The first time I tried sushi was in the summer of 2006. H was at a undergraduate engineering competition in California. I was at a cheap buffet in Orange County with his parents and siblings. The same parents and siblings that had been playing into some significant emotional distress for me in the past few years, the past few months, and especially in the past few weeks (all of which, sadly, would be surpassed by the emotional distress they would contribute to in the future). Some of them were eating sushi and talking about how great it was. I decided to try some because I like to try new things, and I hate to be seen as close minded, even though I was pretty sure I wouldn't like it. I tried a California roll and something else. The California roll was ok. Not great. But edible. The something else was not. So then I knew. I didn't like sushi.
I don't know when H started eating sushi. But he always liked it. It was probably sometime around then. But definitely by the time we left school and moved out of state, he definitely liked it. In 2009, when my first daughter was a few months old, we took a short trip to Montreal, Quebec, in Canada on the way to my parents' house for Thanksgiving. She was happy in her stroller while we spent the day walking around, eating good food and seeing pretty things. That evening, she needed to nurse and go to bed, so we decided to take turns staying with her while the other went out to dinner.
H let me go first.
It was exciting to be out by myself. I could go where I wanted. I didn't know where I was or where I was going, but I was excited. A woman tried to ask me for directions in French and for the first time in my life, I spoke French conversationally (no, HS and college French class conversations do NOT count). This is what I said:
"Je ne sais pas."
Which means: I don't know.
Which very accurately sums up my life at that point.
I kept walking in the light rain, and after a few blocks of wondering which little eatery I should enter, I saw a cafe on a corner. By that point I was pretty hungry and the food looked marvelous. I went in and had a fabulous dinner. Bruschetta salad and a panini sandwich on homemade bread with pumpkin seeds baked in. When I finished, I looked at the pristine rows of tiny, rainbow colored cookies lined behind the counter glass. I wanted to try ordering in French, but I was too shy. So I asked in English, "What are those?" Turns out they were macarons. "Not macaroons", he said, "Macarons." They were beautiful and looked perfect. So even though they were $2 each, I picked out a few, from the dozens of flavors the baker hastily listed off twice when I asked. I resisted the urge to eat them by myself and brought them back to our hotel room. I told H I had a surprise for dessert for after he came back from getting his dinner.
H left and while my daughter slept in the dark closet, I laid on the bed with a small light on and tried to draft a blog post for my personal blog about my experience speaking French for the first time. I knew it was meaningful. It felt meaningful. I knew I was supposed to write about it---blog about it even, but nothing worked. I mean, everything I wrote was terrible. So terrible I couldn't even pretend it wasn't. Finally I stopped pushing it and did something else.
After a long time, H came back. He had trouble finding a place to eat. It was late, so a lot of places were closed. But he finally found a Japanese buffet with a fresh sushi bar---everything made to order. He ate so much sushi. Just ate and ate and ate. Couldn't stop. It was so good.
I was so happy he had found good sushi and that even though we didn't get to eat dinner together, we both got what we wanted without having to compromise for the other. We ate the macarons together and loved them.
In the fall of 2012, H had been really busy, stressed, and depressed. We don't usually do much for each other's birthdays, but I wanted to do surprise him with something special for his birthday. Since he loves to cook, I asked a friend who went to culinary school to help teach him how to cook something new. When she suggested sushi, I knew that was perfect. He loved learning how to make it, and he has made it about once a month since then. He doesn't usually tell me when he's going to make sushi, but I can always tell when he is making it or when he has because the kitchen smells like vinegar and seaweed and steamed asparagus that is too smushy. For a long time, he kept urging me to try sushi again, hoping I would like it. A few times I did, but my reaction has never changed. Finally, he backed off.
About a year ago he made it when I had some friends over. He was supposed to be out all night, getting some work done. But he came home early and instead of going up to our room to hang out to give us space, he came down and went in the kitchen and started making sushi. One of my friends went in the kitchen to get a snack and told him how much she loved sushi and he invited her to have some. Instead of putting some on a plate and sending her on her way back out to us, he set her a place at the table and she sat and ate sushi with him. Twenty minutes later, she rejoined us girls in the living room. A couple weeks later, she spontaneously apologized to me one day. Her intent was pure, but she realized what happened was awkward and could be considered inappropriate. I told her it was no big deal, to not worry about it. But it was a big deal, and I was so thankful she apologized. I knew then that I could trust her. Unlike my husband, who never brought it up.
Last night I really needed good sleep because I've been up a lot with my girls in the mornings and during the night. So I turned on my fan for white noise and put in my ear plugs. But at 3am I woke up to my youngest daughter screaming---so loud that I was surprised how well I could hear her with my ear plugs in. I brought her into bed with me and she kept me up and my older daughter got us both up early. Finally I shooed them in the direction of their dad's room (he keeps his door shut because he leaves his window open at night because he likes to sleep in the cold) and he got up and took them downstairs so I could rest. But I couldn't rest because I'm anxious about so much right now. At 9:45, my oldest knocked at my door, wanting to see me, so I decided to go downstairs to be with my girls and eat breakfast.
As soon as I entered the living room, I was greeted by the smell of vinegar and seaweed and steamed asparagus that is too smushy wafting from the kitchen. "Are you making something?" I asked H, incredulous that he would make anything with vinegar in it so early in the morning. "Yeah, some sushi." After a few minutes, I steeled my senses and went in the kitchen to make breakfast. I needed to make my oatmeal and take it back to bed, where I could eat without my senses being assaulted from the sushi and before I snapped at my sweet but too-energetic-for-me-right-now kids.
As H tried to clean up some things to improve the smell, he got in my way. And after he got out of my way, he hovered. He knew I was on edge. The edge moved closer to me as I saw the plate of too-smushy steamed asparagus and remembered. I remembered sushi. I remembered Montreal. And I remembered last summer when he told me that it wasn't a sushi bar he went to, but a strip club.
I hurried. It felt like a race to get upstairs before I lost it all, including the contents of my stomach. He offered to help. I said no thank you. I was civil, but curt. He stood behind me and looked on. He inhaled deeply as he put something in his mouth and swallowed. I was just about to leave when I remembered something I forgot. Again he offered to help. This time I was more clear and more curt: "No thank you. I don't want anything from you right now." He said, "Okay, okay" in his best I'm-an-innocent-guy-just-tyring-to-be-nice-but-I'll-back-off-because-I-can-see-you-are-clearly-annoyed-at-something-out-of-my-control voice.
I went upstairs. I ate my breakfast. I'm trying to relax and rest. But even though I can't smell it up here, all I can think about is sushi. And how much I hate it.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Thursday, December 5, 2013
A Story About Step 1
Step 1: Come to understand and accept that we are powerless over the addiction of a loved one and recognize that our lives have become unmanageable. (From the Healing Through Christ 12-step manual)
It was the summer after Ginny graduated from high school. Ginny and her friend John decided to go swimming in a large lake. The rented a boat and rowed far out into the lake. The lake was very polluted, but they decided it would be ok to swim if they kept their heads above the water. John jumped out and started swimming, and after much convincing, Ginny joined him. As soon as she left the boat, the wind picked up and the boat started moving away from them fast. John started swimming after it, and in almost no time the wind had become so strong that the waves were so large that Ginny could no longer see John or the boat.
Ginny sighted the shore and felt that it was out of her range---she truly did not think she would be able to keep swimming or floating long enough to make it to the shore. She thought about how sad she would be that she that she would not get to attend college, get married, or have children. She accepted her fate of death and kept dwelling on that thought. The only thought that comforted her was that she would not have to tell John's mother what happened to him. Finally, she became so tired that she stopped caring at all about trying to stay on top of the water, and she began to sink.
She was surprised to find that just a few feet below her was the bottom of the lake. With renewed hope, she pushed off from the bottom of the lake toward the shore and swam a little farther. She did this over and over and finally made it to the shore. After resting on the beach for a while, she saw John walking toward her. The boat was gone (John later had to rent a plane to find the boat and another boat to go retrieve it; it had all their clothes, wallets, and keys in it). They walked back toward home and someone gave them a ride (they were just in their bathing suits).
Out of the entire experience, Ginny shared that "the most surprising thing of all" was the reaction of her mother: "She really scolded me and did not say anything about being happy that I was safe. This caused me great pain and I have thought about it many times, and vowed that I would never do the same thing to my children."
To me, Ginny's experience of accepting her powerlessness over her situation relates perfectly to step 1, and it is beautiful to me that when she finally stopped trying to save herself by herself, she gained access to a resource---the bottom of the lake---that allowed her to survive. This really illustrates the idea of hitting "rock bottom" to me. (Also, I've actually seen this idea of pushing off the bottom taught formally as a survival skill, so I think it's cool that she figured it out on her own.)
I also think it's interesting that in order to survive, Ginny and John had to lose everything, but that what they had was later restored to them (but it took great effort to get it). And I think the shame they felt at being picked up for a ride by a stranger in their bathing suits is something any addict or loved one of an addict can relate too---that vulnerable feeling of being exposed in front of others who stay safely hidden behind their clothes. I also think that addicts and loved ones of addicts can relate to the feelings Ginny must have felt when she returned to her mother only to be served further shame rather than love and relief.
The story below is an edited version of a story recorded by
a loved one in my husband's extended family.
This event really happened. Please do not repeat or copy
any part of this story without my explicit permission.
(I have received permission from the family member to share this story.)
I will refer to the family member as "Ginny" and her friend as "John."
I have thought of this story so many times in relation to step 1.
I will italicize and bold the part of the story that I feel relates to the principle of step 1.
But there are many other parts of the story that I think relate to other
steps or aspects of addiction, and I will italicize some of them as well.
It was the summer after Ginny graduated from high school. Ginny and her friend John decided to go swimming in a large lake. The rented a boat and rowed far out into the lake. The lake was very polluted, but they decided it would be ok to swim if they kept their heads above the water. John jumped out and started swimming, and after much convincing, Ginny joined him. As soon as she left the boat, the wind picked up and the boat started moving away from them fast. John started swimming after it, and in almost no time the wind had become so strong that the waves were so large that Ginny could no longer see John or the boat.
Ginny sighted the shore and felt that it was out of her range---she truly did not think she would be able to keep swimming or floating long enough to make it to the shore. She thought about how sad she would be that she that she would not get to attend college, get married, or have children. She accepted her fate of death and kept dwelling on that thought. The only thought that comforted her was that she would not have to tell John's mother what happened to him. Finally, she became so tired that she stopped caring at all about trying to stay on top of the water, and she began to sink.
She was surprised to find that just a few feet below her was the bottom of the lake. With renewed hope, she pushed off from the bottom of the lake toward the shore and swam a little farther. She did this over and over and finally made it to the shore. After resting on the beach for a while, she saw John walking toward her. The boat was gone (John later had to rent a plane to find the boat and another boat to go retrieve it; it had all their clothes, wallets, and keys in it). They walked back toward home and someone gave them a ride (they were just in their bathing suits).
Out of the entire experience, Ginny shared that "the most surprising thing of all" was the reaction of her mother: "She really scolded me and did not say anything about being happy that I was safe. This caused me great pain and I have thought about it many times, and vowed that I would never do the same thing to my children."
To me, Ginny's experience of accepting her powerlessness over her situation relates perfectly to step 1, and it is beautiful to me that when she finally stopped trying to save herself by herself, she gained access to a resource---the bottom of the lake---that allowed her to survive. This really illustrates the idea of hitting "rock bottom" to me. (Also, I've actually seen this idea of pushing off the bottom taught formally as a survival skill, so I think it's cool that she figured it out on her own.)
I also think it's interesting that in order to survive, Ginny and John had to lose everything, but that what they had was later restored to them (but it took great effort to get it). And I think the shame they felt at being picked up for a ride by a stranger in their bathing suits is something any addict or loved one of an addict can relate too---that vulnerable feeling of being exposed in front of others who stay safely hidden behind their clothes. I also think that addicts and loved ones of addicts can relate to the feelings Ginny must have felt when she returned to her mother only to be served further shame rather than love and relief.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
God is taking care of me
Yes, I'm still alive, and I'm still the wife of a sex addict. Ha.Ha.Ha. I feel like I've dropped off the face of the wopa (wife of porn addict) world. Sure, I've still been lurking on some online support groups, but I've only read y'alls blogs once in the past couple of weeks (and no comments even though I've loved all your posts, sorry!). There is a lot that I want to catch up on here, and I'm such a linear thinker that I would love to do it in order, but that's not going to happen tonight. Because: I'm finally really "working the steps." About a month ago I started participating regularly in a phone in meeting for the 12-step Healing Through Christ program. It has been great. I got an accountability partner right away and just a week or so ago I got a sponsor. I'm doing a thirty in thirty, which means I'm working the steps daily for 30 days and making contact with my sponsor every day. In addition to some part-time work and my two kids, I'm kind of busy right now. But it's been good for me, and there are some things I want to share from it, starting with step 1. But, I'm short on time right now and there is a post I need to write right now for part of a personal take on an assignment on Step 2.
In Step 2 there is a question about recognizing how the Lord has supported you in the past. I actually have lots of evidence of the Lord's involvement in my life. For 6 years I've been keeping a daily journal where I record how I've seen the hand of the Lord in my life that day (a la President Eyering's 2007 GC talk, O Remember, Remember). So I spent some time reading some of my journal entries from the past and I felt the need to share an experience of seeing the Lord's hand in my life on this blog, because writing is such an important way to process for me.
Although there are a lot of things from the past I could write about, I realized just a few minutes ago that something special happened last night that I wanted to share. Last night I was in a bit of a funk and even after a helpful conversation with my sponsor, I was spending some time lurking on blogs as a way of dulling my senses. By 1:00 am I was still laying in bed with my laptop, tired, but not feeling ready to turn my laptop off and face my dark room alone. Suddenly, I heard the pitter patter of tiny feet (for real, it's super cute sounding) and my 4 year old daughter pranced into my room and came to my bed with a sweet smile on her face and asked if she could cuddle. I let her come under the covers and her face was just glowing and before I could even ask her why she woke up she started rambling in her cute, tired, four-year-old way, "I like to have dreams about things that I like in my dream like things I really like . . ." She had just woken up from a good dream and felt the urge to come cuddle with me. And even though my heart was immediately warmed, I thought I'd keep my laptop on for a few more minutes while she drifted back to sleep, but after about 2 minutes she told me that the computer light was hurting her eyes. So I turned it off, put it on the floor, and snuggled up with my sweet girl.
I appreciated her presence again in the morning when I woke from what had a been a long and emotionally taxing dream. I dreamed I had been given a death sentence (from a court of law) and there was some expectation that I might be released from the sentence, but it didn't happen, so I was just waiting for my life to end. There's more to the dream of course, but I'm sure you can imagine why it was so disturbing. For most of the dream I was just sobbing my eyes out about the fact that my life was going to be over so soon (within hours), punctuated by short spurts of me trying to bravely accept my fate. Waking up to my sweet girl who was anxious for me to wake up and get out of bed was really helpful. (She pretended to be Simba from The Lion King and started pouncing on me like he pounces on his dad to wake him up; it didn't hurt, thank goodness, but it did the job and was pretty cute.)*
This has never happened before. It has even been a really long time (4+ months?) since she has woken up from a nightmare or to go to the bathroom (she does still wear pull ups) or anything in the middle of the night. Once she woke up in the middle of the night and was happy, but she was convinced it was morning time and had gotten dressed for preschool and then was distraught when I explained it was 3 am and she couldn't have breakfast yet. Can I say for sure if this incident was a miracle rather than just a happy coincidence of REM cycles? No. Do I know why last night my daughter was in a position to help lift my spirits, but there have been plenty of other nights I've been left alone or my role as a parent has added to my stress? No. But a lifetime of experiences like this (documented on a daily basis for the past 6 years) are like stones that create the foundation of my testimony. By themselves, they may seem small and insignificant, but when joined by the mortar of my faith, they represent something much, much bigger and indisputably concrete. Everything about my life shows me that God lives. That He loves me. And that He has the power to help me keep His commandments and feel peace and joy despite what is going on in my life. There are plenty of questions I can't answer, but I do feel confident that I KNOW these things. Sometimes I start to forget them, especially on days where it's a harder to see His hand in my life (many days I recognize His hand in my life by expressing gratitude for a blessing in my life because I feel that all good things in my life are a gift from God). But whenever I take the time to remember, I regain confidence in my knowledge.
I wish I had more time to clean this post up. It feels rushed and sloppy. Because I'm rushed (I have a call with my sponsor in 15 minutes before the 12-step phone in meeting in 45 minutes) and sloppy (let's just say my yoga pants are earning their keep in my wardrobe). I'm grateful God is helping take care of me, but I think tomorrow I need to take a little bit better care of myself.
*I feel the need to say that I work very hard to not make my children responsible for my emotional state or to burden them with my emotions. I do not expect my child to fix my mood or my problems. But I am thankful for my daughter's sweet, innocent spirit and the joy and peace and purpose that brings to my life, and how her presence was a blessing to me last night.
In Step 2 there is a question about recognizing how the Lord has supported you in the past. I actually have lots of evidence of the Lord's involvement in my life. For 6 years I've been keeping a daily journal where I record how I've seen the hand of the Lord in my life that day (a la President Eyering's 2007 GC talk, O Remember, Remember). So I spent some time reading some of my journal entries from the past and I felt the need to share an experience of seeing the Lord's hand in my life on this blog, because writing is such an important way to process for me.
Although there are a lot of things from the past I could write about, I realized just a few minutes ago that something special happened last night that I wanted to share. Last night I was in a bit of a funk and even after a helpful conversation with my sponsor, I was spending some time lurking on blogs as a way of dulling my senses. By 1:00 am I was still laying in bed with my laptop, tired, but not feeling ready to turn my laptop off and face my dark room alone. Suddenly, I heard the pitter patter of tiny feet (for real, it's super cute sounding) and my 4 year old daughter pranced into my room and came to my bed with a sweet smile on her face and asked if she could cuddle. I let her come under the covers and her face was just glowing and before I could even ask her why she woke up she started rambling in her cute, tired, four-year-old way, "I like to have dreams about things that I like in my dream like things I really like . . ." She had just woken up from a good dream and felt the urge to come cuddle with me. And even though my heart was immediately warmed, I thought I'd keep my laptop on for a few more minutes while she drifted back to sleep, but after about 2 minutes she told me that the computer light was hurting her eyes. So I turned it off, put it on the floor, and snuggled up with my sweet girl.
I appreciated her presence again in the morning when I woke from what had a been a long and emotionally taxing dream. I dreamed I had been given a death sentence (from a court of law) and there was some expectation that I might be released from the sentence, but it didn't happen, so I was just waiting for my life to end. There's more to the dream of course, but I'm sure you can imagine why it was so disturbing. For most of the dream I was just sobbing my eyes out about the fact that my life was going to be over so soon (within hours), punctuated by short spurts of me trying to bravely accept my fate. Waking up to my sweet girl who was anxious for me to wake up and get out of bed was really helpful. (She pretended to be Simba from The Lion King and started pouncing on me like he pounces on his dad to wake him up; it didn't hurt, thank goodness, but it did the job and was pretty cute.)*
This has never happened before. It has even been a really long time (4+ months?) since she has woken up from a nightmare or to go to the bathroom (she does still wear pull ups) or anything in the middle of the night. Once she woke up in the middle of the night and was happy, but she was convinced it was morning time and had gotten dressed for preschool and then was distraught when I explained it was 3 am and she couldn't have breakfast yet. Can I say for sure if this incident was a miracle rather than just a happy coincidence of REM cycles? No. Do I know why last night my daughter was in a position to help lift my spirits, but there have been plenty of other nights I've been left alone or my role as a parent has added to my stress? No. But a lifetime of experiences like this (documented on a daily basis for the past 6 years) are like stones that create the foundation of my testimony. By themselves, they may seem small and insignificant, but when joined by the mortar of my faith, they represent something much, much bigger and indisputably concrete. Everything about my life shows me that God lives. That He loves me. And that He has the power to help me keep His commandments and feel peace and joy despite what is going on in my life. There are plenty of questions I can't answer, but I do feel confident that I KNOW these things. Sometimes I start to forget them, especially on days where it's a harder to see His hand in my life (many days I recognize His hand in my life by expressing gratitude for a blessing in my life because I feel that all good things in my life are a gift from God). But whenever I take the time to remember, I regain confidence in my knowledge.
I wish I had more time to clean this post up. It feels rushed and sloppy. Because I'm rushed (I have a call with my sponsor in 15 minutes before the 12-step phone in meeting in 45 minutes) and sloppy (let's just say my yoga pants are earning their keep in my wardrobe). I'm grateful God is helping take care of me, but I think tomorrow I need to take a little bit better care of myself.
*I feel the need to say that I work very hard to not make my children responsible for my emotional state or to burden them with my emotions. I do not expect my child to fix my mood or my problems. But I am thankful for my daughter's sweet, innocent spirit and the joy and peace and purpose that brings to my life, and how her presence was a blessing to me last night.
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