Endings and Beginings

Hello all! I can't believe it's already this time of year.

Typically, this is when I'd be posting our latest Family Christmas Video. I love those videos. They're a place where my ideas and visual creativity are allowed to be unbridled. They're little time-capsules, preserving our children's ever-changing personalities. They're joyfull and celabratory despite any of the real, unphotogenic, everyday events and struggles that we go through during the course of the year. In that way, they capture my philosophy that life can be beautiful and smile-worthy, despite {and often because of} the melancholy. Genuine happiness is not the absense of pain. They coexist, like sweet and salty, enhancing the differences.

Last week, I filed for divorce.

Those words sound so dreadful. They imply worlds of hurt, bitterness, and betrayal, which would not be a wrong assumption. But I have been startled, once again, to find that joy is abundantly present.

I know that Heavenly Father has prepared me for this season of my life. I've spent years documenting the ups and downs that have compelled me, over and over again, to turn to Him as my only sure source of comfort and direction; and while my faith has not  become perfect, it is strong. I feel calm and full of gratitude for how clear my path is and the help that is embracing me along the way.

Winking through the calm glow of peace is the thrill that life stretches before me with limitless possibility. After all, I have spent a very, very long time grappling with one hard thing in my life. I'm ready for a new hard thing. I'm ready for new lessons learned and new joys experienced. And thanks to the last 15 years, I know those things are in store for me. The best is yet to come.

Merry Christmas, gentle readers!

{image 1, image 2, image 3}

PS- I'm still writing on my anonymous blog, though some of the drafts may not be posted until after the divorce is finalized. If you'd like the link, you can send me an email at melancholy {dot} smile {at} yahoo {dot} com.

Life is Beautifully Brutal

I had a long, lovely summer with my parents. I'm so happy that my kids get to experience this every year-- life slowing down, biking to the pool every day, and fishing with Boppa. It's a part of my life that seems covered in a golden glow, as if it's laden with nostalgia even as I'm living it. I treasure it as the beautiful gift that it is.

Coming home was brutal.

Remember my burning building analogy? It's as if for the last two years, I thought we were re-building the house, but in reality, he's been holding matches behind his back this whole time. He burned down the house again. Then lied about it. Then blamed me.

We're separated. Again.

I don't know if we'll make it back together after this one, and it kills me.

The hardest part is choosing love and happiness every day. I've lived with enough darkness that I don't want to poison myself or my kids with any more, so I let go of the anger. I breathe. I pray. I do yoga. I take it a day at a time. But some days, it feels like I'm Guido on Life is Beautiful, marching around and putting a positive spin on a situation that is genuinly ugly and frightening.

I'm starting an anonymous blog to talk about this more freely. If you would like the link, email me. I'll give it out as long as you're not J's boss or my father-in-law.

In the meantime, prepare for vacation photos as I focus on the bliss that was my summer. :)

{"Cloud Fragment" by Ken Elliot "Storm in May" by James Lahey}

One Step at a Time

This is my favorite time of year. All my natural inclinations to be a homebody-- to hunker down, beautify, bake and create suddenly become appropriate-- and even prized-- around the holidays.

I've been doing a lot of that this year-- hunkering down. Nesting. Keeping my world small and simple. I think I expected that when J moved back home last January that it would be the start of something easier. That we'd achieved an element of closure and healing, and that the only thing that could possibly follow would be... I don't know.... our reward?

Instead, while this year has been better by far than what we refer to as the 'worst year ever', it has not been easier. Just different. Hopeful... and yes, even rewarding. But certainly not easy. It's been the very real work of trying to heal and rebuild a marriage, which can be incredibly difficult to explain.

I know that when I was younger and heard that 'marriage is work', it brought to mind petty annoyances and making compromises-- things that could be dealt with easily by one with a good attitude and work ethic. Work, to me, has always meant something that you put your shoulder to, accomplish, and feel good about at the end of the day. Something temporarily uncomfortable, but in a way that you know is healthy and fills you with a sense of achievement.

I had absolutely no comprehension of the kind of work marriage actually entails. The kind that can leave you feeling bereft. The kind that drains you to the point of being unable to face another person. The kind that makes you question how someone you love can seem so absolutely foreign to you. The kind that requires you to have faith in all your past choices and impressions despite how really awful the present feels.

It's exactly like my pre-motherhood days. I thought I understood what the word 'tired' meant. Then I had a baby. A baby that cried at all hours of the night and left me so bone-deep weary that I had to try not to hate that helpless little thing when he woke me with his cries. No one could have adequately described what 'tired' would really look like, just as no one could adequately prepare me for how much 'work' marriage has turned out to be.

Which I realize is all starting to sound a little maudlin, and that isn't what I intended.

The truth is, that I have been in a self-imposed hibernation as we work things out. It's taken all of my energy. It's made me look reclusive and fragile and perhaps a bit unforgiving. But even though the metamorphosis is in its infancy, I feel enough of a change that I can come out of that hibernation a few steps at a time. I can go to church without feeling acutely aware of the presence of other people-- their attention no longer sets my skin on fire. I can wake in the morning without being aware of every last finite ounce of energy I have, afraid that it won't be enough to make it through the mundane events of the day. And I can sit here and type on my blog without feeling like I have to have answers or solutions or even a happy ending. I can just be.

I'm feeling better. And I'm back.

{image}

On Detaching and Attaching

After the first big crisis J and I had early in our marriage, I'd decided that I'd allowed my happiness to rely on J far too much.

I told myself that I'd expected too much from him and from marriage in general-- buying into that fairytale thinking and happily ever after stuff. If I was going to stay, I had to come to terms with the reality of our relationship and determine whether I could find peace, fulfillment, and confidence regardless of whether J changed or not.

In short, I had to detach.

I'd grown up in a family that was very open. We talked about everything, relied on one another, and worked through things together. At first, it felt like life would be an empty, sad place if I couldn't turn to  J like that. What was the point of being together if we couldn't nurture each other? But I reasoned that if I divorced, I'd still have to find a way to be happy and whole. Why not discover the secret without the divorce part?

After a time, I felt I successfully developed an attachment cycle {albeit one independent of J}:

Tension, Triggers and Trauma. We all have them-- the responsibilities that produce tension; the comments that trigger self doubt; the traumas that are out of our control but cause us intense pain; and all the other myriad of negative thoughts and feelings that plague mortality. At times they roll off our back, but eventually they build up and become unmanageable.

When I felt tension or triggered or trauma, I had to Acknowledge what it was that I was feeling and Allow myself to feel it. Fighting it or trying to talk myself out of it or telling myself I 'shouldn't' feel it never worked. I had to acknowledge {to myself and to God} what I was thinking and feeling before I could move on to the next step. It couldn't be skipped.

Surrender. Once I acknowledged what I was feeling, I could then work through it or choose to let it go. If I was resentful, I could choose to forgive. If I was lonely, I could choose to reach out. Often, there was absolutely nothing I could actually change in order to 'fix' what I was feeling-- especially in the case of chronic clinical depression-- but I learned to sit with uncomfortable feelings. I practiced surrendering the feelings to God-- admitting my powerlessness to change what I was feeling and having faith that it would pass.

Happiness and Health always seemed to follow. I would reach a phase where I felt mentally and emotionally whole. Things that had seemed difficult no longer felt burdensom. In this stage, I could be creative, serve others and deal with things in a healthy way.

This worked for years. Despite depression, financial problems, J's emotional unavailability and all the other uncertainties of life, I felt intimately connected to and sustained by my Heavenly Father. In fact, I'd lived for so long without expecting J to 'complete me', that when he began demanding that of me, I was shocked. Then angry.

I knew I couldn't fill that void for J, and a large part of separation was J discovering it as well.

But writing the fairytale for J had been a turning point. I began to realize just how detached from him I'd become, and that it might-- just might-- be possible for me to let him in safely. Maybe I could meet some of his needs. Not because I had to, or because it was expected of me, or was my duty-- but because I truly wanted to. Because I loved him.

Our therapist described a new cycle. Our happiness wouldn't rely on each other but could include one another. I drew something like this to visualize the concept:

Life would still have Tension, triggers and trauma. For a time, even more so as we attempted to heal things between us.

I would still need to Acknowledge those feelings and allow myself to feel them.

But if I wanted to include J, at this point I could GO to him and Give him the Opportunity to nurture. To empathize. To even be aware of what it was I was thinking and feeling. While scary {he had never been able to handle my negative feelings very well}, it helped to keep in mind that I could move on to the next step regardless of his reaction.

Whether his reaction was positive {empathy} or negative {rejection}, I could still Surrender my feelings to God and achieve that Happy, Healthy state.

And here was the key: when I entered that Happy, Healthy state-- that one where I don't feel fragile, but feel like I have extra peace and contentment to spread around-- that is when I could Take the Opportunity to nurture. That is when I could be sure that there was no 'fixing' or 'saving' or codependency going on. That is when withholding affection might be punitive and unnecessary instead of protective. If I nurture while in the Happy, Healthy state, I can be sure that it is just pure, selfless, Christlike love.

****

This whole concept of attachment cycles has been on my mind a lot lately. It's difficult, even now, to take the risk and let J in. I worry about losing the peace and serenity I've achieved. And when I'm in that happy, healthy state, I still sometimes get a twinge of panic, as though turning to J and sharing my love for him makes me a doormat or gives the impression that I've never been hurt. It's a daily effort to be aware of what is going on inside of me and act with integrity.

I'm still learning.

Roller Coaster Ride

October 2012

While writing and illustrating the book for J, something deep within me cracked open. My heart, which had been protected by an icy layer of detachment, felt the first pricks of sunlight and slowly began to thaw.

The vulnerability was exhilarating at first. I could feel-- really feel-- love for J again. It was heady and hopeful and so very, very precious. I basked in its warmth for an evening as we went ice skating, grinning like fools and holding hands like newlyweds. But no sooner had I closed the door on his retreating back was I hit with the full weight of the heartache that had been held at bay by that same detachment. I panicked.

Are you a complete idiot?

Nothing has changed!

You're in for a world of hurt!

By Monday, when he joined the kids and I for dinner and Family Home Evening, I found his very presence profoundly painful. To avoid his gaze, I kept my eyes glued to the screen of my iphone. He tried to engage me in conversation, but I answered his queries in monosyllables. It was all I could do to stay in the same room with him. I was terrified and desperate-- desperate-- to regain detachment.

He was confused.

Then hurt.

Then angry.

Over the next several weeks, he tried to goad a response out of me. My quick withdrawal sent him into some kind of spiral, and he responded by persecuting and playing the victim. This only served to confirm my fears and drive me away further.

And so the pattern began:

• We would connect.

• I would get scared and back off.

• He would grow frustrated and livid.

• I would detach.

It was an exhausting roller coaster ride; one which our therapist calmly tried to teach us to exit.

"It's a trauma response," he'd tell me. "You have a right to be afraid of being hurt."

He'd say, "You can stop this cycle," turning to J, "Comfort her. Validate her feelings. Be patient."

As the holidays approached, we found that to be so much easier said than done.

{image}

That Place

I've been in that place before-- the place where everything feels hopeless. That place where the reality of my imperfections weigh heavily on my shoulders; the place where it becomes exquisitely clear that there is very little I can do about it. Suddenly, my efforts seem infinitesimal-- I feel infinitesimal-- and in despair, I wonder why I even try. It will never be enough. I will never be enough.

****

It was strange to watch as J entered that place. I knew from my own experiences how absolutely real it it can feel-- but seeing him mired there was startlingly eye opening.

"You're missing the point" I wanted to say, "Your worth doesn't hinge on how close you come to achieving perfection. It doesn't even hinge on whether I love you or not."

But words couldn't penetrate the fog of despondency J was lost in, and while I knew it wasn't my job to rescue, I was filled with compassion for him. I decided that if he couldn't figure out a happy ending for his fairy tale, then I would.

For two days, I stayed up late with paper, brushes and paints spread across the kitchen table. I drew from every half-finished screenplay he'd ever written, every misunderstood coming-of-age character, every tale of tragedy-turned-redemption.

And as I sketched, painted, wrote and bound, I was struck by how much I loved J. I loved him fiercely and completely, in a way that was unfettered and true. Unlike trust, my love was not something that he had to earn. I loved him simply for being.

How could I explain to him that there was value in fighting his battle regardless of vanquishment, because the effort alone made it safe enough for me to join him in it?

As that thought settled within me, my eyes filled with tears-- and I knew with sudden clarity that we are all loved by our Father in Heaven this way.

****

I have also been here before; that place where truth resonates in my soul and I feel unshakable in my faith. That place where I know that I am more than the body I reside in or the cleanliness of my house or the behavior of my children. That place where I feel a kinship with everyone around me, and long to put my arms around them and let them know how deeply I understand the ardor of their journey. That place where I wish I could remember these things always:

That I have value simply because I am His.

That I cannot fill my void with praise or money or addiction or love. It will never be enough.

That I cannot save myself through perfect effort. I will never be enough.

That the simple act of turning to Him and acknowledging my own inability makes it possible for Him to join me in the fight.

And that trying is not about achieving happiness or avoiding pain. It's an expression of love for the One who does fill my void and does make me complete.

 ****

I finished J's hand-illustrated, personalized fairy tale and wrapped it with care. I had no idea if it would touch him in any way, but making it had been a turning point for me. I felt more hopeful for our future together than I had felt in a long time. As I waited for him to arrive for our Friday night date, I couldn't stop grinning. 

{image 1, image 2}

Stuck

Neither J nor I knew how things were going to be fixed between us, so in the months that followed, we did the best that we could, relying largely on faith, experts, and gut feelings.

J, after being admonished by his sister in law to "fight for her" began writing to me nearly every day. Sometimes they were simple notes; often they contained poetry or song lyrics; each one professed love and a willingness to change.

When he came over, he would leave chocolates hidden around the house-- on my pillow or in my makeup case. He made it his personal quest to figure out which kind was my absolute favorite {Extra Dark Lindt Truffles}.

He asked me out every Friday night and planned elaborate dates. We went on art-walks, photographed vintage neon signs in Mesa, watched a movie on a projector set up in the backyard and tried Ethiopian cuisine.

And yet, I remained detached.

I appreciated all his effort-- I could see that he was trying mightily. But I was in a holding pattern. Until I felt some internal all-clear signal, I couldn't bring myself to engage emotionally.

This was more than discouraging to J. He asked me once if I had a hidden checklist of things he had to do before he could come back home. I didn't know how to explain that I didn't-- I just needed to feel safe. I needed to see something genuine and lasting. I needed more than flowers and chocolates.

****

One afternoon, we sat together in our therapists office. J expressed his frustration and hopelessness. He felt condemned by past mistakes; that nothing he did now would ever be enough. {That morning, I'd received his latest note. It simply contained the lyrics to Deep Sea Diving Suit}.

Our therapist paused a moment, then observed that J was a storyteller by nature.

He asked, "When you have a hero in a fairytale or a movie, are they perfect? Or is it better when the hero is an underdog, and has to overcome obstacles and weaknesses?" J agreed that the best stories have flawed heros. We identify with them more. It makes their triumphs more dramatic.

"I think you are blind to the nobility of your own struggles, " our therapist said. "You feel that all is lost simply because you're in the thick of the second act. I want you to go home and tell your story as if it's a fairytale. Tell it over and over. Figure out the happy ending."

I loved the concept. Immediately, I started to make correlations between what we were going through and nearly every epic novel I'd ever read. When J called that night, I couldn't wait to ask him to tell me his story as the therapist had suggested.

J tried. He worked in his scars of youth. He described starting over and meeting the 'princess'. He talked of tragedy, of losing it all, of the princess taking the key to her heart and throwing it in to the forest. And then he stopped. In his mind, he was a character beset by disaster and powerless to escape or suceed. He couldn't figure out how to end the story.

I was stunned.

I could think of a million ways to end the story. For the first time in months, I began to see J differently. He wasn't manipulating or 'playing the victim.' He was genuinely lost and confused. He really did feel hopeless. He really did feel powerless. He really couldn't figure out how we could possibly have a happy ending.

And just like that, the cold buffer I'd built around my heart began to melt. I could see perfectly how honorable his fight was, how much was at stake and how sweet the victory could be. In my eyes, he was a prince convinced he was a convict . I determined that I would show him.

{to be continued}

Separation

I have to give J credit for how he handled the choice I set before him.

It wasn't easy for him. Of course, it wasn't easy for either of us-- but while I enjoyed the benefit of feeling peace and guidance about our situation, he did not experience the same. For him, it felt that separation was just the slow road to divorce. He made it clear to me that it was not what he wanted, it was not what would be healthy for him, and that he felt I was pushing him away.

"Does a couple ever really benefit from separation?" he asked, "Doesn't it make more sense for us to heal together rather than apart?" He sited scripture {"It is not good for man to be alone"}; reported that our Bishop only knew one couple who had reconciled after a separation; and proclaimed that various friends and family were shocked and appalled at the course I was taking.

Nevertheless, he agreed to move out.

I couldn't fault him for his fears. I had experienced them all myself. We both wanted the same things-- to stay together, to be happy and whole, to experience healing and forgiveness-- but I'd only found serenity once I let go of the outcome and trusted God. I could see him struggling to figure out how to do that as well.

We told the children as gently as we could. We tried to be honest yet positive, saying that marriage is a lot of work but that it's worth fighting for. That we loved them. That we loved each other. That we did not plan on divorce and wanted to dispel that fear right off the bat. That this would be hard, but that Heavenly Father helps us to do hard things.

They listened quietly, then asked if they could have ice cream.

J and I worked out some guidelines for separation. We would continue to go to church together. He would join us for Family Home Evening on Monday nights. We would attend counseling. We would have weekly dates on Friday nights.

We would be a family.

{image}

Stages of Grief: Acceptance

I'd been living with my parents for several weeks. The distance was healing. With each passing day, I felt myself becoming a little more grounded, a little more still. As I reconnected with myself and my Savior, lessons that I'd already learned returned to my mind. Years earlier, when J and I were newly married, we'd experienced a crisis that had nearly resulted in divorce. As I ran on rolling, country roads, I accepted once again the things I'd come to accept then: 

• I could not rely on J or our marriage to make me feel valued, fulfilled, beautiful and whole. I was all of those things regardless of J or his actions.

• J was not responsible for my happiness and I was not responsible for his. I accepted that I only had control over my own choices and attitudes, not my husband's. 

• I accepted that J was not the sum of his mistakes.

• I accepted that forgiveness was a gift. I could give it freely and without condition.

• I accepted that I was a mortal, flawed woman married to a mortal, flawed man and the only way to navigate the many things that felt 'true' was to rely on Heavenly Father.

• I accepted that God's version of things working out and my version of things working out would not always be the same-- but that God's version was always better, even if it was more painful.

One night, I woke to an alert on my phone. It was an email from J, and it wasn't good. I stayed awake to think, write and pray. As dawn broke, I laced up my running shoes, stepped out the door, and pleaded aloud.

For weeks, every time I asked for guidance, the word whispered to my soul was, "patience." But this time, I felt with certainty that I had to give J a choice. Move out, or the children and I would stay in Grangeville.

That was the moment that I finally accepted that even if it was true that I'd been right to marry J; even if it was true that I'd been told to stay; even if it was true that we were meant to bring these children into the world; even if it was true that I could be happy and at peace regardless of J's actions; even if it was true that I loved him; even if I did everything 'right', J and I might still get divorced. I accepted that J had his agency and that I may someday receive the whisper, "enough". I had to accept that it would not be a failure.

God's version of things working out and my version of things working out would not always be the same. But I accepted that God's version was always better.

{image}

Stages of Grief: Depression

Spending the summer with my parents gave me a much needed reprieve. Their new home was in a tiny town and our life became slow and simple. I had limited responsibilities, very little communication with J, and almost no online time. I felt cut off from the rest of the world in the very best of ways. It was as if, for just 6 weeks, the earth stopped spinning and I was able to breathe for a while.

****

A decade earlier, J had been vehemently opposed to going to counseling together. He only agreed after declaring that it would be solely for my benefit. He didn't need help. He didn't need to change. But obviously, I was miserable, so therapy would be for me.

We went. Things improved. I stopped blaming myself. I stopped hating God. I saw that the good in my husband was not a facade. I made a decision to stay. I stopped waiting for something terrible to happen and began to build our life once more.

****

All this time, I thought that when he said he wouldn't get anything out of counseling, that it was just bravado. I thought that when our therapist said, "you can't go back" that she meant the both of us. I thought we were on a path together.

Now it seemed that I'd been walking that path alone.

I had changed, but I no longer felt that J had. I wasn't even sure that he wanted to. Realizing this-- that I could not force that in him, but that I could not live without it any longer-- filled me with intense sadness and a sense of helplessness.

What could I do but wait?

It was all out of my hands.

Tomorrow: Acceptance

{image}

Stages of Grief: Bargaining

Even in my darkest, most rage-filled moments, I had never been able to forget that 13 years earlier, I'd looked into J's eyes and asked my Father in Heaven if this was the man that I was to marry. My heart had been flooded with warmth, and my mind had seemed to expand to view years, decades, eternities into the future-- and I could not deny that marrying him had never been a mistake. I had loved him. I still loved him. Even when I hated him, it was because loving him hurt so much.

****

The Anger drained out of me as I uttered my feeble, hopeless prayer; and while it was a relief to let it go, I was left utterly exhausted and crushed beneath the weight of the options before me.

Leaving felt like an impossible choice. If it were to all end now, then why had I felt so right about our marriage to begin with? Why hadn't it ended years ago, when it very well could have? Why had I felt so strongly that we should continue to have children? I was in. I was committed. I had decided to trust. I couldn't leave now.

But staying also felt impossible; it would strip me of every shred of dignity and self-worth I had. Despite J's protests, I knew the pattern we were in. Staying would be the very definition of insanity- doing the same thing but expecting a different result. I couldn't become the emotional equivalent of a battered wife.

There were no easy solutions.

I want to say that I gave the decision to the Lord because I trusted him to see what I could not; to fix the unfixable. And there was some of that. But mostly, I was tired. Trying to navigate my way was too heavy a burden, and my mortal mind was just too flawed to believe that there could ever be an end to the misery.

I gave it up because I had to.

Yet even as I exercised this fraction-of-a-mustard-seed worth of faith, I tried to Bargain as well. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, " I'd say, "as long as you save my marriage." Or, "as long as my children aren't traumatized" or, "as long as this just stops hurting so much."

I woke the next morning knowing that I would leave. Peace settled on me as I packed bags and made arrangements for the children and I to visit my parents in their tiny farming community.

For the rest of the summer, as I went running past fields of wheat ripe for harvest, I'd pray for guidance and fight to stifle my own desperate desire for things to turn out the way I wanted them to. Bargaining wasn't a stage-- it wafted through my days like smoke and blinded me to the ease of trusting Him completely. It still does. But as I teetered between fear and faith, it became clearer to me that He could see what I could not. That He could fix the unfixable.

So I decided to let Him.

Tomorrow: Depression

{image via The Grangeville Project}

Stages of Grief: Anger

I've only knowingly cursed a handful of times in my life. I wasn't raised with swearing; it has always felt unnaturally crude leaving my lips, and the few attempts I made seemed unnecessary and shameful. But the night J told me that if we were to divorce, it would have nothing to do with his actions and everything to do with my inability to forgive, "F*** you" was the only response that carried the appropriate measures of hurt, disgust, and white-hot anger. I spat the words and slammed the door behind me.

****

Denial had carried me through months of semi-peaceful cohabitation. J insisted that all we really needed was to work on communication and romance; that children and responsibilities had sucked the life out of us and were the root of all our problems. While I knew that wasn't the entire truth, I also reasoned that I had to hold some responsibility for our current crisis. I'd been neglectful; taken him for granted; let myself go; allowed depression to dominate me; ignored my medication's side effects, or in some other way done something wrong. I made earnest efforts to change.

Despite that, nothing was different. I didn't feel like we made any progress at all-- instead, I felt like I was on pause. Just holding my breath, waiting for direction, or permission, or something to happen.

And then something did. 

It was a typical morning in late June. The kids were noisily spilling cereal downstairs. I was in bed, mustering the energy to face the day when J, without preamble, rolled over and tried to start something with me. 

I shrugged him off, and he sighed. 

He sighed in a way I'd heard a thousand times, in a way that spoke a thousand irritated and accusing words. "What?" I snapped and then listened, incredulous, as he spoke bitterly.

...nothing has changed... 

...this is unacceptable...

...in a healthy relationship...

...I'm so frustrated...

...I don't know what else I can do...

If our marriage was a house that was burning, than Denial had been like smelling the smoke and telling myself that I didn't have to worry about it until the the fire department got there. But this-- this was like turning the corner to find my husband calmly lighting match after match while looking me in the eye and telling me it was all my fault. Anger swept through me with numbing swiftness. 

I could not even find the voice to tell him how grossly he had mis-assigned cause and effect. My fury at his complete inability to have any empathy, to even consider my feelings left me speechless. I didn't talk to him for days. In fact, I've been told that he grew out his facial hair during this period, but I have no recollection of that. I refused to even look at him.

I was angry at how dire our situation was. I was angry at him for not taking any responsibility for it. I was angry at myself for 'allowing' it to happen. I was angry at how helpless I felt. I was angry that his choices were affecting our four innocent children and me. The only one I wasn't angry with was God, and in that respect, my dear therapist from years ago had been right: I had changed and could not go back.

A week later, after a heated argument and many tears, I lay in bed wrapped in my own blanket on the edge of my side of the mattress, as far from my sleeping husband as I could get. I had spent an hour trying to pray, but the only words that I could muster were, "I hate him. Dear God, I hate him. I don't want to be here. I don't want him next to me. I don't want to be mad anymore. I don't know what to do. I'm going to screw this all up. Please God, help me not to hate him."

That was the night I left Anger behind.

Tomorrow: Bargaining 

{image via AMC's Mad Men}

Stages of Grief: Denial

I've been told that what I've experienced is similar to a death. The marriage I thought I had, the life I believed I was living, the person I thought I knew, all of that died {or burned to the ground}. Except that I had the added complication of still being in the marriage and having the person I was mourning still walking around. It was disorienting and painful.

In the beginning, I felt like the world and all of its demands should screech to a sudden halt due to my shock. Or that I should be constantly busy-- that there had to be a long, precise check list of things that one must do in situations like these. I wanted a guidebook. I wanted direction.

But there was a 2 month waiting list to see our therapist {Seriously, why isn't there a mental-health version of an ER? I wanted to walk in, explain that I was hemorrhaging, and be seen STAT!} and without the safety of a third party, I was at a loss as to how to proceed without making things worse. I spent hours researching; had long, tearful talks with J; thought and journaled and prayed... but in the end, I turned naturally to the first stage of grief and embraced Denial.

I simply refused to think about it any more. I pretended nothing had happened. Every doubt, every pang, every contrary thought I had got stuffed into a file in my brain labeled, "Deal with it Later." I kept on with the business of keeping on.

In the meantime, J was cautious and cordgial. He reassured and wooed, convinced and courted, certain that the perfect combination of apology and reassignment of blame would heal all. I went along with it-- the summer ahead would be long, I hadn't the energy to fight-- and after a time, I even began to believe it.

I hadn't realized how much was, out of necessity, buried beneath the surface until my parents talked of moving. They'd been in transition-- staying with family, traveling and whatnot-- but the minute it looked like they'd have someplace permanent, someplace I could escape to, the emotional dam within me burst and all hell broke loose.

Tomorrow: Anger

{image: Grief by Erwin Olaf}

PS- Many thanks for the input on having children share {or not} rooms. So much to think about! I think we're leaning towards making the office a quiet space for projects. :)

Afraid

Choosing to start sharing our story more in depth was not a decision that came lightly. I prayed about it, J and I discussed it, and in all honesty, I waited until I felt there would be a happy ending. ;) Even so, pushing the 'publish' button yesterday was, and still is, terrifying.

I'm afraid that if I let you see the depth of the pain, it will somehow make our current happiness and recovery seem false or fleeting. I'm afraid that since there is no way to share everything, you might judge us harshly or think me a fool for staying. I'm afraid that I won't be able to do this right, that I won't be able to show you how beautiful it is to walk through something devastating, and come out on the other side stronger, more empathetic, and certainly in love. I'm afraid you won't believe me when I say that I do not regret any of it. That I am, in fact, grateful for it, even if I'd never desire to experience it again or wish any of it on anyone else.

Years ago, after our first major crisis in our marriage, I told our therapist that I was afraid of ever going back to where we once were. "I don't think I could live through that again," I fretted. Her reply has always stayed with me and is something I draw much comfort from.

She said, "Even if the exact same events were to take place once more, you would have to unlearn all that you have learned in order for it to feel the same. You have grown. You are a different person now. You can never go back."

So despite my fears, I'm pushing 'publish' again. Here's to no turning back. :)

{image}

Burning and Rebuilding

It was this time last year that Little Miss C became consumed by the fear that our house was going to burn down. We held fire drills. We discussed fire safety. We practiced stop, drop and roll. But none of this seemed to calm her. After a particularly intense display of worry, I asked her what she was most afraid of. She said, "I'm scared that I won't be strong enough to carry everyone out."

****

It was July, and J and I were walking the tree-lined streets of Salt Lake City. The next day, we'd drive another 8 hours to my parent's house, where the kids and I would stay.

I didn't know when or if I'd be coming back.

J was angry and hurt. For several months, our marriage had been in crisis. It felt like life had turned upside down. He wanted to know why I wouldn't stay and fight-- how I could just run away. I remembered Little Miss C's words and an overwhelming sense of peace came over me.

"It's as if we're standing in a burning building," I said. "I've sounded the alarm. I've pushed and pleaded with you to run to safety with me. But you won't budge and I'm not strong enough to carry you out. I can't save you. I can't force you to save yourself. And more importantly, it's not my job. If I stay any longer, I do more harm to myself than I do good for you."

"So you'll just leave me to die?" he asked, incredulous. "You're saying you would choose your own life over our life together?"

"No. I'm saying that as much as I want to save our marriage, I have to let it go. I need to take care of myself and have faith that there is someone stronger, someone more capable, and someone who's job it is to help you find your safety. Because I can't do that, and if I try, we both go down in flames. I'm not the Savior."

****

J and I have been separated now for over 6 months. It's been difficult and painful in ways that only growth and healing can be. But I find myself wanting to talk about it now because the fact that there has been healing is nothing short of miraculous to me. By placing everything I held most dear--{my marriage, my life as I knew it, and my desperate desire to make sure it all turned out the way I wanted it to}-- at the feet of the Savior, I've come to know and love Him in a way that is soul-deep and undeniable.

Thankfully, J and I stand outside of the smoking ruins of our old marriage, wrapped head to toe in metaphorical gauze; shaken, cautious, but still hand in hand. It could have ended differently. It still could. We have an awfully long way to go. But we're tentatively making plans, taking one day at a time and learning to be together without burning the house down again. It's frightening and tender and better than I could have imagined.

That's what I want to share. That no matter how things have turned out or could yet turn out, I know it will be alright. I can have peace no matter what.

And so can you.

Welcome 2013

I don't think I've ever been so pleased to see a year end.

While I tried to make the most of a difficult, emotional and draining 2012, it was still an immense relief to watch it flicker and die, ushering in the clean, blank slate that is 2013.

As I pack away ornaments and sweep up glitter, it's easy to think of the last 12 months as the mess that inevitably comes when cleaning out a closet. It always gets worse before it gets better. And now, we're due for a whole lot of better. At least, that's the hope.

Here's to 2013. May it be a fresh start for us all.

{image}

Frozen

In the past, I've always come here to honestly vent my feelings. Something about wrangling my thoughts into concise sentences has always made them feel more real, more tangible, and thus more manageable. It's the cheapest form of therapy, really.

But lately, I've felt paralyzed. Frozen. The overarching issue currently is the state of my marriage--which while painful, is in no way doomed. Marriages are private, personal things; almost impossible to accurately portray to a third party without breaking bonds of trust and respect; and since I do honor those bonds, I know that there are certain things I can never discuss in a forum as public as this.

And so I'm left unsure of how to handle this little space of mine on the internet. Somehow, posting entirely about art projects, thrifted outfits and my redesigned bedroom seems shallow and fake, as though I'm trying to maintain a 'perfect' facade by not divulging the full context of my life. And yet I still want to share those things. They're a form of therapy as well; small instances of creativity and creation amid what could be a very sad chapter in my life.

So can I simply ask that you know and understand this? That things are both hard and exquisitely wonderful right now. That my moments of despair are always followed by experiences of comfort, love and hope. That this too shall pass, but that that knowledge doesn't entirely negate the agony of the challenge. That I miss you. That I miss writing to the ether and feeling validated and stronger for it. That I'll try to be more present, sharing the joys in my life without feeling false, because I know you understand the melancholy of my life as well. That as difficult as this is, I'm grateful for my life and grateful that I have places to turn to for comfort.

Having said that-- I'll see you tomorrow. ;)

{image by Miika Järvinen}

A White Blank Page

via

Can you lie next to her
and give her your heart, your heart?
As well as your body
And can you lie next to her
and confess your love, your love?
As well as your folly
And can you kneel before the king
and say, "I'm clean", "I'm clean"?

But tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?
Oh, tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?

A white blank page
and a swelling rage, rage
You did not think
when you sent me to the brink, to the brink
You desired my attention
but denied my affections, my affections

So tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?
Oh tell me now where was my fault
in loving you with my whole heart?

Lead me to the truth and I
will follow you with my whole life
Oh lead me to the truth and I
will follow you with my whole life

-Mumford & Sons

Rarely, I hear a song that fits into a brief moment of my life perfectly. It strikes a chord deep inside and becomes intertwined forevermore with that period in time. I will never hear Hallelujah without thinking of laboring long and hard with Baby R.

This afternoon, I heard A White Blank Page and knew that years from now it would remind me of this summer, for good or bad.

Discoveries

Do you ever have those times where you're genuinely surprised to learn something about yourself? Like, " Wow, this fear of financial instability is really deep-rooted," or, "Reading means so much to me, I don't know if I can marry a man who doesn't appreciate the poignancy of Dandilion Wine," or, "If the towels aren't folded just so, I find I get this weird facial tic."

My latest discovery? I lose weight when under a certain kind of relationship-related stress.

While all other stressors seem to send me clawing for chocolate, this particular brand of tension causes me to lose my appetite, become jittery and sleepless, and crave long work-outs to burn away the mounting anxiety. Proof? It took me two years, a half marathon and a stint of the South Beach diet to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight, but just a few weeks of marital discontent for my pants to {literally} be falling off of me.

I'd be bragging if it weren't so dang miserable.

The first time I can recall this happening was when I was eighteen and dating on-and-off {mostly off} a guy four years my senior. I knew from our very first encounter that he wasn't the man I was going to marry, but I was lonely and eighteen and I liked him. So I went out with him anyway, ignoring my family's vocal objections and my own intuition and promptings on the matter. I felt happy when I was with him, but riddled with guilt and doubt when I was home. I was too nauseous to eat, spent hours running and arguing with myself, and had insomnia for nearly six months. It was a relief when I finally broke it off and moved out of state to be on my own. I've often said that the greatest good that came of that experience was that when I met J, I knew it was right because I'd already experienced what it was like to be with someone when it was all wrong.

Which only makes experiencing this kind of strain with the right person feel particularly unfair.

However, unlike my eighteen-year-old self, I can't be preoccupied with what it is I think I deserve. I'm trying to be silent, listen to that still, small voice of intuition inside of me, and be at peace. But it's hard. Then again, it's hard holding on to my hurt and trying to fix everything as well. Given the choice, I choose the hard thing that leads to peace.

In a few days, we leave for a week-long vacation in Salt Lake City, after which the kids and I are driving on to spend a month with my parents in a tiny town on the border of Washington and Idaho. Posting may be spotty, but if this is the last you hear from me for the next five weeks, I want to leave you with this:

I've discovered that while I wouldn't choose, or think to be grateful for, particular trials in this life, I'm grateful for what they've taught me and who they've forced me to become. If I could see into the future, I would choose the end result. I can't see into the future, but I know and trust my Heavenly Father, who can. I've discovered that I can be grateful for the hard things.

And that's genuinely surprising.

What I Need

J often asks what it is that I need when I'm depressed-- how he can best support and love me when his natural reaction is to give me a wide berth and try not to feel offended at my stoniness. It's a simple question, but one that I find difficult to answer.

Obviously, there are many ways to help prevent an episode of depression, but once I'm already there, it feels like a rather hopeless case. Aside from knowing that giving me distance doesn't work, I don't have a rote list of answers at the ready. In fact, thinking about it is a bit frustrating in the sense that if I knew there was something that would snap me out of it, wouldn't I have done it already?

Then, last night as we walked and mulled things over, the film What Dreams May Come came to mind. {I've always loved this scene, where Christie tells his wife that, "... I was part of the problem. Not because I remind you, but because I couldn't join you. So I left you alone."} It struck me that what I most want when I'm depressed is not to be left alone.

Depression turns my mind into a prison, and to be abandoned in that is horrifying. It's not that I want to be joined in my depression-- I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone-- but I need to be loved when I'm most unloveable. I need to be talked to when I can't utter a word back. I need to be defended when I don't feel worthy of defense. To that end, these are a few actions that I feel would help me not feel alone in depression:

• Hold my hand. Put your arm around me. Give me a hug. Initiate contact and comfort, because I don't have the strength to move.

• Shelter me from noise, responsibilities and criticism. Think of it as childbirth, only instead of riding physical waves of pain, I'm trying not to drown in mental pain. Breathing is an effort, so protect me from anything that distracts from that. 

• Talk to me. Tell me, "You don't have to say anything, just listen," and then fill the silence. I'm stuck in my own head, and as much as I want to, I can't escape. Talking to me gives my brain a much needed respite from the ugly thoughts inside.

• Take me for a walk. Take me on a drive. Take me to a movie. Change the scenery for me without expecting much from me.

• Encourage me to try to get out of bed, go running, talk to my mom, and resume healthy habits. But don't get mad if I'm unable to.

• Tell me it's going to be okay.

• Tell me you love me.

• Let me cry.

Do you suffer from depression? What is it that you need when you're at your lowest? Are you a spouse or loved one of someone with depression? Any tips for my husband?