I can feel it stretching me.  I feel myself moving closer to God.

I'm learning a few things as I wade through this muck.

#1) When surrendering, it is VITAL that I be honest with the Lord about what I'm feeling.  I need to TELL HIM my awfulest, darkest thoughts as they are, not as I would have them.  So often my surrender prayers have been, "I don't want to feel this way.  I hate that I feel this way.  Please take it away" when they would have been more effective had I simply said, "I am having horrible thoughts, [detail horrible thoughts], and I truly desire to not be stuck in these horrible thoughts.  Please take them, please help my day not be overrun by these horrible thoughts."  After a major trigger on Saturday, I wasn't able to call a sponsor -or anyone, really -but I was able to lock myself in a bathroom stall and surrender and sob.  I came out and was able to be present for a family function without dwelling on or being squashed by the trigger.  Victory.

#2) Though I find courage and hope in being strong, and I loved being able to "pull myself up by the bootstraps" in years' past... I now find a new strength being offered to me.  I am a strong woman -for nine years, I've been muscling my way through living with an addict.  But that strength is superficial.  I find that I can't handle what's before me.  I can't grow money on a tree to buy a house.  I can't make the right counselor appear.  I can't help Danny at work.  I can't.  I can't!  But I can carry on, and I can carry on with hope, because GOD CAN.  THEREIN lies the greatest strength OF ALL TIME.  God has his own set of sturdy boot straps that he hoists me up in.  Today I can be reasonably happy because I CAN'T and GOD CAN.

#3) As I go through Step 4, I have found a few defects of character that are also strengths.  Where do I draw the line?  How can ask for the defects to be removed if they're also strengths?  Where's that fine line?
As I sat in the Temple on Saturday, the answer came to me so simply and clearly: when I use my character strengths for the building up of myself and my pride, they become defective.  When I use them for God, for His building up and in His service, they become my strengths.

#4) When there's a weakness that needs to be addressed, the Lord will find a way to address it.  Right now, I again need help.  I have needed more help since July than I ever have in my entire life.  My house has been cleaned, food has been brought, listening ears have been given, childcare, money... it is SO HARD for me.  So very hard.  One of my character weaknesses is control.  I am capable and therefore must and will handle everything on my very own.  Except that I can't, and being THERE and HELPING OTHERS is kind of one of the greater points of this life.  Yesterday, I fed the sister missionaries.  I signed up to feed them last month, not realizing that when the day would come, I'd be sick and cash-less.  I had some fish and some rice -not enough for the sisters AND my family, but it would be okay.  Something would work out.  My visiting teacher brought me food last night... fish and gluten free bread.  I had to smile at just how much Christ was feeding me bread and fish through one of his valiant servants.  The Lord has something for me to learn in all of this, and apparently I'm not learning it.  I hope I learn it soon... I'm working to be submissive, but I feel like such an inconvenience to so many.  An inconvenience and incapable lazy woman who isn't parenting right because she's too caught up in other stuff.  (Hello, Shame -we meet again.)

#5) This video pretty much sums up everything I'm learning and will always be learning and quite possibly will never fully grasp:

What My Recovery Looks Like

Years ago, I functioned under the assumption that recovery was what my husband did for his problem.

And my recovery?  Well.
It would naturally sort of take form when Danny's STUFF was all taken care of and his hands were brushed clean, hat doffed, all that.
It was like waiting for the three good fairies to come and spell me into a slumber of ignorance... only to awake when all the crap was over and done with.

Thorns cut?
Fight done?
Dragon slayed?  
Sweet, NOW wake the princess.  But not a minute before...

It makes sense.  It does.  It makes logical sense. 
But it doesn't make actual REAL LIFE, HANDS ON sense.  I found myself in the bulk of life -in the day to dayness of it all -just completely and utterly toeing the line of insanity.  One soft nudge, one gentle breeze and I plummeted. 

I can't tell you how many times that happened.  I really can't.  It wasn't once.  It was a lot more than once.
While it does tug at my heart strings that I seem to need to fall REPEATEDLY before a light bulb flickers dimly over my head... I DO take heart in the fact that -no matter how long it takes me to figure it out -I eventually will start moving away from The Cliffs of Insanity.
Inconceivable!

And while I feel the hungry itch to put what my own recovery looks like into words tonight, I will start by saying, "It's not at all like sleeping."
There's no fairies.

My recovery is simple.
And it's not easy.
THAT'S how I know it's right for me.  If there's ever anything in my life that is simple and pushes me... it's usually TRUTH.

My recovery means surrender.
It means finding myself in day to dayness and feeling insane.  Is it because I enforced a boundary?  Because I opened up to someone about my life and story and can't manage what happens next?  Is it because someone snapped at me in the line at Wal-Mart?  Is it because my house is messy and I suddenly find myself the butt end of my own shame jokes?
YES.
And the beat goes on, by the way.  Plenty more insanity where that came from.

My recovery comes in at that point.  Those situations are inevitable.  When they come up, I have a choice.

I can REACH IN.
or I can REACH OUT.

Reaching in involves everything that is indulgent and peace-but-for-a-small-moment.
It also kind of carries a demotivational poster that reads, "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips."
But I digress...

Reaching out is how I surrender.  I send up a prayer and connect with God.
Heavenly Father, I can not manage or control what it going on.  I can't.  I can't.  I can't. 
I pour my heart out and remind God that I AM BROKEN.
And then God reminds ME that I'm broken. 

At that point, I pick up my phone.
I dial.
I talk.  I talk to someone who isn't at the end of a facebook account.  I have to do more than that.  I have to put myself out there more.  I need to be willing to dial and say, "I am broken."
Whether into an answering machine or not... it yields the fruits of peace.

THEN I write.  Then I take to facebook or Amish pen t' paper.  THEN I send it out into the wild blue cyber.

THAT'S WHAT I DO EVERYDAY.
Because every day.  EVERY day, I come up against situations that make me feel crazy, that remind me that I CAN'T and that put a beautifully clean mirror up in front of me to show me that though I walk upright on two perfectly capable size 9 feet and stand tall... I am very broken, and beautifully so.
The kind of broken that turns clay into pottery and paint into majesty...

I hate that mirror.  I love that mirror.  I sit in front of it and write copious notes.  I observe what I see and I write it down.  I pray to God and ask Him to show me what HE sees in the mirror -what He would like ME to see, and I write.
I share my findings with someone I trust.
Hear that? 
I REACH OUT.

Using what I find, I begin the Clay To Vase Refining Process.
I prayerfully go about how to do it...
Who needs to be part of this process?
What needs to go?
What needs to stay?
What needs to be brought out?
What needs to be mended?

And then I put my feet to the pavement.
Sometimes it's an army crawl.
Sometimes it's a power walk.
Sometimes it's rolling forward because my legs have HAD it.

But any way you look at it, it's CONNECTION with the world around me.
REACHING OUT.

 I have a swear.
Something I just can't allow.
It goes something like, "boot straps" or "big girl panties."
When it comes to recovery, these just do not apply.  Okay, Alicia?  There's no room LEFT in your BODY for emotions to be stuffed down. 
Picking up and carrying on and being big and not feeling.  NUMBING.  GOING IN and getting in my own head about my own shortcomings is just.
Just!
futile.
So damn futile.

Recovery is the art of connection, vulnerability, and intimacy.

It looks a lot like someone else's job.
But it just isn't.
It's wholly and completely mine. 

In truth: I try diligently to work my recovery every day.
Some days, I don't end up working it.  I get to the end of the day and find myself in a straight jacket plastered in splatters of Nutella, and then I remember.
Oh yeah.  Recovery.  Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.
Which is 100% more awareness than I had in June of 2012, so I still count that as progress.
not perfection.

I have dailies to keep me on the path of serenity, to remind me that there's a better way.

Work step 12 at least once daily.
Read my scriptures first thing in the morning.
Give one thing daily (a hug, a smile, gratitude, babysitting, a hot pad...)
Email a list of what I eat each day to my sponsor (Nutella happens)

I have bottom lines I strive not to cross.

Don't make jokes about my weight.
Don't report my work outs to my husband.
Don't daydream or plan our 10 year anniversary (fantasizing and daydreaming are amazing at shooting me up with pleasant numbness)
No ring shopping (I have serious fantasy issues.  It comes with being a creative writer.  I should really be channeling my creative imagination into more profitable places.  Stupid Groupon.)

I fail a lot.
And when I fail, it is not fun to REACH OUT. 
But reaching out is the key to all of this: to breaking chains and forging bonds, to clearly understanding God's love and seeing it in the eyes of those I address as Sister and Brother.

The fruits are sweet, so sweet that "sweet" seems like toddlerspeak as I try to put words to how incredible the miracle of recovery is -how incredible The Atonement is.

I have the right to choose, thanks to my Savior and My God.
I choose to reach out TO THEM and to their children.

I choose healing.
Every day, I am given the opportunity to make that choice.

Thanks be to Crissy for putting to paper (Amish Style) something I flippantly joked about earlier... her willingness to sketch me with a cape is pretty much the best Amish stunt that's ever come my way.

Thank you, Crissy girl.
You make me feel like I have He-Man's power.
 By the power of Greyskull...

 

PS: do I spy a hatchet necklace?!  PRETTY sure I need this framed to go next to my Undefeated Woman trophy.  Awesome.  Just balls to the wall AWESOME.

Put on a Show

My nearly 18-month old doesn't care for watching the television.
Unless the movie "Frozen" is on.

With Frozen, she's RIVETED.  She sings, she claps, she focuses and rests.  I should be sick of it by now, but I'm not.
When I hear, "Conceal, don't feel, don't let it show," it reminds to do JUST THE OPPOSITE.

I know that it's okay to feel, to have bad days, to be triggered, and to spend some time sobbing my guts up.  I know it because I've heard it.  I've said it.  I believe it.

But sometimes.
I don't.
DO it.

Why?  Because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid if I call my safe recovery people and blubber into the phone, they'll roll their eyes and think I'm gigantic weak baby.
Wah, wah.
I can practically hear my Dad's voice, "It's all in your head, 'leasha."

This last week has been so helly.  So awfully.  So darky.  So many ys.

AND THROUGH IT ALL I was trying to just be strong, to eat right, take care of myself and be perfect... I was trying to HANDLE IT instead of surrender it.
I did surrender some, but man.  MAN.  Not nearly enough.

Did you know that on Wednesday I ate amazingly?  I struggle with stress eating, and on Wednesday -one of the worst days this week -I ate nearly perfectly.  Better than I eat when I'm not in trauma!

I somehow excuse myself from the "progress not perfection" motto and strive -and refuse to settle for anything less than -perfection.  I must and will handle everything perfectly.

I vented on facebook.  I talked to my sister.  I talked a little with my mom.  I called my sponsor once.
I talked with my other sponsor once.
And I emailed.

So I REACHED OUT, right?
I did, RIGHT?!?!

But did I?  Did I actually?  Did I actually PICK UP A PHONE and let myself FEEL?  Did I take some time to let the tears fall when they began welling up?
I am here to say that this past week, I shoved them down.  I didn't call as much as I should have.

Calling makes ALL the difference, but my shame kept me from punching in numbers.

What if they're busy?
What if I bother them?
What if they think I'm whiny?
What if I come across as weak?
WHAT IF THEY HATE ME?!?!?!
And 'round and 'round the trauma goes.

Today my sponsor gently reminded me to REACH OUT and call and to work the steps harder and really, Alicia, REALLY... FEEL.  And it's okay to feel.  It's okay to have a bad week because they will come.  It's okay to struggle and cry and SOB until there's nothing left to shove down.
People may think you're crazy, but call anyway.

GET OUT OF THE TRAUMA.
REACH OUT.

FEEL.  Make one wrong move, and let it shine.  Let people see your messiness, and you might be pleasantly surprised at just how much you're LOVED in your brokenness.
When Danny doesn't let me see his struggles, I don't feel as safe, as open... but when he pours his broken soul out, I settle into it.
Why am I denying myself the same chance of acceptance from other women?

And just to get us started:
I'm terrified of making mistakes in recovery, of having to be accountable for them, of letting others down by showing weakness (?what the what?  I don't get myself).
I'm also realizing that I thought I was patient and nice and aware of others. And the more recovery I work, the more I realize I'm bold, impatient, unaware of those around me, frank, forward, and not quiet.
It's hard because I've fought against it my whole life.  Trying to accept that I'm a deep FEELER, a loud TALKER, and a bold, frank woman is scary.
I wanted to badly to be quiet.
To not be the kind of woman who blogs her life but sits quietly and reservedly and gently.

But God has other things in mind for me, and I can't seem to stay away from glass-house living (blogging).  I can't stop talking, I can't stop being BALLS TO THE WALL RECOVERY GIRL (pretty sure I need a cape.  And possibly someone to draw me thus).

I'm just me.
Imperfect.
And presently full of healthy chocolate cake.
Blogging in the middle of a messy house.
Even though guests are coming over in 30 minutes.
It's all okay though because I'm the queen of procrastination, and gosh dang it ALL if this house won't look presentable in 15 minutes.

And in the meantime, here's the only thing I can grow in my flower bed.

 

Tonight I'll probably put the kids to bed and watch a tear-jerker for the sake of letting some trapped tears OUT.

Although honestly, with my kids around, sometimes I'm laughing too hard to cry.  I mean, LOOK at that baby ^^^

 

Kickin' Up Dust

Danny and I have this nerdy book club going on where we read the same scriptures individually and then discuss them later on.
Except it's not organized and there's no cucumber sandwiches.  It's mostly us discussing Christ over dirty dish water while the children punk each other in the background.

It is ALL good.

As I (we?) have read the New Testament, I keep finding Christ teaching the principles of the 12-steps, and it has been so validating for me!  I get some push back for working the steps because, well, they're "not scriptures" and I shouldn't neglect my spirituality for the sake of a therapy program thingy.
But they go SO hand-in-hand.  So very much.

In Matthew, The Savior speaks to his disciples (of which I'm striving to be and even cross my legs like one...) about shaking the dust off their feet.
I've read that before.  I've seen that before.
But I mean... I READ that the other day.  And I SAW it.

 

(aHEM.  I like pink.)

Whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house or city, SHAKE OFF THE DUST OF YOUR FEET.

I read it over time and time again.

How many times had I felt -HAVE I felt -unheard?  unwelcomed?  

How many times have I taken those situations and tried to manage them, tried to fix them, tried to help others see...

Tried to manage their perception of myself?  as if I had the DUTY to manage and control others.

I didn't know I could surrender at the time.  Surrender has always been -for me -an elusive sort of balloon that I load full of my unmanageables and send on up to Heaven.  It was something I imagined myself doing, and I always felt like I was leaving a message on a Celestial answering machine.

"Hello, God?  This is Alicia Again.  I was just calling about _______, _________, ________.  That's why the balloon is coming.  So, uh.  BYE."

Learning the process of surrender seemed awkward and imaginary and TOO easy... 

But as I read those words, everything clicked.  

Balloons, it turns out, aren't my forte.

But dust?  Dirt?  MUD?  Soil?  THESE I understand.  And how I love the idea of kicking it off and leaving it for the Lord to manage.

I find myself in certain situations kicking the mud from my tennies and saying, 

"God, I just walked OUT of a situation that is thoroughly pissing me off/making me insane/confusing me/breaking my heart/scaring the crap out of me and I feel like I was unseen, unheard, and powerless.  I WANT to continue investing.  I want to be heard and seen.  I want to manage this outcome.  I feel the urge to CONTROL. The urge is strong with this one (and I point to myself and laugh because my God GETS movie quotes).  BUT instead, I'm going to kick it off... I've walked around and gathered the dust of this situation all OVER my shoes, so I'm going to kick it off and leave it here for Thee.  This isn't easy for me to do.  I want to keep the mud, but I trust you know better what to do with matter and mortals than I do.  Can you help me get this caked on part off?  Even if I fight?  I'm trying not to..."

And there I sit on the porch of my pathway and stomp my feet.

The dust flies up into my desert and I breathe in fresh air.

I think of D&C 75:19-20

"19) And in whatsoever house ye enter, and they receive you, leave your blessing upon that house. 

20) And in whatsoever house ye enter, and they receive you not, ye shall depart speedily from that house, and shake off the dust of your feet as a testimony against them."

I like the thought of leaving a dust pile, dust devil, dirt path... leaving it as a testimony of my surrender.  Walking AWAY from IT rather than watching my balloon float away from me.  

Does that a hill of beans sense, friends?

This concept is SO powerful for me.  I shared it with my husband through our Cazh' Book Club (that's the casual form of casual, I'm pretty sure) via the picture I posted above.  And now he texts me pictures of high heels when I'm trying to shake dust.

It's truly adorable how classy he mistakes me to be.

Heels... *chortle*

I don't always think to surrender things right away.  Of course I don't.  More often than not, I choose to walk around in the dust of the situation like the pigs who live behind my house.

WALLOW in the dust until it becomes caked on my shoes.  

Surrender is only as simple as I make it.  God will let me surrender at my own pace and in my own time.  I can choose to make it a simple process of my prayer (written above), a phone call to a trusted person (sponsor), and writing it down to put in my God Jar.

OR I can keep it quietly, try and manipulate my own control, feel my heart pump and race and my head spin out of control... and in those times, surrender becomes increasingly and measurably and infinitely more difficult.

But still possible.

And still a life-giving miracle.

No More Tissues

I'll never forget the day I was done crying.

For six years of marriage, I had shoved down my tears in favor of comforting my husband.  And when I hit rock bottom and six years' worth of hot tears came raging to the surface, I couldn't stop.  I cried for months.  No one knew my pain.

I talked with the Bishop now and then, but kept that relationship as small as possible -stripped it bare of what I was really going through.  My own shame kept me from opening up.  I didn't talk, I didn't tell... I was married to an addict, a porn addict, and the shame I felt was binding.
But one day I told someone who wasn't on The Shame List of people it was okay to talk to -she wasn't a Bishop.
I didn't want to tell her because the thought of someone else KNOWING made me physically ill.  What would Danny say if he found out I had talked about his stuff with someone else?  a friend?  another woman?
Still, something drove me to open my heart.  And I did.
I'm pretty sure it's easier to jump out of a plane with a parachute strapped to your back than it is to take that first plunge.
Why?  No parachute.

For days afterward, I felt ill.  I shook.  I felt deceitful.  I felt like I was lying to my husband by not telling him that I had told someone.  I was terrified he'd tell me not to tell anyone else, not to talk to her, and at that time... I needed the safety of space, the safety of being able to talk unfiltered, to share my pain and hurt.
And I DID.
For months, she would call. 
"How are you?"
I would answer and the answers were never witty or funny or nice in any way.  They were riddled with grief, with hopelessness, with false beliefs about my abilities, identity and nature.  I would apologize for my negativity, and she would listen and say, "I am so sorry you're going through this."
So many tissues.  I used up so many tissues.  SIX YEARS of tears came flowing out in six months!  Meltdowns were no respecter of persons or holidays or convenience.
The children watched Netflix and sat on clean laundry.
I gained ten pounds.

My dear, sacred friend continued to call.  The One Who Knew.  
Then came one day in late summer.  She called on a bad day.  I picked up the phone.
"How are you?" she asked.
And, like I had for many months prior, I told her.  I laid bare my soul.
Only this time?  I HEARD myself.  It was an out-of-body experience.  I listened to my depression, I heard my tone of voice... the darkness in my soul.
I hung up the phone and DID something.  I did the dishes. 

As I washed, I felt the urge and push and desire for something... MORE. 

I didn't want tissues anymore.
What did I want?
A life without tissues had seemed impossible, and to find myself wanting to move on?  I felt lost.  I needed guidance.  I needed...
...
TOOLS.

I wanted to WORK at something, I wanted to dig up something, uncover something!  But all I had on my side were a pile of tissues and a dirty house!
I had no direction, no one to talk to... the only person I knew who had gone through this had divorced her husband, and I didn't feel that was a path I needed to take.

So I talked again.  I TOLD another person.  Again, the shame was sickening, but the rewards were worth it.  She suggested a support group.  I began attending and looking into the eyes of women who understood my pain. 
The more support I found, the less pain I felt and the more tools I had!

My soul became a tool box, hungry to be filled.  Each meeting, each phone call, each new person I felt prompted to open up to became a stepping stone, a tool, a fresh face in my pathway.

And my tissues.
My sweet, valiant, loyal tissues.
I reserved a drawer in my tool box just for them.  Where they were once a lifeline, they did become a enemy to my progression... a trap, so to speak.
 For although I needed my time to feel and process the victimization, there came a beautiful and glorious day when I was ready to put my toes into the water of hope. 
I just needed someone to take my hand and guide me toward the stream.

And as I filled my toolbox, it was constantly shifting.  Is this for me?  Is THIS for me?
I rearranged and tried new tools, different brands...

This weekend, I turned and checked my toolbox out to find -most blessedly -that my toolbox is past it's shaping phase.  I can now open up shop and fully go hard and fast to work.

My tools:

• Monthly meeting with my Bishop where I hold NOTHING back but lay aside my shame and open up.  My Bishop is safe -my Bishop has not traumatized me.  I know I can open fully up to him, and I do.  He gives me spiritual guidance and inspired direction from God.
• Regular meetings with a sex addiction therapist.  My online meetings with Brannon Patrick have been pivotal in my recovery.  Having someone look me in the eyes and say, "Alicia, you have rights.  You don't have to live under the thumb of addiction" was freeing and hopeful and validating.
• Education!  Support!  YOU!  I'm looking RIGHT AT YOU! Reading books and blogs and finding true joy in my unending and ever-satisfying quest for truth!  The more I know and learn about addiction, vulnerability, truth, transparency, and LOVE... the stronger and more resilient I become.
• Daily work in a 12-step program (s-anon for Yours Truly) with a sponsor who is safe -more concerned about my well-being than my comfort.  I can call her and spill it all, and she can lovingly guide me, speak truth when I can't see clearly, and say things like, "Go eat something healthy, okay?" when I'd rather eat cookie dough. Working the steps daily means working surrender daily, and surrender is one of my greatest tools that brings me closer to
• GOD.  Each of my tools above brings me closer to God.  He is at the center and the outskirts of my recovery.  He is in my core and around my being.  He IS Alpha and Omega. 

My tissues are blessed and sacred.
I don't minimize or downplay the months they camped by my side.
I needed those months, and am FOREVER grateful to my friend who listened without judgement or advice.  Without those vital months, I never would have HEARD myself.  I never would have come to a point where I was ready to seek out and fill a tool box.

But here I am, tools in hand.

My life is filled with HOPE and LOVE.  Because I lived without them, I know and can FEEL the stark difference.  So I issue a prayer to my God and to those traveling this path, no matter where they might be on it:

Give me tools.  Give me tools.  Give me tools.
The tissues will take care of themselves.

The Word With Too Much Credit

I just spent four amazing, perspective-shifting days in Utah.  I was able to get some recovery clarity, some hard and solid truth and some firm direction for which I am truly, truly grateful.  In 2010, I found myself grasping for truth and hope, and I feel like this weekend I arrived at my answers.  No more trial and error, no more trodden pathways to retreat, retrench, remodel.

Just truth.
God-inspired truth.
(more on all of this later!)

I have so much to type, so much to process... and coming home was something I looked forward to.  I was able to scoop my babies up and inhaaaaaaale their warmth and sweet smells.  I was able to look into my husband's eyes and finally stop missing him.

As we visited, he told me he'd taught the Elder's Quorum lesson and opened up somewhat about his addiction -he didn't go into specifics, just let the class know he had an addiction.  He was feeling vulnerable about it, kind of exposed.  He then went on to tell me that he planned on talking to his sister that night about it -opening up and letting her know what we'd been going through.

He asked what I thought.
"That's your beef, babe," I said.
And I really believe that.  So WHY did I start crying when we all loaded into the car to visit my grandma and I heard my husband say the words to his sister, "I have a pornography addiction."
My emotions turned to Bubble Gum inside my chest cavity, they inflated, inflated, inflated... taking up every inch of physical space.  And then? They popped.  Stinging tears welled up in my eyes.
Why?
Why was I feeling this way?
What was happening?

I have NEVER been so grateful that Grandma only lives maybe two blocks away.  I broke loose outta that car so fast... collected myself (and three kids) and went inside to talk with my Grandpa about the organ in the Conference Center.  I did NOT want to hear any more of that conversation. 
As we visited, I found my thoughts wandering back to my husband who was still outside spilling IT ALL to his sister.
What would she think of me?

I began to fear judgement.  My shame kicked into gear and fear took hold... fear of being judged by another person.
What if she thinks I'm weak?
What if she thinks I don't appreciate Danny?
What if she thinks I'm a hard arse school Marm with a controlling, self-righteous agenda?

 

No truly God-fearing woman would ALLOW her neck to be seen.  or her lips to move.

The words "just porn" kept ringing in my brain.
At that moment, I wanted to reach up into my brain, outside where my husband was standing, out into society and PLUCK the word "pornography" away from the word "addiction" and FLUSH the dammed word.
Pornography gets far too much credit.

To be frank and honest and frankly honest, if all Danny had was a pornography issue... things would be really different around here.  As a sexual being with sexual feelings, I can empathize with a desire to look at porn.  I can understand the urge and the temptation.

But it isn't porn.
And it isn't *just* porn.
And it isn't the porn that brought me to the point of dumping my marriage anyway.

It was behavior.  It was disconnect.  It was living with someone who emotionally abused me and controlled me and manipulated me.
Part of me wanted to call his sister and explain everything from MY side (hello, Drama.  It's always a bunk of hell to see you).  I wanted to explain the years of disconnection, of fighting tooth and nail to be seen, of doubt and rejection, of loneliness and heart breaks, of feeling like an absolute CRAZY person who needed padded white walls... when breaks turn to shatters and emotional pain became physical.  The cycles of buildup and anger to honeymoon and hugs to build up to honeymoon and around and around... the insanity of not knowing if he truly meant what he said, of believing lies and doubting truth, of losing myself, of the need for therapy to simply help me see that it wasn't untoward to expect a husband who wouldn't fight me when I stood up for myself.
Isolation, secrets.
SHAME.

And in the end, I wanted no more part of my marriage.  Letting go seemed harsh at first, but the freedom and peace I felt kept me.
They kept me sane, safe, and solid.
I moved forward confidently, despite the voice in my head who SCREAMED, "What in the bunk of HELL is going on?!"
I shook but I moved forward, God guiding me with every timid inch I moved.

And pornography?  It was the least of it.
So why.  Why does it get the credit of it's own title?

It shouldn't.
Because as much as porn harms and kills and hurts and works a lot of bloody dirty work (I'm looking at you, sex trafficking), it's getting WAY too much credit for what's going on up in here.

I'm powerless to actually flush the word away.
But I am not powerless to surrender the shame that leaves me wishing I could manage others' perceptions of my decisions.  They might judge me, they might not understand, they might believe that I'm an intolerant, strict statue of a woman with unrealistic expectations.

I can surrender that.
I WILL surrender that.
I have to surrender that.

(But I might also take a good portion of my day and invest it in burning a few papers with the words "pornography addiction" on them.) 

I Don't Know Stuff

They say we're living in The Information Age.

But I really think we're living in The Answer Age.

Everyday I'm bombarded with answers!  They blow up my facebook feed, headlines, even my phone line.
Stay at home as a mother.
But don't.  Don't stay at home.
Let babies sleep, but wake them up.  Make them take naps -no wait, DON'T.
Wear pants to church!  But also remember that you should absolutely NEVER wear pants to church, and there's a bunch of meme pics of Elder Holland to back it up.
Give cake to gays!  But for the love, don't EVER bake a cake for gays.

There's answers for addiction, for relationships, for marriage, for parenting, for lifestyles!

A few days ago, I began to be bothered.  NOT by the insane amount of answers being shoved into my face at any given moment (because we all know you don't have to be online to have someone have answers for you!) but because I felt stupid.

STOOPID.

In the sea of answers, I seem only to be on the receiving end.
And that must mean -by default -that I am stupid.  Right?
All right, so that's a false belief, but before you diagnose me and give me an answer, please just listen for a few minutes...

I don't have the answers to addiction.  I don't have the pathway down.  I can't sit here and type out what you should be doing or shouldn't be doing or what to tell your Bishop or which boundary you need.  I can't laden you with comforting answers or set you on a path or put you on my back and carry you down my path, expecting you to see the RIGHTNESS of it all as you observe.

Because all I have is questions.

Through this whole thing, I've resigned myself to a few unchangeable truths in my own life.

1) I really don't know anything which doesn't make me stupid -rather, it sets me free.
2) God knows everything.
3) He doesn't tell me everything, and I reserve the right to resent Him for it now and then instead of handling this truth how I feel I'm "supposed" to (which is to stuff my anger down and go to church.  Now I shake my fist to the sky and go to church which is different because my stress level has gone down.  Follow?  No?  That's okay.  I barely follow and I'm living it).

In the past week and a half, I have bit laid out flat with all kinds of stuff that makes me mad at God, one of which being my brother and his wife who suffered through 7 years of infertility and the eventual loss of their second child to a heart condition have now lost a baby at 20 weeks gestation.
Twenty weeks of development, not only of her frail body but of her parents' hopes and dreams, her older siblings hopes and dreams... gone.  Just very, very gone.

That on top of a few other, "are you KIDDING me?"s has brought me and my depression to a place where I'm sort of just moving through it all, not reacting or feeling like myself, but moving from appointment to appointment -gratefully overwhelmed with doing so I can't be overwhelmed with FEELING.
God has given me too much to do because He knows if I weren't doing, I'd simply be in bed, covers over head.
That is ONE thing He's let me know.
"Just keep going forward," He said to me when I asked Him if my schedule was too full.  Ahhhh, HE filled it for me.  My gift of having things to live for.

But as I got ready for work on Tuesday and felt anger toward Him for not letting me know WHY our family is suffering in so many ways, a good friend a few states away (I think you know her as Jane) sent a poem my way that read:

"I SHALL know why, when time is over,
And I have ceased to wonder why;
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky.
He will tell me what Peter promised,
And I, for wonder at his woe,
I shall forget the drop of anguish
That scalds me now, that scalds me now. "
~Emily Dickinson

My answers lie where Emily's lie: in heaven.  Even reading that poem minutes after shaking my fist to the sky, I found God giving me my #3 truth all over again.
I KNOW, Alicia.  I KNOW, so don't worry so much.  Just keep asking questions.

Truth #4:
I have no answers for you.  I will respect you enough to let you tell your own story and find your own answers while simply sharing my story.

My days are filled with me content to not know enough to participate in online arguments, happy in my question quest, but reserving the right to let God know how irritating it is that He keeps so much to himself even though I truly know what a beautiful gift it actually is.
Not all beautiful gifts are 100% irritation-less.
 (*cough* kids *cough*)

Truth #5:
I used to have answers.  I used to give advice and hand out "HERE'S THE WAY" tickets.  And sometimes letting go of that makes me feel dumb.

But abandoning a world where I insist on having answers has freed me.
There's no pressure anymore.

There's only a world of exploring questions and asking God for my own truth.

I won't wear pants to church, but will you?
I would totally bake a cake for a gay couple but don't hold an opinion on your answer to the same situation.
I let my baby sleep, but would you?

I can't walk you through this path of addiction.  But I can tell you that God has walked me through it.  And sometimes I pretend He sings songs to me... songs about calling and answers.
I smile each time I hear the line, "and if you court this disaster, I'll point you home."
What?  Me?  Court disaster?  Please...
(By the way, it's 8:30 in the morning, and I'm currently dealing with the stench of burned milk.  I forgot I let the burner on, okay?  It happens.)




This is me coming to acceptance with not having answers and owning that THAT doesn't make me -by default -shallow, dumb, stupid, or clueless.

It makes me free.

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.

Detaching From Detaching

I detached from my husband a lot over the years.

He wasn't safe, our marriage wasn't safe, a situation wasn't safe... so I'd detach and lay a brick down.  A few days later, I'd step over the brick and back into my relationship with my husband.  And then he'd go into addict mode, and I'd detach and lay a brick down.

It was a comfortable pattern.  My wall grew thick and strong.  It got to the point where if I wanted to step over it and get back into our relationship, I had to REALLY try hard.  And I would try hard, and then I would get hurt.  So I would catapult myself over the wall and add 90 million bricks, covered in "Alicia How Could You Be So STUPID?!?" tears.

Behind my wall was a wonderful world filled with everything I loved and had forgotten: my crochet hooks, my empty grid-paper journal, my hunger to learn and do more!
I dumped myself into that world and discovered that -oh my HECK, I am really fun!  Vivacious, colorful, imaginative, silly, crazy, creative!
I had this moment standing there behind my wall with my arms full of kittens, crayons, and musical instruments... I wanted to share it with someone older than the age of 6.

And that someone is my husband.
Even after all the hurts, the lies, the betrayal, the MUCK... I love him and I want him in my life.

So I did something very Alicia-ish.  I took a drill and took it to the wall.  I am CRAZY with tools.  Not crazy good... just CRAZY.
I peaked through the hole and saw him standing there.

He was doing rottenly mean things, and I watched.  I didn't feel a thing.
Something inside sort of wanted me to feel, but my wall was doing her job and I felt nothing but apathy... if it's possible to actually FEEL apathetic.
I left my tiny drilled hole and went about my business, writing, playing, crafting, cooking!  I learned a few new skills, I discovered Pinterest, I worked my own recovery.
Now and then I'd return to the wall and peak out. 

Sometimes he'd come to the wall and knock.
Sometimes I'd call out to him through the hole.

Sometimes I wanted to make the hole bigger, but fear kept me from doing it.
Sometimes I filled in the hole and cried myself to sleep.

The Wall stood proudly between us always.

But then something happened... and that something is his Step 1 Inventory.

When we were first married, my husband kicked my toenail off by accident.  Except it didn't come alllll the way off.  It left a weird stubborn stub just... THERE.  That toe was such a pain in my life.  I couldn't touch it.  I couldn't bump it.  I had to really watch other people's kicks around my precious toe.  I tried nursing it, clipping it back, painting over it.  It grew back in deformed and thick.  I limped around on it for YEARS.  YEARS!  Until one sweet day when I was dancing with my husband last year... and he finally kicked if off FOR GOOD.  It hurt like mad for a few weeks, and today I have a wonderful new toe nail and no pain.
The nail has been taken off for good.

It's uncanny how that toe mirrors my marriage.  The Step 1 Inventory finally ripped the deformed marriage OUT of it's place.

I kept myself safe from my deformed marriage because I had a wall, but as I found myself... as I came to know that I AM A LITERAL DAUGHTER OF GOD, My Father, King, Savior, Ruler and Prince of Peace... I became strong!  I became confident and sure.  And I became comfidentally SURE that I didn't want a deformed marriage anymore.

With my wall in place, I had separated from my marriage.  By abusing me, my husband had ceased to really BE a husband.  Our children were unfortunate floaters in the mess of it all, running around with boots on the wrong feet and ketchup on their faces -seemingly oblivious.

And suddenly, I was through being through with my marriage.

If my husband looked at porn, I WANTED to feel the pain and the hurt.  I AM HIS WIFE, for crying out loud.  It SHOULD hurt!  I wanted to feel the anguish that comes from rejection, the heart break of NO INTIMATE CONNECTION.  I wanted to let the emotions rise up and out and through and around, and I wanted to tell my husband how I felt.  I wanted to be SEEN for the first time in my marriage -truly seen for who I am (a daughter) and what I love (creating).

I did not want a wall to keep me safe from my own husband.

 So I used my tools and I tore the wall down, and there I stood... vulnerable and wincing and ready to go on a few dates with my husband.

I want him to need me for who I am and what I can do as a woman and as an Alicia.
I want to need him for who he is and what he can do (dishes) (just kidding) (but seriously).

I'm ready to detach from detaching and embrace my new pattern of recovery which I like to call...

Vulnerable, Honest, Living complete with the Surrender Process.

And while I'm settling into a very hard, messy place, I will say this: I love it in the same way I love pushing my physical body to health.  It's hard but there's a purpose for it.

But somehow no matter how I live whether behind a wall with A Few of My Favorite Things or in front of a wall with ALL of My Favorite Things, the kids still have their boots on the wrong feet.
I take comfort in their constancy.