Snowsuit Safety

I keep thinking about this quote -it has popped up a few times on my newsfeed for different reasons.  An avid snowboarder posted it, taking it literally.  But it's hitting me on a non-literal level.  A few months ago, I listened to a podcast called The Life Beats Project.  They interviewed Hugh Vail, and he said something really similar and I haven't really stopped thinking about it.
He talked about the power of vulnerability, of being transparent with those we love intimately.  He noted that we can weather any kind of weather, so long as we know what to dress for.

YES.
And I think Betrayal Trauma feels a lot like wearing a blizzard in a bikini.  The scorch is real.

When my husband is open and honest -when he's transparent -I can dress for the weather.

The weather, the weather, the weather.
It's cold now, right?  Is it cold where you are?

It's two-blanket weather up here in northern AZ.  It's currently overcasty with winds teasing my windows and leaves scraping the walls of my rental.  We're moving out because we are buying our first house.
It's a big friggin' deal.  A big one for us.

I don't know if we've ever talked about this, but I'm 32 and my husband is that plus 5.  The chaos of addiction has kept us from something as simple as our own home... that's one way addiction has manifested in our lives.  We've spent so much time stuck in scarcity thinking.
Not enough money.
Not enough time.
Not enough worth.
Not enough, period.

I'm 7 years into actively seeking a better was of living, and it feels like some truths are starting to stick -like a really great snowstorm.
For 9 years, we've been driving an old Jeep Grand Cherokee.  Not all of the doors worked, and driving down the highway felt like a life-risk. No matter now many times we aligned her, she still shook like a maraca on Cinco de Mayo.  The upside being I couldn't hear the children fighting in the backseat, directly behind me.
Why?  Why did we do that?  Why did we stick with such an unsafe car for so long?
It's just the chaos thinking that comes with addiction -the sort of STUCK inability to care properly for myself and my surroundings.

We got a new car.  We finally just did it.  TWO DAYS LATER, the house across the street went up for sale.  We put in an offer and handed it to God.  He handed a house back.

Life feels abundant right now, and I feel the reality of what's happening.
Healing is happening.
It isn't clean and tidy like I thought it would be.  It's hard conversations and saying no to people I love.  It's saying no to food my body doesn't want but my mind does.  It's showing up for the dental appointments.  It's ordering new underwear and glasses when I need them and not two years later (seriously).  It's sticking to a budget.
It's also abundant freedom from bondage... I'm able to show up and take care of myself in the midst of one of the worst bouts of anxiety I've had in 10 years.

I've had anxiety since I was tiny.  I don't remember a life when I wasn't afraid of the future, afraid of destruction.  As a little girl, I lost sleep over the possibility of the house burning down and every night -religiously -I left my shoes next to my bed so I could flee the home when it burst into flames.

I still harbor those same fears.  Still keep my metaphorical shoes by my metaphorical bed for when the metaphorical flames hit the fan, or something.

In the midst of this anxiety, I am finding stillness and hope.  With my anxiety as high as it is, I find myself triggered more and more easily.
I take deep breaths and repeat to myself, "I have everything I need.  I have everything I need.  There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing."

In order for me to "dress for the weather" as Hugh Vail and Alfred Wainwright encourage, I need to care for myself carefully. Rest, shower, food, fresh air... I need to take time for my ME things outside of my responsibilities as a wife and mom.
This means choosing to write before I do the dishes sometimes.

Ultimately, what I'm trying to do here is create a life I don't have to perpetually escape from in order to deal with it.
I want to live pliably -to let my guard down and feel the sun in when it's there and bask in peace and safety.
AND to put my snowsuit on and feel the snow fall when it's there and bask in peace and safety.

Over the long weekend, I was in a situation I would have deemed "bad weather" in the past.  But I went through it differently this time.  I had my snowsuit, so to speak, and I learned something pretty gorgeous which is this:

I equate chaotic circumstances with trauma.  When I sustained my deepest and truest trauma, I was in chaotic circumstances, and my body kept that score.
Heaven and Hell are earthly accessible states of mind, and my Hell is scarcity living.
Not enough money to fix broken things.
Not enough time to do it ourselves.
In a place where there is NOT ENOUGH OF ANYTHING, therein lies what I perceive to be impending and excruciating pain.

I feel so much fear in those circumstances, but with a snowsuit on, I was able to observe it... look it over, examine it, learn from it and then come home and REST while it sinks into my soul.

In the past, I'd come out of that kind of a chaotic situation and clean my house until my knuckles bled... just to PROVE to myself that I was SAFE.  I don't need to do that today.  I don't need to prove to anyone -including me-own self -that I'm safe.
I know I am.
Safe in God.
Safe with God.
Safe with tools that lead me to God within the confines of my sacred soul.

This is how I head into the holidays.
It's snowsuit time.

Foundations

My mom once fell off a horse and then fell into a coma for a few weeks.  As she woke up, she only wanted to listen to a few select albums including The Oak Ridge Boys Christmas album.  As I grew up, I found that Mom's penchant for listening to the same albums over and over and over was just... how she was.
How she is, brain damage or not.
There's still certain albums I won't touch with a ten-foot pole because it reminds me of that day in Elementary School where I took a bite of what was probably my 5,000th peanut butter and peach jam sandwich and had to run to the trash can because I almost puked.
So. literally. sick. of. them.

One of her favorites was the LDS Church Primary Songs -not the musical tracks, but the tracks with little kids singing.  There wasn't a single one I didn't come to have that sort of PB/Peach Reaction to.
But I gotta say.
Those lyrics, they do stick like peanut butter.
This morning, I keep thinking about this one: Where Love Is, There God is Also.

I've been thinking about how you could easily switch it up a bit to, "Where Chaos Is, There Addiction is Also."
I look at old family videos (from 2009) of my two oldest crawling around our floor in diapers and there is just stuff everywhere: old pizza boxes, piles of paper, clothes.
Some of that is because, yes, I had TWO KIDS IN DIAPERS.  But there's so much more to those videos.
We talk a lot about the chaos and disconnect that occurs with addiction, but there's also a sort of lethal form of SCARCITY that no one really openly talks about.
Our furniture was used and torn, but we were dead sure we couldn't afford anything else. Money was too scarce.
We would talk about how we needed new clothes but couldn't afford them, yet our house was strewn with clothing we only kind of liked but couldn't seem to part with.
We talked about how we didn't have enough time or money or or or...

In truth, at our cores, we believed that WE WERE NOT ENOUGH.  By the natural flow of the laws of the universe, because we believed in scarcity, scarcity showed up for us -ever constant, ever depressing.

I was so steeped in scarcity that I never EVER paid full price for anything, so I always ended up with 5 shirts on clearance that I wasn't ever sure I liked but thought I needed because my other shirts were getting too old or too small.
Scarcity brought on chaos the same way I push my babies in a stroller... they are beholden to one another.  And is it just me, or are they both wrapped up in a frigid layer of fear?

Rooting out scarcity and chaos hasn't been a quick fix.  No Condo Method or Fly Lady could have fixed my issues.
This has been a Jesus Fix, through and through.

Sometimes it got much worse before it got a smidge better.  For months at a time, I had to QUIT CLEANING altogether because of shame.  I found every time I did dishes, I was tense and stressed.  I had to finish them and be perfect about it.  I wanted to make my husband happy.  I HAD TO BE ENOUGH -clean enough!
It turns out, I never once did the dishes because I was grateful or felt true love for the offerings of food on my table.
I only did dishes because I was afraid of being messy, because I wanted others to be happy.

It was the same with laundry and vacuuming, with sweeping and dusting.  I was a homemaker, trapped in a hellish prison of workhouse shame.
Cleaning was -I thought -MY MAIN JOB and I was rendered paralyzed by shame.

So?
I quit.

I quit until I could wash with gratitude and love.  I quit exercising for the same reasons.

Those were hard days where I knew I was doing hard work but was frustrated because it wasn't the kind you could SEE.  My house was dirtier than ever and my body?  Sick and getting heavier each day.

It was like working Step 1 every durn day, "My life -my shame -has become unmanageable."

But gradually -GRADUALLY -good things came around.  Just as when I believed in scarcity and it showed up... as I believed in LOVE, it showed up!
Love.
Abundance.
God.

Pizza boxes started getting thrown away in a timely fashion.  Clothes started getting donated, and I found that I was worth paying full-price for clothing items that I genuinely loved.  I can actually have my laundry DONE sometimes for a few seconds... whereas even just last summer, I could do laundry all week and still be walking on clothes instead of my laundry room floor.
I began healthy, healing practices for my physical health.  I began walking without tension in my muscles, "How much weight am I losing?" slowly began to be replaced with a happy sort of presence where I just appreciated the place I was in -the fresh air and clouds, the birds and sunshine.
I began enjoying my time at the sink as I found appreciation for my dishes.  I recently rearranged my cupboards in a way that has substantially decreased the chaos.  I cleaned out my closet, and it's stayed clean because chaos and scarcity are starting to visit less and less and less and less.
I now keep freshly cut flowers and greens on my piano, and my house sports beautiful things from beautiful people: stained glass from a dear recovery sister hangs in the window over my sink, beautiful crystals from my brother are scattered here and there throughout my living room.  There's LOVE in my home and GRATITUDE and JOY.


Last year for Father's Day, I spent the day before cleaning my buns off.  I got armpits deep in the kind of sweat that they never talk about in Vogue, and mucked, mucked, mucked.
Then I went to the store.
I bought a bedspread, something I'd never done for the King-sized bed we'd bought YEARS earlier (because, as I said, I believed money was scarce).  I bought a new shower curtain (hadn't done that since we moved in -we'd just been living with the liner our landlord had put in).  I bought a matching bathmat and a few bathroom decorations.
I set everything up and then wrote a note to my husband, "Because you're worth it" and left it on the dusted, newly decorated headboard.

He still keeps that note where he can see it every morning, and a few months later, he returned the favor -cleaning our room and leaving me an answer "because you are too."

A few weeks ago, I noticed a thread-bare spot on our sheets, so I threw them out and bought new ones within the week.  In the last year, I've bought mascara TWICE instead of making one tube last for two or three years.

I realize these kinds of things come naturally for some -they certainly came more naturally for me before addiction and trauma took up cellular residency -but these things are now substantial miracles, folks.  Downright.

Anyway, last week I did The Awful Sweat thing again and mucked out my house.  Spring Cleaning is stupid, right?  It's a stupid farce.  It's like cleaning on Saturday.  Everyone talks about it like it's the NORMAL thing to do but everyone also knows that Sunday is the Great and Terrible Day where everyone trashes all the houses, so WHY?!  WHY do we clean on Saturday?!
I'll tell you what: I don't.  I hike on Saturdays now.  Or shop or play or whatever because CLEANING is for MONDAYS NOW.
And Spring Cleaning is now POST-SUMMER cleaning because who cleans at all during the summer time?  I don't really because there's swimming and hiking and sunshine and monsoons and mud and reunions, so why clean?
And let's start talking about how hiring cleaning help is one of the most beautiful ideas in the history of ideas.  I'm terrible at cleaning, and I appreciate that there's folks who aren't who I can pay to come work their mystical cleaning magic in my home.

Yesterday was Monday (cleaning day), and I made my bed.  I wore clean underwear and clean clothes, and I washed rugs and the 4 thick towels we bought to replace the 13 thin towels we'd been hoarding for ten years.  A few months ago, Danny and I bought a repo'd Kirby at a discount, and because our house is cozy (read: small), I can plug that thing in a central outlet and clean the whole house.  I run over all the carpets and then I switch out attachments and dust everything.  I go over our hard-surface flooring with the special hard-floor attachment.  Our ceiling fan gets a once-over... and I apologize to the spiders before demolishing and swiping their homes.

As I worked, I kept hitting on this idea of foundations.
My buddy Taura is a yoga instructor who now lives in the South and sometimes visits with her children who are so cute I almost forget that mine are cuter.  A few years ago, I was doing yoga in her backyard during the time in my life where I wasn't doing dishes and I was trying to figure out how to do yoga without hating my body.
Everyone around me was flowing and glowing, and I was weary and wobbling.
I'm all legs.  Did you know that about me?  Percentage wise, I'm 70% legs, 20% torso and 10% head n' hair.
It is never more apparent than when I'm trying to Zumba and can't make my legs move like the shorter folks move theirs -OR when I'm trying to make downward dog work like the girls next to me.
Comparison truly is the thief of joy.
"If you're falling, check your foundation."
That's What Taura Said.  Someday I'll write a book and call it What Taura Said and fill it full of quotes Taura probably had no idea she said.
I've never been able to forget that one.

If anything feels like falling, scarcity and chaos and fear feel that way.
So what, then, are my foundations?
Christ. Yes.
BUT
I'm realizing it goes a bit more shallow than that.
It's my undies, really.  And my made bed.  It's my dishes.  It's my Basic Human Foundations: the first thing I put on that send a message one way or the other.
Clean, crisp underwear let me know I'm worthy of a clean foundation.
Clean, orderly clothes let me know I'm worth the time and the money.
A nice, lovely bed makes for better sleep -sleep is a huge part of the foundation of my mental, spiritual and physical health.  So much healing happens in that sacred rest -even God shuts off the light in order for sleep to move in.
Pretty, clean plates are the welcoming mat for good, solid food.  I'm not just talking about green and clean -I'm talking about cream and oats, butter and bread, meat and potatoes!

Yes, Christ is THE FOUNDATION.
But where LOVE is, There God is.  And LOVE, my dear sweet healing sisters, can be found in a made bed.
Which thing I never before had supposed.

Fair Lady

Over the weekend, I introduced my kids to My Fair Lady starring Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison.


I don't remember the last time I saw the movie in it's entirety.  It's been years.  During those years, I've gone through therapy and support groups.  My body has been raked through the coals of inflammation.  In short, there's been a transformation.
Watching Eliza Doolittle transform before my eyes was a different experience this time.

I watched her as a flower girl with dirt on her face.  I watched her moan and cry out.  I watched the longing in her eyes to become something more, and I watched that longing turn placidly into acceptance.
A dust-covered flower girl WAS WHAT SHE WAS.  Period.

Then I watched her find a glimmer of hope.  I watched her face as she realized that maybe -just maybe -she could change.

I watched as she washed her body, changed her clothes from rags to soft, feminine cloth.  Her hair went from harsh to soft.
She began to CARE for herself -externally and internally.  She cared for her body, her hair, her clothes.  And her internal worth began growing.  She began to feel and know her worth.

I thought of my Step 9 to myself -my amends to myself.  For my 30th birthday, I pulled an Eliza Doolittle Project without really calling it that.  I bought new underwear and a new outfit.  I had my hair cut and dyed.  I ate at my favorite restaurant.  Most importantly: I promised myself that I would always care for myself.  That I would continue to buy bras and mascara when it made sense and not 2 years afterward.  I would drink water and green juices.  I would eat protein and walk, walk, walk with my shoulders back and my face to the breeze.  I would inhale the love of God instead of the hate of self.

But we are works of progress, amIright?
And progress isn't progress without REGRESS to back it up.

In the beginning of November, a police officer was shot and killed in the line of duty an hour away from where I sit right now.  In my county.  In the county my husband works for as a police officer.
As my heart stalled, my husband drove straight for the gunfire.
And yeah.
Shots were fired his way.
While I sat on the couch, wrapped in my husband's cop shirt.

It was surreal.  This addiction messes with EVERYthing.  I love Danny and I struggle with the addiction side of him.  Divorce has been a very real option for us.  We've separated at times.  When times like that hit, I was conflicted every day -sending him to the battlefront.
"I love you.  I'm scared."
That feels like the two lines I've lived by as the wife of a cop and the wife of an addict.
I love you, Danny and I'm scared as hell.

Don't hurt me.
Don't get hurt.

That night -the night he ran to the gunfire and I tried to remember what it felt like to care about dinner and laundry -something inside of me broke.

I haven't had my hair done.  I haven't bought mascara.
I haven't exercised.
I haven't cared for myself.

My writing has struggle.  Where once words flowed through my mind and out of my fingers, I found nothing but blank space that I filled up with a Victorian-Era murder-mystery.
And now that that's over, I found The Great British Baking Show.
#bingebabybinge

I didn't even realize it had happened.  I just thought maybe the holidays were so busy they killed me.
I thought maybe it was being a mom to 3.  Maybe it was just the whole healing thing?

As I sat with the ladies in my writing group two weeks ago, one of them said, "We haven't had anything from you in MONTHS."
"Yeah," I nodded.  I tried to come up with an excuse, but they all seemed to get jammed in my throat as I realized the last time I'd written anything for hobby purposes was the day before The Shooting.

"I haven't written anything since The Cop Shooting," I said, realizing it for the first time as I said it.
"Makes sense," the ladies in my group said, almost in unison.

I see it now.  I SEE IT.
I just don't see yet how to get back up, to turn back on.  What does it all mean?  And how deeply is it affecting me EXACTLY?
Or has it just triggered other issues that were lying dormant, waiting for some kind of trauma to wake them up?

Cue help.
Self-help is the trickiest snitch in the world.  It means well but always bites me in the bum.  But in the last year, I've haltingly picked up SAFER self-help options, and so far it's going okay because for the most part (hello, progress and regress) God is driving this serenity train.
So I made an appointment with a coach -a well-being coach?  A health coach?
Basically, someone who can take my hands and put them over my heart and teach me how to open it and retrieve the answers that are now, themselves, lying dormant.

This is so messy, you guys.
And I look messy.

But as I watched Eliza Doolittle emerge in her diamonds and jewels, I knew that it was me, in my own messy way.
I wear my jewels on the inside.

Shameless Bad Days

Lately, I've had more opportunities to explore some trying "bad" days, and I'm finding ease in not handling them very well.
That is to say: I'm handling them better than I would have 7 years ago, pre-recovery.
And I'm also handling them worse than I did two years ago when I was oblivious to the grip perfectionism held (holds) on me.  On those bad days, I worked hard to do everything right.

Reach out.
Pray.
Use tools.
Self-care.
Good food.
Sunshine.

After a few days of "perfect" behavior, I'd inevitably crash and burn, unable to keep up with my own expectations.

A couple of days ago, a trauma trigger hit in a hard way. A comment was made about my looks that hurt.
I cried on the spot, and I cried hard.

Does it matter what other people think of me?  The way I look?
Not really.
What does matter is my own self-worth and acceptance.

But guess what?  It still HURT.

So I let myself cry, and I prayed and I cried to a few safe women about it.  The next day, I knew I'd want to numb out.  I knew I'd want to exclusively eat the gingerbread and frosting I'd made the day before.  I knew I'd find a series on Netflix to curl up with.  I knew I had no appointments during the day.

I reached out.
I prayed.
I talked about my susceptibility to numbing.  I talked about my pain.

Then I curled up on the couch with a stomach ache and a three year old and dozed off while she watched a cartoon.
Did I eat gingerbread and frosting?  YES!  Exclusively?  ALMOST!
Did I numb out to a movie?  NO!  Did I keep a movie going in the background while I got the house ready for feeding the sister missionaries?  YES!

I ate a nourishing dinner... and then more frosting.

It wasn't awesome, but it wasn't despair either.  I didn't do the day PERFECTLY, but I DID THE DAY and I prayed and told God I was hurting and not coping well.

Today will be a day of repentance -something else I'm learning to remove the shame from.

I love Baron Baptiste's take on repentance.  It was a game-shifter for me.
From page 6 of his book, "40 Days to a Personal Revolution," we read:

"...I came to understand that what he [Brahmacharya] meant by repentance wasn't that we should dwell on where we lost our way and all the ways we are bad, but rather to have the courage to face the pure, unsweetened truth of ourselves so that we can move on and grow in more honest and authentic ways.  It is simply the willingness to see in full truthfulness what we need to face within ourselves and our lives so that we might get into the right alignment.  As Jesus taught, it is always the truth that sets us free."

So today is a new chance to seek for alignment once again, to look for my own unsweetened truth.  And what is that pure truth?

I'm finding it isn't initially clear to me in situations where I'm right up against pain.  It's like one of those science projects where you look at a slide under a microscope while the teacher asks you -smiling all the while -what it is.
And you have no answer because it just looks like a confusing mess of messes.
"It's thread," they say, or maybe, "skin" or "oil."
THEN you see it.  THEN you can't NOT see it.

Being up against pain is like that for me.  While I'm up close and right up against it, I can't tell what it is or what's going on at all.  I just sit with it and stare at it and it hurts so much.  I talk about it and I eat about it.
As the days roll by and more distance is placed between pain and Alicia, I start to get clear about what I'm dealing with.  I start to be able to see what's going on.

It's as if I'm able to "zoom out" from my microscopic slide and gain some clarity about what I was up against.

Yesterday, I was still too close to the pain to make anything out of it.  I only prayed this prayer:
"Heavenly Father, I'm hurting.  I don't want to numb out.  I don't want to stay in victim.  But I DO want to remain completely true to where I am and what I'm feeling."

THIS IS NEW TO ME.
Am I always honest with myself?  NO.  This is something I'm learning, like a newborn learning how to walk.

I ended my prayer and listened to myself and what did I need?  To sleep some more because my stomach hurt.

So I didn't "do" yesterday perfectly according to my old standards of perfect, but today, I feel like I can begin to apply repentance.  I can see some of the "pure" truth about myself:

I use sugar as a Savior.
I can use the Savior and my Savior.
How?

I am deeply affected by others' opinions about me.
I can someday access a place where I'm not.
How?

I can also see the beauty in my sensitivities.  I can see that my body needs love and caring, and I can honor that today with some yoga (which I skipped yesterday) and some green juice (I skipped any and all greens yesterday).

In Tutu's, "Book of Forgiving," he tells us that in order to forgive others, we need to tell our story.  We need to talk about what happened, and I DID that with God and a few friends.  When we're ready, we'll be able to name our pain.
We'll be able to name our pain as we tell our story.
"This happened, and I feel ___________."

This morning, I woke up and was able to say, "That happened, and I feel rejected."

That's why it hurt so much!  Because as a wife going through betrayal trauma, feeling rejected because of physical appearance cuts on a very deep level -for me.

So I'm logging off to roll out my mat.
I'm logging off to get some greens in on top of the frosting I downed a few minutes ago.
I can go to my meeting and drink my favorite herb tea, slather on some oils to help nurture what's been hurt, and look around and find God.
And laugh, for crying out loud.  Because I thrive on laughter.

I might fall on my face, and that's okay too.

I choose to TRY to tap into realignment today, and I didn't yesterday -not fully.
That's where I am.
This is me being true and honest with me.

On The Road

Living in a small town means traveling to other towns if you want something like pizza on a Tuesday (the tiny pizza shop in town is only open on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays) and bigger parks with slides.  On Monday, I met up with a friend at a bigger park with slides for lunch.  As we drove on the Interstate to get there, my son asked, "Mom, what are we in?"
"What are you talking about?" I asked, a little confused.
"Are we in Joe City?" he asked.
"No, we aren't IN anything.  We're just on the road."
"But what are we IN?" he pressed.
"Nothing, bud," I said, "Just on the road."

On our drive home, the conversation continued.
"What are we in now?" he'd ask.  My patience was wearing thin.  As we neared town, we could see the truck stop on our exit.
"Ah!  Now we are in Joe City!"  He called out.
"No, we are still on the road," I said.
"But I can SEE the truck stop," he insisted, "If I can see it with my eyes, how can it not be true?"

And I had to smile.
He is definitely my son.

I hate being on the road, literally and figuratively.  I'm impatient.

I really, really, REALLY struggle with being WHERE I AM.  I struggle to feel the anger that naturally comes with this.  I struggle to let myself hold my resentments... I want to FORCE myself to give them up even though I am definitely not ready. 
Most of all?  I am not okay hurting.  I am not okay with feeling trauma STILL.

This last weekend I had what any outsider would deem, "The Mother of all Overreactions."

I basically sat down on my way up the mountain and felt the sting in my calves, the thirst in my throat and the exhaustion in my entire being. 
I CAN NOT DO THIS ANYMORE.
I AM NOT CAPABLE OF DOING THIS ANYMORE.
THERE IS TOO MUCH DAMAGE IN OUR MARRIAGE.

I believe our marriage can be healed just as much as I believe Danny can be healed.  I do doubt a little that I can be fully healed from this broken state.
I just don't know that I have it in me to FIGHT the good fight, to keep going!

I feel safe with Danny away, and each time he rubs my trauma I push him away, away, away.  And anyone who needs THIS much space is really stupid to stay married, right?
The voices inside of me were at war with each other.

Danny didn't know what to do but promise he'd work to understand, he'd work hard to do what I am too tired to...
I hate promises.

I asked for space, took my ring off.  And then I felt nothing.  I was (and am) utterly emotionless.
I prayed and felt good about staying.  I felt better about leaving.

The thing is: above any mortal person, Danny gets me.  More than our therapist, more than my sponsor, more than our truly inspired Bishop... DANNY gets me.  And though his progress was much less on the "pro" side lately and more on the "re" side... he still found the clarity to see what I've been going through.  He took full ownership.  He validated me.
"Good days with you are really good," he said, "and bad days are really bad.  You're a deep feeler and that's okay.  It's something I love about you."
He assured me that if I have this kind of breakdown every six months, once a year, once every two years, THAT WAS OKAY.  And then I went to a fireside -my cousin reported her mission.  I had told my aunt earlier in the week that I'd bring 3 dozen cookies. 
And then trauma.
So Danny stayed home from the fireside and made 3 dozen peanut butter cookies from scratch.

I wanted to stay with him.  I wanted to leave him.  I felt God wanted me to do both as well.
So I ate half a bag of jelly beans to help quell the confusion.

I continued to pray, and the answer remained the same.
Staying is good, leaving is better.

I decided to go to the temple alone and pray.  I wanted to ask specific questions.
Danny gave (is giving) me lots of space: no touching, no loving words, no phone calls, no texts.  He sleeps on the couch.

I reached out to a friend and voiced my frustration.
"How am I STILL HERE?  How am I STILL HURTING?  I have been working on recovery stuff for almost 5 years.  I don't think I can continue to live with someone who rubs my trauma so ON TARGET."
She doesn't know much about addiction, but her understanding of the principles recovery teaches?  Spot on.
"It's not like cancer, Alicia," she said, "It's not like something that comes and is treated and then gone.  This is how it's going to be.  And it will get better on the Lord's timetable, but not yours."

I don't feel triggered when I see fashion magazines anymore.  Progress!
I don't feel triggered when I see ladies in short shorts anymore.  Progress!

I guess I felt like I was DONE with trauma.

And Danny is doing really well.  I started recovery BEFORE him and I'm still struggling MORE than he is!  This is frustrating for me.
He came home from work yesterday and as he prepared to go to the temple himself, I felt like maybe I could go with him.
Crazy, right?  After all of these CRAZY thoughts and feelings?  But again -I'd been kind of on auto-pilot all day, emotionless and functional.
The last session started at 7, and an emergency sitter was procured.  Danny lost his recommend briefly, but we finally walked through the temple doors at 6:50.
"We're here for the session" we said.
"You're too late," the nice man in white said, "The last one started at 6:30."
Apparently the temple schedule online is outdated.
"But you can do sealings," he said.

Sealings.
Did you hear that?  The tension?  The VIABLE TENSION?
Danny's eyes looked like the eyes of a deer in the headlights.  Fear, fear, fear.
All it might take is one sealing, and BAM.  Divorce.

But I felt nothing.  So I said, "Let's try it."
And all through the sealings, I noticed the wall paper and the pretty crystal chandy.  The ladies in the room were so pretty and glowy and their silver hair made me happy.
The words of the sealing ceremony seemed unable to enter my heart.  It was as if God had walled off any and all depth of feeling from my soul.
I felt shallow and incredibly happy about that.

In the Celestial Room, I cracked open a white bible and inhaled the sweet scent of humidified air.
I read the story of Abraham trekking up a mountain with his only son.  Surely he felt conflicted about the whole thing.  Surely God was telling him something that went against his gut. 
The story brought me some peace and a little not (the Old Testament freaks me out sometimes)... but I closed the book and prayed. 
I'm willing to leave if God REALLY wants me to.

But it's so hard, when it comes right down to it, to walk away from a man who bakes from scratch.

I asked God some pointed questions and he communed with me.  He walked with me in the mazes of my broken mind.
"Leave him and cleave unto me," God said, ever the jealous God.

I thought I was.
I've used all of the books, all of the info, the programs, the scriptures, the prayers, the meditations!  I've used the songs and the practices and activities!

BUT I AM STUCK.
With Danny in the home, it is nearly impossible for me to cleave unto God.  I still find myself giving into fear, to making Danny my center... even though I do my daily prayer, my daily scripture study!

A few days before I sat down on my mountain trail, God spoke to me through mind-music (when he puts a song in my head and makes me go, "Aw, GOD!  You KNOW ME SO WELL!") and told me to take His yolk upon me, for it is easy and His burden light.  And I would find rest.
Okay!  I said.  And finished my walk with determination but scratching my head.
Kind of like, "I WILL DO THE THING! (I don't actually know how to do)."

Maybe it's a lack of faith?
Maybe it's an opportunity to grow.
Maybe it's because I don't really believe -STILL -or at least today -that God can truly fix this mess.

So today I'm heading in for a massage.  I took a nap today. 
I am allowing myself to be ON THE ROAD which means having days where the trauma comes up -because it isn't healed yet -and I AM TOO TIRED TO MAKE ONE MORE STEP.

It's part of the process.
It's on the road.

And though I can see what life might look like without having such a guarded heart, it doesn't mean I AM THERE or that I'm bad for NOT being there.

I'm simply on the road in the valley, and when I reach the mountain top, it will all make sense.

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 ^^^

 

On Being Alone

One of my deepest and greatest fears is being alone.

That isn't to say that I NEED a husband.  That is to say that I need connection.  I need others, I need authenticity in my friends. 

For YEARS.  YEARS.
I have been alone -the kind of alone that scares the you-know-what out of me.  Alone in my pain, alone in my journey, alone in my marriage.
Danny was always there, but he wasn't always there.  You know?  If you're reading this, you probably do know.

2 1/2 years ago, I was called to be a stake missionary for the ARP program -specific to pornography.  I began holding meetings.  No one came.  And then for a little while, there was a small number of women who came. 
And then no one.
Every week, I'd drive to the Seminary building and outside for 15 minutes, and those 15 minutes are some of the most awful 15 minutes of my life.
It sounds dramatic, I know.  But really.  15 long, silent minutes to remind Alicia that she is alone.

I finally quit going.  I just couldn't do it anymore. 

I would talk about addiction and recovery in my marriage, and Danny hated it.  He would ask me to please not ruin our date/a good day/drive/walk with talking about IT.
I was alone.

There are women who understand to some degree this pain.  I pray they will come out of the cracks and take my hand. 
I pray for women's healing and recovery.

Most all of my support is online.  Facebook and phone calls.  I'm grateful for that.  SOSOSO grateful for that.  I didn't realize HOW grateful until last week when my Lifestar group was abruptly dissolved.

Danny's group will continue, but mine is being wrapped up.  Today is my last session.
And I can't find another slot anywhere else... yet.

This last week I've been near tears so often.  I feel like a victim.  I feel sad.
I feel like my emotions are MORE than they should be which means I'm having a trauma reaction.  Why am I having a trauma reaction?
Because I feel alone.

I know I'm not alone.  I KNOW that. 

But I finally was attending a group and Danny was attending a group... and we were doing this TOGETHER.  I wasn't alone in my marriage with this recovery group.  It was even Danny's idea!  That meant so much to me.  There was a lot of safety in attending.

Now I feel left behind.
There's no local groups, no nearby Lifestar to scrape me up and take me in.
There's just Alicia facing her fear -realized once again -of being alone.  The crickets are chirping, the street light is flickering, and my sweater is thin.

I have no idea what's ahead, no idea.  Maybe Lifestar isn't for me.  It isn't the end of the world.
Really, it isn't.

And I don't like FEELING like a victim. 
The past three days have been so dark and awful.  The support I do have of women who KNOW, women who get recovery and everything it takes (which is sometimes everything) is priceless to me.
Priceless, priceless, priceless.

Right now I need spiritual guidance, education, 12 step, and a counselor.  I need self care and simplification.
It takes a lot of effort to work recovery... a lot of dedication, commitment, and heart. Spiritual, emotional, physical and mental awareness! Talking with women who know relieves me.  Not having women who know to talk with triggers trauma.

God knows me.
God knows my desires.
God knows my willingness.
And God is in control.

Everything will be all right, and knowing what I know, I can testify that I am never TRULY alone.  Ever.

Rested Home

 (via fastyling.blogspot.com)

So often, so very often I am met with two responses to this addiction.
First being: I don't know how you do it.  I'd never stay if my husband looked at porn.
Second being: What's the big deal?  It's *just* naked ladies.

Where did the middle ground go?  Did it slip through the cracks somewhere between my two realities?
First being: My husband is not his addiction, and ridding my life Danny to rid my life of addiction?  I have no words.
Second being: It's never just about the naked ladies.  Addiction has never been about the substance to me... it's always been about the behaviors.

Have you ever seen "Sleepless in Seattle"?  Who hasn't right?  Aside from being scripted by one THE most genius screenwriters of all time (rest in peace, my Nora), it is such a great story about a woman in a logical relationship that isn't right for her who leaves it to pursue a completely irrational relationship with someone who feels, as Tom Hanks so beautifully puts it, like Home.
"Only no home that I'd ever known before."

As a young, single LDS woman, I was so repulsed by the engagements dropping around me.  I couldn't believe the amount of couples jumping into marriage... and SO quickly.
I couldn't wrap my mind around it, and finally resigned myself to the only logical explanation I could reign in: They were horny.  All of them.  LDS and repressed and horny.
Poor things.
At that point, I was still technically a teenager and still technically knew everything, and I knew -KNEW -that marriage wasn't all pleasantries.  I figured it involved living with ONE person for a very long time.  It meant irritations, compromises, blending families, puking, finances... and while I was fairly certain that sex was nice and all... surely, SURELY it wasn't worth all THAT.
I judged.  Heaven help me, I JUDGED.
I was so condescending in my assumptions of their first years -which I knew would be just traumatically eye-opening.

And then.
I met.
Danny.

And just like that I went from being a whole and complete person to a half-being.  I found, when I was with Danny, a completeness, a rest.
A home.
It smelled like crocheted afghans, felt like bare feet on a cold kitchen floor, and sounded like children, family, and a crackling fire.  I rested when I was with him.

I had only known him a few weeks before I felt sure that I'd marry him, and then I proceeded to live in a fitful state of denial for a few months.
Surely, I couldn't marry a man I barely knew.  What about the puke?  and the finances?
And just as the thought entered my mind, I felt the sting in the core of my being.
Surely, I couldn't live a life without this man I barely knew.
Was there a raging amount of physical desire there?  Um, yes.  But there was something deeper, something more steeled and holy than I'd ever come up against and the thought of turning my back on it was too much.

Danny fit.
Danny always fit.
Danny is home.

And that is why Betrayal Trauma is REAL.  Because when your home turns on you, it's something fierce.  The only word that comes to mind is: grappling.
When you're grappling, you don't simply turn and walk away from home -never to return.
You also don't hang out and let your home beat your spirit to smithereens just because it's home and homes DO that.
 I mean, how would YOU feel if "Sleepless in Seattle" made a sequel about Tom Hanks cheating on Meg Ryan?  No, the thought makes reason stare!
You find yourself in a sort of hellish limbo filled with fine lines and psychology.


And the insanity!  The insanity that drove Meg Ryan and Deborah Kerr to the top of The Empire State Building drives me! 
I am NOT in the wrong relationship.  I simply am not.
I am in my Rested Home, gone wrong.

Do you find your Rested Home twice in life?  three times?  or is this a once in a lifetime experience I have no control over?
And just like we ALL KNOW Meg Ryan is acting totally irrationally, we are all cheering her on because WE KNOW, we just KNOW, that her pursuit is golden... Tom Hanks is her home, and until she secures it neither SHE or WE will rest.

I had my Rested Home once. 
The "just naked ladies" have stolen my home, wrecked it, sabotaged my Once in a Lifetime crochet-afghan, bare feet on homey hearth experience... and to simply let it roll off is to revel in cowardice.
I am not afraid anymore.

And so it is with insane hope that I dare to hold on to this marriage simply by not letting go.

Maybe my Earthly Rested Home will find me again.  I'm lucky to have lived it when I did.
Whether it does or not, I have found a new realm of rest.
Right now I can invest wholly and completely in my Rest Home Above, in my relationship with my Father.

Unlike Meg Ryan, my insanity lies not in the chase, but in the Stay.  Simply staying put.
Am I crazy?
My head says yes... my heart made it's way to my feet and won't let me leave. 

Trauma is For OTHER People

The first time someone suggested that I'd been traumatized by my husband's addiction, I scoffed inside.  Look, I know this whole thing is super duper hard and confusing... but trauma?  It made me feel like some sort of feeble, crying, cowering, hurting woman.

Which I actually was.
But I didn't like *thinking* of myself in that light.

As I continued in my recovery, more trauma education rolled in, and I hated how much it resonated with what was going on in my life (or had gone on in the past).  And after a few months, I accepted it.

Hi, my name is Alicia and I'm a trauma survivor (sounds so much better than trauma victim, yes?).

A few days ago, I was watching a few videos online with my husband.  He had been up late the night before watching some innocent and clean music videos (The reality show sort where people with raw talent audition).  We watch them together a lot.
I held my crochet hook in my hand and focused on my stitches as my husband flipped through videos, "Watch this one, listen to this... honey, you gotta see this part."
The singers were beautiful women.  Talented women.  My heart began picking up pace.  My stitching became faster... as a young blonde with flawless skin took the stage, I couldn't take it anymore.
"I can't watch her anymore," I blurted out, "I just keep thinking how in the past you've ________________."
"Okay," my husband said and switched to a different video, "I promise there wasn't any lusting on my side, I just like the music."
But it was too late.  The reaction had hit.  Pretty soon, I couldn't see my stitches through my hot tears.  I set my project down and relocated to my bathroom.
I locked the door and took my place in the middle of the floor and let it come out.  I sobbed.  Really hard.
I prayed.  Really hard.
I could hear my sponsor's voice echoing in my head, "Alicia, your peace has been taken.  What can you do to get it back?"

I called my sponsor and left a voice mail.  I texted.
And then I did what any grown up girl would do and I hid under my covers.
*knock knock* "Honey, are you okay?"
"I want to be alone!"
"Is there anything you need that I can do?"
"No, just need to be alone."

And after I'd recovered somewhat, I let him in his own bedroom and began all over again... the tears, the shaking shoulders.  And through it all I just kept saying, "What the HECK?!  Why am I having such an intense reaction?"
"Because you've been dealing with trauma, and you have some pretty fresh wounds right now," my husband said.

There's that word again.  TRAUMA.
And now I fully embrace it because -friend -what happened the other day was crazy ridiculous.  To end up sobbing uncontrollably on my bathroom floor because a pretty girl with blond hair can sing nicely doesn't make any sense... unless there's underlying trauma that is triggered by pretty girls on screens, doin' what they do.
My fear of rejection that is still in full-bloom was triggered BIG time by something seemingly small.

And just like that, my peace was obliterated.

As I sat in Sunday School yesterday and gave myself my own sermon instead of listening (it happens, okay?), I found a scripture that hit home with me pretty hard:

Exodus 14:14, word for word:

And in one swift scripture, the One who I had always viewed as serene and calm became a solid, beefed up SOLDIER.

My Lord is FIGHTING FOR MY PEACE.
The Prince of Peace holds peace in so high a regard that He will FIGHT for it.

I think of King Benjamin on the front lines, fighting for peace.  I think of Abe Lincoln, fighting to preserve a Union.  These stalwart men each hold a small piece of the Lord -a peacemaking warrior.

The Savior is the ultimate definition of a man, and I can lean into Him, fall into His arms, knowing that while I'm in the midst of an intense trigger, He can comfort me with one hand and fight for me with the other.  My sacred reverence for God has taken on a new realm of admiration... I find myself admiring God as I do Teancum (have you READ about that guy?!) and it brings me an immense feeling of safety.

Safety is what I need most when I'm triggered.

Fight for me, God.  Fight for me.

Arise

**The winner of the necklace is anna belle!  Email me your contact info and I'll get it shipped out post haste.  I'll even use an English accent when I ask the post mastah for a stahmp**

I've always dreamed of attending the Salt Lake Temple. 

Thursday night, I was able to finally fulfill that dream.  With a belly full of Cafe Rio, my best friend on my right and my sister on my left, I went through a live session.  Oh, it was beautiful.  I saw so many things I'd never seen before.  I heard so many things I'd never truly heard.  And to be there with JUST women -my two favorite women -was priceless.  It meant so much to me.  I attended the Temple with the two people I feel safest with in the entire world.

At one point in the session, I was unexpectedly moved to tears as I was brought to a realization of how the Lord would have his sons accept his daughters.  The realization penetrated me to my very center.
My value as a daughter -the reverence in which my Father holds me -it settled into my heart deeper than it ever had before.

I can't put it into words -the Spirit doesn't speak like that.  I can only communicate to you that it DID happen and that I felt and heard it with my heart.

Saturday morning, I sat in a class at The Togetherness Conference and the same feeling overtook me... the degree in which I felt it was lesser, but it was unmistakable.  The Lord was telling me something.  It was a direct message from Him.  I mean, it was Maurice Harker speaking, but it was the Lord communicating.
"The men will rise up," Maurice said.

It isn't that women are better.  It isn't that men are better.  It is simply that the sons of God must and will rise up to meet and care for the daughters of God.

The Lord wants his daughters to be SAFE.

Last night, I realized that despite my husband's recovery efforts I still don't feel safe. 
My husband has risen up more lately than he ever has, but all I can do is watch.  I can't invest.  I can't shove down my trauma and exchange it for gratitude. 

I can wait for consistency in his rising up.  I can sit and watch him rise again and again and again.
Heavenly Father has helped me find a place of safety... a place where I can rest and watch.  It's calm and there's no crazy train.  There is only serenity in my safe place.
My husband has not offered me such a place.
When and if he does, My Father in Heaven will speak to my heart -just as the Spirit did Thursday night -and I WILL KNOW.  I will know. 
And when that happens, I will make a merge between my celestial safe place and my earthly safe place.

In that moment, I will witness first hand a son of God rising.
At least... that is what I dare to hope.  If that hope is not realized, I can find serenity, safety, and solace in my celestial surrender.

Wives Against Porn Driving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BUT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here's my answer:
choose.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

PTG

  

via

My husband called me last night.

He's away at an annual training for drug task forces.  He told me that Sunday night, he stayed up talking with some of his buddies that had come back from doing one or two or three tours overseas.
"I hate PTSD," one of them said, "I hate the way it's diagnosed and treated... to pull a guy away from his unit, isolate him and put him in therapy... it's awful.  It doesn't help.  But if you take the entire group and keep them together after they've gone through something traumatic, THAT is what's needed.  That's what works.  I don't want a disorder.  I want growth.  Post-Traumatic Growth."

When my husband said that, my chest lit on fire.

Despite the day I'd just had wrangling three kids by myself and downing brownies and movies in an attempt to regulate my hormones (I'm no doctor, but I swear it helps)... I felt something tick inside of me, something resonate, something say to my gut, "TRUTH."

Since doing Addorecovery, I've learned a lot about PTSD.  I found many women resonating with the trauma model MORE than the codependent model. 
But there was ONE THING I didn't like about it: the use of the word "disorder."  It made me feel like a Victim.  It made me feel helpless and tired.  It made my skin feel thin.  It opened the door for me to use excuses to not find my own healing. 
Replacing it with the word "growth" immediately conjures up strength, solutions, resiliency, progress...

I hopped online and found multiple articles about it HERE and HERE.
Read this... found on the above-linked wikipedia page:

 In contrast to resilience, hardiness, optimism, and a sense of coherence, post-traumatic growth refers to a change in people that goes beyond an ability to resist and not be damaged by highly stressful circumstances; it involves a movement beyond pre-trauma levels of adaptation.^[1] It could be possible that people who are highest on these dimensions of coping ability will report relatively little growth.^[1] That is because these people have coping strategies that will allow them to be less challenged by trauma, and the struggle with trauma may be crucial for post-traumatic growth.^[1]

<sup>It makes me want to leap out of my hormone-induced couch coma.

Finding those articles and tapping into that healing, progressive way of thinking has really lit my fire this morning.  To find those articles and then find Jacy's latest post about her Togetherness Project?  
It's enough to make me pop out of my yoga pants and into my fancy jeans with blingy pockets and give today eternal purpose.

When we are untied, joined, and surrounded with support, trauma can be a great catalyst for healing and change.  Trauma can catapult us into a life we never dreamed of having.  It can take the slums out of us.  It can prove our inner strength, show us the sheer, radiant brightness of our inner light, strip off layers from our being that don't serve us anymore.
It can refine, empower, teach, humble, and strengthen us.

Together, in a group and as a system of sisters, we can grow.
We can hearken to the voice of President Uchtdorf and, "Lift Where You Stand"!  
Thee lift me, and I'll lift thee.  

I hope to see you at Jacy's Togetherness Conference... a place where growth is sure to be cultivated and harvested. 
I'll pack my blingy pocket pants.</sup>