My brother and sister-in-law (whom for the sake of this post we will call Simon and Diana) came to visit this last weekend.
Watching them interact was painful--this is the same brother that I called recently, and who disclosed to me that he has a continuing addiction to pornography. Watching her--how hurt she was, how she tried to get him to notice her and the children, how she nitpicked and controlled and got angry--made my heart hurt.
I love my brother. I adore him. But it hurt me to see what a dark place he is in.
BECAUSE OF PORN.
Simon got addicted to pornography when he was a young boy--similar to many other stories you've probably already heard. And he's currently in counseling, which is wonderful...but when I asked him a few weeks ago if he'd been going to Group, doing the steps, or any of the other things that have genuinely helped me, he said, "Well, no--I've not gotten around to that yet."
I was able to drop it when I was on the phone with him--after all, Utah is a long way away from where I live, and it's easy for me to not feel the need to rescue or fix from a distance.
But this past week? Watching him disconnect and ignore and play games on his iPhone while the rest of us were watching our children play together?
I wanted to fix it. I wanted to rescue him. I wanted to help Diana so that she wouldn't have to go through the same thing I've been experiencing with my own husband's disconnect.
So I sat and talked to her at one point, and I brought a manual ("Understanding Pornography," a manual published by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, is marvelous. If you haven't read it yet, you should), and left a note on it telling them that this book had brought me a lot of hope and hid it in her suitcase (after asking her, of course), and then I realized that I needed to surrender.
Big time.
So I spent the entire weekend praying, pleading, watching, and trying to follow the Spirit.
By Friday afternoon, I was shot. I was exhausted from trying not to step on toes, trying not to judge while feeling judged, and when we were all visiting at my Grandma's house, I got triggered, badly. I ended up walking my kids a block back to my house and driving them home for nap time in tears.
I know God loves Simon. I know God loves Diana, and I know that despite the hurt, despite the pain--they love each other. Truly.
But oh, the pain. It's real.
And I hate the fact that I'm so vulnerable, so weak, so RAW, that just having family in town for what was actually a joyous occasion (my younger sister graduated from High School) completely undid me.
I hate the fact that I'm so emotionally fragile. That I hide in bed from my children every morning until I'm absolutely forced to get up, that I take naps that last for hours every day and STILL feel tired, that the smallest hiccup in my day leaves me in tears. I hate that I still feel resentful about stupid things, and that a comment made in passing by someone can be a trigger that leaves me feeling completely turned around.
So now, I guess I need to relearn how to surrender. Only this time, I have to surrender my brother, his marriage, and his family, rather than my own family and marriage.
Which, I'm learning, is just as hard to do--only in a completely different way.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Me Again
I woke up yesterday morning feeling like myself again, for the first time in I don't know how many months.
I got out of bed without my children forcing me to.
I cleaned. ON MY OWN. I swept and mopped my floor (it's literally been over a month since the last time I did that), and I cleaned without resentment or anger, but with the genuine satisfaction that comes from seeing a job well done, as well as the peace that come from living in a house that doesn't resemble a place where you would keep livestock.
And then my husband came home from a camp out, and I could tell he was irritated. Irritated that I had talked him into taking both the three-year-old AND the five-year-old with him (I know, I'm so demanding).
And I started feeling guilty. And then I started feeling resentful and manipulated, and then cleaning suddenly became a CHORE instead of a gift of service to the people I love. Another symptom of just how much I was taken for granted.
And then I felt guilty for being resentful, and I thought I could hold it in and just fake it--I could just go and take a nap with my husband on our bed...but Heavenly Father doesn't let me do that anymore.
Thank Goodness.
So, after mopping and sending my cranky husband in to take a nap, I went and ate some lunch (I'm one of those people who get hangry--I get cranky if I haven't eaten for a while), and then I took a nap on the couch, after a few more surrendering prayers and a little bit of reading in my Steps.
And after we woke up, when we felt better, I pulled The Husband aside and TOLD him. Honestly, but kindly. "I'm glad you took the boys camping, but I was angry because I felt that you had a bad attitude about it. That's why I didn't come sleep with you for nap time."
He was gracious about it and apologized for his bad attitude, and I felt better.
I gave him the truth.
And the truth set me free.
I got out of bed without my children forcing me to.
I cleaned. ON MY OWN. I swept and mopped my floor (it's literally been over a month since the last time I did that), and I cleaned without resentment or anger, but with the genuine satisfaction that comes from seeing a job well done, as well as the peace that come from living in a house that doesn't resemble a place where you would keep livestock.
And then my husband came home from a camp out, and I could tell he was irritated. Irritated that I had talked him into taking both the three-year-old AND the five-year-old with him (I know, I'm so demanding).
And I started feeling guilty. And then I started feeling resentful and manipulated, and then cleaning suddenly became a CHORE instead of a gift of service to the people I love. Another symptom of just how much I was taken for granted.
And then I felt guilty for being resentful, and I thought I could hold it in and just fake it--I could just go and take a nap with my husband on our bed...but Heavenly Father doesn't let me do that anymore.
Thank Goodness.
So, after mopping and sending my cranky husband in to take a nap, I went and ate some lunch (I'm one of those people who get hangry--I get cranky if I haven't eaten for a while), and then I took a nap on the couch, after a few more surrendering prayers and a little bit of reading in my Steps.
And after we woke up, when we felt better, I pulled The Husband aside and TOLD him. Honestly, but kindly. "I'm glad you took the boys camping, but I was angry because I felt that you had a bad attitude about it. That's why I didn't come sleep with you for nap time."
He was gracious about it and apologized for his bad attitude, and I felt better.
I gave him the truth.
And the truth set me free.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Control Freak
I've learned that I like being in control.
I like being in control of my emotions, of maintaining my yard, of the choices I make, of how my household is run, of how I feel and think and react to things.
Problem is, I've never been in control--I've only had the illusion of control as I've shoved emotions down through cake and binge TV-watching (curse you, Netflix) and as I've swept, mopped, folded laundry, taught piano lessons, made dinners, and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned, all while resenting what was going on inside of me and pretending that I was being Christlike by never (heaven forbid!) actually SAYING what I was feeling.
And then my husband went out of town in February, during the same week that I was scheduled to teach 27 piano lessons, my three children all had a nasty mix of Strep Throat, fevers over 104 degrees, bronchial infections, and ear infections, right after I had to put on a HUGE, incredibly stressful dance for the members of my local community, and I was expected to take care of it all.
And that week was when I lost any sense of control that I might have had. I pretty much had a complete nervous breakdown, which I'm now grateful for, because it lead me to needing the Twelve Steps.
I've learned about the Steps before, you know--when my husband admitted to me that he'd been struggling with pornography three years ago, I got the pamphlet and like the dutiful returned missionary I was, I studied and took notes.
And then my husband got on antidepressants and felt better, so I felt better, so I stopped with the steps. I didn't "need" them anymore, because, after all, the problem was "under control."
But this time--it's different. Six years of me shoving down emotions without ever actually admitting to them or feeling them or letting myself actually say anything about the way I felt when I was left alone to deal with hard things--that's added up. And I can't pretend to have control anymore.
Step One was incredibly empowering and enlightening to me--Honesty. Honestly admitting to yourself that your life has become unmanageable, and voluntarily surrendering all control to God... nothing is more empowering than realizing that we aren't MEANT to control it all. We have Someone who is more than willing to take control of the reins, so long as we quit clinging to them blindly and hand them over to Him.
Last night I was reminded of the need to surrender. I got myself into a situation where I was told that I would be contributing a specific need to a particular occasion (I was on the judge's panel to cast a local children's production of Annie). I was told that since I didn't have any children trying out for this play, that I would be an important, unbiased part of the panel, and I went into last night with a definite illusion of the control I would have over the choices made.
However, due to some other judges who had differing opinions from mine, the cast list went out last night, and three of the main leads are the daughters of one of the judges, while another main lead is the daughter of another judge, while yet another lead is the daughter of yet another judge.
So much for being unbiased.
I genuinely felt sick when I got home at 3:00 this morning. I had tried to defend my personal casting choices, but been outvoted nearly every time, and knowing that my name was going to be on that casting list, showing decisions that weren't mine to make, makes me feel angry, fearful of dealing with upset parents, victimized, betrayed, and a host of other emotions that I realize probably aren't proportionate to the situation I was in.
I thought I would have control over what decisions were made last night, and after the first fifteen minutes of hearing one of the judges trying to convince me why his daughter would be the best Annie, I realized that whatever control I thought I had was definitely an illusion, and I resented that fact.
However, after some good venting to my sponsor and an out-loud, kneeling-down prayer (something I'm trying to do on a daily basis after being in the habit of praying silently for the past many years), not to mention lots of "help-me-surrender-this" prayers as I've gone about my business this morning, I'm feeling better now.
These are good parents who want their children involved in something wonderful. They are positive, optimistic people, and I genuinely look forward to working with them and their children. If last night didn't go how I had planned or imagined it going, I can still feel confident about the fact that I didn't tacitly go along with something I disagreed with, and if the cast ended up the way it did, it did so with my full honesty about being uncomfortable with it. I don't have to victimize myself or vilify the other people involved in this project--all I have to do is surrender, to do my best to ensure that the kids under my stewardship have a good experience, and to know that God will take care of those poor broken-hearted 11-year-old girls who will cry themselves to sleep tonight, and that He has a plan for them that makes whether or not they got the lead role in Annie an incredibly insignificant part of their lives.
And knowing that little fact will help me sleep better at night.
I like being in control of my emotions, of maintaining my yard, of the choices I make, of how my household is run, of how I feel and think and react to things.
Problem is, I've never been in control--I've only had the illusion of control as I've shoved emotions down through cake and binge TV-watching (curse you, Netflix) and as I've swept, mopped, folded laundry, taught piano lessons, made dinners, and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned, all while resenting what was going on inside of me and pretending that I was being Christlike by never (heaven forbid!) actually SAYING what I was feeling.
And then my husband went out of town in February, during the same week that I was scheduled to teach 27 piano lessons, my three children all had a nasty mix of Strep Throat, fevers over 104 degrees, bronchial infections, and ear infections, right after I had to put on a HUGE, incredibly stressful dance for the members of my local community, and I was expected to take care of it all.
And that week was when I lost any sense of control that I might have had. I pretty much had a complete nervous breakdown, which I'm now grateful for, because it lead me to needing the Twelve Steps.
I've learned about the Steps before, you know--when my husband admitted to me that he'd been struggling with pornography three years ago, I got the pamphlet and like the dutiful returned missionary I was, I studied and took notes.
And then my husband got on antidepressants and felt better, so I felt better, so I stopped with the steps. I didn't "need" them anymore, because, after all, the problem was "under control."
But this time--it's different. Six years of me shoving down emotions without ever actually admitting to them or feeling them or letting myself actually say anything about the way I felt when I was left alone to deal with hard things--that's added up. And I can't pretend to have control anymore.
Step One was incredibly empowering and enlightening to me--Honesty. Honestly admitting to yourself that your life has become unmanageable, and voluntarily surrendering all control to God... nothing is more empowering than realizing that we aren't MEANT to control it all. We have Someone who is more than willing to take control of the reins, so long as we quit clinging to them blindly and hand them over to Him.
Last night I was reminded of the need to surrender. I got myself into a situation where I was told that I would be contributing a specific need to a particular occasion (I was on the judge's panel to cast a local children's production of Annie). I was told that since I didn't have any children trying out for this play, that I would be an important, unbiased part of the panel, and I went into last night with a definite illusion of the control I would have over the choices made.
However, due to some other judges who had differing opinions from mine, the cast list went out last night, and three of the main leads are the daughters of one of the judges, while another main lead is the daughter of another judge, while yet another lead is the daughter of yet another judge.
So much for being unbiased.
I genuinely felt sick when I got home at 3:00 this morning. I had tried to defend my personal casting choices, but been outvoted nearly every time, and knowing that my name was going to be on that casting list, showing decisions that weren't mine to make, makes me feel angry, fearful of dealing with upset parents, victimized, betrayed, and a host of other emotions that I realize probably aren't proportionate to the situation I was in.
I thought I would have control over what decisions were made last night, and after the first fifteen minutes of hearing one of the judges trying to convince me why his daughter would be the best Annie, I realized that whatever control I thought I had was definitely an illusion, and I resented that fact.
However, after some good venting to my sponsor and an out-loud, kneeling-down prayer (something I'm trying to do on a daily basis after being in the habit of praying silently for the past many years), not to mention lots of "help-me-surrender-this" prayers as I've gone about my business this morning, I'm feeling better now.
These are good parents who want their children involved in something wonderful. They are positive, optimistic people, and I genuinely look forward to working with them and their children. If last night didn't go how I had planned or imagined it going, I can still feel confident about the fact that I didn't tacitly go along with something I disagreed with, and if the cast ended up the way it did, it did so with my full honesty about being uncomfortable with it. I don't have to victimize myself or vilify the other people involved in this project--all I have to do is surrender, to do my best to ensure that the kids under my stewardship have a good experience, and to know that God will take care of those poor broken-hearted 11-year-old girls who will cry themselves to sleep tonight, and that He has a plan for them that makes whether or not they got the lead role in Annie an incredibly insignificant part of their lives.
And knowing that little fact will help me sleep better at night.
Monday, May 5, 2014
All of Us?
How in the world does Heavenly Father manage to love EVERY single one of his children?
How does he love screwed-up me and my husband the same as he loves the prophet the same as he loves the drug-dealer on the street or Hitler or any other evil, horrible human being who also happens to be a child of God?
How?!?!
The truth is, I don't think our finite minds can begin to comprehend how He manages to have perfect, never ending love for all of His children.
Being a parent has helped me start to understand--in the smallest miniscule way--how perfect and all-encompassing a parent's love for a child can be, as well as how love can be powerful but different for each individual--I don't love my hyperactive, energetic, eager 5-year-old son the exact same way as I love my obedient, easygoing, happy, stubborn 2-year-old daughter, but I love them both beyond comprehension. That parental bond is a very real and powerful emotion.
Which is a good thing, because otherwise, I think we'd hear of a lot more parents devouring their young.
But the other day, my kind and wise Heavenly Father gave me just a glimpse into how His love works.
I had run a quick trip into Super-Walmart with my slightly self-absorbed seventeen-year-old sister and my three tantrum-throwing toddlers, and as part of the deal, I had stooped to bribery and bought a baker's dozen worth of donuts to feed the children. We had finally loaded all of the kids in the car, and I was looking forward desperately to a well-earned naptime once we traveled the 30 minutes home, when I happened to glance over towards the bus stop that is on the way out of the parking lot, and noticed a youngish woman sitting on the curb with her face in her hands.
Instantly, the thought came to me: "She needs someone to check on her. Go do it."
It didn't come again, but because I'm learning to follow thoughts that I know aren't mine, I flipped an extremely dangerous U-turn in the middle of the parking lot while trying to explain to my sister what I was doing (she looked at me as if I was crazy), and put the car in park right next to the woman sitting on the curb. I grabbed a donut with a napkin and climbed out of the car and walked over to her nervously, then tapped her on her tattooed arm. She looked up, startled, tears still streaming down her face.
"Hey, um--you looked like you were having a hard time, and I thought...would you like a donut?" I stammered awkwardly, holding the donut out to her. "I know it won't fix anything, but maybe it'll make you feel a little better?"
She looked at me a little strangely (I don't blame her), then took the donut hesitantly. "Thanks, I guess." She began wiping her eyes, embarrassed.
"Is everything okay? Do you want to talk about it?" I asked gently, as I sat down on the curb beside her.
Her face crumpled and she began to cry again. "I can't get my meds!"
I'll admit, my first thought was Oh, crap--I just stopped to help a druggie!
But I didn't say anything, and she continued to tell me how her insurance company had elected to stop covering her seizure medications--the ones that cost $500 per month--and she didn't know how she could hold down a job or take care of her children without those medications--and how hopeless and scared she felt.
I didn't say anything beyond a murmured "That sounds so hard," or "I'm sorry it's so hard for you right now," because I had absolutely no advice, no solutions--nothing beyond a listening ear to offer. She vented for about five minutes (I had to keep myself from continually glancing over at my car where my hyperactive children were literally licking the windows), and as she began to calm down and get quieter, I had another distinct thought: "She needs to know that her Heavenly Father loves her. Tell her that."
As she paused for a moment, I patted her knee awkwardly. "I'm so sorry that things are hard. And I know it may not feel like it right now, but I want you to know that God loves you, and I know that everything will turn out all right. He sent me here to tell you that."
She gave me another strange look--I couldn't tell what she might have been thinking--but I knew that my job was done at that moment. I asked her if I could give her a hug, and she let me, and then I got back in my car and drove away.
I don't know what she got out of that, and I probably will never know in this life what it may have meant to her, but I do know that I once again was reminded that my Heavenly Father knows us each on a more individual and personal basis than we can possibly comprehend.
And He loves us and sends us exactly what we need, exactly when we need it.
And that's something to think about, now, isn't it?
How does he love screwed-up me and my husband the same as he loves the prophet the same as he loves the drug-dealer on the street or Hitler or any other evil, horrible human being who also happens to be a child of God?
How?!?!
The truth is, I don't think our finite minds can begin to comprehend how He manages to have perfect, never ending love for all of His children.
Being a parent has helped me start to understand--in the smallest miniscule way--how perfect and all-encompassing a parent's love for a child can be, as well as how love can be powerful but different for each individual--I don't love my hyperactive, energetic, eager 5-year-old son the exact same way as I love my obedient, easygoing, happy, stubborn 2-year-old daughter, but I love them both beyond comprehension. That parental bond is a very real and powerful emotion.
Which is a good thing, because otherwise, I think we'd hear of a lot more parents devouring their young.
But the other day, my kind and wise Heavenly Father gave me just a glimpse into how His love works.
I had run a quick trip into Super-Walmart with my slightly self-absorbed seventeen-year-old sister and my three tantrum-throwing toddlers, and as part of the deal, I had stooped to bribery and bought a baker's dozen worth of donuts to feed the children. We had finally loaded all of the kids in the car, and I was looking forward desperately to a well-earned naptime once we traveled the 30 minutes home, when I happened to glance over towards the bus stop that is on the way out of the parking lot, and noticed a youngish woman sitting on the curb with her face in her hands.
Instantly, the thought came to me: "She needs someone to check on her. Go do it."
It didn't come again, but because I'm learning to follow thoughts that I know aren't mine, I flipped an extremely dangerous U-turn in the middle of the parking lot while trying to explain to my sister what I was doing (she looked at me as if I was crazy), and put the car in park right next to the woman sitting on the curb. I grabbed a donut with a napkin and climbed out of the car and walked over to her nervously, then tapped her on her tattooed arm. She looked up, startled, tears still streaming down her face.
"Hey, um--you looked like you were having a hard time, and I thought...would you like a donut?" I stammered awkwardly, holding the donut out to her. "I know it won't fix anything, but maybe it'll make you feel a little better?"
She looked at me a little strangely (I don't blame her), then took the donut hesitantly. "Thanks, I guess." She began wiping her eyes, embarrassed.
"Is everything okay? Do you want to talk about it?" I asked gently, as I sat down on the curb beside her.
Her face crumpled and she began to cry again. "I can't get my meds!"
I'll admit, my first thought was Oh, crap--I just stopped to help a druggie!
But I didn't say anything, and she continued to tell me how her insurance company had elected to stop covering her seizure medications--the ones that cost $500 per month--and she didn't know how she could hold down a job or take care of her children without those medications--and how hopeless and scared she felt.
I didn't say anything beyond a murmured "That sounds so hard," or "I'm sorry it's so hard for you right now," because I had absolutely no advice, no solutions--nothing beyond a listening ear to offer. She vented for about five minutes (I had to keep myself from continually glancing over at my car where my hyperactive children were literally licking the windows), and as she began to calm down and get quieter, I had another distinct thought: "She needs to know that her Heavenly Father loves her. Tell her that."
As she paused for a moment, I patted her knee awkwardly. "I'm so sorry that things are hard. And I know it may not feel like it right now, but I want you to know that God loves you, and I know that everything will turn out all right. He sent me here to tell you that."
She gave me another strange look--I couldn't tell what she might have been thinking--but I knew that my job was done at that moment. I asked her if I could give her a hug, and she let me, and then I got back in my car and drove away.
I don't know what she got out of that, and I probably will never know in this life what it may have meant to her, but I do know that I once again was reminded that my Heavenly Father knows us each on a more individual and personal basis than we can possibly comprehend.
And He loves us and sends us exactly what we need, exactly when we need it.
And that's something to think about, now, isn't it?
Friday, May 2, 2014
Trauma
As the second oldest of eleven children following directly behind an older sister who had disabilities that left her unable to care for even herself, much less our younger siblings, I necessarily got left alone with the kids quite a lot, starting around the age of seven.
Side note: lest you think my parents were neglectful or uncaring, I want to set things right here and now: I love and admire my parents. My mother dealt with poverty, an addictive husband, and massive amounts of chaos and children, and somehow managed to raise us in absolute love and support through all of these incredible trials. And my dad, while an addict, was still my hero growing up, and even learning about his addiction to pornography as an adult didn't change anything about the fact that he is still my hero.
So, back to the story.
Because I was often left in charge of my siblings in chaotic and stressful situations, I learned quickly how to deal with stress and chaos---tough it out and just deal with it. I was a responsible child who wanted to do the best she could, and so when I was left alone to deal with these situations, I usually just tried to make the best of them.
So that's what I did. I babysat with minimal complaining, I always had the hardest chores because I was the one who could be trusted to do them right, and I was the one who was painfully aware of the poverty our family was going through while the little kids still begged for treats at the grocery store checkout line.
Treats I knew we could never afford to get.
Fast forward to Jr. High. Seventh grade was the time in my life when all of my previous best friends decided that I wasn't quite cool enough to hang out with any more. This was the darkest time of my life (due to poverty, a dangerously low self-esteem, and high levels of stress put on my 12-year-old shoulders by a severely depressed mother and an addict father), and even typing up some of the specific experiences still brings tears to my eyes. During this time, I once again learned that when hard things came up, I needed to just suck it up and deal with it, and I did. This was also the time where my budding testimony started to buoy me up, but for the most part, I felt abandoned to deal with hard things on my own.
But it was okay.
I was capable. I was mature, I was "older than my years," I was the strong one while my brother attempted suicide and my older sister was off in her own world, trapped behind a disability no one could seem to get past....and besides, doesn't everyone have a hard Junior High experience? I mean, really?
Fast forward once again to my mission. I was serving in Taiwan, and had been on the island for about 5 months when I was sexually assaulted one day while out riding my bike. A man came up next to me on his scooter and grabbed my left breast and started massaging it. It took a moment for my mind to process what was happening, but as soon as I did, I stopped my bike, shouted at him, and he rode off. I rode over to my companion and immediately burst into tears--needless to say, this was an incredibly traumatic event for a virgin who had dedicated her life to purity and chastity for her Heavenly Father for the next 18 months.
We called my mission president, who, due to some other emergencies among other missionaries, didn't have much time to help me--we did a bit of a therapy session sitting in the back of the van while two other missionaries drove us to a different appointment, but by the end of it, when he asked me if I would be okay, I shakily said I would be fine, and then he dropped us off back at the mission home and left me to deal with the trauma of being sexually harassed with the help of another 21-year-old girl and my Heavenly Father.
Once again, it was okay.
I had a testimony, I knew how the Atonement worked, and although I woke up for the next couple of weeks with nightmares every night, I eventually worked through the trauma and once again found joy and completion in my calling as a missionary.
I always shied away from the word "trauma" when dealing with my husband and my issues. Yes, he was acting like an addict, and yes, he was avoiding being home, but he wasn't cheating on me, he wasn't betraying me, he wasn't even addicted to anything that was really all that dangerous--after all, who doesn't have a problem checking Facebook or their texts too often? Isn't it normal behavior?
But today, when I was working on my 4th step and seeing these patterns of abandonment through my life, I realized--my husband abandoned me. He might not have actually left me permanently alone, he might not have even realized what he was doing as he stalled after classes or spent too much time playing with his electronic devices or detached in the middle of conversations with me, but he was avoiding and abandoning me to deal with our children, the stress of maintaining our household, and my own issues on my own.
And I have been traumatized by that.
Side note: lest you think my parents were neglectful or uncaring, I want to set things right here and now: I love and admire my parents. My mother dealt with poverty, an addictive husband, and massive amounts of chaos and children, and somehow managed to raise us in absolute love and support through all of these incredible trials. And my dad, while an addict, was still my hero growing up, and even learning about his addiction to pornography as an adult didn't change anything about the fact that he is still my hero.
So, back to the story.
Because I was often left in charge of my siblings in chaotic and stressful situations, I learned quickly how to deal with stress and chaos---tough it out and just deal with it. I was a responsible child who wanted to do the best she could, and so when I was left alone to deal with these situations, I usually just tried to make the best of them.
So that's what I did. I babysat with minimal complaining, I always had the hardest chores because I was the one who could be trusted to do them right, and I was the one who was painfully aware of the poverty our family was going through while the little kids still begged for treats at the grocery store checkout line.
Treats I knew we could never afford to get.
Fast forward to Jr. High. Seventh grade was the time in my life when all of my previous best friends decided that I wasn't quite cool enough to hang out with any more. This was the darkest time of my life (due to poverty, a dangerously low self-esteem, and high levels of stress put on my 12-year-old shoulders by a severely depressed mother and an addict father), and even typing up some of the specific experiences still brings tears to my eyes. During this time, I once again learned that when hard things came up, I needed to just suck it up and deal with it, and I did. This was also the time where my budding testimony started to buoy me up, but for the most part, I felt abandoned to deal with hard things on my own.
But it was okay.
I was capable. I was mature, I was "older than my years," I was the strong one while my brother attempted suicide and my older sister was off in her own world, trapped behind a disability no one could seem to get past....and besides, doesn't everyone have a hard Junior High experience? I mean, really?
Fast forward once again to my mission. I was serving in Taiwan, and had been on the island for about 5 months when I was sexually assaulted one day while out riding my bike. A man came up next to me on his scooter and grabbed my left breast and started massaging it. It took a moment for my mind to process what was happening, but as soon as I did, I stopped my bike, shouted at him, and he rode off. I rode over to my companion and immediately burst into tears--needless to say, this was an incredibly traumatic event for a virgin who had dedicated her life to purity and chastity for her Heavenly Father for the next 18 months.
We called my mission president, who, due to some other emergencies among other missionaries, didn't have much time to help me--we did a bit of a therapy session sitting in the back of the van while two other missionaries drove us to a different appointment, but by the end of it, when he asked me if I would be okay, I shakily said I would be fine, and then he dropped us off back at the mission home and left me to deal with the trauma of being sexually harassed with the help of another 21-year-old girl and my Heavenly Father.
Once again, it was okay.
I had a testimony, I knew how the Atonement worked, and although I woke up for the next couple of weeks with nightmares every night, I eventually worked through the trauma and once again found joy and completion in my calling as a missionary.
I always shied away from the word "trauma" when dealing with my husband and my issues. Yes, he was acting like an addict, and yes, he was avoiding being home, but he wasn't cheating on me, he wasn't betraying me, he wasn't even addicted to anything that was really all that dangerous--after all, who doesn't have a problem checking Facebook or their texts too often? Isn't it normal behavior?
But today, when I was working on my 4th step and seeing these patterns of abandonment through my life, I realized--my husband abandoned me. He might not have actually left me permanently alone, he might not have even realized what he was doing as he stalled after classes or spent too much time playing with his electronic devices or detached in the middle of conversations with me, but he was avoiding and abandoning me to deal with our children, the stress of maintaining our household, and my own issues on my own.
And I have been traumatized by that.
Not Enough
The Husband came home yesterday from school and sat with me for a good 45 minutes, talking about his day and listening to me talk about mine.
He read with the kids for at least half an hour before helping me do scriptures, prayer, and drinks before putting them all to bed--a typical nighttime routine that I'm oh-too-used to doing on my own.
He asked me how I was doing, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it as I was bustling about the kitchen, and when I went and grabbed some groceries, he came out to the car without me asking and helped me put everything away--all things that I've literally begged him to do before with little to no response.
He even asked me how I was doing on a scale of 1-10 (we rate our feelings on a scale of 1-10, 1 being hiding in the corner in the fetal position, crying and sucking one's thumb, and 10 being twirling on a mountain top, Julie Andrews style--it's a pretty effective way to check in).
I lied and told him I had been about a 6, even though I'd spent most of the day hovering around a 4 for no good reason, and he acted like he even cared.
Maybe he did.
I don't know.
And yet, when I asked him to make a salad for dinner and he declined, saying that he wanted to work on his school paper that was due the next day, I ended up hiding in the bathroom, crying on the phone to my sponsor.
I have spent a majority of my life feeling unwanted by the people around me. I even spent a good 5 years of my marriage feeling unwanted by my spouse, and now that things are changing and I'm starting to figure out some of the myriad of issues I have to work through, I'm beginning to realize that I am addicted to attention, to compliments, to physical touch, to loving gestures.
I am a NEEDY wife.
And as I talked through my emotions last night, first to my sponsor and then to my husband, I realized something--just as I will never be enough to save or fix my husband, I can't depend on him to be enough to make me feel loved.
He will never be able to hold my hand enough, listen to me enough, spend enough time with me to make up for the past years of me crying in bed next to him while he slept, completely oblivious to my pain.
He will never be able to undo the trauma I have been going through for the past few years as he ignored or avoided me, so stuck in his own depression and self-loathing.
He will never be able to heal or fix or save or rescue me from the pain I am experiencing.
Because he's not supposed to.
Only HE--the Savior--can do those things for me. Through a life of situations in which I have been abandoned, there is One Person who has never--and will never--abandon me.
And it is in Him I have to trust.
He read with the kids for at least half an hour before helping me do scriptures, prayer, and drinks before putting them all to bed--a typical nighttime routine that I'm oh-too-used to doing on my own.
He asked me how I was doing, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it as I was bustling about the kitchen, and when I went and grabbed some groceries, he came out to the car without me asking and helped me put everything away--all things that I've literally begged him to do before with little to no response.
He even asked me how I was doing on a scale of 1-10 (we rate our feelings on a scale of 1-10, 1 being hiding in the corner in the fetal position, crying and sucking one's thumb, and 10 being twirling on a mountain top, Julie Andrews style--it's a pretty effective way to check in).
I lied and told him I had been about a 6, even though I'd spent most of the day hovering around a 4 for no good reason, and he acted like he even cared.
Maybe he did.
I don't know.
And yet, when I asked him to make a salad for dinner and he declined, saying that he wanted to work on his school paper that was due the next day, I ended up hiding in the bathroom, crying on the phone to my sponsor.
I have spent a majority of my life feeling unwanted by the people around me. I even spent a good 5 years of my marriage feeling unwanted by my spouse, and now that things are changing and I'm starting to figure out some of the myriad of issues I have to work through, I'm beginning to realize that I am addicted to attention, to compliments, to physical touch, to loving gestures.
I am a NEEDY wife.
And as I talked through my emotions last night, first to my sponsor and then to my husband, I realized something--just as I will never be enough to save or fix my husband, I can't depend on him to be enough to make me feel loved.
He will never be able to hold my hand enough, listen to me enough, spend enough time with me to make up for the past years of me crying in bed next to him while he slept, completely oblivious to my pain.
He will never be able to undo the trauma I have been going through for the past few years as he ignored or avoided me, so stuck in his own depression and self-loathing.
He will never be able to heal or fix or save or rescue me from the pain I am experiencing.
Because he's not supposed to.
Only HE--the Savior--can do those things for me. Through a life of situations in which I have been abandoned, there is One Person who has never--and will never--abandon me.
And it is in Him I have to trust.
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