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"Tell me something about yourself, and the country you came from," said the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner.  So she told him all about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone had carried her to this queer land of Oz.  The Scarecrow listened carefully, and said,
"I cannot understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry, gray place you call Kansas."
"That is because you have no brains," answered the girl. "No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful.  There is no place like home."
The Scarecrow sighed.
"Of course I cannot understand it," he said.  "If your heads were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all.  It is fortunate for Kansas that you have brains."

~L. Frank Baum, excerpt from The Wizard of Oz

I've been reading The Wizard of Oz to my kids.
I've read it before and seen the movie countless times.  I always loved the line, "There's no place like home."  But I read it with new eyes a few days ago.

Is my addiction my "home"?
By the above description, YES -my addiction is my home.  I'd rather be stuck in the gray than let go of my own will and move to The Beautiful Places waiting for me.

It's interesting to me that the Scarecrow is the wisest of all the Oz gang.
His life motto may have well been Socrates' famous line, "I know I know nothing."

I feel a lot like Dorothy.  I don't want to give my addiction up.  I mean, I DO.  But I don't.
I like the idea of giving it up tomorrow, you know?  And, like Dorothy, I feel I know better because I have BRAINS.  I, like, know lots and lots of really cool stuff.
Right?
I like to THINK I do.

But really: I know nothing.
I'm going through the 12-steps, and it's helping me to develop humility, or as I like to think of it: my inner Scarecrow.  The more I realize my own nothing-ness, the farther I will go.
Maybe someday I'll end up in The Beautiful Places.

And so I say, jokingly but seriously:
"It is fortunate for [Little Debbie] that [I] have brains."
Can I put brains in quotes? It should be in quotes.  I have "brains."

My "brains" also -along with soul-searching recovery insights -thought this up while I read.

 Yes.
I'm a regular brainy-ack.

Strange Addiction

I worry a lot.
I worry excessively.
It can be a real problem for me if I don't get a grip on it and handle it in the right ways.  Having a brand new baby around, I have to focus on distraction.

Netlix is my friend. 

If I watch Netflix while I nurse, I am a champion nurser.
If I focus on my baby while I nurse, I worry.
Is she getting enough?
Am I making enough?
Too much?  Not enough?
How long?  Too long?  Too short?
Tension builds up in my body and it doesn't help anyone.

With Netflix on my side, I have a chubby, pink, beautiful baby.
I also have a long line of "recently watched" flicks and television shows.  A few nights ago, I noticed that Netflix added a television show to their streaming plan.  It's called, "My Strange Addiction."  I clicked on it, and I've been able to watch a few episodes over the past few days.

 

Having lived with someone with an addiction -and having loved someone with an addiction -it bothers me that this show is out there making a spectacle out of people with addictions.  But apparently, it doesn't bother me badly enough to stop me from watching...
Bad Alicia!

It's really interesting to me that although the addictions themselves vary, the common threads in thinking do not.
They're all too familiar to me.

"It's not hurting anyone."
"It's not a big deal."
"I don't think I can change."

You can watch clips HERE but please.  for the love of your lunch, do NOT watch the clips about a woman who is addicted to drinking her own urine.

I will say that because I've studied up on addiction, this show is really, um, funny.
It isn't supposed to be, and let me assure you: I am not laughing at the addicts.  It's the SHOW.  It's the way they portray the addict and the addictions.  It's SO dramatic -the music, the worded descriptions that beam up and explain (oftentimes statistically) just how awful the addictions are.

The show is begging you to judge the addicts.  That's what bothers me most about the show.
Sure, she eats couch cushions.
Yes, he works out 6 hours a day.
And yeah -her puppets ARE her children, okay?

A few months ago, our Stake President got up during an adult meeting and encouraged the congregation to be more accepting of addictions -of addicts.  He said some of the addicts he'd met with were some of his favorite people. 
"They're honest, they need help, and they're getting it," he said, "What isn't to love about that?  Shouldn't we all be more like that?"
He then went on to say that we would all benefit from attending the 12-step addiction recovery meetings.  The congregation chuckled.
I didn't. 
Because it wasn't funny -he wasn't trying to be funny.  The 12-step program can seem ridiculous until you give it a try -then it becomes gospel... because it IS gospel.  It's the Atonement, broken down into 12 applicable and approachable steps.

He then posed the question, "What if, every time each of us acted out in our own addictions, there was physical proof?"
He listed a few options: what if our eyes glowed red for three hours after we viewed pornography?
What if our tongue turned blue for four hours after we gossiped?

Would we be more accepting of addiction (and addicts) then?  I'd like to think we would. 
Strange or not, addiction is a part of our mortal experience. 
It gives us the opportunity to look DEEP inside ourselves and search for the "why" under it.  It's an enlightening search that can build us, reform us, TRANSFORM us.
But not without work.
And WE can't do it.  We can only hand it over.  That's the hard part.
At it turns out it's hard for a lot of us -whether it's porn or sugar or furry suits -it seems it isn't easy to let go.

I recently read THIS blog post on Nate's blog, and I absolutely love it.  It's wonderful.  It's definitely a classy literary version of "My Strange Addiction" and I'd rather watch a cinematic representation of THAT than another episode of "My Strange Addiction."
Because really: no matter what the addiction is, I feel like I'm watching a rerun.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!

Have you been on facebook lately?  Pinterest?

Everyone is a buzz with one thing -one object: Happiness.

A facebook friend of mine posted a picture that had something to do with happiness with the caption, "Happiness is everything." 
It's the modern theme of our society!  If not happiness, then... what?
I have issues with this way of thinking -it bothers me.  It didn't used to, but hitting rock bottom and starting recovery has taught me something about happiness: it's optional.  it's a choice.  it's no one's responsibility to give it to you.  it's not the WHY of life.

A few months ago, Reader's Digest dedicated an entire issue to happiness.  I hesitantly cracked the cover and was excited to find an article that played devil's advocate.
I can't find it online to source, but the article stated:
The minute we utter the words "I just want to be happy" we are setting ourselves up for disappointment. 

It was a breath of fresh air to read those words.

All over the Internet I see artsy images that read, "Be with someone who makes you happy!"
I want to red-pen the heck out of images like that.  BE someone who makes you happy!  Be!  BE!

In a recovery meetings months and months ago, a woman I dearly love mentioned she had been studying up on happiness.  She'd read of a 100 year old woman who was asked, "What's the biggest change you've seen in your lifetime?"
Her reply was different than what you'd expect, "In the 60s, people started saying 'Have a nice day.' Before that, no one ever expected their day to be nice.  They just expected it to BE, and they did with it what they had to."
(I'm paraphrasing, not direct quoting.  Please forgive.)

This morning, I came across an article written about Viktor Frankl, a Jewish psychiatrist and neurologist who survived WWII in a concentration camp.  He wrote a Best-Selling book in nine days titled, "Man's Search For Meaning."  And guess what?  It's NOT about happiness.
The article (There's More to Life than Happiness) is a great, great read.

As I've thought about happiness and what it is... I've thought about joy.  Men are that they might have joy, right?
I had always thought happiness and joy to be one in the same.  But they're not!
Joy can be found in unhappiness.  Joy can rum rampant no matter where you are, no matter your circumstances.  JOY comes through living the gospel.
Happiness can come through living the gospel.

My oldest brother lost his nine month old daughter to a heart condition.  He wasn't happy about it (imagine that!) but his JOY was full and complete because he knows that she is not lost forever.  She is bound to him forever through the sealing ordinances offered in the Temple.

Letting go of the pursuit of happiness has been one of the greatest joys of my recovery.
Incidentally, letting go of Expectations of Happiness has actually brought me more happiness, more joy.  Taking the responsibility of my own happiness into my own hands has made all the difference in my self-esteem... it's built me up, it's empowered me, and it's relieved my husband.

It's a learning process -one that requires ample soul-searching.

And so I leave off.
Have a nice day, if you'd like.
Have a hard-working day, if you'd rather.
Or have a lazy day, or a adventurous day, or a quiet day...
It's all up to you.

Founding Fathers

I love the website artofmanliness.com.

It's everything I love about life... it's old-fashioned and classy and masculine.  I just love a good, hearty dose of masculinity.

Want to learn how to carve a turkey?  tie a tie?  date a woman?  artofmanliness has your back.  

I don't spend much time reading their tutorials, but I love what they have to offer -and I can't get enough of the atmosphere of the site... I swear I can *almost* smell cologne wafting from the faux-wood background.

And I love it.

Yesterday I came across their Founding Father Motivational Posters, and I'm bound and determined to print them out, laminate them, and distribute them to everyone I know.

That includes you.

It's a virtual FEAST for your soul:

 

I should mention that I've been REALLY struggling with my own sugar addiction.  I'm nursing and I'm starving all. of. the. time.  My sugar addiction is running rampant.

 

Today I'm determined to try harder -aren't we all determined?  

But today I did something I haven't done since the morning I found out I was pregnant (in APRIL)... a Jillian Michael's work out.

It never ceases to amaze me how thirty minutes with Jillian makes me feel exactly like I have the flu: nauseated, shaking, weak...

 

I hate Jillian.

I also love her. I have her to thank for all the inches I lost last year.

 

And after spending thirty minutes with Jillian, I'm less inclined to eat the cinnamon rolls on the oven and more inclined to pour myself a bowl of ma's homemade granola.

 

 

The granola will make better milk for my baby.  Children are great motivators. 

My six year old daughter stood by my side during my work-out.  Fifteen minutes in when I was weakening and slacking, she was going strong.

 

"Mom, this HURTS," she said.  Yes, darling.  Jillian is mean.  But she means well.

   

And she is one of my tools -my tools to overcoming my own addiction.  My addiction has me so wrapped, so willful, so physically poisoned.  It seems a light thing -a sugar addiction -but what I'm dealing with is something more awful.  

 

It's moved beyond the realms of physical ramifications and breached the territory of my mind.  It is not something I can just... stop doing.  At this point, I am powerless.  I have been for a few years now.

 

My husband is worried about my physical health five years, ten years, fifteen years, twenty years from now.  He's worried I will die -physically.

Much like I am worried he will die -spiritually.

 

And so today is a day of tools -Jillian, my children, the words of the Founding Fathers!

I can eat right today.  

I won't think of tomorrow.

 

 

For more motivational posters from our Founding Fathers, please click HERE.

I only included those I felt applied to my situation today.

And I'll leave off with this one.  For no other reason than I have a slight obsession with Benjamin Franklin (have you READ his autobiography?  It's rad) and I love it:

Drink It Up

Yesterday was a hard day for me -it's been a while since I've had one, so I guess its my turn?

Triggers are funny things.  They seem to sneak up behind you, jump on your back, cover your eyes, slap you silly and then run off... leaving you hurt and crying and wondering if you should get a divorce or not.
EVEN if five seconds prior to the Trigger Slap, you were completely content with your life and marriage.

We took our baby to church for the first time yesterday because my brother (who is in my ward) was being put in the Bishopric. 
Babies are wonderful excuses, aren't they?
You can use them as an excuse to buy something "for them" that you would never buy for yourself alone (Disney movies!) and you can blame stink on them...
And you can use them to leave the room and go off on your own.
"I need to feed the baby..." you can say.

And then you can be alone and free and sit in the mother's lounge and have a good cry.

 

As I rocked and fed my baby, I thought about the WHY of my tears.  To be blatantly honest, I was feeling victimized.  I was feeling like I'd been robbed of things that I felt I deserved in a husband. 
I hated that I felt this way.  I've learned so much and come so far to overcome Victim Thinking... but there it was, tears and all.
So I rocked and I prayed.  I rocked and prayed, prayed, prayed.

Before seeking refuge in the Mother's Lounge, I had stayed for the Sacrament and Sacrament Hymn... I am a Word Nut, and when I come across a really well-written hymn, I'll read it over and over as if it's a poem standing alone with no music to accompany it.

Yesterday we sang, "Behold the Great Redeemer Die" written by Eliza R. Snow.
I read through and through the verses, and one phrase really hit me.
"Father, from me remove this cup.

Yet, if thou wilt, I'll drink it up...

I've done the work thou gavest me;

Receive my spirit unto thee."

 

Yesterday, I sat with a newborn in the Mother's Lounge and wondered -honestly in prayer -if I had made a mistake when I married a porn addict.  He was a porn addict when I married him.

He didn't realize it.

I didn't know it.

But our Father in Heaven MUST have know -must have realized!

Knowing it, WHY would He tell me that my husband was the one I should marry?  I'd prayed while I had dated him, and asked Heavenly Father, "Is this okay?  I really like him... I'd like to keep dating him, please let me know if it isn't Thy will."

He never let me know, so I kept on keeping on.

 

I knelt with my then-boyfriend-now-husband one night, and we prayed and asked together if we ought to get married.  The answer was overwhelming and undeniable... YES.

 

I know because of the answer I received during that prayer on THAT day... marrying my husband was no mistake.  

So, why?  WHY?

 

The lines from the Sacrament Hymn came to mind.

Father, from me remove this cup.

Yet if thou wilt, I'll drink it up.

Heavenly Father's job isn't to protect me from pain or grief or sorrow.  It isn't His job to make sure I'm always comfortable -in fact, it's His job to make sure I'm NOT comfortable, to see how I can handle life when it gets difficult.

Everything I've learned in recovery has helped me to realize shortcomings I didn't know I had... and it's teaching me how to fix them.

Heavenly Father didn't WANT the Savior to suffer, but the Savior HAD to suffer.  It was non-negotiable.

He doesn't want me to suffer either, but the way I'm suffering and everything it's teaching me is essential to my salvation.  Would I have learned it some other way?  Maybe.  Maybe not.

It doesn't matter now.

I came home from church and hit my knees again.

And again before bed.

In the Mother's Lounge, I had to admit to my Father in Heaven that I didn't want to let go of my pride.  I wanted to be hurt.  I wanted to wear the Martyr Badge.

But I didn't WANT to want to, you know?

I told Him that, and He listened.  I asked Him to bear this with me, to take the sting away.  I conversed with my Father in Heaven, and by the end of the day, I was content again.

My questions were resolved.

My prayers were answered.

Oftentimes, I rely too much on outside sources to "help" me through when I've been triggered.  I'll go to the forum and vent, rationalizing that I need to "analyze my thoughts and get them sorted" before I go to Him in prayer.

Or I'll phone a recovery friend and seek the all-satisfying validation I love so much.

 

Yesterday I skipped all that and went straight to the source.  It was easier, less painful, and felt much better.

My burden was lightened.

 

I don't feel like a victim today.

I'm still hurting, but I've burned my Martyr Badge in an imaginary recovery fire.  Today will be a day of more prayers, probably a few more tears as I pick myself up, and a whole heckuvva lot of gratitude.

 

This is my cup for now.

There are many ways to drink it up.  

The manner in which I drink it up will be a mark on my character for eternity. It has the potential to wreak havoc on my progression or teach me qualities that will last beyond the grave- the Take It With You kind.

Knowing all of this:

How will I drink my cup today?  

 

 

Hard Workin'

image via allposters.com

I spent an hour and a half yesterday on my hands and knees, mopping my mom's tile flooring.

My mom has arthritis.
Clean floors are important to her.
It was her birthday.

It felt so good to crank some tunes (the Children's Folk Station on Pandora is about as funky as I get now), get dirty and sweaty and GET A JOB DONE!

My Dad is a firm believer in work.  He lives what he believes.  He owns his own mechanic shop and farm.  He raises horses and cattle.
When my husband's addiction reached a point where I HAD to let my parents in on what was going on, he confessed that he had his own addiction... to work.  I pretended to be shocked. 
Or not.

There was ALWAYS something for me to do growing up, and if I wasn't always doing something productive, Dad wasn't happy.
We butchered beef together, pulled weeds together, milked cows together, branded calves together, rounded up herds together, planted gardens together... work was what we DID as a family.

We were always early-to-bedders.
We were always caked in mud or grease.

The prospect of work was awful... getting up out of bed before the sun was never fun, especially when it was freezing cold outside.
But once we got out there -once our hands were in the dirt and we were side-by-side putting our shoulder to the wheel, it wasn't nearly as bad.  We had each other.
We quoted movies and sang, "Daddy won't sell the farm" at the top of our lungs. 
And honestly -hard work feels amazing. 

Pregnancy is hard work, but it isn't the kind that you can really get your hands on -the kind that makes you sweat and stink for a few good hours... the kind that can be showered off in one cleansing, glorious experience.
But pregnancy does make THAT kind of hard work pretty much impossible.  I've really missed it.
And on my hands and knees with my track pants rolled up over my knees, I found it again.  I sang "Yakkety Yak" and scrubbed and scrubbed.  My son was by my side, making me laugh.
I was sweating and I was stinking.

Mostly, I was surprised and how GOOD it felt to be back in the game.  I drove back home when I was done with a small, euphoric feeling. 

I wish addiction was something we could man-muscle our way through.  I wish we could get down on our hands and knees, scrub it away with our sweat, and then take a hot shower to wash the remnants down the drain forever.  But it isn't.  It's so much more than that.

But the little euphoria that comes with our victories -no matter how small -is the same. 
I had a small workforce in my siblings (six of us all together), and I have a small workforce in all of you.
Getting out of bed to DO it isn't easy.  The prospect of leaving the warm, familiar comfort of our beds is awful.
But once we're out there, side-by-side, up to our elbows in the recovery fields... it feels amazing.

I'm grateful for all of you.
I'm grateful for my Dad and the opportunities he gave me -despite the fact that I was the butt-end of "old fashioned" jokes at school (seriously?  who milks a cow? you know they SELL milk, right? *guffaw*)
I'm grateful for fields of all kinds.
I'm grateful for you.
And in my own way, I'm grateful for addiction.

Sight-Reading

 

via squarepianotech.com

I have a degree in Music Education.
I don't use it for much, but I do teach piano lessons.  I love teaching -I absolutely LOVE teaching.  Teaching is one of my passions in life.  It doesn't matter if it's music or gospel or preschool or whatever... I love it.  Right now, I have small children at home and that's where I focus my teaching.  I hope to someday teach as a career, but right now I settle for what little cash I can make as a piano teacher.

I took a break from teaching piano lessons during the month of December.  This week, I've started back up again.  It's been so refreshing to see my little students again.  It's also been much easier to teach without having to get up to use the restroom every 15 minutes.  I can lean forward and bend over and my tolerance level is back up where it should be.

My first students to return came yesterday.  They are two sweet sisters (and my cousins) -the older of which is in high school... we'll call her Micayla.

Micayla is musically inclined.  Music just MAKES sense to her -she gets it.  I never have to explain anything twice.  She isn't musically proficient, or anything... she just gets the language of music. 
It should make her easy to teach.
But she isn't easy to teach. 

Yesterday, I put a piece of music in front of her that she had never seen.  I do this every lesson with each of my students.  It's very important to teach piano students how to SIGHT-READ a piece of music.  Very often in life (and especially in the church) piano players are called on to play a piece of music they have never seen before.  Sight reading is a vital skill for a piano player.

"Sight read this," I said, and I sat back.
"Okay," she said.  She squinted her eyes, her body tensed, she leaned far forward and she played it as flawlessly as she possibly could.
I never, ever pick songs that my students could easily pluck out.
I challenge each of my students based on their skill level.

As I watched Micayla, I realized that she was striving for perfection -absolute perfection.  She wouldn't have anything less.  With every mistake -and there were many, which was to be expected -she groaned, she stopped progressing and cursed herself before moving on.
I watched her and wondered... why hadn't I realized it before?

I don't want a perfect sight-reader. 
If I had a perfect sight-reader, why would they bother with a teacher?

Micayla, I realized, doesn't want to LEARN from me so much as she wants to IMPRESS me.
She wants to come to her lesson and impress me with all the work she's already done.  The thought of coming before me -her teacher and older cousin -and MESSING UP was just too awful to fathom.

But I don't want perfection.
I want to give her a challenge, something she's never come up against, and see how she handles it.  I want to see where she makes mistakes -see what passages slow her down.  Then -together -we can work on those difficult passages.  I don't condemn her mistakes.  I don't condemn HER.  In fact, I WANT her to make mistakes so we can learn more, reach higher, and attain a higher skill level.

While it's fun to sit and listen to her play songs perfectly, it nullifies my job as a teacher.

As I watched her curse herself through a song she'd NEVER SEEN, I realized that I have the same tendency.
I don't want to mess up because I know the Master Teacher is watching.  I want to IMPRESS HIM with how well I'm doing with the challenges in front of me.
As a co-dependent, I'm looking for validation -for a pat on the head -for approval.
As a human, that's exactly what I DO NOT need.

I'm slowly learning this.
Last year, I let go of perfection. 
This year will be the year I learn to let go of my need for approval and validation.

I want to come before my Master Teacher covered in bruises and bumps and scrapes and say, "I did the best I could, but I messed up at this point and this point and THIS point is just impossible... can you help me?  Will you teach me?"

I will not nullify His position as Master Teacher.