Sarah...Phenomenally

Luckilyyyyyyyyy

2014-12-02T16:52:00.000-08:00

Saying the word luckily this way is my coping tool du jour. It makes me giggle (it's a reference to a silly line in the movie "Legally Blonde"), and it reminds me things could be so much worse than they actually are. Here are a few luckilyyyyyyyyys for today.

My beautiful, custom built laptop that was dropped on the floor six months ago is finally showing the effects of its fall. It will need to be rebuilt to the tune of half what we paid for it because structural damage is not under warranty.

But it made it through the election cycle and almost to Christmas bonus season before it actually died. Luckilyyyyyyyyy.

My daughter is graciously letting me borrow her Mac until we have the funds to fix my computer. It's a Mac.

But Macs are so much better than nothing. Luckilyyyyyyyyy.

The Ligermobile probably needs a new alternator. Ahhhhhhhgain.

But it's been showing signs of needing an alternator for months and waited until we bought a second car and could live on one again to die completely. Luckilyyyyyyyyy.

My stomach is in knots at the prospect of a change that could be very good for our family, AND I'm terrible at waiting for news, AND this is the second time in as many weeks that I'm experiencing this.

But I only have to wait until tomorrow morning and I can distract myself with schoolwork until then. Luckilyyyyyyyyy.

A few more for good measure:

I can blog from my phone. Holy moly, it's the future.

No one has had a seizure in this house in almost a year.

My Christmas tree is pretty and the kitten hasn't knocked it down.

My kids are sweet and cool and supportive.

My husband is the best.

My life is going well in spite of a few setbacks.

Luckilyyyyyyyyy.

A Sexual Abuse Survivor Responds to Joseph Smith's Polygamy

2014-11-26T12:04:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, news outlets all over the world proclaimed the news that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints had officially acknowledged that its founder, Joseph Smith, was married to as many as 40 women before his death, that some of those women were already married to other living men, and that some of them were teenagers less than half his age.

The response from faithful Mormons around the internet has varied. Some are reeling, having never learned this or having been led to believe these stories were lies written by the church's enemies. Others are proclaiming loudly that they already knew all of this and any member who didn't was just lazy, didn't listen, or wasn't well read enough to know it.

The responses that are the hardest for me to understand sound something like this:

Who cares? Why does it matter? This isn't important to our salvation. Why should this affect your testimony? If you believe the Book of Mormon is true, then you have to believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet of God, and anything he did, he did because God commanded it.

This response is a form of gaslighting. It trivializes an issue that is actually very important in an attempt to divert attention away from the problem at hand. It's designed to make the person addressing the issue feel stupid or crazy for feeling troubled over something that is very troubling.

And the issue of Joseph Smith's polygamy and the church's belated official response to it is very troubling.

With its essay, the leadership of the LDS church doubled down on its heroic narrative of Joseph Smith, making excuses for behavior these same leaders would condemn had it been carried out by anyone else. Though the polygamy essay shows that Smith left a long line of victims in the wake of his sexual practices, the unbending culture of "Praise to the Man" says the victims cannot matter as much as the man does.

A few examples of Joseph's behaviors and the excuses made by the essays follow:

1. Joseph lied to his wife about his sexual relationships with other women (despite the commandment he penned requiring her knowledge and consent). Excuse: He just didn't want to hurt her feelings. She was "his beloved Emma," after all.

2. Joseph continued the practice after Emma learned of it and despite her passionate disagreement and penned scripture threatening her with destruction if she didn't accept it. Excuse: The "Law of Sarah" as included in the Doctrine and Covenants requires a man to get consent from his first wife unless she doesn't consent. According to Smith's revelation, consent is required and if it isn't given, it's no longer required. Convenient and heartbreaking.

3. Joseph married other men's wives, often without the knowledge or consent of the husbands (and despite the commandment he penned requiring any polygamous wife to be an unattached virgin). In at least one case (Zina Huntington Jacobs), he used repeated pressure including telling her he'd be destroyed if he didn't practice plural marriage and implying he would be if she didn't accept his proposal. Excuse: Again...it's Emma's fault. He wanted to protect her delicate sensibilities, so he married already married women. Secondary excuse: An angel forced him to (despite the LDS doctrine of agency).

4. Joseph lied in public and in written doctrine about the practice of polygamy. Excuse: It's not really lying...just "carefully worded denials" that left open the possibility of individual polygamy, and it was done to protect the church from its enemies. (These are lies of omission which every church class on honesty tells Mormons are just as bad as outright falsehoods.)

5. Joseph married teen girls despite being old enough to be their father in some cases and despite having a position of undue authority over them as a religious leader and in some cases as an employer and even foster parent. In at least one case (Helen Mar Kimball), he obtained her consent by offering eternal rewards for her and her entire family. Excuse: An angel made him do it.

I find all of the above behaviors deplorable, but it's the final example that has left me an emotional mess since the publication of the polygamy essays.

As a sexual abuse survivor who has had a great deal of therapy, who has worked extensively with sex abuse survivors in her career, and who is studying to become a therapist to continue that work, it was not difficult to see Smith's behavior toward Kimball and others for what it really was when I happened upon the information two years ago.

Joseph Smith was a sexual predator who used his position of authority, promises of rewards, and threats of violence against him to abuse women and girls who believed he was a prophet speaking for God. He used his influence with the family members of some of his teen brides to groom them to the point of giving consent in spite of their reservations. He swore his victims to secrecy and defamed the character of women who refused his advances and then went public about his behaviors.

As triggering as that new information was, and as hard as it was to come to terms with the truth about a man I'd been taught all my life to revere as second only to Jesus Christ himself, I found solace in the fact that Joseph Smith was no longer on the earth to hurt anyone else.

And though it was also hard to come to terms with the fact that so much of this information had been kept from me and that the Church approved portrait of Joseph's life was so different from reality, the Church's silence on the subject allowed room for hope. Surely, the Brethren wouldn't condone this behavior. Even if they still believed Joseph was a prophet, he was obviously a fallen one, right?

The release of the Nauvoo/Kirtland polygamy essay crushed that hope to dust. Seeing the leadership stand behind not only the man but his predatory actions, seeing them make excuses and defend the indefensible left me shaking and shouting and crying in equal parts horror and rage.

Because no girl or woman is safe in a church in which the leadership defends sexual abuse, no matter who the abuser is.

Because every predator hiding behind a Priesthood mantle can now feel comfortable using the "God made me do it" excuse.

Because protecting the reputation of the church and its founder is more important to the current leadership than protecting not only the memory of Joseph's many victims but the safety of current and future sexual abuse victims in the church.

Because a church that will blame the victims for the actions of a predator in its history will do the same in its current practice.

Because this essay allows Joseph to keep hurting women, even in his death.

Joseph's actions during his life matter. The church's response to these events matter as well. To say otherwise is dishonest, either to others or to self.

Why does it matter?

Because Helen mattered. Because Zina mattered. Because Emma mattered. Because every girl and every woman Joseph hurt mattered. Because every girl and every woman in the Mormon church today matters.

Who cares?

All of us should.

Divorce and Metamorphosis: In my Heaven

2014-09-19T03:10:00.002-07:00

(This is the twelfth post in Divorce and Metamorphosis, the story of my 2006 divorce and the personal growth that followed it.)

My rock sitting experience and my nourishing Salt Lake trip created in me a hunger for more healing experiences. I had swept away my eggshell carpet of July and August and had shaken off the fearful, tentative attitude I'd been wearing like heavy armor.

In what would become a more and more common occurrence, I began jumping into the van for impromptu trips to Zion or Snow Canyon whenever the opportunity presented itself. I hiked long trails alone and shorter, easier paths with the kids. I sat on rocks, both those I found in shady groves or secluded gullies and those perched high above a canyon floor.

And I breathed deep and began to know all would be well, even if I didn't know how it could be. I took on a role that SHA called "The benevolent observer." I tried to watch my marriage and my interactions with Aaron without judgment or fear. Sometimes, it worked. Sometimes, I backslid. The heady feeling of my new swagger needed nurturing.

One such backslide occurred a week or so before Thanksgiving, when he approached me and stated his desire to spend the day away from us and share that time with his friends in a bar to watch football.

You read that correctly. He wanted to spend Thanksgiving with his friends and leave his wife and children alone at home.

Thanksgiving is and always will be my favorite holiday. I love the weather, the cooking, the smells, the love, the togetherness. I love the Peanuts gang eating popcorn and toast and singing "Over the River and Through the Woods." I love Snoopy floating past Macy's in New York.

I love everything about Thanksgiving. He knew this, and his knowing and asking anyway felt like a punch in the gut.

"In this moment, Aaron, I really don't know who you are at all," I said. Defeated at the very request, I went through the practiced inner motions of laying myself at his feet and said, "Well, if that's what will make you happy, you should go. I don't want anyone to have a bad Thanksgiving."

He left for school or work (or both) and I stewed. As hours passed, my true emotions boiled to the surface.

I dashed off a long and impassioned email to SHA:

I’m angry. So, I guess that means I’m afraid. So what am I afraid of?

I want to start with anger. I’m angry because I’m sick and tired of feeling like I’m the only responsible parent in this home. I’m sick and tired of Aaron coming home, “putting in hours” as a father, and then taking off to party, play games, do whatever he wants to do and I’m in charge by default. I’m PISSED that he would even consider partying on Thanksgiving appropriate. I’m tired of feeling like we’re his sloppy seconds...like we’re being tolerated...like when he’s here, he’s just passing time until he gets to be with his friends again.

So what am I afraid of?

I’m afraid of being left. I’m afraid of having to raise these kids alone, of having the responsibility for them left on me for good. I’m afraid I can’t do it. I’m afraid of the baggage they’re going to have to carry over feeling abandoned by their father. I’m afraid of being overwhelmed and distant. I’m afraid that he’s going to string me along for the next three months, and I’ll spend all that time working and hoping and praying and thinking things are better and then he’ll leave anyway. I’m afraid there’s someone in particular he’s going out to see, and all the recent smiles and positive interactions are just a cover to keep him housed and fed and f__ed until he’s got the money to leave. I’m afraid of feeling like the world’s biggest fool come February. I’m afraid I’ll lose my composure, forget everything I've learned and changed and kick him out the next time he goes and I’ll spend the rest of my life feeling like it was all my fault. I’m afraid he’ll leave and realize later that we didn't deserve this, that his family really was the most important thing in his life, but it will be too late to come back.

I don’t know what the next step is. Do I embrace my fear or diffuse it? Is it enough just to name it? Is this the time for a plan B? It’s time for a plan, anyway.

I wrote a plan for myself, forcing myself to face every fear and accept that it could happen. I faced the emotions that would surely follow and owned and embraced them. I would feel devastated and betrayed if he left anyway, and I would choose to feel it. And then I would live the life that was next.

A quickly typed reply from SHA came soon after:

Sarah,

this will be short, cuz I don't have a lot of time, but we will talk about it further if you want later. . . sounds like part of your fear is how you are feeling "set up". . .if you tell him you are fine with him partying today, you are giving permission and are becoming part of it. . .if you don't and react then he has more evidence that he can't be with you. . . or maybe you will get pushed far enough that you step in and file on him to relieve the pain and take control (which you don't have much of right now). . . it sounds excruciating the way it is structured right now. . . he may be letting you gather more and more evidence that you'd be a fool to want to be with him and then you step in and do the "dirty work". . .or if you don't then you just take it on the chin over and over till February. . .it's a no win for you (at least in the relationship). . . if being the benevolent observer gets too old then you may have to shift focus to taking really really good care of yourself (whatever that looks like), because frankly right now, you aren't going to have many other people that will/can (Aaron). Have you got Crazy Times by Abigail Trafford? It's probably a little premature, but might help you if you don't have it yet. . .it's about what goes on in the divorce process as far as emotional stages and processes. . . the first couple of chapters could really help you. Hang in there and please be gentle, kind and caring to yourself. . . remember Nathanial Brandon's quote about "no one is coming". . .well you at least have your faith to support and clarify some things for you. . . there can't be fear when faith is preset. . .remember that please. .

talk to you soon

SHA

Late that night, I had a more hopeful email to send:

Thank you for your reply. I think you got to the heart of it.

I did some praying and thinking on my walk last night after Aaron came home. I've decided to tweak my strategy a bit. I thought again about the story of the Anti-Nephi-Lehis and realized I wasn't applying it entirely correctly. My strategy is to bury my weapons and not fight back, but I've come to realize that there is a difference between not fighting back and encouraging Aaron to hurt me. The people of Anti-Nephi-Lehi did lie down and allow themselves to be killed, but they didn't hand the Lamanites the weapons to do it...they didn't say, "Here, let me help you with that arrow." And they didn't run and hide either. They faced the Lamanites first and THEN they lay down and were killed.

So, burying my weapons and refusing to fight back for me can mean refusing to be the one to file or ask him to leave, but it doesn't have to mean that I become completely passive in the relationship and lose the part of myself that I really admire. I can change the way I frame complaints, letting go of judgment and working toward acceptance, but I don't have to agree with everything he does.

When he got home last night, I let him know that encouraging him to go had been dishonest on my part. I told him that I hadn't agreed with it, and that I was hurt by it. I told him I didn't feel like it was a responsible thing to do. He reframed that as me calling him an irresponsible person, and I clarified the difference between a complaint and a criticism, told him I had intended it as a complaint about one specific action, and that if it came off as a criticism that I was sorry, and that's not what I meant. He wasn't happy to hear any of it, but I felt peace for the first time yesterday.

You summed up my choices in your email, and there is peace in at least knowing I have choices. My choice is to take it on the chin over and over until February. I can't be the one to walk away, no matter how hard it becomes. My choice is to make it incredibly HARD for Aaron to walk away from his family by being kind to him and loving and respecting him despite what he chooses. The only difference now is that I'm more committed to loving and respecting myself in the process.

Sarah

The following Tuesday, for reasons I can't remember, I had a day off from prenatal appointments with Ivy. The kids were already with the sitter, and Ivy encouraged me to take advantage of the alone time and go do something for myself. As was my new and growing habit, I jumped in our minivan and set out for Zion.

With just enough time to make the 3 mile, moderate round trip before heading back for Parenting class, I stepped onto the trail head of the Emerald Pools Trail. Autumn beauty surrounded me, and with every step, I felt more whole. When I reached the uppermost pool, I sat alone, tipping my face up to the sun, and watched leaves fall. A poem, perhaps my favorite, was born.

In My Heaven by Sarah Wilson

In my Heaven
It's autumn in Zion,
Where I walk the ins and outs
Of quiet paths
Among tree bursting forth
In brilliant reds and golds.
Pushing upward, I ascend a rocky trail
To a secluded pool,
Where I sit, hushed and reverent,
Gazing, enchanted, at the sun
Upon a still cliff face,
As the chill tipped wind
Showers down a cascade of radiant leaves
That dance through the air...
Like a ticker tape parade
To welcome me home.

I entered class that night with dried mud on my pants and a smile on my face. Nothing was settled, but nothing needed to be. I knew who I was and what I wanted. I wanted joy. My husband could join me in that joy or he could walk away. I would choose joy no matter what.

Taking a brain break to post some gratitude

2014-09-12T02:01:00.002-07:00

I've been working since...

I'm not going to answer that.

Suffice it to say that I am burned the heck out and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of that moment tomorrow night when I'll get to sleep in my own bed at night time and maybe even get 8 hours of sleep...in a ROW!

I have more work to do (the work I bring to work...), but my brain is screaming for a break, so here's some burned out gratitude,

1. I'm grateful I have a brain, burned though it is. Without a brain it would be very hard to eat Greek food, and life without Greek food is no life I want to live. Thank you, brain.

2. I'm grateful for my husband who doesn't get much more sleep than I do but gets enough (and at night!) for me to live vicariously through him.

3. I'm grateful my sometimes stressful work schedule has given me the most awesome gray hair in the world. It rarely looks this good, of course, but when pull my hair out in frustration, I get to look at it in my hands...

4. I'm grateful for my kids. Holy cow, I have the best kids. Did you read that, kids? I think you're the best. Totally makes up for asking you all to make your own dinner all week, yes? Yes! You're the best!

To the Strengthening Church Members Committee of the LDS Church

2014-09-11T20:05:00.002-07:00

I see your Church Office Building visits in my analytics every time I post. I'm flattered, really. I understand that your job is to compile clippings and quotes that could eventually be used against me in official church discipline proceedings.

Whether or not I agree with the appropriateness or humanity of the job you do doesn't really matter. It is what it is. You're paid to do this and feel you have the force of men in direct communication with God behind you.

That said, I can't overstate the following:

You're done here.

I officially resigned my membership in April and your church removed me from its official records in June. Your church cannot initiate excommunication proceedings against me, no matter what I say or do. Your services on my *behalf* are no longer needed.

It's been real.

Happy trails.

Yesterday, I felt like praying.

2014-09-09T10:58:00.001-07:00

I was anxious about a couple of big decisions. We put an offer on the house we're renting last week. Last night, we went to look at a used car we were thinking of buying. I'm less anxious about the house, but they're both large commitments, and somewhere down the road we'll look back on these choices and judge them, for good or for ill.

In my previous religious life, I hardly ever made big decisions (and even some small ones) without a prayer. I'd pray for God to open my mind and help me know which choice was right. I'd pray to know which choice God wanted me to make, which choice would most lead to building up his kingdom on earth, which choice was part of His plan for me. I'd pray for confirmation once I'd made the choice and for constant comfort after I acted.

Things I didn't often do:

- Consider what I wanted.

- Listen to reasonable arguments from concerned parties who disagreed with my decision. (God wants me to do this. Your argument is invalid.)

- Reconsider the efficacy or validity of the prayer when a God-approved choice resulted in negative consequences. (It must be part of His plan for me. Somehow, this is for my good.)

Using prayer the way I did allowed me to a live in a bubble without real responsibility for my actions. I didn't have to understand or take ownership for my choices or their consequences. I was walking God's path, and whatever He wanted had to be right, even when it fell apart.

So yesterday, driving to Logan to look at a car and wondering if the money we planned to spend on it could be better spent a million other ways, I had a fleeting but powerful urge to pray. I was facing a decision I might in future laud or regret, and I didn't want that on my shoulders. I wanted to regress to a former less responsible me and hang the whole thing on God so I could feel less anxious and more comfortable.

That comfort would have been a lie, of course, as it always was.

The therapists in my readership are likely hearing a note of perfectionism in my words, and they're correct in their assessments. I've spent my life terrified of making the wrong choices because I found my worth in choosing the "right," even when the choices didn't represent right versus wrong.

My humanity requires that I will screw up sometimes, so prayer took choices out of my hands and put them into God's, and I got to float along thinking everything I chose was somehow okay, even when it wasn't.

In addition to the perfectionism stands an enduring self worth problem...the deeply held idea that what I need or want is less important than what others need or want...certainly less important than what an all powerful god wants.

So, yesterday, I felt like praying because I didn't want to own that I wanted to buy our house and buy that car, and I didn't want to look back and regret either choice.

Instead, I talked it out, thought about what I wanted, considered possible consequences, and then made a choice. It might go well and it might go badly, but I realized last night that even if it goes badly, there will be options then. I'll talk those out, consider what I want, and make more choices.

No one else could tell me which choice to make yesterday, and realizing that felt powerful. I chose and I own that choice and in doing so, I get to choose and own my life.

Trying to make friends with the light at the end of the tunnel

2014-08-27T17:37:00.000-07:00

"This has been a hard ______ (week/month/year/life/situation), but I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel!"

When I said that as a kid or teen, I'd think of a tunnel like the one in this photo by Luke Detwiler. It's all pleasantly symmetrical and clean and pretty and gosh! Can't you just breathe in the hope?!

Creative Commons License

It was during my final few weeks of single motherhood that I realized my idea of the light at the end of the tunnel had shifted considerably. I was a mom of five kids, my oldest only 11, working full time and going to school part time while trying to pack and clean for a move and plan a wedding with no child support and no breaks.

I kept telling myself to look at the light at the end of the tunnel to help with my stress level. Sarah, in just a few weeks, you're going to be married. You'll have a better income, a bigger house, and another adult to help with everything. It's about to get better, so feel good! But it wasn't working this time. At all.

I remember the day I had an epiphany during a phone call with Richard. I blurted out, "The problem with the light at the end of the tunnel is it makes the tunnel easier to see! When this was just my life and not much was going to change, I didn't notice the hardships as much because, well, this was my life and not much was going to change. I could just put my head down and power through the tough stuff. Now that I can see that everything, everything is about to get better, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the way I've been living for the last two years. How did I do this? How can I now? I can't."

This photo by Zechariah Judy is a more accurate depiction of the light at the end of the tunnel, except it's still way too pretty and clean in there.

Creative Commons License

The prospect of that extra income, that bigger house, the extra daily support of the man I was in love with was such a contrast to single motherhood, and it was so close. I felt completely sapped of energy. It was like that last mile of my Half Dome hike. I wanted to lie down and quit right there rather than face one more step.

I experienced this on a much smaller scale last week as we approached the kids' first day of school. When you work from home and you have masters level homework to do from home, having five loud, boisterous, bickering kids around is no frickin' bueno if you want to get things done. We have a lot of structure set up so kids can work out their own conflicts and play fair, but there are still way too many times a day when Mom must play the arbiter to keep the peace.

And the kitchen? Always a mess. Always. A. Mess. And there was always someone asking if I was going to be off my laptop soon.

And I was never alone.

When I'm never alone, I go a little crazy. Not blowing up shopping malls crazy, but panicking woman on "Airplane!" crazy. If I had a rare evening with no work work or school work to do, I'd pounce on Richard with a whimper or a shriek the moment he got home and say, "I've gotta get out of here! You've gotta get me out of here!"

We saw a lot of dollar movies.

Don't get me wrong. We had a lot of fun this summer too, but there were enough no bueno moments of, "Kids! Please! I have to get this done!" and "Whose ramen wrapper is this?!" that once that back-to-school light started illuminating the chaotic tunnel of summer mothering, I was DONE. I'm only happy my inner monologue stayed inner, even if the crankiness that colored it got out way more often than I wanted it to.

Dear kids, I'm sorry for the crankiness. It's not your fault. It was the light at the end of the tunnel. Stupid, stupid light.

I'm just remembering the title of this post claims I'm here to make some kind of peace with that light or at least to develop some strategy for dealing with its downsides.

Blah. Can't I just be the thing that's darkest before the dawn? (Actually, I can and am accepting that as a valid option. My strategy may be to just accept that I'm going to have a hard time when relief is in sight and be kind to myself in the process.)

Other options, though...

- I guess I could read that Half Dome post any time I'm feeling this way. Because I didn't lie down and quit. I hiked the last mile and took the time to learn from the experience. Maybe I need that reminder more often.

- I could count the hours, by which I mean I could pester Richard at regular intervals for an update on how many hours are left, because he's really good at doing that.

- I could BLOG! (Huh...blogging...what a great idea. I should do that sometimes...)

- I could go be alone because whatever the struggle or the stress, being alone helps. When I choose it and make time for it.

I don't think I'm ever going to be actual friends with the light at the end of the tunnel, but maybe we can step down from arch enemies to occasional nemeses. After a few years of working on it, we might become reluctant partners. Dr. X and Magneto...aligning to avoid our own destruction and all that. But that's pretty hopeful.

Of course, I got to be alone today and my kitchen is clean and no one asked for my laptop until 3, so that's to be expected.

Don't cry for me, MOFiosas.

2014-05-29T09:28:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I'll even post this. I'm questioning my reason for writing it. Am I trying to shame people or teach them a needed lesson? That would be very superior and unkind of me. Am I just seeking to be understood? That would be better. I don't know which it is.

I'm hurt and a little frustrated to learn that a group of longtime friends has chosen to have a conversation about me rather than talk to me about the recent changes I've made in my life.

Stopping here to acknowledge that not all of my friends in this group are doing this. Some are defending me and trying to help others understand and some have chosen to come to me for my own truth about myself. And I'm stopping to say that as much as I'd like to think I'm never guilty of the same, I know that I have talked about rather than to friends too. Most people do it, especially when we're worried or scared or unsure how to talk to someone without offending them.

So, I get it.

It still hurts.

I left the faith of my childhood for many important and complex reasons. But the faith of my childhood, at least the culture that surrounds it, teaches devoted members that people who leave do so for very simple and stereotypical reasons.

She was offended.

She doesn't want to put in the work involved (lazy).

She wants to sin...to live a life without morals.

These are easy answers to a complex reality, and they probably feel safer than confronting the real reasons people leave. But they're just not true. They're not true for the majority of people who have left this church, and they're not true for me.

But my friends think them...are saying them. I was offended by the treatment of women and gay couples in the LDS church, so I left. I enjoy taking my kids to the park on Sunday instead of attending three hours of services now, so I must be lazy. I've begun drinking coffee and tea, have occasional alcohol with my husband or friends, and recently got the tattoo I've wanted for the last 12 years, so I obviously want to sin.

Healing chai.

Celebratory Zinfandel.

Meaningful ink.

Yes, to Mormons, the above pictures represent sin, and despite my Mormon upbringing, I have chosen to do these things since separating from the faith. But they're not why I left the church any more than our #sundayparkdays and my feminist/gay ally identity are.

I spent 30+ years of my life disagreeing with the place of women in the church, and I stayed because I believed. I spent most of my adult years overtired and over-stressed and would have loved to just relax every Sunday, but I went to church and magnified my callings because I believed. I spent decades loving the smell of coffee and knowing I'd love the taste too but abstained because I believed. I spent 12 years wanting a meaningful and significant tattoo somewhere on my body, and I left my skin ink free because I believed. (I never, ever desired alcohol. That's new.)

The above choices and my reason for leaving the church are related to the same reality for me.

I no longer believe.

I don't believe the Book of Mormon was an ancient document translated by a modern prophet. I don't believe Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus in a grove of trees or received instruction on how to set up the one true church on earth. I don't believe the leaders of the Mormon church are prophets with special access to the will of God. I don't believe the ordinances of the temple are necessary for access to Heaven.

I left the church, resigned my membership not because I got my feelings hurt or got tired of all the work involved or felt having a latte or a mojito was more important than my eternal salvation or exaltation. I left the church because I don't believe the teachings or practices have anything to do with my eternal salvation. I don't harbor ill will toward those who do believe, and I know from experience that these beliefs can bring peace for many. They're just not for me.

But you know, as much as the mischaracterization of my beliefs and intentions hurts, and as much as I hate that I've been reduced to a one-dimensional ex-Mormon stereotype by people I hoped would still treat me as a full human being, there's something else that's nagging at me.

The idea that I'm somehow unaware of how unhappy I really am in these choices. The idea that I'm lost.

In Mormon belief and culture (in my firsthand experience), the terms used to describe people who leave the faith are generally spoken in terms of fear and sadness. One does not walk away from the faith. She falls away. She's led astray. She's being led down carefully to hell with the awful chains of the devil. She needs to be rescued.

So, I get it. The language these friends have been taught all their lives about people like me is very black and white and scary. As a child and adult, I was taught that the Mormon church = happiness. "The World" = misery. Living by the teachings and precepts of the the Mormon church = peace and comfort and safety. Living by the lax standards of "The World" = heartbreak and sadness and danger. And if you read the Book of Mormon, "The World" or the "Church of the Devil" includes anyone who isn't affiliated with the church of Christ, and for some Mormons, that means everyone who isn't Mormon.

I don't believe life outside the Mormon church equals sadness and loss (and never did, having plenty of experience with happy and wonderful people of many faiths or no religious affiliation), but at least some of my MOF friends do, so maybe there can be no middle ground of understanding now that I'm choosing to live a different way. I can't help but try, though.

Don't cry for me, MOFiosas. I know you might not believe that someone can walk away from the church by choice and then lead a happy and fulfilled and whole life. I know why. But I can tell you with a surety...I can.bear testimony that I am happier, more whole, and more centered than I've ever been in my life. I'm less afraid, less ashamed, less...so many negative things. And if that doesn't make sense to you, I'll try to be okay with that. (And I know that this is my own experience and not something that everyone has to do to feel happy, whole, or centered. If you feel those things because of the teachings of the LDS church, I can be nothing but grateful for the church's influence in your life.)

I know a lot of things won't make sense (or if they do, it will be because you think I'm lost or misled). If I told you that the first time I stood in front of a mirror wearing a black bra-and-panty set rather than the approved temple garments that tears streamed down my face because for the first time in nearly 20 years I looked at my unclothed body and felt beautiful and feminine and human, it might be hard to accept because to you, taking off those garments is a violation of covenants. But it was real and soul healing for me to do that. (Your experience with garments may vary. This was mine.)

If I told you that getting my tattoo had absolutely nothing to do with the Mormon church and everything to do with reclaiming and fully owning my own body after years of seeing it as an object...a shameful one...because of childhood abuse, maybe you'd understand. Or maybe you'd just feel I put graffiti on my temple. If I told you it was a deeply spiritual experience, it might be hard for you to understand, because in the black and white of Mormon teaching, nothing outside the rules can be spiritual.

If I told you occasional alcohol is resetting my baseline stress level and allowing me to relax both with or without these beverages to a level I haven't experienced in decades, you might react with fear because you've been taught I'm heading on the road to addiction. If I told you I've never been drunk and never will be, that I drink responsibly and have rules about my alcohol use (no more than two drinks at a time, no drinking alone, no drinking when I'm stressed out, no driving for an hour after any amount of alcohol), it might not mean much to you because you've been taught there's no such thing as responsible alcohol use, that any alcohol is sinful and negative and dangerous.

Or maybe you'd read those things and understand me better, stretch your minds, gain knowledge you didn't have before. I don't know.

It's possible with this post I'm reducing you to one-dimensional Mormon stereotypes, and if I am, I truly apologize. I won't pretend I'm not reacting from a place of hurt. I know I am and I know all too well that hurt people hurt people. If I've hurt you with this, I'm sorry.

I just wish you had talked to me. I wish you had asked me, seen me, known me...trusted me. I wish you would talk to, see, know, and trust me now.

Dear Cori,

2014-04-13T06:43:00.001-07:00

My previous post mentioned 2002, and of course I thought of you. We met in 2001, both expecting babies the following February, both seeing Ivy for midwifery care. We were the same age...ridiculously young multiparous women at only 25. Phoenix was your fifth, Evelyn my fourth. Our friendship couldn't have been more natural.

I used to tell people that you were the best kind of person to call if I had news. If it was good news, your happy, bubbly, practically squealing excitement usually exceeded my own, and then my excitement would build to match yours. You gave me permission to be deliriously happy over even the smallest triumph because you seemed so deliriously happy for me. When it was bad news, I could hear the effortless way you stepped forward to help carry my burden in your soft and soothing tones. You gave me permission to hurt. Hurting meant I was worthy of better than I'd been given. You helped me feel worthy.

I learned so much from you as I watched your journeys. Your work on your own trauma. Your beautiful marriage. Your adventures in nursing school. Your determination and love through Jeremie's leukemia. Your courage and grace after he passed.

How well I remember a day that I needed a friend and found my way to your house without an address, directions, anything other than the name of your town and a few details that described almost every new neighborhood within it. There was a miracle in my finding your house, but the real miracle was knowing that as I was falling apart, I could reach out and you'd catch me.

How well I remember a day when I was faced with an awful rumor and then learned the truth. I ran to you, and you sheltered me. Later, you told me you felt ashamed because you were so overcome with emotion over my suddenly impending divorce and you though I was handling it so much better. I was only handling it because I had your strength to lean on. And your emotions mirrored and validated my own.

Thank you, Cori, for being you. Thank you for being my friend, for growing with me and changing my life in so many ways. We've moved away from each other and lives have moved on, but when I think of you, I always smile. I hear that bubbly voice and feel worthy of celebration. I remember your pain at my pain and feel worthy of a friend who mourned with me.

Thank you for teaching me to feel worthy. Thank you for giving me a gift I can never begin to repay.

I love you,
Sarah.

"A room without a roof"

2014-03-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

"Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof."
"Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth."
"Clap along if you know what happiness is to you."
"Clap along if you feel like that's what you wanna do."

I'm clapping along with Pharrell Williams a lot lately.

A friend recently messaged me on Facebook and asked if I was happy. Though I acknowledged that I am a work in progress, I said that yes, I am happy. Then I added, "I've spent much of my life thinking if I let myself get too happy, some bad would be around the corner. I don't look for corners anymore."

I know the corners that used to hide the next terrible thing still exist. I know no one gets through life without sadness and misfortune, even the people we think live charmed lives because we only see the public smiles. I know there ARE bad things around corners in my future because that's life and, well, you can read what I think about that in my post about letting go of why.

I'm just not looking for corners anymore. There's too much Happy to look at to spend time worried and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I know what happiness is to me, and lately, I've realized I have it in abundance. Happiness is congruence. Owning and living as the most authentic me. Allowing others, little by little to see me. Doing so without apology.

Congruence is a concept I learned in therapy and again in my undergrad psychology studies. As a grad student, I get to look at it more in depth as I study the theory of Person Centered Therapy founded by Carl Rogers.

To whittle his theory down to its most basic definition, Rogers believed that all human beings have an inherent desire to be the best they can be, that they're capable of identifying and solving their own problems if given the right environment, and he believed a therapist could create such an environment by setting aside judgment and providing unconditional positive regard. This environment would allow the client to attain a level of congruence, a choice to live as authentically as possible, and this would lead to self-actualization.

Still a mouthful, yes?

I'll whittle it some more by saying that since I began blogging again, I've been treating myself the way a Rogerian therapist would treat me. I stopped looking at my mistakes and faults and saying, "Sarah is bad," or, "Sarah is unworthy," or even "Sarah should." I started looking at my whole life and saying, "Sarah is."

As I did that, I was able to see the parts of my life which weren't congruent, the things that needed changing, the problems I already knew how to solve. As I gave myself that unconditional positive regard of "Sarah is," I began to just...be.

This shift is one of the reasons I knew it was time to meditate again. It's why I've started running again. It's why when I look at my kids, I'm no longer terrified I'm screwing them up and ruining their futures. Sarah is. We are. Life is. No judgment. Just being.

And so, I feel like a room without a roof and I no longer look for corners so I can get a jump on being scared of what's behind them. My congruent self rejects the roof that keeps my abilities and future and happiness defined within a narrow box. My congruent self knows she can manage whatever may come, happy or sad. Sarah is.

I am.

I won't say the shift has been painless. At times, it's been downright heart wrenching. The hardest, most painful shift was the day I stepped off the fence I've been perched on for about a year and chose to land on the opposite side of my lifelong religion. That was about a month ago, and there were tears. It can be terribly painful to own that you no longer believe what you always thought was true, especially when you can still see some beauty and good within the walls of your faith.

I considered for a moment that I could walk the path of the New Order Mormon, embracing the facets of the religion that work for me and discarding those that don't. In the end, authenticity was too important to me. I appreciate and support those who are able to remain in the faith that way. It couldn't ever work for me.

Choosing to separate myself from my church came with a secondary pain, that of sharing my decision with my family, some who moved on years ago, one who did and has been considering returning very recently, and some who are still devout.

I sent my email yesterday. Here are some relevant excerpts:

"I won't go into detail about how I came to this conclusion because I feel it would be disrespectful to those of you still active or working on becoming active. I know how much you treasure your testimonies, and I treasure them for you. I also know that this letter will hurt, particularly Mom, and I know the fear you'll feel for my eternal welfare. I hope you know how much my heart hurts to know you will hurt. This decision has been an emotional one, and the most emotional part of it is knowing the pain it will inflict in people I love."

"One thing that has been helpful for me in all of this is knowing that I wouldn't be shunned or treated badly for going a different way. I think about our time at the farm last summer and am proud of the love and acceptance we have as a family. (So proud.) Without that love, how else could traditional Mormons, Christians, non-religious people, Democrats, Libertarians, Republicans, Independents, lesbians, feminists, smokers and non-smokers, drinkers and teetotalers come together and smile and laugh and love as much as we did that week? I know, I know...farm cookies and bacon and brisket helped, but really, it was love. ;)"

I'll admit when I clicked "send," I went looking for a corner, even though I'd expressed my confidence in their acceptance. I wondered how they would respond. How would my mom respond? Would they accept me, the true me?

I didn't try to peek around that corner for long, and my family made the effort unnecessary. The responses came quickly, all filled with love, support, and acceptance. My mother's words are below:

"Dear, dear Sarah,

My love will always abide. Yes, I am sad to hear this news for all the reasons you indicated. I am also joyful that you feel safe enough to know that you are accepted just as you are -- my beautiful daughter.

Always remember that I love you!

Mom"

Who knew my mom was a Rogerian?

I think I knew it.

My friend asked me, "Are you happy?"

I am. So happy. I am. So cared for and accepted. I am. No longer looking for corners. I am. A room without a roof.

I am.

Quiet listening

2014-03-25T20:29:00.002-07:00

I spent some time today reading old emails sent during the very first days of my divorce. I was faced with a mountain of decisions, many of them with lasting consequences for both my children and me. I often felt completely lost and reached out to close friends and my therapist for advice and a listening ear.

Of note was a particular email I sent my therapist after an hour long and productive conversation with my friend, Kari. I came to an important and very hard decision and felt good about it. I emailed SHA with my decision and the clarity and peace I felt in it. The very next email to him occurred after I had talked with a different friend who disagreed strongly with my decision. The peace and clarity were gone. The confusion in the second email is palpable. I see the woman who wrote it in my mind and feel for her.

Photo by Celestine Chua

SHA responded in two sentences: "You sure listen to a lot of people, don't you? Wonder what would happen if you got quiet and heard you."

Shortly after, within a day I think, I got an ugly email from a family member full of ridiculous, misogynistic advice for how to save my marriage. It was an exercise in shame and blame, a diatribe that told me my needs didn't matter and wouldn't until my children were older (in those words), that I should never leave my house or use a babysitter, and that I should immediately give up anything I did for my own enjoyment or employment.

I forwarded that on to SHA and said this, "I'm including the letter because it's another piece of 'advice.' He's another person I can choose to 'listen' to, and you know...I'm in here somewhere screaming, 'LISTEN TO ME!' What if I chose to listen and implement every piece of advice everyone gave me? I would be a conflicted, desperate, panicked individual...huh...like I am right now."

I got a lot of advice over the next year, but I stopped thinking that everyone was smarter than me or knew better than me. As I worked in therapy and struck out on my own, I learned to hold advice in my hand and examine it and then get quiet, hear me, and make my own decision. The advice in the letter mentioned above was examined and then wadded up and thrown in an imaginary incinerator. And good riddance.

Photo by Adurdin

I'm at a turning point in my life again, and there are many who will want to offer advice on decisions I'm currently making. If I listen and heed every piece of advice, I'll be a conflicted, desperate, panicked individual.

Instead, I will get quiet. I'll hear me.

I've downloaded a meditation app on my new phone and try to find time when I can to get quiet, breathe, connect with the deeper part of me, and commune with God...the universe...the source...whatever it is out there that reaches back when I reach out with my inner self.

I find beauty and strength in the reaching out. I find safety and comfort in the reaching back.

Photo by Moyan Brenn

I'll talk more about meditation in a future post. What I can say after beginning a meditation practice (again) is that the inner me is no longer screaming for me to listen. I'm quiet and she's being heard.

She has wonderful things to say.

Letting Go of Why

2014-03-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

(Small language warning.)

- It's all part of the plan.

- There are no accidents.

- God works in mysterious ways.

- Everything happens for a reason.

These were the old stand-by's, my old way of viewing events both good and bad and trying to puzzle out the meaning and the lessons hidden within them. If something happened, there was a reason for it, something I could learn from it, and it was part of the path God wanted me on.

It was a helpful way of living for a long time. I could take trials and tribulations and find the positive. I could move forward feeling good about having endured, and I felt certain I'd endured it for my own betterment and because God wanted me to.

Yeah, this worked for me for a long time, but looking back over the past few years, it's just not working anymore. I think I can still finding meaning in struggle if I need to (and it's been shown by research to be a positive tool for overcoming trauma). Sometimes, finding meaning is still a good thing.

I've just realized that some struggles are just struggles. Some injustices are just not fair. Some obstacles weren't put in my path to teach me anything. They're just there, and I just have to deal with them. It's not nice nor fair. It just is. It's just life.

My new way of looking at the world is simpler, cleaner, and at least for now, it's working really well.

Shit happens.

That's it.

Shit happens.

It sounds pessimistic and fatalistic, but hear me out. I really am being thoughtful about this. Shit happens is radical acceptance at its purist. Shit happens acknowledges that bad things happen, that they hurt, that they're universal, and that many times there isn't a deeper meaning, a lesson, or a reason for the shit that has happened. (Or there is a reason, but dwelling on it isn't important.)

Looking at rough patches through the lens of "Everything happens for a reason" or "It's all part of the plan" means having to search for a reason God thought it was important or okay for you to get beat up or molested as a kid, why God thought it was important for your progress (but not someone else's) to "give you" trials like miscarriage or medically fragile children while "blessing" someone else with a houseful of healthy, happy babies on their first tries. "Everything happens for a reason" often tends to negate agency, placing the bad things people do to each other firmly on God's shoulders. I don't think God works that way.

In the words of one of my favorite Television Without Pity bloggers from the old days, "God's in the tub." She used this phrase while recapping a season of "The Amazing Race" in which a pair of devoutly Christian contestants frequently prayed for their team to win competitions and expressed their belief that God favored their partnership over the others in the race because they, as Christians, were living the way God wanted them to. The recapper shared her own view that a God who was more than willing to allow genocide in Africa was definitely not caught up in who was going to win a reality show in America. God was in the tub...he had better things to do...or at least, he wasn't in the business of micromanaging people's lives like this. I agree wholeheartedly with this view of deity.

I don't blame God for being in the tub. Everyone likes a soak now and then. I'm just not willing to give God the blame (or the credit?) for the bad things that have happened to me anymore, even if it's prettied up as a plan or a path or a learning experience. Sometimes, shit just happens because people are shitty to each other or they don't have it in them to give more. Or shit just happens because people just get sick or accidents just happen or it doesn't rain enough or it rains too much.

Stewing about the reason isn't always helpful because there will come a day when no reason will be enough. When this view of a planning, plotting, micromanaging God will cause you to question your belief in God completely. Believing in a God who loves and lets...who gave us a world and lets us choose what we'll do with it, even when that means we're hurting each other, well, that's a God that makes much more sense than one who put incest or depression or PTSD in my path for some "reason."

I think the seed for this shift was planted a couple of years ago. Richard and I were facing a big decision, and we prayed about what to do and felt led to the choice we made. That choice ended up bringing nothing but stress and worry for 5 long months. During those months, we worked really hard, trying to make the reality of our life match up with the expectation we had built based on that prayer. After five months, we were done trying.

But I was left wondering why. Why had I been asked to go through this experience? What was I supposed to learn? If we'd prayed about it and felt good, why had it gone so wrong?

I spent way too long in the why of things. I had to know why so I could know what to expect in the future. Miriam was facing brain surgery, and I didn't even know if I could trust any feelings of comfort I might feel or any answers to prayer I might think I received. A lot of my panic during 2012 was wrapped up in that unanswered why and the realization that if Miriam was left dead or disabled from her surgery, I would have an even bigger, even more unanswerable why to face.

Today, I no longer care to know the "reason" I thought it was a good idea to do something that turned out so terribly. That experience didn't benefit me or help me grow. It just sucked. It knocked me down during a time I really didn't need knocking down. It sapped me of energy during a year I needed it the most. And you know what? That's okay. Because shit happens. It's not nice. It's not fair. But it happens, and it happens to everyone.

Letting go of Why in this instance allows me to let go of Who, and that is ridiculously healing. Asking the question why often leads us to look for the who we can blame. When it's someone else, we feel anger, betrayal, distrust. When it's us, we feel stupid or incompetent or small. When it's God, everything gets a lot less hopeful. Letting go of Why (and its consequent Who) means I can more easily move on to what...What's next? What can I DO about it? What options do I have? What better things can I choose in spite of it?

Everything may still happen for a reason, but sometimes that reason is just that shit happens. Today, I'm more than okay with that.

Ogden

2014-03-04T16:05:00.000-08:00

Photo by Joseph Lee Novak

I wrote an email to SHA, my former therapist, this morning telling him about a major step I'm taking in my life. When I wrote the following, it struck me as so very true and deeply real for me. I keep going back to reread it.

Some of that might just be Ogden. I love Ogden. Layton is where I love to live, but Ogden is where I get to BE. I want to bring that feeling to Layton...to everywhere I am...to allow myself to BE in every setting.

For those not in Utah, Layton is a good 35 to 40 minutes north of Salt Lake City, and Ogden is about a 10 minute drive past Layton.

Even before I moved to the state, I knew about Ogden. A family had recently relocated to my Texas town from the city and had nothing good to say about it. When I arrived in Utah, I learned they weren't alone in their belief that Ogden was one of the most (if not THE most) undesirable places to live within the state.

Having lived for nearly 20 years in Utah, 6 in the northern end of the state, and now 2 years just outside Ogden, I still don't get the O-Town hate. When many people talk about Ogden, I hear words and phrases like ugly, dirty, high crime, slum, lots of non-members (referring to people not of the predominant religion of the state), and different.

Different.

That's the word, isn't it? I love Utah, but I don't know if I've ever lived in another place where different is so often equated with bad or wrong or dangerous.

I don't know...I've probably lived in many places like this. Maybe every place is like that...clinging to local values, whatever they may be, and afraid of anything that doesn't conform. Maybe I wasn't the different one in other cities and states and couldn't see it. But there's a definite culture of conformity in Utah, and inside Ogden, at least the places within Ogden I frequent, I feel free of that.

I think because I am different, I feel most at home in the place others have designated different.

Family outings and date nights often find us on Historic 25th Street. We stroll and browse and eat and play and smile. So much smiling. Richard and I stay out late, and there are always places open to accommodate. Ogden is where you'll find the Sarah some of you still don't know, the Sarah who is the most fully herself, the Sarah who stands and lives and breathes without hesitation, without shame or fear or pretense.

Photo by Cauldron Graphix

Photo by Bruce Fingerhood


Photo by Cauldron Graphix

Of course, Ogden is also where my sister Carla and her partner Nettie live, so how could it not be my favorite place in Utah? Their house is one of my safe spaces in the world. I don't know if they realize that, but it is. Except I could die from cuteness.

Seriously...the cuteness!

Carla and Nettie show us the places in Ogden that tell me this town is anything but ugly or dirty or undesirable.

Photo by denebola2025

And they take us to the places nearby that remind me that life is full of beauty and love.

Clearing Skies over Morgan by Coty Creighton

Layton is where I love to live, and Ogden is where I get to BE. I'm looking forward to the day when I can take that feeling, that safe, open, different Ogden feeling, and carry it with me wherever I am.

It's close.

And there's that Ogden smile again...

Lost Soul Saved

2014-02-23T23:56:00.004-08:00

(Short story I wrote in 2006. This is probably my favorite.)

Photo by J E Theriot

Reverend Nolan Meeks was on fire. Standing before us, arm raised up to the heavens, he shouted his sermon with a force that frightened and electrified me. Mama always said that man had the fire of the spirit of the Lord burning in his belly. I believed her.

I was 17 years old and a bonafide, baptized member of the Calvary Baptist Church of Gadsden Alabama, the only true conservative Baptist church in all of Etowah county. Mama and I came from Reece City every Sunday and Wednesday to hear the word of God from Reverend Meeks.

"The time has come, brothers and sisters," the Reverend preached. "The time has come for you to throw off the awful shackles of that vile deceiver, that cruel tempter, that corrupt and filthy father of sin that holds you bound in his dark hands. The time is here to leave your sinful ways and give your wretched life over to the Lord your God. Will you do it? Can you give your life over, brothers and sisters? Can you accept Jesus as your one and only, your Lord and Savior? Will you do it?"

With each stirring question, his voice thundered louder and was answered with a boisterous chorus of amens and hallelujahs from the people around me. Mama was the loudest of all, shouting out her praises and waving her arms, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Yes, Reverend Meeks was on fire with the spirit of the Lord Jesus, and I knew I'd see someone saved that day. My eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the lost soul I knew needed saving. I made a game of it most weeks. I hadn't been wrong yet.

As my gaze swept across the mass of whooping, writhing worshipers, I saw her. Small and sad looking, she couldn't have been more than 14. Her eyes were focused on her feet, her shoulders slumped, her right hand nervously running up and down her thigh.

That's a girl with a past, I thought. She's here's for Jesus. She's here for salvation. She's the one.

As if she had read my thoughts, she raised her head, her eyes boring into mine. I gave a hopeful smile, and she returned it with a plaintive one of her own. I looked up to the Reverend Meeks, still bellowing his mighty call for a sinner to be saved and looked back at her again, nodding my head encouragingly.

The girl stood, folding her arms in front of her, and walked slowly through the crowd of crying, convulsing people, now cheering at her advance to the front. The Reverend turned at the sound and a look of surprise flew across his face. She was awfully young. Our congregation was more used to drifters and drunks and convicts just released from the prison in the next town coming through to receive the Lord.

"Young lady," the Reverend began with a trembling voice, facing her, his palm on her forehead, "Young lady, this is a wondrous thing you're about to do today. You've been wallowing in the depths of the awful hell of sin. Throw off the sins of your life. Turn away from your troubling ways. If you have sought to do wrong against one of the Lord's chosen, if you have thought to lie or bear false witness, hate or deride, repent now and leave that life behind. Open your heart to the Lord Jesus, young sinner. Will you take him in your heart as your Lord and Savior?"

The shouts of the congregation rose to a roar, our prayers for her soul lifting up higher and higher. Mama clutched my hand hard. She lived for a good saving, and this one made her weep like a baby and shout her hallelujahs with a joyous howl. It wasn't just the Reverend on fire anymore.

I don't know what I thought when the gun went off. It didn't make any sense, not any sense at all, the sound of it. Mama let out a scream that shook me awake and scared me more than anything ever had before.

I looked up to the front to see what had happened. The Reverend's face was twisted in shock and pain, as blood spread across his shirt with sickening speed. "Lord, save me!" he wailed as the awful reality took hold of him.

Waving arms dropped and shouting voices stopped cold as the Reverend Nolan Meeks dropped to his knees in the final prayer of his life. As blood dribbled from his mouth, cutting a jagged path down his chin, he looked skyward and then collapsed on the ground.

The girl stood still, the gun resting at her side as she watched him take his last breaths. She didn't look at any of us. She just stood and watched him die. Then, tossing the gun onto his back, she stood to her full height, and looked out over the sea of horrified congregants and caught my eye.

Her hands went to her belly, a belly we would later learn was carrying the baby of the man she'd just killed, her jaw hardened, and her lip curled into a sneer.

"Praise Jesus," she whispered.

Grace in Flight

2014-02-21T17:23:00.002-08:00

(Short story written in 2006. A re-imagining of a period of my own life.)

Photo by Marcus Grbac

Grace dressed quickly and stepped out onto her quiet street. Hot already, she sighed to herself. It was a typical August morning in Del Rio, Texas. Desert heat rolled in from the south and west, evaporating dew as quickly as it formed and wilting ill placed lawns and bushes. Today’s forecast called for a high of 114.

Grace hurried down the driveway to her beat up ‘87 Honda Civic and cranked on the air conditioning full blast. Ducking to avoid the initial blast of scorching, outside air, she said a quick prayer for her engine to turn over and was rewarded on her second try at the ignition.

She drove past homes whose occupants still slept and businesses not yet opened, heading west on Highway 90 until the small stores and ramshackle motels gave way to sagebrush and cactus. The air seemed cleaner, clearer, and she could almost smell the water of Lake Amistad from there.

Grace didn’t particularly like Del Rio. Besides the heat, it was small and dusty and isolated. Her father had taken a job as an associate professor at the local Jr. college the previous winter and uprooted her from her life in Corpus Christi, the city she missed with an ache that never seemed to lessen.

She was almost 18 years old and about to begin her senior year at Del Rio High. She was short, muscular for a girl, with the curves of a woman and a baby face she just couldn’t seem to outgrow. Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and her brilliant blue gray eyes hid behind a pair of wire framed glasses.

She was certainly not someone anyone would consider a classic beauty, but she had a way about her, and she always seemed to have a boyfriend to spend time with. She hadn’t gone more than a month between relationships since she was 14.

Her latest relationship had been her longest. She’d met Alejandro at his college campus in Kingsville. She was there performing in a drama competition, and he was doing workstudy for the theater department. He was 21, with a dark and rugged handsomeness that made her heart pound. He had an easy smile and caring eyes, and his hands were strong and calloused from hard work on his family’s ranch in nearby Premont, but his touch was warm and gentle. He had been her world for 11 months, and now it was over.

Grace pressed down harder on the accelerator, trying to outrun the loneliness. Lake Amistad was her one retreat in this desert wasteland. It wasn’t South Padre, but it offered her some reprieve from the daily struggle of teenage life. Most days, she didn’t even swim...just sat on her favorite rock and drank in the stillness for awhile.

This morning was different, though. Grace had a mission. Pulling her car into the small parking lot at Governor’s Landing, she killed the ignition and sat with her hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the deserted picnic tables and barbecue pits.

"Now or never," she whispered to herself as she stepped out of the car and stripped down to her swimsuit and tennis shoes. She strode past the picnic area with an outward confidence that belied her inner turmoil. As she hiked farther out, her pace slowed as her knees weakened and her hands began to shake. She pressed forward anyway, desperate to do what she had come there to do.

And then she was there. Peering down from the top of a sandstone cliff, she saw the crystal water 30 feet below. The familiar wave of nausea crept into her stomach. She took a step back and forced herself to keep breathing...just keep breathing...until the feeling finally passed.

She stepped forward again, bringing the toes of her shoes as close to the edge as she could get them. She stood that way for a long time, the sun warming her back from the east, as she listened to the sound of wind rippling the water below her and tried to get used to being there.

It wasn’t the deep water that frightened her. She’d swum out to the deepest parts of the lake before and floated back peacefully many times. It wasn’t the height of the cliff. She wasn’t generally afraid of heights. At least, she’d never been before.

For Grace, it was the fall that kept her from taking the step off the cliff. The thought of those long seconds of weightless chaos before the plunge filled her chest with cold panic. The image of falling through the air, no arms to hold her, no hands to catch her, brought with it another wave of nausea.

"Why am I doing this?" She muttered. Even before the question was asked, she knew the answer. She had to. She just had to.

I don’t want to just be safe anymore, she thought.

She thought of Alejandro...safe and gentle...easy. He’d watched over her, protected her from her demons, convinced her she was better than she thought. He’d held her close so many nights until she didn’t know where he ended and she began. And then he’d left. And even his leaving had been safe and gentle. It could never have lasted, and he loved her too much to lead her on, and so he’d held her close one last time and then he’d let her go.

But he’d left a shell. She was lost. How was she supposed to pick up the pieces of her shattered life...the life he’d created for her with every soft word and every sheltered embrace? Who was Grace without Alejandro? Who was she without his protection, without his watchful eye, without his strong arms and gentle hands holding her together?

She had to know.

Grace took one more deep breath of the dry, West Texas air and closed her eyes. She raised her arms at her side and jumped, finally feeling the weightless chaos of those long seconds before hitting the water, and felt panic give way to exhilaration. Uncertainty gave way to hope as falling became floating...floating became flying.

Redefining relationships

2014-02-16T05:36:00.003-08:00

Tonight, I wrote a letter I'll never send. It's addressed to a person who caused a significant amount of pain for my family and me within the last few years. Sending the letter would not be helpful and is not important. I just needed to write it.

(I am aware that some might read the above and worry the letter was intended for them. It's not you.)

Photo by Neal Fowler

As I wrote in a previous post about anxiety, I've struggled lately to decide how to interact with people in my life who have hurt me or lost my trust. When anxiety takes over, I fall into the trap of all or nothing thinking, imagining that I must either avoid them completely or continue the relationship, faking my feelings, pretending all is forgiven just to get through the encounters.

Avoidance is a symptom of PTSD that I know well. It's a coping mechanism, a way to stay safe from the more frightening symptoms. Avoid the triggers, and maybe you can avoid the intrusive thoughts or the nightmares or flashbacks. Maybe if I just stay here, alone in my room, I won't have a panic attack.

Like many of my coping strategies, avoidance is counterproductive. It amplifies the anxiety by reinforcing the feeling that I can't be safe in situations involving these people. Spending time with them but pretending is also a problem. Being fake also reinforces that unsafe feeling...after all, if I can't be my authentic self when I'm with them, I am not safe.

Photo by John Mosbaugh

The better solution comes in finding ways to interact and be authentic (and therefore, emotionally safe). But how?

This is where things get a little sticky. To my credit or detriment, I am an open book. I am the kind of person who shares early and a lot. Here I am on this blog discussing deep and painful feelings and fears with any friend who chooses click on the link or any stranger who happens upon this post. The overwhelmingly positive feedback I've received from people with similar experiences who felt understanding or hope or courage from my posts here are reason enough for me to keep posting. But interactions with people in my daily life can and must change.

SHA, my former therapist, once talked to our therapy group about the various friendships a person can have. He mentioned a friend of his who was a "bike riding friend." They met through a mutual love of bike riding, and their friendship was 100% made up of getting together on a regular basis to ride their bikes. Their conversations were about bikes or different trails they had tried. It didn't ever venture beyond that. They didn't tell each other their hopes and dreams or darkest secrets. This man was a bike riding friend, and SHA appreciated him as a bike riding friend.

Photo by Sheffield Tiger

"Not everyone has to be your best friend. Not everyone has to know everything about you," SHA would say. He assured us that calling his friend a "bike riding friend" was not a judgment against the man, not evidence that he didn't measure up as more. It just was, and he appreciated it for what it was.

That said, SHA also told us that sometimes, we may have a friendship or other relationship we believe or hope is a deeper, more abiding one only to have those hopes dashed by the hard reality of indifference or betrayal. We needed to understand that sometimes, it would be necessary to re-categorize a friendship, to redefine a relationship from what you thought it could be to what it really was. Doing that could not only protect you from further harm but could also allow you to appreciate the relationship under the new definition.

This has always been very hard for me. For one, I like being open. I like the idea of being friends with everyone. I like (need?) to be liked. Acknowledging that a relationship is less up close and personal tends to feel like a rejection, even when I'm the one redefining things. Changing my idea of a relationship feels like a loss, (say it, Sarah) like being abandoned...

Photo by kodomut

(Ah, abandonment. There you are at last. Only took 10 paragraphs to get there. Yes, I, Sarah Clark, am intensely afraid of being abandoned and have been for a very long time.)

My parents' divorce had an impact on this, for sure. I was 9 when my biological father moved into an apartment in our German town, and my mother, my siblings, and I moved back to the states, settling back in the Oklahoma town we'd lived in before moving to Europe. Between the ages of 10 and 22, I saw my father only 4 times. There is no good way to explain what this type of loss does to a child. Even though I felt safer with him gone, even though my 2nd dad, Doug Braudaway, stepped in to fill that void, my father's departure left a deep and lasting scar on my young heart.

Living the life of a military brat until I was 9 and then continuing that nomadic existence even after my parents divorced also played into the pattern of loving and losing. When two of my sisters decided to move to my father's home in North Carolina when I was 14, I lost again. One sister returned two years later, but my brother took her place at my father's house. I didn't see him again for 6 years and another 10 years passed before our next visit.

Siblings and me post divorce.

Military life and the years that followed were hard on friendships too. Military kids learn to make new friends quickly, a good skill borne of necessity. We're resilient. I formed new friendships in each new town. But even though each new set of friends brought something wonderful into my life, I knew within a couple of years, give or take a few months, I'd be sobbing as we drove away again. When I was 16, my best friend in the world passed away unexpectedly, and an inner belief that "everybody leaves" only solidified. For a long time for me, there was nothing more sure than saying goodbye.

Trio of best friends during my 2 years in Wichita Falls, TX.

Redefining a relationship means saying goodbye to the hopes I had for it. Sometimes, it means losing what was once there, what was once good, and that means really acknowledging the bad things that happened which made the redefinition necessary. When I avoid, I don't really have to think about it. I feel fear or pain and then I avoid and just stay "safe" in my cocoon. Redefinition means I have to look deeply at what happened and make decisions.

So, I wrote a letter I'll never send. I laid out the series of hurtful situations and really acknowledged them. I had a right to be hurt. I had a right to be angry. I would have a right to redefine this person and my relationship with him/her as toxic and over if I wanted to. Because of this person's connection to another loved one, I won't go that far.

Today, I chose to redefine it as a "wedding and funeral" relationship instead. People are cordial at weddings and funerals. They're event oriented. They make small talk and comment on the couple getting married or the person who has passed. Their conversation is centered on the event at hand, and there are always many more conversations to be had with others there, so they don't have to linger, they don't need to delve into deeper topics or over-share or argue.

Redefining this relationship means I can call it a wedding and funeral relationship without as much of the old judgment I carried when I thought my only option was to hide. I can appreciate it for what it is. In the very least, I can appreciate who I am within it, someone safe and real within the context I have created.

First hike, first steps on the path back to me.

2014-02-09T02:01:00.002-08:00

A week ago today, I reread the "old me" blog post, looked at the beautiful day going on outside my window, and made a command decision. I would hike for the first time in much too long. I welcomed the fit of my old Merrills like the warm embrace of an old friend and took a deep breath.

As we set out (we being Richard, Michael, Evelyn, and me), I couldn't keep from smiling. The Bonneville Shoreline Trail is no Angels Landing or Half Dome. It's pretty easy and not far from the neatly planned neighborhoods nestled at the base of the foothills, but it's there. It's accessible. It's a HIKE!

Well, accessible depends on where you join the trail, I guess. We learned this the hard way after driving to a trailhead in Farmington to find a padlocked gate across the trail. I reacted...emotionally. I almost wrote that I reacted badly or poorly or some other judgmental word. I'm reframing my reaction to emotional because it was and I was.

That locked gate was a blow. I wanted to cry. I'd geared myself up. I'd gathered my resolve and my family members and was ready to do some heavy duty healing, and someone had barred my way. I felt defeated, angry, frustrated, and...scared. What if every trailhead was blocked? What if I truly CAN'T hike outside of the summer months. How will I make it? I can't. I won't. I hate this place. Why am I here? I can't make it here if I'm cut off from hiking.

After a few minutes of racing thoughts like the above, I realized I was experiencing the overwhelming emotions I've been trying to catch and work on. Taking a breath, I thought, DBT, Sarah. Use your DBT skills. What can you do right now?" I fumbled around in my mind for a bit and then remembered the concept of Radical Acceptance. Setting aside judgment and blame, I made a conscious decision to stop fighting the situation with the closed trailhead and I just accepted it. I said to myself, It is what it is. This situation is the culmination of countless past decisions and situations. It is what it is. Now, what can I do with it?

That question propelled my south to a trailhead in Centerville, where we'd originally made the hike back in 2009. No fences or gates barred the way, and soon, we were making the quick but relatively steep 200 foot climb to the trail.

A few minutes in, and I wanted to cry again. Once the kids were far enough ahead of me, I did. My mind was a whirlwind of frantic thoughts. It's been too long. I'm so out of shape. How did I ever do this before? How could I let myself get this weak? I can't...breathe. This is too hard. I don't want to do it anymore. But I do. But what if I can't? Oh, gosh. What if I can't? I used to be so strong. I used to love the climbs.

It's amazing how quick I am to turn on myself. To blame myself and shame myself.

Richard rubbed my back and spoke encouraging words. I took some breaths and urged myself on. I asked him to go on ahead of me to avoid too much distance between us and the kids and told him I'd do my best to not lag too far behind.

I had to stop a lot. I was acutely aware of my body, the clumsiness of it. I wasn't helped by the snow and a shoelace that needs replacing, leaving my right shoe on the loose side. It's clear I've let my core muscles atrophy to a surprising level. I can remember what it was to climb when my muscles worked together in concert. I remember balance. I remember feeling graceful and powerful and whole.

About halfway up, something started to change. I was still out of breath, still taking breaks to breathe every 10 feet or so, but I stopped berating myself and starting cheering myself on. Yes, you used to be strong and graceful and powerful. That just means you're going to be again. This is the first hike. No one should expect the first climb back after 2 years to be an easy climb. You don't get strong from doing easy things. You don't grow from easy. Dig in, Sarah. Get up there. You can do it.

When I got there, I found my smile. I found my breath. I found hope. I relished the opportunity to explore. I matched the kids' enthusiasm as we crunched through the snow, scouting out different routes and examining various paw prints. I came ALIVE.

In the places where we lost sight of the city, I breathed deep and pretended we were far away, off in the wilderness, at peace in our solitude. I became mindful of each step, really feeling the earth, each rock, the snow. I began to feel connected again.

In the places where the city was below us in full view, I sent out a silent message of peace and gratitude. Why do I live here? Because I love it here.

It wasn't a long hike, but it was a healing one. My smile, that deep, rested, peaceful smile, has stayed with me. It wasn't a perfect week, but it was a different one from so many weeks before it. I have a long way to go before I'll be back to the strong hiker I used to be. But halfway up that hill, the old me welcomed me back to the journey and cheered on my effort.

Emotionally, I can see the same atrophy and poor use that I've experienced physically. The words "I can't" come to mind more than I'd like to admit. I am not as emotionally strong as I used to be. I shrink from challenges I used to face head on. And when I turn the mirror on myself and see how far from the old me I've gone, I turn to blame and shame instead of rallying and cheering myself on. With every shaming thought, I fall farther.

So, what would it sound like to cheer the emotional me on?

Yes, Sarah. You used to be emotionally strong. You used to be powerful. You used to find gratitude and growth in almost every situation. You used to stare fear and uncertainty in the face and say, "I can DO THIS. That means you can get there again. No one would expect you to go through the last three years without some emotional scars. No one. And no one who knows you like I know you believes you can't get back to where you were. You don't get strong from doing easy things. You don't grow from easy. Dig in, Sarah. Get up there. You can do it.

The old me

2014-01-26T02:22:00.002-08:00

I had a moment with someone this past week that seemed to come right out of my DBT workbook. One of the "self destructive coping strategies" I've been employing is avoiding dealing with dysfunctional relationships. This week, I had to deal with one I avoided dealing with for too long last year, and it didn't end well.

To be honest, I've been trying to deal with it for months, stating my needs, setting boundaries, getting more and more firm each time lines were crossed. I've been ramping up the directness each time until I finally had to stop pulling punches, call the relationship what it was, and practically say "Take your dysfunction somewhere else."

A funny thing happened after that.

I started to think of hiking. It was almost instantaneous, this switch from a painful end of what I had hoped to be an enduring friendship to, "Hey...I used to hike...a lot...and it was powerful for me." I spent the next couple of hours scouring Photobucket and my external hard drive for old hiking photos taken from 2006-2010 and created a new photo album on Facebook titled "I hike, therefore I am."

Angels Landing, Zion National Park

It's hard to understand what happened, except maybe it's not. As sad as I am that my friendship can't progress, standing up and saying, "I won't go back to that unhealthy dynamic," was powerful for me. To quote my friend Tisha, I stood in my majesty, and I felt like I always do at the top of a steep trail I've climbed or at the end of a long, 8-10 mile solo hike. I felt personally powerful, and my mind jumped to a time when I'd felt that way before.

As I looked through the pictures of my hiking album, I saw "The old me." The old me was personally powerful, more centered, more open, less afraid. I think it might be good to consider what the old me was doing that helped her get there.

- Hiking...obviously. I hiked all the time. Any time the kids were with their dad for the weekend, I had a hike planned. When I had them, I hiked with them. I took my Red Rock girls on hiking field trips. My friends joked with me that I "lived" in Zion National Park. I was there at least once a month, usually two times, finding peace and strength in the quiet and finding power in the rugged climbs.

One of my many Zion hikes.

The difference: Without making excuses, I can say that the hiking season in northern Utah is much, much shorter than the year round hiking I used to enjoy in St. George. There are also no more kid free weekends since their dad moved back south and now only sees them about once a year. However, I didn't hike at all during the good season last year, my husband would gladly wrangle kids while I went on a much needed solo hike, and hiking with the kids is still a very viable option.

- Writing. I was writing all the time. My column, therapy assignments, short stories, poems, blog posts. Writing has always been therapeutic and cathartic, and during those old me years, I poured it all out in the written word, figured myself out, fixed myself up, and created the me I'd always hoped to be.

Sending column submission packets in hopes of syndication.

The difference: There's no excuse. I let writing go. I decided I didn't have the time and so I stopped. It's interesting to me how much movement has occurred just by committing to blogging again.

- Religion...or the lack thereof. The old me had complicated feelings about the religion of my birth and chose to take a break and reconnect with God in a more direct way, free of the shoulds and shame of the Culture of Perfection. I took apart my beliefs, examining each aspect individually to determine what I really believed at my core. This examination process brought me back firmly to church but with somewhat of a renegotiated relationship.

Viewing my church as a tourist would in 2007.

The difference: None. I am currently having complicated feelings about my religion and am again taking a break to reexamine what I believe and what I don't. I don't know if this path will lead back to full activity or belief like it did last time. Like the relationship mentioned above, I will not go back to the unhealthy dynamic of before. If I cannot be my best self within this church, I will be my best self outside of it. My best self is unwilling to hand her God given power over to anyone, regardless of their perceived authority or title.

- For the first 2 years of the old me period, I was unmarried.

And I took a lot of selfies...

The difference: This is a double edged difference. It meant I had more alone time, I had more opportunities to make unilateral, powerful decisions, and maybe I had more chances to grow because I didn't have the luxury of leaning on a romantic partner. However, I was lonely a lot. I was more frazzled and stretched thin with the demands of work, school, and single motherhood. And I sometimes used my single status as a means for isolation. I wouldn't trade the beautiful marriage I have, and I know it represents a net gain in my life. I should examine whether or not I am in a place of dependence or interdependence with Richard and how that has impacted my current emotional state.


No two ways about it. I love love.

- Friendships. I was definitely more social. Facebook was still in its early stages, so I spent more time actually conversing and going out with friends. I went to GNOs and movies and dinners and nurtured those relationships. I chose friends who were equally matched emotionally, neither dependent on me nor willing to allow me to become dependent on them. When I saw myself in them, in the ways in which we were alike, I felt strong and smart and together because they were and they chose me too.

Becca and me about to hit the Strip in Vegas.

The difference: I've moved 5+ hours away from some of those friends, so Facebook is a wonderful resource for keeping in touch. But I haven't cultivated the same kinds of relationships with women who live near me, even though I see those same wonderful qualities in these ladies. Some of that likely comes from feeling unworthy of those relationships...feeling altered and no longer seeing those same qualities in myself. The friendships I have cultivated have often proved dysfunctional, based on the other person's dependence and neediness which progresses until I can no longer sustain it and I avoid dealing with it until I lash out in frustration and the need for my own space. See above.

The overarching theme here is that I took time for me, to be me, and I had more to give of myself (and knew not to give too much). I had a strong and thriving passion list and because of it, a strong and thriving life.

My "quiet spot" in our house in Salt Lake.

Quickly, I should mention there are things about the current me that I prefer over the old me. My house is clean most of the time, for instance. My budget is more streamlined and efficient, thanks to the added income of a spouse but also to good budgeting on both our parts. I have a bachelors degree and am 1/3 of the way through my MS. We're going to buy our house this year. (Look at Sarah, giving herself credit!)

Okay, as always, insight isn't enough. What am I going to DO to set myself firmly on the path to effective old me coping strategies?

1. Writing. Doing it. It's helping.
2. Hiking. Centerville/Bountiful have easy foothill hikes I can do in spite of the cold weather. I'll plan a hike for this week, look for other winter accessible hiking I can do here, and also begin planning a trip south to hike in Zion within the next few months.
3. Religion. Going to keep doing what I'm doing.
4. Friendships. Plan a game night at my house and invite two or three couples to come. And then not chicken out.
5. Me time. Make myself a quiet spot in this house...maybe two or three. Find something fun and fictional to read.

And so I begin.

Or begin again.

I've got a DBT buddy.

2014-01-21T22:56:00.002-08:00

My DBT workbook arrived in the mail today. Just reading the first few pages made me want to cry. I see myself in so many of the situations described and I feel understood and validated. I feel hopeful.

I decided a week ago that while I want to walk this path toward PTSD recovery, I don't want to walk it alone. Therapy sessions are on my mind, and I know the day will come when I make some tough budget decisions to afford some. We're doing okay financially, but every extra penny is paying down debt in preparation for buying our house. When I tell the kids no to renting a Redbox movie or grabbing a soda with broken record of "We're buying a house," it seems absurd to spend much more on a therapy session.

Of course I know it's not absurd. Tough decisions will happen. I know they will, and I'll be better for them.

In the meantime, a friend of mine who has gone through a recent loss, a second traumatic loss of its kind in just a few short years has agreed to work through the steps of the DBT workbook with me. She ordered a copy for her Kindle, and we'll keep in touch with each other as we work through the exercises, sharing our experiences and motivating each other to keep going. We're kind of like weight loss buddies...but with mental health and healing.

I won't share her name or her specifics unless she'd like me to, but I want to say how grateful I am for this beautiful friend, for her willingness to help and be helped, for everything I learn from her, for knowing that I'm not alone.

Chickens and Eggs

2014-01-15T19:36:00.003-08:00

Photo by Catherine Shrout

I've never particularly cared about the advent of chickens and eggs and which found its way out from the primordial soup first. Lately, though, I've been dealing with a chicken or egg style question...

Do I neglect my appearance because of anxiety or do I have anxiety because I neglect my appearance?

It's a hard question to answer, mostly because the answer isn't nearly that simple. There are other variables involved such as my belief that many beauty standards are imposed on women because of old fashioned misogyny and greed, are based on a counterfeit idea that all women, regardless of age, should look like they're in their 20s, and perpetuate the problem of women being judged only by their outward appearance. I also think most beauty regimens take much longer than I'm willing to spend on something I don't find terribly important. In addition to that, as someone who works two jobs - one from home and the other in the middle of the night - it seems silly to worry about how I look. I mean, who's going to see it, right?

Of course, I see it.

Most of the time, it doesn't bother me. See my thoughts about beauty standards above. There's a reason I've stopped coloring my hair and avoid hairstyles that require a lot of time or product. It's just not high up on my list. Some days, though, I look in the mirror and I don't see someone who just marches to the beat of her own, more natural-looking drummer. The woman in the mirror looks exhausted, beaten, stressed out, disheveled, just plain sad-looking.

I've FELT exhausted, beaten, stressed out, disheveled, and just plain sad for a while now, so it shouldn't come as too much of a shock that I look that way. I can't help but admit, though, that the stranger in the mirror only reinforces all those feelings and makes me feel them all the more. It's a feedback loop where chicken creates egg and then egg creates chicken and again and again.

Today, I took a deep breath, went into my bathroom, and styled my hair. It didn't take much time. I just pulled it into a pretty pony tail under my right jawline and let the curls (thanks, genetics) cascade over my shoulder. I straightened my bangs and that was that. Then I got to work on some much needed eyebrow thinning and finished off with some make-up, not a lot...just enough to make me look more awake and alive.

I don't know if I felt more awake and alive after it was done, but I felt...cared for...maybe even worthy of care.

I don't believe the measure of a woman is in the shape of her hairdo or the color of her eyeliner. I don't believe any of us *need* to subscribe to beauty standards imposed on us by people who profit from our insecurities. I do believe that those little acts of self care meant something to me. A tiny step, but a good one.

I'm the man...the man with the plan

2014-01-13T04:27:00.002-08:00

Well, I'm the woman, but it doesn't rhyme as well.

So, the last post was intense, no? I've thought a lot about deleting it since I posted it, but I'm not one for deleting things, especially those things that are raw and real and need safe space to lie. So it will stay, at least for now.

The overriding question of my last post and of my life right now is whether this frightened, triggered, overwhelmed me is here to stay or if there's something I can do to change this. When I think of that question, I think "bouncing basketballs", calling to mind a scene from "What the Bleep" in which the main character is told that life is full of infinite possibilities, each happening in its own parallel reality, and the reality we end up with is the one we choose.

Photo by Stuart Seeger

So, there's a reality in which I stay broken, altered for the rest of my life and a reality in which I'm able to work and triumph over trauma again. And to be fair (and realistic), there's a reality in which I experience a mixture of the two. (And if the film is to be believed, infinite more realities I'm not thinking of.)

Today, I choose the basketball tied to work, change, and triumph. (Consequently, I acknowledge it will also be tied to backsliding, relapse, and struggle.)

The tools I'll be using to effect this outcome:

- This blog
- The Dialectical Behavioral Therapy Skills Workbook I just ordered from Amazon
- Meditation...I hope daily. Aside from buying the house, this was my only New Year's resolution.
- Maybe a couple of refresher sessions with a previous therapist (this one is tied to a basketball called money, so we'll see...)
- Other things I'll figure out along the way.

I'll journal my efforts and my results here to keep things real. I'm not willing to impose any deadlines or "have tos" on myself at this point. For now, this is a "something is better than nothing" approach that I hope will catch hold as my emotion regulation and distress tolerance improve.

Deep breaths. Deep, ragged breaths.

Photo by j9sk9s

Where I've been and where I am

2014-01-11T05:23:00.002-08:00

This post can go in so many different ways. I don't really know what to write. Just write, Sarah. Stream of consciousness never hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway.

Some days I feel broken. I worry I've been fundamentally altered by the stress of the last few years. If I'm being honest, I have been and it's 100% understandable on an emotional, psychological, and physiological level. I've had enough education to know the effects of the long term hyper-arousal that comes with PTSD. Every new class in my masters program only solidifies what I've already learned.

So, I'm altered...perhaps on a cellular level. I guess I need to figure out if I'm changed forever or if I'll ever get back that fire, that spunk I used to love about being me. Will I be able to look fear in the face, embrace it, and then move forward, or am I destined to remain this frightened shell of my former self?

In February 2006, I faced one of my greatest fears and climbed Angels Landing alone. Over the next two years, I climbed it three more times. Despite my nervousness, I faced my fears and went back to school. I dug deep and chose love when I started a relationship and eventually married my husband. I've done hard. I've done scary. I should be able to do this, right?

I don't think there's any way to explain what having 3 medically compromised kids can do to a mom. At least, what it's done to me. Maybe some people get used to emergency calls and emergency rooms and ambulances and MRIs and hospital beds and specialist visits and it just becomes part of life and it never terrifies them...or at some point it stops terrifying them.

There's a term in the psychological community for the good that can come from trauma. It's called Post Traumatic Growth. It's very real, and I think it was very real for me for a long time. A person who's suffered a moderate amount of trauma or who is genetically predisposed to cope more effectively with trauma can become stronger and healthier because of it. I did that. I did it with my childhood abuse. I did it with my divorce.

But even for the most resilient, exposure to trauma represents a curvilinear relationship. Repeated exposure to new traumas takes its toll. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger" only goes so far, and at some point, I passed the growth threshold and now I'm...altered.

I'm afraid.

All the time.

Every day.

Things that scare me:

Phone calls. (It's the school. Someone's had a seizure. Evelyn can't breathe. Someone's hurt. A child is in trouble. Someone's angry at me. Someone needs energy I don't have to give. Why are they calling? Please, don't call. Don't you understand I can't answer? How could I possibly answer? Stop buzzing, phone. Please, stop buzzing.)
Knocks at my door. (It's the police. Someone's dead. It's a neighbor or a friend or a salesman. It's the unknown and unknowable. Don't they know I can't face opening the door when I don't know who will be on the other side? Someone wants to come in, wants the energy I can't give them, wants answers or fellowship or conversation or everything a normal person has that I don't have right now. Why are you at my door? Why didn't you call first? Please don't call. I can't breathe.)
Sounds the kids make. Any sound that is not a word or not recognizable as a word is a potential seizure. I feel this fear...this panic every single day. Every day. Usually someone is just stretching or getting excited playing a Wii game. Sometimes, though, someone's having a seizure. (That was Michael. Is it Michael's turn to have seizures? Will they all have seizures someday? Will the healthy ones get sick? Is Miriam really better? That was Miriam, wasn't it? Is it Aaron? Did he take his meds? Why does he forget his meds? Why don't I remind him? What will happen when he's on his own? Will he fall and hit his head? Will he die and no one knows? Will it sound like this? Will they die? Will they die? Will they die?)
Richard commuting. (Is he okay? Has he crashed? Will the train derail? Will the police come and change my life forever? Will he die? Will he die? Will he die?)
My house. I'm afraid of how much I love it...how much there is to lose. (The third rental I've tried to buy from a landlord...why in the WORLD do I think it will work this time...that he won't sell it out from under us like the first or go back on his promises like the second? Why do I think this will work out after all the garbage that caused us to move here in the first place.) This after 2 years of honest, kind, and positive dealings with this landlord. This after we were just told we're within months of qualifying for the loan. This with no evidence whatsoever that anything will go wrong or is even in the process of going wrong. House trauma has been recurrent. The house trauma of two years ago was ugly, and it coincided with the medical, and it altered me.
Facing people who have hurt me or lost my trust. (I can't. I can't. The only way to do this is to be fake or rude, and I can't...) But I do... and usually I'm fake... and then I can't breathe. So I avoid them unless I can't. And then I walk around as a false self who smiles and doesn't breathe, and when it's over I say I'm glad I did it...that wasn't so bad...and then I wonder why the bones in my face hurt and why my lungs hurt and why my hands won't stop shaking. (And they'll read this and dismiss me. She's crazy, they'll say. No need to worry about anything she says. Poor Richard, though. Richard and his crazy wife. I used to think she was just obnoxious, but it turns out she's crazy after all).

I didn't used to be afraid of my own front door. Or the buzz of my phone. Or every second Richard spent between Layton and Draper. I didn't used to let hurt or betrayal cover me in fear and falsehood.

Trauma has had its way with me a few too many times, and I have come out the other side altered. What didn't kill me has made me afraid, has stolen my strength and taken my breath, has obliterated the person I used to know.

Daily Gratitude: Floor Presents

2012-12-28T14:06:00.002-08:00

Being a mom of five, I'm not one to choose favorites when it comes to the gifts my kids give me for Christmas. I do have to say, though, that this one was pretty great.

I'd actually say it was doubly great...because it's the second time I've gotten it.

I don't remember which kid gave it to me a couple of years ago, but get it I did. Obviously, I didn't take the requisite care to display this treasure somewhere safe, because another child found it floating around the house, thought, "Mom will LOVE this!", wrapped it happily, and put it under the Christmas tree.

When I was a kid, my father had a word for presents like this. He called them "floor presents" because he imagined (usually accurately) that our gift giving efforts involved us going into our rooms, finding something on the floor, wrapping it, and giving it away. A floor present could also be a small and poorly made craft item thrown together on the floor...often made from materials likely strewn across the floor.

He later apologized for teasing us about this practice when he hadn't given us the money to buy presents instead. Looking back, I'm kind of glad we didn't have the money. It would have been easy to go to a store with my parents' money, pick something from a shelf, and give it to a sibling. Going in to my room, with nothing to give but what was MINE...well, that took some thought, some sentiment, some sacrifice.

As a mom, I try hard to make funds available for gift giving on birthdays and Christmas, and you know what? They STILL give floor presents. The moment our tree was up and decorated this year, wrapped floor presents started appearing underneath it.

Every one of my kids knew we had a sibling gift exchange planned, and they knew we planned to take them out to buy gifts for us as parents. It didn't matter. To them, it wouldn't be Christmas unless rooms were ransacked and treasures were parted with. When I tried to stop them, reminding them we had money for that, I got responses of, "Oh, we know. We just want everyone to be able to open LOTS of presents!" and the mad wrapping would continue unabated. I stood back and watched their smiling faces and fell in love with them all over again.

So this year, I got a gift someone gave me two Christmases ago...and I got some nail polish that's probably been used more than once...and some lip gloss of questionable origin...and a pillowcase made in school for a grade...and a paper filled with promises of "I will make you a sandwich" and "I will do the dishes."

But most of all, I got to be reminded that having children who find joy in giving is the best gift of all.

The Night Before the Election...from the other side

2012-09-17T14:19:00.000-07:00

There's a poem making the rounds on Facebook retelling the story of the Night Before Christmas as a political fable in which Obama and his "henchmen" (yes, really...) break into the narrator's home and steal his wallet to give his hard earned cash to the deadbeats. Attributed to Anonymous, the poem ends with a warning that unless we want Socialism, we'd better get out and vote.

This my poetic response.

T'was the night before elections
And all thru' the town,
Tempers were flaring
Emotions ran up and down.

I, in my bathrobe
With a cat in my lap,
Had shut off the TV,
tired of political crap.

I went to my Facebook,
And what did I find?
An incendiary poem
That nearly blew my mind.

It painted Obama
As a money stealing jerk,
Giving hard earned cash
To those who don’t work.

That’s funny, I thought.
When I went through divorce
I collected that “handout”
As part of the workforce.

I worked long, hard hours
To make my ends meet,
And it still wasn’t enough
For my children to eat.

So I put them on Food Stamps
Oh, the gall that I had!
And I got help with childcare
What right did I have?!

My terribly sick daughter
Would have died without care,
So I got her on Medicaid
So she could breathe air.

How could I take that money,
That money I stole,
From hard working people
Who weren’t on the dole?

If the poem’s to be believed
I hatched the whole plan
With a man named Obama
To destroy this great land.

But wait! That’s not right.
All this happened before
President Obama took office.
Of that I am sure.

And it wasn’t Obama
Who built safety nets.
It was men and women in the past
From BOTH parties, I’ll bet

Screams of Socialism work well
When you preach to the choir
They get folks riled up
They raise lots of ire

So let’s take it further
Before our country dies!
Let’s root out programs built
by Socialism’s lies.

No more post office! No firemen!
No libraries, please!
No more Medicare for elders
No more rangers or police

Goodbye FEMA and OSHA
Get lost, public schools!
Didn’t you know you were socialists!
You’re breaking our RULES!

Get out, Social Security!
Let’s hold men’s feet to the fire
If you’re a working class stiff
You’ve no right to retire.

Newsflash on Socialism:
It’s been here awhile
Supported on both sides
Of the political aisle.

So I leave you to think
Because it seems you haven’t heard…
If your vote’s against Socialism, you don’t understand that word.

---Sarah Zarate Braudaway Clark, most definitely not anonymous

Daily Gratitude: Working from home

2012-03-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

I've been an employed mom for just about as long as I've been a mom. I've encountered a lot of opinions about that, some of them unkind. I was once told my choice to work outside the home was an example of my selfishness. I was only thinking of myself. Working was something I did for myself, to put myself before my family.

The person who said that seemed blind to the fact that my work was not undertaken to provide our family with luxuries but to make sure we avoided starvation and homelessness. I had a lot of "shoulds" and "supposed tos" thrown my way during that conversation. I was judged by the standards of an ideal that was not available to me. I vowed to never do the same to another mom who decided to go to work, no matter what her reasons (or my perceptions of them) might be.

I didn't have children hoping to leave them in the care of others every day. I spent most of my time as a working mom looking for something, anything I could do from home so that I could avoid the expense and the sadness of sending them to day care. Often, I embarked on new opportunities while still employed elsewhere, always with the hope that if I worked hard enough, I could build it into something that would be my main source of income.

15 years after my first child was born, I'm there. I've been there for two years now, working from home, helping make ends meet while still being available to my kids. It's everything I'd hoped it would be. It's not perfect by any means, but there's enough of the good stuff to make up for the downside.

I don't love trying to work while kids are arguing over game time and asking me to referee. I don't love the occasional late nights spent working after attending a school program or concert. I don't love feeling like I'm always at work.

But I love being here at the crossroads, saying goodbye as my kids leave for school, being here when they come home. I love being here when they have a sick day or a snow day or a vacation day. I love the flexibility of my schedule, the opportunity to put my family first as often as I can.

But you know...I always put them first. Even when I was working away from home, sometimes multiple jobs, it was always about putting them first. I was striving for the ideal at all times, striving for the chance to be here for them. The fact that I have it now doesn't change what I've always felt. It's always been about them.

If I had the chance or the desire to speak to that person who branded me selfish for doing what was necessary, I don't know what I'd want to say. Would she realize her opinion was short sighted? Or would she just decide that I've learned to be less selfish over the years and that is why I'm working from home instead of out of it. Maybe she'd think working from home is just as selfish as working outside it...after all, I enjoy my job, and I'm not always able the give the kids all of my attention.

I think the most important thing I can remember is that, for all of the shoulds she sent my way, the only real should I need to worry about is whether or not her opinion of me should matter. It shouldn't. I'm grateful for my kids. I'm grateful for the jobs that allowed me to help provide for them. I'm grateful for the chance to provide from them from home now. Selfishness just isn't part of the equation.