Mary Graham

Trusty Chucks Blog

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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It’s the first day of summer, darling girls

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It’s the first day of summer break for my girls.

They are excited and also sad. Ellie, especially. She cries on the last day of school every year and this year was no different. She loved her teacher this year and can’t imagine not seeing her everyday.

I also cried on the last day of school, but it was for different reasons. Mainly: what am I going to do with them all summer?

But I’m over it already. And I’m excited too. No school for me. No school for them. Hot, sunny days and Chris starts a new work schedule that will allow him to spend the majority of the day with us as well.

It is going to be a good, good summer.

And now, my dear children, a letter about our summer on this, the first day of summer break:

My girls,

I love you. I love this age, love this season. Harper, I love your sassy attitude and sense of humor that is waaay past your seven years of age. Ellie, I love your creative spirit and the way you can lead a room. We are going to have such a great summer together.

I promise to let you watch very little TV. You are creative and bright and full of energy–I don’t want the television to dull that. You will, instead, play outside. Get as dirty as you can. Get mud under your fingernails, in between your toes, and in your hair, if you please. I will scrub you clean each night, glad to wash the summer day off your little bodies.

Let’s jump on the trampoline for hours, make a slip-n-slide down the hill, and ride for miles on the country roads that surround our house. If it is sunny, we’ll go swimming. If it’s raining, we’ll head to the library for mountains of books and cozy couches.

No, you can’t play on the iPad. I don’t care if it’s labeled “educational,” it’s still not as good as reading that book, using your science kit to create experiments, or playing with friends. You can learn about other worlds, mix up gross concoctions and dare each other to drink them, and learn how to share, resolve conflict, and laugh with humans.

I’m going to try and be better about messes this summer. In the nine years of being a mom, no one has actually died because of a messy room or a living room filled with Legos. We’ll leave them for a few days to make sure we’re done with them this summer. We will, of course, clean up eventually though. I am still your mother, Mary Graham, hater of all mess and clutter. But I’m going to try to ignore a little more of it.

This summer (and this one is exciting for me…), you’re going to make your own breakfasts! Every day! I can’t wait. You can put the frozen waffles in the toaster or warm up the French toast sticks in the microwave just as well as I can so it’s you’re thing now. I’ll be here to make sure you eat protein and fruit, but I’ll do it from afar.

I promise, this year, we’re going to grow things in the dirt and we’re going to eat them with our loud, happy mouths. Yes, Aunt Penny next door has a better garden than we’ll ever have and she keeps us stocked with fresh produce all summer, but we’re joining in too. I think there is something so beautiful and frustrating and triumphant about growing your own food. It feels magical, and this summer, after the chaos and brokenness of last summer, I want magic so bad.

I’m already dreaming of lazy afternoons spent piled on the couch, a jumble of arms and legs, as we read books and eat snacks. Summer snacks like watermelon and popsicles and berries. We’ll sit until our legs fall asleep, and then we’ll stumble outside to sun ourselves on the back patio, books in tow.

Let’s get a hammock this summer. Let’s take naps there. Let’s turn it into a ride like my sister and I did when we were little, pushing it so high you almost flip over, but then just at the last moment, you rush back down to earth and safety, the wind in your hair and a smile in your eyes, on your mouth, and in your laugh.

When August rolls around, we’ll have our summer tans, our lighter hair, and a new spread of freckles on our cheeks and shoulders. We’ll be ready for school and routines and bedtimes again when it’s time to register for second and fourth grade. Second and fourth grade? How is that possible, little ones? I remember preschool and backpacks bigger than you. It’s too soon for this.

Summers are my favorite, they feel decadent and wild, but the start of a school year feels good too. Summers wouldn’t be as golden if it was always summer.

Last summer, I made a summer to-do list. But then everything crumbled and surviving took over. There wasn’t room for pool trips or park adventures or laughing, to be honest. I promise that this summer there won’t be a list of things we want to do, not that there’s anything wrong with it, but for us, right now, we need open days and open hearts and not a lot of expectations.

My girls, I can’t wait to spend my summer with you,
Mommy

On the last day of school

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This school year was rough.

Last summer was bad and we rolled right into the school year continuing the tension and anger that resided in our home. A few weeks after the girls went back to school, Chris moved out. Because he was making dangerous choices and had more than once been careless or hurtful with the girls, I made the decision to not allow him to see the girls.

My lawyer said I couldn’t technically keep them away from him, but he wasn’t with it enough to know to contest or protest my declaration. And when he did get to visit them, he would have prove he was sober with a negative breathalyzer test then he was allowed to spend a few hours with them. He wasn’t allowed to drive them anywhere or go somewhere without me.

It sounds as stressful and messy and sad as it was.

The one consistency in my girls’ lives last fall was our school routine. Getting up for breakfast, waiting for the bus, spending the day with adults who cared for them, and then arriving back home in the afternoon was all they had for rhythm and certainty.

School became a refuge whether they realized it or not.

I am so thankful for our school and our teachers.

An odd perk of writing on the internet is being aware that people often times know what’s going on in your life without having to actually say anything. No one ever said anything to me and I never said anything to anyone, but I know the adults in that building were giving my girls a little more attention than normal. I can’t find adequate words to express my overwhelming gratitude for them so I’m doing it with a puny little post on the internet.

My children were saved this year by a million different people and some of them work at our local elementary school.

No one ever complained when we came to school late, eyes still puffy from a late night where everyone had trouble sleeping. When we needed a mental health day because everything just felt too heavy, no one batted an eye. When I spent months picking the girls up early every other Thursday for counseling, no one asked for a doctor’s excuse or made a big deal about it.

I know none of those things sound like big deals on their own, but when so much feels impossible and hopeless, those tiny graces were extravagant gifts to our family.

During their kindergarten years, I bought Ellie and Harper copies of Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss. And as the school years wound down, I would send them to their teachers asking them to write a note or message to them. Each teacher through the years has written beautiful notes to my children.

There are themes to each book.

Ellie’s messages remind her how smart she is and what a great leader she is. Then they all kindly push her to be softer with herself and her classmates. She is whip-smart, but sometimes she uses her powers for evil instead of good.

For Harper, her teachers praise her for her vocabulary and verbal skills and how dynamic her personality is while gently reminding her that she does not have to talk every single moment of her life.

Those are all true, accurate observations of my children. To make those statements, you have to pay attention.

And that’s what my girls needed this year. What all our kids need from their teachers: to be given their attention. Our kids don’t always chose the best way to do that, but it’s what they all want, some attention.

This school year–especially last fall–I had a hard time paying attention to my beautiful daughters. My eyes were filled with tears and worry and anger and survival. They were always cared for but not always paid attention to. I just didn’t have the ability.

So thank you, teachers.

Thank you for paying attention. Thank you for seeing my daughters when they needed to be seen. Thank you for loving them when they weren’t lovable. Thank you for being a constant in a time that felt turbulent. Thank you for doing your job, and thank you, thank you, thank you for doing much more than your job requires.

Photography: Huff Photography

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Spring Break in New Orleans

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I didn’t think it was a good idea to go.

We were just beginning to recover from the financial stress of rehab bills and treatment costs, Chris being unable to work, and living with very little income.

It felt irresponsible to take a vacation.

When I talked through my worries and fears with my counselor, she encouraged me to let Chris decide. So much of our relationship the past few years had been me leading and making all the choices because when I tried to involve Chris, he would avoid committing or helping at all cost. He would agree with me even as I asked for help in my decision or a conversation about a choice.

So Lisa said, “Let Chris decide whether you go or not.”

Interesting. Okay. I’ll let Chris decide.

We had already let the girls know vacation might be postponed. While they don’t need specifics or enough information to worry about anything, I believe it’s important to talk to our daughters about money and the choices we’re making with our money. We talked about the big car repair expense we had recently and how it felt too tight to go on vacation right now because vacations cost money and it might not be the best use of money at this moment.

They understood but were bummed.

A week before we were supposed to leave, Chris said we should go.

And so we went to New Orleans for spring break.

I wanted to go because VACATION. But I also didn’t want to go because ADULT RESPONSIBILITIES weigh heavy on me. Allowing Chris to decide meant I didn’t shoulder all the weight of our decision. Allowing Chris to decide meant I got to follow someone else’s lead.

It felt good, but it also made me nervous.

A year ago, I would not have wanted or trusted Chris’ decision-making skills. I didn’t yet know he was spending his days and evenings drinking in secret, but I knew I couldn’t trust him. Now with over five months of sobriety, hard work, and a morning routine that involves AA recovery books and the Bible, I had seen enough action (not words, because those don’t hold much weight with me…) to know he was acting with a clear head and in the best interest of our family.

It took a long time to get to that point. There were times I never thought it could happen.

But here we are, seeing the fruit–finally–of a long, hard road where Chris is working hard, not just me.

And so we went to New Orleans for spring break.

It was just what we needed. For the first time in months, we weren’t at home living in a house where so much hurt still resided. We weren’t running away from the hurting and healing, but we were taking a short break from it.

We did a lot of nothing on vacation. I have a hard time doing nothing at home, but I’m an expert at doing nothing on vacation and my family appreciates the break from constantly-moving-and-doing Mom.

I appreciate the new eyes I gained for my husband on vacation. I got to remember the fun parts of Chris, the parts that make him a great dad, the parts where he loves adventure and learning and exploring.

We spent time with friends who have been with us through the twists and turns of the past year, friends who were with us during the first rehab stint in 2010. Friends who forgive and guide and pray for us even as they themselves have been hurt and lied to in this mess. The most powerful examples of Jesus are often found outside the walls of a church and getting to do life with people who live thousands of miles away from us but still show up when they’re needed is humbling.

It doesn’t hurt that our girls love each other and get along well either.

We went to New Orleans for spring break and while we were gone, the calendar turned to six months of sobriety for Chris Graham. The day was quiet with no mention of what the number meant. Chris is proud of his sobriety, but still carries the shame and embarrassment of what led up to his last day of drinking. So milestones are bittersweet. We acknowledge them in small ways and then move on. There’s still a lot of work to do, but the work behind him is good too.

The decision to take a vacation made me worry. I didn’t think much of the stress I was causing myself, because I am so used to carrying the weight of our family’s well-being and health on my back. Making sure all the bills are paid, making sure we’re all in counseling, making sure we’re saying I love you and backing it up with our actions, making sure everyone feels safe and secure, making sure there is laughter and lightness, making sure my kids get to be kids and that they have a healthy mom and a safe dad.

But with the vacation decision, I got to see a glimpse of what healthy marriages do. I got to feel what it was like to not carry everything on your own, to rely on your spouse to also make wise and thought-out decisions, and to trust them. I got to see what shouldering a burden equally looks like.

It feels lighter when you do that.

It looks like communication and health when you do that.

It was, perhaps, the first time I got excited for what’s to come. I got a hint at what a healthy, balanced relationship can look like, and I got hopeful for the future.

We went to New Orleans for spring break, and it was good.

If you follow me on Instagram (@themarygraham), you know that our trip was full of amazing sights, delicious food, and quiet rest. I had lots of questions about where we stayed and where we went, so below are the details if you’re interested in camping near New Orleans in the most luxurious campground you’ve ever been to and eating delicious food with your family.

-On the drive down, we stayed in Cave City, Kentucky for the night. We had planned to boondock (just pull in somewhere, like a Wal-mart, to sleep without unhooking or plugging in), but we didn’t make it far enough south to get to warm weather so we had to pay for a spot and turn on the heat. So we camped at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park at Mammoth Cave and spent time at Dinosaur World the next morning before getting back on the road. The girls (and Blue, because it’s dog friendly) loved Dinosaur World. I don’t think we’ll do another Dinosaur World because once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but it was a fun one-time spot. (We’ve camped near here before when visiting Mammoth Cave and also highly recommend the KOA at Horse Cave. We stayed there over the Memorial Day weekend a few years ago, and the place was clean, had cute animals on a small farm, and put on a great fireworks show.)

-We stayed at the amazing Reunion Lake RV Resort in Ponchatoula, Louisiana for the majority of our trip. It looks good online, almost too good to be true. But when we pulled in, I realized it was even better in person. We stayed in a spot overlooking the lake (site 159, to be exact) and only a stroll away from the lazy river, swim-up bar, adult pool and hot tub, and the family pool. Oh, and also near the mini-golf course, playground, and the basketball courts. The last two days of our stay were spent watching them build a huge water attraction/obstacle course in the lake near us. We had amazing 80 degree weather most days, but their busy season starts April 1st and I can just imagine how busy and exciting this place is in the summer. If you have a camper, put this place on your list. There’s also a restaurant, game room, bar, and a Sonic Drive-Thru at the entrance. You could park your rig here and not need to leave all week.

-From Reunion Resort, you’re within a 10-15 minute drive to tons of great local places to eat. Two we tried and really loved were Our Mom’s Restaurant & Bar in nearby Hammond (spend an evening walking around their main street) and Habanero’s in Covington (their homemade chips and salsa plus the bacon-wrapped BBQ shrimp tacos were a hit).

-One afternoon we ventured to Kliebert’s Turtle and Alligator Farm and had an unforgettable experience. Their website claims the farm was established in 1957 by the original “Swamp People” and I would one-million percent vouch for this claim. Guys, I want you to visit this place, because it will be memorable, but also it will scar you a little? I don’t even know how to explain it. The girls got to sit on lots of animals, even ones we probably shouldn’t have. Our guide (who until a few weeks ago, was a waitress at a local restaurant) WRESTLED an alligator in bare feet so she could tape his mouth shut so we could all pet and sit on him. It made me so nervous and I did have a little mental breakdown while trying to be adventurous, but you only get to see that madness if you follow me on Instagram. I get sweaty and giggle/cry if I think about it too much. But seriously, visit this place and then tell your friends. It’s the weirdest experience ever and I don’t want you to miss it.

-Between the two of us, Chris and I have been to New Orleans six or seven times so we didn’t do much of the typical Canal Street or neighboring areas visits. We didn’t have the desire and kids probably shouldn’t go there. But we did visit Jackson Square, shop at the French Market, watch beignets being made at Cafe du Monde (and eat at Cafe du Monde…), and enjoy gumbo, jambalaya, and red beans and rice at the Gumbo Shop. If you’ve got a Jr. Ranger badge collector, there are a few National Park places to explore near the water as well as a children’s museum and aquarium.

-We had planned to spend one last day in New Orleans before heading home, but a pretty wicked storm rolled in and so we packed up early and headed north. We had dinner in Bessemer, Alabama, at the delicious Bob Sykes B-B-Q and ended the night in Huntsville, Alabama, where we slept in a Wal-Mart parking lot (it’s where all the cool people camp, FYI…) then walked into the U.S. Space & Rocket Center the minute it opened the next morning. This is where they hold space camp, and since it was spring break, we braced ourselves for tons of kids and field trips, but apparently if you go right when it opens, the place is empty and we got to do everything we wanted with no waiting. By 11:00 things were getting crowded and lines were getting insane. We stayed until lunchtime and then hit the road home. You could easily spend a full day (or more) there, but it was at the end of our trip, we were getting tired, and ready to be home. But if you’re near Huntsville, definitely visit the Space & Rocket Center.

Meet the Grahams: The Enneagram in Our Marriage

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When we started dating, I described Chris Graham to my friends as quiet and confident. He didn’t care what others thought and he was easy to get along with.

Thirteen years later, I sat in my therapist’s office with this new knowledge of Chris’ Enneagram number, the pain he was finally addressing in rehab, and the devastation of our lives with the realization that none of the confidence or self-esteem I saw was real. It was a mask then, and it was a mask now.

In actuality, when we started dating, Chris Graham was a wounded and lost kid who no one paid attention to. His parents were wrapped up in their own pain and unhealthy habits so no one was telling this incredibly smart boy to go back to college and get an education. No one was telling him the house he was buying wasn’t a good financial move or that he was paying too much. No parent was parenting him. No one was telling him he was loved or helping him recover from the chaos he had lived in for so long. No one was healthy enough to care for him. He had been ignored growing up in a house of addiction and enabling/co-dependency, the oldest child who was taught to be quiet, tiptoe lightly through life, and stay hidden because it was safer that way.

And here comes Mary Ritter: loud, opinionated, confident, sure, dependable, and doing every single thing she says she will. Things foreign to Chris’ world.

“You understand that because of his childhood, your dependability, routine, and stable nature was attractive to him, right?” my counselor asked, “How does that sit with you?”

Answer: not well.

Without making this post 10,000 words long, a lot of my Eight-ness and disgust from indecision comes from seeing influential people in my life unable to make strong decisions and stick with them. I see things in black and white (to a fault) because I witnessed so much waffling growing up.

And those wounds from childhood led me, in some way, to marry a waffler. Coming to terms with this knowledge has been hard.

Enneagram experts go back and forth on how our numbers come about, but most agree we’re made with these God-given tendencies (literally mirroring attributes of God), and then we have defining childhood experiences that force us to develop coping mechanisms to survive. All of us have these defining moments, it’s just how life and sin work. Once we become adults, if we’re self-aware and healthy enough, we begin to look at the survival skills we learned in childhood and we reevaluate them. The skills we needed to get through childhood are, more than likely, now doing us a disservice as adults. This theory is echoed in all the Enneagram books I’ve read as well as with most therapists and counselors. I’ve heard it from mainstream therapist Esther Perel on her podcast, and I’ve heard it from my own Christian counselor.

In The Road Back to You, Cron and Stabile write “A common story from Eights is that something happened in their formative years that required them to prematurely abandon their childlike innocence in order to take responsibility for their own lives and often the lives of others.” 

In very different ways, Chris and I grew up feeling out of control. He reacted by hiding. I reacted by taking charge. And here we are, thirty-somethings still living those roles. Chris hides. I control.

If we wanted to heal our marriage, if we wanted to bring balance to our relationship and live more in tune with the way God created this thing to be, I had to tone down the control and Chris had to stop hiding.

Easier said than done, friends. Easier said than done.

For the Grahams, we get the added element of addiction. The more Chris disengaged, the harder I worked. I would like to say I was aware of what was going on, but I wasn’t. I’m used to picking up the slack everywhere I go, not because I necessarily want to be in charge of everything, but because I can’t let things go undone.

To begin restoring balance (I use the word “restore” loosely here, I feel it implies there was originally balance and there was not), two very specific things have started to happen in the Graham house.

One: I’ve had to learn how to shut up. Literally, stop talking. Not in a silent treatment sort of way, but in a way that allows space and time for Chris to determine how he feels or what he thinks before I tell him my opinions. Nines want to please you. Nines want to agree with you to avoid conflict. Chris’ Nine-ness wants to please me and keep the peace at the expense of actually acknowledging or voicing his own wants, needs, and thoughts. Keeping my mouth shut is the opposite of my Eight nature. I am not just opinionated, but quick with my opinions. I don’t have to mull things over, I know what I think immediately. Chris Graham needs 3-155 days to determine what he thinks.

This drives me crazy. But it is not going to change so I have to instead.

Realizing this, I’ve started introducing a question, hard topic, or a concern to Chris by saying here’s a heads up, we’re going to talk about this tomorrow so he can start thinking about it now. This doesn’t always work, but it has given him time to begin to decide what he thinks so he can not just accept my thoughts as his own and move on. He has his own thoughts and opinions, and we know keeping them inside will result in damage to him and those around him.

We need both of our opinions for this marriage to run better. We need both of our hearts to be better parents. We need both of our ideas to come up with the better plan.

I don’t and can’t do this well on my own.

So I am learning to be quiet. This is LITERALLY killing me so if you see me sitting in my car crying, it’s because I held a thought or opinion inside and I’m trying to recover from the effort it took. Also, when I go to my counseling appointments, I have a list of things I wish I could scream at Chris, but I don’t because it’s not helpful or beneficial so my poor therapist gets them.

I apologize afterwards, but damn it, it’s hard. (Side note: Counseling, in more ways than I can describe, is saving our marriage and saving me right now. On levels I won’t ever be able to write about and in ways I can’t find words for. The idea we can be healthy on our own is so preposterous to me I’m not sure why every single person isn’t in therapy at this point.)

Sometimes Chris makes choices about the girls, and I don’t think it’s the right choice. But he’s making a choice without coming to me first (which used to annoy the shite out of me), and he’s deciding something on his own as a parent and human, which means I have to accept it and not override it. The girls aren’t used to this and neither am I.

We’re all living in this discomfort that leads to positive change. It’s hard and good.

The second thing happening right now is I’m paying attention to punctuation. Weird, right? OF COURSE, the English teacher would bring a writing lesson into this post. Gag. But here’s what I mean: Eights often end their sentences with exclamation points! Everything is high energy! Everything is a demand! Everything is the greatest idea they’ve ever heard! Nines end their sentences with question marks. I think this is what I want? I feel this way? I want that? I believe this? That is good?

So we’re working on Chris making bolder statements, using exclamation points with abandon. In the past, Chris would respond to everything with “sure.” It was, like I explained yesterday, a non-committal way of agreeing and disagreeing with something without causing a conflict. I refuse to accept “sure” now. He has to say yes or no. He’s in charge of himself and what he wants/thinks/believes, but he has to pick a side. Don’t want to do that? Say no. Don’t agree with the decision I’m making? Speak up.

For me, I’m trying to speak slower and with a few more question marks. As my kids have grown, I’ve had to ask myself a million times what’s worth fighting over and what is not. Mismatched clothes to church? Not worth a fight. Long fingernails to school? Worth a wrestling match. Picking out a weird birthday present for their friend? Not worth the breath to contest it. Only half-washing your butt in the bath? Totally worth the redo.

I have started asking myself what’s worth the fight in our marriage too. It is different because while my kids will spar with me and stand their ground (GOOD JOB, GIRLS), my husband won’t. So sometimes that means not making a decision so he is forced to.

You need to decide where we’re going for dinner.

Pack the girls lunches; I don’t know what’s in the fridge, figure it out.

You live here too, what do you need to work on this weekend to make sure we’re not living in filth. Use your eyes. I’m not giving you a to-do list.

And if something isn’t done right, Chris deals with the aftermath and consequences, I don’t swoop in to make things right. Made a mistake? Fix it. Learn from it. That’s how life works.

Less Mary Graham control and more Chris Graham control.

One great thing about my counselor is she’s able to step back and see change or growth in a way I can’t for myself. There is no before or after picture for mental health. There is no standardized test married couples can take so you can chart improvements and setback. Things are less concrete and harder to notice.

When you’re working to change patterns and thought processes you’ve lived in and with for years, you are literally rewiring your brain. You are establishing new pathways and consciously picking less easier ways to handle something. It’s like that for addicts working to break addiction, and it’s like that for people learning new coping mechanisms. The old ways don’t work and the new ways will, but it’s going to hurt for a while.

Learned behaviors from childhood are hard to unlearn. Marriage patterns established years ago are hard to re-train. But that’s EXACTLY what you have to do if you want change. No one gets to change a marriage and also stay the same inside. No one gets to unlearn wrong coping mechanisms while also keeping them in their back pocket.

Sometimes I feel like we’re not making progress. Chris will do something I connect with his drinking and it will act as a trigger for me. I will get angry and he will shut down.

I feel like this will never get better, and Chris mirrors my opinions.

And then we’re back to the old Graham marriage, the one that felt hollow and sad. The one I wanted to end. The one Chris drank to get away from.

But then my counselor steps in and says, here is where you were and here is where you are now. You are healthier, Chris is healthier, and this takes time. Stop expecting things to suddenly be better without the hard, painful work.

Creating new rhythms and pathways is exhausting. Actually exhausting. Not just for us, but for anyone fighting their old self to become better. Change is hard. Healing a marriage is hard. Staying sober and feeling things is hard. Not responding to everything with anger is hard.

But we’re choosing hard now in hopes of health down the road. And while I can’t see healthy yet, I can feel moments of it, and it’s just enough to keep going.

 

[Want to read more about Mary the Eight or Chris the Nine? Click either number for an introduction to us.]

Books I’ve referenced in this post & I highly recommend you read if you’re intrigued by the Enneagram:
The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile
The Sacred Enneagram: Finding Your Unique Path to Spiritual Growth by Christopher L. Heuertz (I just skimmed this for the post and haven’t read the whole thing yet.)
The Enneagram: A Christian Perspective by Richard Rohr and Andreas Ebert
Principles of the Enneagram by Karen Webb

DISCLOSURE: AFFILIATE LINKS USED
PHOTO CREDIT: HUFF PHOTOGRAPHY

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