The Rabbit Hole

Rereading this week'a blog posts in comparison to the posts from the last month show how different and detrimental one medication can truly have on the psyche. I definitely fell down the rabbit hole this week and went spiraling into the abyss that I haven't touched in a few months. In a few ways I am grateful that I was able to get in touch with some of the emotions that I was feeling during the months that I was losing it all right after the incident occurred, but I am looking forward to this darkness lifting and lighter, brighter days returning. My anxiety and PTSD is more manageable when I don't have depression piggybacking for the week. 

Today I opened up to my mom for the first time about what it truly felt like to have some of the feelings I was having regarding PTSD. I think there is a lot of shame regarding mental health. I know I feel so embarrassed and apologetic that there is something mentally not right with me right now. I also know that what's happening is not my fault, but it doesn't stop me from apologizing, or feeling like it is my fault. As I sat on the couch trying desperately to tell her what I was feeling, it was like I stepped out of my body and watched a muffled movie of myself in slow-motion. My heart was racing and tears freely flowed, my head filled up with fluid and seemed to just float away, and the all too familiar iron fist clamped over my heart as I explained to my mom what it was like to be perfectly fine one minute then accosted with a flashback the next. I felt like I was talking in circles and jumbles and nothing made sense, so I stopped watching me and my out-of-body self instead shifted focus to my mom, who looked confused and concerned and sad. It was becoming too much and ended abruptly when Earl needed to go outside. Once outside, the cold air shook me to my core and burned my lungs, but stopped the inner shaking. I am fine, I thought. At least you told her some of it. And I considered just showing her this blog. But I knew I wasn't that brave yet. Baby steps. Baby steps. 

It frustrates me to no end some days that I'm fine and some days I'm a jumbled mess. Some days I have the faith of Moses and some days I'm Jonah in the Whale. Some days I can't count and others I'm multiplying. Where's the happy medium? 

It's late. I need to be brave and strong. And sleep. 

Shouldering the Burden

It is the last day of the bridge therapy (hallelujah!) and the second day without a headache! I am so grateful for some clarity without a thundering, pounding in my head. The depression that has crept in, though has not been an even trade. If they cut me open, perfectly dissected on an exam table, I imagine they would find my insides overrun by thick and sticky, oozing black darkness. It has definitely corroded my heart and invaded my lungs. "What's this?!" the doctors would shriek, as they clamored away from the pools of black now escaping my organs, oozing onto the table and dripping to the floor. It sizzles as it hits the tile and then evaporates, puffing up into dark clouds, taking over the room and consuming all in its hatred and virility.   

I hate the darkness. I am not made of it. I am a being of light. 

More so, than Not.

Today I woke up and ate breakfast, but soon fell back asleep on the couch because I've been so exhausted from this medication. And I started having some pretty intense dreams. Most of them involved me getting beat up. A lot were me being jumped in back alleys by gangs. They were looping on repeat. One dream would end and automatically begin again, but morph slightly into a different dream. By the end of my 4 hour nap, I had multiple dreams and had been punched over 20 different times. The last dream woke me up. My heart was racing and I didn't know where I was. I am grateful for some of the techniques I am learning in trauma counseling, because I was able to lay there for a minute and get to a place where I felt safe before opening my eyes. 

Ever since I was little I have been terrified of the dark. Not just a little scared, but fearfully frozen of it. That fear never went away. It has been a constant in my life. But it doesn't even touch the terror I have felt recently. I know I am not dying, but somehow am unable to convince myself of that when the flashbacks are happening. 

I keep trying to be zen and squash down the anxiety that is clawing its way up my throat. When we were little kids, my siblings and I used to pretend there were people in our stomachs who set up towns with everything we put in our mouths, and the broccoli were trees and the water was oceans, and milk drowned them all. It was an exciting way to consume meals, to say the very least. But right now it's like those little people are climbing their way out with jagged, ragged claws. And each time I swallow, a new wave of them rises in protest, swelling in my chest. It is painful and forceful, and aching. And it feels like my heart is pumping lead, and my lungs are constricting with each breath. And the rebellions  are getting stronger. 

And the rational side of me knows that there are, of course, no such things as little soldiers marching my slow death inside me. And the soft whispers of my mom talking to herself as she completes various chores and the melodies of piano linger in my ear through headphones reassuring me that I am still here. But somehow, today, I am wishing I wasn't. Everything just seems too much. I keep trying to push past all the things weighing me down and more keep piling up and crushing in. I don't know how much more I can take. And as I typed that, the song Be still my soul came on my iTunes Radio. I just sat and listened to the words. It brings me so much peace. It reminds me God hears me. Even now. 

I wish I remembered that every time I feel this way. But I don't. It sometimes is too much and I sit frozen for hours. I don't know if I'm fighting an uphill battle with this. I don't know if it's a battle I'll ever win or if it's something that anybody ever wins. I haven't shared any of this blog with friends or family because I'm so ashamed and embarrassed about the literal fight I feel like I'm waging every day.

Be still my soul. That's all I can write for now. 

Optional (I always am)

I am that shoulder that you’ve leaned on.
The heart you break constantly.
The love that you refuse to feel.

And I gave you CPR.
So that you could breathe,
even though you had given up, entirely.

So I broke my toe, my leg, my arm,
my wrist, my neck.

My heart.

Because I wanted to feel you,
and you took my lungs.

But I needed to find me,
so I gave you my heart.

Just gather up these broken bones.
And pawn them for those dollar bills -
please go buy yourself a blanket.

You’re shivering and cold.
And you’ve only ever used me to keep you warm.

One

It’s always in the dark that I hear
The heart-stopping noise of your absence
It sometimes sounds like a creak in the stair
Or a pop in the wall, expanding with the burden of summer’s heat

 

It is never you appearing in surprise
Your footsteps long ago retreated
And here I am left with two pillows
When all I ever needed was just one

It’s in the morning quiet that I miss
The familiar rattle of your sleeping snores
And the lurch of the bed as you roll in your sleep
The silence echoes in the sheets 

Now only stillness lays in my well-made bed

It is never expected, the ending to love
It clenches and strangles and severs the heart
And here I’m left with two pieces

When I only ever wanted just one.

re:can't

I sympathize with suicide and hearts ceasing to beat

I empathize with lovers lost and orphaned in the street

I hunger with the starving heart whose faith is faded gray

I etch your picture on my skin, willing you to stay.

I understand the chosen words that hurt and burn the tongue

I speak them freely, no remose, like bullets from a gun

I paint the sadness from my eyes with lines of black deceit

I lick my wounds with salted lips, vaunt in my defeat

I mourn our life in funeral, wearing the blackest black

I reminisce day's love professed, but moments take it back

I harness every raging wit and quickly scrawl in prose

What's done is done I cannot recant the choices that I chose

It's horrible, this sadness.

It’s horrible, this sadness. 
Aching and gnawing.
And bleeding and tiring. 
But sometimes it’s alright. 

Boxes here and clothes there,
Bits and pieces. Packages and promises. 
Ruined, shattered, spoiled, scattered, 
Wreckage on a sea of terror. 

Keys in palms and not in doors.
You don’t live here anymore. 
Heart in hands, not in chest. 
Gaping hole, bleeding breast. 

You were just a fleeting figment. 

I made you up and married you. 
It broke me in between. You 
broke me in between my heart and soul. 

Most days you stay pitted in my stomach. 
And I want for it to be gone. 
But it doesn’t loosen with the evenings,

It only tightens with the stars. 

Oh, this week.

I feel like I'm being tested. Like my faith was renewed and now that's being tested again. And at this point, I feel like it is much too new and fragile to be tested. And part of me thinks God should probably know that. And the other part of me feels really horrible for thinking "shame on you" towards God. So I'm in a quandary. And mostly I'm just frustrated. And trying really hard to be faithful, but I am wavering. It's becoming increasingly more difficult to pray for my enemies when my enemies are loading their guns and each one seems to be pointed and firing straight at me. 

I did yoga tonight to try and calm down the anxiety that has now rooted itself in me so deeply that it is literally gnawing in the caverns of my heart. I told my mom that worse case scenario, I lose everything and I owe hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills. I think I seemed relatively calm when I said that. I only care about getting better. This was never about money. I just want to stop the headaches and the other symptoms. Don't they get that? 

I just sat here frozen, thousands of thoughts scrolling through my head. It's been 20 minutes since writing that question mark. Clearly tonight is not the night for me to relieve my burdened heart. Earl is whimpering beside me, unsure of what to do to calm my nerves. His soft sighs are so aggravating right now. I wish this bridge medication cycle was done. This stuff is making me feel so crazy inside. And I never get mad at Earl. And I'm feeling so mad at him for sighing next to me. And maybe I'm just mad at everything right now. 

I just want to be better. I want my life to go back to how it was. I want to be normal again. That's all. 

I just don't understand. Maybe this week is not a good week for my faith. I don't know. I'm reading scriptures, praying, and reading my morning devotional talks. I'm doing everything I was doing. I'm following my trauma therapist's directions to do daily mindfulness excesses, and practice meditation. And I am still not connecting. Why is there a barrier? What have I done? Is it me? Where did I go wrong? Why is it all going wrong? Why am I alone again? I hate dark days. I need the light. 

5 honest things:

I am still mad that I got hurt. And I'm more mad that I've spent 5 months examining ways that it was my fault that it happened or ways I could have prevented it. And I am tired of replaying the scenario over and over in my head. And having it flashback when I don't want it to. When I least expect it. When I can't stop it. It haunts me. And hurts me. And it terrifies me.

It is hard to know who I am anymore. 

I genuinely feel like I have wasted the last 5 years of my life now that I can't teach here after June.  

I really miss Amy. And most days refuse to really process that she is really gone. I tend to avoid thinking about it or I become upset. I loved her so much. 

I wish things were different with pretty much everything. All the time. 

Silence is Screaming

Sometimes I get so frustrated I just want to scream. It is really hard being a displaced person. I am sleeping on my moms couch, living out of bags placed in the corner of a room. I don't have any space to call my own. I am paying thousands of dollars to rent a house I am currently not living in. I don't have any income right now because something got messed up with workers comp. And I haven't been paid in months. The lawyer I hired hasn't done anything. And I'm trying not to stress. But it is exhausting to just deal with all of this. 

And my family means well. But sometimes I just want a minute to just be. And it seems like the moments I feel like that, everybody starts to come at me. Right now I am so overwhelmed. And I sit here trying so hard to blink back tears. My mom just muttered how everybody is in such a bad mood. And I know I was snappy, so I apologized and tried to explain myself to her. But I don't want people to play the victim here. Or apologize to me. I just need an ounce of understanding. In explaining myself I'm not excusing my behavior. I know I'm not behaving appropriately. I am being unreasonable. I am snapping. I am not treating people nicely. 

Today I don't feel nice inside. Today I feel awful and dark and burning inside. The new medicine the doctors put me on left me with a blinding headache most of the day. And I was so angry about that. But I did the responsible thing and emailed all the appropriate people to give them a medical update before I fell asleep for hours. I am just tired of being responsible. And taking accountability. And having all this guilt when I don't follow through. I just want to be care free for once and stop worrying about everything for everybody else all the freaking time. Because nobody really seems to be worrying all that much about me if we are being honest. 

As I sat in therapy this morning, my therapist asked me why I thought I have such adverse reactions when I return to my house. She asked if I had any friends that could look in on me. And I thought about all the people I've pushed away. And I've been so sad about how distant I've kept everybody. I don't let people in. And I have pretended I'm mostly fine with people who have inquired about my well-being. And I don't like people to know I have problems. We are friends until I start to have problems and then BAM, we are done. I cut them off. And I shut them down. And I just...I'm so exhausted pretending I am fine all the time. I'm such a mess. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of not having a good life. I am trying so hard to have faith. But today is a dark day. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. But I need something more than this. 

A Few Thoughts Later

It's been a few days since I've updated. I keep laying here in a constant state of discomfort, not quite tired enough to fall asleep and not awake enough to be engaged in anything productive. It is hot. And the dishwasher is too loud for me to enjoy any peace. After my evening prayer before trying to sleep, I somehow found myself spiraling into thoughts of this whole medical mess. I finally just shouted STOP in my head, so here I lay. Grumpy, discontent, and craving some peace. 

I tend to shy away from writing or publishing the bad with the good. I write the bad and delete it and only keep the good because I don't like being judged or don't like going back and reading the bad later on. Sometimes the truth is really painful. 

Last night I was in Pinterest for a little bit looking around and my little sister, who I thought was sleeping, ended up startling me by asking me a question. It was dark, I didn't hear her come up behind me, and I froze in place while my heart beat a thousand miles a minute. She ended up leaving the room because I wasn't really replying to her, and about 20 minutes later when I had recovered, I sent her a text and all was well. 

Today on the way home from church she brought up what a weirdo I was and how strangely I had responded. I know she and my mom were joking and good-humored about the entire thing and honestly meant no ill-will at all. I just wish somebody understood how intensely frustrating it is right now to go from having a no-fear response or fight response to one of complete shut-down. My whole body literally just stops working. 

In sacrament a few missionaries gave talks today about fear, and 1 spoke about how he had anxiety over everything for most of his life and what a huge hurdle he had to overcome in order to go on a mission. It was actually a really great talk. And it really made me think about my own life and the fears and anxieties I've had, especially with my job. 

In my job, I remember having a lot of fear when I first started intervening in aggressive behaviors. I had never been physically abused, I didn't even get in physical altercations with my siblings. So physical violence was a very difficult concept for me to handle. Children who do not know their own strength, cannot physically control their emotions and actions the way you or I may be able to, and are incapable of setting a limit or threshold for their outburst, can be extremely dangerous. I used to think my boss was crazy for never having any fear when she stepped in to assist us during the outbursts and when students overpowered us. She was calm and collected and almost robotic in her response. 

When I got my own classroom and started training my paras, I saw the fear in their eyes when the students started having aggressive behaviors. I intervened because I had the training that they did not. Soon I had no fear. My actions became robotic. It got to the point where physical altercation on a daily basis stopped affecting me. And I would be calm and collected on the outside. And even if I was scared on the inside I couldn't show it because I had staff and a classroom full of little kids looking at me. So I became this weird numb person when I would get my hair pulled. I would just sit and let the child pull my hair until either a clump was pulled out or the child stopped. I would then go about my business. I came to work after getting bit and scratched and hit and head butted and kicked. I came with black eyes and bruises and I acted like it was no big deal until it became no big deal.

 

And now it's frustrating to me. Because I don't understand why I used to not have fear. And why I now have all this fear after just 1 incident. Even the thought of seeing a particular one of my students makes my heart race. The thought of intervening in a behavior seems impossible. When I am scared, I shut down. 

Is it ok to be angry about that? Because I am trying not to be angry about the other things. I'm trying not to be angry about not getting paid. Or withdrawing from grad school. And losing my classroom. And losing my job. And my health. And all that. But now I am weak? I am scared or stressed and my body just stops working? I have overcome so much in my life. I know I can overcome this too. I just wish that sometimes the person I chose to understand, did. But he's not here and we don't talk. 

Should I be more angry that I'm even angry that I am upset about being afraid of being hurt by my students? Do all teachers go to work thinking they are going to get beat up by their elementary school children and just presume it is fine and act accordingly? Why am I acting like that is normal? That is not normal! There should be fear there. I shouldn't have to worry about that. Why do they keep hurting me when I want to help them? Why doesn't anybody understand how much I put into that classroom? How much I tried? I literally dedicated entire years and I have nothing to show for it. I don't understand. 

So I guess that's why I need to have more faith. And trust God more. Because when I feel like nobody understands, He does. 

I'm exhausted. And cold. I need to pray again. My heart hurts so much tonight. 

How Are You Still Holding On?

Yesterday I was told I have PTSD. Since then, I have thought about that a lot. I often wonder when I look at other people if they can see how weak I am inside. If they see right through me. If pity goes through their minds. And I think I'm so afraid of people pitying me and seeing me as a weak person that I cut them off and distance myself from them. So most of my relationships with people are superficial. And it's super ironic, because really I just want somebody to know me. 

And I think a lot of that has to do with betrayal, and trust issues, and on and on and on. And I have spent the last 5 months inside my head, screaming. I have watched my strong arms and legs atrophy. I have watched as my intelligent brain was lost in a fog. I have watched as I lost control of everything I once had control over. I have had no just but to watch as the one person I could rely on betrayed me: myself. 

I've felt helpless. And then found my faith again. And have gained mental strength. But have hated the physical lethargy. Each time something crops up concerning this concussion, or the insurance, or anything regarding my job, the feelings of death clutch over my heart and lungs like an iron fist. And they squeeze like if I even dare take one breath or utter one word, I will just die right there. And it is easy for others to tell me to just calm down. But it's not as simple as calming down. 

Ever since I can remember my biggest fear in life (besides the dark) has been dying, and I'm not sure why. I am most specifically terrified of burning to death, drowning, and needles. I hate doctors, hospitals, and anything like that because I associate it all with death. I can't help it. Even when I was there visiting my sister's new baby, I couldn't wait to leave. And it isn't what comes after death that scares me. Heaven doesn't scare me, especially now. But the physical pain of dying is such an intense fear that it is crippling at times. I know people don't understand that, but especially after watching Amy die, I cannot imagine anything more terrifying. Writing this has me shaking, so I just need to get to the point. 

Yesterday I was tired of feeling helpless, like death was clutching my heart and lungs. And so I put on my sneakers and headphones and went on the treadmill and started to walk slowly, breathing in deeply. I have despised running for most of my life. And my doctor advised me that I should not be doing heavy cardio. But I liked the feeling of my lungs filling up with air and exhaling. I liked my heart pumping. I liked feeling my body work. I walked for 2 miles. To have been where I was and to go from there to walking to 2 miles is a big deal for me. Anytime thoughts of this whole mess started creeping in, I focused on my breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. 

This morning my boss called. I spoke with her for the first time since the incident. The iron first returned and grasped my heart for the entire 12 minutes of our conversation. I had a splitting headache. Despite that, I put on my sneakers and went downstairs and walked another mile. I listened to the same song on repeat. I focused on my breathing. Earl laid in his bed next to the treadmill. And with each lap around the track, I felt the grip of anxiety loosen its hold. I felt good enough to try running a few steps. It was too much for me, but I will get there. I plan on running in memory of Amy. Maybe not in the near future, but I will.

I guess what I'm discovering is that recovery is a process. And I am exhausted. But I don't have to sit and let fear rule my life. I can do something about it. I've chosen faith. And I can also choose to take back control of my life and my body. I like walking now because I like the feeling of breath in my lungs and blood in my heart. It reminds me I am alive. 

Flashbacks.

Today I met with my therapist despite a fresh blanket of snow and a closed down town. I get apprehensive before my appointments and think of canceling in my head, running through various excuses and scenarios. Ultimately though, my desire to tell the truth outweighs my anxiety about going. For that I am grateful. 

We talked about why I don't feel anger right now towards people responsible for what's going on. I've thought about that a lot since I left. And I don't know if I am being delusional or smart to not be angry about it anymore. I don't want to wake up in 3 months with misplaced rage. But I am just tired of not having peace. So I am choosing to think my faith has more to do with the lack of anger than anything else. 

My mom drove me down to my house yesterday to collect a few things and check on my house. Anxiety takes over being in that town for even 30 minutes. It takes over even writing about it right now. But driving back to my mom's apartment, the snow was getting pretty bad. I kept praying for safety. We were almost killed as the car next to us spun out and came into our lane and I saw the terror on the face of the driver as she faced our car. Miraculously, we weren't hit and made it home. I felt peaceful even during that ordeal. And attribute that again to the choice to have faith. 

I found old blogs today and read through them. I was reminded of so many struggles and traumatic events I displaced and tucked away. I truly do not let myself heal. I am the master of avoidance. I sever ties and pick up and move on. But rereading my blog reminded me of the many miracles God has worked in my life and affirms to me that I have a purpose here and something to accomplish. 

Almost 6 years ago I was floating on a river in a simple plastic inner tube among pretty intense rapids with a few friends when we unexpectedly came upon an enormous dead tree fallen into the river. It's jagged branches popped my tube and pierced my arm, plunging me into the frigid water. I remember I was underneath the water and could have let myself be carried under and continue to be pummeled by the rocks and rapids, or I could fight to the surface and try to make it. It was a choice I never thought I would have to even think about making, and one I'm embarrassed to say I struggled with for a few seconds. But I made it to the surface and obviously am here today. 

That's something I haven't thought about in years. I read about it this evening and cried, remembering the pain of that struggle and day. I try so hard to be strong for everybody else and I try so hard to help everybody else that I keep forgetting to help myself. I really need somebody to be there for me everyday. I guess I thought when I got married that I could talk to Scotty about all this stuff. That we could share our secrets and pains and happies and sads. But we didn't do any of that. So I just ended up hardening myself even more and steeling myself against more pain. 

I think it's really important that I find who I am again. I used to be this person. This person before all these things happened. Before kids beat me up for a living. Before I shut myself off completely. I used to like things. I used to do things. I used to be somebody. I want to find out who she was. I caught a glimmer of her tonight. I went for a walk on the treadmill tonight for the first time since the incident. I did 2 miles and listened to music. And remembered how much I love listening to music and discovering new music. So there's that. 

Renewal of the Soul

In my religion, a big emphasis on Christ's Atoning Sacrifice and the process of repentance is made in order to return to live with God, because it is the only way to do so. That seems basic enough. But I've always thought of repentance as something that is agonizing and requires a lot of heartache. When I read about it in the scriptures, it speaks of a broken heart. My experience with broken hearts was never pleasant. And my processes with repentance was never something I considered enlightening. It always made me feel bad and alone and worse and never fully cleansed the way I think it was supposed to. And looking back at things that I was going through, I realize that I was missing key components of the process that are vital. 

I read The Sacrament--a Renewal for the Soul today, and in it, Sister Esplin talks about a key piece of repentance being the renewal of our sacrament covenants. Taking a weekly sacrament is a critical way to renew the promises made during baptism. She reminds us that one of the biggest parts of the Atonement is Christ's enabling power, as He helps us daily be who we need to be. She highlights it's particular importance because during the process of repentance, when we ask for forgiveness of our sins, we can become discouraged by their frequency and quantity. But she wants us to remember that we cannot forget God's power in our lives! 

I was chatting with my mom about why it becomes so easy for us to feel punished for our sins and hopeless because of them. The chasm created by the Adversary during times of darkness and hopelessness blocks out the light that the Atonement brings. The further the gap between the two, the further we can fall into despair and the more Satan wins. 

I don't really talk about my injury with anybody besides the physicality of it because it was one of the lowest times of my life for me. When I first got my concussion, I had a headache but felt OK. As things worsened, I quickly drifted into a state of despair. Rational thought escaped into irrational hopelessness. I was literally at the brink of darkness and then tipped over the edge. When I am asked what I remember from the month I got hit to the next month when I saw the doctor, I honestly cannot account for much. Conversations I had with people are a blank to me. I only remember the feeling of intense darkness. And legitimate fear that I was going to die. There was an overwhelming shuddering and shaking inside of me that consumed me almost every waking hour. I had no peace. I had no God. I was utterly alone. My husband and I lived in separate houses. My mother-in-law was dying from cancer. If a movie were to replay this scene from my life, I imagine a panoramic shot of myself lying in a darkened spinning room while I am in my bed crying and montages of every horrible thing falling apart in my life and mistake I had made flashing on the screen.  

I realize that month and the next few following it are the definition of Satan winning. I had friends and family praying for my well-being but I didn't believe that God loved me enough to heal me because I believed He let me get hurt and was punishing me. I was angry that He let Amy die. I was angry that I didn't get to cognitively get to enjoy her final months on earth. The chasm between myself and God was wide and Satan was in-between. Darkness is lonely. And irrational. And choices made in darkness are often done to inflct pain and wound with retaliation. Those choices are not of God. And what I knew and was denying was that I was accountable for my choices, despite the darkness. Despite the anger. I wanted somebody to pay for what was done to me, and I had denied the one person who could. 

I had to make the choice for myself to turn back to God, because He never turned away from me. He never left me. I am grateful for the diligence and patience of my mom, who was faithful enough for us both, and gave me the reminder I needed to seek a relationship with Him and respected my space to allow me to do so in my own time. When I made the choice to have faith, I realized the Atonement is so much more than just repenting for our sins. It is the giving of light. It is the freeing of our souls. I instantly felt peace. I am no longer racked with the insatiable desire to retaliate against my enemy. The storm is not passed by any means, but the seas inside my heart are calmed for today, in this moment. 

I recognize that what happened is not something that was done to me as a punishment. And that the Atonement accounts for injustices done to us at the hands of others. And in taking the sacrament each Sunday, we renew the convenants made at baptism. We are made clean and pure and start again, fresh for a new week. During that week the Atonement helps us continually repent of wrongdoings, remember Christ through things we are doing right, and create an atmosphere of light in our lives that dispels the darkness of a world living in Satan's hopelessness. 

Putting God First.

I have been blessed in my life with the ability to have an above-average intellect. School was not extremely difficult for me. I enjoyed writing and seemed pretty good at it. I was able to excel in whatever I tried. It seduced my prideful side. 

But I've also always wanted to make a difference. I've taken jobs that were difficult yet helped others. But somewhere along the way that got mixed in with the pride, which was never my original intention. I helped the students in my classroom because I genuinely wanted them to succeed. But I also liked hearing I was good at my job. And I knew I was good at my job. And that's when my pride kicked in. 

Elder Lynn G. Robbins asked in my morning devotional: "Which way do you face?" I thought I was being noble and like Christ in my choice of profession. But my heart was not in the right place because I was not facing in the right direction. Elder Robbins' words really resonated with me this morning when I read: "When He performed an act of charity, such as healing the sick, the gift often came with the request to “tell no man” (Matthew 8:4; Mark 7:36; Luke 5:14; 8:56). In part, this was to avoid the very fame which followed Him in spite of His efforts to eschew it (see Matthew 4:24). He condemned the Pharisees for doing good works only to be seen of men." 

It is obvious that I am in a time of reflection and transition at this point. And I realize that my profession does not have to be the next Mother Theresa. I want to be a good person not so that people look at me and award me for being a good person. And before, that was the problem. I was a good person at work, and work consumed my whole life. I did nothing else. I let God fall away. So now I want to be a good person because I am turning towards God and doing the things He wants me to do. And that means living a humble life, and not “aspire to the honors of men." 

I think that is a really hard thing to do. Because I believe everybody wants to be successful. And we are all commanded to be perfect, as Christ is. But I think the key is knowing that Christ did not come to a Earth for his own glory. And having success does not mean I cannot also be humble. Having humility means knowing that all things come from God and acknowledging that it is through Him and by Him I am who and what I am. When I am humble there is no room for pride. And when God is first, there is no question about which way I face. 

The second part of this, for me, is that being public about God has always been a particularly difficult thing for me. My mother-in-law was a great example to me. She always took a moment to tell somebody about Jesus. And was never afraid to do it. I admire her faith through the end of her life and feel blessed that she shared that with me. I regret I never shared mine with her. I was always too afraid I would offend her. Or that others would be offended if I disagreed with their beliefs. 

When I got married, I allowed a rift to develop between my older sister and myself. In Mormom religion, marriage in a Mormon temple is desired. My husband was not Mormon and we could not get married in one. I chose to be offended by my family's loving questions about my choices, including innocent questions from little children. And I let an eternal relationship decay. I thought it was my mission to teach them reproach and educate my family on bending God's principles for the people you love. But Elder Robbins reminded me today that is not my job. I tried to shame my family into questioning their beliefs simply because those beliefs hurt me because of my choice. 

In Isaiah the Lord warns us, “Fear ye not the reproach of men” (Isaiah 51:7; see also 2 Nephi 8:7). But so often we really do care what others think of us, especially people we love. I have been on the giving and receiving end of criticism and sharp words. I know reproach well. It is one of the biggest wedges driving my marriage apart. But I feel ashamed that I have turned so far away from God and cared so much what people think. Even now, I haven't shared this blog with anybody I know because I've been afraid of their opinions of me. I rarely share my testimony for this same reason. 

Having faith and trust in God first strengthens our resolve to put away the fear we have when it comes to the opinions of anybody else besides Him. The Gospel does not teach blind faith, however. It focuses on agency and choice. I firmly believe in the choice of faith, just as any other choice we have. I think making that choice can be one of the hardest things. My pride kept me from making that choice for a long time. I know had I chosen to have faith and turned to God, away from man, I wouldn't be where I am.  

That being said, I am grateful for the choice I made to return to church and Christ's Gospel. Spiritually, I have not felt this peaceful in years. And I know that comes from the promise of the continued companionship of the Holy Spirit. I have so much gratitude for the prayers of those who did not give up on me. 

10 Twelfths.

It has been over 10 months since my husband moved out. I didn't tell many people. Since that moment I have felt numb. And my life has been a comedy of errors. And a series of misfortunate events. 

I strongly believe in gut instinct. I trusted my gut that something was wrong and I didn't and still don't regret the choice I made to find out for myself to see if my gut was right. Something had been slowly digging its way between us for months. And I was tired of pretending I didn't notice the lies anymore. I  remember laying in bed, my heart literally breaking. He was sleeping. I knew I had to get ready for work. And I knew if I confronted him, that would be it. I woke him up. I asked him about the lies. I asked him why he didn't tell me. And he was angry, so he had no answers. 

I remember he got up and put on pants. I got in the shower and cried. The water was so hot my hands were swelling up. I looked down at them as my hair pasted to my face. I remember thinking if I didn't do it now, they wouldn't come off. So I took off my wedding rings, painfully over swollen fingers and putting them onto the shower ledge. My heart thudded in my ears louder than the noise of the bathroom fan. I don't remember how long I stood in the shower and let the water mix with my tears. But when I was done with the shower he was gone. 

So I put on makeup and did my hair. And got dressed. And drove to work. Like a robot. Numb, without feeling. And I called him while sitting in my school parking lot. He told me he was going to stay in Virginia Beach. I said OK. And I walked into work that day and told my paras that I may be a little off my game. And went home that night and cried myself to sleep. And woke up the next morning and went to work. And the next day. And the next. 

I thought I would die from heartbreak. I thought I wouldn't be able to go on. When he called Thursday to ask me if he could come home, and I had to say no, I wanted to bleed into a puddle onto the floor. I wanted life to cease. I cried so hard that night that throwing up didn't even stop it. I had to change my sheets and clothes because they were so wet from tears I literally couldn't sleep. He packed his things up. He gave back his key. He moved out. 

And while I was able to keep it a secret from most everybody, I tried hard to not talk about it with anybody or think about it much after that first month. I made goals and focused on them. I packed up the house we shared and put memories into boxes. I moved into my own house. I got Earl. I focused on eliminating the we and establishing a me. Soon enough the empty side of the bed wasn't filled with heartbreak and sadness and ghosts of lies, betrayal, and darkness. I stopped crying every night and maybe broke down only once a week. Then maybe once every other week. Then once a month. 

I wasn't happy. I was numb. And I still had shut out God. And I wasn't ready to let anybody in. But Amy and I started spending time together, as friends. We never talked about my problems with her son. We were friends despite his and my problems, which I never fully understood, but completely appreciated. And I cherish the summer we had. Because he moved back in with his parents, I ended up becoming more friendly with him as well. My anger towards him began to subside. We went from separated to paused. And paused to OK. 

And then came cancer and concussions. And before I knew it Amy was gone. And for reasons unknown we still weren't living under the same roof. And I don't know if Scotty was trying to punish me for saying no all those months ago, but I haven't felt so alone in so long. We can't be married and live in separate houses. I really needed him to be there for me the way I thought I had been there for him. We live in the same town, 5 miles apart. But it might as well be 500 miles apart. We are so far apart. 

I often wonder how we got from there to here. How we got from that first date to sleeping in separate houses for a year. I can't even remember my wedding vows. Today I deleted our wedding pictures from Facebook. Because last week he unfriended me. And now we are strangers. So I just want to say this to the strangers we are. 

I used to want to tell you everything. We would sit under the stars talking about everything. You used to let me in. You would tell me about your Grandpa and stories of growing up in BV. You told me about your Dad losing his job, and about your friends. We laughed. And fought over stupid things when we were too afraid to say I love you. I thought I really knew you. And then you shut me out. And checked out. I was there for you through losing jobs. I supported you through your mom's first cancer, the police academy, financial loss, college, betrayal, your mom's second cancer, and then the loss of your mom. All I ever wanted was love, honesty, respect, and equal support in return. But we broke each other instead. And instead of fixing it, we are using our broken pieces to cut each other's wounds deeper. 

I am tired of being numb. I want to be whole. I need to be true to what I believe, especially now. I read a talk this evening by Elder Todd D. Christopherson, Free Forever, to Act for Themselves, "When things turn bad, there is a tendency to blame others or even God...Truly He loves us, and because He loves us, He neither compels nor abandons us."

I really recognize this in my life. I always tend to expect God to control my life if I am doing what I am supposed to, and do not understand why bad things happen to me when I am trying to be righteous. I begin to blame Him when that happens. And feel like God completely doesn't care about me. But I know He does, as I am reminded in the blessing given me last week by my mom's bishop. 

When I was newly married, I was not spiritual. I did not go back to a church until 2013 and that was only for a few months, which seemed to drive a wedge even further between myself and my husband. I haven't been back until a few weeks ago. I have prayed. I have read scriptures. But I have been angry with God for my own life circumstances. 

But Elder Chrisopherson says "We should (and we do) rejoice in the God-ordained plan that permits us to make choices to act for ourselves and experience the consequences, or as the scriptures express it, to “taste the bitter, that [we] may know to prize the good.” 

I realize now there are worse things than people I know finding out that things in my life are not perfect. I also realize that blaming God is a human thing to do, but bitter circumstances help bring about appreciation of better blessings. And I know that God does care about me. I have also been promised that God is mindful of my situation. And that whatever the outcome, I will be at peace. And I know that feeling peace is going to be a welcome change from feeling numb. 

Today I just need to just muster up some courage to find some faith. It is waivering in the waves of all these memories and feelings. 

Be Still My Soul

Today while making myself lunch I knocked the plate off the counter and it fell onto the tile, smashing into a hundred pieces and cutting my foot. I stood there looking at it, sort of dazed. Inside I felt how I have felt a thousand times over the last few months whenever anything goes wrong. Panic. Fear. Anxiety. Stress. On the outside I was calm. But frozen. On the inside a stampede of buffalo slowly approached the cliff of self-defeat that had started to crumble since September. 

My sister rushed to my aid and wiped my foot free of blood and removed the shards of plate so I didn't cut myself again. My mom quickly vacuumed up the broken plate. No criticism over a broken dish. No anger expressed. No dissatisfaction. The whole ordeal lasted only a few minutes. But the feeling inside hasn't subsided all evening. 

By nature I am a perfectionist. This story should give you an indication of how much: In Kindergarten, I circled the dog house in red instead of blue on a test. I knew my mistake, tried to change it, was told I couldn't, had a meltdown and had to sit in the hall to calm down. They brought my older sister down to my classroom to tell me it was OK. I think I ended up having to go home early that day. The test wasn't a big deal. I didn't fail Kindergarten. It truly was not worth the ordeal I made it. 

But when I make mistakes, which I try desperately not to do, I dwell on them. I analyze them over and over in my head. And if they are my fault, it takes me a while to admit my culpability, but I do. I may be prideful, but I can't live with that kind of guilt. But even after admitting my guilt, I can't let things go. I make sure I do not make that mistake again. And if I do, the time spent dwelling on the mistake becomes even more intense. I second-guess my choices. I drive myself crazy and blame myself, riddling my mind with doubt until I just have to let it go. 

When something is simply an accident, I have been trained throughout my life to somehow analyze it until I have found a reason that it is my fault. I realize that is through years of emotional abuse, poor choices, circumstances beyond my control, and residue from various complex emotional situations, including repeatedly being physically assaulted even when it has been my job. And that is how something as simple as dropping a plate onto the tile floor turned into a stampede of buffalo thundering inside me. And left thoughts of the past 4 months swirling in my head. I replay everything. And things start to consume me. 

Since September, I've relied heavily on my mom. She and I have not always had the closest relationship because of this and that, but I consider her one of my best friends now. She helped me understand that the hardest part of forgiveness during repentance is forgiving ourselves for the mistakes we make. I have rarely found it difficult to forgive others when they have sought my true forgiveness (and honestly, even when they haven't), because forgiveness of them is for me, not them. But I rarely forgive myself.

Again, my morning devotional was so spot on with this. President Packer says  "If we are not aware of what the Savior’s sacrifice can do for us, we may go through life carrying regrets that we have done something that was not right or offended someone. The guilt that accompanies mistakes can be washed away. If we seek to understand His Atonement, we will come to a deep reverence for the Lord Jesus Christ, His earthly ministry, and His divine mission as our Savior."

If Christ can forgive me, I can forgive myself. And that means that whenever my doubts start creeping in, I need to let faith push louder. So today, I've just begun singing Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side. I don't know all the words. And I am not the best singer in the world, let's be honest. But it worked well enough to ebb the thoughts for the time being. 

I want to gain a trust and testimony of the Atonement strong enough that I can understand and apply it to my life. I want to be a more perfect version of me, which means being less of a perfectionist. That is so incredibly ironic. But it also means I need to learn how to be loving and forgiving of myself and my mistakes. Right now I just need to have the faith... especially when lately some days wanting that is just hard enough.

Befriending Christ.

When I was in college I came face to face with the fact that I had a serious problem with an eating disorder. It had become a controlling force and I had nowhere to go but up and nobody to hide it from any longer. I felt betrayed by people I knew and lost in the disease I felt alone. So I began reading my scriptures. And praying a lot. In my religion, we get something called a Patriarchal Blessing. It tells us of our lives before coming to earth and things we can accomplish here if we live worthily. It is really special. I remember finding mine and reading it during a particularly dark day, when I had been in my house alone and sitting in a rocking chair sitting there for hours crying. It said I knew Jesus well during my time in Heaven before coming to Earth. And the thought came to me that maybe I needed to feel betrayed because I was living my life at that time in a way that was also betraying a friend, Jesus. It was a powerful moment for me. And one I am not eloquently describing here because words cannot fully describe feelings of the Spirit. Yet, I unfortunately didn't learn my lesson, as I continue to walk away from my friend. 

I remember that moment well right now. Because last night I was reading a talk about Jesus Christ feeling disappointment with the Jews not accepting his message while he was here on earth. And I hadn't ever really been able to wrap my mind around Jesus as being a person. I know He died for us. But because He was the Son of God, I somehow have always taken emotion out of it and only focused on the physical side of His anguish. Until last night. 

I'm the type of person who hides my feelings and masks them because I want to be perfect. But having feelings doesn't make me sinful. Jesus felt disappointment. He felt sad and alone. He wanted friends. He was betrayed. He understands what I feel and not just because He experienced those feelings and descended below them in Gesthemane. But He also knows how to overcome those feelings because He is God and is perfect and whole. And that is why He is the Savior. 

Boyd K. Packer shared in a talk entitled "The Reason For Our Hope" that I read during my morning devotional this story: "I recently received a letter from a woman who reported having endured great suffering in her life. A terrible wrong, which she did not identify but alluded to, had been committed against her. She admitted that she struggled with feelings of great bitterness. In her anger, she mentally cried out, “Someone must pay for this terrible wrong.” In this extreme moment of sorrow and questioning, she wrote that there came into her heart an immediate reply: “Someone already has paid.”

I have spent the greater part of the past few months feeling very similar to this woman. I have been angry. And bitter. And sad. I have retaliated and it has only made me feel worse. Each action I've taken has felt like I've been further dragged me down into the murky depths of a swamp of misery. And in an effort to protect myself I began to cut people off one by one by one until I realized I was back in college, sitting in the rocking chair, reading my Patriarchal blessing, realizing I had betrayed the one person who could never and would never betray me. 

Christ is here when others are not and doesn't leave. I do. I am trying to learn how to stay. 

Breaking My Heart

People are so hard to let go of. I am a sentimental girl. I've always been that way. Super emotional. Overly attached. I lived and breathed others. And lived and died with their presence and absence. My heart has broken and mended but healing is a process that takes longer than most. This past year has been just one long heartbreak. It hasn't been able to mend. It just goes numb long enough to trick itself into dormancy before breaking all over again. I keep putting my heart on the shelf. And today I had to break it all over again. 

The thing nobody seems to understand is that in hurting people I love, I break my own heart, too. And I am trying to unbreak my heart. But maybe it has to break completely in half for that to happen? But can I recover from that? Do I have the choice? Because can I recover if I don't do it? 

The thing is that we aren't right. We keep hurting each other. Not physically. But emotionally. We love each other. Just in the wrong way. And deep down we know that. But it hurts too much to let it go. And it hurts too much to stay. So here we are. Wearing each other down. Miserable. Desperately trying to be something for each other that we are not. Both to blame. And both hurting. Both wanting love to be enough. And it isn't. 

And there's the bottom line. When love isn't enough. You don't have anything else. And it is making me  physically sick to my stomach as I sit here. Because my life is unraveling like a ball of yarn. And some days I think I'm getting a handle on things. But most days it just rolls a little further out of my reach. 

Answered Prayers.

I received a blessing from my mom's bishop today. It was a wonderful feeling to be reminded of God's love for me, which was reiterated multiple times throughout the blessing. I was also promised that the effects if this concussion would be physically healed and that my doctors could know and be guided to the proper treatments to make that happen. I was promised that my life was meant to have joy, that I would have to wisdom to make the decisions for my future, and that I will be able to do so with clarity. Anything I am not supposed to pursue, I will have a stupor of thought about. This reiterates to me that God does know me and the words of this blessing truly came from him and not just the bishop, because this is how he has always helped me make decisions, and I just met the bishop today. 

He also mentioned being specifically physically surrounded by angels in my times of trials. It seemed a little odd for him to say that to me and I simultaneously thought of Amy when he did. And then immediately of Jamie. And sitting here now I think of my Grandfathers. But about a week ago, in the middle of the night, I was praying to know that Amy was OK. I felt stupid saying the prayer. But I wanted her to know how sorry I was that I didn't share the gospel with her before she died. I didn't want her to be scared or lost. And I know that sounds silly. But I don't know what death is like. And I wanted her to be OK. So I prayed and asked God to please let me know that she was OK. And today, this answer helped me know she is. That there is life after death. Life has a purpose. 

I've felt impressed for the past few days to pray for the people who are my enemies. The verse from the scriptures keeps popping in my mind says something like, pray for those who despitefully use you. I did this morning. I don't feel differently towards the people who are doing me wrong. But that doesn't mean that I won't eventually.

I remember how angry and betrayed I felt toward my father when I found out he married my stepmother without telling me she even existed. I chose to hate him, but that didn't make me feel better. I decided not having a relationship with him would teach him a lesson and make him sorry for his actions. But it only made me feel worse. So I chose to forgive him. And I put in effort to let them both in. Our relationship is not perfect. But it is much better than bitter. It didn't take a day. It took a year, but I don't have a lot of resentment in my life towards him because the truth is that it is easier to forgive than to hate. Hating takes a lot of work and space in your heart. It eventually corrodes away goodness. I don't want that. 

So if praying for my enemies is going to make this feeling subside the way it did when I chose to let go of what my Dad did, great. Because that's what we are taught to do, right? Forgive. And maybe that's what I am supposed to learn from this entire ordeal and what I've experienced over the past 5 months. I'm not sure yet. 

I envy not the dead but death, 

weighted bodies anchor souls.

Death releases wingless wings

into uncounted eternities. 

Again.

I keep having the same daydream, where I put on my running shoes and take off and run as far away as I can. I go for miles. And it's not just like into a different town, but across the country. And I stay there and never look back. I don't care about the stuff in my house. Or my clothes or anything. I just run and run and run. And of course I have Earl. He seems to just magically float alongside me while I run, keeping my company as he always has. And I'm not sure if it's the fact that I am able to run or if it's the fact that I'm able to go so far away from here that appeals to me most right now. 

But I would give to be anywhere but here. I feel myself retreating. The more I want to run, the more I just close myself off. The more I think about the betrayal of everybody in my life except for my immediate family, I retreat even further. But even they cannot fully understand. And it is exhausting to explain. And much easier to smile and insist I am fine then darken the mood or impose anymore than I already have. Right now it seems like I'm a permanent resident on their sofa and a fixture in their passenger seat. That's humiliating enough at this point in my life.