Burning Lingerie

There are a few stories I could tell here.

One is about the trigger of lingerie.
One is about how I destroyed that trigger.
And one is how I opened up and allowed myself to be vulnerable in a situation that normally scares me.

All of these stories have something in common: I'm facing my fears, people! I can do hard things!

I'm not really sure where this post will take me. I might split these stories up into a couple of posts. We will see what happens as I write.

Oh, ps, it's possible that this post might be triggery. After all, I'm writing about a trigger (but then I destroy the trigger in the end--if that helps you make it through :P).

*****

I remember the last time I wore lingerie. I went a long time without wearing it because of the trauma associated with the addiction in my marriage. I finally felt like I could handle it. I could handle wearing it. I wanted to feel sexy. I wanted that power and, dare I say, peace of feeling good in my marriage. I don't really know what I was thinking--meaning I don't know why I would think that wearing something calling for lust would be a good idea in my situation--because looking back I see that I was pretty much just setting myself up to be a lust object. Or, in the very least, to feel like an object.

After all the work I had done fighting the trauma and the addiction, I thought I could do it. I put it on and happened to look at myself in the mirror. I looked good (no, I don't ever use sexy to describe myself). I looked so good, in fact, that I had a panic attack about it. It stemmed from a lot of things, but the main thing I remember thinking was, "I could be in a porn video. I'm dressed for the part." [Although, to be fair, I'm sure my sexy-look is much more conservative than any porn video. But, I don't know. I've never watched one.] I kept the anxiety and panic to myself at first. I felt like I wasn't allowed to ruin sex when I had basically already told him that it was going to happen. So, I sucked up the panicky feelings and tried to go with the flow.

But I couldn't. And honestly, I don't remember what happened. That is how much it jostled my brain. Either I gathered my strength, stopped what was going on, and broke down sobbing, or I went with it and then broke down sobbing afterwords. Whatever happened, all I remember is the crying. The trauma.

I. could. not. do. it.

Ben, bless his heart, was very patient with me. I mean, he was to my face. I don't know how patient he was in his thoughts. Regardless, he seemed patient with me. I'm pretty sure we went a long time after that without sex again because that last time wearing lingerie was so traumatic for me. All I could think about when I thought about sex was lust, porn, and cheating. I constantly wondered if he was acting in love or lust. I constantly wondered if my body was a trigger for him of the other naked bodies he had seen. I wondered who he was seeing and who he was loving: me or some woman in his head?

Eventually, we packed up our belongings and moved across the country to good ol' Arkansas.

We lived with my parents for ten months, and all the while, my lingerie was packed away.

When we moved into our house, and I unpacked my lingerie, it all hit me again. Each piece had some kind of memory attached to it. There was the one from our wedding night--so full of innocence and naivety. And lies. There were the ones he liked and convinced me to wear the most. Because I was sexy in them. Barf. There were some that were just fun and reflected my personality. But sex was a lie to me. And there was one that I always wore when I dressed for myself instead of him.

The memories flooded at me as I  unpacked. And by memories, I'm talking about bad ones. Even the good memories had a sour twist to them because behind every good memory were lies and secrets.

I cried as I unpacked my lingerie. I felt like I could never wear them again.

And then I decided to burn them.

My idea of sex and intimacy in marriage has changed a lot throughout my marriage because of this addiction. It's not a bad thing. I think I'm becoming a better person. I'm learning more about the true meaning of love and how true intimacy works, and to me it's just beautiful. I don't need lingerie to make me feel rotten and dirty. When physically intimate moments happen, they just happen. They are becoming more perfect--in tune with God and the true reason why our bodies are built the way they are. I'm becoming one with my husband through intimacy, and I love how it is helping our relationship.

I don't need lingerie.

My decision to burn my lingerie was a solid two-three months ago. But then things kept coming up that caused me to push this event off. Eventually, I became scared of doing it and started rationalizing myself out of it.

Today, I thought long and hard about my lingerie. I asked myself what the purpose is in keeping it. I asked myself what would happen if it was destroyed. And then I felt fear and anxiety begin to overtake me, and I realized that I had to burn it. I'm not saying that everyone should take this approach to healing: I'm just saying I needed to.

You see, I've been fighting body image issues along with everything else. I don't write about it, and I rarely allow myself to even think about it because I hate it. I know I'm just fine the way I am. I actually really like my body, and I try to remind myself of that every day. But because of many factors that play into the anxiety and problems I'm experiencing in my life, I constantly have this underlying notion that I am not good enough. And I usually play that out through my body image.

Today, I hit a moment where I knew that something I needed to do physically to help myself heal in many areas was to burn my lingerie. So I did. The rotten stuff was so full of poison for me in so many different ways, and physically destroying that poison was one of the most healing things I have done (right alongside burning the addiction).

I started with Ben's favorites--the ones that make me look sexy. Blech. Need I say I hate that word? Then I just kept putting the other pieces on one by one. I ended up keeping one set of lingerie: the one that I wore for me. I kept it as a symbol of hope.

I know I'm not instantly healed just because I burned my lingerie. But I do feel like a piece of me is back where it belongs. I feel more peace, and I feel a little more hope. Or at least I feel like I can keep pressing onward a little bit longer.

Memories

Credit

I was flooded with memories this weekend—things I had shoved back over the past few years. These memories are all related to my betrayal trauma, and it actually felt good to remember. It felt good because I was embracing, not shoving away. It was validating, and facing these memories was an important step to helping me heal. I was reminded that the things I am feeling right now are natural consequences of the trauma I have experienced.

I remember feeling crazy—literally insane—during the months after the car accident, which happened three weeks after we were married. I had back and neck injuries. I probably had post-traumatic stress disorder. Because of the physical and emotional injuries I suffered, it was hard for me to be intimate. It was hard for me to open up to him because I felt like he didn’t truly care. Something was off. It seemed like he was frustrated with me constantly, which made me feel all the more crazy. I felt pressured into sex because he needed it. I gave in, despite the pain in my back. We had problems. We had just gotten married, and we had some serious issues. It scared me, and I took all the blame. I thought I was a terrible wife. I thought all of our problems were my fault.

I remember the pain I felt when he told me about his addiction. I felt betrayed because, well, that is the natural consequence of discovering your husband watches disgusting things and looks at disgusting pictures. I felt betrayed because that is the natural consequence a woman would feel upon learning her husband had sexual fantasies about other women. But I also felt betrayed because of all the time I thought I was crazy, when in fact, he was the one with the problem.

I remember the blame I felt when he told me about his addiction. I thought I drove him to it because I couldn’t be intimate after the car accident. I felt like all of my crazy had taken its toll, and he was just done with me. I felt blame because the car accident was, in a way, my fault. If I hadn’t driven down that road at that time, the lady wouldn’t have hit me. She would have run the stop sign and hit no one because I wouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t a road I normally drove down. I went a back way home from where I was coming from that morning. So, naturally, everything was my fault.

I remember him telling me about the “porn problem” and thinking it was an addiction. I remember doing research, but to no avail. I remember finding out about the 12-step meetings and wanting to go, but he told me no. He told me he could conquer it: after all, he had conquered it before. I remember feeling so much trauma that I didn’t know I could disagree. I thought I had to do everything he said to save my marriage.

I remember considering divorce. We had only been married six months.

I remember the lies.

I remember the hurt.

I remember the forgiveness. Then more lies. More hurt.

I remember the times I wanted to trust. I even put myself out there, only to have the trust broken. Again. And again.

I remember feeling alone and not understanding why I couldn’t tell people. I remember being frustrated because my bishop even told me that if my husband didn’t want me to tell, I shouldn’t because it is deeply personal and could cause more problems in our relationship. This is something most people don’t talk about openly, and if my husband didn’t feel comfortable with it, it needed to stay between us. I didn’t want more damage to our relationship, so of course I kept it hidden between us.

I also remember my bishop basically just giving him a pat on the back because “he had confessed” and that was a good start. It didn’t seem right, but he was the bishop, so I went along with it.

I remember feeling like a babysitter, using filters and passwords to keep him clean. I didn’t think that was my responsibility, but, as my bishop pointed out, taking it away was the first step to him being clean. Not that he didn’t find it in other places anyway…

I remember broken promises.

I remember getting rid of movies, but not being able to explain to friends and family why we couldn’t watch certain things.

I remember moving into a new ward. When we told our new bishop about the problem or addiction or whatever we called it at that time, he let me know it was not my fault. He let me know it had nothing to do with me. He let my husband know it was sinful and wrong. He let my husband know he was not fulfilling his duty as my husband or keeping his covenants. It was a very different change in counsel, and it made for a great change in our lives.

I remember when we moved to our current ward, and our bishop told us he had hope for us. We came in to our first meeting with him holding hands, and he said that meant we had something that could make it through the damage that had been done.

So much damage has been done. I’m finally realizing that it is totally, 100%, okay for me to withdraw. It’s okay for me to need my time. It’s okay for me not to trust. It’s okay for me to be impatient and emotional. It’s okay for me to feel betrayed. It’s okay for me to open up. It’s okay for me to cry. It’s okay for me to live in the present.

It’s also okay for me to love and trust. It’s okay to have hope that we will be healed. I have hope that my love will one day be perfect. I have hope that I will trust again.

The journey has been long and painful. But I wouldn’t change this for the world. We are learning and growing, and our marriage will be more precious later on because of this trial, the beautiful heartbreak.

PS, I have good memories too. My favorite is the look I see in his eyes when he really sees me and his heart is full of tender love. Just thinking about that look makes my heart skip a beat. My other favorite is the times he has broken out of his comfort zone to dance with me and be a goober.