Red Rover Red Rover - Leave Heidi Right Over There

If the answer on Jeopardy were:

The Worst Possible Part of Childhood Games

The question would be:
What is anything that requires team captains and choosing people one-by-one until the last person standing is always Heidi??

Thank you Alex Trebek, I'll take my cash and run with it.

If the answers were:

P.E.

Mutual activities.

Family reunion activities.

Neighborhood night games.

The question would be:

What is my worst nightmare to this day at 42 years old because I'm very certain I have PTSD on the real and I break out into a rash and cold sweats that then turn into hot sweats because that's the way it is right now and I run because I'm a runner when it comes to feeling feelings and I need a Diet Coke on the rocks STAT?!

Double or nothing!

Red Rover And Such is one of the experience headers on my "Elementary School" themed Step Four page.

And it's messy.

Picture this. And for clarification purposes, this is a true story:

Asher is about four months old. Anson is about one month old.

Jackson, Braxton, Kaydon and Colton and I are babysitting.

I am out in the front room, feeding Asher.

Colton is on the floor, playing as he does.

Jackson, Braxton AND Kaydon are in the boys' nursery changing Anson's diaper.

Yup, all three of my 6'3" boys to change a brand new baby's diaper.

Suddenly, I hear screaming - like there are 17 adolescent girls in the house all of a sudden who have just seen a spider and are frantically searching for their way out of the room that only has one exit - screaming.

Braxton comes RUNNING - no Usain Bolt sprinting - down the hallway YELLING:
"MOM!! You gotta go in there! It's REAL BAD!!!!"

I hand him Asher.

I make my way to the boys' nursery.

Jackson is on the floor, I kid you not, in the fetal position rocking back and forth.

Kaydon is holding Anson's legs in the air whilst on the changing table, dry heaving because the kid has a nissen and physically cannot throw up.

Anson is laying there looking around wondering where his prize is because he has successfully SPRAYED the wall with this infant green/orange/brown/milky poo.

It's every where, People.

Jackson is traumatized... praying to Gods I didn't even know existed.

Kaydon is horrified by the new artwork that is now a part of the neutral-colored walls.

 Colton is happily playing with Legos.

Braxton is now comfortably feeding Asher.

And I am joining Jackson on the floor, laughing.
Because this shit right here is the funniest thing I have ever witnessed.

It's messy like that, People.

You're welcome.

I despised games of any kind.

I knew that I would never be chosen.

I wasn't fast.

I wasn't pretty.

I was fat.

I was bad at all sports and all games.

I had no worth and no value to any of the people who were playing the game...

And therefore, I sucked at life. 

Literally sucked at life.

Even now, at work or at conferences or in church classes - whenever we are told to "break up into groups," I quickly high-tail it out of there and right out the door as if I am back in active shooter training and a gun has just been fired.

I'm a runner.

Still.

Forest Gump runner.

When I first attended "group," as I call it (it's technically called ARS, or 12-step), I didn't know what to expect.
Obviously.

And, I was scared.

I walked in and there was a small circle of chairs - maybe eight.

I chose one and sat down.

For the most part, we have never even filled in the eight chairs.

There was always one or two that were left empty.

This past week, though, we kept expanding the circle and adding more chairs until we just about circled the entire room.

People kept coming in and we kept right on expanding our circle, shaking hands and exchanging hugs as people continued to enter our circle.

I sat still as I watched, and participated, in this phenomenon.

It wasn't anything epic, or that anyone would write about in a journal - except Yours Truly.

I wept.

Tears running down my cheeks.

The Kleenex box was gently handed to me.

I continued to weep.

I was a PART of this circle.

I was one of them, and they were just like me.

No team captains.

No cliques.

No one choosing the best of the best or the prettiest of the pretty or the smartest of the smart or the most athletic of the athletes or the richest of the rich.

In fact, we wouldn't even know who met those criteria in our circle.

We just know each other by first name, and by definition: "Children of God."

In recovery.

 On a journey of hope.

Working every single minute of every single hour of every single day to go in the right direction.

All of us broken.

All of us tired.

All of us ready to hand it all over.

I realized in that moment, in that room, in that crazy-big circle, that I belong.

I belong to the greatest team there is: Team Recovery.

We all do!

I left feeling like our team won that night...

Step 4 = My Worst Nightmare

The 12-Step Program has 12 steps.

Imagine that.

Step One: Admit that you, of yourself, are powerless to overcome your addictions and that your life has become unmanageable.

Step Two: Come to believe that the power of God can restore you to complete spiritual health.

Step Three: Decide to turn your will and your life over to the care of God the Eternal Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

Nailed it!

Seriously, once a girl is laying at Rock Bottom (which would be a "place" if it were on Wheel of Fortune), step one looked like me jumping into deep end from the high dive as if I knew how to swim!

Step two and step three were just as painless for me.

Let's face it, People - I was READY for recovery. 

And, you have to be ready for this sort of thing because these big jobs are going to leave a mark!

Then, step four pops up in the ole workbook this week.

Step Four: Make a searching and fearless written moral inventory of yourself.

And this was my thought:

...

Now, in case you were wondering - that's just the topic sentence of step four.

This step goes into four pages of written instruction on exactly what a moral inventory is, how we should detail it, what should be detailed, who should read it (for real) and as if that weren't enough - it needs to be completely thorough, with information from every facet of our lives.

Yeah, no.

It also tells us of how some people in the program would literally skip this step (no kidding, really?!?!) and then fail the program and relapse. 

Well, shit.

Now, it's not that I don't believe in the importance of this step.

I get it.

It even says, "Your thoughts, feelings and beliefs are actually the roots of your addictive behaviors... Unless you examine all of your tendencies toward pride, fear, resentment, anger, self-will, and self-pity, your abstinence will be shaky at best. You will continue with your original addiction or switch to another one. Your addiction is a symptom of other causes and conditions."

So, my stubborn self started with pages that have titles according to my ages.

They are in a binder.

It's a start, People.

A Word About Addiction

Addiction is defined as the condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing or activity.

This is reflected in an individual pathologically pursuing reward and/or relief by substance use and other behaviors. Addiction is characterized by inability to consistently abstain, impairment in behavior control, craving, diminished recognition of significant problems with one's behaviors and interpersonal relationships, and a dysfunctional emotional response. Like other chronic diseases, addiction often involves cycles of relapse and remission.

Hi. I'm Heidi.

I'm an addict.

Types of addictions:

Substances (alcohol, tobacco, opioids, prescription drugs, cocaine, amphetamines, hallucinogens, inhalants, phencyclidine, etc.)

Impulse Control Disorders (intermittent explosive disorder, kleptomania, pyromania, gambling, etc.)

Behavioral (food, sex, pornography, computers, internet, phones, gaming, working, exercising, pain-seeking, cutting, shopping, spiritual obsession, attention from the opposite sex, etc.)

Heey!

I'm Heidi and I'm an addict!

I NEVER EVER imagined that my behavior was an addiction.

I didn't. 

I just defined myself as broken, someone else's used garbage, unworthy, unlovable, hopeless.

Imagine my SHOCK when I heard the word "addiction" during my impromptu intervention.

Listen, People.

You could say I was addicted to the show, Intervention.

That would be correct and I would be fully on-board with that diagnosis.

Ironic?

Probably.

I would binge watch that show like Scooby Doo binges on scooby snacks. 

No joke.

On my first day of treatment, I asked my therapist if there was any hope for me because I was sure no one else on the planet had the same addiction as me.

She laughed.

That's one of the hundreds of reasons why I love her.

She laughs AT me, People. Not with me. AT me!

I took that as a "Yes, I have hope for you my prideful little project."

But the reason I loved her right away was this: 

She told me my first homework assignment was to find a 12-step group.

Then she told me that she had attended one. 

I figured she meant as the leader - you know she's a shrink and all.
Wrong again!

She attended one not too long ago on her own because she was worried about a particular character flaw in herself.

I was sold. 

To the lady in the black desk chair. 

Addiction is real.

Listening to my brother describe me as an addict to our clergyman was both alarming and heart-breaking.

I had no idea.

Listening to him describe my children's current feelings was absolutely devastating.

And, because I was finally at rock bottom - like I was the grains of the Earth that people wipe their feet on - I was able to really hear what he was saying.

This is a marathon.

Which sucks because I really don't like running at all - unless I'm in active shooter training.

On the other hand, marathons are a bit more lenient on the whole walking thing as opposed to a sprint where NO ONE walks. Like, it's not a thing. And you have to go fast and stuff. I'm not a sprinter at heart.

I prefer walking.

And, I'm great at hills!

That's a bonus.

Plus, they probably don't frown upon doing it barefoot.

That would be against the laws of sprinting, I'm pretty sure.

Oh, and they offer complimentary beverages and snacks to people along the way. 

BONUS!!

It turns out I'm definitely more of a marathoner - a long-hauler, a this-could-take-the-rest-of-my-lifer and that's okay.

I'm a Runner

I believe that it has been scientifically proven that I am a runner.

And, when I say "runner," I am not talking about doing it for fun or for exercise...

Unless you count that one time a few years back when I came in dead last in the local 5K.

Walkers made it to the finish line before I did and I "ran" the entire blasted thing.

Braxton literally ran the race, crossed the finish line, then ran back to where I was which sure has heck felt like the starting line, then chaperoned me to the finish line.

Like, they were already handing out participation prizes when I was finishing. 

But then there was that time when a few of us from work went to "Active Shooter Training."

Oh, Friends.

I was acting as if I was a five year old getting ready to ride a glittery unicorn all the way to Disneyland whilst eating ice cream cone after ice cream cone whilst hooked up to a Diet Coke IV!

Until we got there. 

When we arrived, the doors were locked behind us at a building that resembled a zombie apocalypse where there was no chance of human survival.

I suddenly felt like the unicorn I was riding had been slashed right in front of my eyes. The ice cream I had been eating whilst on the slashed unicorn was actually rotten cottage cheese and the Diet Coke IV was actually sheer anxiety triggers going straight to my blood stream.

People, I was NOT happy.

As soon as I heard the first gun shot, I was out.

Like, Heidi OUT.

Like, I took off running and did not look back.

Like the fastest man on Earth had nothing on Heidi Ray in that moment.

For real. For real.

Like Forest Gump running.

Straight out to the parking lot and not to be seen in that crazy ass building again!

Runner!

Turns out, Active Shooter Training is not the only activity that triggers a runner-mentality.

In fact, pretty much everything in life that makes me feel in any way uncomfortable triggers my Forest Gump fitness to kick right in!

Too bad I didn't have that happen when I was actually "running" a race.

In counseling this week, I told my shrink that I have been feeling an "emotion."

I told her that I can't really articulate what the emotion is, but that I've just been calling it "loneliness."

We talked about it for a bit.

Since beginning treatment, I have felt this emotion frequently.

As we talked about it more, I changed the word to "void."
I feel a "void."

It doesn't feel good.

It feels big.

It feels scary sometimes.

It feels uncomfortable.

Very uncomfortable.

And, it is lots of different things.

This is why we agreed to use the word "void."

It's generic enough that it fits lots of emotions that might be playing out.

She started to write stuff on the white board.

In the throws of my addiction, as soon as I felt any inkling of discomfort about ANYTHING, I would run to a man. 

I would run away from any feeling of discomfort or fear or angst or sadness right to the waiting ear or arms of a man.

That attention would then ease my feelings of void or discomfort for a hot minute.

The reason for those feelings were actually just being shoved into the closet, but the relief from those feelings was immediate - albeit temporary.

This is extremely common for addicts.

People drink alcohol to numb feelings.

People do drugs to forget about feelings.

People view pornography, or shop, or clean, or eat, or don't eat, or exercise in excess to stuff away feelings.

It's what we do.

We avoid the void.

In reality, these feelings are normal.

Say what?!

NORMAL.

It's normal to feel lonely.

It's normal to feel sad.

It's normal to feel anxiety.

So, what now?

So now, I learn to sit with it.

I learn to build up a tolerance for it.

I learn to just feel.

Feel all of it.

On my own.

Since Elizabeth "Liz" Gilbert and I are pretty much besties, I am going to share with you what she says about this in her own way:

Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience...

In our real lives, we are constantly hopping around to adjust ourselves around discomfort - physical, emotional and psychological - in order to evade the reality of grief and nuisance... 

But if you can plant yourself in stillness long enough, you will, in time, experience the truth that everything (both uncomfortable and lovely) does eventually pass.

I am learning to stop.

Stop.

NOT run.

I suck at running.

Plus it hurts.

And I can't breathe.

I look at runners and they literally look like they're on the verge of death.

I ask myself what I need.

Do I need to talk to someone? Color? Bake? Read? Eat? Exercise a little longer?
Am I just tired? Do I just need to go to bed?

Or, do I just need to sit with it and let myself feel?

Because it's okay.

The Years of Complete Darkness

This, here at the top.

It's a preface to what you are about to learn about me.

People, this is no Sunday drive through the canyon whilst eating Red Vines and Kettle Corn.

This, here, is going to be a roller coaster ride of jaw-dropping and mind-blowing and complete and utter shock for most of you.

If you are queasy for such facts, exit the coaster now.

If you feel you can handle this without parental discretion (which is still advised), then please, coaster riders, keep all extremities in the coaster at all times.

You've been warned.

Age 18: Engaged after three weeks of "knowing" the person.

Age 19: Married and marriage annulled. 

Clarification: This person was not at all who he professed to be. In fact, he was a completely different person literally. Like, identity and all. You can't make this stuff up.

Age 20: Engaged.

Age 21: Married.

Age 22: First baby. Sweet Jackson.

Age 24: Second baby: Sweet Braxton.

Age 25: Third baby: Sweet Kaydon. Born six weeks early.

Age 26: Fourth baby: Sweet Colton. Born eight weeks early. In NICU for three weeks.

Also age 26: Divorced with four children under four. (physical abuse on me and all four children)

Age 27: Kaydon has been on hospice and has had four operations. Braxton has had two operations. Colton has had one. 

In total, my boys will eventually have had 29 operations.

Colton is diagnosed with Autism, ADHD, Anxiety and Learning Disabilities. He is legally disabled.

Between age 27 & age 29: Men 

Age 29: Engaged and married and moved with two step-daughters

Age 32: Divorced. (he slept with my best friend daily and physically abused my children)

Also age 32: Eating disorder hits epic proportions. I attempt suicide. I am admitted to LDS Hospital's Psych Ward. (to be discussed in a future post because this one is just already a party!)

Age 33 - Age 36: My addiction is at an all-time high. Refer to yesterday's post. If a person with a penis will pay any attention to me at all - I'm his. No matter what else might be going on, and People do I have stories for you! 

Age 36: Married and moved and one step-daughter.

The best part about all of this is that I TOTALLY knew what I was getting myself into every.single.time. I just felt completely confident that I did not deserve anything better. I defined myself aloud as "someone else's used garbage," and this was exactly how I've lived my life. Do with me what you want - it's already been done!

Age 38 or 39 (it's all a blur): Divorced. He got other women pregnant whilst married to Yours Truly. And because I felt sorry for the products of said affairs, I babysat them!

Age 38 or 39 to Present: Too many men to even remember. That's no exaggeration, Folks.

And, the part that now has me in treatment... the part that absolutely makes this entire thing sickening and heart-breaking and mind-blowing: my boys. My boys have seen it all. They have felt it all. They have endured it all. And they have asked this question repeatedly: "Why aren't we enough?"

Oh, Boys. You've always been enough. It was Mama who didn't think SHE was enough.

I will say this before bringing this off-the-tracks coaster ride to a screeching halt:

First of all, stay buckled until this thing comes to a COMPLETE stop.

Safety first.

I have loved (actually loved) twice.

TWO times. 

Out of a lot.

Twice.

For those two times, I am grateful.

For those two times, I have hope after treatment.

For now, though, I'm an addict.

Thank you, Elizabeth Gilbert.

I need to take a break from the list-making which commenced yesterday.

You people really have no idea how much worse it gets once I turned 18.

We will pick up where I left off in a day, or two.

I need to up my dose of CBD prior to delving into the years where I pretty much punched my ticket to the depths of Hell and did so without even flinching. I could have, at the very least, purchased non-flammable outer wear prior to jumping in head-first. Noted.

In the meantime, allow me to share with you my love for Ms. Elizabeth Gilbert.

If you have not read this book... and apparently I was the only human alive who hadn't read it prior to a couple of weeks ago... READ this book. I plan to start it a second time in about a month.

This book was a straight-up answer to my pleas to The Father for direction, comfort and guidance.

Allow me to share with you pretty much all of page 72 (you're welcome!):

Actually, I take that back.

We will commence (my new favorite word in the English language) on page 71:

...I've decided to sit this particular game out for a while. I don't want to get involved with anybody. Of course I do miss being kissed because I love kissing... When I get lonely these days (and People, I'm an addict, so I get lonely on almost everyday), I think: So BE lonely... learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings...

I have consistently had a boy or a man in my life ever since I was 15 years old. That was - oh, let's see - about nineteen years ago now (27 for me, but who's counting besides me?!). That's almost two solid decades (Sweet Liz, you got nothing on my hot mess!) I have been entwined in some kind of drama with some kind of guy. Each overlapping the next, with never so much as a week's breather in between. And I can't help but think that's been something of a liability on my path to maturity...

Moreover, I have boundary issues with men. (Liz, My Friend, PREACH!!!)

I disappear into the person I love. I am the permeable membrane. If I love you, you can have EVERYTHING. You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family, my dog, my dog's money, my dog's time - EVERYTHING. If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all of your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family. I will give you the sun and the rain, and if they are not available, I will give you a sun check and a rain check. I will give you all this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else...

...I could use a little break from this cycle, to give myself some space to discover what I look like and talk like when I'm not trying to merge with someone... When I scan back on my romantic record, it doesn't look so good. It's been one catastrophe after another. How many more different types of men can I keep trying to love, and continue to fail?... my spirit and my body are depleted.

My Dear Soul Sister, Elizabeth Gilbert,

We have never met. But, you literally and so articulately just described my life in the most perfectly-worded pages of the most beautiful book I have ever read. 

This, my friends and enemies, is me.

Described in one and a half pages.

My addiction - to a tee.

And so, after finding a Xanax or five, I shall discuss age 18 to now.

And recovery.

Treatment.

Falling and falling and falling.

And my attempt to get back up.

People, if nothing else, we are all going to get a bit motion sick on this train wreck!

Grab the Dramamine - preferably the non-drowsy form and start popping pills!

Let's List Them, Shall We?

Let's just get this over with, please.

Junior High School was three years of plastering my greasy hair to my head, whilst wearing bright blue eye shadow, bright blue mascara and crazy amounts of blush; wearing corduroys that were too tight for me and too short for me because I ate BLT's on the daily; falling down the stairs from the third floor to the second, then falling down the unbelievably steep hill to the seminary building; begging my mom to write excuse notes from gym because that class was like a cesspool for bullying and this girl right here was the constant target of such action; oh, and getting slammed into lockers that were somehow larger than me because a boy named Jon "liked" me for 15.9 seconds instead of a girl that lived around the corner from me who was approximately 6'1" and 200 pounds.

That didn't end well for me.

Sophomore year of high school really should have been the year my parents purchased a straight jacket and had my mouth wired shut because, Friends, it just got uglier.

I made some "friends" during the summer before sophomore year.

Let's use that word "friends" about as loosely as Julia Roberts' character in Pretty Woman.

Catch my drift?!

There were three of us SOPHOMORES (15 year old girls) who somehow - and I can't remember for the life of me how - got into "relationships" with three 28 year-old men.

Let's use the word "relationships" about as loosely as, well you know - LOOSE!

We would ride the big yellow school bus right to the high school, then walk right across the street from the high school and catch a UTA bus. 

I have no clue how we even had money to get on these busses.

We would take the bus to an apartment complex in an entirely different city and there we would meet up with grown-ass men who clearly had no jobs, no aspirations, no morals and no conscience. 

We would hang out with them until it was time to catch our UTA bus back to the high school in time to catch the big yellow bus.

Now, back in the day there were no cell phones.

So, if we could get to our houses in time to delete the messages from the school on the answering machine, we had it made!

Until we were caught.

Then there was the kid who lived clear out on the west side of the valley. 

Again, no recollection of how I met this one.

I'm pretty sure that at one point, though, he would have removed my tonsils with his tongue if they hadn't already been removed surgically.

I had a crush on a kid whose house I would drive by every single chance I got.

Mind you, I drove the family minivan for a few months prior to purchasing my own metal box on four wheels.

There were still the dozens of boys who my dad was coaching.

It was always interesting to me how many "girl friends" I would make during spring and summer.

They would come out of the wood work as soon as they noticed all of the boys around for the four months of baseball.

I knew I was being used, Loves. I just wanted so badly to have actual friends that I would pretend that it was all an illusion that they could possibly be using me to get to 16 boys our same age who were not unattractive.

I did meet a nice young man when I was a junior.

He and I dated for several months.

It was a real relationship.

In fact, there is really no arguing that it was my one and only healthy relationship.

Just ask my mom!

That was until his MOM broke up with me.

That's right. 

She called me, told me that she knew he needed to marry a nice, Catholic girl and asked me to please bring his belongings to her.

So, Brandon put me in his car with all of this nice boys' materials and we went and gave them to his mom.

I was shattered.

I don't know that I ever recovered.

Then, 

as if rock bottom could be lower - it dropped out from under me.

We are talking 24 years of absolutely violent, unfaithful, disrespectful, heartbreaking, miserable relationships.

Eating disorders.

Attempted suicide.

One week in the psych ward.

Addiction.

This Is Not Going To End Well & Replacements

The move to Utah at the ripe age of 11 proved to be brutal on so many levels.

Utah is a beautiful place.

Beautiful.

I've now lived here for 33 years and the mountains define "home" for me.

The snow is blindingly stunning... from a distance.

The seasons are truly spectacular.

I felt like my brother, just one year younger than me... you know, the one who legit stole my birthday from me... faired the best.

B has never been much of a "I have to fit in," kind of boy.

But he made good friends and those friendships stuck through today.

He is the smart one in the family.

No matter what subject, he seems to have a photographic memory and doesn't have to study for anything.

He just shows up and aces pretty much everything.

He's the favorite. Always has been.

He IS bald, though.

So, there's that.

Anywho...

Utah for me, and for our youngest brother, was a bit more rough.

Dad went back to coaching right away.

The problem now was that the boys he was coaching were much closer to my age and that continued right through his retirement.

So, not only was his time and attention on these boys - but so was mine!!

I used to get their phone numbers off of the registration paperwork that sat in piles on our kitchen table and then dial those numbers and HOPE that the cute boy on my dad's team would answer, then quickly hang up.

Do not sit there and say that you never did it!

To this day, the last four digits of one of those phone numbers is my pin number for EVERYTHING.

True story.

Someone kill me now.

There was a boy in our neighborhood that had "a crush" on me. 

He was in ninth grade when I was in seventh.

We rode the bus to school everyday together.

It was a 45 minute bus ride each way.

He was "cool" and sat in the back of the bus.

I was uncool and sat in the very front seat because the bus driver - Linda- was my only friend.

Literally my only friend.

From the back of the bus, he and his friends would throw things at me every day - the entire 45 minutes.

Deodorant, combs, food... it didn't matter... it would all hit me square in the back of the head.

I would feel a material object hit my head seven or eight times on the way to school and on the way back home... followed by laughter.

All year.

Every day.

I would cry and cry and cry.

I would get to school, try to wipe it all out of my hair, that I didn't wash for a week because the "greased down" look was in at the time.

Don't wash, then apply extra Aqua Net hairspray - that was the rule.

Unfortunately, I didn't look like Christina Applegate or Alissa Milano when I applied this rule.

I would go home after school every day and eat a BLT.

This was after I already had lunch at school, breakfast at home, and just before dinner.

I had graduated from home-sewn clothes to store-bought.. but the store-bought included two pairs of corduroy pants and three BLOUSES.
The silky kind that rich old ladies wear.

WITH a broche. 

If you could only see my school pictures.

My life was getting worse by the minute and now I was eating away my feelings - my embarrassment, my humiliation, my insecurities, my fears, my sadness, my anxiety.

Eating it everyday with multiple BLT sandwiches.

When spring and summer came, there were boys everywhere again.

And Dad was busy with coaching, meetings, tryouts, fundraisers, and shouting the biggest hurrahs to the cutest boys that I was sure had ever been born.

My life sucked.

Royally.

Fast-forward to today:

Addiction doesn't just get cured and then you're good.

I wish!

But, that's a big, fat NO.

Addiction has to be discovered, and then there are steps (purpose of the 12-step program) to help you become completely aware of your addiction and then move forward.

It is imperative that your addiction is replaced by good behaviors, different hobbies, different things to occupy your time.

Without that, you're going to remain stuck in what you've been doing.

My replacements include going to the gym, yoga, meditation.

Reading.

Going to baseball games with my Braxton.

Sitting outside.

Playing games with my boys AND winning!

Baking.

Playing with my nephews.

Blogging.

Coloring.

Whatever it is, we must replace our addictions with things that are worthy of us!

A+ & The Trek North

Grade on listing my weaknesses: A+!

Nailed it!

Homework assignment this week: "What are my expectations?"

When given this assignment on Wednesday, I told my therapist about a "contract" I had with God from the age of toddler-ship to approximately 17.

I prefaced it by telling her that I may need to have my medication dosage raised to higher levels than are recommended by the FDC.

I used to tell God every single night that I'd give Him a rose if he would take away all of my nightmares. 

Every single night.

And, when I would have nightmares I would tell Him that I guess He just wasn't going to get a rose.

From a very young age, I was telling Him how it was going to be!

And then, as I grew older that morphed into me telling God that if I did what was right, I should be blessed with my righteous desires. 

Heidi Ray, F to the Y to the I - it doesn't work like that.

But, bravo on that A+ in bright red!

Before the start of sixth grade, my dad got a job in Salt Lake City, Utah.

We would be moving from Fresno, California to Salt Lake City, Utah.

Now, Geography is one of my strongest subjects.

I could name most of the state capitals to you like a darn boss.

I could tell you about all seven continents, the four oceans, several seas and straits...

I know the difference between Iraq and Iran, thank you very much Alan Jackson!

But, People, I had NO idea what we were getting ourselves into when we moved from the number one murder per capita city at the time, to Salt Lake City, Utah.

There was not a geography, an anthropology, a religion class that could have prepared me for this move!

I remember my first thought being, "Why does everyone look like us?"

Where are all of my black friends? My Jehovah Witness friends? My Jewish friends? My Asian friends? 

Why on Earth is everyone at my new school also at my new church?

Go get your own dang church! Go there! Leave mine alone!

We moved into our "new" house two days before the first day of school.

Our moving trucks had not yet arrived.

That was a blessing in disguise, Folks!

My parents took us down the street to Fred Meyer and let us pick out our first-day-of-school outfits.

A real-life, store-bought outfit!!

I still remember the shirt I wore. White, with some form of lace cut-out sewn to the front with bedazzled gems hot-glue-gunned and splatters of fabric paint. (It was 1988, afterall!) 

I had Jellie shoes.

Actual Jellie shoes!

And shorts.

Real freaking shorts.

Not too-small-for-me jeans that were cut off to be shorts now.

Real shorts! The kind they sell as actual shorts!!!!

Off to school we went.

My brothers and I walked to school.

Say what?!

I could walk to school and not worry about being accosted by the homeless man who peed on the park wall every morning next to our house in Fresno.

I could walk to school and not worry about the other homeless man who hid in the fig orchard across the street from our house and would jump out and snatch kids as they played.

I didn't even have to worry about the Ice Cream Man who parked three houses down from us and spent his "lunch" break trying to get the neighbor girl pregnant in the cold confines of the ice cream cups in the back of the Ice Cream Mobile.

It was really something!

I was sure that this move would change everything!

I would have friends.

Boys would like me.

AND, my daddy wouldn't coach anymore!

Oh, was I wrong.

Even the self-imposed contract I made with God each night could not help this lost little girl, who was me.

The First Time

The first time I really took notice of a boy was in the darn 4th Grade. 

That was not my best year - besides winning the cake walk AND the spelling bee.

I remember the first day of school like I remember the apple fritter I just ate an hour ago...

I had to have been wearing a homemade outfit.

My hair was either permed (fried like the apple fritter I ate an hour ago) or it was extremely short so as not to notice that the homemade perm had literally destroyed every strand of hair that once was on my head.

I walked into my new fourth grade classroom and, sitting all by himself at the desk with his arms folded, was Eric.

If you just heard angels singing from on high as you read that - I also heard them on that very day.

I swear to you that when I laid my 10 year old eyes on him, it was as if I had just seen Fabio running down the beach in his fake-tanned, bulky chest and long hair strides.

And, I guarantee there was some Whitney Houston music going through my head.

He didn't even look up.

Now, in the fourth grade, I was the same height as I am now.

Awkward is not the word here, People.

I felt like Sasquatch, and I was called it frequently.

I was tall for my age.

I was slightly overweight at the time.

I wore homemade clothes, Rainbow Brite undies that were too small and I had an issue with the hair thing. It was not a rad mixture of coolness.

I did everything in my power to get Eric to like me.

Read that sentence again.

I did everything in MY power to GET Eric to LIKE ME.

I cringe when I write that.

Even winning the dang spelling bee wasn't enough!

The one-piece jumpsuit didn't help my case.

Then there was the FIXED beauty contest that year - which I won - because my mother was the PTA President.

Fourth grade was the beginning of the end of this girl.

Eric was in my class again in the fifth grade.

Ms. Meserlian surely knew that I was completely in LOVE with Eric.

I'm pretty sure people who didn't even attend Malloch Elementary School could feel the actual lust in my heart for him.

But he never even glanced at me.

Not once.

If I had just been thinner, prettier, smarter, good at something - anything...

It was around this same incredibly optimistic year that I began to recognize that my dad coached little league baseball.

He had been coaching for a few years at that point.

But now, in all of my Sasquatch glory, I really noticed that there were constantly boys around.

Lots of boys.

Boys of all ages.

Boys everywhere.

And the ONLY time I think any of them noticed me was that time when my own brother (the one who stole my birthday quite literally... who chooses to be born on their sister's first birthday?!) hit me square in the face with a fast ball pitch.

I wasn't even on the field of play!!

Dad coached for most of my childhood - clear until I was 17.

Mom would call herself a "summer-time widow."

Dad would work his jobs, then go right to the ballpark for practices and games and meetings.

My brothers and I would often meet him there.

Those fields are where we would have dinner, do our homework, get our exercise, and volunteer with Mom in the snack shop to earn funds for uniforms, trips and equipment.

Dad was well respected in the baseball community.

He knew his stuff.

Parents would do anything they could to ensure my dad coached their son, particularly if their son was a pitcher.

Dad was good. Very, very good.

I loved watching him coach.

I loved the sounds and the smells of the baseball fields.

I loved that I could out-smart most adult males on the rules of the game.

I was my dad's fiercest protector and biggest cheerleader.

But, what I know now as I look back on those years and years of watching my daddy on the baseball field was that what I was doing was simply watching my daddy with other kids.

Boys.

Talented athletes, even at young ages.

He was praising them.

He was teaching them.

He was laughing with them.

He knew everything about them.

And their families.

He would tell them how proud he was of them.

How good they were.

What good hand-eye coordination they had.

What good speed they had on their five-seam change-up.

What good reflexes and speed they had.

How they were incredibly good at hitting all five pitching spots.

How they were awesome with beanies and windows.

He spent my entire childhood telling other children all of the things that I was so desperate to hear.

It somehow gave me more fuel to be "liked" by the boys.

To be noticed by a male.

To be praised, talented and enough...

And thus began an addiction.

What Will Make You Enough?

I spent almost a week desperate to get the answer to my first homework assignment.

Desperate.

The last thing I needed was to go back to therapy one week later with NO answer.

My desperate search for the correct answer brought back memories of my fifth grade teacher - an old, Jewish woman named Ms. Meserlian. 

Her hair was short, stuck to her head, with gray and black colors alternating each wispy piece.

Her nose was pointed, just under her ever-present scowl.

Her accent was thick and her temper quick.

She disliked me.

In fact, I was positive she disliked all children - but I was sure she disliked me the most.

I could NEVER get an answer right. 

And she was always quick as a whip to point that out. To the entire classroom of 5th graders who already wouldn't befriend me because I wasn't good enough...

I asked people around me what they thought made us enough.

It was as if I was on some reality show where everyone had been told in no uncertain terms to in no way at any time in any place give me the answer.

Three or four days had gone by and I still didn't know.

My answers on the first day of therapy that were written in my counselor's perfect hand writing on the white board in her perfectly decorated office were: being thin enough, being pretty enough, being smart enough, having a talent - any dang talent, being a good mom...

Those were the wrong answers, she pointed out.

Yeah, like I've never heard that before!

So, four days after I had been given the assignment to which I had no answer...

 I knelt beside my bed.

As you do.

When you've given up and you're ready to just be told the answer from the only One who can really give it to you--

But you're sure that you've never actually received personal revelation because you're not good enough or worthy enough to receive those kinds of things...

So, why did I think I would get an answer this time...

I did it anyways.

"God, I don't know the answer."

"God, what in the world makes me enough?"

"Like, what on Earth do You see in me? You know, that makes me enough..."

Then, People...

Shut the front door.

I got an answer.

As if it was a voice in my right ear.

It wasn't a voice in my right ear, but it was as if it was...

Don't go telling people I'm hearing voices... 

It was AS IF I heard, "You're already enough, Heidi."

Well, by golly Miss Molly!

There it was.

There was my answer.

I tucked that sucker in the front page of my Trapper Keeper and saved it for Wednesday, when I would meet my therapist again.

And when my appointment came, I walked right into her office with a little pep in my darn step and sat down and didn't even wait for her to speak...

"I'm already enough!!!"

I said it like I knew it. Like I meant it. As if I had been told in my right ear on that Sunday afternoon in my bedroom at the side of my unmade bed by an angel from on high. As if...

She smiled.

She said, "That's right. So get over it!"

Wait. What? Do you know how hard it was for me to get that answer?! Can we do like a gold star presentation? A sticker? Anything?! Because this just may be the first time in my life that I have been told that the answer was right. And you just want me to GET OVER IT?!

"Your value, your worth is unchangeable. It's not going anywhere. You can't do anything or not do anything to change your worth."

I'm pretty sure that I've told everyone around me that for quite some time.

"So, get over it. Move on. You cannot change your worth or your value. You're already enough."

"But, there is a difference between being enough and self-esteem, self-acceptance, the way you see yourself."

Oh.

"And that's the part that is going to take us a LONG time to get right with you, Heidi Girl...

Like, a LONG time.

Like, 32 years isn't going to be better in a few appointments. Long time."

I'm all in.

"Great. So your homework assignment for this week is to write down every single weakness. Everything. Be blatantly honest. Every single thing."

And this is going to help my self-esteem how?

At least this answer will get an A+ at the top of the page.

Can you put that A+ in RED?

With yellow highlighter over the red?

Please.

"See you next week!"

And with that, I took my imaginary Trapper Keeper, tucked it under my arm and headed out of the office.

Pretty sure I'm currently sitting at a 4.0 in counseling! 

Take that you mean 5th graders!