On Detaching and Attaching

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

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

In short, I had to detach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

I'm still learning.

Roller Coaster Ride

October 2012

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

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

Are you a complete idiot?

Nothing has changed!

You're in for a world of hurt!

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

He was confused.

Then hurt.

Then angry.

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

And so the pattern began:

• We would connect.

• I would get scared and back off.

• He would grow frustrated and livid.

• I would detach.

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

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

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

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

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Zombies

It's easy for me to look back at the mutant-monster B-movies of the 1950's and see how they reflected society's anxiousness over the advent of the Atom Bomb; so what does our current obsession with the Zombie Apocalypse say about us? Or, more specifically, me? Because I really, really love how zombies inject all kinds of fun into otherwise mundane aspects of life. For example:

I've mentioned the Run for Your Lives race before-- which is a 5k obstacle course crawling with the walking dead-- but recently, I discovered the perfect way to train for it! It's an app called Zombies, Run! and it turns my dreaded sprint intervals into a life-or-death escape from the zombie hoards. The fitness app is cleverly disguised as an interactive game; I'm cast as Runner 5, and am sent to collect supplies for Abel Township, a survivor camp. The story is interspersed between music {I've assembled my own end-of-the-world playlist} and when zombies attack, I have to put on the speed {hello GPS} to outrun them. It's surprisingly thrilling. I've found myself looking forward to the next mission with an eagerness I don't normally associate with exercise.

72 Hour Kits are just so much more appealing when they're marketed 'for use in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse'. :) And so is food storage:

And, of course, it's fun to escape reality with a good book or movie:

This facination must mean something, but I just can't help myself. :) Am I the only one?

That Place

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

That I have value simply because I am His.

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

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

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

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

 ****

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

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Before & Afters

This post is completely random, {and yet totally real in its this-is-what-I-did-this-weekend kind of way}  filled with poorly framed, terribly lit iphone photos to boot! But it's too much to share over Instagram, so here we go. :)

As I mentioned before, J's home office is becoming the family project room; so we've moved his computer into the main living area. Unfortunately, even without the big-screen TV in the shot, this made the living room look like The House of Screens: 

I decided to eliminate the kid's computer {on the left} and cover the two lampshades in matching fabric {Thomas Paul's Dahlia in Aegean} to unify the space. I also added white drapes to the smaller window to lighten things up. 

After:

The Family Computer Station before:

The Family Computer Station after:

Side note-- I'm still working on adding color to the lamp on the right, am painting the side table on the left, and plan to replace the desk chair with this one:

And while the main wall is still in progress, here's a mini before:

And after:

Already it feels lighter, but I really can't wait to hang the TV on the wall and replace the console with a huge line of these awesome drawers that my Dad scored for me:

I'm going to add library pulls to them and they're going to look sa-weet!

Next up: building an ottoman. How was your weekend?

Stuck

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

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

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

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

And yet, I remained detached.

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was stunned.

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

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

{to be continued}

Separation

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

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

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

Nevertheless, he agreed to move out.

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

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

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

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

We would be a family.

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