Fury

"And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws."

Such a cute and touching story.  I've read it to my children and other children in that sing song voice that holds a child spell bound.  

Except it's not cute. 

I always thought I had a pretty good handle on my temper.  I didn't get angry that often.  Annoyed yes. Irritated yes. But there was nothing like smiling at someone who is raging at you.  It makes them soooooo mad.  

Marriage to an addict changed that.  I'm 2 inches from his face, my hands are fists, and every muscle in my body strains to launch myself at him.  The veins in my forehead and the chords in my neck stand out while my eyes bulge grotesquely.  My head is flaming with heat and and my throat is raw from obscenities.  Spittle drips down my chin and my jaw is clenched as I grind my teeth. 

This is gnashing of teeth.   

Later An Heritage 4 says to me in a small voice "it scares me when you yell at dad".  And that breaks my heart and inside I am wailing.  

"And then shall it come to pass, that the spirits of the wicked, yea, who are evil—for behold, they have no part nor portion of the Spirit of the Lord; for behold, they chose evil works rather than good; therefore the spirit of the devil did enter into them, and take possession of their house—and these shall be cast out into outer darkness; there shall be weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and this because of their own iniquity, being led captive by the will of the devil."  Alma 40:13

I have let the devil into me in those moments.  I am captive to the will of the devil in those moments. No wonder my son is scared.  

But here's the really tragic part.  I got a phone call the next day from the principal.  My heart sank as she told me that while playing volleyball my son got into an altercation.  One boy had hit the ball and unintentionally it bounced and hit my son who ran over, pushed the boy down, and punched him twice.  It's only two weeks into the school year and this is the third incident (he was blatantly defiant and rude to a teacher in front of the whole class and screamed at another teacher to get out of his face). 

I listened in grateful humility as the principal shared the conversation she had with my son.  She felt that an extreme reaction like this meant there must be something else going on.  So she asked him how things were at home. She encouraged him not to bottle up his emotions and to find a safe way to express his emotions.  

Tears streamed down my face as I thanked her for being someone my son could talk to and asked if she had any advice for me.  

An Heritage #4 and I have worked out a deal.  I asked him if there was something he could do to alert me when he is scared.  Raise his hand, bring me a pencil, say a safe word.  His eyes lit up as he suggested "I could give you penguin!"

He. Loves. Penguins. He's watched the Penguins of Madagascar a million times.  It's the first place he wants to go at any zoo. He is writing a story about a penguin.  He has asked for a pet penguin.  If it is a penguin pad of paper, picture, sticker, emoji, stuffed animal--that is what he will choose. He has this baby penguin stuffed animal that he loves.  He's made a bed for it and tucks it in at night.  

So he agreed that if I am ever doing or acting in a way that scares him he will bring penguin to me. He can even just open the door and throw penguin at me if he's too scared to approach me. 

I am resolved that he will never have to bring penguin to me.  I am not letting the devil back in.  Not in my home and not in me.  Max had his stuffed animals and imagination that helped him work through his anger.  I have so much more.  

Proud

I got my patriarchal blessing when I was 13.  That's pretty young.  My grandpa was a patriarch and he'd just had multiple bipass surgery again and everyone thought he was going to die so I thought if I wanted a blessing from my grandpa it was then or never. 

I remember getting my copy and thinking "it's awfully short".  I mean after you take out the lineage and the standard ending there's only about four short paragraphs left.  Not like H-ers that is two full pages (font 8).

But I guess that He only needed four paragraphs to get the salient points across.  At 13 I wondered if God knew me at all. I mean he started with "Beware of pride".

Turns out He knows me pretty well.  See no one-I repeat-NO ONE thought I should marry H-er. Not my family, not my friends, not my roommates, not his family, not my bishop. Just me (and him). When I called to tell my dad I was getting married there was a moment of silence and then he said "as your father and preisthood leader I feel I absolutely must tell you this once and I will never say it again.  If he can't be faithful to the covenants he has made with God he will not be faithful to you". And I cried silently on the phone because I knew every word out of his mouth was true.  And I decided if my marriage lasted longer than his first I would win.

Everyone asked if I prayed about it.  Well of course I did.  I spent a Sunday afternoon with my scriptures out at the botanical gardens asking God if "H-er repented and lived worthy of his priesthood whether our marriage would be blessed".

I imagine Him giving me the stare I give my kids when they ask me an idiotic question just to annoy me.

So I pressed forward in my plans--most of which were over the phone with my mother because I didn't dare leave or he might slip up with someone else. 

I bit my nails and chewed on my lower lip and ran some calculations and figured if I  went home two weeks before the wedding that would be just enough time to crash plan a wedding but not enough time for him to stray.  (It was a close call.)

30 minutes before the wedding my mom said "if you want to call this off right now you can.  All the way up to the wedding you can stop and we will support you. It doesn't matter about the money or the people who have come. On the other hand, if you do marry him from that point on he will be part of our family and we will support both of you".  Another warning but I was determined to go ahead with it.

Once the bishop asked me why I thought all of this was happening.  I told him I'd been warned about pride and this was probably God's way of keeping me humble.  "That's a lot of pride" he said.

I recognize my pride now and for years I was afraid of making the wrong decision again. How I agonized over whether to divorce him.  This time I needed to ask the right way.  I needed to do what He wanted, not what I wanted.

Finally my dad said I should make a decision and act on it.  It it was right God would make it very clear to me.

So eventually I did. I decided on the divorce.  And I haven't been told to stop. But I feel it's conditional. 

To quote someone famous "I know The Lord giveth no command unto his people save he shall prepare a way for them to accomplish that which he hath commanded". 

See in my patriarchal blessing He commanded me to "beware of pride" and then in the very next paragraph He gave me the way to accomplish it.

"Show forth the light of Christ especially to those who hurt you or may mistreat you".

 Oh that's hard. Really hard.

Pride would have me withhold recognition and appreciation and praise in his recovery and parenting.  Pride would have me shame him.  Pride would have me put him in his place and crucify him in front of his children.  Pride demands it.

 

So that's my condition.  I have to love him through and after the divorce.  

At 13 those paragraphs didn't mean much to me. At 40 they speak volumes. 

 

 

Dread

"When I come home on Friday I get to stay there right?"   That question fills me with dread.  

 

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

 

I've filed for divorce and he's been gone for three weeks to Utah to take care of business with his ailing father. I served him the night before he left.  

While he's been gone he went to a few meetings and looked up some articles.  He mentioned that he was seeing a common theme, that recovery included a healthy sexual relationship.  He thought after 30 to 90 days we should start easing into a healthy sexual relationship. 

One of the best things about being a few states away is he can't see my eye roll.  Or the face palm. He just doesn't get that I am divorcing him. 

Since he seemed open to articles I shared this one with him.  http://www.mwharkertherapist.blogspot.com/2015/02/supportingresponding-to-spouse-husband.html?m=1

Surprisingly his response was. "I can do that". 

"How long do you think you've had this problem?" I ask.  

"I would say I always had the problem, but I acted out 13 to 14 out of 18 of our marriage and both years we dated and I am very sorry. "

Pause for a moment of genuine awe as I stare at the text message.  That was unexpected. 

"I am willing to move out and get my own place.  Get a job.  Date you again and give you that year of no sexual activity.  I will give you that safe place so we can build trust. I would like to explore something where you would feel safe and be able to work on saving our marriage. I will not rely upon you (the victim) as my support system. I would consult with bishop, other addicts in recovery, and a sponsor. I really want to be with only you.  You just have to promise not to divorce me.  Think about it."

 
For the first time since I filled out the paperwork (June) I questioned myself. So I did think about it and finally as I wrote out some of my thoughts I came to the conclusion that I still wanted to proceed with the divorce.  And now I'm on the phone with him dreading his return. 

"You don't realize how unhappy you will be.  You'll be a bitter unhappy single woman. Trust me. I've seen it. I've had to listen to them complain.  You don't want to do this.  There's a part of you that knows we have something special.  There is something we are supposed to learn from each other.  At least 50 percent of this is your problem and now 100 percent of it may even be you. We've never both tried to work on it at the same time.  If we work through this you'll be the happiest you've ever been"

For the fifth time I say "I will not ever trust you again.  I cannot live with you again. I am divorcing you". There is no anger or malice or vengeance in my voice.  I am just trying to get him to understand that it is really over.  He won't accept it. 

"You need a sponsor.  You need to go to the temple with the right attitude.  If you would just love and appreciate and respect and admire me then you would see a different man. I will do whatever it takes. I know I've hurt you.  You have every right to leave me. Don't do it. I need you or I can't have redemption" his voice breaks and I can feel he is truly in pain. 

As I listen to all of this pour out I think to myself  "why can't I just be cruel and slice him in half.  End it. Shut him down.  Stick the knife in and twist it.  Bring him to his knees. If I'm cruel enough he will finally get the picture.  That I am through with him.  This being gentle and persistent with him isn't getting through"

 

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

A few years ago I took the kids to California to meet up with my sister and go to Disneyland for New Year's Eve. On our last day there we wandered around Downtown Disney and at one point something happened between my sister and her 8 year old son.  I came in at the tail end of it just in time to hear her cold proclamation "I am leaving you here. You are no longer my son" and she turned and walked away leaving him behind a building and walked into the crowd and disappeared. 

I turned to my 8 year old nephew in horror because even if you feel that way who says that to a child? When I looked at his face I saw my husband.  I reeled in shock. My husband is a crushed abandoned 8 year old boy.  The mother in me demanded that I pull my nephew close and hug him and tell him that I love him and that he is a child of God who is valued.  Then I took his hand and we went to go find his family. 

The problem is I can't be married to an 8 year old.  I can't be his redeemer.  But the mother in me can't coldly abandon him either.  And as I hang up the phone that leaves me back where I started: with a feeling of dread. 

Gratitude

I’ve been seeing a trauma therapist for years now.  It started when I went to my Bishop and confessed that I hated men.  Not only that, I hated God because guess what…He’s a man.  And men betray me.  That's what they do.  My Bishop reached into his desk, pulled out a card, and said “I think you should go see her”. 

And so began an education in emotions.

I’ve come to recognize the emotions behind my trauma.   Fear, Terror, Horror, Anger, Rage, Betrayal, Grief, just to name a few.  I plan to explore some of those emotions here.  Maybe you will recognize some of them too. 

For those of you who haven’t been to a trauma therapist here’s how it works.  When you are threatened you have two normal reactions.  Flight or fight.  Except sometimes you freeze.  You can’t do what’s normal for various reasons – you are too small, too weak, too afraid.   When you freeze that energy gets trapped and it stays under this tight lid.  Except over time it builds up until it just can’t be contained anymore and some of it leaks out and chaos ensues (anger, addiction, depression, isolation, all that nasty stuff). 

So with the therapist you let the lid off and imagine yourself running or fighting (depending on what your body wants to do-and there are signs) and you are able to release that pent up energy and the chaos in your life goes away temporarily.  Of course there is more frozen energy buried that will work its way back up to the surface so you have to do this again.  Gradually the time between episodes increases until maybe this is a bi-annual or annual exercise. 

Everyone has a different way of imagining it.  Maybe you punch something.  Maybe you tear something.  It just has to have energy and adrenaline behind it.  At times I’ve done different things.  I’ve imagined ripping phone books in half.  I’ve imagined scoring tile (I used to do this for my dad when he set tile.  It involves a firm grip and just the right angle as you tighten all forearm muscles and pull backwards).  At other times I imagined Hugh Jackman punching the air like he does at the end of that movie Real Steel.   There’s a certain joy in it.  I guess at that time I needed to feel joy in my ability to fight. There was the raging fight too where I was the Incredible Hulk just flexing all of my muscles and roaring.  I didn’t even need to punch to scare my enemies off.   And sometimes it just needed to reflect the helplessness of a child.  The kind where you lay on the floor and flail about. 

Sometimes though I needed to run.  Or bicycle.  Again you need the energy and the adrenaline.  And somehow it had to involve my legs.  I remember sometime between kindergarten and 3^rd grade I thought I could race my dad home from the end of our street.  I pedaled sooooo hard.  Unfortunately I forgot to stop and ran into the brick wall of our neighbor’s house--but I can still recall the adrenaline.   

Sometimes though I can’t run.  In despair I told my therapist I couldn’t run and she asked “can you imagine anyone else running?”  I imagined my Dad because when I wanted to run faster as a kid I heard that if you raced against someone faster than you it would make you faster.  So my dad went out to the field by our school and jogged along beside me as I ran my heart out.  Because that’s what dad’s do.   And in this instance after I watched him run for a little bit in my imagination I found I could run too. 

Then there was the time that I knew I needed to run and this time instead of running blindly to nowhere I saw myself running to the Savior for comfort and protection.   Remember the day the Bishop pulled that card out of his desk?  I’m so grateful he did.