Mary Graham

Trusty Chucks Blog

They’re going to hate me as much as I hate me.

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It’s October again, and I found myself sitting in southern Indiana in the wood-paneled building surrounded by addicts and alcoholics just like last year.

This time I was there for an AA meeting and not weekly visitation for my husband. We had the girls in tow. The four of us walked in together, and we would be leaving together as well.

The old timers hugged Chris, checked in on him, teased him. A friend admitted he’d slipped and was starting the sobriety count again. People grabbed waters and coffees, and as the meeting began, the girls put their headphones on and turned up their tablets.

AA meetings aren’t for little girls.

There’s a rhythm to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, just like any other meeting you’d attend. There’s an opening script, a call for restarts, a time for sharing milestones. They begin with 24 hours. Anyone starting over? Anyone been sober for 24 hours? And they work their way up.

Chris stood up at the one year call-out and declared his one year of sobriety. His sponsor said some words, and Chris got his one-year coin.

I thought I would cry when this happened, but I didn’t.

The moment passed, and the meeting opened to comments and questions. As the conversation warmed up, a guy spoke up about his fears as he begins to work through step four.

In AA, step four is when the alcoholic makes “a searching and fearless moral inventory of” themselves. This normally involves a lot of time and paper: the recovering alcoholic writes out all his or her moral failings, all the decisions alcohol played a part in, and all the areas of his or her life affected by alcohol.

For an alcoholic, this step is long, exhausting, hard, and painful. Alcohol helped them forget things, but there are still millions of things they can’t forget and until they confess them, they’ll continue to be weighed down by them.

And so the alcoholic writes them down. All of them. As many as he or she can remember.

When you’re done with step four, you move to step five which is “admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.”

You have to confess all the shit you’ve done. The shit no one else knows about. The secret shit you’d like to forget. The lies. The stealing. The hurting of others. The deceit. The cheating. The wrecks. The manipulation. The destruction. The things you swore you wouldn’t tell anyone. The things you only did because you thought no one would ever know.

Everything.

Now you can see why someone was anxious and worried about step four. Not drinking is hard. Not drinking while you write down and then say out loud all the very worst things–pages and pages–that you’ve done is hard multiplied by one hundred.

Alcoholics who are trying to do the work know you can’t skim or gloss over this part, because it comes back up and you drink again. You have to get it all out, get it all on paper, and then say it all out loud to move on.

You don’t get the benefits of hard work (in this case: sobriety) unless you actually do the hard work.

Here’s why I’m telling you this: because we’re all carrying things that are destroying us. We might not be driven to drink or to numb with drugs, but we’re all weighed down with secrets and regret and shame and it is one-hundred percent impacting our actions, relationships, families, and conversations.

We don’t get the benefits of hard work (in this case: intimacy, healthy marriages, wisdom, authentic friendship, peace, joy, contentment) unless we do the hard work.

Everybody wants the results but nobody wants to do the work.

One guy joined the conversation to encourage the speaker through his step four wrestling, and then he said when he was working on steps four and five, it destroyed him because he just knew when he said his stuff out loud that “they’re going to hate me as much as I hate me.”

They’re going to hate me as much as I hate me.

If that’s not the most honest and truthful reason people lie, I don’t know what is.

They’re going to hate me as much as I hate me.

I can’t get that out of my head. I can’t get that out of my heart. I can’t make it stop echoing in my ears.

They’re going to hate me as much as I hate me.

That’s it, friends. That’s why we lie and hide and deceive and manipulate and cover up and scheme and destroy. Because if people knew the real us, they’d hate us just as much as we hate ourselves. So we keep digging bigger holes and we keep creating more faces for more people. We keep doing things we would never own up to because we hate who we are and we for sure don’t need other people to hate us too.

But the secret is when alcoholics confess to their sponsors, no one hates them. No one is shocked. No one is even impressed. Because sponsors are alcoholics too. Because sponsors have done their own horrible things. Because sponsors have already done their own hard work. Because sponsors understand the power of saying it out loud and then letting it go.

AA isn’t a religious organization, but if you’re not seeing Jesus in this madness, you’re not paying attention.

AA demands community, honesty, confession, grace, forgiveness, and a changed life. Sometimes the alcoholic has to start over fifty times before he or she gets it right, but each time, AA is there with open arms and a bunch of broken, beautiful people who want to walk with you.

Jesus demands community, honesty, confession, grace, forgiveness, and a changed life. Sometimes Jesus followers have to start over fifty times a day before he or she gets it right, but each time, Jesus is there with open arms and a bunch of other broken, beautiful people who want to walk with you.

The truth is we’re all weighed down by something. We get to wake up every day and continue to carry it which we know will lead to our self-destruction, or we can start the hard work of admitting, asking for forgiveness, and living a better life.

They say after recovering alcoholics complete step five, you can see them almost float out of the room. I don’t think humans can fly, but I think the closest we’ve ever come is when an addict stops carrying the traumas and scars and shame that has controlled them for so long. You can’t describe or imagine that first feeling of freedom after being in bondage for so, so long.

They just float out of the room.

We can do that too. We can float–unashamed and untethered–all we have to do is start the work.

 

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Love podcasts? May I suggest you listen to the Not Terrible Podcast? My friend Jess and I co-host a weekly show where we discuss hard stories with hope and humor. I’d love for you to listen and subscribe.

We’re still here.

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I kept a notebook last fall and winter.

Every text, card, gift, meal, word, or message I received, all in a pink paisley notebook. I kept it because I write everything down. I kept it because it helped on nights when I couldn’t sleep and I was overwhelmed with sadness. I kept it because I didn’t want to forget the kindness. I kept it because I wanted to learn how to do what these people were so good at doing for me.

I kept it so one day I could say thank you.

‘One day’ came last weekend.

Going through the small pink notebook for the first time since the spring felt cathartic. Already my memories were fuzzy of who did what and how often people showed up at just the right moment to love us in a season of pain and transition.

It was a rag-tag group of people keeping us alive last year. People who love Jesus. People who decidedly do not love Jesus. People who fed us. People who texted me inappropriate memes religiously. People who prayed for us. People who said all the curse words for us. People who cried with us. People who helped buy us groceries. People who loved on our kids. People who said nothing but gave really good hugs.

I was reminded again and again as I turned the pages of the notebook that God can use people–all people–whether they are fans of Him or not. He is present and active in all our lives, and we just need the eyes to see it.

The beginning of my thank-you to these people was a cookout last weekend at our house. Once it was all said and done, over 100 people were on the list, over 100 people had shown up for us when we were too tired to show up for ourselves. It was overwhelming to realize.

But I wanted to feed them all.

I don’t know the words to express my gratitude, but I do know how to buy food for lots of people and make batches and batches of chocolate chip cookies.

So I started there.

And the people came.

Even with sports and weddings and traveling, our favorite people trekked to the country to jump on a trampoline, slide down an inflatable, stand around a bonfire, play cornhole, throw the football, roast smores, and eat hot dogs covered in mustard and jalapenos.

We celebrated the one-year anniversary of Chris’ sobriety. We celebrated the goodness of a God who sends His people to love on others. We laughed and joked. We cried a little. We talked about the past year, and we filled people in on what’s ahead. We said ‘I love you’ with our eyes, our hearts, and our embraces. We hugged babies and said ‘thank you’ with extra helpings of chips and salsa.

I don’t know if the words exist to adequately express our gratitude, but we tried with bottles of soda and Goldfish crackers.

The most overwhelming part is that invite list just included local people; it didn’t even touch on the people from other places, other parts of the country, other parts of the world who held us up. We were loved by people from every corner as we tried to heal our marriage and each other.

And so this post, this thank you, is for you too.

If you sent me an email, an anonymous card, a message on Instagram–I thought of you last weekend too. I am grateful and humbled by the people who love and support our family. We would not still be here if it weren’t for all of you.

I’ve learned a lot in the past seventeen months. I’ve learned a lot about families and staying silent and loving others well and friendship and encouragement and what I will allow and what I won’t. These past months have shifted and shaped me in profound ways.

I can no longer keep quiet when kids are being hurt by a parent’s actions or inaction.
I will not accept lies to keep people’s secrets.
I can share what I have with those who are hurting because it’s not mine to begin with.
Once you’ve broken, you can see the other broken people easier.
Change hurts.
When we stop blaming others, the real work begins.
God is good even if.
The rebuilding never looks like you think it will.
Sobriety is fragile, and who I let into our lives matters just as much as who Chris does.
One moment at a time is all you should focus on.
You can laugh and cry, break and mend all at the same time.

I’ve learned lessons a million ways recently, but some of them have come from my people on the internet and some have come from my people in the trenches.

So thank you for teaching me things, things I needed to survive.

We’re still here, and it’s thanks to all of you.

 

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A Fall Adventure with Year-Round Boots

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This post is sponsored by Totes Cirrus but the content and opinions expressed here are my own.

One of the best reasons to live in the Midwest is for the distinct range of seasons. Summers are hot and humid. Falls are cool and crisp. Winters are snowy and frigid, and springs are colorful and hopeful.

Midwest is best, guys.

What’s also great about our seasons is the range we can get with a good pair of rain boots.

Summer morning dew covering the grass as I tend to my garden? Totes Cirrus Rainboots.

Fall apple-picking? Totes Cirrus Rainboots.

Forging a path in the snow to get the mail? Totes Cirrus Rainboots.

Spring thunderstorm? Totes Cirrus Rainboots.

There’s never a time to *not* wear my Totes Cirrus Rainboots, if you haven’t noticed.

Ellie and I wore our new lightweight boots as we picked the last of the summer tomatoes from our garden beds and stomped around trees picking apples for pies and cider.

My grandparents planted apple trees along the perimeter of our land so each fall we get the sweet smell of apples in the air as the temperatures start to drop. There’s nothing better than getting cozy at a bonfire surrounded by apple trees.

I love the durable and versatile styles Totes Cirrus Rainboots come in–both tall and shorter–for kids and adults. And their Everywear™ technology makes them comfortable for all day wear, because they’re 60% lighter than other boots. (And not to call Ellie out, but she’s been wearing her boots non-stop. She has yet to find an outfit or situation where they aren’t appropriate so that’s a pretty great testament to the comfort level of these boots.) Now is a great time to get yourself a pair of these new boots, because Totes Cirrus is offering my readers 25% off with the code CIRRUSLOVE25.

After our walk foraging for fruits and veggies last week, our boots wiped down easily and looked brand new again. These new boots from Totes are perfect for year-round wear, whether it’s actually raining outside or not. No more heavy clunky boots weighing you down, Totes Cirrus Rainboots help you keep a pep in your step as you adventure outside.

Now who’s got a good apple pie recipe?

Photography by Huff Photography

*Disclosure: This is a sponsored post, but all opinions are mine.

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September & October

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Last September and October were a blur.

September was the back-and-forth of sober Chris and drunk Chris. It was accountability and babysitting, it was lies and deceit.

I spent a lot of energy trying to make people understand how bad things had gotten. Friends. Chris. Our families. Chris’ friends.

Addicts make you feel crazy for a number of reasons but manipulation is at the top of the list. Chris was good at manipulating others. He was less good at manipulating me. I was too close to the madness and didn’t buy his lies. But getting those he was deceiving so well to understand I wasn’t just being vengeful or over-reacting felt like madness. I had spent so long feeling crazy. I finally learned I wasn’t and then I had to convince everyone else I wasn’t crazy too.

And when I mean “everyone else,” I mean people we were supposedly doing life with.

Hey Mary, maybe all of this wouldn’t be happening if you weren’t airing your dirty laundry on the internet.

I think Chris is drinking because you’re being too hard on him.

He’s not really that bad, is he?

Don’t you think you’re blowing this out of proportion?

No. No, I don’t.

Even Chris said this was all my fault, if I would just let him come back home, he’d be able to get better.

Never mind the fact he had been drinking for three years while living here and couldn’t stop. Never mind the fact he was caught this summer and told if he started again he’d have to leave.

I spent last September exhausted in so many ways.

The night we dropped Chris off at the detox facility was horrible and also brought me a deep, deep sigh of relief. I got home late that night but I slept well. Really well. I wasn’t worried about where he was, if he was putting himself in danger, if he was making choices that could hurt himself or others.

He was, for the time being, someone else’s problem.

October brought peace.

After detox, he checked himself into a long-term treatment center. I went with him for paperwork and insurance and because I was his ride. We were there hours that day and we spoke no more than twenty words.

This is your last chance, I said as we drove to rehab.

I know, he said quietly.

There wasn’t much more to say after that.

Fast-forward a year: It’s September again. The weather has teased us with cooler nights and milder days. I’m decorating the house for fall. Starbucks is bringing back their traditional (disgusting) seasonal drinks.

And I’m getting angry all over again.

Chris is sober this time, but it’s like my body can’t shake the feelings from last fall, can’t get out of the survival mode I was in this time twelve months ago.

I can close my eyes and immediately be transported back to the hills of southern Indiana as I drive to the detox facility, the leaves golden yellow and blazing red; I can hear the album I had on repeat last September, the lyrics burned into my memory and heart. I can sense the anxiety and stress and worry in my stomach, in my bones, in my muscle.

I can’t seem to convince myself I’m safe right now. This is the season it all came to a head. This is the season I was alone. This is the season of divorce attorneys and dividing assets and family secrets tumbling out.

I can’t convince my body we’re safe now.

And so I’m just angry. I’m angry at lots of irrational things and some very rational things. I’m angry at myself for not being able to think my way out of this. I’m angry at Chris all over again for what he did to us. I’m angry at a friend who, for months, didn’t ask how we were doing and then hurt my family and kids as she slammed the door on her way out. I’m angry at adults who do the same things over and over again expecting different results.

I’m angry I can’t keep typing that list because I have to keep quiet about so many things.

I used to love fall. I was born in October; my body was made for layers. I love to sleep with as many blankets piled on top of me as possible. I enjoy the sting of cold air in my lungs when I walk outside. I could eat chili for every meal and never tire of it. Fall is the best time to camp, to hike, to sit around a fire with friends. The best time to be alive.

But right now, I’m angry it’s here. It is full of hurt and memories and fresh wounds and betrayal that just seems to keep coming. I want to scream and cry and hide and say I’m sorry and fuck you all at the same time.

Addiction stole fall from me. Grief stole joy from me. Betrayal stole safety from me.

And like all seasons, I know this will pass. I know this current moment is not my life-long reality. I know pain subsides and moments relax and eventually it will be okay again. I’ve lived enough heartache and disappointment to know the rhythms of pain and suffering. I have had enough joyful moments to not forget they exist.

I know I’m allowed to sit in the discomfort of endings and beginnings and feel all the feelings, allow them space, and then let them go.

I know what healing looks like and I know every day, in some small way, the healing starts over again. So I just have to keep doing what I know is right even when it’s hard, even when it doesn’t make sense:
be honest about my life
say things hurt
ask for help
listen
read my Bible
cry and laugh
show up
be patient
make sure my kids are safe and loved
keep my eyes open
keep my heart open
keep my hands open

In The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald writes, “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” Maybe that’s what I need: a full immersion into fall, a fresh October for peace–crisp weather and a good freeze at night that ends the summer growing season so there’s room for new beginnings, new life, new starts.

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How to recover from betrayal.

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The most unexpected part of this journey has been the messages from women asking for hope.

How do I get over betrayal?

 Can I survive this?

 Can our marriage survive the affair?

 How do you ever recover from the lies?

 How do I get over this?

I get emails in my inbox and messages on any social media platform I belong to.

How? How do you go on living after this type of devastation?

My initial thought is I HAVE NO IDEA. I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how you recover. I don’t know if you ever get the safety and security you once felt ever again.

But the truth is, I do know. Because I’m living it right now. I am living in the after of a marriage built on lies and while the lies might not be the same lies you were damaged by, the feeling and the pain and the hopelessness is very, very similar.

Betrayal is betrayal is betrayal.

I don’t know if that should make us all feel better or worse, but there it is.

Before I tell you how to get better, I have to tell you I only know what works because I did it the wrong way first. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me twice. The first time I learned my husband was a drug addict and had been lying to me for our whole relationship. Then seven years later when I learned he was still drug free, but now living as a high functioning alcoholic and had been for a long time.

Betrayal hurts every time, but the second time hurt worse because I felt like I should have known better this time. But I didn’t. And I know why I was blindsided the second time just as bad. I know why it was just as shocking the second time as it was the first time: because I didn’t heal or do the work the first time this happened. So I didn’t see the patterns when they started again, because my husband was a drug addict, not me. What did this have to do with me?

Absolutely nothing.

Except when it happened the second time, I wondered if it really did have something to do with me.

Wait. Don’t leave. I did not cause my husband to drink. I did not cause him to be an alcoholic. You did not cause your husband to cheat on you. You did not force your husband to do drugs because you’re just a bear to live with. We are all in complete control of our actions and choices and we do not control other people.

But I can be a healthy version of myself or I can be an unhealthy version of myself and after the first betrayal, I let myself continue to be an unhealthy version instead of doing any private work to heal or grow or look critically at the life I was living.

And that’s why, when it happened again, I realized if I wanted to live differently, I had to respond differently to the situation this time.

So I found a wise therapist.

Notice what I just wrote: I found a wise therapist. Me. Only me.

And here’s where people will argue with me, but this is my blog and no one else has the password so I get to write this and turn the comments off if I so choose. (I don’t actually do that, but I’m just letting you know my power because I’m an asshole like that.)

When your marriage falls apart, when your relationship is destroyed by betrayal, when the bottom falls out and you don’t recognize the person you love, the life you’re living, or the place you call home, I want you to run to a counselor. Not a marriage counselor. Not a couple’s therapist. I want you and you alone to walk your beautiful-and-hurting self into an office and demand a smart counselor for you and only you.

Here’s why: you are going to want to think and say and do some really shitty things when someone breaks your heart. You are going to want to ask lots of really embarrassing questions and say lots of things you think are shameful. You are going to want to ask what is wrong with you and why you were treated like this and if you hold any value. You are going to cry some really hard, ugly cries and you are going to scream some really unladylike screams.

You need to be able to do that without the person who hurt you in the room.

You need to be able to sit with a patient, wise therapist who lets you sit in grief and anger and pain and not run from it. You need to be able to talk to a kind counselor who doesn’t rush you to heal or forget or show compassion.

There will be a time and place for that. Eventually. But there’s an order to things and if you skip any steps, you’ll be right back where you started. You’ll end up angry and bitter and hard and no matter how much you strive to fix whatever broke, it will not work.

When women write me and tell me heartbreaking things about their relationships, I grieve with them. There is not a moment in sharing my story that made me hope other people knew what I was feeling. I’m not naïve to the fact this pain exists in other relationships, but I didn’t dwell on it while I was writing.

If you have shared something hard and painful with me, know I carry your heartbreak with me. You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are worthy of good, loyal love, free of lies and deceit. I am sorry you relate to my story. I am sorry your soul remembers this breaking.

But what about marriage counseling? When I tell women to go find a good counselor for themselves, they respond with arguments of it being selfish or they’re already in marriage counseling.

And then I want to shake them really, really hard. I want to shake them because I see myself, years ago after the drug rehab, thinking things were going to be okay and our marriage was being worked on.

Listen carefully, friends: You need to heal yourself before you can heal your marriage. You are NOT your marriage. You are a person who needs to be whole and healthy so you can spend the time and energy healing your marriage from a place of strength and recovery. You do not sit two broken, sick people in a room and ask them to fix something else that is broken.

Why do we think that works?

Why do we think two struggling people can suddenly have the wherewithal and health to mend a relationship? Taking two hurting people, no matter who did what, and giving them some tools to heal a marriage is ignoring the idea that they have to be a healthy person on their own first.

I’m not saying “on their own” with any suggestion of divorce, but healing a marriage while not healing a person who has lots of relationships and areas and situations that happen outside of marriage implies that the marriage is the only thing of importance as opposed to the overall health of a person who just happens to be married.

There is a time for marriage counseling. I do not believe it is the moment things fall apart. Everything is too fragile and raw to suddenly be on a rampage to fix it. If we tell women it is not their fault their husbands have cheated, then why do we immediately want to include them in the husband’s healing work? Does anyone think maybe he has some work he should be doing on his own? Since I didn’t make Chris drink, do you think he might have some things inside him that must be looked at apart from me?

I don’t encourage divorce. I don’t want families to be torn apart. I don’t want the pain and destruction that comes with marriages ending. I am pro-marriage.

But I’m a fan of healthy marriages. And that only comes when the two people inside the marriage are healthy. You can’t have a healthy marriage without healthy people. So go get healthy and then work on the marriage. It can wait a little bit. But here’s a secret: if you’re working on getting healthy individually, it will improve your marriage anyway. It’s not an all-or-nothing. When you put in the work of therapy, it changes and improves everything in your life. That’s just the way it works.

I know people are going to disagree with this advice. It gives me a little thrill just thinking about it. But I don’t have to argue with anyone. I’m just telling you what worked and is working for us. I’m just telling you want I keep typing in emails and direct messages on Instagram.

Last spring my husband confessed to lies and betrayal for the majority of our marriage. Last summer my husband was in a car accident while driving drunk and it didn’t upset me, I actively wished he would have died. Last fall I was talking with a divorce attorney and working on legal separation so the dangerous choices my husband was making weren’t going to be my downfall as well. Last fall I called the police on my husband. Last fall I checked out of my marriage because my husband had done it first.

Last week I went on a date with him and I thought he was just the cutest little thing I had ever seen. Even hearing myself admit that makes me nauseous. But it’s true. Of course, there are a lot of other answers that follow this first one of get a counselor for yourself, and they include things like Jesus, obedience, an amazing support network, lots of people who told me the truth even when it wasn’t easy, cookie dough, and a few ill-advised trips to Target, but the first step is a counselor. For you. No one else. Not a marriage counselor. Not for your husband.

For you.

Find a counselor and get really ugly with her. Let it all out and then you can start the healing. That’s how you survive this. That’s how you get back to freedom and light and joy and laughter and wholeness. You sit on her couch and you get really, really ugly and then you slowly work back to beautiful. It’s in you, I promise.

You are strong enough to do this. You are worth the expense. You are worth the time investment. You are worth the time off work. You are worth the babysitter expense. You are the only one who will make your healing a priority. You. You are strong enough to do this. You are worth it.

 

2015 family picture by Huff Photography 

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Our life and marriage right now.

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Yesterday after work Chris was supposed to stop at the grocery store and pick up my online order. I reminded him right before he got off work, and as he headed that way, he asked for instructions. He’d never picked up the groceries before.

I told him to pull into the assigned spot, call the number on the sign, and tell them the order is under “Mary Ritter.”

It’s not so much that I go incognito when I’m out in the world, but that my account with this store is so old that when I originally signed up, I wasn’t yet married. So even though I’ve officially gone by Graham for almost twelve years, when I go to the grocery, I’m still a Ritter.

A few minutes later Chris called to tell me the store didn’t have any record of my grocery order. They couldn’t find it in their system at all.

I immediately went to my email confirmation to make sure I sent him to the right store. Depending on my plans for the day, I might place the order at a different location, and I worried I’d made a mistake.

After a quick check, I came back on the phone.

“Did you tell them it’s under ‘Mary Ritter’?” I asked slowly.

“No,” he said.

“Did you even read the text I sent you?”

“Not all of it,” he responded.

“Goodbye,” I said through gritted teeth.

Later over dinner I sarcastically congratulated him on the grocery pickup.

“I got the groceries. Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he replied.

That’s the main problem right now: everything small doesn’t feel small anymore. After years of making excuses in my head, after years of ignoring small things that didn’t feel right, I can’t do it anymore. For those unfamiliar with trauma and healing, it’s called a trigger. A situation or memory or reaction that recalls the original issue and takes you back to the chaos or heartache or pain instantly.

Chris forgetting a conversation or important detail we discussed. Triggered.

Chris driving too fast or making a silly decision while driving. Triggered.

Chris sleeping in too late. Is he hungover? Triggered.

Chris making an impulsive decision. Triggered.

What I never expected in recovery was how many behaviors, words, or moments would send me right back to angry or suspicious. What should just be small mistakes everyone makes, feels more important and under more scrutiny.

My husband has been sober almost eleven months. He attends AA meetings regularly, he sees his addiction counselor every week, he does an AA-related devotional every morning. He takes his medicine for depression as well as a pill that would make him violently ill if he took a drink of alcohol. Even being around rubbing alcohol or certain household cleaners makes him nauseous.

I know he is not drinking. But convincing my brain to believe it after all the years of lying is still hard. This anger ebbs and flows. I’m not triggered as often as I was eight months ago or even two months ago. But it still happens, I still get mad, and Chris still gets defensive.

We’re working on it. Communicating well is the only way it gets better. Chris leaving the room or getting mad about it makes it worse. Lashing out with too many emotions is how I make it worse. Chris wants to ignore things and I want to address everything. We’re working on meeting in the middle, where I let some things go unsaid and he says more things than he wants to.

Change is hard, but we know the end result will be a healthier marriage.

In February, Ellie turned nine.

The night before her birthday, I laid in bed with her and asked her about her best and worst moments at eight.

Her best moments were riding all the adult rides at Kings Island the prior summer and holding a giant python at school the week before. Worst moments were crashing her bike at the campground, busting her knee badly, and having to ride back to us hurt. Also worst: the headache she got after the fifth ride on The Beast at Kings Island.  Major eight year old stuff.

What she didn’t mention—and I held my breath for it each time I asked—was Daddy or our separation or seeing him that night in the parking lot so lost and broken or visiting him in rehab. Those didn’t even cross her mind. I feel like I barely survived 2017, and Ellie’s take-away was a bike crash and a headache.

When they tell you kids are resilient, it’s true. But they have to have the skills and support and environment to rebound. For my children, that was counseling, being allowed to ask any question they wanted, and constantly being told they were safe, loved, and none of it was their fault.

Occasionally addiction and rehab and Daddy not being around last fall comes up, but the majority of the time it doesn’t. If I happen to have an alcoholic beverage while on vacation or with girlfriends, I talk to the girls about moderation and why I can have a drink and why Daddy can’t. As they get older, this will come up more often and I might choose to not drink. We’ll address that when it’s time.

I’m still in counseling but slowing down. I go once a month at this point and I think my counselor really wants to tell me I’m done for now but I keep showing up anyway. I won’t let her break up with me. She reminds me her goal is to eventually work herself out of a job and this is the best outcome of seeking therapy. Plus, she says with a smile, there will always be someone to take my place.

Saying I’m nearing the end of counseling doesn’t mean all is right in my world. But it does mean I’ve learned the necessary skills to handle stress and problems and drama with healthy coping mechanisms I didn’t have when I started. I can identify healthy relationships and establish boundaries for unhealthy ones. There’s still a lot of work to do (always), but I’m better equipped to handle it. Plus, I can go back to counseling when necessary and probably will need to at some point.

Chris and I have not been to counseling together. I’ll share more about that tomorrow.

Last week we had date night after a few months without. We went to dinner, the bookstore, and saw a movie. It was an average date night, nothing extra special or romantic. But it was good. It felt safe and comfortable after a long time of not feeling that way. When so much hard stuff has happened, even when you try to get over it, you’re still dragging it around wherever you go. It just becomes part of your story, a part of what you carry. It never really goes away. But what you do while you’re carrying it can make all the difference. You can keep carrying it so it weighs you down and makes you angry and bitter, or you can carry it around, pay it the attention and love it needs, and it becomes this lighter part instead.

We’re still working hard to make what we’re carrying lighter. We’ve still got a way to go, but it’s getting easier every day.

 

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Not Terrible podcast + speaking our stories

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I never envisioned myself a podcaster, but here we are.

Wait, did I tell you I’m co-hosting a podcast with my friend Jess?

If you got my Monday Business Meeting emails you would know this. This isn’t to shame you, but if you’re not subscribed, really, what are you doing with your life?

Anyway, here’s what I wanted to tell you, and I felt it was important enough to write a short post about it: episode 4 of the Not Terrible podcast launches today, and it’s about addiction and alcoholism and marriage and what the past few years have been like for the Graham marriage.

I’ve written about that story for a while. I’ve shared lots of things in hopes of pointing to Jesus in the mess and the rebuilding—however that was going to look. But there are lots of parts you still haven’t heard. Some will be in the book (SUSPENSE!), and some are in the podcast today.

Writing my story is one thing. I get to edit, re-write, delete, and sit with my words for weeks or months or forever before publishing them for you to read.

Speaking them on a podcast is completely different. I don’t have the luxury of a well-crafted sentence or the delete button. Yes, we can (and do) edit the episodes before you hear them, but it’s still different. Scarier. Harder. Better. Worse.

I still struggle with parts of the story I’m living. You’ll hear me talk about some of that in the episode, but you’ll also hear me say there are some parts I can’t share yet. God is still writing new chapters, pruning and reshaping our lives even now.

Today Chris Graham has been sober 284 days. Over nine months without a drink. Over nine months facing fears, feeling emotions, saying difficult things. It is slow, exhausting work. It is good and worth every ounce of energy he’s giving it.

Would you listen to the podcast today? Would you pray for my husband, for my marriage, for the rebuilding?

Chris hasn’t listened to this episode. He’s not sure he will, and I’m not going to push him. The farther away he gets from the past few years and the drinking, the harder it is to stomach how he lived, what he did, and the choices he made. Shame and guilt are dangerous tools of the devil if you’re not watching out for them. So while Chris is okay with sharing our story, he doesn’t always want to hear it again. He lived it. He barely survived. He’s doing better now.

That’s enough for him.

**You can listen (and subscribe!) to the Not Terrible podcast on iTunes or this link. We’re still working on getting it uploaded onto other podcast apps so non-iPhone users can listen, but for now, if you go to that link and you don’t have an Apple product, you can listen through any computer.

Photography by Huff Photography

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In the hills of West Virginia, on a hot, hot weekend in July

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Chris’ younger brother joined the Marines after high school and, when he finished, never made his way back to Indianapolis. On the east coast, he found a new life, a wife, and a family so we don’t get to see him very often now.

In 2017, Mike and Kristin had their first child, a girl named Savannah.

Kids change the game.

Nothing makes the passage of time more apparent or in-your-face than kids growing. In the blink of an eye, they’re big. Ask me how I know this.

There are more Graham kids than just ours now, and we want those kids to know each other. So we headed east last week, and the other Grahams headed west, and we met in the hills of West Virginia for a long weekend of camping.

At night, we sat around the campfire. In the morning, we sat around the picnic table with coffee. In between we biked and walked and sidewalk-chalked and grilled and swam and floated and ice-creamed.

Savannah decided Harper was the bee’s knees and did everything she could to keep up.

Ellie looks like her daddy, and Savannah looks like her daddy so we compared their noses and cheeks and eyes. We marveled at how genetics work, and I told Kristin you have to wait until the second baby to get one that resembles you in the slightest.

West Virginia was hot so we escaped to the cold air conditioning of our camper, thankful for the extra space and the luxury. We spent the weekend covered in sand, sticky no matter how many showers we took, and happy.

The past twelve months have brought a lot of changes to Chris’ family. Graham kids started to say things they remember, things they’d like to forget. They started learning about each other and what they experienced–both together and separate–which has shaped them as adults. Adult children of alcoholics carry a weight with them.

And while it’s not my story to share, but I can tell you (with a million stories to back it up) that it takes just one person to stop hiding and that change becomes like dynamite, blowing up all the lies and denial and pretend-safety a whole family was operating in.

After Mike fulfilled his commitment to the military, he moved farther up the east coast. He had met a girl and wasn’t ready to come home just yet. I think, unintentionally, the decision to not come back to Indy saved him. Sometimes the best medicine is distance.

I’d say it is intriguing Mike and Chris both married strong, opinionated women. Kristin and I are alike in more ways than not. I’m sure psychologists wouldn’t call it intriguing, they’d call it stereotypical and then explain why it worked that way. I’m not smart enough to analyze it or, frankly, very interested in it. But it’s there: they married similar women.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about the legacy we’re bringing these Graham babies into. But I’m also really hopeful. Cycles and secrets and shame only continue in the dark, in the shadows, in the enablers, and in the manipulators. But once it’s all been exposed, there’s space to start again.

So in the hills of West Virginia, on a hot, hot weekend in July, the Graham boys brought their wives and babies to a campground to talk about what went wrong, what went right, and what we do with it all. And I think—I pray—that’s what change starts with.

Details about our trip:
-We stayed at the Huntington-Fire Fox KOA in Milton, West Virginia. While I normally rave about KOAs, I was not impressed with this one and wouldn’t recommend you stay there. We were close to a small town, local restaurants, and a few cute ice cream shops, but the campground was kinda crappy. I’d stay somewhere else if you’re around Milton.
-We ate ice cream at The Twist in Milton, and it was perfect on a hot summer day. Most of the Yelp reviews were not favorable, but most complaints were about the time it took to get your food, not the actual food. So we chanced it, had a great experience, and would go back if we’re ever in the area again.
-Milton is also home to the Blenko Glass Company, and it’s definitely worth a visit. You can take a self-guided tour and watch the workers blow glass in a bazillion degree factory. It’s mesmorizing to watch and even though you think your face will melt off, I would go back again. The girls got glass souvenirs from their amazing showroom. You could drop some cash in that place. If you bring kids, make sure to take them to the register with you, they let the kids pick out a handful of marbles as a parting gift.

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burning down

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(A note: I wrote this in the fall of 2017. I’ve been rummaging through my drafts and half-written pieces trying to see if anything is worth finishing.)

What’s great about your life burning down around you is you see who can walk through fire and who lets the fire consume them.

Because both of those things are happening right now.

I don’t blame those who are going down in the flames. I am not shocked by the people lying down because it’s too hot, it’s too hard, it’s too intense.

I get it.

Sometimes I think about surrender too.

But then someone comes through. With a text message of a verse they’re praying over my family. With a song they’re singing as they bring our broken hearts to God. With a package delivered to my front porch to help encourage or care for me. With food to feed my kids and give me a moment to rest.

The ones who are battling the fire with me, those are the ones who will be invited to the rebuilding.

And the rest, the rest, I wish well.

I have gotten a lot of advice through this season I’m stuck in. It has all been with the best intentions. I am humbled and overwhelmed with the love and encouragement we’ve been given. All four of us.

I don’t take all the advice I’ve been given. I will say thank you. I will say I appreciate you. I will say I’m grateful. But to gain influence in my life, that’s a different story.

When you’re struggling to stand, it’s really obvious who is dragging your lifeless body to the foot of the Cross and screaming prayers for you. When you’re not sure which way is up, it’s really obvious who is storming the throne of the Lord with words you can’t say for yourself. When you can’t feel your legs, it’s really obvious who is getting down on the ground to cover you with His love and mercy.

You can’t fake that.

You also can’t expect it from everyone.

Here’s what is weird to have to say out loud, but it’s become apparent I need to:

You can love both Chris and I during this mess. There is no side to pick. We’re all on the same team. We all want the same outcome–health for our family, recovery from addiction. We’re not against each other. We’re against the sin and brokenness of this world and how tight Satan’s grip is.

If you’re fighting against one of us, if you’re fighting against the experts who are trying to help–why?

I know this says more about you than either of us, but dang.

Here’s what I’m learning about hard, necessary change:

Some people who love you will fight it.

It doesn’t make you wrong. If you’re seeking Godly counsel, spending time with wise therapists, reading books, and doing the scary, heartbreaking work of changing dangerous patterns and cycles in your life, some people will not like it because they need you unhealthy.

Unhealthy people don’t like healthy people. That’s too exposing for them. That requires them to do hard work too.

Let the people who are most vocal about your changing, the people who want to stand in the way the most, go down in the flames.

You don’t wish them harm. You don’t talk bad about them. You don’t do it publicly and loudly, but you let them go. The truth is we are not meant for everyone. The truth is some people are just with us for a season. The truth is sometimes it’s family members that cause the most damage and are the first ones who need to go away.

People have a way of showing you their true colors when things are on fire. Trust what you see. Trust what they’re telling you with their words and actions or lack of. People always show you who they are eventually. Believe them.

Then let the dangerous, unhealthy ones go.

My parents love Chris. They love our family and want Chris to be healthy and sober and present with us. But they have also made it clear they understand the reality of this situation, that it is much bigger than we imagined, and they will support me if I decide to end my marriage.

Their hearts will break, but truthfully, they’re already broken. I’m not sure anyone can make it out of this wildfire without a broken heart. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like there can be a positive or a bright side to anything.

I’m repeating this because it’s important:

You can love both Chris and I during this mess. There is no side to pick. We’re all on the same team. We all want the same outcome–health for our family, recovery from addiction. We’re not against each other. We’re against the sin and brokenness of this world and how tight Satan’s grip is.

And then I want to make it about you too, in case this post feels too close for comfort, in case this burning building resembles your life too:

There is no picking sides in the argument, disagreement, divorce, betrayal, lies you’re in. We’re all on the same team. We all want the same outcome–health, safety, happiness, love, acceptance, joy, freedom. We’re not against each other. We’re against the sin and brokenness of this world and how tight Satan’s grip is.

Remember whose team you are on. Remember who is on your team. Remember we might lose some people in this mess, but those people probably needed to go anyway.

 

 

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On Father’s Day

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I’ve struggled with how to write a Father’s Day post.

Chris is working hard at sobriety, making amends, and being present in our family. It’s going well, and it’s beautiful to see. But it also feels slippery, because sobriety is a day at a time and early sobriety is fragile.

Chris (and by extension, our family) is no longer in relationship with Chris’ dad. Through counseling and with the help of people who have walked this road before, it became obvious that staying in an already-strained relationship with an active alcoholic who did a lot of damage he will never take responsibility for or even acknowledge is not wise or safe for Chris.

Being around toxic or unhealthy family members, especially ones who aren’t self aware enough to want better for Chris is not an option for him anymore.

But it is Father’s Day and you still miss your dad.

So how do I write about Father’s Day?

This weekend we’re camping. We recently upgraded our camper (RIP Betsy Ross; just kidding, she’s still alive and well with a new, smaller family) and so we took off for a local state park to test it out. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I made reservations at the same place we had our very first camping trip as a family of four.

Back then we weren’t in an air conditioned camper like we are now. But it was just as hot and muggy. That first trip was in June of 2012 when Harper did not yet know how to walk, and she was covered in a horrible rash that might have been her parents’ fault (but that story will have to be for another time or, more than likely, never).

It was a miserable weekend. Harper couldn’t sleep in the uncomfortable heat that didn’t relent even when the sun went down, so she slept on my chest at night, the two of us stuck together with sweat and baby drool.

During the day, we’d hike or play between moments of weather-induced tears or whining. Sometimes from the kids. Other times from the mom. Looking back, I don’t know what made us power through that trip, pretending like we were having fun and we weren’t all miserable.

We didn’t travel much when the girls were little so we probably treated it like a vacation even though it would have been easier to just stay home.

One afternoon, we put Harper in the jogging stroller and two-year-old Ellie led the way as we slowly wandered down a rocky trail, trying to get to the creek where we could cool off for a moment. After about twenty minutes, we made it to the water where Ellie splashed around and threw rocks, while Harper stared miserably into space.

And then, because this is how parenting is, Ellie had to pee. She had been potty trained about four months with little accidents to follow. But out in the wilderness, in the dense tree-covered hills of Indiana, we were near exactly zero restrooms.

Have you ever tried to show a two-year-old girl how to squat and pee? Have you, as a female, ever tried to squat and pee?

It’s an art form some women never master so it’s pretty obvious it didn’t end well for my two year old and basically Ellie peed her pants. Soaked every last stitch of those pants.

And we had a twenty minute hike back up a rocky trail between her and some dry pants. At this point, we had two options: laugh at how horrible this trip was going or cry. Chris and I laughed. Ellie chose crying. And she also chose to quit walking. Those pee-pants were too much for her heart and she decided she wasn’t walking back up the trail. By the creek in southern Indiana is where she gave up.

So Chris put Ellie and her pee-soaked pants on his shoulders and carried her back to the campsite. I pushed the strolled up the mountain we had just come down, shocked we didn’t notice how horrible the hike back up was going to be with a stroller as Chris breathed in the urine smell that surrounded his sweaty head.

It’s really a wonder we came back to this park at all, actually. It scarred us for life.

I think that’s what I want to say about Father’s Day. I want to say when Chris is clean and sober, he’ll do anything for his kids. He’ll play in a pool for hours with Harper even though he’s tired. He’ll play endless games of cards with Ellie. He’ll paint their toenails even though he’s never used nail polish a day in his life. He’ll wrap sticky pee legs around his shoulders and carry a whining toddler up a trail so she doesn’t have to walk with her small, tired legs.

Clean and sober Chris is a sight to behold.

June 2012 was eleven months of being drug free and a few years before he would begin to drink. We had a few really good years where Chris was wide eyed and clear headed. Our kids were small, we were broke all the time, and we were happy.

I know now there were demons lurking underneath, things Chris still hadn’t addressed, things he still hadn’t given up. I can see now we were being given a few years of rest before the real chaos started.

As Father’s Day came to a close this year, I rolled over in bed, already half asleep to say goodnight to Chris.

“Happy Father’s Day,” I whispered.

He rolled toward me, putting his face so close to mine that my tired eyes crossed trying to look at him.

“This one was good,” he said. “So much better than last year.”

Last year, we went camping and I bought steaks to celebrate him. But my heart wasn’t in it. I hated him, I was only a month into knowing he had a drinking problem, and I could feel things getting worse not better. I was pretending last year and so was he.

“So much better this year,” I agreed as I closed my eyes and stopped fighting sleep.

That’s it, that’s what we’re shooting for: better than last year. And finally, it’s not just me with that goal, but Chris Graham too.

Better than last year.

Happy Father’s Day, Chris Graham. You’re getting better every day.

 

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