Friday, August 31, 2012

Facebook, Smart Phones & Girls of the Night (or mid-afternoon)

Ossie Clark dress photographed by Barry Lategan, 1976.
credit
Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.

August 31, 2012

Do smart phones drive you bonkers, bananas, batty?

Is it like a meth addict carrying a pipe in their pocket all day?  Swearing they only use it for the noblest of intentions?  Or maybe it's just for an emergency.

This train of thought takes me to the very fine line between Sanity and Insanity.

Remember Sanity?  She's perceptive, witty and stylish.  Sanity has been missing the last few weeks.  Fall isn't too far off and I'm almost sure she's gone hunting for the perfect pair boots.  I can forgive Sanity's abandonment if she comes back soon with something like these:

fall boots 

Maybe her absence is why I've felt the not so gentle tug of Insanity at my ear.  Oh, don't get me wrong, sometimes I welcome her heinous takeover of my brain.  As Sanity's narcissistic twin, Insanity doesn't share well.  She's an all or nothing kind of gal.

Rewind one year
August 2011

I've been on my own for months and Mr. Scabs has taken his uneasy place in the pink bedroom.  There's the occasional phone call or drop by the house but he isn't a regular part of my life anymore and I like that.  I'm warming up to the idea of divorce and preparing myself and my kids for that inevitable day.

After all, there is no possible way a relationship can survive such a wallop.  No sane person would attempt to repair this kind of loss.  It's like sneezing with your eyes open.  Impossible.

I think I'd be a great divorced person.  Unlike Insanity, I'm great at sharing.

It's odd how things come to you when you least expect it.  Like one morning when my eyes made a double-take across the photo of a young Asian woman.  I followed the link.  Attached to the photo was a note to Mr. Scabs from one unfortunate girl named Joy.  A girls who's life I can't imagine but know it terribly exists for millions of women around the world.  A girl abused by the selfishness of men.  A girl abused by the entitlement of Mr. Scabs.

In that moment, my heart's half-healed scars split open.  The flesh torn and raw again, pounding long and slow as if beating out it's own life.  At any moment it would stop and I would cease to be.

I don't recall the words she wrote.  The note was a few months old and Mr. Scabs hadn't replied but it didn't matter!  The clock muffled, ticking away the seconds, my breathing slowed to a single gasp as the tangibility of his choices knocked me down a flight of stairs.

Bloody with frizzy, matted hair I lay at the foot of the stairs, defeated.  My eyes are swollen from bruises and tears and I smell the familiar staleness of Insanity (she smokes Camel Reds and lives at the bottom of the staircase).  Her hand reaches for my waist as she pulls me up and dusts me off.

"I'll take care of you," she rasps, "I'll take care of you."


Follow the story.
Read the next entry here.


Thursday, August 30, 2012

Let's Practice

Time flies




{Leah Dieterich's mother always told her to write 

thank you notes. 

So she does. To everything. 

thxthxthx is her daily exercise in gratitude.}



Let's practice.
Write your thanks in the comments or link back from your blog.

Here's mine:


Thanks for the inspiration Sho and Tell Blog 

Monday, August 27, 2012

i need a sandwich

Credit

11:46 pm
August 26, 2012

I've never been the girl who had a zillion best friends but, life has gifted me with the best, small handful of solid friends.

It's a porch night.  It's hot, humid and there's nothing to do but lie back in the Adirondacks with a friend and languish away in God's sauna with a sweating glass of iced lemon aid.  If I was a drinker, I might add something a little hard and salt my rim.  But, I'm not and neither is my friend.  Sober, we sit in the heat, swat a few mosquitoes, sip lemon-aid and listen to each other.  Genuinely, she always wants to know how I'm doing.

Later, after my children have slid into bed (except for one adorably sweet but extremely naught little Boy who refuses to believe the sun has gone to bed and so must he) another friend calls me.

She explains, "I just wanted to call because I never seem to be able to talk to you about you.  We talk about our kids and our houses and other things but I haven't been able to ask you how you are doing.  How are you doing?"

Two and a half hours later I'm hanging up the phone.  My ears a little sweaty, my stomach's rumbling and I began yawing uncontrollably about 30 minutes ago but I feel so lucky to have such authentic friends.

Thank you.

Now, I must make me a mid-night pb&j sandwich (alliteration I love you)!

Who has your back?  And, how are you doing today?




Friday, August 24, 2012

Drizzle

I painted my toes last night


A drizzly Friday is the best time to slow down and let the silver trickles wash everything. 

 In my part of the world rain is an event.  A reason to skip school and work.  A reason to cuddle on the sofa and watch the clouds burst, dropping walls of water on the thirsty earth.  Listening to *She and Him* radio on Pandora.  This is how I take care of myself.  
I feel happy.

It's perfect day for working with my Boy to build his machine.  
This is how I love him.
He feels happy.

Take care of you and yours this weekend. 
And feel happy.

-kisses-
Scabs

My Boy


Photo Friday Links:

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

How many of us...


How many of us have screamed, cried, begged 
and hysterically demanded,

"Just stop!"

Monday, August 20, 2012

Hilariously Disgusting

no time for NO2  crayon on paper  edition of 4 each $32,000 (9”x12”)
No Time for #2

August 17, 2012

Mr. Scabs got all knocked-out handsome Friday night.

He showered, wore something nice and splashed his face with that distinct man-smell, the smell that drives us women bananas.  As the babysitter stepped inside the house, Mr. Scabs stepped out the front door and closed it.

"Knock-knock"

I couldn't help but giggle a little as I opened the door and he asked,

"Will you go on a date with me?"

I admit, I'm always a little frigid and distant.  But this night, I began to thaw.  We smiled and laughed.  We talked about real things.  We showed emotion and compassion.  I have notice such a change in his face.  A literal, physical change.   Post d-day 22 months, it's as if the darkness is no longer there.  Tears dropped from my eyes as I shared my worry for a friend, his hand reached across the table to hold mine.  This is a new phase of my healing, the big thaw.

But this isn't the hilariously disgusting part.

The back of the Subaru was packed with a bunch of junk I wanted to donate to Goodwill.  I suggested we stop even though it was 9:30 at night.  Maybe we'd find a fabulous treasure!

We split up.  Mr. Scabs was checking out the videos and I was filtering through kitchenware just a few aisles away.  A short, beer-bellied, greasy man dressed in a dirty yellow T and saggy denim rounded the corner.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he was zipping up his jeans.  Yep, ZIPPING UP HIS JEANS!!!

I freeze as he walks behind me taking his place just two inches from my side.  I don't breathe but I can smell him anyway.  His stench cutting through the distinctly musty Goodwill aroma.  He turns to face me, his face too many inches into my personal space.

"How YOU doin'?"

One sideways glance at the perv and I skedaddle toward Mr. Scabs.  After a few minutes of nodding in agreement at the awesomeness of his Bruce Lee video discovery, I feel safe again.

Venturing out into the aisles of Goodwill alone, searching for my treasure.   As I turn down one aisle I notice someone following me.  Naw, this can't be.  Am I paranoid?  I turn the corner, another corner and then another...an older man in a grungy white t-shit is following me!

Seriously?  I make a beeline for Mr scabs and we booked it outta there.

So beware ladies,  lonely pervs haunt the aisles of Goodwill on Friday nights.  It felt like a game of choose your pervert.

With the greatest love and respect, I choose Mr. Scabs. xoxo

Friday, August 17, 2012

be awesome

NPH, you make me smile.

This weekend, I will read some books, watch an old movie, put my feet up, play Domino's, till under the garden, make this wicked salad and be AWESOME.

What will you do to be AWESOME this weekend?

-kisses-
Scabs

Thursday, August 16, 2012

the pink bed

Inspiration
Schoolhouse Electric
July 2011

Can you imagine what it feels like not to be welcome in your own home, your refuge, your territory?  You are an enemy of the state.  A traitor. A literal outcast.

Visiting the home that's no longer yours feels even worse than overstaying a visit with agitated relatives.  Every step you take, despised.  Not sure if you can touch anything or sit on the sofa.  Even the oxygen you naturally pull into your lungs is stolen.

As many evenings as I would allow, Mr. Scabs would come.  On his knees. Pleading for a chance.  Through red eyes and a swollen throat, promising, begging to rebuild all he had destroyed.   We both know destruction is an infinity easier than creation.  Besides, it's not me who gives chances.  It's him who takes the chance.

There were even a few moments of the ugly cry.  But, they fell on a closed heart.

Mr. Scabs put himself in a pathetic position.

Pushing himself up from his knees, he watches me for any warmth.  There isn't any.  There is no reaction at all.  I do not know this man.

Like a homeless man, he fills his laundry with more things.  Peeking in at his sleeping children, his face filled with pain.  Pain I'm sure I could sooth with a touch, a kind word, a genuine hug.  I don't have it.

Before he closes the door, he whispers:

"I love you.  I'm sorry.  Good-night."

Out the window I watch his sad, sunken shadow walk the grassy path to his truck, which is now partly his new home.  Strewn about with Jack in the Box taco wrappers, t-shirts and a toothbrush with crusty Colgate residue.  How does it feel to have no home?

It's midnight and he drives 40 minutes to the house with the pink bed. The pink bed is in a room, which is part of a house, which is owned by a guy who works for Mr. Scabs.

He's a stranger in this house too.

Follow the story.
Read the next entry here.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

The Real Me

Janis
This isn't the real me!  It's Janice Joplin.


Thought some of you might like to sneak peek at more of the real me.  Check out Jacy's Fashion Column .

yep, i said fashion!  

Scabs Family Update

Looks like Harlem on a sweltering day.  James Chororos Photography-- Blog posted on Tumbler, Stated "Park Slope, Brooklyn, NY!!
James Chororos Photog
When the mercury boils past 110 for the 10th day in a row, you know you live in some version of purgatory.     Yes, 116 today.  God is hilarious.  There isn't much else to do but wear skirts, swim and drink buckets of icy water.

Crazy, but it's even too blistering to think or feel about my current relationship and the atomic Hiroshima aftermath we find ourselves wading through.  It's not a scientific fact (or maybe it is) but I think once your core temp reaches a certain height all other systems shut down and you're consumed with seeking water.

School started and sadly, summer is officially over.

Mr. Scabs took our girl to meet the teacher.  He walked in class, took one look and hung his head.

Her teacher is his 12-step group leader!  

I couldn't decide to laugh, cry or kick a hole in the wall.  According to our girl, Mr. D is... "AWESOME!"  According to Mr. Scabs Mr. D is..."Cool".   As for me, I'm getting over it.

"What are the odds?"

I missed you all!  More than before I am forever thankful for this community.  I'm feel so lucky to be included and am happy to be back.  Thanks for your emails, text messages and comments wishing us a restful vacation.  I especially want to thank the lurkers who sent emails!  What a nice surprise and it's a pleasure to meet you!

In the last few weeks of summer we were able to see these:


go for a wild ride on this:


and stood in awe of this:


The world is an amazing place.  I love being part of it!

Until tomorrow,
-kisses-

                                            Love,  Scabs

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Walk of Shame


Credit


{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I've been saying I'll return August 13---but what's one more day of vacation?   New postings of the Scabs Saga tomorrow.  The following is a re-post.} 

November 2000

With "Just Married" graffitied on our car, we sputtered around the American northwest. Romantic nights in bed and breakfasts.  Lazy in our wanderlust, traveling, kissing, Candid photo's on bridges and holding hands.  Soaking up the fresh love of newlyweds.

We traveled for days with no plans.  Eating at mom and pop shops, cuddling around the fire during a blizzard.  We were happy.  Silly, but I remember arguing about the car temperature.  He was always flipping it to super HOT or super COLD.  Me, I liked a more moderate temperature.  An indication of our personalities?  Maybe.

That first year, life began in a tiny basement apartment just down the hill from the University.  Our queen mattress pushed up against one wall.  The desk doubled as a kitchen table.  The bathroom shower so small we couldn't enjoy it together.  A kitchen full of every gourmet gadgets thanks to generous wedding guests. I was a minimalist and couldn't see the use for all those gadgets.  I returned them for cash.  Later, I'd regret not keeping that dang salad spinner!

Within the first 2 weeks of marriage I ran away.  I know you're not surprised.  Always a runner!  One night while he was sleeping I was afraid, lonely and felt rejected.  What had I done? I was married.  MARRIED!  Not just forever but for E T E R N I T Y!  gulp.

The finality of it sank into my bones and anxiety overtook me.  Visions of my parents cold controlling relationship flashed in my mind.  Quickly, I threw some things in a duffle, got in the car and drove halfway down the canyon before tears fogged my vision.  I spent the night parked by the river, recling in the front seat and counting stars.  Before the sun peeked over the mountains I pointed my wheels west and drove back home.  Recommitting to my promises and our life together

It was barely dawn as I slowly cracked the front door, cursing the squeak as I shut it.  Silently dropping my things to the floor I crawled next to my sleeping husband.  Warm and oblivious.  Lying my head back, the pillow was cold.  I watched his sleeping face.  My arms wrapped around him as i whispered my sorry's into his chest.  He hadn't even known I was gone.


June 2011

Did I really let that happen?

Did I just let my husband, a confessed sex addict with a preference for Asian hookers, touch my body?  Kiss me?  Run his fingers across my hips?  And I him? Did I touch him?  My body wants him.  My mind rejects him. My heart weaves bitter, salty strings of disgust with sweet honey flavored yarns of healing.  None of it makes sense.  I love him and I hate him.

Had the numbness of trauma dulled my senses?  Was I a victim of my own lust and desire?  Or, maybe I have no grasp of self-preservation?  Is this how the walk of shame feels?  Sigh.

Pressing my nose to the pillow where he slept, the sheets still warm, I inhale his scent.  Wildly familiar and at the same time absolutely foreign.  His tangy spice filling my nostrils, proving...

I really did let that happen.

The morning after left me naked, exposed and tender. Vulnerability had settled on me like a million tiny diamond stars ready to light my path.  Or, without warning the stars could burst into a scorching super nova hurtling me, forever lost into a black hole.  The outcome of last nights hoopla could be devastating.  It's like I'd done something i knew i shouldn't.

Credit
But one thing was certain, I had risked all I am.  If I was a gambler, I'd thrown in every last chip and played my cards.  The prize was hope and I was willing to take the wager.  No matter how foolish.

Over the next three weeks, the night of our passion, love and forgiveness repeated itself.

It was full of sweetness.  Gentle understanding.  Compassion.  Timid trust.  Endless sorry's.  Sharing confidences.  Revealing secrets.  Tears and agony bathed in relief, the beginnings of forgiveness.  He spent many nights in my bed but only as a guest.  With sensitivity and respect he left when there was no invitation to stay.  Sometimes my broken heart needed silence and distance.

This three weeks was a gift.  A promise.  A second honeymoon.

Disclaimer about sex

Monday, August 13, 2012

Excommunication & Pity Sex

photo credit

{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return  August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

Remember me?
Skinny kid from the Midwest who wasn't really good at much except running fast?  Here's more.

I was raised Mormon.  This wasn't the warm, compassionate, "families can be together forever", free-agency promoting Mormonism.  It was a different version.   My father led his family through the waters of religion and faith with the cold, coercive hand of obedience.  Some people live their religion with their heart and others with their might.  My father was in the "might" camp.

As a child I didn't grow a spiritual connection to being a Mormon.  It was more a tool of parental control.   He was obsessed with religious obedience and I wasn't.  We clashed.

When I was 4, I burst out the front door into a drenching thunderstorm and ran away to the garden shed in the back yard.  I was dramatic.  This began a pattern that I've followed throughout my life.  When I was 5, I ran away to Safeway with a paper sack full of shorts and a toothbrush.  When I was 6, I ran away, hiding in a little cove under a neighbors bush.  In my childhood brain I planned to run away FOREVER and live as free as a bird in some wildly exotic country studying the grazing patterns of zebras.   After a few hours of daydreaming it was always with the heavy pang of disappointment I drug myself back home.  Why did I never think to bring a sandwich!?

As I got older my running away evolved into sneaking out.   When I was 15, I'd give my parents the ole' "good-night" routine then jump out my window and meet up with friends.  Once, after returning from a night out I was horrified to discover my window was locked shut!!  Horrified isn't the word.  I was terror-stricken!  I'd been caught.   Instead of face the music...I ran away. Are you sensing my life pattern?  Is it coincidence I was the fastest runner in my school.  A sleeping bag on the floor of my best friends room was my home for a week.

At 17 I gave my virginity up to some stupid boy.  I felt tricked.

The next day while walking the high school halls he slipped a mix-tape in my hands.  A MIX-TAPE!  It's alright, you can laugh.  I promptly broke up with him when I listened to the tape and the first song was "Wild Thing".  I was no one's Wild Thing.  This gets more embarrassing and humiliating.  Read on my friends...

My father has the gift of premonition.  He knew I had sex with this boy.  I felt the red flush of humiliation when this boy explained he'd found a phone message meant for his mother.  My father had called demanding we all sit down for a chat.  Can shame and humiliation kill you?  My heart should have exploded right there.  I don't remember what was said but I do remember feeling utterly belittled.

The summer I was 17 I ran away for good.  I rented an apartment.  I bought a pan, a spoon and a box of mac-n-cheese.  That first night while boiling noodles I felt a chapter closing and the freedom of new fresh pages with nothing written on them.

I went to college.  Earned my degree.
Changed my life. Found faith and love.
Served a mission.  Helped others change their lives.
Met the man, fell in love and got married in the temple.

June 2011

Three months into our separation I get a late night call.  He's audibly shaken and asks to come over.

He has written a fearless moral inventory (Step 4 of sex addiction recovery) and shared it with his sponsor and our church leaders.  That night he was excommunicated.  His name was no longer on the records of the church.  He had been formally removed.  Oddly, this was devastating to him.

He shared his moral inventory with me.  I listened.

On my sofa he sobbed.  He was vulnerable, defenseless. The anger and haze of darkness were lifting leaving him broken and scared. I held his hand as he talked and cried for hours.  I held him as he trembled and apologized.  I didn't say much. I ran my fingers through his hair and met his eyes with mine.  They're blue and clear and honest.

Our bodies knew each other, like familiar lovers with renewed depth and compassion.  There was no fear or resentment.  No reactions drenched in PTSD.  This was a moment I had believed would never happen.  As we loved each other waves of healing washed over us.  That night I slept in his arms until the sun rose.

In the morning I made him leave.

Now what?

* Disclaimer about sex
Belle Norte Linens


Saturday, August 11, 2012

sick in the head

Very French Gangsters
{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return  August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.}  

June 2011

I think I'd be a great divorced person.

We've been living separately for almost 2 months.  Sometimes he comes for dinner and to hang out with the kids.  He takes the dogs for a run and picks up poo.  We talk about the logistics of life.  Violin lessons, soccer games and he shares secrets on how to run the jimmy-rigged weed-whacker.  When I work, he takes care of the kids.  When I get home, he leaves.  Life isn't too bad right now.  We are living our lives separate but together.  It's nice.  Surprisingly we're pretty good at this co-parenting thing.

I'm not in a severe hurry but divorce is a very real option.  I'm take my sweet time making decisions.  For now, this separation is a nice transition into what lies ahead.

Of course,  It's awful to have to explain to my 9-year old that Dad's sick-in-the-head that's why he can't live with us right now.  She kinda giggles.  That's as benign an explanation as I can come up with.  She says she's gonna pray for Dad everyday so he will get better.  I have no doubt God will hear her.  She's as pure and lovely as little girls come.  I love her and feel so weak I can't protect her from this pain.

It's her birthday.  She was excited as I combed and curled her hair, "Is Dad coming?"

"He can't wait to see you.  He'll meet us there," I say.

It's so strange.  We pull into the parking lot of our daughters favorite restaurant at the same time.  Stepping out of the car I hear his truck door slam shut.  The feeling is surreal.  I see him all dressed up, nice shirt and jeans, hair styled...it's bizarre to think he didn't get dressed in our bathroom and I had no clue what he was going to wear or how he was going to smell.  It's in slow-mo as my daughter runs to his arms for a hug and I mull over thoughts of our separation.

We eat, we laugh, we remember the fantastic details of her birth and how she was born at 12:01 midnight exactly.  We re-tell how her father was so excited to have a child.  He knew in his heart that the baby was going to be a girl.  He was so certain, in fact, that he bought out every baby retailer in town purchasing all things pink.  Pink dresses, pink shoes, pink diaper covers, pink swim suits, pink bedding, pink teddy bears,pink, pink, pink.  Before I was 3months pregnant her nursery was the site of a pink explosion!  We laugh some more.  Especially since now, our little tomboy despises pink. Each of us taking hold of her hand we walk across the complex to the movie theater.  Sitting on opposite sides sandwiching her in the middle, we share popcorn and Sour Patch Kids.

The movie ends, credits roll down the screen and we sit there in silence not moving.  People file past us, through the isles and down the stairs out the door.  I silently wonder how many of these families are being threatened by poor choices?  Is anyone else here feeling pain?  I study their faces.

She tells us how great the show was and how awesome it was we could go together, "Thanks so much Mom and Dad!  This is the best birthday ever!"

Moseying out to the parking lot, we say goodnight.  Hand in hand my daughter and I walk toward our car. As I turn to wave good-bye, he's just standing there in the middle of the road, lost, alone, defeated.  I can't help but think how awful it must feel to be him.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Revenge Sex


Screenshot from 1929 film, The Letter

{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

Revenge sex.

Seems like a possible good idea.  Revenge of any kind seems like a good idea.  I deserve some kind of delicious revenge.  And I deserve some great sex.

I've gone mental, berserk!  My vision is blurry and clouded with seething anger.  Still in denial...could this really be him?  This guy?  I just can't get over it.

When I see his face I think, "No, not my husband.  This can't be real."

I see his hands and I think, "Those hands that I loved.  Those hands that built my home.  Those hands that cradled my babies.  Those hands that caressed my body.  I HATE THOSE HANDS!  He touched all those girls with his hands.  They were MY hands!"

The sight of his skanky mitts reels me into hysterical fits!

@!%&*#@#$%!!!!

How many nights did I lay in our bed, ignored, crying.  Wishing those hands would touch my body, exciting my skin, building my flesh, hot and torrid.  I wish his hands would spend lazy moments feeling my femininity craving my soft skin.  Why couldn't I be his sex addiction?  That all seems lost.  Now, I can see why our sex life was dis-passionate and grey.

It wasn't always him.  Babies and stress affected my sexuality.  When I tried, he didn't want to talk about it. Being monogamous and creating a tender and passionate sex life isn't easy.  For me, nothing effected our closeness and intimacy more than his use of pornography. I hate it.

Pornography takes the beauty out of being woman.  Robs us of our sensuality and confidence between the sheets.   Steals love and respect from the man we care about.  For me, I grew a serious aversion to my husband.  He was filthy.  Pornography turns men and women into ugly empty shells...far from the purpose of being a couple.  There is a profoundness and depth to a monogamous relationship, to a love that is more than just self-serving orgasm.

I know this isn't a popular opinion.  I'm always jarred by how many women I meet who say, "What's the problem, it's just porn.?"  This idea might be old school, pre-feminist, pre-bra burning.  I believe in real love without bleached sphincters and comically disproportionate implants.  I love my real body and I want to share with a man who values a deep full-bodied connection.  Not the concocted lies of glassy "perfection".  Be real.

I know there are women out there who agree, who say, "porn is a problem."  It's not a victim-less habit.

As much as I long for that touch, for that comfort I can't. It is for all the reasons above that I simply cannot open my legs for revenge sex.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Ugly Doors

photo credit

{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

June 2011

He looks different.   His face looks vulnerable and soft.  Is that sorrow I see in his eyes?  Or does he just miss the comforts of his home?

He calls and comes by almost everyday.  I'm surprised.  I thought he would dive headfirst into a steamy pit of hookers only coming up for air and the occasional pb&j sandwich.  This is his chance to be free.  Go do whatever he wants.  Instead he's here.  I doesn't bother me and it benefits the kids.  If I tell him "no" he respects me and doesn't come over.  I still enjoy the peace of his absence.

He's talking to me.  He cries and begs and says how sorry and stupid he is.  I like this. It feels good to be apologized to and to feel his remorse.  Is it genuine?  I doubt it.  It sucks to get caught at doing something so horrific.  He might be mostly sorry he got caught.  It's his Hell. One of these conversations was the "Eat My Scab" conversation, read it here.

They say, and addict needs pain.  They need to hit bottom.  This was once a man I respected and loved and naturally out of compassion I would soften those blows.  Now, I sit, watch and listen, offering no comfort, no safe landing.

Taking advantage of his vulnerability I ask all the unanswered questions.  Who? Why? When? How?  All the gory details of his fall to disgraced double-timing cheater.  He wrote out a list and timeline.  It's a harsh reality to face; the depth of his duality, but there is also a calming feeling to this transparency.  I've found that my mind is a tad bit pervy and imaginative.  I seem to take everything to extremes and my mind plagues me.  The truth of the details put a stop to the ever expanding hallucinations in my mind.

Realizing your spouse has major issues with fidelity and sex open all sorts of ugly doors.  My mind made the jump from hookers and prostitutes to child molester.  I interrogated and dug until I was satisfied that he'd never indulged in child porn or sex with underage women.  The idea paralyzed me.  Following through I opened conversations with my daughter and her friends about touching.  I pray they'd feel safe confiding in me.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Freedom

Thanks MLK
{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

April 2011

He's gone.  I'm Free!

Weird how all the acidic dark feelings kinda left with him.  Or are they just masked by the high of my take charge attitude?  Who cares!  I feel good and there's a break in the storm.  I can breathe.  He had 24 hours to leave.  When I pulled into the driveway after work he peeled out.  What a statement!  I had to laugh!!  He was mad at me.

I'm mowing the lawn myself, fixing the broken kitchen cupboard, taking my kids to school, working, budgeting and buying groceries and paying the bills, talking with friends and family, attending PASG (12-step) and going to yoga and therapy.  I feel so much love and support. The only thing I resent about him not being here is that he picks up the dog poo.  But even that feels kinda great.  Like I own this place!  I own my life and I don't mind cleaning up my dog's crap!  Then the realization hits me...he had been so controlling and I had allowed it.  Oppressive. errrrrrg.

Those first few weeks he just stayed away.  Apparently, he'd found refuge and an extra room that didn't cost much.  He literally had no where to go.  No friends.  No family.  No girls. (I'm sure hookers charge extra for multiple overnighters.)  He has no one.  I kinda felt sad for him.  Pathetic really.  A 35 year old man with not a soul in the world to help him out.  In fact, he ended up staying in the spare room of a guy that works for him.

I saw something I'd never seen before...he had no idea how to build a meaning relationship with anyone.  Looking back at us, I saw how hollow it was.  No depth.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Fire!



{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

May 2011

I burned his underwear.  Every last pair.

I hated each one...did he think he was so sexy in them?  uggg.  My mind could see some random Asian hooker with her tacky manicured lime-green nails stripping those underwear down MY husbands thighs.  That was supposed to be me!!!  I wanted to pull them off his body!

My body crumbles, sobbing, bawling.  I'm going mental.

Thank God for the best girlfriends.  She held me until my sobs turned to sniffles.  Without speaking she built a girl-scout sized fire then handed me the Aqua Net hairspray.  I love her!  I had a mini-flame thrower and I felt powerful!  I'm sure my face was red and swollen from crying, my eyes were stained with smudged mascara and I could barely breath when I dropped the first pair into the fire.  I watched them melt, combust and disappear under the blue and orange flames.  I might have had a few moments of laughing hysteria. Don't judge.

Sparks rose into the dark sky, burning then dying.  I like to think that fire took some of my rage with it.  Burning then dying.

I felt a little better.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Bamboozled

 credit
{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

Spring 2011

The apex.
The implosion.

It isn't hard to guess.  His trip to the country-that-must-not-be-named wasn't for healing and closure from the life altering accident he'd had 15 years ago.  His travel buddy wasn't really his travel buddy. He didn't go with the intention of climbing a mountain. My husband traveled alone with the intention of sex.  It was a sex-cation.  An erotic vacation.

Landing at the airport and hailing cheap transportation he made arrangements at a dingy hotel full of single rooms.  Floors and floors of this hotel filled with men from Australia and Germany and the US, all seeking the same thing.  Cheap sex.  Can you imagine the rickety contaminated mattress striped faded blue and gray?  What a black-light would expose?

He spent 4 nights paying the ill-treated call girls across from his hotel at the Dollhouse.  My requests for connection, for intimacy the night before he left went ignored.  My emotions are raw and numb and tortured.  This is my D-day.  This is my Holocaust.  My eyes are gaunt, viewing myself out of body.  Being gassed.  Heart stopping.  Breath suffocating.  Body like clay, cold, thin and dying. Landslide, swallowing me.  Lungs filling with mud.  Burning. Limbs numb.  Time whirling, ticking.  The unimaginable is now reality.

The truth took 6 months to reveal itself.  During much of that time I was frozen, lethargic.  Life kept rolling.  I worked, cared for my kids, attended parent teacher conferences and soccer games and forgot to eat.  I bawled.  I was silent.  I went mental.  I bonfired all his underwear.  I added the F-word to my vocabulary.  Half-heartedly I listened to our therapist tell me it was my fault my husband cheated. I was numb as I nodded.  Brainwashed.  Watching a once healthy self-esteem give up and sink deep into the dark choppy sea.  defeated.

He didn't seem apologetic or sorry.  He was the same.  No changed behavior.  He was still hiding.  Like I said, the truth took 6 months to reveal itself.   With the truth my blinders fell off.  I was strong again.

I knew who he was.
I knew who I was.

I couldn't be bamboozled anymore.  He screwed Asian prostitutes.  He lied.  He lived a double-life.  He had to leave.  I generously gave him 24 hours to pack his shit and move out.

It's like one of those giant underground zits just under your nose that's so painful to touch it makes you cringe and your eyes tear up.  You try squeezing it and pressing it.  You try leaving it alone.  You try a hot wash-cloth.  You even buy that expensive zit cream from Wal-greens but nothing works.  And then, it's ripe.  With a gentle pinch the core bursts!   Shooting it's contents on the mirror---and you love it!  Purging gives you freedom.

He was gone and I was free!

Saturday, August 4, 2012

we are broken



{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

November 2010

His secret life began with pornography.

It progressed after the birth of our first child.  I remember confronting him about his porn viewing.  I felt like it was replacing me.  Stealing away our intimacy.  Turning women into body parts.  Devaluing sex.  It's ugly.  He always responded with the excuse we all hear "every guy does it".   Or even worse, "if we had more sex, I wouldn't need it".  Really?

I was hurt, disgusted and ultimately turned off.  He was no longer the hot man I'd married and respected a few years before.  I kept my distance and detached my heart.  Now, I see his words were the words of an addict.

The pornography crescendo-ed into back-alley porn arcades which found my spouse jacking off where hundreds and possibly thousands of men had also left their marks.  This need surged inside him and there he was parked next to the Pizza Hut, sneaking past the legitimate eatery and ducking under the red neon sign into the darkened doors if the Diamond Spa. Touting therapeutic Asian massage.  Translation: hand jobs and sex with hookers.  The legally illegal brothel. The happy ending.  "You like?"

I imagine there's a lot of shame when leaving a place like the Diamond Spa.  When you use a baby wipe to clean your junk and zip up your jeans while handing over a 100 dollar bill...is that a proud moment?  When you sneak out the front door, jogging to your truck, checking over your shoulder and then driving home just in time for supper with your beautiful wife and children...is that a proud moment?

My husband was well liked, managed a large business, a respected family man.  The kind of guy who helps neighbors with car trouble and charms the elderly ladies down the street with chatter about their lovely flower beds.  Friends and acquaintances often asked him how he'd gotten so lucky in life.  He had everything he needed to be happy.  All the gifts of deep blissful happiness were in front of him.  I could never understand why he wasn't happy.  When you find yourself in the stained massage booth of a prostitute finishing up and deleting all evidence of unfaithfulness, I imagine you don't feel like a Man.  In that sober moment, don't you wonder, "what the hell am I doing?"  And you see that you are your own life's napalm bomb.  The destruction is your own.  Didn't your mama teach you...Destruction is an infinity easier than creation.  This must be why an addict like my husband finds a kind of twisted peace in living a double life.

The man who plays with his kids and kisses his wife and helps the neighbors trim an overgrown tree isn't the same coward who seeks the raunchy companionship of an exploited prostitutes vagina.  Isn't this where the split-personality, the double life, the sociopath persona are born? Then comes the breakdown of self-respect.  It's snuffed out like the last drags of a second-hand cigarette.

The story of my discovery ends back at the beginning.
My husbands trip to the country-that-must-not-be-named.
Our 10 year anniversary.
My nightmares.

The apex of this story implodes as he returns home from his vacation and we meet in the airport.

Friday, August 3, 2012

Premonition






{The Scabs family is taking the last few weeks of summer off and away from most electronics. A vacation.   I will return August 13th for more of the Scabs Saga.  The following is a re-post.} 

Before I knew anything about Mr. Scabs hidden life, I believed we were happy. We were normal. We were a team, an unbreakable companionship in life. November 2010

So, he packed his bags and gave me a token peck on the cheek as we dropped him off at the airport. Mr. Scabs was going to spend Thanksgiving weekend over seas in another country. I believed he was going to climb a mountain with his friend. We had agreed he could go and I would spend the week with my in laws.

Underneath it all. I wasn't happy.  I had a feeling something was going to go horribly wrong. Mr. Scabs answered matter of factly, "nothings going to happen."

It was a perfect Thanksgiving with snow and family and delicious food.   As perfect as it was, I felt an undertone.  Like a gentle riptide swirling around my feet growing with strength every minute.

November 22, 2010.  Shaking and sweaty, I belted out obscenities...F-bomb obscenities, the kind I don't say in real life.  Screaming!!  Howling!!  I had just caught my husband sleeping with a woman who wasn't me!  I blinked my eyes and realized it was the middle of the night and my kids were snuggled next to me fast asleep.  I  sighed...
it was just a nightmare.

'The likelihood of my husband cheating on me would be the same as the likelihood of him murdering me.  Impossible, he would never do it.  I couldn't fathom it's possibility.'  

I read this somewhere, it's about a woman who explained the depth of shock associate with her cheating husband.  It made so much sense to me.   He would never kill me...he would never cheat on me.

Then next day I was shaken and bothered.  I told myself, "There's no way.  I trust his fidelity.  He loves us. He loves me."

November 23, 2010.  Sweaty and thrashing I screamed out again. The nightmare repeated itself!  As, i lay myself back on the pillow, breathing, doubting my sanity, pulling out my hair, I heard a voice.

"You won't divorce him."

I whispered back, "hell ya, I will."

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Last Days of Summer

a boombox can change the world
credit

It's the last dog days of summer and we want to soak in every moment.  
In just a few short weeks the kids will be back in school. 
So, our family is taking this time off.  
We're going to enjoy the rest of the Olympics, maybe go camping, rollerskating, swimming, lounging around and having a few last minute adventures.

I'll be back August 13th to tell more of the Eat My Scabs story and how Mr. Scabs got caught red handed, how he moved back into our house and how my legs were almost paralyzed.  We're not out of the woods yet!

Until then, I'll be posting a recap of the highlights (or lowlights) of our story.  

I'm always flabbergasted that anyone even wants to read this story.  And, I thank each one of you..  The comments, questions and discussions we have teach me so much.  

Working on this project together, Mr. Scabs and I have been able to dive into some deep places.

Thank you for all you are and all you have done...even the lurkers!


Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Hard Questions for Mr. Scabs

adorable.

The original Ask Mr. Scabs post here.
Q: 
From Stacy B


Well, my question may be a little different from everyone else's because I am not a married woman with a husband who has this problem. Instead, I'm a 17 year old girl who's parents just recently divorced because of things that I'm still not entirely sure about, other than the fact that my Dad is now about to marry another woman. After reading your blog, I began to wonder if my dad had a pornography problem. For some odd reason, I had felt like he did, but being a member of the LDS church myself, I thought that was impossible since he had served a mission, was a part of the bishopric, and raised me and my brother to love the Gospel and believe that the church was true. Today, I asked my Mom if dad ever looked at porn, and it turns out that she discovered his problem with pornography when I was just 3 years old. He could have been addicted to it long before my parents ever met, but she caught him several times after that first instance as I was growing up. It just baffles and disgusts me that he ever did such a thing. As his daughter, I feel degraded and disturbed that he would ever look at porn. He doesn't know that I know about this, and he'll probably never tell me. I'm guessing that he doesn't think it's a serious problem, or maybe he doesn't want to admit that he has a problem.

So my question for you Mr. Scabs, is how do you feel pornography has affected your parenting? I used to think that I was such a daddy's girl, but now I feel like I can't be close to him like I was again because of what I know now. Should I ask him about his interest in porn, or just let it be? I want to think that maybe I should help him realize that it's a problem, but I don't want him to get mad at me, or make things even more awkward between us. I just want the old Dad that I knew and loved to be in my life again. Do you think his viewing of porn had anything to do with my parents divorce? I'm sure they had other problems, but could that be why he stopped loving my mom? He was also never excommunicated from the church, but he no longer goes. Should he be excommunicated? How can I help him go back to church again? He was never sexually promiscuous, or that's what he told me, but he had feelings for another woman that wasn't my mom, so is that something that could cause excommunication too? Also, with being a Mormon, how could my dad be viewing pornography and talking to another woman, yet still go to church, partake of the sacrament, go in the temple, and teach me gospel doctrine and give me advice about things in a way that follows the churches standards? He helped me to build my testimony of the church, and it breaks my heart to see him not fall away and not follow the churches standards. I just want to rebuild our relationship, but I just need help on figuring out how to love my dad when there's so much about him that I don't even know.



A:
Stacy, I need to apologize for taking so long to get back to you.  My life is still upside down and I'm trying to repair my bad decisions.  Although, I've thought about you and this question a lot I haven't taken the time to gather my thoughts about it.  Next time, you could just call us! Ha Ha!  


Also please limit to one question only.....Just kidding!  I realize your questions are very personal and layered.  They are personal to me too because i have a 10 year old daughter who will someday be 17.  She might have the same questions you have.  I feel upset because my actions have led me here and put my daughter and my family right in the middle of it.  Just like you are now.  I feel so feel badly that your right in the middle of the wake of destruction and it makes me feel even worse when i see it happening to another family.


As for parenting and porn...


I missed out on building a deep relationship with my daughter.  My porn addiction trickled down and affected me and my relationship with my wife and kids.  I was working on a shallow level.  It's hard to connect when you're allowing things like porn or addiction into your family.  It becomes next to impossible to focus on what's right.  Porn destroyed me, my family and my relationships with my children.  I wish I would have heeded the many warnings by our church leaders.  I wouldn't say I was a bad dad, just not 100% invested.  Pornography was a doorway for me.  It invited conflict, anger, and made it hard to connect and grow when I was constantly justifying or excusing my behavior


I have had to explain to my 10 year old daughter (age appropriate) what has gone on with our family and why I moved out.  I don't think you should hesitate talking to your dad about your feelings.  You feel betrayed and hurt too.  My mistakes weren't just between my wife and I, I had also wronged my children.   You have the right to know the whats and whys of your parents split, maybe not all the details, but at least an understanding.  I'm learning that mine and Mrs Scabs problems are deeper than just porn but when you throw all the worldly crap on top of a relationship its very difficult to grow together and work at your marriage and family.


Your father is still the dad you love.  And I'm sure you are still his Daddy's girl.  A hard thing to learn is that everyone messes up, even parents.  It's especially hard when it's your father that you have loved and learned from your entire life.  Maybe you feel a loss of respect.  I bet that's a very normal feeling.  I would talk to your dad about your feelings.  Talking about it will open it up.  Silence will only hurt both of you.  You can still be close even though you know a different side to him.


I believe porn was the "open the door" to things that led to my excommunication from the church.   It tainted everything I did.  I was excommunicated because of what I physically did, how spiritually destroyed I was and how damaging my actions were to myself and family.  


I don't think i stopped loving mrs scabs, my addiction got in the way of connecting and working it out.  I don't know how to explain this to you.  Love doesn't just end.  I let my pornography addiction cause anger, excuses, bitterness, blame and I built a big old wall between my wife and I.  There was no room to grow a deep relationship.  I let it all get in the way of a deep meaningful love.  The addiction, self-hate and anger made it easier for me to distance myself and justify not being close to my wife.


If your father chooses to go back to Church that's for him to decide.  I know that one day I had to decide to change my life and then take action.  The best thing you could do is be a good example and love him. 


I understand how you feel so confused about your life with your father and how he taught you everything you know about the gospel but then now you see his actions so far from what he taught you.  It doesn't make sense.  I did the same thing.  You should ask you father these questions.  They are hard to answer but I think you deserve the truth.  Your old enough, educated and mature.  Your father knows you best.  Maybe you can tell your dad you deserve the truth and you can handle it.  

It's so hard because even dads make mistakes.  We still love our children with everything we are.  We are human and it stinks cause we want to be perfect for our kids.  I had to let go of my pride.  For me, part of recovery is learning how to do hard things...that includes talking to my daughter about what I've done.  She cries and i feel like a douche bag.   I hug her, love her and tell her I'm sorry.  Maybe the biggest thing I can teach her is that even though we make mistakes, big mistakes, we can repair them.  The Atonement in action.  Healing and the attonment is for you too.  Forgiveness will come in time.


Another thing, your dad may not be ready to talk.  But, I don't think that means you should hide your feelings.  You can feel hurt and mad.  That's ok.   When I ask, my daughter will sometimes tell me that she's mad at me.  I tell her it's ok to be mad and upset.  I apologize and hug her.   I have to look her in the eyes and be sincere.  It breaks my heart and I get teary too.  I hate that I've hurt her.  

Again, I'm really sorry this took so long for me to respond.   It's such a hard question for me to answer but they are all really good questions and deserve answers.  This is a hard way to learn whats out there in the world and I'm sorry you're there.  It boils down to Honesty.  You can't build deep relationships without it.  I would set that expectation with my father and mother.  And that is why I would suggest talking to your dad about how you feel.

Can I ask you a question?  How would you want your mother and father to respond to you in this situation.  What do you wish they would have done differently?  What have they done to give you a sense of self love, even during these hard times?  Sounds like your parents hid their issues well, do you wish they would have been more open?  or is it better that they kept the issues hidden?


Q:

From Anonymous


Wow! I love reading this blog! I told dh the origination of the blog name and I think it made him a little nervous! LOL! 

Here is my question...I was a virgin when I got married. Not an easy thing to do :) but I believed that when I finally found 'the one' it would be worth it! I imagined sex being a little bit (and sometimes a lot) of everything...fun, exciting, meaningful, intimate, adventurous, bonding, etc., etc. 

My husband's past was not like mine. He was a recovering alcoholic/drug addict who had also lived with a girlfriend before converting to the faith we currently share (he converted several years before we met). When we married 18 years ago I believed that all of his sordid past was behind him. 

Well...it's been 2 mos since d-day for us. His SA acting out behaviours included p & mb, cybersex, phone sex, and a physical affair. 

I've read everything about SA that I can get my hands on and logically I understand the disease better than I ever wanted to :) But in my heart there is one thing that I still struggle with...

In my heart I imagine his sexual behaviour outside our marriage must have been wonderful. The OW must have fulfilled some need of his that wasn't getting met at home. Having spent no time in 'that world' I imagine his sexual encounters as being exciting and fun. Full of happiness and the anticipation and giddyness of new 'relationships'. (He doesn't like that word...he says there was no emotional connection with any of them so it isn't accurate to call it a relationship). Either way...I feel like what I have to offer him is simple and boring...in no way, shape, or form able to compete. 

I wonder if I am just a fix for him - a fix without the guilt because we are married. He assures me that it's not the same...but what makes it different? How is it different?



A:
I can relate.  There's hype and chase and excitement.   But once it's through, there's the disapointment always the disapointment. 


It always left me with emptiness, no connection.  That's what I wanted, a connection, but had no idea how to cultivate that with my wife.   Cheating left me with an empty wallet empty and an empty soul and heart--that girl isnt' going to call me.  She doesn't know my name.  She doesn't care about me.  I didn't have an affair, I paid women for sex.  It was nothing but a business exchange.  


For me, sex was always better with my wife so it doesn't make sense that I would seek out prosititutes but i did.  There was no deep connection between my wife and I.  I let my pride, anger, bitterness and pornography addiction get in the way.  I couldn't get past it and see that my wife wanted that deep connection with me too.  I shut her out. 


I was a liar.  I constantly had to justify and hide my second life and maintain the fasade of your perfect life with great kids and amazing wife.  Everyone wondered how I'd gotten so lucky.  But underneath it all I was destroying myself.  


Once I realized what I was doing and wanted to change I had to actually do it.  Not just talk about it.   I wanted to make it work.  The hard work was worth my while, to save my marriage with my beautiful wife and beautiful kids.  I have to invest in my life 100%.  Is he invested in your life?  Can you feel it?  Is it genuine?  When I'm invested I spend time, attention to detail and I want to work it out.  Everything I do, every choice I make, every word I say is invested in repairing my family.   


Mrs Scabs chimes in here and says she can feel the difference when sex her and I is fueled by the addiction.  She feels cheap and just like a warm willing body.  She can also feel when sex is real, intimate and about us as lovers and a couple.  Sex becomes healing and bonding.  You can probably feel the difference too. 


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