One hundred fish in one day can make you forget (in a good way!)

BJ and I went camping. It was awesome.
I knew before we went that we were going to be there on the anniversary of my wedding to Larry. I also knew that in the past that has been a hard day for me... Just full of bad memories that make me want to curl up in a ball in my closet and disappear for a day (or more)... I hoped that camping and fishing in one of my favorite places would make it easier, but I didn't know.

The trip was AWESOME.
So relaxed. So chill. So much fun. And I completely forgot what day it was, and that THAT day is usually hard for me. Of course, the fishing was non-stop. I lost count of how many fish I caught, but BJ and I figured we each caught at least 100 fish that day.

Home sweet home - at least for the weekend.

The view from our tent.

I don't know what this is... but it's kinda cool, right?

There are so many little springs that feed the lake. That's a tree root that is catching the water.

Setting sun

SO MANY BUGS! But I couldn't really see them until I used the flash. I quit fishing when I couldn't see my fly on the water anymore, but that didn't stop BJ.

I was super excited to catch an albino trout.

Then BJ caught one, and he was super excited about his. (They are just weird looking!)

Then I caught another one, and wanted my picture taken with him.

Not sure what this face is about... but here you go.

I am "Catch and Release" only. This guy just got released a few seconds earlier than I was planning.

Using my new camera to take pictures of the moon... It didn't work so good at first.

That's the moonlight! I felt super loved having BJ sit with me while I tried to figure out how to capture the best picture. I also felt super loved that he gave me the camera just for moments like this one. He has given me the assignment to take pictures that will be custom framed and then used to decorate our house. These aren't quite there... yet...

This one would be awesome, but when viewed at it's full size, you can see it isn't quite in focus... I'm getting better though!

 And next week? I'm going to Alaska! BJ, my parents, two of my brothers and their wives, and me... Getting on a boat and cruising through Alaska. BJ and I are going fly fishing for trout and Dolly Vardon. We're all going to go to "musher's camp" to play with the sled dogs. We're going to Alaska!

Is a comedian still funny underwater?

(I wrote the following in December - day after it happened. I never posted it, and to be honest, now I can't remember why. Probably because I was hoping to have a nice little addendum before I posted it that said, "I went back and tried again! I was fine. It was awesome!" But I can't say that. I haven't gone back yet...)

Sometimes, I'm still crazy. I thought about not sharing this story, because I was embarrassed. Because I'd like to say I'm all normal and silly things don't freak me out ever. But then I realized that silly things DO freak me out. I'm not "normal", and that's okay. It sucks to still have to deal with trauma related shit, but it is what it is. Part of recovery is learning how to deal with triggers.

Scuba diving in the pool went great. In the pool, if I felt anxious or if something wasn't going quite right, I could come up and talk to my instructor. In the open water dive, I knew that wouldn't be possible. If you're forty feet underwater, and something isn't right, you still have to take your time coming up (or cause yourself serious injury).

I passed the written final. I passed off everything in the pool. I was all geared up and ready to do the open water dive. And then I got dizzy and nauseous and I couldn't breath. I thought it might be because the water (and the cave around the water) were really warm. I walked outside, and I realized it wasn't the heat. I was about to have a full-blown panic attack.

At this point, I didn't want to go back in and look like a fool. I also didn't like just walking away and having the instructor worrying about where I'd gone. I walked back in, told them I wasn't feeling well, and I'd make up the dive later. One of the worst parts of dealing with PTSD or panic is dealing with other people's thoughts and opinions of me. It sucks to have people think that you're crazy and out of control, but I learned a long time ago that trying to control other people's opinions of me didn't make my life better. It didn't help me recover. It didn't help anything... except that we all got to live in a delusional world. I don't know what instructor dude thought of me, but he told me it was fine.


At first, I didn't see how panicking about scuba diving could possibly be related to trauma. I was sexually abused... there was no water around at the time... what the what?

One of the skills I've learned in dealing with fear (irrational and rational) is to ask myself two questions:

• How old do you feel?
• What's the worst that could happen?

How old do you feel? often shows me what is triggering me. A few years ago, I was having panic over buying brand name shoes for myself. When I asked myself that question, I realized I felt like a little girl. My dad didn't see the need to buy brand name shoes (and when you're buying them for a ten year old, it makes sense). I was still holding on to what he'd said. As soon as I realized that, I let go of that old story, and just enjoyed my shoes.

This time, that question didn't do any good. I couldn't link to any specific age or event that would be triggering this.

What's the worst that could happen? usually helps me to get to the root of my fears. When I asked myself the question this time, I first thought, "I might drown." But that didn't really trigger any fear. When asking myself the question, I have to pay attention to what I think would be the worst, not what OTHER people would think is the worst.

So I just kept asking myself.
What's the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen is I will be trapped under water, and I won't be able to use my voice.
I won't be able to tell people what is happening.
I'll be hurting and have no way of communicating my hurt.
Trapped. No voice. No way out.

That's when the flashbacks started. I was suddenly back trapped, no voice, no way out, and in so much physical and emotional pain that death would have been a welcome relief. (No wonder drowning didn't trigger any fear.)

I called my friend Steph. She has an amazing ability to make me laugh at things that aren't really funny. She teased me about what a storyteller I must be: Why else would I be afraid that I wouldn't be able to talk underwater? How could people know I was funny, if they couldn't hear my jokes?

And then she empathized. It sucks to have such silly things feel SO big. It sucks to have something so unrelated (like scuba diving) trigger trauma and flashbacks. She understands. Been there and doing that herself.

What she said next is the main reason I am sharing this here. She told me I was a hero. Not because everything is perfect. Not because all of the flashbacks and trauma symptoms are all gone, but because I keep fighting even though they aren't. She also pointed out how rarely this stuff comes up now, and how it takes so much more than it once took.

That's what recovery from PTSD and sexual trauma and shit looks like. Sometimes it's just messy. Sometimes you look crazy, and a lot of times you feel crazy. And we just keep going anyway.

I feel confused. (Everyone says send it, but what if I don't want to?)

The letter... people telling me to send it... The following will be mostly a stream of consciousness, so please don't expect it to make too much sense. Also, it may be triggering, because I'm angry and sad and talk about rape and abuse... and well... there's the warning.

I don't want to send the letter. I have lots of reasons, but I'll start with the reasons why I want to send it.

It would make other people proud of me.
Others would think I was strong, "over it", good, "recovered", and any number of labels that equal, "Other people will love me."
I feel like it is my responsibility to save the future Mrs. Curtis, or at least do everything I can.
Other people tell me it would be helpful to me, and if other people say it, than I have to do it, no matter what I think would be helpful to me.

Noticing any trends?
There's nothing on that list that is for me.

I'm all for doing things that are helpful for others, but I think in this instance it is better to think about me. I think. (And super loud in my head, I just hear, "Stupid, selfish, bitch," and it isn't in MY voice that I hear it. It's his. How horribly messed up is THAT?)

The reasons I don't want to send the letter.
I don't want anyone to tell me that I'm crazy or stupid or it doesn't matter. I'm not sure I could handle getting that feedback from the Catholic church or from Larry.
Closely related, I'm not sure I could handle getting nothing back from them.

Those fears seem like a good reason to send it. Show myself that I can handle getting whatever feedback (or lack of it) that comes back. Who knows how I will handle it until I try?

More reasons I don't want to send it, and these go deeper.
I don't want to hear anything from that man. I don't want to hear an apology. I don't want to hear that he has changed. I don't want to hear that he has worked hard and overcome it. I don't want to hear that he is sorry. I don't want to hear it, and I don't care how much he has changed or what he has done since then. I don't care who he is now - I'm too angry at the man he was to listen to ANYTHING that comes out of his face.

(This seems odd to me, especially considering that I have never felt this emotion towards him. Four years ago, I was upset with BJ and Bishop C for feeling anger towards Larry. I preached forgiveness and love and not having any ill wishes towards him. Bishop C was moved to tears by how "good" I was. BJ was moved to tears of frustration, because he didn't think it was an appropriate reaction to the way I had been treated. I am such a different person now. I like this new person. Anyway.)

I don't feel the need to offer him redemption. I don't feel the need to offer him a chance to apologize or show me that he's changed. I don't feel the need to do anything with him.

I would love it if he had to face consequences of his actions... but no matter what I say, that won't change that HE will never have to deal with PTSD, or the pain, or the confusion or the shit. Nothing will take away all that I have had to go through to just survive, and then to try to find a life worth living... And that makes me angry. Jealous. ANGRY. Nothing that he could possibly have to go through would compare with what I have had to deal with because of his actions.

There was nothing against the law about what he did when he did it. (There was no such thing as marital rape at the time. A lack of a law doesn't change how it felt, it only changes the consequences for him if I could somehow prove it, which I can't, and I don't want to.)


The leaders of the LDS church saw nothing wrong with his behavior... BJ was the first to care... and he didn't believe the doctrine of the church... do I think the Catholic church will care? No. Why should they? Most religious leaders believe in the Biblical definition of marriage: Women are property, and they have responsibilities. They may not condone raping your wife, but most won't condemn it either. Hell if I am going to put my voice out there to be thrown away AGAIN.


NO! I get to choose who I share with, and it isn't religious authorities, and it isn't Larry.

(Interesting. I'm still feeling pretty hurt and angry at the church. For the things leaders said, for the things said in the temple that could be used to justify his behavior, and for the continued ideals preached about "traditional marriage".  I feel pretty helpless and powerless when it comes to them.)

I still feel like future Mrs. Curtis deserves to know something... but then I think about how I would have responded if the first Mrs. Curtis (the one before me) had sent a letter like this one. He had painted her as crazy and messed up and lucky that he got away. I would have ignored the letter and it would have pushed me EVEN MORE to take care of him, to love him the way no one ever had. I hope that the new lady is not as messed up in her thinking as I was, but...

The only reason that I would send it, is for her. Even if she still married him, maybe if he treated her poorly in the future, she would know it wasn't just her. Maybe she could skip the blaming herself part and go straight to the, "he's a jerk," part. I don't know.

I still welcome feedback. I'm still trying to figure out what to do - not for everyone else, but for my own healing and progression. Still a lot of questions, and a lot of pain.

Facebook page

I started a Facebook page for my blog.
Feel free to follow me there.

https://www.facebook.com/LittleSugarCoated

The letter I will never send, except that I might,

So.... I got a letter in the mail. From the Catholic Church. It seems that Larry (ex-husband) wants to get remarried, and the Catholic church wants me to answer a few questions. I'm not sure if my answers (or lack of answers) affect his ability to get married again or not. I don't want to respond. I don't want to help him. I feel angry. WHY would I want to do anything to help that man hurt another wife? Why would I want to help him do ANYTHING?
The best way I know how to deal with shit is to write... so I wrote a letter... it was going to be just for me, but now that it's done, I think I'd like to share it with you. BJ suggested actually sending the damn thing. I don't know. I'll just start with posting it here...



To whom it may concern,

I was married to Laurence Curtis for two years. We were both members of the LDS church when we met. We met in November and were married the following June. I was nineteen when we met, and twenty when we married. There were signs that I shouldn't have married him, but I didn't pay much attention.

For example, once I fell asleep while watching a movie with my roommates, and he unzipped my pants and groped me. But I dismissed it... like it was somehow normal for a man to grope a sleeping woman, just as long as he put a blanket over her so her roommates couldn't see what he was doing.

Sexual sin is next to murder according the LDS teachings... except that sexual sin is pretty common place, so when Larry promised to abstain from all sexual activity until marriage (which was only six weeks away), they gave the okay. He mostly kept his promise, but that lead to AWFUL behavior in the marriage. In his mind, he had abstained for six weeks, and marriage gave him the right to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

I'll just start with the wedding night.
I was exhausted. He refused to let me bring my bags in. Since we were married, I was supposed to just get naked and climb in bed with him. I didn't do what he asked, but that didn't matter. He removed my clothes for me. (I didn't fight him, but I asked him not to.) He forced himself in me. I cried. It HURT. He responded by saying, "Shut up. I'll be done in a second."


I went to the bathroom and cried. He yelled at me. He told me I was being selfish and stupid. I was HIS wife now, and I had responsibilities. I came out. I apologized, because I thought he was right. I had no right to say no, I had no right to decide what I wanted to happen, or what I didn't want. I was nothing but his property. He accepted my apology and then did the same thing again. I cried. I told him it hurt. He responded by saying, "It wouldn't hurt so much if you'd just relax."
 
There was often blood after "sex" with him. He said it was normal. He was WRONG, but I didn't know. He'd been married before. He'd had sex with other women, so I thought he knew better than I did.

Over time, my body adapted to having quick, forced, "sex". I got instantly wet if he touched me. A hug usually meant that "sex" was coming, and I was lucky that my body reacted the way it did. It saved me a lot of physical pain. He hated that. He said it was disgusting when a woman got turned on. He preferred her to be dry. He told me I was disgusting. I believed him. There was something disgusting about me and my body, and I couldn't control it. He'd insist I shower, and then come back to bed, and then we'd have "sex". I did it. I thought what he did was normal. I thought I was disgusting.

If I cried, he'd put a pillow over my face.

If I talked or made any noise, he'd tell me to shut up and put a pillow over my face.

If I moved, he'd yell at me for ruining HIS experience.

If I said no, he'd ignore it.

If I fought him, he was bigger and stronger and it just made him get more violent. I couldn't stop him, and it made things worse for me.

If I got away, and locked myself in the bathroom, he'd wait until I came out... then masturbate and squirt at me. He blamed me for forcing him to do that. I believed him when he told me it was my fault. I believed him when he told me I was hurting him by trying to stop him from having "sex" with me.

If I threatened to leave, he'd threaten my family, especially my sister. She was twelve, and he called her crude names. I felt afraid of what he might do to her.

The last time I ever tried to fight him, he yelled at me for "making him do that". We both knew that he had just raped me. It was the only time that it looked like rape... like the kind they show in movies... like the kind that rarely happens, but when it does there is no doubt in anyone's mind. I apologized. I felt like a good wife would never fight. A good wife would not object. It was somehow MY fault that he had done that. It is completely true that if I had just laid there, and held my legs out of his way, he wouldn't have had to pry them apart. If I had done what he wanted, he never would have been violent.

I stood there, half-naked, and apologized to him for making him rape me. I still feel anger at myself for apologizing to him. I should have kicked him in the balls and told him to get the fuck out... and never come back... but I didn't. Instead, I tried harder to be what he said a wife was supposed to be.

From then on, I laid on my back and held my legs out of his way until he was finished.

He'd have "sex" with me in my sleep. I didn't mind that as much. At least I could be unconscious for some of it. (I didn't understand that if I wasn't awake to consent, that was rape, even if I was married to him.)

I once talked to him about the way he treated me. He told me that I was lucky he was so good to me. No one would be as kind and considerate as he was. EVERY man would act like him or maybe even worse. (I'm not sure what "worse" looked like in his head... but I know now, most men do not say or do the things that he did.)

When we got married, I was underweight. I had struggled with an eating disorder and had only been in recovery for a short time. I gained about fifteen pounds while we were married. He told me I was fat and unattractive. When I got busy and forgot to eat, he'd tell me how great I looked. When he informed me that he was having sex with other women, and I handled it by not eating for three days, he congratulated me. I knew enough about eating disorders and my body to know that what he was saying was FUCKED UP, but I didn't know how to get out of the marriage by then. I dismissed his comments as ignorant, but I don't think he was ignorant. He knew that starving could kill... but with his words, he showed he preferred a thin wife to an alive wife.

When we went to the bishop (because Larry said he was cheating... and we wanted help to save our marriage), the bishop only confirmed the bullshit that Larry had been saying. It was my responsibility to keep my husband happy. I worked two jobs, because Larry didn't work. The bishop told me that no matter what I did outside of the home, my only REAL responsibility was to keep my husband happy. Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge.

I tried harder to be who he needed me to be, but felt like I was dying.
I became suicidal. I envisioned driving over the edge of the cliff every day on my way to school. Every day I would tell myself, "not today, but if you still feel this way tomorrow, then you can." The next day I would repeat the same thing. I feel lucky to have lived through that time.

He went to Texas for a job interview. Something in me changed while he was gone. I was done trying to save a marriage that was hell. He didn't work. We didn't get along. He hated church. I hated the way he treated me. I didn't want him to come back. I told him I wanted a divorce. He told me I was screwed up, and I would regret that decision. He told me that I wasn't capable of making a good decision, because I didn't have "the spirit" with me.

Eventually he agreed with me. Divorce was the best option for both of us. We said good-bye. We divorced. We didn't talk again. When I got married again, I needed a letter from him to cancel our LDS sealing. He sent the letter willingly, and the sealing was cancelled. I was relieved that I would never have to write a letter for him... The sealing was cancelled, which meant if he wanted to get remarried, he could just go for it. No one would ask me about my experience of being married to him.

And now he wants to get married in the Catholic church, which means that I was asked to give my opinions. I didn't know what to say, but I feel like I couldn't say nothing. I gave you a few examples of things that happened while I was married to him, but even those barely touch on the horror that was my life with him, and the horror that I have gone through since then.

I have spent hundreds of hours in therapy, which cost tens of thousands of dollars. I've spent months without sleep. Years of feeling hopeless and suicidal. Years of feeling afraid that all men would treat me like him. Years of feeling like I didn't deserve any better than the rapist that he was. Years of hiding and pretending, because I didn't know how to talk about what he did. Years of believing that a wife is nothing but a plaything to her husband. Years of believing that I was worthless, damaged, crazy, disgusting, and all of the other words he used to manipulate and control me. Years of nightmares where I can feel him ripping me apart. Years of physically hurting, because of the damage he did when he forced his dick inside me. Years of confusion. Years of questioning. Buckets of tears. Seizures. Night terrors. Nightmares. The list goes on.

I am still dealing with the effects of PTSD... Post Traumatic Stress from the trauma of being raped by a man that was supposed to love and care for me. Post Traumatic Stress from the trauma of being used and abused. Post Traumatic Stress from all of the shit that man said and did...

And now, he's about to get married again. I don't know if he has changed or not. I don't know if he still believes that women are disgusting if they get turned on. I don't know if he still prefers to force himself on women than to have sex with them. I don't know if he still gets violent. I don't know if he still thinks that raping a woman IS sex with a woman. I don't know if he still blames women for his thoughts and actions. I don't know if he still believes it is a woman's job to lay there and hold her fucking legs out of his way while he goes at it. I don't know if he still believes that it is wife's job to "keep him happy", while completely ignoring that his wife is actually a person too. I don't know if he still uses and abuses others. I don't know if he still encourages women to starve themselves, so they will be attractive to him. I don't know anything about who he is today, but I figured since you sent me the letter... reminded me of those experiences... I would tell you about just a few of the things I experienced while being married to him. 


Sincerely,
Jen


(P.S. I could really REALLY use comments on this one. I feel vulnerable and icky, and any words you could share, would be nice.)

Stuff he said to me.

At Slut walk, I wanted to make a sign. I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I told myself I was past that. I have written about it on my blog, gone to therapy, talked about things with BJ and other friends. I'm done, and I'm just going to this event to help others...

I do want to help other people... and... right now, I have some work I need to do.
Slut walk made me aware of some of the beliefs that are still hanging on. I wanted to make a sign and walk with others, but I wasn't ready. I've been trying to think about how to find that piece of healing... what to do next...


Then I found THIS!!!!
The link above is to a photographer's awesome project. She takes pictures of victims of sexual abuse with a poster of something their abuser said to them.


The worst part about sexual abuse is all of the emotional abuse that comes with it. The way it fucks you over. The shit that you believe. The fight to replace all of that shit with something else... especially when the only world you have ever known has been shaped and filtered by abuse.

I want to do a poster for the website. Abusers say the most fucked up shit. It's the way they keep you quiet. It's the way they protect themselves from the consequences of their actions. It's the way they keep control, so they can keep abusing.

I don't know which quote I would put on a poster, but I'm thinking about the things that he said.
(WARNING! I'm about to list those things. I have no idea how they will affect others. They aren't nice and could be triggering.)

"It wouldn't hurt if you'd just relax."

"I wouldn't have to do this (violently forcing himself on me) if you wouldn't fight me."

"You don't know how lucky you are. No other guy would treat you as good as I do. No other guy would be as kind as I am to you - especially when it comes to sex."

"Women are so disgusting when they get turned on. That's why I hate foreplay. Better to just get in and get it done before they get all wet and gross."

"You are disgusting. It just makes me sick."

"I'm embarrassed by your fat ass. No one should ever have to look at that." (I didn't ask to be naked in front of him... I would have much preferred to keep my clothes on and him out of me.)

"Shut up woman. I'll be done in a second."

"I deserve more respect than this. You are my wife! How dare you make me do it this way!" (referring to "having" to force himself on me, because I wouldn't just lay there. I tried to fight him off. Stupid wife... thinking she has a right to say no every once in a while. MAKING her husband rape her violently... So I apologized to him for making him do that. I became the good wife that let him go at it any time without tears or complaints. It was better that way.)

Eventually, I tried to talk about it. Other people seemed to agree with Larry. A wife is nothing but her husband's property and sex-toy. To be used however and whenever he felt like it.

They said things like:
A woman withholding sex from her husband is just as bad as a man raping a woman.
How could he rape you? You were married.

I'd like to put those things on a poster too.

"Consent isn’t the absence of a “no;” consent is an unequivocal and enthusiastic YES."

Sometimes, I come across things that turn my whole world upside down... sometimes that's a good thing (eventually), but it is confusing and painful until it becomes a good thing.

For instance, a series of blogposts by Shannon Hale.
I wish there could have been someone who could have explained all of this to me fifteen years ago, and I wish that the person I was fifteen years ago could have understood.



The greatest contributor to rape culture

"When we don’t have conversations with kids about sex, we’re telling kids that it’s too bad, dirty, and wrong to even talk about. And when someone is raped, they feel bad, dirty, and wrong, and they think, yeah, that’s what I expected sex to be. And so sometimes, horrifyingly, they conclude that rape and sex must be the same thing."

Umm. Yeah. THIS. I totally thought that what Larry did was sex... It wasn't. But I didn't know any better. How could I? I'd never talked about it. I'd never experimented with my own feelings or my own body. I had NOTHING (except childhood sexual abuse) to relate to, and no one I felt like I could talk to... 

When it hurt, I thought that was normal.
When I felt used and abused, I thought the problem was ME.
When I felt angry, I thought I was selfish for not giving him what he needed.
Everything about sex was confusing... but that's because SEX NEVER HAPPENED. Not one fucking time. (Pun intended.)

"Consent isn’t the absence of a “no;” consent is an unequivocal and enthusiastic YES."

What an amazing, life-altering, mind-blowing idea. Sex means that both people want it, and if both people don't want it, it isn't sex... It's something else.

"Rape is not simply acting upon sexual urges. Rape is about dominance and power and violence and control. The intent of sex is mutual pleasure, and that's never the intent of rape. Let’s be totally clear. Those young men (Steubenville) chose, instead of having sex with a willing girl, to rape an unconscious girl. Who could not participate, could not experience pleasure, could not say yes or admire them or share an intimate moment. Those boys didn’t choose sex. They chose rape. And the experience of rape, for both the girl and the boy, is entirely different than the experience of sex. THEY ARE NOTHING ALIKE. RAPE AND SEX ARE NOT RELATED."

I once wrote a blog post where I talked about how my tears, my pleading for him to stop, my fighting him off as hard as I could (to no avail)... all of that should have been "no" enough. My "no" should have been no enough. But he didn't want someone who LIKED sex. He didn't want a consenting wife... he told me he liked it best when his woman wasn't turned on. He hated it when I fought him, but he also hated his woman participating.

Let's Talk about Consent

"Chuck says, “Consent must be unequivocal it does NOT need enthusiastic...If she implicitly and explicitly makes clear that she's willing to have sex it's not rape no matter how unenthusiastic she may be.” Chuck, this is not the legal definition of consent. It's an extremely wise definition that we'd all be better off to live by and the definition I believe we should be teaching to our children. Wouldn't you rather that your partner was enthusiastic? Why would you want to proceed if she/he wasn't?"

john doe asks, “What if the two parties disagree on what it was?...do you need to get consent in writing now?”
Yes, do that. If you have to ask, then yes, yes, yes. Sounds like you’re walking a line, and one that can be horrifically devastatingly life changing and even life ending for many a victim. If you’re not sure if she’s consenting, then ask her to sign a consent form, a napkin, your belly--whatever. And then her consent (or non-consent) will be perfectly clear. You’ll protect yourself as well as your partner. Do that. Please. 

Let’s err on the side of clarity, can we? When we have girls and women regularly taking their own lives to escape the horrors of a post-rape life, then clarity is the least we can offer."

"Are we worried that enthusiastic consent is too hard to get? Say a woman says, not tonight, honey. And he gets to kissing her neck and murmuring sweet things and she changes her mind and is all in. Great!
Or say a woman says, not tonight, honey, and he tries his usual moves and she’s not feeling it and still would really rather not. What happens next is very telling about how healthy their relationship is and what kind of a man he is. If she really doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t care because he does, then that’s abuse. That’s unhealthy. And if that sounds like your relationship, you both should get counseling."

 "Is the worry that if a guy wants to has sex and doesn’t hear a clear an enthusiastic yes but goes through it anyway, then she might call rape on him?
Well, 1st, depending on how it happened, it might very well be rape.
And, 2nd, if you’re okay having sex with someone who really doesn’t want to do that with you, then counseling is a good idea. Again, I mean that kindly and sincerely. Sometimes survivors of rape and abuse have a hard time enjoying sex again, and that’s something normal that a partner needs to know and respect, and counseling together is an excellent idea. But if that’s not the case and you just enjoy having sex with someone who isn’t enjoying it with you, then STOP IT AND GET HELP.
And, 3rd, if you’re choosing to sleep with someone who you’re worried might falsely call rape on you, then it’d be a good idea to choose not to sleep with them. Foregoing sex in this instance would be a wiser, better, happier choice for all."

I'd like to say more... but for now, I just feel... suddenly more aware of how fucked up life with him was... And that awareness, while probably good to have, HURTS.

eating disorders are one of the ways that our brains have to actually keep a person alive.

BJ made this comment on my blog about eating disorders... and I wanted to share this with everyone.

"My experience with eating disorders is primarily with Jen. This battle is complicated to the extreme and would take hours to explain and takes years to recover from. From what I have gleaned, eating disorders are one of the ways that our brains have to actually keep a person alive. An odd twist. A survival technique. One where the body demands the diversion of the brain to allow for pain to be relieved. It's not the source of the pain but a way to mask and hide the underlying torment.

Those battling with eating disorders are battling for their lives. Many don't make it. They die. Those that survive are Heroes in my eyes: Capable of dealing with life's most horrific pains. AMAZING people."

He explained it so perfectly - I wish everyone could understand it like he does. I wish everyone had a friend and a support like I have in him. 

Eating Disorders: Numbers, behavior, and body size aren't the point.

I have never done a post about eating disorder with numbers, but today, I want to. This could backfire. I could be super triggering and make a mess of things. To anyone with an eating disorder, you know that ALL numbers can screw with your head, so maybe stop reading here.

At the same time, to anyone with an eating disorder, I want you to know that just because you don't think you are sick enough, you still are. (And a good sign that you need help, is if you think you are not sick enough to get help. Think about that for a second: If you have to make yourself more sick in order to get help, there's probably definitely a big problem in your head. Or if you are competing with someone to be the closest to death (aka the skinniest), that's a good sign things aren't right. Anyway...)


Every time the news runs a story on eating disorders, they talk about the extremes. They love to tell how little a person eats in a day, and it's usually such small amounts that no one can fathom how that girl (because it's almost always a girl) can still walk around. They love to tell how many hours are spent exercising, and it's usually as much as an Olympic athlete, sometimes more. They like to talk about all of the other extreme behaviors a person can do, and there's a lot. (I'm not listing them here, but if you've ever seen a news piece, you know there's a whole lot more.) They LOVE to show scales and low weights and skeletal bodies.


Those stories are real, but they aren't the only stories out there. In fact, they are probably more rare... That's definitely not what all eating disorders look like. I have been inpatient twice. The first time, I firmly believed I didn't have an eating disorder and I didn't deserve to get treatment for one. Just because it didn't look like the stories on the news... or the women that came to speak at my high school... or the made for TV movies. I wasn't sick enough to deserve help.

The second time was different. I didn't wait until it got so bad that I didn't have any other options. I was sick, and scared, and confused... and somehow still somewhat grounded.

I don't want to dismiss how bad off I was. (That was BJ's fear as I was writing this.) I don't want to glorify or glamorize an eating disorder. (That's a fear in writing this.) I don't want to give people ideas, or give anyone a reason to justify or excuse behavior. (That's my biggest fear in writing this.) I don't want to trigger anyone, or make anyone else's battle with food and weight and eating disorder and shit worse. I just want people to know what the eating disorder looked like for me.



Here goes.

The week before I went inpatient (in 2008), I averaged about 1400 calories/day. There were days I ate less, and days I ate more, but that was my average.

The week before I went inpatient, I was walking about 6 miles/day. Walking. Not running. I also played DDR most days. I don't think I lifted weights the week before I went in, but that was a regular part of my routine up until I knew I was for sure going.

I didn't lose my period. I didn't lose my hair nor did I ever have detectable problems with my heart or other internal organs.

(Although while inpatient my blood pressure started doing funky things and I was dizzy ALL the time. I'm still not sure if the dizziness was because of the eating disorder, or if it was a problem that was already there, or if  it was anxiety related. My guess is it was a combination of all three.)

I kept working both of my jobs, and I was still a good employee. I fulfilled all of my responsibilities. My employers didn't know there was a problem until I told them I needed to take time off to go inpatient.

I was considered underweight. (Fifteen pounds. That's how much I gained while I was inpatient.) I didn't think I was fat. I knew I was thin. I didn't own a scale, and I didn't care to. I wasn't against gaining weight, but... more on that later.

There are diet sites out there that tell people to do exactly what I was doing. These aren't "pro-ana" sites. These are sites that are supposed to be all about healthy living. (Weight watchers, the government website (mypyramidtracker.gov and choosemyplate.gov), and others) Most people saw nothing wrong with my behavior. They were still congratulating me on my "will power" and my healthy habits.

None of the above is me trying to say I wasn't sick. I was! That's the point.
If I had kept doing what I was doing, I don't know what would have happened to my body. How long until there were health problems? Or until I couldn't go to work? Weeks? Months? Years? How long could I keep up that behavior without it getting worse? The worst part wasn't what I was doing, it was the fight going on in my mind that was going to kill me. I was in mental and emotional hell.

Food was a constant battle. I felt guilty for every bite I ate. I felt like I was bad. I felt like a good person would eat less. I felt disgusted with myself for eating as much as I did. If I was a good person, I wouldn't need food. I hated myself for spending money on food. I kept track of every penny I spent on myself, and felt guilty for it. I thought I was selfish and needy and out of control, because I spent money on food AND I ate it. I kept track of every bite I ate, and added up every calorie over and over and over again in my mind. It didn't matter how I added it up, it was always too much AND too little. If I was good, I would eat nothing, and if I was good, I wouldn't make people worry about me by not eating. The thinking and the behaviors were just symptoms of a much bigger problem.

I felt panicked if I couldn't exercise. I told myself I was lazy if I sat down, or slept, or stopped walking. I told myself I was lazy for not running... I was angry at myself for only walking and not running. I was constantly worried that I should be exercising more. I hated myself for not going farther or doing more.  That doesn't mean I was always exercising - I just felt like I should be even when I wasn't. My mind never rested. Every time I felt sad or scared or depressed or angry or anxious or happy, I wanted to walk. (In case you missed that, that means, I felt like I should be walking, wanted to be walking, had to be moving 24 hours a day/seven days a week.) Walking was the only way I knew how to feel okay. I'd walk at night. I'd walk in the cold. I felt safer on the streets alone at 2 am than I felt at home... as long as I was moving.

I hated my body. I wasn't trying to lose weight, but I wanted to punish myself and my body.  I thought that the less I ate and the more I exercised, the stronger I was. I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my spirit was stronger than my body. In my mind, the more I punished myself, the better person I was.

I felt suicidal, depressed, miserable, anxious, MISERABLE, sad, self-destructive, and I wasn't getting any better. I couldn't stop what I was doing, because when I stopped walking, I felt the full rush of emotions, flashbacks, and memories, and I didn't know how to handle those. (And I didn't even know what they were. All I knew was that I felt awful whenever I wasn't moving.)

I knew that I should eat more. Exercise less. I didn't care.
I knew what I was doing was harming my body, or it would be soon. I didn't care.
I wanted to die, but didn't feel like I deserved the relief of death.
I wanted to live, but didn't want the life I had led up to that point.
I felt helpless and stuck and alone.

I felt guilty that therapy cost so much. I wondered if it was a waste on me. I thought maybe I was just crazy, and I needed to accept that. I KNEW I was bad, and I didn't deserve to be happy. I felt guilty for using up my therapist's time.

I said brilliant things like, "I just need someone to help teach me how to 'take it' (meaning abuse)," and, "If I were stronger, than I wouldn't need therapy for this. Other people can eat this same amount and they are just fine," and, "What is wrong with me?" (Meaning: I should be able to handle never eating, exercising all the time, never spending money, allowing people to use and abuse me, and be happy.)

I desperately needed help...

I was lucky. There were people around me that were fighting for me to have a better life. There were people who wouldn't let me fall into the oblivion I knew I deserved... And... I am aware that my small body made people pay attention in a way that they wouldn't have if I had been bigger. That made me feel shitty... as if something I can't control (like the genes I was born with) made me more deserving of help than someone else. NO!

There was something inside me that wouldn't let me give up. I knew there was something more and better just out of my reach, and I wanted it. I felt guilty for wanting it, but I WANTED it.

I understood that I could not do the work I needed to do on my own, or even with an outpatient therapist. I asked to go inpatient. My therapist worked with me. The church paid for my time there. My family was supportive. It was the best thing for me. I know I am so lucky that I even had the opportunity to go. Most people don't have that. Most people have to deal with the trauma of abuse and an eating disorder and depression and all of that shit all alone. Still...I don't know how I could have stopped or changed my behaviors AND dealt with the anxiety and trauma without the help of inpatient, therapy, friends, etc.

The staff at CFC pushed me to eat more. They pushed me to gain weight. They watched me closely and helped me to hold myself accountable, so I never exercised. I learned how to deal with emotions without exercise. They challenged me to spend money on myself. They challenged me to rest. (The dizziness I talked about earlier made it so I was a "fall risk". They stuck me in a wheelchair. Even when I was no longer a "fall risk", my therapist wouldn't take me out of the wheelchair until I was comfortable there. He thought it was good for me to just. SIT. All. The fucking. Time.) They challenged me to change my beliefs about food, but even more importantly than the beliefs I had about food... They challenged me to change the beliefs I had about myself, my relationships, and the world around me. They wouldn't let me punish myself, and in time I began accepting myself.

I was hit with memories, flashbacks, depression, anxiety, and all of the other shit that I had been trying to avoid by my constant motion and obsessing about food and exercise. There were people there that supported me: sat with me while I cried, helped me sort through all of the thoughts in my head, gave me a safe place to feel anger, stayed up all night with me when sleep wouldn't come, made me laugh, gave me a place to talk about myself and the struggles. They didn't care how sick I had been or hadn't been. They saw that I was hurting and needed help. It didn't fucking matter if I was skinny or fat or somewhere in between. All that mattered was that I was hurting and I needed help.

They took care of almost everything else, so that I could focus my energy on healing all of the shit inside. That healing and that work didn't end when I left CFC. Really... it was just beginning, but they gave me a great start. They saved my life, and then gave me tools to create a better life.

Recovery doesn't look like I thought it would either. I eat a lot more than what the government recommends. WAY more protein than the little pyramid shows. Exercise is just doing the things I love: riding, fishing, hiking, and occasionally a walk. (I would like to add some weight lifting in there, but I haven't done it yet.)

Nobody congratulates me on my will-power anymore. Strangers don't give me accolades for my healthy habits. In fact, I have had people tell me I should eat healthier, eat less fat, exercise more. AND, I have energy and a will to live. The mental battle is (mostly) over. I don't battle with food at all. I still have to battle the beliefs about myself and what I deserve, and I'm fighting every single day to change those.

My "before" picture (2008). Me at my sickest. I felt so much shame. I wore big jackets. I hid. I kept myself covered. I didn't allow people to take pictures of me, and the only pictures that exist are ones like this one: taken when I wasn't looking. I smiled, but I didn't FEEL a smile. The smile was nothing but a mask.

My "after". There is a small difference in my weight, but... that's not really the point. I look at this picture, and I see ME.
I'm NOT ashamed of my body. I like getting my picture taken. My smile is real and comes from deep inside. I love life (most of the time, and I have no problem saying I hate it when I hate it.) I am real and honest and ME.
I also recognize I'm still small. It makes me angry that we live in a world that values and/or hates small women. WTF? Being small doesn't mean I did recovery right... or better... or worse...

Eating disorders ARE physical. They do manifest themselves with food and the body, but they are far more mental and emotional. I wish the news (and professionals, and recovered people, and anyone willing to talk about it) could help people see and understand that part... but I guess showing a skeletal body does the trick. People immediately understand that THAT person is hurting. It's one of the reasons eating disorders exist.

Just showing up the guys.

Generally speaking, I don't think of myself as a very competitive person. I am ambitious. I am tenacious. But I don't need to "win".

Unless I am the only girl going fishing with the guys, and then something changes.
It never fails. I have almost always been the only girl on the fishing trip. Surrounded by guys, I feel like I have to prove myself. I have to show that I deserve to be on the reservoir... Which somehow translates to, "I have to be the BEST!"

I'm not the best. I'm pretty good... for a beginner.
Today, there were four of us. Once again, I was the only girl... And once again I felt the intense desire to "show up the guys".

I laughed at myself. (What else do you do when you know you are thinking silly, but it feels so intense? I laugh.) Once I got all geared up and started fishing, I (mostly) forgot my desire. It helped that two of them were across the reservoir, so they wouldn't have known if I was catching tons of fish or not.

It was an okay (catching) day for me. I had several fish nibble on my fly. A few takes that got off, and I landed two in the hour we were out there. (We like to go fishing for a couple hours before work.) The other two guys were planning on making a day of it, so we were surprised to see them go in and load their boats up. We started towards the boat ramp to see what was up... but I wasn't done fishing yet, so although I was paddling fast and not really paying attention to my fly, I left it in the water... "Just in case a fish wants it."

We got about twenty feet from the shore, when a big old rainbow trout came up out of the water with my fly in his mouth. Flipped around, and then dove down to the bottom. I had to play him for a while. (I don't know how long. I know my arm got tired.)

On the shore, the two guys were laughing and hooting and I heard, "Way to show us all up Jen! That's awesome!"

Unfortunately, you can't tell that he is huge...

BJ caught a few. Woody caught nothing. Dave caught nothing. Jen caught a few AND the biggest fish of the day AND I did it right in front of them all.

So we went riding.

I am in a relationship with someone who is a lot like me. We both love horses and fishing and the outdoors. We enjoy reading and talking about things. We like a lot of the same TV shows and movies. We both love Mexican food. And Rubio's tacos.

Our similarities make it really nice. I barely ever have to ask for what I want, because he just does what he wants and most of the time it's what I want too.

Our similarities also make it so I get out of practice. Or I don't think about what I want and just go with the flow. Until suddenly I'm feeling all out of whack and I can't figure out why.

I love fishing. Fishing is fun.
I LOVE horseback riding. It feels like it is a key part of ME. I am home on the back of a horse.
We haven't been riding for almost six weeks, because it's been muddy and the fishing has been good. Six weeks without getting out with the horses in the mountains is like an eternity. (I've been in the pasture with Sunny, and I take him out in the foothills by my house, but we haven't GONE anywhere.)

This morning as I was leaving for work, I looked out at the horses, and I wanted to cry. At first I thought it was because up until last week, I worked from home. All day long, I'd work and watch the horses grazing. My new view isn't bad - a field and mountains, but Sunny isn't in the field.

BJ asked me if I was okay. I said yes. No. I don't know.

I want to go riding. I want you to go, not because you want to go, but just because I want to go. I want to go in the mountains - even if it's cold or muddy or not ideal conditions. I just want to go riding!

So we went riding.

It seemed so much scarier... and more complicated... in my head.

I just wanna see you be brave!

I just love this!

SLUT walk 2013

"I love the cause. I hate the name."
That's what BJ said when I told him I was going to Slutwalk, SLC this year.

I was scared.

Do I even have a right to call myself a survivor?
Nobody blamed the way I dressed for the way Larry treated me... It was just his right as my husband.
That old belief. That old fucked up idea. That stupid thing repeated to me by well-meaning (and ignorant) people just keeps hanging around. Even though I know it's stupid, fucked up, irrational, and NOT TRUE, it comes back to haunt me regularly.

Being there, with other survivors and supporters and advocates, was an incredibly emotional experience. It also showed me that although I am better off than I ever dreamed possible, I am not yet where I want to be.

Seeing her. I wanted to cry. Pretty damn good way of displaying the voicelessness I have felt.

The sign behind me: awesome.

Sign making.

I couldn't bring myself to make a sign. I know what I wanted it to say, but I felt too scared to write that and then carry it around. I borrowed someone else's sign.

This is a very powerful project. Victims of abuse: sexual, physical, and emotional as well as secondary survivors (those who know someone who is a survivor of abuse) made T-shirts. Seemed like it could be a very healing thing.

This was my favorite shirt. I HEALED! I will be silent no more!

The Clothesline Project

I wondered if these little girls understood what they were protesting. To some extent, they did. "My body is mine. No one has a right to touch it without MY permission. And if they do, it isn't my fault!"

There were a lot of men and secondary survivors there. I felt grateful for the secondary survivors in my life: The ones that wouldn't give up on me and KNEW I could heal from the abuse.

Some of the signs. It seemed like a very healing thing for a lot of people. Maybe next year I'll be ready to hold up a sign.

This sign broke my heart. PLEASE, let's change things, so no more children have to deal with this.

In memory of those who didn't survive.

There were a LOT of people walking.

I'm still not a "proud survivor", but I would like to be some day.

There were several business where the people came out and clapped and cheered as we walked by. I didn't expect that... I still feel a lot of shame. It was good to see that not everyone believes it was my fault, or that I should keep silent. Some people cheer for the survivors who won't be silent anymore.

I couldn't bring myself to make a sign, so I just signed the poster. I got an eyebrow raise from BJ, "'What you did was not okay!'? NO!!! What he did was fucking SICK, but if that's all your ready to put out there, then that is enough."

"It'd sure be nice if I caught a fish right now"

I have not been fishing all winter. I have gone with BJ while he fished... I guess I pulled out my rod a few times, but it was so cold, I was done after just twenty minutes... it has just been too cold for me to even want to go fishing.

I've enjoyed hiking, snowshoeing, and taking pictures. (I've LOVED taking pictures!)
Yesterday, it was finally warm enough that I WANTED to go fishing. So we did.
We fished the river, and when we ran out of flies for the river, we moved up to the reservoir. I caught a couple on the river. I spent a long time watching a rainbow feeding on the bugs on the bottom of the river. He didn't want any fly I offered him, but I was fascinated just watching him.
I caught a few on the reservoir, and just as we were leaving, BJ pulled out the camera.

I kind of laughed and said, "It'd sure be nice to catch a fish right now... since you've got the camera out... and the day is about over..." and BAM! There was a fish. Couldn't have been more perfect.

Sure be nice if I caught a fish right now...

Check that out!

That's a fish! On my line!!

Fish on! (I'm SO loving this!)

Nice little rainbow.

Posing for the picture.

Once I let that little guy go, BJ decided he needed to fish in one last hole. I pulled out my camera, and BAM! He had a beautiful (and big for that area) rainbow on the end of his rod.

BJ's turn.

Fish on!

And just like that...

NICE fish!

Check him out! (I love the "fish on" giggle and smile.)

It felt SO good to be outside, in the sunshine, fishing with a good friend.
SO glad that spring is finally here and summer is on its way!