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Sexual Abuse Did Not Start In A Vacuum

by CrazyUsOctober 14, 2017August 19, 2022Family / Health / My Three Cents / Where Do I belong?

[Trigger Warning: authority abuse, brief mention of sexual abuse]

I specifically chose not to include the more profound abuse I have experienced. Unfortunately the experiences I included here are quietly commonplace. When I am all alone and safe, the phrase I think of are “culturally insidious, misuse of power and epidemic abuses.” In fact, I think the small acts of petty domination, verbal threatening, and entitled abuses of power have become (almost) ordinary. As a society we are not just guilty of re-victimizing women who have suffered horrific sexual assault. We are guilty of letting casual dominance slide until it is commonplace. My guess is most men who commit sexual misconduct do not start off by raping women. In fact, I would argue that sexual assault may actually be an outgrowth of entitled people throwing their weight around and misusing their power.

…There I was.
In a Brigham Young University classroom.

After the professor asked for feedback and promised he was open to whatever we had to say, I spoke up. Class finished. Two classmates and I stood in the hallway talking. My professor walked up. I asked him a question about my upcoming paper. Instead of answering, he asked me to follow him onto the elevator — alone. Obediently I followed. The doors shut. We stood in silence. Several long seconds later, we arrived on his floor. He stepped out and I followed him into his office. He shut the door behind me. I sat down across from him. Before I could ask my question, he interrupted. Assuming he forgot why we were there, I gave him the benefit when he began berating me for speaking up in class. Nevertheless, I was blindsided. He told me it was not my place to give feedback and that I should know better than to challenge him. Several times he admonished making claims such as, “Beth, your words are unacceptable. Do not embarrass me in public again.” On and on he went until his words blurred into one powerful message:

“Beth, you are bad. I am good. Do not challenge my power!”

With my sense of right and wrong knocked off its axis, tears screamed down my face. I needed this to end. Defending myself only incited him further. I was breathless, frustrated and needed him to stop telling me how bad I was. I needed to get out of the room. Instead of realizing I could just get up and leave, I found myself apologizing. My apologies only made things worse. I was trapped. He was angry. I don’t know if it was my wet face or my silence. Eventually he finished. I left. We never talked about my assignment. A month or so later, I sent him an apology.

…Years earlier I was working on the very same Brigham Young University campus at a job I loved. My boss at the time was giving a tour to some outside visitors. I had no idea I was in his way. Regardless, he forcefully grabbed me by the upper arm and held it tight. Then he abruptly yanked me from where I was standing. As I stood there stunned, he looked back and admonished:

“Next, time you are in my way. I need you to move.”

I knew what he did was not right, but I had no idea what he did was criminal battery. I did nothing. Later that semester I withdrew from some of my classes. The secretary at the time asked me to fill in for her for a few hours when her father-in-law passed away. Of course I said yes. A week or so later that same boss sat me down in his office. He asked me not to speak. Here is what he said,

“Beth, by working for the secretary you were deceitful and are unworthy. I could fire you. Instead, I will ask you not to return next semester.”

I make no excuses, yet had no idea that I could not work if I was not a full time student.

…Around the same time, I was dating someone I thought I would marry. Even though we were not having sex, we crossed a lot of lines. According to Brigham Young University professor Brian Willoghby, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints’ stance on premarital sex is the following:

“Although the church discourages ‘any kind of sexual behavior’ before marriage, sex is considered a ‘bonding experience’ once the couple has entered a committed union.”

As a practicing Mormon (at the time), I understandably felt guilty, so I did what LDS members are encouraged to do: I went to my ecclesiastical leader to confess. My Mormon bishop said it would not be easy and that he may excommunicate me. He asked me to make a chart of my repentance progress and then to show him my chart progress during our weekly visits. He said my forgiveness was contingent on how I filled out my chart. He also said that under no uncertain terms that my forgiveness was also contingent on me NOT SEEING my boyfriend, (which he asked me to keep track of on my progress chart). That bishop and I met for several months. One week I was five minutes late for my appointment. He stated, and I quote,

“Because you are late, you are showing God that you do not want to be forgiven. Do you even want to repent? I need to know! I need to know now!” I assured him that I did want to repent. He paused for what seemed like forever. He continued, “Beth, I am not sure. I will have to think about your behavior today. Honestly, I can see you are not taking your repentance process seriously. You may need to be disfellowshipped. When I figure it out, I will let you know what I decide.”

(In Mormonism, “disfellowship” means a disciplinary action less severe than excommunication.) We continued our visits for a few months. I was terrified and began to think I was evil.

After my boyfriend and I broke up I was casually dating a few people. One of them was very well liked member of the Provo, Utah community. One day I stopped by his work to say hello. He said,

“Beth, sit here. I will be right back.”

I was a little confused when he asked the few remaining customers to leave. Then he locked the door. I tried to leave. He insisted I remain where I was sitting. He walked up to the table and sat across from me. As the abuse started, a sort of twisted negotiation began. If I let him do what he wanted to do and told him it I liked it, then he would let me leave. I was frozen, afraid to move. This man is much bigger than I am. I am not comfortable saying what happened next. At the time, I also did not want to upset the community by getting this very well liked individual in trouble. Consequently, I did not go to the police. Instead, I told a couple of our mutual friends. One of those friends told some of this man’s co-workers. Instead of offering me help, validation, or just staying out of it, these co-workers told me I was no longer welcome at their place of business, and if they saw me, they would ask me to leave.

Upon reflection, I can say I noticed red flags in all of these situations. I asked for help and was often asked what I had done to mislead these men. I was also told that I should let it go or just go along with it. As a result, I kept my head down and thought if I were a better person, these things would not happen. After many years and many experiences, it finally hit me: I did not cause the abuse or cause someone to misuse their authority. It was not my fault. Nevertheless, I remained silent.

Regarding the news of: this moments sexual abuse issue, why did it take so much effort to bring awareness, and ultimately action, to the situation? Is it because of silence? Or is it that popular, powerful or even patriarchal people get a pass? Are we the enablers? Is that why pleas for help fall on deaf ears? Because of the sorrow my own silence has caused, I would suggest that our collective conversation can help break these culturally baked-in patterns.

And yes, what the news of [insert latest Sexual Abuse issue here] has done this week is (again) open a dialog. And now we have an opportunity to be different. We can chose to stop reacting off of sound bytes and social media outbursts. In contrast, I think we need talk and keep talking. We need all the voices. (I also recognize that getting people to listen is not always easy.) As I mentioned, I have tried a thousand different ways to begin this conversation myself. Something always stops me. Usually that something is my fear of embarrassing those closest to me. Ultimately, I stop talking, slow down my own healing, and pretend that everything is ok. Usually I realize that my need not to embarrass those I love only serves to enable the abuser. Then something like [insert current Sexual Abuse issue here], wakes me up and I ask myself,

“Why did it take so long for people to speak up?”

Obviously I have already internalized the answer: Embarrassment, shame, fear, or complacency. All of these things kept me silent. I also know that my silence perpetuates the abuse cycle.

I have a lot of rationalizations. I live in a culture where a man is the man and for me to scream is a sign of disrespect, which again enables the cycle: silence. And to fight the silence, I know I need to keep talking, but then the fear of upsetting my loved ones takes over. Even though I know that talking will protect us and that our conversations will teach us balance and discernment. Why I am speaking up now is that I recognize that words are also power. Our conversations will only serve to help us teach our children that they deserve respect; that our daughters do not have to compromise their integrity; and that our sons must be good men, even when society is telling men that they have a role: predator, (a.k.a. teenage boy who wants to touch a teenage girl’s boobs).

I also recognize that patterns are hard to break. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter and a sister. I want to be better. I want to do better. I think we all do. I want my boys to be transparent. I want to model boundaries and I want my boys to have boundaries. And that is why we dialog. I drill consent and talk about the things that are uncomfortable. I think it is also fair to mention that parenting alongside other parents can be muddy. We have dealt with other parents and their reactions to my sons, like the dad who asserted,

“I know how teenage boys think. I was one.”

As a mother, I wanted to disagree (because I do) and scream,

“Why can’t we do better?”

I remained silent. And really I am not always sure how, but I think we can do better. My initial step was to get comfortable with me (not easy still) and next to have a healthy relationship (with a man). And that is why I cannonballed myself into the deep end and dated a lot top notch guys [insert heavy sarcasm here]. First, there was the guy from church who told me I would never get married if I didn’t marry him (I was 19). At some point there was the “upstanding guy” who wanted me to reimburse his expenses after the date because I would not have sex with him; the dude who took his clothes off while I was not looking and insisted on walking to the car naked (even after I insisted he put his clothes back on); oh and the guy who said,

“Beth, you would be so much more comfortable if you took your pants off.”

Then there was the guy who dated me while engaged (he lied to both of us), the guy who liked to come to the door in a towel. As soon as I walked into his apartment, his towel would drop to the floor, and the guy I had a huge crush on. When we finally were alone. He asked me to give him a hand job, but not kiss him. He told me.

“I just broke up with my girlfriend. Kissing you is too intimate and makes me think of her.”

At least he eventually apologized — I guess [insert me shrugging my shoulders]. Finally, there was the seemingly gentle guy who in a firm voice said there was something wrong with me because I did not like Disney movies. What? (He also freaked out and berated me when I tried to end our relationship).

“You will not find anyone better than me.” he insisted.

Thank goodness he was wrong and double thank goodness for Dave. I chose him specifically because he was different than the others. He had boundaries and he respected mine. And here is the good nudge: I chose. I did not sell myself or settle (even though I was encouraged to settle every single day). Instead, I literally decided that I was tired of dating men who treated me poorly. And seriously, by the time Dave and I found one another, most people thought I was not worth someone like Dave (and told me as much). I found my worth from within. And that is what I want to say out loud:

“Learn from me. You get to chose who you love. You deserve a healthy relationship. You get to hold your boundaries. You are not bad if you say no.”

Society does not make self worth easy either. Ultimately, I told myself that I was worthy of a healthy relationship. And maybe that is a first. Consequently, I deliberately turned a corner and there he was. It was not magic. It was so fucking hard. I reminded myself that I was not Dave’s property. Our relationship was not solely based on our sexual connection or manipulation. I did not have to entice him sexually to get him to like me, nor did he ever coerce me to do anything I did not want to do. He did not humiliate me. He respected my boundaries. He liked me, and was delightfully amused that I did not want to watch “The Little Mermaid,” or any Disney animated film, for that matter. Dave talked to me. He held my hand, and he was honest (even when he wanted to break up with me — like all the time).

Even though our marriage can help stop the cycle of abuse, Dave cannot heal my pain or break the patterns, and sometimes he even crosses them. (He is learning.) He also supports me speaking up and healing. As a parent, he does not want to perpetuate unhealthy societal patterns either. That is why he wants his sons to treat others with the respect he treats me with. Again, learn from me, even though you speak up, the pain may remain close and awkward. It is ok. Mine does. I think it always will. Maybe I can use my pain to effect change in a culture that patterns abuse. That is what I am (trying) to do now.

And what happens when we take our conversation beyond this moment?
Answer: a lot

Such as, what if your abuser is a relative, a close friend, an ecclesiastical leader, a professor, or your boss? What if the abuser is someone in a position of power or authority? What if he or she is someone you have been taught to respect or revere? What about people who are wrongly accused of abuse? Does that happen? What about the under-reactions, over-reactions, misdirections and inappropriate responses? I know how people freak out over minor issues and how others will take the secret of being raped to their death. I also know that people who actually have been abused do not trust they will be heard. How do we make it stop?

I do not have a perfect answer. Nevertheless, and from whatever lens you are viewing my words, I think the conversation is key to healing. So maybe the answer is to keep it simple. Trust that we will figure it out. Know that you are not alone. Just keep opening your mouth and using your voice. The more we use it, the easier it will become.

Tagged : abuse / assault / authority / domination / sexual abuse / victim

We are not friends and that is ok.

by CrazyUsSeptember 5, 2017September 6, 2017Family / Health / mommy blogs / Where Do I belong?

Hands down, Dave is a my Best Friend. Here we are at Dyrham Park National Trust Site, Gloucestershire, England

Please do not take it personally. First, and foremost, I LOVE people and my relationships with them. Through years of practice, I have also learned that friendship is not an exact science. Thankfully, I have awesome friends; friends who are cool with who I am (or are super awesome at pretending). And because I am a huge sucker for connection, especially the connection that the word “friendship” or “best friend” implies, I take my role as friend very seriously (like in a for-real blood oath kind of way). I sincerely believe (again, in like in a freakish, overachiever sort of way) that love, loyalty, honesty, transparency, responsibility, integrity and follow-through are friendship’s core values. And like some sort of super-earnest, albeit a little sarcastic, Joan-of-Arc (or just like a very devoted pet) I completely commit to my friends. And in the interest of full disclosure, I also commit to those who insist I am their friend, even those who literally have no clue how to be a friend, like those “friends” who are only “friendly” when they need a favor. And of course I have also found myself sucked into the blackhole of friendship with the occasional narcissist, stridently co-dependent, gaslight-er, sociopath and life-bloodsucker.

Hey and most relationship are cool and balanced, right? It does not take much for me to heed the charge or enable an imbalanced connection. Whereas, when the plane is going down and I should be putting my oxygen mask on first, all you have to do is show me your tangled cord and in the name of “friendship,” I will suffocate. If it means you can breathe, I will lose consciousness. All the while ignoring the fact that had I actually put my mask on first we both would be breathing. My dysfunction is on me. And believe me, the dysfunction goes deep and is probably baked right into my DNA. I love the rush of helping others — sometimes even conflating help (being used) with true and connection friendship. I get it. Feeling needed feels good. Feeling needed, or better, helping is a great avoidance technique.

I really like my kids. And yes, I will go against so conventions and say that I am so glad they are my friends. This is Kyle & I at Levant Mine and Beam Engine National Trust Site, Trewellard, Cornwall, England — I really like my kids. And yes, I will go against so conventions and say that I am so glad they are my friends. This is Kyle & I at Levant Mine and Beam Engine National Trust Site, Trewellard, Penzance, England

I love these boys! Land's End, Cornwall, England — I love these boys! Land’s End, Cornwall, England

The other day I needed to put my oxygen mask on. I was trying to sleep. I should have been sleeping. I was very tired. My back hurt. I was exhausted and catching a cold. The night before I was up past 1AM and then up again at 6AM. I wanted to say goodbye to Kyle. He was leaving for his Varsity Cross Country team run. As luck would have it, Kyle left his cellphone on the kitchen counter. And so it began… Every nine minutes I heard the beep, beep, beep of his cell phone alarm. Because I could not figure out his password, the only thing I could do is hit snooze, which meant I was also up every nine minutes. It never occurred to me to bring his phone into my room, hide it outside, or guess the password (which I actually knew). I was supposed to go walking with my friend Rita shortly. Because I trusted she would kind and empathetic, I knew she would be cool if I canceled. She was. In her text filled with a bunch of heart emojis she said,

“No problem. Let’s go Friday.”

My friend, Rita & I after we finished the SLC Half Marathon. (It was epic.)

Feeling relieved, I went back to sleep. Within minutes I heard my phone beep. I was mad at myself for not putting my phone on “do not disturb.” I felt the obligation to look. Someone did need me. I felt compelled to “be a friend.” It was only going to be a few minutes, but those few minutes also meant I needed to get up, brush my teeth, brush my hair and locate what this person needed. It also meant that I was up. So, Instead of sleeping I said,

“Sure. Come on over.”

Me & Easy E. He puts up with me & is a super considerate human. Man, I love this kid! Snowdownia National Park, Wales

I do not think I am the only one who feels compelled to be a “good friend.” I do not think it is bad to help someone in need either. What I am truly suggesting is balance.

Culturally, I think women are taught to put everyone’s needs before their own, especially in the culture I was raised in. I think this baked-in, I-must-serve behavior complicates true, bonded friendship even further. Many people feel such an urge to please others, even their own friends, that they forget to take care of themselves, or to have boundaries, like I did that morning. Sure, our commitments and obligations are distracting. Time is short. Oh yes, and then there is the whole part about having our “me” time versus our guilt about being a good friend, or at least being seen as a good friend. What complicates the concept of friendship even more is that from my experience, we are all different. And because we are different, there is a no roadmap to perfect friendship.

My friends, Emily, Andi & I, Galilee Grill & Bakery, Lindon, Utah

Moe & I, Red Iguana, Salt Lake City, Utah

Because I have made many wrong turns, I hope I can help you avoid the detour by offering you a few directions. I will start with the idea that friendship is not a one-sided service project. Meaning, friends are not a box to check or a badge to earn, someone to possess or a crazy, co-dependent feedback loop. Friendship should definitely not be a status or hierarchical-based relationship. (You can save that relationship for your boss, as a super-fan, or when you move to North Korea.)

In contrast, I would suggest that friendship really is mutual affection. Meaning, we both get to equally dictate the terms of our relationship (high fives to that). Friendship is boundaries and support (even when either is uncomfortable). We do not have to text everyday, talk every week, or even see each other every year. And because we stand by each other’s side, when we are together, our friendship has integrity. We mean what we say. We apologize when we are wrong. We are honest, (even when truth adjusting would be way more comfortable). We are loyal (even when it is not cool). Mostly, we forgive.

It took me a long time to fully digest the concept that for me to be a good and committed friend I cannot possibly be friends with everyone. Ok. Wait. I will push back here to say that Facebook and Facebook friendship is not what I am referring too. So in the Facebook realm, yes, I believe you and Mark Zuckerberg can friend the entire world. In support of my friend-the-world claim, Dave often observes:

“You have a super liberal Facebook friend policy.”

“Yes. Yes I do. I love people.” I respond.

Me & Big Daddy at Levant Mine and Beam Engine, National Trust Site, Trewellard, Penzance , England — Me & Big Daddy at Levant Mine and Beam Engine, National Trust Site, Trewellard, Penzance, England

Alas, Dave is correct and also proves the fact that the people you acquaint with are not all friends. See, a few years ago, a high-profile-on-the-internet guy friended me. Obviously liberal-Facebook-friend-policy-me accepted his request, even though (once again), we had not met. Of course, like I suspect many people do, I checked out his Facebook page before I actually accepted his request. When I saw his friend total, the smart-ass in me was like,

“Seriously, you 4,999 personal friends? You mean to tell me you know every single one of these people — by name?” And because I am bubbling with dry sarcasm, I continued my internal discussion and said, “How do you have time for all of those relationships [long pause] and your family [even longer pause] especially your wife?”

Well, you don’t. For example, I saw this same dude recently at a Cross Country meet. I literally ran into him. By his long, perplexed stare, I assumed he thought he knew me. His wife looked similarly bewildered. Dave was half way across the race course, so alone, I said “Hello.”

He paused and stared at me for a really long time. That is when I impatiently thought (because I needed to find Kyle & Eli),

“Wait for it. Wait for it.”

“Hi Barb.” He said.

Ok. I am kidding. In truth he said, “Hi Beth,” as I began to lift my hand to give him a high five. Realizing he was not going to make the connection, I quickly & nervously brushed my hand into my hair as if I meant to do that.

Alas, even though he remembered my name, the uncomfortable moment would not end. As I answered, his wife, in sort of a stunned and freaked out way quickly asked,

“well, how do you know him?”

And that is when I gave her the name of one our mutual real-life friends. I know they are real friends because tagged pictures of them spending time together always roll through my Facebook feed. His wife seemed to relax, which was good.

Easy E, Pre-Region Cross Country Meet, Cottonwood Complex, Salt Lake City, Utah

Kyle a t the Pre-Region Cross Country Meet, Cottonwood Complex, Salt Lake City, Utah

Here is the deal. This dude (bless his heart), despite having met me in person a dozen times since we became Facebook friends, never knows my name. When he stumbles with any sort of recognition, I wonder if he thinks I am a super-fan or a stalker. And because he is the one who friended me, his incongruous reaction always fascinates me. Obviously we are not friends. We are barely acquaintances.

Doug, Dave & Easy E, Buffalo Bayou Walk, Houston, Texas, January, 2017

His incongruous reaction, like many others, got me thinking. Has Facebook eviscerated the connection of real friendship? Do we know some people way more than we should? And is there any real-life correlation between Facebook friend totals, real world relationships and imbalanced obligation? I do not know. I think we all Facebook friend differently. Nevertheless, I do belive Facebook and social media are influencing how we friend. Just last week, because a woman who friended me seemed so cool and is a friend of a friend, I accepted her friend request. And guess what? She is cool. And yes, you read that correctly. I accepted the friend request of someone I have never met, or at least do not remember meeting. I know I am not the only one. And because she now owns the title of my friend, should I give her the same friend benefits? Am I obligated to wake up for her when I should be sleeping? I was friended by my friend Letti after knowing her for twenty minutes (and I really like her in real life). (Fun Fact: twenty minutes was the same amount of time I knew my friend Mike’s brother before making out with him.) Moving way beyond my fun fact, I also have friends who I have met once (in person), only to become really great friends via Facebook. Doug Vandiford, we are talking to you. On the other hand, Dave Facebook friends only those he really really knows. In contrast to my interaction, Dave actually knew Doug Vandiford way back when they were in the BYU dorms together (with Ryan Raddon (DJ Kaskade namedrop). And guess what? These three dudes are still real life friends. Ok. I would also argue that there are many sides to non-discriminatory Facebook friend requests (which have absolutely nothing to do with the concept of friendship I began with). That is why I would suggest is that bonded friendship goes well beyond today’s Facebook friendship friending rituals, and that the mutual affection of friendship actually takes effort. I would also suggest that having only a handful of friends is a very good thing. Considering the effort it takes to be a friend, I would like to offer that we may only have healthy space for a handful of friends. Meaning, that the other 4,988 relationships may fall into the category of acquaintance. (I think that is ok, by the way.)

Me & Big Daddy, Venice Beach, California

Think of it this way. An acquaintance can be an ally without all the strings or obligations. I would also argue that if you put most people into the acquaintance category, your disappointment will decrease, your awkward moments at your boys’ cross country meet will not feel like rejection, and that your expectations of reciprocity may soften. And if you see relationships through the acquaintance lens I would argue that your relationships with these people may actually be healthier, more fun, and more fulfilling (or even an serendipitous networking opportunity). I would to think about it this way: An acquaintance is a friend without the loyalty and expectation. Do I care if an acquaintance blows off dinner plans? Do I care if an acquaintance makes up a lame ass excuse for not including me? Do I care if an acquaintance tells everyone I am high maintenance (dude, I have food allergies, get over it). Do I mind if an acquaintance tells everyone I have social anxiety, or that I am too religious, or that I am not religious enough? Nope. Do I care if an acquaintance needs a favor, even though I have not heard from them in years? No. I am happy to help — always (even when I would rather be sleeping).

Bottom line: I say learn from me. Figure out how you want to friend, and then trust it — (as long as you are not being a tool and are being transparent).

Tagged : acquaintance / friends / friendship / Relationships

CrazyUS 4.0: Exposing My Vulnerability

by CrazyUsMay 27, 2017August 23, 2022Family / Health / mommy blogs / Travel

Kyle, Eli & Dave, Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2006

A little over ten years ago I blogged daily. With an an average of 20,000 daily readers, I was on my way to becoming a well known public voice. I loved it. In truth, I have always written. Sometimes my writing is sloppy and less polished and other times extensively edited. Regardless, I need to get my words out — always. I journaled as a young girl. I spent hours talking and processing and eventually pouring those thoughts onto the page. In high school, I sought out creative writing classes.

“Write out the garbage.” My teacher, Roman Borgerding, would say, and followed with, “then you will find the beauty.”

Us, Laird Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, July 30, 2006

In college I majored in English, where deconstructing and analyzing poetry and prose was my jam. In fact, I found that I am oddly great at deconstructing poetry. Seriously. I was a little shocked as well. And when I went back to college years later, I eagerly and painfully embraced literary critical theory. At first I thought deconstructing Jane Austen, Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, or Elizabeth Barrett Browning was an extremely self-indulgent endeavor. How can literature change the world? I wondered. Of course my assessment was wrong. Because I am stubborn, it took me a minute to correlate that Jane Austen wrote a template for understanding social class, which I would argue we all try to navigate and make sense of. Ngugi Wa Thiong’o addresses language in how it affects culture, even making some cultures go extinct. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem, “The Runaway Slave Girl at Pilgrim’s Point,” the concept of sacrifice, articulating what a mother will do to protect their child. The more I read, wrote, analyzed and deconstructed, the more I saw myself in their words. It was exhilarating and painful. Nevertheless, because I am addicted to the human narrative, I did my senior seminar in memoir writing, which I thought would lead me into perhaps writing a self-indulgent memoir. Nope. Instead, I connected. And through connection, I learned that good stories happen when people allow themselves to be vulnerable. In Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking” it was her ability to connect and to show courage when her only daughter died. Her vulnerability was beautiful. Those were the words I wanted to write. She gave me a template for making the uncomfortable beautiful, relatable and clear. Further, then I learned to break down these personal stories and push back with my own. It was invigorating.

Me on the North Shore of Oahu, January, 2014 right before I started classes back at BYU (that’s another awesome story)

Tonight I found one of the first papers I wrote when I returned to school a few years after I took CrazyUs.com offline. The paper is on Ted Hughes’s poem, “Daffodils,” a response to his wife Sylvia Plath’s suicide. Here is first paragraph of my paper:

“As I considered the compilation, “Birthday Letters,” which was released in October, 1998, months before Ted Hughes’ death. As I read the poem, I was also distracted by the noise, and found it easy to get lost in the salacious biographical details of Ted Hughes’ and Sylvia Plath’s life. Instead of doing a close reading of the poem, “Daffodils,” I found it hard not to psychoanalyze the doomed couple, which admittedly made the poet’s literary voice challenging to hear. Whether it is Hughes’ own confused and complicated internal voice creating the noise, or the fascinating biographical details, I would move beyond the critics and argue that a solid literary voice exists, and because the voice is a messy grey, not a solid black and white, it is no less real. I will show that these very details when embraced enable a concrete, informed, and close textual reading of Hughes’ complicated love poem, “Daffodils.’”

Me doing college in 2014, Salt Lake City, Utah

Me on BYU Campus with one of my favorite college buddies, the beautiful, Maddie, Provo, Utah

Yes. Messy and grey. That is one-hundred million percent me. You know what is funny? It never occurred to me at the time that going to back to school and writing all those papers was in fact a search for my own voice. In fact the title of my paper is,

“Ted Hughes, “Daffodils:” Is the Poet’s Voice Lost in The Noise?”

And I would argue that the title of my life could be the same: “Beth Rodgers Adams, “CrazyUs.com:” Is the Blogger’s Voice in Lost in The Noise?”

Um and the answer is, “Yes.”

And since August, 2006 (and really since way before that), I have been trying to be a tree instead of the wind. That being said, do not underestimate the power of the wind.

Us driving through Kalamata, Greece, March, 2016

So here it is: Back in 2006, Dave and I were also in the throes of parenting two extremely entertaining and active little boys. Whether it was telling the world how a two and and a half year old Eli could not go to bed until he told us a joke first, or how a three and a half year old Kyle found a screwdriver and unlocked our bedroom door while yes, Dave and I were having mommy and daddy time [wink, wink]. Children are excellent at giving their parents plenty of material, and Kyle and Eli were no different. And really, whatever the story was, in the early to mid 2000s, I could not wait to tell my internet friends about my new highs and lows, including, but not limited to adventure, heartbreak or hilarious crisis. I love human connections and sharing my life experience online was another most valued outlet.

On an emotional level, I loved seeing my words reflected back through the very personal and insightful experiences others were willing to share. Our online conversations lifted me through the day. The online communities we were creating were a natural progression of in-person relationships. And I was experiencing these connections from my kitchen table. Looking back, those relationships and online communities grew faster than the speed of sound travels. We, the early blog adopters, were navigating and creating a new language and space of our own. It was crazy, terrifying, uncertain and exhilarating.

Kyle behind the 15th & 15th Einstein Bagels, Salt Lake City, Utah, March, 2005

Because the word, “blog,” was still in beta in our collective consciousness, when people asked what I did for a living, I would unsteadily answer,

“I am a writer.”

When they pushed further, I would say,

“I have a blog,” which would inevitably be followed by their long eye roll and my self doubt.

I would try to authorize my space by sharing my credentials such as how Dave and I met in our high tech internet careers. I would always follow with the fact that and even had a blog for our wedding. And,

“We were married in 1998. Crazy!”

Me and Big Daddy, Scotland, July, 2016 — Me and Big Daddy, Kellie Castle & Garden, Fife, Scotland, July, 2016

In August 2006, I took my blog down. I went completely dark and walked away from a space I worked very hard to stand in.

There is no other reason than this: I took my blog down because I was afraid.

Kyle & I, The Main Square in Liechtenstein, April, 2017

It took me a long time to see that I did not feel worthy of that space. I did not feel like I earned it. I felt shame. I felt less than. I believed I was unworthy. It took me an even longer time to see that I was not allowing myself to be vulnerable. Sure, I had no problem sharing my stories online. I could talk about other moms and how much they suck. With great and specific detail, I could talk about the bad and sad things that were happening around me. What I could not do is be vulnerable. Simply put, I was terrified committing to the uncomfortable and of standing in my truth. As a result, I felt shame. As a result, I will never know what could have happened. Most of my friends who blogged at the time did make some money and did find careers that were birthed via their blogs. Me, well, I was afraid and I walked away.

Forgiveness and healing took me really far. Standing in my own space was a great push. Ultimately, I truly believe vulnerability is the piece I was missing. I am ten years late, but I am here and I am standing. I am willing to invest and I am committed to sitting in this space, even when it is less than awesome, or no one is here. I reject the wind and will be the tree. I will even try to throw in some courage, authenticity, but mostly I really miss connecting in a space I helped create, and for that, I am sorry.

I am sorry I ran away.

Ran-Tong Save & Rescue Elephant Center, Chiang Mai, Thailand, June, 2016

Sources

FROM TED HUGHES’ BIRTHDAY LETTERS

“DAFFODILS

Remember how we picked the daffodils?
Nobody else remembers, but I remember.
Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy,
Helping the harvest. She has forgotten.
She cannot even remember you. And we sold them.
It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them.
Were we so poor? Old Stoneman, the grocer,
Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot
(It was his last chance,
He would die in the same great freeze as you) ,
He persuaded us. Every Spring
He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen,
‘A custom of the house’.

Besides, we still weren’t sure we wanted to own
Anything. Mainly we were hungry
To convert everything to profit.
Still nomads-still strangers
To our whole possession. The daffodils
Were incidental gilding of the deeds,
Treasure trove. They simply came,
And they kept on coming.
As if not from the sod but falling from heaven.
Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck.
We knew we’d live forever. We had not learned
What a fleeting glance of the everlasting
Daffodils are. Never identified
The nuptial flight of the rarest epherma-
Our own days!
We thought they were a windfall.
Never guessed they were a last blessing.
So we sold them. We worked at selling them
As if employed on somebody else’s
Flower-farm. You bent at it
In the rain of that April-your last April.
We bent there together, among the soft shrieks
Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken
Of their girlish dance-frocks-
Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy,
Opened too early.

We piled their frailty lights on a carpenter’s bench,
Distributed leaves among the dozens-
Buckling blade-leaves, limber, groping for air, zinc-silvered-
Propped their raw butts in bucket water,
Their oval, meaty butts,
And sold them, sevenpence a bunch-

Wind-wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave’s stony cold
As if ice had a breath-

We sold them, to wither.
The crop thickened faster than we could thin it.
Finally, we were overwhelmed
And we lost our wedding-present scissors.

Every March since they have lifted again
Out of the same bulbs, the same
Baby-cries from the thaw,
Ballerinas too early for music, shiverers
In the draughty wings of the year.
On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering
They return to forget you stooping there
Behind the rainy curtains of a dark April,
Snipping their stems.

But somewhere your scissors remember. Wherever they are.
Here somewhere, blades wide open,
April by April
Sinking deeper
Through the sod-an anchor, a cross of rust.

The poem is to Sylvia, about cutting and selling flowers in spring with their daughter, who no longer remembers her mother. The collection broke a 35 year silence on Hughes’ part. It is a response to Wordsworth’s daffodils as well – the kinds of memories the flowers conjure here are less those of solace than treasured, fragile moments. The scissors form a beautiful image of violence and vulnerability.”

Vulnerability via Brené Brown

I Was Blind But Now I See — Literally

by CrazyUsMay 24, 2017Family / Health / Where Do I belong?

Kyle, Bern-Gurten Park, Bern, Switzerland with the Alps in the background

I had no idea. Sure, I kind of knew I was depressed. I just thought it was my typical Seasonal Affected Disorder. Winter grey is no fun every single year. As a result of my malaise, I was not correlating that the darkness I was feeling was because of my eyes. And because I am pretty farsighted, I figured my bad eyesight was a result of my inability to read tiny ingredient labels. And for some reason I attached my tiny label issue to my utter inability to read larger font restaurant menus. I gave up and Dave always pitched in. I neglected the constant blur in the center of my vision field and we adjusted. Still, I was not connecting that not being able to read up close had nothing to do with my world going dark. Again, I adjusted. I turned all my electronic screens to their brightest setting, read under very vibrant lights, and dealt with the daily fact that I literally could not see my left eyelid as I tried to apply mascara and eyeshadow (even with a magnifying mirror in the morning sun). Further, I did not think twice that my freckles were fading out of view.

“I am getting older and that is what happens.”

Me and Big Daddy, The Moran Eye Center, Salt Lake City, Utah

I also thought that the infamous Utah winter smog caused by temperature inversions is what caused the mountains and my background to blur, and it never occurred to me that writing was becoming a task and that images are not supposed to disappear when you look toward the light. It all seemed normal. In all truth, in spite of the profound loss of my once very clear vision, I had no idea I was going blind.

Snowbird Ski Resort, Park City, Utah — Eli after his crash, Snowbird Ski Resort, Salt Lake City, Utah

The only reason I did something is because we met our deductible. In January Eli had a horrible ski accident, which resulted in a seriously fractured jaw, which required a titanium plate, tooth extraction, and having his jaw wired shut. He could not chew food for two months and lost thirty-five pounds. With our deductible met, Dave suggested we see the doctor for anything we thought we might want to take care of. I knew I had not had my eyes tested in a while and the blur was a little bothersome. With risk of pre-existing conditions soon counting against me, I decided to get my eyes checked out. Mind blown. I have a traumatic cataract. And understandably, my diagnosis caused some confusion, especially with me. See, several years ago I thought it was strange when a cornea specialist said that I had cataracts, or better, said that he could see my cataracts. He suggested it would be a several years before I needed to address “them.” Herein lies the confusion. The specialist was expert in corneas, not cataracts. There is not a “them.” There is a, “one.” And one blinding cataract may have a different diagnosis. In my case, it does. Still I was caught off guard, he explained my scans and explained my diagnosis. Still did not make sense.

“Don’t cataracts come in two?” I thought.

Thankfully the surgeon realized that my processing speed needed a minute as I absorbed the shock. That is when he asked me to come back before surgery.

“Seriously. Look it up. Think of questions. Research. I can answer any of your concerns. And yes, the diagnosis is a classic traumatic cataract. Oh and by the way, when did you hit your head?”

Information on Traumatic Cataract from Google

I did hit my head, and hard. Nearly ten years ago I went airborne and fell down my friend’s stairs. It was an unfamiliar house and completely dark. I went over a baby gate and landed on my face. I broke my nose, ruptured a cyst in my wrist, and damaged my optic nerve. In fact, even now the skin sensation on the left side of my forehead feels different than the right. And no, I was not drinking. Crazy!

Easy E long boarding at the house where I broke my nose, Park City, Utah, November, 2007

You still may doubt or have questions. I did too. So before I go any further, let me clear some things up. Yes. It is true: everyone will eventually develop cataracts. If you’re reading this, you probably have them this very minute, and if you live long enough, you’ll probably need surgery to address them. Normal cataracts tend to affect both eyes. When vision is bad enough, surgery is performed on one eye and after that eye heals, surgery is performed on the other. My mom recently had cataract surgery and her mom, mom grandma, had cataract surgery too. And it is possible that one eye may need surgery a year or two before the other, but they are close.

The boys and Wawa (my mom), May, 2017, Salt Lake City, Utah

It is my understanding the cataracts are a natural product of the aging eye. My doctor put it this way:

“It is like every year someone puts a dropper of milk in a glass of water. Eventually the water becomes too foggy. And because the glass is yours, you get to decide when has become too foggy.”

Ultimately, it is our ability to see through foggy-water combined with the speed in which the fogginess impedes our vision that dictates when we are ready. As a result of these factors, not all of us will have surgery. We may die first (for real).

In my case, my left eye has a barely noticeable and typical cataract. It will probably be many years before it gets bad enough to fix. On the other hand, my right eye looked like a firework exploded in my lens. When given a glare test, I was completely blind. I would get my questions answered, yet surgery needed to happen regardless. Deep breath!

Even though it was confirmed that I could not see, I was crazy terrified the week before surgery. I was anxious. The risk of losing my eyesight altogether weighed heavily on me. I tried talking myself out of the surgery so many times, and I tried to cancel the day of. I convinced myself that I needed to be at the boys’ track meet. I even told the nurse,

“I should reschedule. They both run today. I do not want to be a bad mom.”

The nurse was kind and accommodating and told me that I had until 1PM to let them know. I waited until 12:50 PM to give them go ahead and I needed to be at the hospital by 2:15 PM. At that time, I walked onto the set of the 1980s movie, “Cocoon.” That is, I walked into the Moran Eye Center at the University of Utah. In a sea of delightful old people facing the same surgery, I waited. Because I barf 100 percent of the time after having morphine, the anesthesiologist opted not to give me pain medicine. Instead she used topical numbing and anti-nausea medicine. Of course they give you anti-anxiety medicine too, considering the fact that you’ll be awake while they poke your eye with sharp things. At approximately 3:30 PM MST, the surgeon began. He and the male nurse covered my head in a big white sheet with a hole. As the sticky parts around the eyehole adhered to my top lashes, I heard the doctor say,

“Let’s do this again. We don’t want to hurt those lashes.”

They lifted the sheet off of my face and repositioned the big white cover. Then they attached something to hold my eye open.

“How are you doing?” the doctor asked.

“I am good. This is so weird. Really weird.” I responded.

He cut into my right eye. I was awake. No. Really. I was awake for the entire surgery. And I remember it. About five minutes in, the doctor asked me,

“Beth, can you feel anything?”
“Yes.” I said and followed, “Is it supposed to hurt like this?”
“No.” he responded and then asked the anesthesiologist to give me more numbing medicine.

I could see colors. I heard the surgeon as he worked my busted cataract out of my eye.

“We are ready to put the new lens in.” the doctor said.

As he placed in my new lens it became stuck at the edge. “
“We need to fix this part. It is getting stuck on the edge.”

We were at minute ten. The doctor asked again, “Beth, can you feel that?”
As I looked at the bright whites, reds, blacks and blues reflected in the mirror above I said, “Really, is it still supposed to hurt?”
“No. It is not.” He responded and continued. “Please give her more medicine.” He instructed.

Me, post surgery, wearing my "Hannibal Lecter" Eye Mask, Salt Lake City, Utah — Me, post surgery, wearing my “Hannibal Lecter” Eye Mask, Salt Lake City, Utah

In twelve minutes my surgery was complete. The average time for cataract surgery is ten minutes. I’ll give the extra two minutes to the snag in my lens. When I came back for a follow-up the next day the doctor asked me about my experience. I asked him,

“Is it normal that I remember the surgery?”
“Yes.” He responded.
“Even all that pain.” I asked.

“The numbing medicine is supposed to last 15 – 20 minutes. Yours lasted five. Some people metabolize medicine really fast. You are one of those people.”

After surgery I was traumatized. I could remember the pain and remember the procedure. I could not get over the fact that I was awake while the doctor sliced into my eye. As a result of my processing overload, I asked Dave to drop me off at home so I could catch my breath. I assured him I would be ready to go to the boys’ track meet after he returned with my prescriptions. Yes, I was still trying to make the track meet. Three hours later I woke up. The track meet was over and the boys were on their way home.

Me, post surgery, May, 2017, Salt Lake City, Utah

As I kept opening and closing my right eye, my blind spot was gone. My vision is crystal clear in my right eye and a bit duller in my left. The boys were back home. They were kind and grateful I was ok.

Before I left for my check up appointment the next day, after about half of the way in, I realized as I put on my eyeshadow that I could actually see my left eyelid. I looked closer and kept thinking about all the freckles on my face.

“Wow! I love my freckles. Man, I have a lot of them.” It honestly took me a few minutes to connect the dots as I thought to myself, “It is my new robot eye. It is allowing me to see. My freckles have always been this bright. Wow!”

The boys and I on our Mothers Day Adventure, Liberty Park, Salt Lake City, Utah — The boys and I on our Mothers Day Adventure, Liberty Park, Salt Lake City, Uta

Later that day Kyle and I went on a walk. I kept staring at the mountains to the east. I saw contrast. I saw peaks. I saw canyons. I have not seen the mountains like this in years. Then I saw the leaves on the trees. No longer were they a blend of greens. In high contrast I saw each leaf. From blur to high definition in twelve minutes, I still cannot believe it. By the way, I also noticed my bathroom is much dustier than I imagined and that I have a lot of wrinkles. Nevertheless, I am grateful.

Trust Me

by CrazyUsMay 22, 2017May 23, 2017Family / Health / mommy blogs / Where Do I belong?

CrazyUs.com Travels — Us, Citadel of Besançon, Besançon, France

A friend recently suggested I listen to Brené Brown’s talk entitled, “The Anatomy of Trust.” I was like,

“Who is Brené Brown? And why do you always refer to her?”

Apparently I am nearly the last people on Earth who has not heard of or listened to Brené Brown, or at least, I am the last of the subset of those who listen of those who watch Oprah, listen to the Ted Radio hour, and/or read transcendent personal essays, such as the ones found in The Atlantic Monthly. In truth, I was listening to another podcast recently (Amanda Palmer on Design Matters) when Amanda Palmer, formerly of the cabaret-punk duo, “The Dresden Dolls,” quoted Brené Brown. I figured if cabaret-punk can coexist with Dallas mom, then well, I can listen to Brené Brown.

So, between avoiding my online French class and booking summer travel I decided it was time. Immediately Brené encoded the definition of trust into a most awesome mnemonic device. Yes, awesome, because I still remember the word: BRAVING. I will not break it down for you now. I suggest you listen to her entire podcast. Right now I want to focus on the “v” in her memory acronym. No. The “v” is not referring to a 1980’s alien invasion reboot, or to lady parts. The “v” in BRAVING refers to the trust concept of a Vault, which by Brené Brown’s definition means: “what I share with you, you will hold in confidence. And what you share with me, I will hold in confidence.” Feeling confident with my ability to keep confidences, I almost missed the next crucial advice Brené gave, which is the idea that we are not trustworthy when we participate in salacious behavior. Meaning that “in our relationship I need to see that you acknowledge confidentiality and I need to do the same.” Nevertheless, in an attempt to “hotwire connections,” simply put, we gossip.

Easy E and Me, tonight, Salt Lake City, Utah

As a result, instead of healthy, trusting connections, Brené Brown suggests that “our closeness is built on hating the same people.” She calls this, “Common Enemy Intimacy.” Ouch! I get it. How many times am I silent, ultimately complicit, as I listen to the rumors. My excuse: I want to feel a part, especially when it comes to the other moms. Why can’t I be brave?

With thoughts simmering, I finished the twenty-four minute podcast (of course I took notes). And I continue to simmer. I am trying to process the concept that an aspect of trust is our ability to keep our mouths shut, or better, “not sharing something that is not mine to share.” As I think, I want push further and suggest that Common Enemy Intimacy is a pervasive societal condition. For instance, socially we reject those who do not act like us. Religiously we fear those who do not believe like us. Politically we hate those who do not think like us. Deep breath. I am not going to talk politics or religion. I am going to speak to the social component, specifically regarding parenting as it relates to my relationships with other moms. And here is my conundrum: How do I quickly engage you without betraying trust? I need help.

First, I could totally rationalize. I agree. Gossip does hotwire a connection. Sure, telling you about a bitchy mom may build closeness with you, but at what cost? I would even argue that talking about someone else in an attempt to heal is a form of gossip. In defense of healing, my story includes other people and my opinions of them. I know if you understood the details you would gain greater perspective. As a result, I am sure my full disclosure would allow for better advice. At what cost? What about trust? Where is the line? Is it worth breaking someone’s trust? Ah! What do I do?

Here is a thought. I would like to push further on the concept of trust. In what we share with others, I would like to consider a line of thought, which is that women (in general) are culturally taught to accommodate. As a result, I would suggest that our society does not enable us to ground ourselves in our own space or our own stories. Because we are taught to tether to our relationships to an exterior world, we become dependent on the opinions of others. And as accommodators, I would argue that gossip is a natural form of this exterior connection (intimacy). Sure, I could also have an entire conversation regarding the idea that patriarchy and how women treat one another is because they feel the only power they have is within their own gender and that creates inequitable trust, but I won’t, at least not right now. Ultimately, women who try to break the societal cycle and who are “grounded” in their own narrative can actually be viewed as self-absorbed or narcissistic. Because we do not want to appear self-centered or self-absorbed, the accommodating feedback loop persists. That is why I push back. I may not like or condone gossip. In fact I pretty much hate gossip in all its mean-girl forms. Nevertheless, I have compassion for the women who do. And maybe it is because women who gossip are not trying to break trust. Perhaps they gossip because they are not comfortable standing in their own space, or they do not feel they can. (By the way, self trust is half of the equation: You “can’t ask people to give you something you don’t think you are worthy of receiving.”) In the end, we become more of the wind and less of the tree. And as the wind, it is not about trust, it becomes about fitting in and holding on.

Alas, all this exposition simply to ask,

“How do I stand in my space and tell my story while holding everyone’s trust, including my own?”

I suck at Christmas and am even worse at gift receiving.

by CrazyUsDecember 22, 2016December 22, 2016Family / Health

I think Dave would agree as represented in what he said earlier today:

“Beth, I love Christmas, but each year you make me want to kill myself.”

I would go as far as to argue that together Dave and I are clearly a gift giving mess.

Kyle and Eli, Christmas 2003, Salt Lake City, Utah

It is 2016. Here is where we are at. According to Dave, I should shut my mouth, open my heart and exude excitement over each gift I am given. I not only think he is on to something, I think he is right. We should be gracious. We should empathize. We should consider the receiver as much as the giver.

Of course as I consider a bigger reality, I feel compelled to push back and ask, what do you do if you hate the gift? Should you pretend? Ok. That is too easy. Yes. Of course you should act grateful. Let’s complicate things. What if the gift is between husband and wife? What should you do then? Again Dave is correct when he asserts that one should act excited. And in truth, Dave always and absolutely properly exudes. Let me present another scenario. How deal with the non-grateful actions after the actual present-opening moment? What if your partner was less than honest about loving (what you believe is) a thoughtful gift? As a result, they leave said unloved gifts in their box, untouched? What is worse? The unused gifts, gifts your partner surely sees, or your your ungrateful expression, otherwise know as, A.B.F.? (*By the way, A.B.F. is the active form of R.B.F. [resting bitch face]).

Eli, Kyle & Dave, Christmas, 2004, Salt Lake City, Utah

To solve the unused gift issue, over that time I found that if l buy Dave exactly what he wants and asks for, he is more likely to take his gift out of the box. It is a process. Well before the holidays, I ask Dave to add his choices into an Amazon Shopping Cart. Then I buy away. It always warms my cold, dark heart when he ups the ante by sending me other links and specific suggestions. Last Christmas was a coup. If Dave had not sent me a link to Traeger’s special Christmas offer, I would have never known he wanted a Traeger Grill. I even think Dave would say his Traeger Grill was the best Christmas gift ever. We have all benefited from Dave’s perfectly roasted chickens and astutely seasoned brisket. I think it is as much fun for Dave to prepare and grill as it is for him to watch how we receive his heavenly creations.

Kyle and Eli, Park City, Utah, December, 2007

Nevertheless something upsets the balance, each year, even last year’s Traeger Grill year. Then panic sets in and misunderstanding runs rampant. And because I think we live in a world of greys not black, I think our issue goes beyond helping me Botox-up my Active Bitch Face and helping Dave be honest about gifts he is less pleased with. And once the shift in the force happens, I know we have entered the dark side. Obviously Dave is General Grievous and I am Count Dooku. Darth Vader would be too easy.

[begin scene]

Picture this: It is Christmas morning. We are on the Death Star. As Dave, General Grievous, hands me a gift, my hands will break into sweat. My heart will race, and my vision will blur. I sense, because obviously I have the force, albeit dark, that Dave will be waiting in rapt anticipation for my smile to crack. I already know I will disappoint. Likewise, before his gift ever reaches my sweaty hands, I become manic making sure his Amazon cart is full.

[end scene]

I have always been partial to a Charlie-Brown-style tree. We found this one in our backyard, Park City, Utah, December, 2011

Now back in our human reality know that our gift-giving nightmare is always made worse because I vomit honesty. Meaning, I cannot keep my truthy mouth shut. Consequently, acting like I love my new white long underwear is an epic feat. Spoiler Alert: I failed. In fact I am certain those long white underwear are where our selfish hell began. It was twenty years ago. For Christmas, Dave invited me to his Washington DC home. At that time. I had more money than I had ever had. I had never been asked home to a boy’s house for Christmas. I was touched, enamored and over the moon. Soon I would realize that our expectations were not aligned, yet I did what any good girlfriend would do and bought Dave a crap ton of gifts. By the way, I had so much fun buying those gifts. I even made him a stocking. I remember my eager anticipation as I handed him gift after gift. Alas, here is when I realized our disconnect. I could see it. I could see Dave’s shock as he opened those gifts. Disappointed, he said, “Why did you give me so much?” (Note* Dave also does not hide his A.B.F. well either).

Dave excitedly handed me one gift. As I unwrapped, I eyed a pair a long underwear. I was flooded with thoughts and a variety of emotion.

“Underwear?” I thought.
“We camp so much and I know you get cold.” he said.
“Underwear?” I thought again.

Ironically the framed picture behind the boys is one of the presents I gave Dave during the Washington DC Christmas, Park City, Utah, December 2013

Faster than I could catch my breath, the Christmas stocking now seemed silly, so did everything else. We were sitting next to his bed and all I wanted to do is hide under the Star Wars-sheets. (Yes. his bed was covered Star Wars sheets. How awesome is that?) Instead, as I looked at those utilitarian body warmers. I burst into tears. I let my insecurity take over (obviously). I felt a rush of stupid, shame, and neglect. I could not catch my breath. Instead I opted to try to explain. I know, dudes love a lady who explains stuff. Nevertheless, it’s what I do. And I am sure that Dave was delighted to spend the next four hours having me create my very own very of Dickens’, “A Christmas Carol.”

Of course I kept explaining.

“Long ago in a galaxy far, far away, Christmas was the only time of year I did not have to use my own money to pay for something blah blah blah.”

And in that moment our dysfunctional Christmas feedback loop began. I wish it did not matter, but somehow the moment we exchanged our first Christmas gifts has informed every Christmas ever since. Both of us were brats. Both of us could not see past our own strong wills. As a result, we still struggle and Christmas is not what Christmas should be.

Our loop is simple. I cry, express defeat, and couch my criticism in rationalization. Dave snaps and criticizes.

“I do not know why you gave me so much.”

An interesting side note: Those long underwear were not only thoughtful, they were practical. Had Dave given me a moment to catch my breath, and had I held my tongue, I think he would have seen that. Yes. I cried, but those long underwear never remained in a box. In fact. I still wear them today.

Us, Play Del Carmen, Mexico, Christmas Day, 2015

Back to my story: There is some good. It also took me years not to take Dave’s intent as a slight. I learned to appreciate Dave. First, he wants to (a.) Surprise you. Meaning, if I tell him I have a bunch of stuff in an Amazon Shopping cart, I will kill the surprise. What I need to do is let him surprise me. And (b.) Dave feels compelled to buy you something practical. I get it. I am practical too. That is why I hate seeing those presents sitting in their boxes.

Further, I think it is important to explain my crazy. See, for me half the fun of Christmas has alway been my ability to return presents. Meaning, I don’t get upset when someone is not elated with what I give them. It really is the thinking-of-them that counts. Nevertheless, sometimes in the moment I forget that everyone does not see the world like I do. As a result, I too easily dismiss someone’s need for me to want their gift. I come by this behavior honestly. I clearly remember my mom attaching gift receipts to each and every present. On December 26, I remember gathering all the unwanted pajamas and sweatsuits, driving over to our local Target and standing in a long return line. Once we returned our items, my siblings and I would compare our cash and then go shopping for day-after-Christmas markdowns. It was a special time. always knew I could get more-for-my-money the day after Christmas. In fact, returning became such a sport that I almost looked forward to the return more than the actual present. (Yes. I just said that). And before you completely hate me or judge me too harshly, I would ask you to consider the following: My family was not wealthy. I began babysitting full time during the summers at age eleven and worked full time hours. I paid for most everything. Christmas was that time of year I could bank on a little more. As such, Christmas for me was always of giving me a financial break. So stretching my gifted-dollar was the gift. And having the ability to return presents allowed me to buy more things I actually needed like underwear.

Then one day I married a super cool dude and he gave me the gift of staying home to raise Kyle and Eli. All of a sudden Christmas meant something different. And as much as I want to escape my history, navigating Christmas is filled with two people who literally grew up on opposite sides of the track. Dave did not live with scarcity. It really was about appreciating and finding joy out of both the practical and obscure. We are mostly at cross purposes except for the practical part. As a result, Dave was now in a position to buy me something I did not have to return. Oh, the pressure! So,combined with our new ability to buy the gifts we wanted and our practicality, it never occurred to me that my gift receiving behavior would actually ruin Christmas. I simply assumed Dave would admire my my need to return, or understand why I was not over the moon with say a rape whistle, a pair of long underwear or a Homer gift. In truth, and when it is not Christmas, Dave is actually delighted with my what he calls my “hobby” of buying and returning items and seldom keeping anything.

Ultimately, I know Dave and I fight and disagree because we deeply care about each other. We are blessed to indulge such selfish considerations. I am humbled and sorry that have spent time worrying about receiving the right gift, or better, the right gift to return [wink wink]. Nevertheless, here we are. Dave wants to kill himself because I kill Christmas. I think we both know we need to get a grip. We have been talking and being silent for days. We want to move past this. We need to move past this. We need to move past our high expectations, unfair judgements, and resentment of one another. We need step aside and remember that for starters, we have lasted almost twenty-one years. Valentine’s Day 1996 was our first date. We are blessed. I do not have to work. Our boys are healthy. We love each other. Utah is currently bursting with homelessness. I bet if we redirected our gift-giving disconnect to a family in need, they would not care what color of toothbrush we gave them, if the sleeping bag we provide is down-filled or synthetic, if we gave them ten presents or just one. In the end, I think instead of giving each other a panic attack each year we should do what Eli suggested and give our money and love to those in need.

CrazyUS.com

Category: Health

Sexual Abuse Did Not Start In A Vacuum

…There I was.
In a Brigham Young University classroom.

“Beth, you are bad. I am good. Do not challenge my power!”

“Beth, by working for the secretary you were deceitful and are unworthy. I could fire you. Instead, I will ask you not to return next semester.”

“Why did it take so long for people to speak up?”

“Why can’t we do better?”

“Beth, you would be so much more comfortable if you took your pants off.”

“You will not find anyone better than me.” he insisted.

“Learn from me. You get to chose who you love. You deserve a healthy relationship. You get to hold your boundaries. You are not bad if you say no.”

And what happens when we take our conversation beyond this moment?
Answer: a lot

We are not friends and that is ok.

“No problem. Let’s go Friday.”

“Sure. Come on over.”

“You have a super liberal Facebook friend policy.”

“Yes. Yes I do. I love people.” I respond.

“Wait for it. Wait for it.”

“Hi Barb.” He said.

“well, how do you know him?”

Bottom line: I say learn from me. Figure out how you want to friend, and then trust it — (as long as you are not being a tool and are being transparent).

CrazyUS 4.0: Exposing My Vulnerability

Um and the answer is, “Yes.”

And since August, 2006 (and really since way before that), I have been trying to be a tree instead of the wind. That being said, do not underestimate the power of the wind.

“We were married in 1998. Crazy!”

There is no other reason than this: I took my blog down because I was afraid.

I am sorry I ran away.

Sources

I Was Blind But Now I See — Literally

“I am getting older and that is what happens.”

“Wow! I love my freckles. Man, I have a lot of them.” It honestly took me a few minutes to connect the dots as I thought to myself, “It is my new robot eye. It is allowing me to see. My freckles have always been this bright. Wow!”

Trust Me

“Who is Brené Brown? And why do you always refer to her?”

“How do I stand in my space and tell my story while holding everyone’s trust, including my own?”

I suck at Christmas and am even worse at gift receiving.

“Beth, I love Christmas, but each year you make me want to kill myself.”

Perspective.

…There I was. In a Brigham Young University classroom.

“Beth, you are bad. I am good. Do not challenge my power!”

“Beth, by working for the secretary you were deceitful and are unworthy. I could fire you. Instead, I will ask you not to return next semester.”

“Why did it take so long for people to speak up?”

“Why can’t we do better?”

“Beth, you would be so much more comfortable if you took your pants off.”

“You will not find anyone better than me.” he insisted.

“Learn from me. You get to chose who you love. You deserve a healthy relationship. You get to hold your boundaries. You are not bad if you say no.”

And what happens when we take our conversation beyond this moment? Answer: a lot

“No problem. Let’s go Friday.”

“Sure. Come on over.”

“You have a super liberal Facebook friend policy.”

“Yes. Yes I do. I love people.” I respond.

“Wait for it. Wait for it.”

“Hi Barb.” He said.

“well, how do you know him?”

Bottom line: I say learn from me. Figure out how you want to friend, and then trust it — (as long as you are not being a tool and are being transparent).

Um and the answer is, “Yes.”

And since August, 2006 (and really since way before that), I have been trying to be a tree instead of the wind. That being said, do not underestimate the power of the wind.

“We were married in 1998. Crazy!”

There is no other reason than this: I took my blog down because I was afraid.

I am sorry I ran away.

Sources

“I am getting older and that is what happens.”

“Wow! I love my freckles. Man, I have a lot of them.” It honestly took me a few minutes to connect the dots as I thought to myself, “It is my new robot eye. It is allowing me to see. My freckles have always been this bright. Wow!”

“Who is Brené Brown? And why do you always refer to her?”

“How do I stand in my space and tell my story while holding everyone’s trust, including my own?”

“Beth, I love Christmas, but each year you make me want to kill myself.”

Perspective.

…There I was.
In a Brigham Young University classroom.

And what happens when we take our conversation beyond this moment?
Answer: a lot