Cyber Predators - My Story

**Trigger Warning**
Honestly, if you had asked me at any point in my life, even a week ago about the possibility of me discussing this subject via this public forum, I would have loudly and confidently declared “there is no way that’s happening.” However, the following article came across my news feed this week and even before reading the article... I just knew…

I’m a 37-Year-Old Mom & I Spent Seven Days Online as an 11-Year-Old Girl.

Just seeing the headline alone gave me an odd feeling that I needed to share my story. And I feel an extremely odd sense of calm about it. The only thing I can compare it to is when I wrote the blog post revealing my Same Sex Attraction tendencies nearly 3 years ago (has it really been that long!?). Regardless of how vulnerable of a subject it was for me, I felt a calm assurance that it was what I needed to do. And I am grateful that that post has opened the door for people to come and feel safe in talking to me about their issues, their lives, or questions they had. And so I can only hope that this post will also serve some purpose.

You could argue that I was an easy target for cyber predators when I was a kid. The first time I remember being sexually abused was when I was about 4 years old when a teenage boy stayed the night at our house and slept in my room since I had a bunk bed. Which, now that I have a 4 year old daughter is somewhat heartbreaking to dwell on. And I was abused again when I was around 7 at a Thanksgiving family gathering, which, coincidentally, is around the same age as my oldest son right now. 

When I was 9 years old I began playing a computer game that allowed chatting with anyone else playing the game. Looking back, I think I was looking for attention from people older than me. My home life wasn’t the best and I mostly felt ignored. So I played the game a lot. And I mean it was back in the days of dial-up internet when the internet would force you to dial back in after it had been in use for 8 hours, and I actually had to reconnect to the internet on a regular basis because I had been on for so long. At 9 years old, I was on the computer until three in the morning on a regular basis regardless of the day of the week. Through the game I met a “14 year-old boy” from Canada named Bobby and we chatted frequently, to the point that we became online “boyfriend and girlfriend.” Yes, enter *eye roll* now.. I know I do. Now do I really know how old that boy was? Nope. Do I really know anything about him? Nope. But I took him at his word at the time, because I was 9 years old and a trusting sort. Now, I’m still inclined to believe he told me the truth, because nothing inappropriate ever happened between us. He never asked for pictures or sent me pictures or anything like that. But I hope you can see that the whole scenario includes a whole bunch of red flags that I never would have seen at the time. I trusted him.

We lost touch eventually but I continued to play the game. And through the course of events, I also got on to the social media venue of the time which was ICQ (an early instant message service for those that might not remember it). Looking back, ICQ was poorly designed and allowed anyone to see lists of other people currently online at any given time and then opt to message anyone you chose. What it eventually meant was that I found that I started getting messages from people I didn’t know.

Generally these came across as somewhat flirty but initially innocuous to my 9 year old self at the time. And like I said, I think I enjoyed the attention from anyone because I felt so alone at home. I would engage in conversation with them up until the moment they would ask me how old I was and when I told them I was 9 they generally backed off immediately. This was both comforting and also frustrating. On the one hand, I knew that I didn’t really need to be talking to strangers and that it was ill-advised. On the other hand, I had an over inflated sense of my maturity level and I was convinced that people shouldn’t judge me by my age. So when the time finally came that I was messaged by someone named Andre, I was ripe for ignoring any sense of self preservation I had because I just wanted someone to talk to me.

Andre was the first one to not care how old I was. I was ecstatic. We chatted for several hours about who knows what. But he gradually groomed the conversation towards more inappropriate subject fields. I’ll be honest and say I don’t remember exactly how it all went down. I have spent a great deal of energy trying to forget. But slowly, he persuaded me into engaging in what would now be referred to as “sexting.” And if you read the article I mentioned earlier, let me tell you, so much of it sounds so familiar. Me telling him I didn’t know how to do that because I was only 9. Him telling me that he could teach me. I really don’t understand what was going through my head. I don’t understand the why’s or the how’s... beyond not wanting him to stop talking to me. And at least some interest in learning something grownups knew. He walked me through the steps. Wrote out what he wanted to do to me, prompted me on what I could do to him. Described the physical reactions happening, asked me questions about my body. And I wrote what he wanted.

So it went on, every night around 1am for about a week or so. Despite the initially awkward start, it wasn’t hard to learn to write out the graphic and explicit details he wanted. But eventually I was overcome with the feeling that I had to get away. A week of being used by him to get off on the thought that he was having virtual sex with a child. In a lot of ways I felt powerless. He had already talked me into it, I had already consented so to speak. I didn’t feel like I was allowed to take away that consent. And I was afraid I couldn’t say no anymore because he had already shown he had the power to get me to do it. More than once I told him I didn’t want to do it or that this would be the last time and yet somehow I got sucked back into doing it again. And it felt like heavier stuff than I was prepared to handle at 9 years old. I didn’t know what to do. When the day finally came that I felt like I just couldn’t handle it anymore, I felt so stuck and used and guilty. I felt like the only way I could say no was to never use ICQ again. And that’s what I did. I just stopped logging on even though I felt like I was giving up a piece of my life, losing that social media outlet. And there was still a part of me that was terrified there would be some repercussion for not being there at 1am when he was waiting. I laid in bed that first night looking warily at the clock imagining him being angry I wasn’t there. It was like I could feel him in the room, and part of me feared him being able to reach me despite not being in the room. After all, that’s what he’d been doing all along.

It was around that time when my abuse nightmares started. Years of recurring nightmares of being abused and kidnapped and used for sexual pleasure. Not that the word sexual was really in my vocabulary at the time. I just hated the dreams and how they made me feel and the fear they caused. Prior experiences and the virtual sex with Andre didn’t help just how graphic my mind could get on the subject. Some nights, before bed, I would write out letters to my parents (that I never gave them) explaining what I believed had happened if I was gone when they awoke the next morning.. I dreaded sleep. I started staying up as late as I could to avoid sleep. They got worse as time went on. More graphic. More frequent. Longer. To the point that it was almost every single night. I had tried praying for good dreams and it never worked. I think I was nearly suicidal around age 12. Despite how I felt, no one ever suspected. I realized very early on that everyone had labelled me as “happy.”  It felt like my job to be the happy one. The one people came to, confided in, looked to for help or a smile. I have never felt free to be anything but happy, because happy is what people needed from me. And being anything else was to be a disappointment, and an added burden.

I finally and desperately prayed to Heavenly Father to take away my dreams entirely so I would not dream at all. And this time my prayer was answered. I didn’t have another dream for years—good or bad. Nothing. Not until years later when I finally dared to send out a prayer that I was ready to dream again. That I hoped they would be good dreams, but that I could handle the occasional bad dream too. And that night I dreamed again. It’s my most powerful anecdote of prayer.

You can bet I never told anyone about Andre. I knew I had done something wrong and I didn’t want to get in trouble. And I didn’t want to bring to light that I had been on the computer so late at night. And I didn’t want my parents to clue in to the possible dangers of the internet and lose my privileges. And I think some part of me didn’t want to go to therapy again. Because that last time seeing my therapist, sitting in a police interrogation room with a camera and a two way mirror with the chilling feeling that people were watching as she pushed me to explain aloud the last story of being abused, was an experience I didn’t want to go through again.

Honestly, I think Heavenly Father protected me from the situation for a few years. Some time after that, I completely blocked out the memory. It was just gone. For years. I cant speak to the specifics but I finally remembered it again in sudden and graphic detail many years later. Almost like it had been yesterday. And it was traumatizing. But I had the distinct impression that Heavenly Father had saved me from dealing with it until I was finally old enough to handle the weight and severity of the issue. And it still took me years to truly deal with it. I felt horrible. I didn’t feel worthy enough to even make eye contact with people. I felt like my self worth had been slashed. I wondered how I could have been such a terrible child to engage in such behavior. I felt like it was on me because I was 9 years old and I knew better. Part of me wished it had happened a few years earlier so I wouldn’t have to feel responsible. Before I had reached the age of “accountability.” I felt like it was on me because it wasn’t like the other times I’d been abused. He wasn’t in the room with me. He couldn’t make me do anything. I had willingly chosen to engage. I had typed words too. I felt like there was some part of me that wasn’t a virgin anymore. And I could never get that worth back. I felt like if I ever told anyone then I’d be found out for being an awful person. The kind of person that would do those things. And to some extent that probably still colors my perspective on life. I tend to feel like I am the black sheep with the checkered past, and everyone around me is better than I am for not having made the mistakes I’ve made. 

My mind also went back to the abuse I experienced at age 7. And I became obsessed with the fear that despite my vivid memory of what had happened, what if there was more that I had blacked out? More that I couldn’t remember. I even explored trying to get ahold of the recording from my interview in the police station with the therapist all those years ago. I finally told someone about Andre. I don’t even remember who it was that I told (sorry person!) and they helped me work through the fact that even if I had some very small culpability, Andre had the greater portion. And I needed to forgive myself. I was around 20 years old when I made an appointment to see the bishop of my church to confess what had happened at age 9. And he reassured me that my worthiness was unaffected and I had beaten myself up for far too long about it. I still felt a lot of shame. And it wasn’t until years later that I started to see the comparisons between that experience and the abuse I had dealt with as a younger child. He may not have been in the room with me but somehow, I can testify to the fact that it felt like he had the exact same power as those boys in the room with me with their pants down. I felt so much shame for so many years. And while I still feel some ounce of culpability, I can recognize that he was a predator. That it was abuse. And I don’t need to feel buried in shame regarding what happened. Admittedly, I still feel shame. But I am not buried by it.

It wasn’t that I was never taught any internet safety. I specifically remember being told never to give out my picture, my address or my last name. But that’s all I was told and so I knew that as the only black and white rule. And more than one guy asked me to send pictures of myself over the years. It certainly didn’t stop with Andre. I remember being friends with an Asian man from New York named Thomas when I was 12 years old. He caused a whole other sort of drama in my life. He was my friend. I thought he was my friend. Even after he asked me to send him pictures of me taking my clothes off, I still thought of him as my friend. I said no, but I certainly considered it. There honestly was some part of me that considered it. I was still naive. I didn’t fully comprehend to what end those pictures would have been used for had I sent them. It still felt innocuous. And we remained friends for a long time. It was only that command that I had been given to never give out my picture that saved me from dealing with that potential nightmare. But he was so nice to me. He listened to me. He gave me his time. But when through the course of conversation, certain slang terms for sexual acts came up, and he explained to me what they meant, the weight of what had happened to me at age 4 and age 7 came crashing down. Cue years of depression. I had never realized that what had happened was sexual in nature. I felt lied to. I felt betrayed by my therapist, by my parents, by everyone. Though I know it wasn’t their fault. I just hadn’t been old enough to understand. And again, my mind went to that cold police interrogation room with the camera and the two way mirror. And I knew that if I told my mother how I was feeling that she would make me see that therapist again. And I just didn’t want to do that. I had lost my trust and sense of safety with that therapist. Of course my mother eventually picked up on all the anger and the angst and forced me to see the therapist again. But I was adamant. I refused to talk the entire hour. 

It was in the next year after that that I began cutting myself to deal with how I felt. I had made friends in high school that cut themselves, and in some ways encouraged me to try it. It felt like penance I needed to make. It felt like a feeling I could control. Even though it was an abuse to my body, it was one I had control over instead of someone else. It felt like a way to feel something when I felt numb to anything else. And it felt like something that distracted me from what I was feeling. Out of the first people that I mentioned being abused to…one of them turned it into a running joke and almost daily I had to feign a smile like it was actually funny when it wasn't. One of them told me something similar had happened to her but it wasn’t a big deal. One of them told me her step-father raped her for years and it felt like my story paled in comparison. The other two people I told… well they told me I should be grateful for the experience because now I had sexual experience I could utilize to be better in bed. It just wasn’t helpful. It truly made me feel like no one understood how I felt. I still tend to feel like what happened to me does not entitle me to how much I’ve struggled with it. It could have been worse. Talking to people about it makes me feel… phony. Like I’m making a bigger deal out of it than I deserve to… Cutting myself was a solitary way of dealing with it because nobody understood. And talking to people about how I felt was to burden them. Cutting myself meant not having to burden anyone and it meant not having to justify how I felt when I felt illegitimate, or worry that they thought I should be over it by now. The self-harm continued until a dear friend of mine found out and I promised her I wouldn’t do it again. And I kept that promise purely out of loyalty to her for a great many years. And I feel bad that I have broken that promise to her. But I also have to recognize that in pain, we sometimes do irrational things. And all I can do is resolve to try to make better choices in the present and going forward.

I tell this story, not to incite pity. I don’t need it, nor do I want it. I tell this story to bring awareness to the things our kids may be facing, or may yet face in the world around them. They are not inherently safe just because they are in your house. They are not magically safe just because they are with family, or because they are with other kids. They are not safe on the internet just because you told them not to do x, y, z. There are people out there who are patient. Who will watch and wait for weeks or months or years before they have slowly groomed a child to lose their innocence. There are classmates who will touch them and grab them even in front of teachers, just like I experienced in high school. I was only lucky to have friends that were willing to help me when I felt I lacked the power to say no. I am not just a number, or a statistic relating the dangers of the internet. I’m here to say it’s real. It’s tangibly real. And I am only very very lucky that it wasn’t worse than it was. I don’t have the magical answer for prevention. And there’s plenty of websites and books on the topic. I can only say that it is imperative that your children understand their self worth, and that they feel empowered to say no, even to their peers, even to their elders, even to family and friends. There are so many heartaches I could have avoided, as a child, in middle school, in high school, and even in college, had I only felt empowered to say no. Had I only felt worthy of being more than being used. Even if my experiences remained the same, my life would have been so much better had I only been able to feel that those moments did not effect my individual worth. So please teach your children that they can say no. Please teach your kids that they are more valuable than they can possibly know and that nothing can damage that worth. And please know, that if any of you have need of a listening ear, that I am always willing to be there.

Sobriety

Knowing exactly what I wanted to say regarding this subject has been a difficult task that has involved a lot of research and a lot of internal debate. And of course, in the end, a lot of it comes down to setting fingers to keyboard and seeing what comes out as I organize my thoughts. I'm sure at the end of this, my thoughts will still feel lacking. Attending the Addiction Recovery Program, a common theme that is heard is people commenting regarding how long they have been "sober." The term sober is used loosely in that it is not being strictly used toward abstinence from alcohol, but rather any non-specific addiction or even habitual vice. I have heard people report anything from "X days sober" to "X weeks sober" to "X years sober." 

This has led me to an interest in defining for myself what "sobriety" means. To truly define sobriety, I think you must first define "addiction." While standard definitions of addiction often remain limited to excessive use of substances, I would expand that definition to any habitual maladaptive behavior. I hope this brings more light to why I believe the A.R.P program can help more than just those suffering from standard "addictions." Most of us have character flaws that need adjusting.

Research has led me to believe that there are two forms of "sobriety." Those being Physical Sobriety, and Emotional Sobriety. Generally speaking, I believe the form of sobriety being mentioned most frequently by those sharing in the Addition Recovery Meetings is that of "Physical sobriety." What people are referencing is how much time has passed since their last relapse. To me, this has never been an especially important factor in my process. I don't find it helpful to think in terms of "it has been this many days since I last messed up." Although I understand that the better perspective in that sense is rather "I have been successful for this many days." One of the facilitators of the meeting last week made a comment last week along the lines of "Recovery always begins with 24 hours." Not to allow loopholes for today's behavior with a belief that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes (in order to negate/ignore any mistakes I may make today)... but rather to focus on recovery taking place one minute at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time. The best I can do is make today my best. 

The question then becomes, how do I make every day my best, so that relapse is not a factor? This is where Emotional Sobriety comes in. Without it, I may be physically "sober" for years, but relapse is still potentially inevitable because I have not made the changes necessary to change my reactions to triggering moments/issues. An interesting term I came across during my research of this topic was the term "dry drunk" --being defined as "a person who abstains from alcohol or other addictive substances and behaviors but who is not sober."  This article sums up much of the keys to identifying an addict (someone who is not "sober") through their behavior and so I will quote them here:

"How does one differentiate between a person who is a dry drunk and one who is sober? How would we classify ourselves?

To understand the concept of a dry drunk, begin by envisioning the concept of a drunk-yourself or another. Think of the common personality characteristics and character defects: dishonesty, pride, grandiosity, anger, unpredictability, deceptiveness, selfishness and ego-centrism. Recall the common behaviors: lying, stealing, hiding, grudge-holding, isolating, making false promises, manipulating, temper tantrums, abusiveness, and other episodes of extreme emotion. Certainly it was the drinking, we assumed, that precipitated, or at least intensified, these negative traits and displays.

And then we, or the other person, gave up drinking either on our own or with the help of rehab or A.A. We assumed the behaviors and character defects would vanish with the elimination of alcohol. But they didn’t. In some cases they got worse. Other defects of character cropped up."

To me, this has been an eye-opening realization. Regardless of my physical and behavioral choices, it does not immediately make my other character defects disappear. And I have witnessed new defects of character cropping up. There is an assumption often made that it is the addictive behavior that causes the issues people have. When in reality, more often than not, the addictive behavior is a symptom of an inability to cope with and confront life in a healthy way. The addictive behavior came about as an attempt to put a band-aid or a mask over the real issues in order to ignore them without addressing them. 

Honestly, to me this is extremely frustrating. I've done a decent amount of therapy in my life. If that hasn't fixed my emotional baggage that leads me to struggle with coping with life in a healthy way without resulting to character faults, I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to fix myself. I suppose one of these days I might accept and act upon a realization that that is because I cannot fix it all by myself.

Defining Emotional Sobriety, regardless of how many articles I read on the subject, feels like something I can't truly, and accurately accomplish without feeling like I have reached it myself. One of the better articles that I've found on the subject offered a perspective very similar to the book "The Happiness Trap" by reminding us that acknowledging and accepting our feelings, be them positive or negative, without feeling like we need to ignore them or push them aside, is the only way we can achieve happiness:

"Sometimes emotional sobriety is about tolerating what you are feeling. It is about staying sober no matter what you are feeling. It means that you don't have to blame yourself or your program because life can be challenging. It means that you don't necessarily need to do something to make the feeling go away." 

Honestly, looking at dictionary definitions of the word "sober," aside from the initial and obvious factor of abstinence, just leaves me with a sense that something is missing. The most applicable definitions (to me) seem to be:

1. Devoid of frivolity, excess, exaggeration, or speculative imagination; straightforward

2. Marked by seriousness, gravity, or solemnity of conduct or character. Marked by circumspection and self-restraint.

What immediately comes to mind is something often spoken of in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: the idea of overcoming the "natural man." Sobriety in that sense, is the ability to consistently overcome the natural man, defined in the guide to the scriptures as:

"A person who chooses to be influenced by the passions, desires, appetites, and senses of the flesh rather than by the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Such a person can comprehend physical things but not spiritual things. All people are carnal, or mortal, because of the Fall of Adam and Eve. Each person must be born again through the Atonement of Jesus Christ to cease being a natural man."

 Thus, of course, why the LDS Addiction Recovery Program puts a focus on the Atonement of Jesus Christ as a means through which we can attain sobriety. I cannot spell out exactly in this moment how the Atonement of Jesus Christ helps us reach sobriety. Realistically that's probably a whole other topic for discussion. And, to a great extent, I think this is a personal process, and I can't say that I have exactly figured it out for myself. But I will provide a quote from Russell M. Nelson:

"When you reach up for the Lord’s power in your life with the same intensity that a drowning person has when grasping and gasping for air, power from Jesus Christ will be yours. When the Savior knows you truly want to reach up to Him—when He can feel that the greatest desire of your heart is to draw His power into your life—you will be led by the Holy Ghost to know exactly what you should do."

 Sobriety then, is first physically choosing abstinence. But second, it seems to involve changing your very identity into one that is able to positively confront and cope with negative emotions. It is choosing not to be defined by our negative emotions, but acknowledging them, without feeling the need to hide from them. It is moderation in all things. It is self-restraint. It is an understanding that not only are we defined by our choices, but that we must also re-define ourselves. It is habitual growth, examination, and rebuilding of our lives. It requires faith, sincere and solemn desire, and an acknowledgement that we need help. It is many things I am not yet, but hope to be.

Peter Stepped Off the Boat

Most of us are familiar with the story of Peter walking on water. I’m sure I’ve heard it referenced a multitude of times over the course of my life. However, while making breakfast for the kids the other morning, I was feeling anxious and decided to listen to a podcast. I ended up selecting a BYUI devotional given by Carrie Valora titled “You Are A Success Story.” Although not the main focus of the talk, she mentioned the story of Peter leaving his boat, to walk to Christ on the water.

For reference, here are most of the verses referencing this story:

For the first time in my life however, it struck me that Peter was not certain it was Christ. It was not a question of whether or not Christ could walk on water. Or whether or not Peter believed he himself could walk on the water with Christ’s help. They were freaked out about this weird and unexpected sight they see on the water. You can imagine the crashing waters and the mist of backsplash, perhaps even a thick and foggy rain. It is difficult to distinguish Christ’s face, and it is hard to believe that a living breathing person that is one of their friends would be out in this water, in this storm, without the comfort and safety of a boat.

After Christ calls out and tells them not to worry, Peter says “Lord, if it be you, bid me to come on the water to meet you.” In fact, he has great faith in Christ. He is confident in Christ’s abilities and powers. He believes Christ can buoy him if it be his will. But he was uncertain as to whether or not this was TRULY Christ.

Peter had DOUBTS before even leaving the boat! Regardless of his doubts, he chose to act. He had faith that if it was the Lord, He would help him. I am reminded of the scripture that references a father pleading “Lord I believe, help thou my unbelief” (Mark 9:23-24) I am reminded of the Brother of Jared coming up with a plan to give his people light inside the dark boats. He came up with a plan, and believed the Lord would help him (Ether 3).

Peter acknowledges his doubt, and formulates a plan by which his doubts could be assured. He communicated to Christ exactly how his doubts could be relieved. He informed the Lord that he was willing to act, willing to do his part, willing to step blindly despite his doubts. Willing to step out of his comfort zone to be with Christ. And the Lord offers him the chance to learn, to gain testimony of who He was by saying “Come.”

And then, despite his doubts, despite his fears, despite being uncertain, he steps into the water. He gains testimony that this man on the water truly was his friend, Jesus Christ. Perhaps it is meaningful to remember that Peter had not yet reached Christ when his confidence began to falter. Not yet in his comforting presence and embrace, journey not yet done. Akin perhaps to the story of Lehi’s dream (1 Nephi 8), in which the people must hold to the rod to find their way to the tree of life. And those that let go fall victim to the mists of darkness, deep rivers, and the discouraging voices of those mocking those holding onto the rod. Peter let his fear of his surroundings distract him from his destination (which was Christ). It was then that he began to sink. And only through this trial of his faith was he able to not only gain a testimony that it was Jesus on the water, but also that it is only by Christ that we may be saved.

But before he could gain that testimony, he had to first choose to act in a manner of faith, despite his doubts. Of course, I think Christ hopes that we will liken these stories to ourselves and that we will remember that despite our surroundings, despite our circumstances, despite our fears and trials, if we will but focus on Him as our destination, that we will land in his comforting embrace, despite the bumps, cliffs and trials along the way. And of course, that Christ will reach out to save us despite our failings, if we will but take that first step.

Credit Where It's Due

I finally went to my first Addiction Recovery Meeting in Texas yesterday. And while it wasn't necessarily what I was expecting, or necessarily what I was looking for, the meeting, and my interactions with various people throughout the day, left me with a feeling that people are a lot more complex and intricate than I think I usually give them credit for.

Thinking about all the things going on in my life that people are not aware of... thinking about the other people in the meeting who can probably say the same thing about people in their lives being unaware of much of what they are experiencing... And realizing again, that basically everyone can say the same thing. There is always something happening behind the scenes in people's lives that we aren't necessarily made aware of. 

On the flip side, there are people with whom we do share the intimate, sad, and sensitive parts of our lives. There are people who despite knowing the things that I hide from, still see me as a whole person, and not just the sum of my faults. Moments when I am stupid or selfish, naive or manipulative, or broken and stumbling... they are still somehow able to composite that view of me with the positive attributes. And today, that seems inspiring. People are a lot more complex than I give them credit for--capable of love despite the failings, capable of sadness despite the love. I am sorry that I give people reasons to make loving me a complicated thing, but I am grateful regardless.

I can't speak for tomorrow. But today I am committed to focusing on believing that is true. I am grateful for the many people in my life that are an example of unconditional love, even when they don't understand my failings. I am grateful for the Atonement of Christ that teaches us that we can be made whole. I am grateful for the people who make that feel possible. I'm grateful for the forgiveness I am granted. 

Broken

Life has a way of making us feel alone regardless of how many people are in our lives. Sometimes I feel panicked and overwhelmed with this sense of feeling broken—unfixable and it leaves me feeling lost. I don’t know where to turn because I’m not sure what the sense in turning to those around me is if it won’t help.

I have spent a lot of my life feeling broken. I remember as a child when my family had mandated therapy thinking that my family was a little bit broken. I remember as a teenager realizing all the implications of the abuse I experienced as a child, and feeling broken. Honestly it still leaves me feeling broken some days.

 I remember making mistakes and going too far with people I dated and feeling broken. I remember realizing I was attracted to women, and feeling broken. I remember hitting a breaking point in college when all the stress of trying to help other people without anyone taking care of me became too much and I began struggling with crippling anxiety and feeling broken. I remember a life filled with depression and spending so much energy pretending to be happy and feeling broken. I remember losing the ability to feel the spirit and feeling broken. I also remember healing from many of those moments of being broken. Or realizing I wasn’t broken. Or realizing being broken didn’t affect my value as a person.

 Nearly a year ago I lost a baby, and to this day I have yet to go more than a week or two without bleeding, and sometimes that makes me feel broken. I constantly feel like a wife/mother/friend who does not have my crap together, who isn’t motivated or focused, lets my family down, and procrastinates things to an irrational and sometimes detrimental degree and I feel like a failure, broken.

 But even broken, there are people we can love. Even broken, there is joy to be had. Even broken, we deserve to be loved. Even broken, we are allowed to feel sad. Even broken, we are allowed to experience success. Even broken, we are allowed to feel broken. Even broken, we can have hope. Even broken we have an unchangeable worth as children of our Heavenly Father. And having been broken, we can support the broken around us.

 I used to think that feeling broken somehow made me different from other people. It added to that sense of feeling isolated and misunderstood. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that I’m not the only broken one. I’m not the only one with a life story. I’m not the only one that gets sad. I’m not the only imperfect person.

 The sad thing about the Addiction Recovery Program I have attended in the past, is that people don’t generally go unless they can admit to themselves that they have a problem. Which means there are a lot of people missing out! But I’ve been thinking lately that my favorite part about ARP is that everyone there is admitting that their life isn’t perfect. Everyone is admitting that they are imperfect. Being in a room full of people who can say out loud that they have made mistakes, that they are imperfect, that they feel broken... somehow makes me feel a little less broken. Because being broken is okay. And I am not alone in being broken. You hear about people’s growth and you hear about their mistakes. You see that success is possible and failure is not permanent. Sometimes you experience love from strangers and it makes love from your loved ones feel less implausible.

I wish life was more often about speaking the real truths behind our eyes and admitting that we’re all a little broken in our own way. Because maybe then it would feel a little clearer that being broken is not something that negates our potential for success, growth, or happiness in this life.. even though it sometimes feels that way when we allow that sense of isolation to overpower our perspective on our lives.

A Window to The Unseen

My experience with miscarriage has been, in my book, unreasonable. Over 4 months of bleeding with little reprieve on top of all the mess and exhaustion that preceded the miscarriage and the ER visit during the miscarriage. Thus far this year has not served me very well. Not that I generally feel the "year" has an obligation to treat me in particular ways. Emotionally, I’m tired. My emotional stability... isn’t stable. Physically, who the heck knows what’s going on. But I had a thought the other day that at least put it into a perspective I found useful. 

For most people, on paper, a miscarriage is something that while being sad, is something you move on from. And I’m sure everyone has varying expectations regarding how long is reasonable for moving on, if at all. In some ways “moving on” seems almost offensive. I’d personally like to think of it as “building on.” But that’s probably a separate topic. Regardless, there comes a point where people might not understand anymore. “Why aren’t you over it?” “Why aren’t you all better yet?” Not that most people would dare voice those thoughts out loud. But for those that are experiencing it for themselves... well, I’ll speak only for myself I suppose. Even I have those thoughts. In fact, I generally think I AM fine. I AM better. Until the days I’m not. And on those days I convince myself that others out there must be having those same thoughts about me that I am having: “Why aren’t you over it?” And maybe nobody’s thinking those things, but it adds to my sense of sadness and shame to imagine that they might be. Thank you anxiety. On those days, I’ll be honest, I wish popping a few extra of my anti anxiety/depression meds would help sweep away my problems. But, of course, that’s not how things work, nor what the meds are for either.

Regardless, these are shoes I have spent much of my life wearing. Having experienced sexual abuse as a child, I have gone through various stages of feeling damaged from those experiences. And while I like to think I’m fine, in reality, I am very much aware of the fact that I will forever be altered by those experiences. Not that being changed prohibits a person from being okay. Like I said earlier, while I don’t think I will ever “move on” from those experiences, I do believe I have been able to “build on” them. But, I have spent way more time than I ever should have, feeling ashamed of the fact that I was still “broken” even though those trials happened years ago and I should be “over it” by now. And I know there are people in my life who do not understand how it affects me, or why it still affects me. Which, is realistically fair, since I don’t always know the answers to those questions either. But it is a frustration in my life, knowing that in some ways I am “broken” and people may not believe I am justified in still being broken.

But the thought I had was that this miscarriage has been different because it is more tangible for me. Rationally, I can tell myself I’m fine, and I’m “over it,” and enough time has passed. But in this scenario, I have that physical reminder of more bleeding every day that reminds me that it isn’t over. Other people don’t see those moments in my day. Without knowing that I am still being forced to deal with it every day, it sounds completely logical that someone could expect for me to have moved on by now. I've even had someone (who knew about the miscarriage) ask me already if I had yet to get pregnant again since the miscarriage. That's a no, in case for some strange reason you were also in that boat of wondering. For me it’s as though the physical reminder acts as a small window. It allows me to see logical evidence of the pain still happening that I might otherwise think was invisible, abstract, imaginary and unreasonable. In contrast, I don’t have that in regards to the abuse. There is nothing tangible about it, nothing you can wrap your head around to say, yes, that’s why it still affects you years later. 

But perhaps, just as I have this window of side effects unseen by others... we can imagine that our Heavenly Father is able to see those issues that no one, not even we ourselves can see, giving him greater context to our mental and physical health than we are capable of ever deciphering. He sees the things we don’t see in regards to our traumas and understands and can help us find peace that we don't always know we need. And just because we can’t always see the waves stemming from prior events in our lives... does not mean they are not still there and still rippling. We should not have to punish ourselves with shame for having been affected by our past, when there may be unseen or even seen ways in which it is still nudging us. And while unseen, that does not take away their legitimacy.

Of Diabetic Sagas

This happened last week, but for whatever reason, it’s been on my mind ever since, so perhaps sharing the story will help my mind let it go. Last week, I took my kids to the Thinkery (kids museum/play center place) after picking Adam up from school one day. Within minutes of arriving at the Thinkery, Adam’s blood sugar was dropping fast. 60’s, 50’s, 40’s. 

There’s something very heart wrenching about watching a kid come to tears over how awful and hungry he feels. And knowing, even after giving him the carbs he needs to come back up, that he will continue to feel awful for the next 15-30 minutes while his body works to absorb those carbs. And during those 15-30 minutes there’s nothing you can do to make it any better. Some lows are worse than other lows, regardless of the actual BG reading. This was a bad one. After he had given up crying and begging for more food, his body just started to shut down. Here I am in the middle of a children’s play place with a 1 year old and 3 year old thankfully staying in the same room with me and not trying to run off... with a 5 year old who should be having fun, but is fading off, falling asleep in my arms. His face and hair becoming increasingly clammy. And just when he’s fallen asleep, my three year old desperately needs to pee. So I’m carrying my completely limp bodied 45lb child, as I follow the 3 year old to the bathroom and thankfully, the 1 year old decided to follow fairly well, with some stern coaxing to not attempt going down the stairs beside the bathroom.... I’m sure people are wondering at this point why I’m packing the 5 year old and trusting the baby on his own to listen and not to go down stairs instead of just picking him up. 

Reluctantly I tried laying Adam on a bench outside the bathroom so I could go inside and help Abby.. Adam woke up just enough to start crying again, and I had to explain that I would be right back, that I had to help Abby even though I was loathe to leave him. After that Abby wanted to go to a different area of the play center and I figured she might as well be in charge of where we play since Adam wasn’t playing. So I carried Adam to the next area, with Logan following behind. Adam and I sat on the floor with him in my lap as I let the other two go play. I’m sure people wondered why I wasn’t more engaged in following my baby around more closely. And Abby somewhat resented me not coming over to play with her in the large play kitchen... but I was grateful that I had been blessed in those moments with kids who listened. 

It seemed as though angels were helping my one year old follow and go where he was told when I needed him to, and my daughter was blessed with an extra ounce of patience that day when I told her she would need to wait for some things until her brother felt better. And even though I felt bad that over half the time we were at the Thinkery, Adam was unable to play because he was low, or recovering from the low and still too weak to walk around... he never complained about diabetes ruining his day. I was thankful that even though he was eating outside of the designated snack section, none of the workers said anything to me... and it’s a good thing they didn’t cuz I was prepared to give them an earful. I really just cannot explain the feeling of watching your child’s tear streaked face as he goes weak, looking pathetically miserable, with sweaty hair as his body goes limp in your arms because he lacks the energy necessary just to stay awake. 

Tonight I held him in the middle of the night as he cried and cried about a bad Dexcom placement making it so his leg hurt so badly he couldn’t walk, and he was so terrified of it hurting any more than it already did, he started quivering and screaming at the thought of me taking it off despite assurances it would help him feel better. Only to have to tell him I’ll be back later to try again and put a new one on later.. our last one, so, it better be successful this time 😳 And his sad conclusions of “this is why I wish I didn’t have diabetes” just make you want to weep a little inside. This is our life. There are plenty of ways it sucks...such as, if not for diabetes in our life, we would have saved more than half of a down payment for a house worth of money already this year... But most days it’s just my normal, and I can handle it, and he can handle it... but some days, it just makes you wish for things to be different. I can only hope that I do my best to do right by him, and make it as easy as I can, while also preparing him to deal with it on his own one day. 

Open Minded Application

When I started seeing a therapist again a few years ago, my initial attitude was cynical, albeit hopeful. I remember leaving the initial interview feeling satisfied that I had been thorough and honest in my answers, but thinking “Good luck figuring out which of my many issues is the root cause of what’s making me screwed up these days. Lots of options to choose from, good luck lady!” The end result was not what I would have guessed that first day. Mainly because I wasn’t ready to hear it. But that’s another story.

Towards the end, my therapist finally put forth the suggestion that it seemed to her that the way I was expressing my struggles was akin to an addiction and she thought it would be an appropriate step for me to attend the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints’, Addiction Recovery Program (ARP). My initial reaction was that in some ways I could understand the comparison but that it was more like a symbolic comparison. I felt that I didn’t really have an addiction, it was just an analogy. But I went along with it because I had received the prompting that what I needed most was to better understand the Atonement. And the Church’s ARP program is built around the Atonement. So I felt like it would be a good environment for me to learn in. My perspective later changed, but not before attending for several months.

My first meetings were anticlimactic. I still didn’t understand why I was there. I felt awkward and that I didn’t fit in. And I wasn’t sure why I should keep going. I spoke during the sharing time portion mainly because I’m stubborn and didn’t want to fit into some stereotypic mold of the new guy who takes a while to say anything. 

But I felt prompted tonight to share that as I continued to go to those meetings... as I opened my mind to what was being shared, as I began to feel the spirit again through the purposeful change in my priorities and choices to study the manual and the scriptures, and as I continued to come to peace with my own flaws and truths, and acknowledge them... I began to see more and more how the Atonement factors into those meetings and the manual far deeper than just the simple concept of forgiveness as we often attribute to the word “atonement”. 

I began to see how that manual can be used to walk you back from the brinks of unbelief. Applied with an open mind, the ARP manual can help re-activate a lost testimony. The ARP manual can help anyone and everyone over come bad habits of any kind (addiction or not). The ARP manual speaks with a voice of love that can make you feel loved and understood when you don’t feel like you even deserve love anymore. The ARP manual in some ways feels like Christ speaking to me, with more love and direction than I’ve felt before when reading something. Which just goes to show that it was written with inspiration. It’s about looking for the things that apply to you, which, done with the company of the Holy Ghost can steer you to improving yourself in ways you hadn't even thought of yet. And admittedly, I have had to read the manual multiple times for different things to stand out to me each time.

So, if you are struggling with testimony. The ARP manual may be a place to turn.

If you are struggling with faith, the ARP manual may be a place to lean on.

If you are struggling with making healthy habits (be it spiritual or secular), and of course, eliminating unhealthy ones, the ARP manual can help you make the right choices.

And I think importantly, it can help you overcome battles between guilt and shame.

It all ties back into scriptures and directions from the Prophets, of course, but with a specific focus and prescription for action that helps to facilitate change.

I may not be attending the ARP meetings right now, but do I think that I will end up going back again one day? Yes. Do I think that I am still in need of healing and the judgement free love and support found in those meetings? Yes. I miss that. I have seen so much positive change in my life and the lives of others through this program, I know it could help each and every one of you no matter how small your goal for self improvement if you only let it work in you. I know I need a lot of self improvement and I know I could yet apply this program a hundred new ways in my life. And I should probably start sooner than later, as should we all.

.:ARP Manual:.

Holding On To A Memory

There are still a lot of parts of me that don’t want to talk about this. But I also swore to myself a long time ago that if I had this experience, that I wouldn’t add to the culture of hiding it. So here we go. Be forewarned that I may be forthcoming in my details as that’s how I need to express it right now. I won’t sugar coat my pain for your comfort in this moment. Tomorrow, sure, I will likely deflect to protect myself.. but not right now. 

I found out last November that I was pregnant—due July 22nd of this year. 

However, I went in for an ultrasound in late January, at nearly 14 weeks, and learned that our baby’s heart had stopped. To see that perfectly formed little baby still on the ultrasound screen but to know that my sweet baby wasn’t in that body anymore was breathtaking. I didn’t know what to say. We had already announced to nearby family and as we were entering the second trimester, I had begun thinking about how we would announce it to the everyone else. Instead, that moment was taken away and I witnessed several friends announce their own pregnancies in the coming weeks that I had intended to announce my own. Saying that, I want to clarify... I’ve known people who resented such announcements because of the unfairness of the contrasting situations and that is not how I felt. I was still happy for those people. I was just a little sad inside that I didn’t feel ready to congratulate them and engage with them in that excitement because the subject was just hard. I felt bad for ignoring their joy but decided it was okay to focus on me for just a little while. Even now, there is a part of me that wants to connect to them because of a shared timing... but I worry I shouldn’t mention it so as not to make them feel... anything that takes away from the moment they’re experiencing. That would not be my intention.

I waited three more weeks for the miscarriage to happen on its own. Still feeling every symptom of pregnancy I had been having all along. The only thing that changed was that I lost that feeling of knowing there was life inside me. Because the moment never came, my doctor prescribed me some medication meant to induce the cramping that would get things going. It was hard not to feel hesitant. Hopeful for some kind of miracle that maybe my baby really was still alive and that it had all been a big mistake. But as that feeling grew that the life inside me was gone, so did my peace about taking the medication. 

Taking the medication was a long and dreary process. I laid in bed all day feeling nauseous and more crampy than I’ve ever been. I had thought I might do something mildly productive like make another hat for one of my kiddos while I was laying in bed all day, but found myself unable and unwilling to focus on much of anything. Having had a baby before, I can tell you that it felt a lot like the beginning stages of labor. Only instead of being a contraction that came and left... it was just a constant, continual clenching with no relief and without the hope and excitement of a long anticipated arrival. 

Eventually the pain began to intensify and I knew things were probably ramping up. Delivering the baby didn’t take very long once things started and I cannot begin to describe what it was like to see my baby still in it’s sweet little sac that was supposed to envelop and protect it for months to come. Or to hold its tiny sweet little form. To see the tiny little eyes and tiny little fingers and tiny little toes, with a little mouth and little belly. My perfect baby without a future I could witness on this earth.

The moment was messy and unpleasant, with lots of blood, and yet for just a few seconds—serene. 

After that, my body made a sad attempt at passing the placenta, which apparently my body has forgotten how to do since it also had to be surgically removed after Logan’s birth because it wouldn’t come out then either! I was tired. I was achy. I was frustrated, and nothing was happening. After a while I started feeling faint and clammy. And then I started feeling just terrible. I laid down on the floor of the bathroom which always just feels so pathetic... and my vision started dimming out and I started to vomit. I felt awful. I could barely stand. After much internal teeth pulling I decided it might be wise to go to the Emergency Room. The trip was excruciatingly long and we stopped at more than one hospital before finding one that had a doctor available in their ER that could help me which was mentally antagonizing..

Hospitals are awful places. Where each and every single nurse and doctor that walks into your room feels the need to talk to you when you’d rather be left alone, and make you fill out paperwork when you’d rather be left alone, and everyone asks you to rehash every detail of why you’re there when you really don’t want to say it out loud ever again. 

It took two doctor’s attempts to slowly scrape the placenta out. It was emotional, and drawn out, took way too long, and was not a comfortable experience. Somehow it brought me some comfort that my baby was safe at home and not in this horrible moment with me. To his credit, the last doctor that worked on me asked the other doctor for my background before entering the room so I didn’t have to rehash everything, and I was very grateful for his presence and sensitivity. 

I went home feeling somewhat better—relieved it was finally over. But still feeling lightheaded and weak. I stayed in bed all the next day after passing out on the hard tile floor during my first attempt to go to the bathroom that morning. There’s nothing quite like waking up on the floor wondering where you are, why you’re there, wondering why your head hurts, wondering how you got there, wondering why there are people standing over you staring at you... And then feeling somewhat humiliated by the sign of weakness and vulnerability. And then remembering that you need to poop!

A week later, and my head still hurt and my neck was still stiff but not as much. Apparently throwing your head into the ground is not a good idea. Since then I’ve also had issues with vertigo, even just when laying down which is extremely disorienting. 

And now, my heart has started to heal. That’s not to say that I don’t still cry some nights when I think of my beautiful baby. But I feel complete, holding my babies that I do have with me. I feel thankful I can watch them grow. And I’m grateful for the chance I have to heal myself.

Because amidst all this, there have still been concerns about determining the cause of the Blood clots in my lungs after Logan’s birth... and I was given the news that my thyroid issues had come out of remission. I had been looking at the possibility of needing anti-thyroid drugs during my pregnancy which was not ideal. Now it seems my thyroid is trying to go back into remission now that the pregnancy is over but my doctor still wants me to get the radiation treatment for it, and I’m undecided and reluctant to consider drastic measures like that... My poor kids have had to be patient with me because my doctor ordered me not to lift more than 20 pounds because the thyroid issues make my heart race and I don’t need any exercise making it race any more than it already does. Which in reality excludes all my kids but I cheat with my youngest toddler who only exceeds that by 2 pounds. I've also just been really tired. Which I've been for months now.

We did finally tell our kids that we had lost the baby. It hit Adam the hardest. But I think it helped that we had recently had a deep conversation about death. We told the kids that we are going to build a fairy garden to help us remember the baby. I wanted something that would memorialize the baby in some way and would be something the kids could be involved in so the baby will still feel like a part of the family. We’ve been very up front with them about it and they were glad to see the ultrasound picture and sweet Adam requested that we print and frame the ultrasound picture for him. I’m glad that for them it’s not a secret, it’s not taboo, and when it’s on their mind they talk about it with whoever is around. It feels really healthy that way and I’m glad it’s in the open that way.

I am holding on to the peace that that baby will forever be apart of my family. Because of my temple marriage, and the promise that my children will be sealed to me for eternity, and the knowledge of life before and after this one. I won’t say that I have found closure, but I will say that I have been reminded to appreciate the little moments with the children that I do have with me. 

If one of my other children died, you would know it. To me, it only makes sense that I would talk about this death too even if both are pains I’d rather not feel. This experience is a part of me now just like any other, and to know me, knowing something of my experiences is important.  It’s not something I would ever wish to hide or pretend didn’t happen. It’s not something I think should bring people shame. It’s just another moment when people band together to love one another during a moment of tragedy and that is normal. We all do it differently, and that’s okay. But never should this kind of loss be a matter of shame or blame or taboo. 

Release

I went back to seeing a therapist in 2016. And geez it is not lost on me how long ago that feels even though it still feels like yesterday. Anyway, a few months in, I started blogging again. I remember talking to my therapist about it and she made a comment about the desire to create being a positive sign. I had been so depressed and apathetic for so long, it really did feel good to get back into writing. It’s something I often think about though. Not writing doesn’t bother me until I start getting anxious. And when I start getting anxious, I start looking for a release like blogging for instance. But when I don’t know what to say, I worry that I’ve slid back into a zone where I’m not able to “create” again. And right now, I really don’t know what to say.

I try really hard not to use my friends for that release because among other reasons, A, when I don’t know what to say, I just overshare.. B, my friends are not therapists and I don’t want to use them as such. It’s not fair to anyone. Anyway, I don’t have a therapist right now, and it’s hard not to feel guilty about the money involved in using one, and the nearest Addiction Recovery Program meeting around here is a bit far. Although I guess I was traveling a similar distance in Idaho/Washington.. it just wasn’t nearly as long of a drive to get there. And of course, there’s something anxiety provoking about attending a new group anyway.

And while I do find blogging cathartic, Its also not the same because while I am fairly open-booked, there are still things I don’t talk about openly online. And feeling the need to edit or revise takes away from some of the raw quality that can be so “releasing.” It’s not the same as opening up to a judgement-free room. Cuz let’s be honest, internet people are often judgy. And there’s something about being in that judgement-free space and just talking out loud face to face with other people. You walk away feeling a little more normal again even if you hardly said anything at all. 

Anyway, this is me. Trying to feel better. Trying to remind others that they’re not alone. Trying to make sense of things. Trying to create. Trying to be me.