Lean into the Pain

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Last weekend was amazing.  In a few days I experienced extreme emotions related to the vulnerability of sharing secrets and odors in a van with five other people, the adrenaline of competition and hundreds of people going for the same goal, the endorphins that come from a runner's high, the emotional connections with genuine friendship, the frustration of combining personalities and opinions, the physical exhaustion of running 19 miles in two days, the sleep deprivation, the social "performance" expected with friends and strangers, side-splitting laughter and ultimately a severe compulsion to be alone. 

Now that I'm home and settled back into life I find myself dealing with the aftermath of the feelings and to be honest I feel totally hung-over.  I miss my friends.  I miss the highs.  There are periods of longing, wishing I were still in the middle of it and feeling anticipation about when I can do I again.

But I also remember how incredibly over stimulating it was.  And I can't imagine ever doing it again.

We are such complicated creatures.

***************

A couple weeks ago Pete and I were both having bad days. I don't remember the details or the circumstances but it was time to leave for church and I couldn't find him.  When I did find him he was sitting in a folding chair in our office and he looked at me with heavy eyes. 

"They say to 'lean into the pain.'  But I'm so tired of the pain."  His heavy eyes filled with tears.

I feel tremendous gratitude for the friendships I've made, the wisdom I've encountered, the knowledge and understanding I've gained.  Sometimes it seems as though happiness is just out of reach, I've almost figured it out.  One more breakthrough or one more epiphany and I'll get there. 

But the truth is, I'm a mortal.  The people I love are mortals.  There is going to be sadness, loneliness and confusion.  Anxiety causes the obsessive parts of my nature to feel like the world is spinning around me and I can't find my bearings.  Self-doubt, insecurity, guilt and disappointment float across my thoughts like clouds, giving me only brief glimpses of the glorious sunlight. 

Today is a cloudy day.

Sometimes my best option is to just lean into the pain. 

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What did I do last weekend? See here.

Camp Scabs Idaho

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Okay potato people!

Scabs has asked me to help host the Idaho installment in her Camp Scabs series. If you aren't familiar with what Camp Scabs is, go here. But it is basically a safe retreat for women affected by the betrayal of porn, sexual addiction or infidelity. We validate, commiserate, relate and we don't sleep, because we can't stop talking.

If you need to sleep, that's okay, come anyway.

Sooooo... anyone is welcome to come, even if you don't live in Idaho. We are just trying to get an idea of how many sistas to expect. So please fill out the survey below and shoot me an email and we will keep you in the loop.

(**For more specific questions about cost, anonymity, length, etc please read through either of the links above.)

Create your free online surveys with SurveyMonkey , the world's leading questionnaire tool.

GNO

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Last night I sat around with five of my friends and ate yummy food.   At first we talked about kids, epidurals and our paranoia of a man hiding under our car at night, ready to slit our achilles and steal us into the wilderness.  Ya know, the usual fodder for GNO conversation.

Then the conversation took that inevitable turn, where everyone shares their story of distant relatives who were sex addicts or "so-and-so's" husband who went to strip clubs on business trips.  It was full of drama and shocked disbelief as it usually is.  In my mind I thought of all of you and wished they could see your faces and know your stories, acknowledge the humanity of our husbands and stop treating our lives like an episode of SVU.  I listened in silence, but it felt like the tremors that come before the earthquake and my composure felt unsteady.

Then it turned again.  To breast augmentation.  Sitting next to me, Rachel went on and on about her amazing boob job.  (She really does have an amazing body.)  This was fine, until she said something that triggered me so badly I had to get up off my seat.

"On our way home from the initial consultation with the doctor Josh and I got into a huge argument because he said I had chosen a size that would be too small."

I once saw "Josh" at a PASG meeting, over a year ago.  I told him he could tell Rachel I was there, Pete was there too.  I always assumed he had told her.  I used to daydream that she would call me, or come sit at my house and we would commiserate for hours and become best friends.  She never did call.  And now, here she was sitting next to me and ridiculing "women who look like flat-chested boys" and seeming perfectly okay with her porn-addicted husband's demands of her chest size. Why didn't I feel okay with it?

I took my dishes to the sink and the tears threatened, and before I could hold them back I bolted out the front door, mumbling an awkward thank-you to the hostess.

I drove to an empty parking lot to cry it out and make some effort at processing what had just happened.  I realized a couple painful things.

1.  I have beautiful friends.  But none of them are the "lusty" type, in attitude, in dress, in figure, in appeal.  I've never felt threatened by my friends.  And as humiliating as this is to admit, I've always felt like I was more attractive (at least to Pete) than any of my friends were.  Suddenly it occurred to me that I was totally threatened by Rachel.  None of this is her fault, it is all based in my insecurities about myself and my relationship with Pete.  But the hurt was magnified by the unfounded expectation I had nurtured for months that Rachel was supposed to be my loyal WoPA companion, not a competitor in the game where men's attention is the prize.

2. I know other husbands have been totally honest with their wives about specific women they lusted after.  I was in complete denial that Pete lusted after women in our "real" life.  It was one thing to cope with the idea that he fantasized about women on the computer screen, but I never thought he fantasized about women I actually knew.  When I finally came home last night I knew I was in a bad place and had no intention of sharing it all with Pete.  But I had to know, so I asked him if he fantasized about women I knew.  He admitted he had.  That was enough for me.  I didn't ask for names.  I knew I wasn't strong enough to have my relationships with those women remain uninfluenced with that knowledge.  But it was a new, bitter pill to swallow.

This morning my eyes are puffy and I want to stay in bed.  I have to go to church and face some of the women who I totally humiliated myself in front of last night.  I have to see Rachel and try to undo the damage I've done in my head about her. 

New boundary.  The only safe Girl's Night Out for me right now is a 12-step meeting. 

YOLO

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"I like living. I have sometimes been wildly despairing, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing."

Agatha Christie

 



I'm going zip-lining in the mountains today with my co-workers.  I'm psyched! >> FIST PUMP <<

Next week is vacation with the fam.

I hope you all have a fantastic weekend.  I love you all more than ever. 

 

Fantasies (Rated PG)

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Pete and I were talking once about fantasy and reality.  It seems that addicts love to live in their fantasy world.

"What's so wrong with your reality?" I asked.  Feeling hurt that I was the woman in his reality and it felt as though he preferred his fantasy. 

"Don't YOU ever have fantasies?" He asked. 

I assumed he meant sexual fantasies and my mind drew a blank.  But I'm beginning to understand that I indulge in a fantasy world too.

I fantasize about waking up in the morning when my body feels rested, and just lying there in the comfort of my blankets, without little voices and faces pestering me about breakfast and cartoons.

I fantasize about getting a phone call at 4:00 from Pete where he says "Don't worry about dinner tonight.  I'm getting take-out.  What sounds good to you?"

At church I fantasize about someone saying something wonderful about me from the pulpit, complimenting me in front of the entire congregation.

I fantasize about having a friend who stops by for no reason.

I fantasize about moving with my little family to Amsterdam and living in a tiny cramped apartment.  We would ride our bikes everywhere and on the weekends in the Spring we would go see the dutch tulips. 

I fantasize about having a mother who loves herself enough to love and accept me unconditionally.

And of course, sometimes I fantasize that sex addiction isn't a part of my life.  I imagine Pete spending his evenings eating dinner with us, and going to movies with us rather than attending SA meetings.  I dream that our hardest conversations would be about our six-year-old's fiery temper.  I fantasize about never seeing that look on his face right before a confession, and the excruciating anticipation about what the words are going to be. 

So, I'm sorry if you are disappointed.  The most scanadalous fantasy I ever have is when I daydream that this song was written about me. 



There are a lot of fun covers of this song.  Brandon Flowers here and T. Swift here. 

Such a Mournful Sound

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It gets worse before it gets better.  The eternal truth that I periodically rehearse in my mind to ward off discouragement; that friend of insanity who makes me feel like there is no progress. 

"You have anxiety." My therapist said to me a few weeks ago.  I chuckled.

"No. I don't have anxiety."

"Yeah. You do." She chuckled back at my disbelief.  And then she made her case and I was convicted on two counts of anxiety and social anxiety, and one count of situational depression.  These weren't "official" diagnoses, just her observations. 

Well crap, I thought. 

Awareness is always the first step, right? And with awareness comes that awful sense of impending doom that nothing will change, that yes, things are MESSED UP in my head.  And that's enough to make me eat an entire bag of chocolate covered coconut macadamia nuts I brought home from Hawaii. 

My counselor suggested I observe my "congnitive distortions."  That required a little research.  After identifying a few that I knew were habitual thinking errors of mine, I began noticing them a little more. I've also been aware of the knot in my stomach when fear creeps in.  And there may have been hours spent wallowing in my bed while my kids watched episode after episode of Sesame Street on Netflix.

"I'm soooooo depressed..."  I moaned to myself. 

I've mentioned it before but I am obsessive about the song "Shake It Off" by Florence and the Machine.  It has become my mantra, my theme song, the soundtrack to the year 2013 in the life of Jane. 

"Every demon wants his pound of flesh" Florence wails. 

Ohhhhhhh demons.  My demons are anxiety, depression, despair, FEAR, and they make excessive and cruel demands on me.  Sometimes they seem so powerful, I feel I have no strength to face them, let alone conquer them.  They suck the life out of me.  They leave me hopeless and gaunt, lethargic and melancholy.

"Looking for heaven found the devil in me." She laments.  My soul cries AMEN FLORENCE! I spent a year exerting a valiant effort into recovery. And what did I end up with? A crisis of faith.  Everything I drug out of the closets of my relationships, all my character flaws I unearthed during my Step 4 inventory, the lack of Pete's recovery despite MY diligent endeavors on our behalf, it was too overwhelming.  I shut down emotionally. 

Why DOES it get worse before it gets better? I really do feel like I challenged all my demons to a playground brawl, and then panicked when I saw their tenacity, when they surrounded me like a childhood nightmare. 

"I am done with my graceless heart."

She sang to me this morning as I blared her anthem on repeat through my headphones and cranked up the speed on the treadmill, determined to run the demons out of me. 

"I can do this. I can overcome this."

Faster, faster, faster. 

"I will do this.  I will overcome this."

I am done with my graceless heart. 

At group meeting the other night someone defined grace as "divine strength."  There is absolutely no way I can fight these demons alone.  I simply don't have it in me.  I'll give this grace thing a shot.  It's my last gasp. 

"And I'm ready to suffer, and ready to hope....
 
It's always darkest before the dawn."

The Real Connection

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The other night Pete and I were being totally inappropriate and speculating about people we knew being sex addicts.  Eventually it got to our family and we started going down the list.   Now let me say, these days I'm so jaded it would take a lot to shock me with a sex addict exposé .  But when it came to my brother both Pete and I figured he was clean.

"No way he's a sex addict."  Pete said. 

"I agree, but how are you so sure?"

"He makes the real connection." 

Apparently that's a term they use in SA.  The elusive "real connection."  And it's true.  My brother really connects with people.  He really cares about them. He keeps in touch.  He loves and forgives.  He is unselfish enough to thoughtfully consider someone's feelings, and feel genuine compassion and concern.  But also he opens his heart and lives with appreciation for the care and kindness he knows others have for him.  He is the only member of my family I have ever considered confiding in. 

I think Pete and I are both heartbroken that we don't have a real connection between us.  For so long we have looked to each other to meet our needs.  [Forgive me Harriet!] But we have expected so much of each other and been so hurt.   I wanted his recovery so much it consumed me.  And he wanted my love and admiration so much he felt crazy.  And, for the last few months, we have both been incapable of offering what the other was so desperate for. 

********************

Almost exactly one year ago this weekend my heart raced as I exited the plane and stepped nervously out my gate.  From across the walkway I saw a the back of a familiar blonde mane and heard the familiar excited voice of my friend Mac as she approached.  I was vulnerable and humble.  I was frantic for a real connection. 

For the next two days I feasted on real connection. 

With Camp Scabs approaching I find myself feeling that familiar nervous and vulnerable feeling.  But I am confident that once more as I sit around the table with real and amazing women I will yet again watch my cup overflow with love and genuine affection. 

Never were friendships born and matured faster, never were hearts more open and accepting, never have women been so bonded as WoPA. 

God has given me real connections to emotionally sustain me while I repair my relationship with my husband. 

The finale of Les Miserables evokes strong emotions in me.  Together, Valjean, Fantine and Eponine sing these words. 

Take my hand
And lead me to salvation
Take my love
For love is everlasting
And remember
The truth that once was spoken:
To love another person is to see the face of god.

Making a "real connection" is truly the most healing, most therapeutic, most divine feeling I've discovered.  On my worst days, I can always take solace in the love (and humor) of my dearest friends.  Strip away fame, strip away power, strip away wealth.  Experience addiction, death, privation, and ridicule.  Eliminate beauty, intelligence, and skill.  And between two people can be exchanged something so powerful yet simple, we all become equals. 

That is the real connection. 

I Am A Queen

Even without really knowing what was going on in Hawaii it was a little bit of an awkward vacation.  But we managed to laugh, particularly whenever we turned on the radio and this song was on.  (Because every time we turned on the radio we heard this song either immediately or within minutes.)

The irony wasn't lost on us.



It has been added to my running playlist for my upcoming race in June.  LOVE me an empowering women jam.  (There's another version with a more rappy-intense feel featuring Jah Maoli.)

P.S. I really dig the hawaiian music combo of reggae/hip hop/country steel guitar.  RAD.

Have a great weekend all. 

Keeping my chin up

This morning I went to the UPS store and picked up my first tangible copy of the Healing Through Christ manual. I had emailed it to the store and they printed and bound it for me.  I was so excited.  It cost $17.95 to have it done in black and white.  (The really nice man at my local UPS store saw the subject matter of the manual and put it in a white cover and white back cover. So I now have my own "white book." We both laughed about that. I guess he is familiar with the white book or he was indulging my addiction humor.)

Then, hours later, I got an email saying the manual is now available on ebay through a wholesale printer.  For $11.95 + $5.95 [expedited] shipping and handling.  So almost exactly the same price, but as far as I can tell this one is in color and nicer.  I'm so happy it's available for print I don't really care that mine is black and white! I'm ordering a copy for my bishop and stake president.

Anyway- get your copy here:
http://www.ebay.com/itm/Healing-Through-Christ-12-Step-Workbook-Addiction-Recovery-For-Families-LDS-/290918400410

The second thing that made my day was this little video.  That's FHE on Monday right there people. 

http://www.sun-swing.com/media/2013020100001/the-decision/

10 Reasons You Should Go Watch That Video:

1- Adorable animation
2- Age appropriate discussion on pornography
3- Delightful cartoon facial expressions
4- Realistic and relatable characters
5- Riveting plot :)
6- Adorable animation
7- Brief but adequate
8- Fun and heartwarming music
9- Non-shame based parental response
10- Heartwarming message

Go! Now! Watch!

Pearl Harbor

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We had just stepped off the ferry that brought us back from the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial in Pearl Harbor.  Despite the glowing sunlight and the surrounding beaches it was a somber place.  Over a thousand men slumber in the watery grave beneath the memorial, interred in their sunken ship.  I was feeling subdued.  Pete needed to use the restroom so he handed me his wallet and I headed to the information booth to buy tickets for a tour of the U.S.S. Missouri.   His card wasn't signed so the ticket girl asked for I.D.  It was Pete's card, and obviously I look nothing like Pete so she asked me to just step to the side until he returned from the restroom so he could sign the receipt.  There wasn't anyone else is line and so I just waited there at the counter.

I waited and waited.  Feeling terribly awkward I gradually inched away from the counter.  The girl talked to other employees in the booth and I avoided eye contact.  The minutes seemed to drag on like hours and my imagination began to run wild.  I remembered a post Pete wrote just a month ago.  There have only been two or three times that Pete hasn't been immediately forthcoming with disclosures, but our trip to Washington D.C. a couple years ago fell during that time.  So he told me about what he was going to write in his post just the night before he wrote it. 

In other words, I learned just weeks before, for the first time, that Pete had masturbated in the restroom of one of the most somber places in our nation.  And here we were, thousands of miles away, the seconds ticking by as Pete lingered in the men's room at Pearl Harbor.  I felt a knot in my stomach and my heart started to race.   The sun felt hotter and I was sure the girl at the ticket counter was watching my developing anxiety attack with fascinated intrigue. 

It felt like forever when Pete emerged.  He signed the receipt and saw my distress.  I told him why I'd felt nervous and he apologized and chalked it up to a busy restroom and the fact that bowel movements can't be rushed.  I bought it. 

Last night I laid out some boundaries for Pete.  The last of which was a statement that I would not travel or vacation alone with him for one year.  I love to travel, and he and I have both loved planning trips with his frequent flyer miles.  This was a painful boundary to set, and will be harder to enforce.  But our romantic getaways are starting to make painful triggers for me, and I don't want every historical  landmark in the country or world to elicit memories of the escapades of a sex addict. 

After I rolled over to go to sleep I was bombarded with those pesky thoughts that haunt us WoPA [INSANITY] and I started to put together some pieces to a puzzle. I felt like a detective gathering evidence.  I realized that the morning of the day we spent at Pearl Harbor was the morning Pete went to the sex shop.  He really WAS masturbating in the restroom I thought.  I blurted it out in a question

"WERE you masturbating in the bathroom at Pearl Harbor?"

"No." He said. 

He sounded wounded and defeated from our boundary conversation and I believed him.  Until I didn't believe him.  And there is no way I can ever know for sure.  And although he is usually honest, he isn't always honest.  He had plenty of reasons to lie, and it felt like no reason to tell the truth.  I'll never really know I guess. 

The other day I was talking on the phone to my brother.  He had called to ask about our trip but we had gotten distracted exchanging depressing stories about people we both knew who had committed fraud or had extra-marital affairs.  He wondered aloud about what was going wrong in lives of our friends, good people, that caused them to make uncharacteristic mistakes.

"They just don't take trips with their wife to Hawaii I guess!" He said as a joke.  I laughed.  But it hurt.  Because they do.