Our Wedding Day

A day late and a dollar short - or a week late and a completely different post.

Last Monday, March 2, was our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  I had a post in mind that I wanted to do and have up on that day.  Then my life got kind of complicated and it just didn't happen.  That post is still to come.  But I wanted to get something up for our anniversary, even if it's a week late, so here you go.  Wedding pictures and a bit of detail about our wedding day.

Bill and I met working at McDonald's.  Our first date was November 2, 1989.  We got engaged on December 27, 1989 - my twentieth birthday.  We planned to get married the following fall.  We soon realized we could either get married in the fall or in the temple (Mormon joke about not being able to keep our hands off each other), so we bumped the date up a bit.  We got our wedding license on Valentine's Day of 1990 and were married on March 2, 1990 - his twenty-third birthday (four months to the day after our first date).

Because we bumped it up, we had about two and a half weeks to get everything pulled together.  When I called my Grandma in Reno and asked what she was doing in two and half weeks, she guessed, "Coming to your wedding?"  Yup.  Then she offered to get me a dress and make my veil.  Cool!  She asked what style I liked and what my measurements were.  She said she would have my dress to me in time for the big day.  It arrived in the mail two or three days before our wedding.  That was the first time I'd seen it - and it was perfect!  Exactly what I would have picked out, and she had even lined it for the temple.

And that's pretty much all you get except for pictures and captions.  It was pretty uneventful, except, you know, we got married and had a reception.  I guess that kind of happened.

Now here are your pretty pictures.


We were married in the Salt Lake City temple.  It was overcast that day.  I love this photo because it doesn't just capture our temple, it also captures our flag (well, both of them because Utah's flag is in there, too).

We had a chocolate wedding cake.  It's chocolate inside, too.  We ran out of the sheet cake we were serving and had to serve this as well.  Bill and I only got one bite each, the ones we fed to each other as dictated by tradition.  We did freeze the top layer and each had a bite of that on our one year anniversary (also following tradition); that bite wasn't so good.  There's another layer in the back that you can't see.  The layers went around the center like a spiral staircase.  Our wedding topper was a crystal Salt Lake Temple on a round mirror.  I still have that, although it got broken in half by one of our children when she was small.  I'm not going to name names.

As you can probably tell from the cake photo, we had our wedding reception in the "cultural hall" of our church.  That means we had it in the gym.  We were fine with it at the time.  It was free and looked beautiful when decorated.  But the background of this photo has always bothered me just a little.  I wish we had a photo of the cake with a nicer background.  Oh, and there's no photo of us feeding each other the cake.  Our photographer was gone by then.  Our friend took a picture, but his camera freaked out and the pictures came out all blurry.  No big deal.

These are all of our family and friends who were able to make it to Salt Lake.  Several of the people in this photo have passed on now, which increases the tender feelings in my heart for it.  The guy on the right with his arm on the shoulder of the lady with dark hair is my husband's twin brother.  Fun fact: he had hernia surgery the day before.  But he still made it there to support his brother, and I'm grateful for that (even though he was angry at me for years for stealing his birthday; he might still be).

Only some of them were able to come inside for the ceremony.  In order to enter the temple, each person must have a temple recommend.  In order to have a temple recommend, you need to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and be living by the standards required.  It's a long list.  If you want to know what's on it, I suggest you go to lds.org and look it up.  As far as I knew, no one that was unable to come in was upset about it.  They understood and respected our beliefs.  My dad wasn't able to come in, but he fully supported me getting married in the temple anyway.  In the temple we are married legally and sealed for time and all eternity spiritually.

I'm pretty sure these alcoves were designed just for photo opportunities like this.

And this.  Isn't it pretty?

It is a little tricky to get into and out of though.  This is a picture of him helping me down.  It's quite significant because I was stubbornly independent back then and rarely let anyone help me with anything.  Thanks, honey!

These doors are another must-have photo spot.  They are gorgeous and somewhat imposing in real life.

I call this the dreamy-filter shot.

Notice how the grass is all brown.  It was very early March in Utah, we were lucky to not have snow on the ground.  But I honestly didn't even notice it that day.  I'm not one of those girls who spent my whole life planning my wedding and cared about every little detail (as evidenced by the dress story).  On my actual wedding day I wasn't stressed about details either.  As long as he and I both got to the temple and got married, nothing else mattered much.

Same shot, only this time we're dreamily gazing into each others eyes.  Or something like that.  Knowing my husband, he was probably doing everything he could to not laugh.  Remember the episode of Friends when Chandler and Monica are planning to get married and they're trying to get engagement photos taken but they all look horrible because Chandler can't smile for photos to save his life?  Yeah, it's like that.

This tree is another popular photo spot.  It was a beautifully shaped tree.  Unfortunately I had no idea there was that electrical box in the shot until after we got the photos back.  Really, I was so unconcerned with details I let my mom pick the photographer (and all the decorations and food, except for the cake) and we just let the photographer walk us around and take pretty much whatever photos he wanted.  Most wedding photographers weren't nearly as creative back then  - in the olden days.

Another dreamy-filter photo.  Man, we look young!

This is probably my favorite photo.  That dress really was gorgeous.  There was actually a small train, but I was able to button it up to make walking easier.  My mom insisted on this photo because she loved the detail on the back so much.  I'm really glad she did.  Didn't my Grandma choose well?  And that's the veil she made for me.

This is inside the church where we held our reception (in that cultural hall I mentioned above).  Doesn't it look pretty?  Okay, so in retrospect our backdrop looks like the backdrop for prom photos, but I liked it at the time.

His mom did the flowers.  We used silk flowers.  I wanted to keep my bouquet (which I wanted very small).  I wanted it to still look good years later.  I still have it and it does.  He was very excited to wear a tux and insisted on one with tails.

For years, Bill said this was his favorite photo.  I think it's because he got to be the focus for a change.  It also has that woman-behind-the-man feeling.  This is the first time I've noticed the metal folding chair and the curtains that sparkle like they're from an old gameshow.

Now this is his favorite.  It was my mom's favorite, too, and the only one she got a print of to hang at her house.  I like it now although I didn't when we first got them.  That whole incredibly-judgmental-of-all-photos-of-myself thing.

And that's all I've got for today.  There are a few more, but I haven't scanned them yet.  We didn't have groomsmen and bridesmaids in matching outfits.  We asked our friends to serve as honorary groomsmen and bridesmaids and told them just to wear something that matched our color scheme (black, white, and dusty rose - don't judge, we were just coming out of the eighties).  We didn't have a long formal line (as most people did at Mormon wedding receptions).  It was just us and our parents.  We initially wanted to skip the line all together, but my mom freaked out at that scandalous idea.  The much smaller line was the compromise.  Everyone who came through the line told us how awesome it was to not have to shake hands with and talk to a bunch of people they didn't know and then awkwardly stand next to them while waiting for the line to progress.  No, I guess they just thanked us for the small line, but that's what they really meant.

Anyway, Happy Anniversary to us!

A Valentine's Day Post - I Know, a Little Freaky Coming From Me

I am not big on romance.  Lovey-dovey, schmoozy, baby talk - all lost on me.  Or, even worse, they irritate me.  I don't read romance novels and I don't generally watch chick flicks.  My friends have seen me roll my eyes and gag at book club when there's too much love story in the book we've chosen.  My husband has been rejected (sorry, honey) when he's gone that route, too.

But every once in a while I feel the need to join the love brigade.  (Actually, I try to be loving most of the time.  It's just not easily recognizable by the people around me.)

Today, my husband and I are going to share ten reasons we each love the other.

I'm not going to call mine a top ten, because I don't want to take the time to organize them that way and I might leave out something important.  It's just a list of ten; I could easily come up with many more.

Ten reasons I love my husband:
1.  He loves me.  Without fail.  No matter what, he loves me.  This matters more than I can say and is the one thing that keeps me going.
2.  He believes in me.  Enough that he helps me believe in myself when I'm not sure I do.
3.  He thinks I'm beautiful.  For real.  When he says, "I love your body," he means it.  And since I often don't love my body, that helps.  And when he looks at me like he's the luckiest man on the planet because he has me, I know he truly feels that way.
4.  He trusts me.  With other men.  With our money.  With our home.  With our kids.  With his heart.  Even with his dvds (usually). ;)
5.  He's willing to learn and grow.  He's taught me a lot about being humble.
6.  He doesn't mind making a fool of himself (which sometimes makes me crazy).  He's open to making mistakes.  I admire this in him, mostly because I have such a difficult time with it.
7.  He wants to be the man of my dreams.  He tries to be what I want.  He tries to talk to me the way I want.  He will change his clothes when I ask him to.
8.  But he also wants to remain true to who he is.  He will tell me when I've pushed too far.  He will stand his ground when necessary.
9.  He went to therapy to save our family and our marriage.  There is no way for me to express how vital this was and how much it means to me that he would go, participate, and know when he needs to go back for a tune up.
10.  He supports me.  He loves watching me succeed.  He wants me to soar.  He's willing to share me with the world.  He is happy for me to be me and never tries to change me.

See, wouldn't you love him, too?

And here's his list -

Top Ten Things Bill Loves About Robin:
1.  Your hair and the fact that you are not afraid to try new things with it.  (This will make more sense in another post, coming soon.)
2.  Your lack of jealousy of me having friends that are women.
3.  Your trust in me. 
4.  That you are always right but are not afraid to be wrong and can admit when you are.
5.  You love me - even though I'm a non-believer.  This should be number one.  It means a lot to me.
6.  Your love for people even when you don't agree with their choices.
7.  I love how well you have raised our kids.
8.  How you don't let pain stop you.
9.  Your humility and forgiveness.
10.  You stayed with me and helped me become a better person even though you had to crawl through the mud to get me there.

I love everything about you.

We're coming up on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary (watch for a special post that day, March 2).  We've gone through a lot to get here.  And I think we are closer and more in love than we've ever been.  We just fit.

My Husband's Zentangle Inspired Art -- and a Valentine!

When I first started doing Zentangle art I was surprised at how simple it could be.  I remember thinking, "Anyone could do this.  Well, anyone except Bill because he can't draw a straight line."  I love him and he's very good at many things, just not anything that has to do with pen and paper.

Imagine my surprise when he came home from work one day and told me that he'd found himself doodling while waiting for something to process at work and wondered if I could teach him to tangle.  What?  Really?

I tried not to let my skepticism show about his chances of success.  "It doesn't matter if it's any good,"  I thought.  "As long as he enjoys it."  Did I believe that?  Kind of.  But I'm a bit of a perfectionist and knew I might be very judgmental of his efforts.  And, honestly, at first I was.

It wasn't simple for him.  His lines were shaky.  He made up weird patterns.  And if you compared it to mine it looked kind of childish.  But that's not what art is.  It's not about everything being the same.  It's not about things being straight and exact.  It's about expressing yourself.

His style is very different from mine.  He isn't as precise (which I know sometimes bothers him).  But he is willing to take chances and jump right in -- yes, like a child.  He enjoys it.  He is proud of it.  And so am I.

I am surprised at how much happiness it brings him.  I am surprised he's stuck with it.  And I am impressed with the progress he's made.

And today, Valentine's Day, he impressed me again.

I am a minimalist.  I don't like things.  I don't want to receive stuff.  Holidays are tough for me because people always want to give me things and I have to pretend to be glad they did when I'm really just thinking, "Oh, great.  More stuff."  (Except for cookies or homemade bread or something like that; those are always welcome -- yum!)

So today when he told me he had a surprise for me for Valentine's Day, I was trying to prepare myself.  Be nice.  Be grateful.  Fake it.  Remember it's from his heart.  Even though you've told him a million times you don't want more stuff.  This is how he shows love; try not to stomp on it (like I have so many times before).

As it turns out, I didn't have to pretend to like it or pretend to be grateful.  Because he made me a tangle!  He knew I didn't want stuff.  He wanted to do something for me, to show his love.  It was perfect.  He used tangle patterns I love.  He used blue and green (his favorite color and mine) to make it represent both of us together.  He even included a Star Trek insignia (inverted) because I love Star Trek.

It was wonderful and sweet and I love him for the effort he put forth and for showing through his offering that he knows me for real. 

So, as my Valentine's Day gift to him, I want to share his art on my blog.  Starting with his valentine.

Isn't it sweet?

His first piece, as he learned the patterns.

He was going for a space theme.  I think he nailed it!

His mountain landscape.

Here's the deal.  Valentine's Day isn't a holiday I particularly care for.  It's another day with too many expectations.  It's another day that makes too many people feel bad.  And the world's idea of romance is cheesy and shallow to me.

But if we want to boil it down to its simplest form, it's about making sure the people we love know we love them.  And his gift to me did that.

It was a good Valentine's Day.

An Interesting Blessing

I have been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember.  To the point of shunning chivalry and sometimes hurting myself because I was too stubborn to let anyone lighten my load, figuratively or literally.

Over the years I've learned to accept help a little more and even sometimes request it.  I've learned that I'm not enough to take on the world all by myself.  This used to scare me.  Now that I've grown a bit and found some people I can trust, it is a bit of a relief.  Because now I understand that I'm not meant to take the world on alone.

But one area I didn't seem to learn this was in my marriage.  Oh, I did become interdependent with my husband.  Especially financially when my health no longer allowed me to work outside the home.  But there was still this I-could-get-by-without-you-I-don't-really-need-you thing left over from all those years of my independence and our struggles.

For so many years I have been his strength, his buffer.  We both knew that if our marriage ended, as it looked like it would more than once, I would struggle financially but be okay otherwise; he would be a basket case and be lost without me.

But recently that's changed.  We tend to pull together in crisis (thank heavens).  So his job loss, while incredibly stressful in other ways, has been good for our relationship.  We've become closer.

That's not the part that surprised me.  The thing that surprised me is what happened during my last PTSD episode (which still isn't completely over, by the way, but is improving).

This last PTSD episode has included so much fear (it always does).  It's tough for me to leave the house.  It's hard to be around people.  I'm claustrophobic.  I don't want anyone to touch me or talk to me too much.  I try not to visibly cringe when others come near me, but I definitely cringe inside.  The nerves in my skin feel like they are all hyper-stimulated at once.  My skin hurts.  And the thought of someone touching me scares me like when someone comes up to slap your back when you have a bad sunburn.

None of that is new.  I get that way every time my PTSD is triggered.

The interesting part is this.  My husband has become my buffer.  He gets between me and what scares me.  Quite often.  He'll take the conversation for me.  He'll sit between me and others.  He'll field phone calls and visits at the door when I just can't face them.  I feel safer when he's with me.  He's become my protector in a very real way.

For many of you, this may sound like a condition you've always had with your spouse.  Why am I making a big deal of it?  Because it's not something I've ever had with my husband.  It's not something I've ever allowed.  It's not something he's ever seen me need.  Being protective isn't his natural response when I'm in trouble.  He's seen me fight my own demons too many times to think I need him.

But this time I've needed him.  And he's come through for me.  As horrible as this episode has been, and continues to be, it's been worth it.  Because it's allowed a new type of intimacy between me and my husband.  I am so grateful for that.

Trusting in God's Timing

Here's the thing.  I do.  I really do.  I trust that He knows what He's doing and everything is going to work out okay.  Eventually.

It's the eventually thing that sucks.

Why can't it be now?  Why do I have to watch week after week as my husband goes through interview after interview and disappointment after disappointment? 

When my husband was laid off I wasn't worried.  Really.  Not worried at all.  In our twenty-three years of marriage he's been laid off eleven times.  He's good at finding a job.  He's highly employable.  He's a hard worker and a loyal employee. 

But it's been nearly two months now and my relaxed attitude is pretty much gone.

I love him and it's so hard on him to be rejected over and over.  He wonders what he's doing wrong.  He struggles with depression and feelings of low self-worth.  He tries to stay positive and keep his hopes up, but then those same hopes crash every time he's passed over for a position.

It breaks my heart.

I try to help him fight the depression.  I believe in him and tell him so.  I value him whether he's employed or not.  But that only helps so much.  He still questions his worth when he can't support his family.

And I've been really struggling with depression, too.

I feel so powerless.  I wish I could get a job and help out, but my health just won't allow it.  I really can't do anything to help him interview better or find better job opportunities.  All I can do is support him and try to manage our home.

And the stress of trying to keep our home afloat makes me feel like throwing up a great deal of the time.

We are receiving unemployment, which is less than half of what we were earning before.  We have cut every expense we can.  We have thousands of dollars in medical bills, some of which have gone to collections.  We have had to ask our daughter to help with some costs.  We've had to ask my dad for money.  And we've had to go to our church for food and help with the bills.

I am grateful that these things are available, but don't let anyone kid you.  It sucks to have to ask for help.  A lot.  Being an adult and not being able to pay your own way is a pretty major kick in the emotional teeth.

If I could just see down the road a bit, see when it's going to get better.  Then maybe I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about how I'm going to keep the lights on and the medical debtors at bay.

God's smart.  He knows what He's doing.  But I want what I want and I want it now!  I want my husband to get a job.  Now!  I want him to feel valued and productive again.  Now!  I want him to be proud of himself again.  Now!  And I want us to be able to pay our own way again.  Now!

And yet, when I pray tonight, when I converse with God and express my gratitude and ask for what I want, I will still include, "If it be thy will."

Because I do trust Him.  Even if I feel like throwing up while waiting.

Any Man of Mine

For the first thirty-five years or so of my life I let other people do most of the choosing for me.  They dictated the kind of person I should be.  They told me the things I should like.  They told me what behavior was appropriate and what wasn't.  And I fell into line. 

The reasons why are numerous.  I wish I'd realized earlier that I had choices.

It was around age 35 that I first went to therapy.  Again, the reasons why are numerous.  It was a life saver in a very real sense.  And it was there that I learned I can choose.  If I don't like something about my life I can choose to change it.  I can choose things that make me happy even if the people around me don't like it.  It was a rebirth.  I was deciding who I was for the first time.

It was an incredibly empowering time.  But there were still difficulties.  I had to learn and develop ways to get through those difficult times.  Those people who'd had control over me for so long didn't give that up easily.  My tendency to surrender to their will and be bullied into submission didn't go away after one session -- not even after many sessions. 

New habits and thinking patterns are hard.  It takes time and a lot of work to change who you are, whether you like who you were or not.  And, unfortunately, I couldn't convince my therapist to travel everywhere with me and give me the little nudges I needed in the tough moments.  The moments in between sessions were killers.

That was kind of the long way to tell you about my Power Songs.  I found various things that kept me empowered between sessions, and my Power Songs were some of the best.  Three cds of very personal songs that helped me remember what I wanted and why I was working so hard and that it would all be worth it.

One of those songs was Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine."  It felt very empowering.  It felt full of self-determination.  It was all about teaching people how you want to be treated, which is a big deal in therapy.

My husband mostly loved my Power Songs.  He (eventually) supported the changes I wanted to make and the new person I was becoming.  He would sing with me when I played my Power Songs.  Except that song.  He hated it.

I assumed it was because it was country.  I'm a fan; he's not.  But when I asked him why he said something along the lines of, "Have you listened to how it talks about men?"

I'm gonna tell you all the truth.  How it talked about men hadn't ever crossed my mind.  Those first stages of therapy were incredibly selfish times.  They had to be.  But it meant that I was so worried about how I was treated that I didn't consider how he was treated.

The song basically says a woman can behave any way she wants and the man better shut up and love it and behave the way she wants.  He better tow the line.

It's often what our society teaches.  It's what my mother modeled.  I believe it's a leftover from the feminist movement of the seventies.  It's the old story of the oppressed rising up and oppressing their oppressors.

But it's not healthy.  It's not good for us as women either.  It's just bullying in a different form.

Learning to treat each other with respect has been a steep, uphill climb for both of us.  Neither of us was taught this growing up.  It wasn't modeled in our homes.  Sarcasm and emotional manipulation and bullying are the languages we learned.  Teaching him how I wanted to be treated was only half of the solution.  Learning how he wanted to be treated was equally important. 

Over time I've learned that the most empowering relationship, the most healthy relationship, is one of mutual respect.  One that makes each person feel valued.  One that's not all about me or all about him but about us.  As a unit and individually.  We matter.

What are My Options When My Husband is Mean?

I get this question over and over on my other blog.  The post that gets hit the most by internet searches is My Husband is Mean to Me and the Kids.  Women who are struggling search the internet and find my blog.  They are in ugly situations and don't know what to do.

They read what I wrote.  They understand too well because it fits their lives.  They ask me what to do.

And I have no idea how to answer them.

When I was in the middle of it, I didn't know what to do.  And I didn't dare talk to anyone about it to try to get answers.  I didn't think anyone would believe me.  I was afraid it would make my husband angry.  I thought it was a sign that I wasn't good enough.  I didn't try enough.  I was a quitter.

I don't believe those things now.  I'm better and he's better and I wish that for everyone who reads my blog and feels a kinship.  But I don't know how to make it happen for you.  And it's not the only correct outcome.

My husband had a breakthrough moment.  Then we both had a lot of therapy.  He got better.  He got worse.  I got better.  I got worse.  We even separated for a while.  And after years of hard work by both of us we are good.  Almost all the time.  But I don't believe most abusive relationships will work out like this.

And I remember feeling like I didn't have options.  I was trapped.  I couldn't support myself and the kids without him.  If we divorced, he would have the kids some of the time on his own and I wouldn't be there to protect them.  What if I was wrong and things weren't as bad as I thought they were?  What if he was right and I was blowing things out of proportion and it destroyed our marriage?  What if I ruined his life because I didn't work hard enough at our marriage?  How could I handle the embarrassment of a divorce?  How badly would I damage my children if we divorced?  How badly was I damaging my children by staying?  If I divorced him, he could choose to make my life a living hell.

I was so scared of taking the route of divorce.  I didn't want to be with him.  I prayed he would leave me.  On really bad days I prayed he would die.  Anything to relieve my suffering and protect my children.  Without me having to take that horrible step I didn't want to take.  There were too many things I couldn't predict and control.  That's what made it so scary.  And after so many years of abuse, I didn't believe in myself anymore.  I didn't believe I could make it.

I didn't know my options.  I know them better now.  But I don't know all the options.

I know that I can leave without explaining myself.  I know I can call the police and have him removed from the home if he is threatening us or in a rage.  I know I can get a restraining order against him.  I know I can get therapy and become healthy myself even if he chooses to never change.  I know I can talk about it to others.  I know I can tell him how I want to be treated.  And I know I have to be willing to stand behind my words if none of this changes him.  Because he won't change unless he wants to -- no one will, no matter how much someone else wants them to.

I'm asking for help now.  These women cry out to me.  Often, they post anonymously so I can't even respond to them.  But I'd like them to have answers.  I like them to see options.  I'm asking for help from anyone who reads this and knows something.  If you've had experience with an abusive marriage, and know options, please share them.  Any info is welcome.  Therapists, lawyers, religious leaders, police officers, and those who've been there.  Please comment and share what you know.  Please share this with others who may know and ask them to help.

Please comment with respect.  Please don't judge or preach.  Please don't tell these women what to do, just help them see options.  Each woman needs to listen to her heart and choose for herself.  I recommend lots of prayer if you're a believer.  I recommend therapy if you possibly can.  I recommend writing if you don't dare talk to anyone yet.

Please try to believe in yourself again.  You do have options.

Simple Joys: My Bed

I was the only girl in my family, so I was the outlet for anything feminine for my mom.  Decorating.  Shopping.  Clothes.  Whatever.  And that's why I grew up with a beautiful canopy bed.  Dark wood.  Yellow and white canopy, bedspread, and pillow sham.  It was beautiful.  With or without the canopy, it was the only bed I used from the time I was four until I got married.

When we first got married we tried using his twin mattresses and my twin mattresses to make a bed on the floor.  That didn't work out very well so we ended up buying some very used queen mattresses (kind of gross now that I think about it).  We were grateful for them, even on the floor. 

Through the years we got a frame, a headboard, new mattresses, and eventually a big beautiful bed.

This bed was glorious!  Queen size mattresses, but the bed itself was larger than a king size.  I remember when we saw it on the showroom floor.  Dark red wood.  Very regal.  Throne-like.  Imperial.  I liked it; my husband loved it.  Then we got it home and realized our bedroom was no where near as big as a showroom floor.  It fit, but there wasn't much room to spare.

It kind of became an albatross around my neck over the years.  But my husband still loved it so we kept it and just tried to arrange the room around it.

A few years ago when we decided we needed separate rooms, I wanted him to have that bed.  But his room is in the basement and there is just no way it would fit.  So I kept the bed I didn't really like because it seemed the practical thing to do.

And then I finally came to a place where I was ready to be true to myself, practical or not.  I didn't want the bed.  I still wanted to use my queen mattresses, but wanted something much less gaudy.  Something you could barely tell was there.  And I remembered an old bed in my parents' basement.  My bed.  My first bed.  The one before the canopy bed.

It's iron, painted white.  Chipped.  It was a full-size when I had it as a small child.  At some point it had been given to a neighbor who promised to give my parents first dibs if they ever got rid of it.  A few years ago they were ready and contacted my mom.  She said she'd love to have it back.  And it turns out that they'd altered it so it was now queen size.

My parents used it for a while in a spare room, for when family visited.  But they have since downsized and didn't have a place for it.  It was just being stored.

My mom was thrilled when I asked for it.  I think it belonged to a great-aunt or something (the story is debated).  And it's perfect.  A supportive iron frame connected to a sparse, white iron headboard and footboard.  Almost invisible in the room.  And I recently acquired a chenille bedspread similar to the one I remember stroking as I lay on it as a child.  It brings me tender joy every time I see it.

Fortuitous, destiny, divine intervention.  However it came to be, I'm just glad to have my bed back.

My Own Misbehavior

I wish I could say my husband was the only one who was abusive in our relationship.  With all my heart I wish I could say that.  But it's just not true.

Growing up I never fought back.  My abusers were always bigger and stronger and more powerful than me.  I didn't think there was anyone who could protect me.  I learned not to cry because it only angered my abusers more.  My best weapons of survival were to hide or acquiesce.  I did my best to stay out of sight.  When I couldn't do that I just tried to be quiet and do what they wanted me to do.  I became excellent at reading the emotions in the room so I could sometimes head off an attack by changing my behavior or leaving.

I promised myself I would never stay with a man who was abusive.  If he hit me, I was gone.  Physical abuse is easy to recognize and prove.  When I was pregnant with our first child my husband and I got into a heated argument.  I stepped in front of him to keep him from storming away.  He shoved me out of the way hard enough that I fell to the ground.  I let him go.  When things cooled off I told him if he ever did anything like that again I would leave.  He never did.

Physical abuse is a quick blow (or several).  Emotional abuse is slow torture.  It isn't usually evident to others.  But it eats your soul.

I had been unhappy with the way my husband treated me and the kids for a long time, but I didn't call it abuse.  I didn't recognize it for what it was.  Mostly because it was so familiar.  It was how I'd grown up.  I remember the moment I knew.  It was when I heard myself telling the children, "Please be as good as you can so daddy won't get mad."

What a horrific moment.  What an awful responsibility to dump on a child.  A responsibility that was in no way theirs.  That's when I started to search for a better way. 

Instead of trying to placate him I began standing up to him.  In the only way I knew how.  I yelled.  I demanded.  I criticized and name called.  I threatened.  I demeaned and mocked and shamed.  I'd only seen my mom stand up to my dad a few times and this was how she did it.  It was what my emotions were shouting at me to do.  My heart said protect the children, so I stood between them and the raging lion.  With a whip and a chair.

It would be years before I knew a better way.  And after he started to change it was a long time before I saw how awful I had been to him.  In defense or not, my actions had been emotionally abusive as well.  Neither of us knew how to deal with these things in an emotionally healthy way.

One or both of us has been in therapy now off and on for about six years.  We have generations of unhealthy behavior to unlearn.  We both have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which means sometimes we are triggered and find ourselves back in those moments when we were powerless and terrified.  We are still working to get healthy and strong.  We still mess up.  We are still sometimes unkind to each other.  We still often see the other as an enemy and forget we're on the same team.

But we are so much better than we used to be.  I am proud of us for all the hard work and progress.  There are so many horrible things we experienced as children that we were able to protect our own kids from.  So many emotional battles we've fought so they won't have to.

We're cleaning up the line as best we can.  Breaking the chains that bound us.

An Abusive Husband, part three

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.
For the second part of our story read this.

Today I offer the final part of the story:  what happened when he saw the truth.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART THREE)

I started to work with a friend from an old job.  He is a very sensitive and caring man who understands women (and no he isn't gay).  But when I would talk to him at work and tell him how nuts my wife was he would always tell me where I was wrong.  He was very good at it because he can talk both male and female.  He had been through a lot of therapy, too.

Robin and I were about done with marriage and I was sick of all the accusations of being abusive.  I still loved her and didn't want to divorce but she just wasn't getting it.  Then one day we had a meeting, just her and me.  I was finally to the point where I really wanted to understand what she was trying to say.  I don't know if she explained it to me better that time or I finally listened but I got it.  It was the yelling, putting down and getting even that was the abuse.  The seething hatred when I was angry.  The fact that everyone at home was walking on egg shells around me so they wouldn't trigger another outburst from the angry man.

Holy cow, what an eye opener that was.  I love these people and they all feel like I hate them.  They walk on egg shells around me.  My wife and kids.  It was a shot to my heart.

But how to fix it, for now I see just what a bastard I am.  Anger was my nature.  I couldn't control it.  It would explode in me and I had to yell or I would be violent (I never was but it was because I could yell at those I was angry with).  I also knew that my OCD triggered my anger and how was I going to fix that?

That's when I started therapy (or thereabouts).  We found Dr. Dan.  Robin, bless her, saw my horror when I finally understood and we decided to work together to beat this thing.  I was ready.

It was really hard.  I had to learn how to control my anger.  I had to face issues from my past that I wanted to leave alone.  I had to trust Dr. Dan.  (Don't think that wasn't hard.)  I had to learn how to be a real man.  A real husband and father.  I don't always win in my daily fight to control my anger or my OCD, but I win most days.  I've learned that you can change.  You can control anger.  I'm to the point now where I hardly ever get angry anymore.  It's been a long road and I've had a lot of help.

The most important thing I've learned in this whole process is that you have to accept the fact that you are wrong.  Be humble enough to be told you're being a jerk and realize you are but you can change.  Your wife isn't trying to control you.  She loves you and is trying to help you reach your potential.

Thanks for helping me be a better man, Robin.

An Abusive Husband, part two

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.

This is the second part of my husband's story: we got married and things got ugly.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART TWO)

I finished my 2-year mission and came home and that's when I met MisssRobin.  I was still very religious and active in my church but I had anger.  Robin was awesome.  Good looking, smart and would play with me in a snarky way.  She was a tease but then again so was I.  I fell in love with her so fast.

We got married and that's when things changed.  She is right about almost everything and she is very strong willed.  I, however, am not right about most things but won't admit it for self esteem reasons.  I am also strong willed and at the time was of the opinion that it's my castle and you're my property.  That's where it gets hard for women to understand I think.  How can you love someone if you think they are your property?  But that is how I was raised.  I'm the man, she's the woman.  It's my job to provide for her and keep her safe and it's her job to do as I say.

I became everything I hated in authority and didn't even notice.  I also suffer from OCD so my perception of reality isn't always on the mark.  Things would often make me angry that wouldn't bother other people.  When I got angry I would be mean to the person I was angry at.  I hated them for the time I was angry.  I wouldn't hit them or be physical, but I would yell and ignore and withhold.  I would scheme of ways I could get even.  "You won't do this for me then I'll not do something for you."  And I thought it was fine that I acted that way.  After a few days of cooling off, I would feel horrible and apologize and then everything was fine.  (How naive I was.)

Years into our marriage, Robin started telling me that I was being abusive.  I was shocked.  What the heck is she talking about?  I've never hit her or the kids.  I would think that I should hit her so she can see what abuse really is.  I talked to friends at work about it (all male) and they would agree with me.  What does she mean?

Then she started to tell me it was emotional abuse.  WHAT IS SHE SMOKING?  Emotional abuse?  What is that?  In my mind it was an imaginary thing.  I didn't really have emotions other than hate, anger and love.  I had never even heard of such a thing as emotional abuse and if there was such a thing then she was abusive to me.  She would not talk to me for days after one of my explosions.  She was always complaining about me.  ME, the guy who was working every day so that she could stay home.  40 hours a week and all I asked for in return was for my family not to trigger my OCD and let me be the king of the house.  It took years, but things started to get ugly between us.

Read more here.

An Abusive Husband, part one

I have written very openly about the difficulties in my marriage, although it's primarily been on my other blog.  Many people have commented to ask if my husband knows that I write about him and the things he's done.  He does.  He reads almost everything I write; I hide none of it from him.  Sometimes the things I write are difficult for him.  It's not so much that he doesn't want people to know what he's done, it's that he's so sad that he did those things.  But he has read the comments.  He has seen how many people are grateful that I share our story.  He has felt their gratitude for sharing what we've learned.  He is proud that I have been able to help others.    And he is courageous enough to allow me to share the story of our struggles.

This weekend he surprised me with a grand step of bravery.  He opened his heart and wrote his story.  So that I could share it on my blog.  Because he believes it can help.

I know it was hard and am so proud of him.

I offer the first segment today.  Where the hate and anger come from.

I Was an Abusive Husband.  Really? (part one)

I've been married to MisssRobin for 22 years.  I've learned a lot in that time.  So, I've been reading her blogs and I love her writing.  I've decided to tell my side of the mess that is her life.

I was raised in a family of 4 boys and 2 girls.  I was raised with the idea that a man's house is his castle and the wife does what the husband decides after they have talked about it.  After all, I am the head of the house.  As a boy, we (including the girls) fought and wrestled with each other all the time.  I remember my dad saying, "If a girl acts like a boy, treat her like a boy."  So, I did.  I never got into a fist fight with the girls but I would have a hitting contest with one.

I lived in Los Angeles and when I was in 7th grade my family moved to Utah and things went badly for me after that.  We moved mid school year, so I was the new kid.  I didn't know the culture and was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.  I went from being popular at school to being bullied.  I was assaulted by a gym teacher that same year and no one did anything about it.  I went to the principal, school counselors, my parents and no one did a thing.  I learned to hate.  I rebelled.  I hated authority.  I didn't do drugs but I did break rules and vandalized and stole things.  This didn't go over very well with my religious parents.

In my senior year, I found religion.  I had been raised in the Mormon church but it didn't really mean anything to me until that year.  I would skip every class at school but I would never skip my religion class (seminary).  It was the only class I ever got an A in, I'm pretty certain.

I started to trust again and the hate started to fade.  It was still there but now it just smoldered.  I decided to go on a 2-year mission for the church when I was 19.  I was raised to believe that if you live the commandments and did everything you were supposed to do that God would take care of you.  I was also raised with the belief that missionaries walked 2 inches off the ground because they were so righteous.

I saved up my money and entered the mission training center and discovered that missionaries are just a bunch of 19-year old boys and some of them didn't want to be there.  It made my time there really hard because when you go into the training center you are assigned a companion (another missionary) that you are supposed to stay with 24/7.  We were not to leave the grounds; my companion wanted to leave to go to the mall.  I had to make the choice of which rule to break and I was done breaking rules.

I figured things would be different when I got to my mission area in Oklahoma.  Things didn't get better.  My mission president was an ego maniac who would not listen to the missionaries' side of anything.  So if a member of our church would call him and say that we were watching TV all day, then we would get in trouble for that even though it wasn't true.  I felt very betrayed and the hate for authority returned.

Read more here.

My Kind of Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a boy.  There was also a girl.  They grew up doing the best they could, feeling their way through this world, just trying to figure life out.  They had friends and family.  They liked some of them a lot and some of them not so much.  But they were each important because they each helped shape who the boy and girl would become.

One day the boy and girl were grown up.  They didn't need their parents the way they had in the past and wanted to be independent.  After dating other people they finally found each other.  He liked her right away;  she didn't think he was as cool as he did (or the other way around).  But eventually, after spending lots of time together, they fell in love.  They each decided the other person was the neatest person they'd met and chose them to be their partner forever.  They got married and began creating their own home.

Life was good sometimes.  Other times it was sad.  Sometimes they fought.  Sometimes they forgot they loved each other.  But they worked hard to stay together, trying to remember how they'd felt in the beginning, remembering that they had chosen each other.

She stayed home with the kids because she wanted to.  He worked because he felt like that was his responsibility and was proud to do it.  But when he lost his job and couldn't find another one, she worked and he cared for the kids.  (Or the other way around.)

They each did lots of work the other one didn't notice and appreciate.  They each irritated the other.  Sometimes on purpose.  They also both learned to forgive.  And to be sorry.

There were lots of wonderful times.  There were also lots of hard times.  Sometimes he rescued her.  Sometime she rescued him.  But usually they rescued themselves.

Most of the time they were glad they'd chosen to walk life's roads together.  Sometimes they walked holding hands.  Sometimes not.  Sometimes he walked further ahead while she stopped to catch her breath.  And sometimes one of them wandered off the road a bit.  But they always either found their way back or one went looking for the other and guided them back.

They got old.  He got sick.  She took care of him.  She wasn't super well either.  Then he got so sick he died.  She was sad.  Really, really sad.  She missed him a lot.  She thought she would never be happy again.

Little by little, the light came back into her heart.  She found happiness again.  Not in another man or a job or anything, just in herself.  She found that she could be whole just by herself.  Or, at least, pretty darn close.

She had friends and family.  She continued to live.  And she thought of him a lot and was grateful for his part in her life.  She still missed him, but it didn't hurt so much.  She was grateful for that little ache in her heart because it meant she'd loved and been loved.

And one day she just didn't wake up.

And she was happy because she was with her partner again, her best friend.  And she'd missed him.  And there was so much more life ahead of them, just in a way they didn't know before.  A brand new adventure for them to share.

THE END

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

This post was inspired by the Ruby Gloom episode Venus De Gloomsville.

The Worst Day of My Life -- When My Husband Left the Church

I have wanted to write this post for a long time.  I have also avoided writing this post for a long time.

It happened almost five years ago, but it is still so tender.

I worry that I won't be able to capture the devastation I felt.  That I still feel when I think about it.  Because, truthfully, I try not to think about it too often.  It's still so painful.

Five years ago was a difficult time in my life.  I was working.  My health was getting worse.  And my marriage was in trouble.  We'd been in therapy for a while and things were getting better.  At least, our relationship was getting better.

But it was at this time that my husband had a crisis of faith.

In order for this to make sense, you must know a few things about our faith.  I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon).  I have been my whole life.  While there was a time when I was young that I followed along because it was all I knew, that's not what it is now.  I have long since quit relying on the testimony of others.  I am a member of this faith because it makes my heart happy.  It brings me peace.  I believe this is what I was taught before I came to this world.

One of the elements of our faith is a belief in a pre-earth life, this life, and a post-earth life.  We believe this life is just a tiny portion of our existence.  Most of what we do here is in preparation for the next life.  As part of that, in our temples we perform ordinances that we believe carry on into the next life.  In particular, sealings.  We believe that if we are sealed together in the temple, and live the best life we can, that families can be together forever.  We believe we are sealed for time and all eternity.

I believe this.  And I grew up believing this.  This is why I was careful about the boys I dated.  This is why I chose to live my life according to God's commandments.  As a child and teen, getting sealed in the temple to a worthy man who loved me was my main goal.  I tried to do everything I'd been taught to make that happen.

And it did.  I married a returned missionary who took me to the temple.  We were sealed for time and all eternity.  Because of this sealing power, our children were sealed to us also.  There was such safety in knowing that. 

When things got ugly between my husband and me, I knew that things would get sorted out with time and we could still be together forever.  We would find our way back to God and would do so together.

And then he said he had questions.  He wasn't sure anymore that certain parts of our faith were true.  He shared his concerns, we talked about them, and he was reassured and found his footing again.  Then he had more questions, bigger struggles.  We worked through those, too.  Then it went beyond questions and doubts.  He came to a point where he no longer believed it was true.  In fact, he felt it was harmful.  He wanted out and he wanted to take his family with him.  The months that we worked through this were incredibly difficult.  It was hard not to push him to choose the church for me, to make me happy.  Or for anyone else.  I believe in honesty.  He was honest with me and I am grateful for that.

He started blogging about his feelings, denouncing the church.  He made accusations and claims that were anti-Mormon in nature.  We were in counseling with our bishop (pastor) during this time.  I told him of the blog.  He discussed it with my husband and said that if it continued, because of the things he was writing (preaching against the church), his membership in the church would be in jeopardy.  We returned to visit with him a month later, he asked about the blog and was told it was still up, my husband was still adding to it and had no intention of stopping.  And we were at a decision point.

My husband was given two choices.  He could withdraw his name from the church records or the bishop could start proceedings to have him removed.  My husband asked which of these would be easier on the bishop.  I admire that.  My husband chose to have his name removed from the records of the church.

It had been a while coming and I thought I was prepared.

But the day the letter came saying that he was no longer a member of the church I died a little.  My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

It came while he was at work.  I called to tell him it was there.  He asked me to open it and read it to him.  I did.  He said okay and that was that.

But not for me.  I held that letter.  I stared at it.  It didn't matter that I knew it was coming; I was not prepared.

How would we tell the children?  Our families?  Our friends?

And what did this mean for me?  I was unsure about who I was now.  We had been one and now we were two.  I was unsure about eternity now.  I didn't know how I fit in.  I didn't want the attention and sympathy that I knew I would receive.  I fit into a new classification now.  I was a woman married to a non-member.

It was the most lonely day I have ever experienced.  I had this information that seemed to stop the world from spinning and I couldn't talk to anyone about it.  The person I usually talked to about things that made me sad was my husband and he didn't understand.  He was happy and relieved about it.  I felt like a widow.  I walked around in a daze that day.  I cried a lot.  I felt so lost.

I had a friend whose husband died around this time.  I remember feeling like she was lucky because he was living a righteous life when he died and at least she knew her sealing was intact, she knew he would be waiting for her.  I am ashamed of that feeling.  I was jealous of her ending as opposed to mine.

It felt like an end. 

He and I are in a better place.  He is more kind about the church and the fact that the children and I still participate.  But something is gone.  There is a spiritual intimacy that is no longer there.  It died that day.  And I don't know if I will ever be done mourning its loss.

A Lesbian Trapped in a Man's Body

This is how my husband describes himself.  You see, he's very attracted to women.  I know, try to wrap your mind around it.

As I examined this phrase I realized that he might be right.  He is kind of a girl.

He's not effeminate in any discernable way.  And he does enough stupid man-things that I want to kill him on a regular basis.  But if ever anyone were "in touch with his feminine side" it's him.

Allow me to illustrate.

My husband does not do home repairs.  He has no idea how; he's not allowed to try.  He can fix computers but nothing else.  He does not own any tools.  He is forbidden to touch power tools.

My husband likes scented candles.  Way more than I do.  His favorite scent is lilac.  Back when I used to get invited to candle parties all the time there was always a handwritten note on the invite that said to bring him along.  Please.

And speaking of parties, you should see him go nuts at a Pampered Chef party.  He thinks anything made by Pampered Chef is a godsend.  I was also instructed to bring him to these parties.  The demonstrator would talk about an item, he would gush about how he uses it to make such and such, how he couldn't live without it, and sales would soar.  I'm pretty sure that as long as he went no one would care if I even came.

At social gatherings he is much more likely to hang out with the women than the men.  Those men are just such . . . men.  They are just gross.  He can't stand locker room talk or behavior.  He doesn't talk sports.  But get him with a bunch of women talking about the mini-whip from Pampered Chef and he can hold his own.

And as much as I love him, he is more like a 14-year old girl than I ever was.  Emotionally needy.  Playing mind games to get attention.  Pouting when I don't include him.

I guess it works out well for us because I am more like a guy in so many ways.  I own the tools.  I do the repairs.  I mow the lawn.  I split the wood.  I explain sports to him.

No, I do not consider myself a man nor am I trapped anywhere I don't belong.  I'm just a very progressive girl.

We fit, in our own peculiar way.  My favorite memory of how we're different would have to be as we prepared for a Memorial Day barbeque with my family.  I was up in a tree with a chainsaw while he was in the kitchen making deviled eggs.

Yup, that's us.

*****
If you liked this story, you'll love the one my daughter tells about him trying to do something manly.

Hee-eere's Robin!

Old Tonight Show reference.  You probably don't get it unless you're over 35.  (It might make a little more sense after you read my post -- so go check it out.)

I am guest posting today over at depressions and confessions.  (I can't capitalize it because she doesn't.  It's kind of making me nuts not capitalizing it, but I'll try to let it go.)

depressions and confessions (okay, that one really makes me crazy because it's at the beginning of a sentence) is written by Alexis, a beautiful and very intelligent young woman.  No wonder people are afraid of her.

She is direct and will discuss anything and everything.  She's struggled with depression and believes it's important to discuss mental health issues, to take away some of the stigma.  Remind you of anyone you know?

Maybe that's why I enjoy her blog so much.  If she has an opinion, she shares it.  She doesn't apologize for it.  And she welcomes differing opinions (but please try to be respectful about it).  She's open about her life and her flaws. 

I love her Awkward Thursday posts where she writes about things that may be tough for some.  One of my favorites is self-sabotage and the modern woman.  Another important post was the life that might have been, about her miscarriage.  A topic too many people understand personally.  And her favorite recent post is marriage before midgets, or how she chooses to put her marriage first.

Some of her writings get people all stirred up.  I love her no-apologies, make-you-think style.  I think you will, too.

And if you're new to my blog, welcome.  It's pretty easy to navigate.  My favorite posts are over there on the top right corner.  Make sure you read the Warning and About Me boxes so you know what you're getting yourself into.  My blog is where I empty my head.  These are some of the things my blog will never be/have.  I'm known to get a little snarky.  I also fight depression on a semi-regular basis; sometimes I win, sometimes not so much.  I try to keep the heavier mental health issues on my other blog, The Difficult Things.

If I haven't driven you off yet, stay a while and take a look around.  Welcome to my world.  And don't mind the mess.

Your Place or Mine?

My husband and I have separate bedrooms.

I'll just let you sit with that for a moment and get all the judgments out of the way.

Feel better?  Good.  Let's move on.

Okay, maybe you already knew.  Maybe it doesn't bother you.  Maybe it makes you just a little unsettled.  Maybe you think it's just plain wrong.  Whatever your reaction, it's okay.  I don't mind what other people think about it.

I was surprised when it bothered other people so much though.  I didn't realize that our sleeping arrangements were of interest to anyone else.  My elderly neighbor found out and thought it was his place to counsel me strongly against it as we were standing in line at the grocery store.  Most people just raise an eyebrow but keep their mouths shut.  My therapist was thrilled.

It was either separate rooms or divorce.  We tried separation, but we missed each other.  And sharing a room was too much.  When we aren't getting along sleeping on the couch just doesn't do it.  We need to be able to go to our corners.

There were lots of things that went into the decision.  There was a little worry about judgment initially.  We worried about how our kids would react. 

All in all, it's been great for us.  Our kids have even told me how much better things seem.

There are tons of benefits.  He snores and talks in his sleep; I am a light sleeper.  He goes to bed early because he has to get up early; I am almost never in bed before midnight.  He can listen to music to go to sleep; I can read in bed for hours.  My room can be what I want it to be and his can be what he wants it to be.  And many, many more.

Please don't think I am taking a stand on sleeping arrangements.  I have no idea what is best for you in your house.  It was the right decision for us.

We aren't forced to spend time together.  Because we have separate bedrooms, we have to choose it.  But it's okay, because we do.