Huff Puff

I'm really looking forward to meeting with my therapist tomorrow.  (Never thought I'd say that.)  I haven't made as much progress this week as I would have liked but I'm still here.  I'm still trying.  That counts.  I can't weed out all the dandelions in one go.

I'm also looking forward to my Mom's visit for Christmas.  Remember when I was scared?  It's still new and new is often scary.  But the genuine love and concern from my Mom is a life jacket when I'm lost at sea.

I still want to run. I still want to hide.  Wish the pain away instead of leaning into it.  I've tried it.  Doesn't work so well.  I end up crumpled in front of the fireplace waiting for a miracle.

I do see miracles all around me.

I am blessed beyond my capacity to truly comprehend.

And yet.

I yearn for something more.  I know in the 12 step groups one of the biggest things is letting things go.  Letting Go and Letting God.  Recognizing what I can control and what I cannot. I find that it is easy to say and very hard to do.  If I let go what if I get hurt again?

To which I hear Wolf from The 10th Kingdom say, "Well, maybe you won't get hurt. But, huff-puff, you won't get loved either."

It's been a long day.  And I am grateful, SO grateful, for new friends I have found along this way.
Sorry there's not much more to the post.  I don't have much to offer at the moment.
This is my reality.

Still Here

I'm still here.


Which is what I keep telling my husband too. We've had a lot of rough days/nights.  I told him that I have indeed thought about leaving at some point. He asked me after reading some blog posts of other WoPAs who have left or considered leaving.  But that point is not today and not anytime soon unless his behavior says my family/I is/am not safe.  So far so good. Mostly.  He had a slip recently, meaning he gave into addictive behavior but hasn't given up recovery.  It's been a rough week since then.

We have been taking stock of where we are, evaluating progress.  He feels like we are making progress individually but not together as a marriage.  I somewhat agree with that.  I think I have made progress. I can set boundaries and stick to them and feel safe thus feeling empowered in my ability to trust myself.   I have been to a therapist that I have hope can help me in a broader sense.  I think he has made progress.  He is SO much more willing to even look at his emotions and let them out.  It's hard.  He hasn't done it before.  And now he's got a lifetime of emotions to work through.  Some harder than others. He has proven he can do hard things too.  Our marriage relationship is kind of just sitting there waiting for both of us to work some stuff out.

And I'm still here.

I haven't gone anywhere.
I might lock myself in the bedroom sometimes.
But I'm here.
And I'm working.
And I think I'm healing and waiting and loving my dear husband from where I am.  Which is not as close as I'd like. But I don't believe it'll be this way forever.  And that gives me hope.

The great Brene

A friend shared this video by the great Brene Brown (Pronounced Bre-nay).  SO powerful! And I tell you what, I've got some things to work on.  And I love the encouragement I get from this brave warrior.  EMPATHY. Not Sympathy.  Seriously.  I don't even know where to really go with a full response to this video.  But watch it.  20 minutes. Turn it on while folding laundry (which I have slated for the ENTIRE day- I hate getting behind on laundry).


I am afraid of telling people my story. My pain. My life.  Because I am worried they will Sympathize and not Empathize.  That I will be more shamed for my struggles.

But this is me.  My pain.  My struggles.  They are real.  And it is a journey of learning and growing (and many mistakes along the way.)

Where does you lied to me turn into you are a liar?  Our mistakes do not define us.  At least they shouldn't.  Blaming?  Ooooh. I identify with THAT.

So watch it and email me what you think.  Or comment.  Or just enjoy.

Beauty in scars.

Scars are dead tissue.  What caused a scar is usually very painful.  Unsightly lines that disrupt the beautiful.  But in their own way, scars are powerful and beautiful.

Scars tell the story of what we have experienced.

I have a scar on one of my knees (correction I have scars on BOTH my knees but only one is from this experience) from when I was in 7th grade.  I was on the cross country team and for practice we'd run a loop that went by the tennis courts.  I tripped and fell hard.  The scar is still there.  Cross country wasn't easy for me.  I don't actually enjoy running to someone else's command but my friend convinced me to join her.  It wasn't something I had confidence in but I persisted anyway.  I never won any prestigious ribbons.  I came in last, pretty much every race.  But I did it.  I have the scars to prove it.

I have a scar on my chin from sliding in the gutter chin first when I was no older than 7.  I had on fancy dress shoes, I don't know if it was a Sunday or if I was just dressing up.  I was out in the front yard tossing the Koosh ball with my brother and it went into the gutter so I dove for it.  Oops.  Didn't have stitches, just a butterfly bandage.  And now a wrinkly scar on my chin and a memory.

I have a scar on the knuckle of my right thumb from a time I baked my best batch of cookies ever and hit my thumb on the top rack pulling them out. I think they were the perfect batch because I never intended to keep them.  I baked them and mailed them to a friend.

I have a scar on the back of my head somewhere.  I can't see it because my hair hides it.  I fell out of a wagon when I was little.  6 maybe?  I was pretending to drive, steer with the handle while others pushed.  The slope of the driveway made me tip.  I did have to get stitches that time.  My friend's mom took them out for me a few days later. I remember being very scared and brave.

I have a scar on my right shin from running up the bleachers and hitting a bench.  It's numb all the way to the bone still and didn't bleed much.  It was embarrassing but I learned the power of laughter to dispel fear.

Scars are ugly.  And beautiful.  For without any scars what would remind us of our stories?

I hope someday, when this one heals I will be able to tell the story of how this scar showed me that I am stronger than I thought possible, more compassionate than I knew.  I hope to find the beauty in this ugly scar.  I'm beginning to see some of it already.  And that is a wonderful blessing.

Stitches

I received some "love mail" today. You see, my dear Mom sent me a package and I got it today.  In it was this book: STITCHES: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair by Anne Lamott.  (click the link-I don't know how to link the picture)

Oh. My. Heavens.

SUCH a WONDERFUL book. Seriously.  Buy it.  I read it with an orange colored pencil in hand and highlighted MANY wonderful passages and quotes.  It's 96 pages long and yes, I read it all in the 6 hours I've had it (which if you do the math is on the slow-ish side of reading, but I promise you I took time to feed my family dinner, left over sloppy joes, and bathe the smallest wee one and put him to bed, sent the other brothers with Daddy on a project, I also let my kids watch Netflix this afternoon.)

My all time favorite quote, it has a heart by it in my book, and perhaps fellow sewers will love this as much as I do;

Sewing is the finger and heart equivalent of putting one foot in front of the other.

So many other quotes I want to share but there's a reason this one stands out.  Remember my Correspondence Course in Self Care? (If not click the link) Those strips of fabric were meticulously crafted into the beginnings of my very own quilt top.  See?

This pattern starts with sewing the strips together at angles to create the LONGEST STRIP OF FABRIC KNOWN TO MAN.  Seriously.  Football field length.  Then you fold in half sewing that strip to itself lengthwise.  Which takes FOREVER.  

This is me hard at work. Just when you think you can't sew another stitch, that you MUST be close to the end you look down and see that you're not even halfway.  It's disheartening.  So fifteen minutes later (not kidding and this is after an hour of making the longest strip known to man) you might have that first strip done.  From there on out it's easy peasy.  The rows double in size each time so the length you have to sew is 1/2 as long.  (Doesn't make sense, I know- but it's not a tutorial on how but the lesson learned.) The agony of that first strip is real.  It is hard.  It is exhausting and butt numbing.  And yet you plod on.  With hope that it won't turn out an ugly mess.  And guess what?  You were right all along.  It's wonderful and far different than you had ever imagined.  

And isn't that our journey through life?  Our journey as WoPAs? Trying to figure out how to plod on with this forever long stitch?  Having to unpick and resew when the pattern gets skiwampus? 

This is a metaphor that I will cling to.  For I've always been a pretty fearless sewer.  And now I'll start applying that to the rest of my life.  

One foot in front of the other. 

One stitch and then another.  Some unpicking.  Some re-sewing.  And a beautiful unknown pattern will reveal itself.  

Little Man Complex

Revelation comes line upon line as we are ready for it.

I'm not worthy.  I am inferior. 

That is what the negative tape in my head has been saying for... I don't know, my whole life?  I don't think I can pinpoint why I feel this way.  Maybe it's a second born thing.  There's not an experience that sticks out in my mind that says, "YES! That's it! The root of my shame and self-loathing."  There are particular experiences over the years that stand out in reaffirming my own belief, unbeknownst to anyone involved.  But for a long time I remember feeling this way.

Mind you, as a child I was bubbly.  Happy.  Always smiling.  People remember me as a jovial, carefree child. I do remember being happy and care free.  But I don't know if I learned to wear the mask well as a child or if that was a skill acquired later in life to hide my pain from people who might hurt me further.

Being a teen was rough, as it often is.  My family life was flipped when my parents divorced.  I never felt accepted among the kids at church, except for the rare few who are still precious friends to this day.  So I hung out with people who accepted me.  I showed them the real, raw, broken me and they held me close and loved me anyway.  It always saddens me to think that we've somewhat parted ways but I will always treasure the genuine feedback and support I received from them.  My relationship with my Dad fell apart (what was left to fall apart) when my parents divorced and he quickly remarried.  It was messy.  For years.  It's better now, but mostly because I have come to accept it for what it is, not that much has changed over the years.  Some, yes, but not much.  There are so many incidents that come to mind in my broken relationship with my Dad that reinforced my mentality that I was inferior, lesser.  Wounded, I would return to the safety of my Mom's house (or just her voice) and she would tell me what my core knew: I am worthy and worth loving.  I am important.  I belong.  That's not to paint my Mom as a saint and my Dad as a devil but more often than not Mom was safe and Dad was not, emotionally.

When I was a junior in high school (parents split the summer before) my Dad remarried.  The mom of one of my friends then became my stepmom.  We weren't very close but had been when we were younger.  Did you ever dream of your parents marrying your best friend's parents so you could be sisters?  I did.  Parent Trap.  Thanks Disney.  Reality didn't work like that for us.  It became a forced blending of families and none of us were allowed to have any opinions contrary to what the parents had decided.  Or we would be met with huge amounts of guilt.  And more infusions of "I am not worthy. I am inferior." I never felt like I had a right to say anything at church because our family wasn't one of the "old" families of First Ward.  I didn't have an in with the ones who were.  We were friends, but only superficially.  We were poor.  Talk about feeling "I am not worthy.  I am inferior."  Society chalks that one up to a given, except for the few who fought and worked their tails off and didn't believe that nonsense to make something of themselves.  But I was not one of them.

College was an interesting time.  I felt some of this negativity early on, but I also learned that I was worthy.  I could do great things.  I could do hard things.  This confidence is probably part of what my husband was attracted to (I hope.)  I had my moments of self doubt.  "Does he really like me?"  which I think are normal.  I decided that he did and I was thrilled.  The rest is history, as they say.  I do find that old enemy around though.  Driving, I always think other people are judging me of how I drive. (Why are we so critical of people's driving anyway?)  I find myself giving in to this thinking more often than I realized.  Lately it's been worse with coming to grips with the massive amounts of pain I have been avoiding.  I'm hurt. Raw. Bleeding.  I don't show many for fear that they'll stick their fingers in the wound or point out that it's oozing and infected (like I didn't already know).  I hide. I don't think many of my inlaws even know many of my real opinions on things because I'm so afraid of the rejection or talking behind my back (as they often do about others so why not me) that I either shut up or find myself agreeing with them because (I think) they think I am unworthy of holding my own opinion that might be contrary to their own.

My inner voice tells me not to believe that "I am not worthy.  I am inferior."  My inner voice says that's bullschnit.  It's hard to hear sometimes.  That inner voice.  She's getting stronger though.  And now that I recognize the faulty thinking maybe I can break past it.  Thank heaven's for Addo.  What a beautiful blessing.  (One of the lessons brought all this to the forefront.)

As the wonderful, Brene Brown points out, "I am worthy of love and belonging." 
And the great Dr. Skinner reminds, "I am good.  I am strong and I have much to offer."
And from dear Scabs, "I am brave."
And one altered from What About Bob, "I am good. I am great. I am wonderful." 

I sure hope having it here in written form will help me remember. 

The Love of God

Woman is God’s supreme creation. Only after the earth had been formed, after the day had been separated from the night, after the waters had been divided from the land, after vegetation and animal life had been created, and after man had been placed on the earth, was woman created; and only then was the work pronounced complete and good.Of all the creations of the Almighty, there is none more beautiful, none more inspiring than a lovely daughter of God who walks in virtue with an understanding of why she should do so, who honors and respects her body as a thing sacred and divine, who cultivates her mind and constantly enlarges the horizon of her understanding, who nurtures her spirit with everlasting truth. God will hold us accountable if we neglect His daughters. He has given us a great and compelling trust. May we be faithful to that trust.~President Gordon B. Hinckley 

Elder Richard G. Scott spoke at a broadcast for Stake Conference today (twice a year gathering of church member to hear from local leadership- this time also had a broadcast portion).  He referenced some quotes that touched my heart.  We are vastly important to our Father in Heaven.  He has not forsaken us.  He cherished us.  ME.  I am important.  I am beloved.  I am cherished.  

"May we be faithful to that trust."

Ouch.  What happens when those we love are not faithful to that trust?  It hurts.  A LOT.  Elder Scott also quoted President Thomas S. Monson:

"Tears inevitably follow transgression.  Men, take care not to make women weep, for God counts their tears."

We are loved. I am loved.

I know, too that my Father in Heaven loves my sweetheart.  That he has given us all the opportunity to restore trust, to ask forgiveness and to be forgiven.  What a tender mercy that is.  Forgiveness is not the same as trust.  Forgiveness is the willingness of the heart to let go.  Trust is a willingness to put that same heart back into the hands of my husband.  I'm not there yet.  But I have hope that I will be.  And I am counted as a daughter of the Most High God.  Incredible.  And incredible how easily I forget.  We are mortal.  We make mistakes.  We hurt other people, even those we love dearly.  And I can feel my heart beginning to soften.