Not Just a Dog

It probably sounds totally dramatic when I say that a 21-pound Dachshund mix puppy saved my life.

Yall, I'm just being honest. 

And crazy enough, this wasn't a one-time thing either. In fact, after the first few rescues, I just stopped counting altogether. 

I've had Ernie for almost three years. A lot has happened in these three years. A lot of grief and loss and growing pains. A lot of wonderful stuff, too. Don't get me wrong. 

But there have been days where the only reason I got out of bed was Ernie, and plenty of nights where the only reason I could finally relax enough to fall asleep was Ernie. 

He's been my safety. He's been my fearless (okay-not that fearless) protector. And despite his physical size, his loyalty has always been nothing short of enormous. 

To some people, Ernie is just another dog. I get that not all people are animal people. And I'll really try not to judge you immensely for the fact that you have no soul and are devoid of normal emotions. 

Sorry. Us, dog people, tend to be slightly defensive. 

I have always been obsessed with animals, but before Ernie, I never realized the extent of a dog's ability to heal your soul. Literally. Dogs are the best medicine. In fact, I had to get a "prescription" for him from my nurse practitioner so I could have him in my apartment. 

It's cheesy and sappy but totally true-Ernie is hands down the best prescription I've ever gotten.

Ever. Better than Vyvanse. Hands down. And he's the only medicine I've ever taken where the side effects were pretty awesome. 

I got Ernie in the winter, in southeast Idaho. Winters there are basically like living in Antarctica, only worse. I bet you they at least plow the roads in Antarctica, but in Idaho, "real men don't plow roads," so that makes life fun. Your nose hairs freeze as soon as you walk out the door and if you're anything like me, you just want to eat and watch reality tv all day, every day. And by eat, I'm not referring to salads in any form. 

But what about all those fun winter sports? Skiing? Sure, once or twice a year. Sledding? Not since I was 15. Going outside for any reason besides picking up hot chocolate or dragging myself to work? No, thanks. 

Once the magic of Christmas is over, I hate winters in Idaho. They're dark. They're cold. They're gloomy. They're long. (We sometimes get snow in May.) They're not my thing.

Enter, dachshund mix puppy. 

That freaking baby dog got me up every morning that winter. And he made getting up happy. He made those painfully dark mornings bright and exciting and sweet. And mind you, I lived on the third floor in my apartment complex, so potty training was inconvenient to say the least. But I honestly never minded. Because I had a new and worthy purpose to get my booty out of bed each day, and he was counting on me to do it so I couldn't let him down. We went on walks first thing each morning, and I even started looking forward to becoming a morning person. If you know me, then you know that is more impressive than any Biblical miracle.  

Ernie helped me lose weight.  He helped me get on a schedule. I couldn't wait to see him after work and school every day. He was always excited to reunite. Whether I'd been gone for eight hours or five minutes, his enthusiasm to see me walk through the door was the acceptance and love I was desperately in need of. And he gave it freely, with no conditions. 

Ernie helped me immensely with anxiety and depression. He vanquished heavy loneliness. (It's pretty hard to be lonely when there is an overgrown weenie dog constantly on your lap.) He motivated me to keep moving, and to even find enjoyment in the process. 

During all this, I was working with kids with special needs. I got to take Ernie to work with me several times. He was extra cautious and tender with each sweet soul he met. He didn't mind the occasional ear-pulling and definitely didn't object to the sharing of snacks. And he always left every kid noticeably happier. 

When I got divorced and moved in with my parents, Ernie kept my bed from feeling too empty. When Ernie and I moved to Salt Lake City, he gave me the courage to get my own apartment downtown. He was the best roommate a girl could ask for, and I honestly couldn't have done any of that without his faithful support. 

Ernie has helped me cope with my toughest losses, yet. He's alleviated my scariest fears, and helped me conquer my own self-doubts. 

It sounds way too good to be true, right?! 26 Year Old Woman With Anxiety And Depression Rescued By 3-Year Old Wiener Dog On a Daily Basis. You can't make this stuff up, people. 

And I know, I know, he isn't "perfect." He barks really loud and he is even capable of murdering chickens. But hey-we all have our sins. 

All I'm trying to say, is that Ernie Short is not just a dog. He's not just a pet. He's not just a cute pup with extra long ears and a visible conscience. 

He's my family. He's my sweet boy. He's my rescuer, fur child, and best friend. He's the reason I'm waking up tomorrow, way earlier than I want to. And that is a miracle in and of itself. 

If you ever struggle with feelings of hopelessness, depression, anxiety, a lousy marriage, trauma, isolation, or incomprehensible loneliness-for the love of all that is holy, do yourself a favor: Get yourself a four-legged critter. (Weiner dogs are the best, but to each their own.) And once you get the most powerful medicine you'll ever have, embrace the side effects. They may include weight loss, talking in "baby talk", gradually losing all your favorite pairs of shoes, preferring animals to humans, the presence of dog hair everywhere, and possible euphoria. 

You're welcome. 

Be Different

A little over a year ago I caught up with an old friend. We laughed, we cried, we reminisced. We thoroughly enjoyed being together and it was most definitely a positive experience for the both of us. 

But she said something that-while I didn't take offense to it-wasn't exactly meant as a compliment. I also don't think it was intended to be insulting. 

"You're...different," she told me. At first it felt more like an accusation than an observation. "You just aren't the same. I feel like you've changed in so many ways." 

Not knowing how she wanted me to respond, I hesitated. Do I apologize? Do I vouch for myself? Do I become defensive  or self-conscious? But before I sorted my thoughts completely I found myself responding with something that felt a little bit like confidence:

"I am different." And then I smiled. Instead of stressing out about what she might have been implying, I found myself somewhat flattered at her very accurate and very blunt observation. Since I had last been around her, I had grown. Years of growing pains-not all of them experienced with dignity. But all of them, experienced. By me. 

And since that conversation, I've reflected on what the word "different" often means because of the way we choose to use it. 

Often, the description "different" is negative. We might use it to imply that someone is weird. Odd. Awkward. Or that someone has changed for the worse. 

Different is often uncomfortable. Maybe even painful. 

But how necessary change is in life, and how beautiful it can be! 

When my friend pointed out how I had changed since our last visit, I thought about how the last time she saw me, I was so much younger. Probably dumber. Certainly more inexperienced. I was naive. I was a version of myself that has since evolved because of my experiences-as well as my ability to adapt to and make the best of-those experiences. I have become less submissive and more assured. I am no longer a scared, little girl that I have been before. I am much braver. Still scared. But it turns out that a little burst of courage can go a real, long way. 

I feel stronger. My life is filled with wonderful people who I adore. Many of them have watched me grow and change my entire life. Some of them found me at my best; some of them found me at my worst. And while several people have come and gone, many have stayed through thick and thin. They've been on the sidelines. They've encouraged my successes and celebrated my triumphs, as well as offered solace and love during the toughest times I've faced yet. Some of these amazing individuals have even changed alongside me. And I pray they have heard me screaming my head off on the sidelines while they've fought their own battles and become more of who they are meant to be. I see you. I love you. I accept you-as you were, as you are right this instant, and as you hope to be tomorrow. Or next year. Or whenever. The sky is the limit. 

I am different than I was, even a year ago. I feel different. I hope I keep being different. The world always needs change. It needs progress. The world needs hope and possibility. You're never stuck in whatever life has thrown your way. You're never stuck being a version of you that you no longer want to be. You can change. You can keep becoming a better version of you through authenticity, through the relationships you invest in, and through learning from lots and lots of failure. 

Be different. It's really not as scary as we let it sound.

No. It can actually be way, way scarier. 

And way, way, WAY worth the risk. 

There's No Place Like Home

In just one short month, Spencer and I will be moving to Lawrence, Kansas. I've driven through Kansas several times-from one end to the other. It's kind of like driving across a long pancake that never ends. But to be fair, Kansas is really good at corn and barbecue. And not too shabby at basketball. (Sorry-Kentucky girl for life, but mad respect for the Jayhawks)

It will certainly be a bit different than Utah-which is great at mountains and Mormons. But we are excited for a change of (very flat-compared to Utah) scenery and for this new chapter in our lives where we will both obtain a legal education. I can't help but get a little sappy as we get ready to relocate on this great adventure. 

When I first moved to Salt Lake, it was just me and Ernie. We found the greatest apartment right downtown. I got a job immediately. And with my recent bachelors degree in child development, I was ready to make some serious waves, improve every single aspect of society, and save all the children on the planet. I was also scheduled to take the LSAT because law school was my next step. I attended law school socials at a couple universities, met with professors, and attended some classes. I was going to ace the LSAT, work for six months, and go to law school. And I was not going to get a boyfriend because boys were nothing but incredibly disappointing. 

Well, folks. God is funny. And not always in a hilarious type of way. 

Instead, amidst the chaos of transitioning to a new city and a very new life, I didn't have a chance to study for the LSAT so I withdrew from my intended test date and rescheduled it. I quit my job because the hours were horrible, the pay was horrible, and heaven forbid-I was going to find a better job that actually valued my degree. I eventually found a better job where I met some lifelong friends, but I had to quit that job because of some medical issues that were exacerbated by the job. I don't think I improved society at all, definitely didn't save anybody, and instead wound up feeling super sorry for myself. And then-BAM-I completely broke my own deal and got myself a boyfriend. 

Worth it. 

During a chaotic time in my life that I had never planned on, Salt Lake City quickly became my home. It was where every single conviction I'd ever had was challenged. My faith became tested constantly. My paradigm more than shifted-it collapsed. And during a very delicate time of healing and rebuilding, I grew. I grew, and grew, and grew! And growing pains totally hurt, but I guess that's part of the deal, right? 

Salt Lake City was where I mourned my biggest losses, became acquainted with my greatest fears, and where I found my biggest loves. Not to mention-have you seen the mountains here??! 

So maybe I didn't check anything off my original agenda, but I did learn how to throw out the agenda entirely, and go with it. I also learned to love hiking. 

They say home is where the heart is. In that case, I have a lot of homes. Kentucky, Idaho, Utah. Soon to be Kansas. Because what makes home home is not really where, but who. Who you get to know, who you grow to love, and maybe even who you decide you are going to be. And fun fact: I actually have roots in Lawrence. My great-grandparents lived there and went to KU. My dad's first cousin, Amy Hurst, is the person responsible for creating the Baby Jay. And my Grandma Sue spent a lot of time in Lawrence as a kid. So, going back to my roots will be really neat and exciting. (Although my ancestors are probably not too thrilled about the Kentucky thing.)

While my heart is already hurting just from thinking about moving away from some of my most favorite people that God has blessed me with here in SLC, I know they'll always make Utah a home away from the next home.  

Home is more than beautiful mountains, more than an awesome downtown apartment you found on Craigslist. For some of us, home is having wiener dogs and a boy named Spencer.

And I think Dorothy definitely said it best-there's no place like it. 

So, Rock Chalk JAYHAWK. I guess it's Kansas, or bust. 

Loves, Losses, and Fears

I was supposed to be asleep two hours ago. Three, actually.

But I can't. My mind is racing. My memories are flying all over the place. My emotions, too.

This happens sometimes. I am a veteran of anxiety and regret-induced insomnia. I fall for the what if's from both the present and the future. And man. They are daunting. 

Tonight I'm mostly just sad. Like mourning sad. I'm mourning the loss of someone who died two years ago. 

I mourn her every day. And I'm not saying that to sound sentimental or sweet. I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. 

I mourn her. Every. Day. 

She was the first person who accepted me as I was that very second I met her. She was the very definition of love. 

In fact, she taught me a lot about love. 

One of the first lessons she ever taught me even came with a title on a white board: 

"Loves, Losses, and Fears" she called it. 

In a 7:45 am college course during a particularly dark January in Rexburg, Idaho, my classroom of peers and I had to face this seemingly silly and uncomfortable topic out loud, with each other. Our job was to essentially experience vulnerability, in a safe, judgment-free zone. We were instructed to turn to our neighbor and share with them one of our loves, one of our losses, and one of our fears. 

It was about to get personal. 

The only rule? We couldn't judge each other. OR judge ourselves.

And I think in our squirming vulnerability and insecure self-consciousness, the latter was the harder of the two tasks for probably most of us. 

It was an emotional class period. At first we all expected it to be cheesy, at best. But truly, it was a unique experience to say the least. We-who had previously been happy with being anti-social and detached from one another-WE (because of her master plan, obviously) had fostered a safe, judgment-free zone of nothing but listening, empathy and compassion. 

And even though we never would have achieved that feat without her, she gave us all the credit for being good, quality, human beings that day. 

I definitely felt a sense of love and camaraderie for my peers I had not felt previously. And I definitely walked away from that early morning class with more of a desire to be a higher quality human being. 

Since that lesson, I have often reflected on the importance of personally acknowledging AND sharing my loves, losses, and fears at various times in my life.

And for the record, this can be accomplished in a multitude of ways, with or without a formal setting and a white board. 

You don't even have to be a professor to teach. And you don't need to be in college to learn this stuff. 

We all need to. Share our loves, losses, and fears I mean. We share both by opening up and by tuning in to each other. Both can be challenging. But in doing so, love will foster and even flourish. 

We all are prone to loves, losses, and fears. 

I have a lot of each. Some of them overlap. Some of my biggest loves have become my greatest losses. Some of my fears are because of the enormous love I have for certain people and certain things. 

Some of my fears I am still too prideful to share with my "neighbor." Some of my losses are mine to mourn alone. Because vulnerability is still uncomfortable. And terrifying. 

I may claim to be an expert at insomnia and worrying about things I have no control over. But when it comes to the power of vulnerability, I have loads to learn. 

But I do know this: we all learn to unlock that sacred power through simply loving each other. 

Knowing this so personally, I hope that we can all try a little harder to make life a judgment-free zone. 

Well. I hate the feeling of not being able to thank again and again and again someone who took so much time to teach me such invaluable lessons. 

She will forever be one of my biggest loves. And saddest losses. And my fear attached to all this is that I won't ever be the best version of myself that she somehow saw me being. 

But at that, I know she is rolling her eyes at my mounting self-doubt and telling me to, "Get the hell over it." 

So, for now-I do. 

Talking to God

Since I can remember, I've always had a relationship with God. My parents taught me how to. 

They taught me that God loves all of us. They taught me that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to atone for our sins and our sorrows. And they taught me that as we live in accordance with truth and righteousness, we can become more like Him. 

But perhaps the most important thing my parents taught me regarding my ability to have a relationship with Deity was how to pray. 

Typically, they taught me that during a prayer you demonstrate reverence. You are talking to Heavenly Father after all. So, they taught me to close my eyes, bow my head, and listen. But, they also taught me that I could pray anytime, any place, in any circumstance. If I couldn't close my eyes or say the words out loud, that was okay, too. 

Because God would still hear me. 

I grew up believing this concept. And I grew up putting it into practice. And while I certainly continued to learn from my parents' example of faith, I quickly became very accustomed to talking to God on my own. 

My Grandma Jan died when I was almost five years old. I definitely didn't grasp the full reality of what this meant, but my little mind and body took it hard. For weeks I had trouble sleeping. And I would sneak quietly out of my room in the middle of the night and tiptoe in my nightgown to the top of the staircase in the hallway. On the wall directly in front of the stairs, was a portrait of The Savior, which was illuminated by the hall light, that always stayed on. 

Every night for several weeks I talked to that picture, and cried and cried and cried. I missed my grandma. And with a childlike faith, I knew God would listen and understand perfectly the pain that I couldn't even developmentally process. 

Throughout my life, prayer has always been an incredibly powerful principle that has literally comforted me, sustained me, and directed me to difficult answers. 

I have never felt taller than when I have been down on my knees, seeking the support of someone much, much, MUCH wiser than me. 

He's always been a great listener. The greatest, in fact. 

But even so, there have been a few pockets of time in my life when I didn't immediately resort to prayer. And usually the theme surrounding this lack of communication with God was that I didn't really feel worth His time. 

I mean, let's be honest-He has way bigger things to worry about than me. 

And whenever I told myself that, I quickly believed it. And the less I prayed to Him, the more I felt inadequate and forgotten. 

I had no business asking God to listen to me. I shouldn't expect His time or attention. He has a lot going on. And in the grand scheme of things, I'm not all that significant. 

Yes, sometimes I gave into feelings of inadequacy and self-defeat. And that enabling power I felt through making a daily effort to retain my relationship with The Lord was no longer present during those times when I kept to myself. 

Recently, I haven't talked to God very much. Not as much as I've needed to, anyway. Because for whatever reason, I just haven't felt worth His time. 

I know he's there. I know He's real. I've honestly never doubted that. But I doubt me. All the time, I doubt me. I doubt that divinity exists within me. Even though I believe it exists within all of us, I just sometimes feel down. And even though I yearn to connect with that divinity that I believe is much more innate than it is achieved, I sometimes don't allow myself to do so. 

But when I feel ready to let God know how things are going, even though I'm perfectly aware that He already knows, I feel his love wash over me and I am reminded that I am more worth His time than I will ever fully comprehend. 

My gratitude and reverence for Him are overwhelming.

Don't get me wrong. I don't believe that praying is a cure-all. It is not a replacement for medicine or health or other important relationships. Prayer will not eliminate your problems. It will not solve them either. 

And if that is why you are praying, you honestly might be bitterly disappointed. 

But when you pray every day-through all types of weather-something incredible can happen. You'll remember, over and over and over again, that you matter to the very being who made you. 

And believe it or not, He has all the time in the world to hear what you have to say. No matter how silly or pathetic it may seem. So say it. And don't forget, in the midst of your venting or crying or struggling, to always thank Him for listening. 

Because I promise you He is. 

Skinny

I became an addict when I was 15. But it wasn’t to drugs or alcohol or pornography, or any of the “usual” addictions that prey on so many. 

Nope. I was addicted to running. 

Weird, right? Running?! Most people don’t even like running! Let alone become addicted to it. But I did.

It was the summer before my junior year of high school. To relieve some stress from feeling some anxiety about things I couldn’t control in my life, I sought relief from working out. 

And I never once thought, “Man, I think I should have an eating disorder.” I never even thought, “Ugh. I am so fat and I need to lose weight.”

I simply thought after every work out, “MAN! That felt GOOD!” And I started craving that feeling of self-discipline and overwhelming release that I experienced during every single run or gym session. I started craving that feeling of total control. 

In a matter of months I became obsessed. OB. SESSED. My whole day would be planned around when I could make it to the gym or go for a jog. And if I couldn’t fit in “enough” miles in my day, my whole day would be ruined.

Oddly enough, I never proactively decided to start being weird about everything I ate. No, it was all a very sub-conscious process. I would just forget to eat sometimes. And then I started to notice how good it felt to feel light. And how much more in control I felt when I devoutly controlled one of the most difficult things there is for any human being to control: my appetite. 

Soon I strictly regulated every single bite that went into my mouth. Every. Single. Bite.

Sometimes I would chew food and then spit it out. Sometimes I would pretend to eat and hurry and throw it away when my date left the table. Sometimes I would tell people I already ate when in reality, the last time I had eaten anything, was five days ago.

I kept a log of my calories every day-both consumed and expended. After several months, the average I ate on a daily basis was about 400 calories. And I would run for three or four hours each day. Sometimes until I passed out. 

I weighed myself multiple times a day and watched the number on the scale drop lower and lower and lower.

But despite all my efforts to maintain my strict diet and exercise regiment, I looked in the mirror every day and realized something horrific: even though I was working out so much and eating so little, I was getting fatter. 

Yes-that phenomenon where an overly thin person looks into the mirror and sees an overweight person is a thing. The human brain is powerful, y'all. 

Every day I became distraught when I saw my reflection. I looked disgusting. Repulsive. Undesirable in every way. My efforts to be in control were not working! 

Like I mentioned, losing weight was not my original motive. Gaining control was. But losing weight was the most visible way of gauging that control. So any ounce gained, or any shred of non-existent cellulite that I somehow saw in the mirror, was my mortal enemy. 

Any bite of food that was not planned on meant that I was a failure. I dreaded birthday parties and dates and all social events with food involved. I became terrified to gain weight. Literally, terrified. 

If I failed to follow my ridiculous routine, I punished myself for days. I put grocery bags under my clothes to sweat more. I would work out triple the amount as the day before. I fasted for up to a week. I had nightmares of eating food. I would wake up in tears because I had a slice of pizza in a dream.

After almost a year of the anorexia, I started developing habits of bulimia. Monday through Friday I was anorexic. And then the weekends came, and I binged and purged. My first binge experience? A whole banana. Yes, at the time, that was considered a binge. But the binges grew bigger, and the purges more dangerous. Yet I still looked in the mirror and saw a big, fat girl who was nothing but a stupid, out of control failure. 

No matter what I did or how desperately I did it, I was spiraling out of control. And the scariest part was, I physically couldn’t stop. To this day I sometimes experience side effects of my actions from years ago. My body and brain rewired to adapt to my toxic habits.

What I didn’t realize was that my eating habits (or lack therof) and my exercise regiment were actually controlling me.

My parents noticed it first. My mom tried to ground me from the gym because she was completely freaked out by my compulsive behaviors. Both she and my dad suggested counseling countless times. I scoffed at that idea. I didn’t have a problem. I did not need to go to counseling. 

One day, after I got home from school, my dad came into my bedroom and broke down in tears, pleading me to see a counselor. So, I finally agreed to go. 

In the midst of trying to overcome this immense problem that had literally overrun my life, my mom heard about a 12-step addiction recovery program through our church that was for addicts of any sort. She thought it would be a good idea for me to check it out.

I was not interested. First of all, probably all of the people there were addicts because they made terrible choices. They chose to put things in their body that were harmful. They chose to be sick and perverse. 

Those addicts were a bunch of sinners. And I knew I was a sinner, too because duh - I'm a human. But MY addiction did not start out through dumb decisions. MY addiction started out through HEALTHY habits.  

MY addiction was not the same as theirs. I was not the same as them. I did not CHOOSE this. THEY, on the other hand, CONSCIOUSLY chose to do something stupid. THEIR fault, I thought. It wasn’t fair that I had to go to the same thing when I had done nothing wrong. 

But after some persuading from my mom, I reluctantly agreed to attend this “AA” equivalent.

We met in an LDS church on a Sunday night. It was a dark night in January, and maybe a dozen people showed up to the meeting. It was held in a small Sunday school room. I was the only girl present. 

I sat in the circle bored and indifferent while the facilitator went over some information. Soon it became time for the “sharing circle” where each person could take a couple minutes to explain how they were personally doing in their journey of recovery. You could offer words of encouragement, give a brief update, or explain your feelings about one of the official 12 steps. You weren't supposed be too graphic about your addiction because the point of sharing wasn’t to focus on the addiction, but the process of beating it. 

The sharing started on the opposite side from where I sat. I would be the last to share. And I had NO idea what to say. You could "pass,” so I decided that would be my strategy. 

Some of the guys talked about how their marriages were failing-or had already failed. Some had been in and out of jail. Some had lost contact with their children. I am certain that every single one of them was suffering from extreme self-loathing, hopelessness, and despair. 

And as I heard each of their stories, my heart softened. In fact, it grew more tender with each account that I felt like it was going to burst. 

I realized in that sharing circle, in a room full of “sinners”, who were complete strangers to me, that God loves us so much more than we are capable of understanding. 

I literally think He was in the room. I LITERALLY do. I have never been so overcome with a feeling so potent, so powerful, and so perfect as I was at that moment. I felt this flood of emotion that was stirred up by something unearthly, something exquisitely divine. I felt this feeling of, “THESE are my children. ALL of them. EVERY single one of them. And I LOVE THEM. I love them. And I love you, Kristen. SO, SO, SO MUCH.”

By the time it was my turn to share, I was SOBBING. When I opened my mouth to say, “Pass”, instead I said through WATERFALLS of tears, “I know I don’t know any of you. But I admire that you’re here. I think you’re really brave. I think you’re really humble. I think you’re really strong - way stronger than you think you are right now. And I love you for that. And I don’t know if you believe in Him or not, but I want you to know that God loves you for that even more than I do.”

I don’t know if they understood any of it, or if they thought I was having a very emotional and bizarre episode of drug withdrawals, but that is what I said. No amount of overly expensive waterproof mascara could have survived that moment. 

And as God’s love literally [LITERALLY] permeated that room full of “sinners”, I realized what a sinner I was too. And not because I was obsessed with being 95 pounds, but because I desperately needed God to help me beat something that was impossible for me to beat on my own. And because I had judged others for struggling with life when I was struggling, too. 

Addiction is one of the most painful things any human can endure. And it is difficult - almost impossible - to shake. Professional help, typically on a number of levels, is CRITICAL. Having a healthy, stable network of positive people who are supportive of you is CRUCIAL. And believing that you matter, that you are of infinite worth to the Creator of the universe - well, that helps too.

Addiction cannot be prayed away or healed overnight. And once you have that addiction, it will always be a struggle for the rest of your life. 

I still find myself obsessing over what I eat or how much I exercise. Sometimes I still think about that tootsie roll that I had at the doctor’s office five days ago. 

I’m not kidding. The struggle is real.

But God is real, too. And He doesn’t just dwell in churches. He attends Addiction Recovery Programs. I have no doubt He was in attendance that lonely, dark January night in Rexburg, Idaho - out of all the places in the world He could have been.

Addiction can be overcome. IF you have the right resources and IF you have a good support system. Like I said, you cannot pray any addiction away. That is ludicrous to think and unhelpful to believe. God knows you need professional help. Go get it. But it is nice to have the Big Man Upstairs on call for some added strength and support. Just my take.  

Struggling with any addiction does not diminish your worth one bit. Addiction just makes it harder for you to see your value. And maybe other people don’t see your value either because they are not looking at you properly. They are looking at the monster that has overtaken your life. But that monster is NOT you. 

I know someone who sees you EXACTLY as you are, and EXACTLY as you can be. And He’s ready to tell you how great, and how beautiful, and how brave you are. Not to mention how capable you are at overcoming hard things, with all the right tools in hand of course.

I know God loves us. I promise you His love for us is unmatched by anything else. And it doesn’t matter what state you’re in or how much of a sinner you are. He ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS loves you.

Whether you’re on Step 1 or Step 12, or you haven’t even taken the first step at all. He just loves you. 

God loves alcoholics, He loves drug addicts. He loves porn addicts. He loves people who have never tasted the agony of addiction, but who have their own struggles.

He loves obsessive-compulsive runners with anorexia and bulimia.

And He even loves weenie dogs. Obviously. 

Folding Laundry

This is not meant to be a "woe is me" type of post.

It is meant to be a "woe is all of us" type of post. I don't want to exclude anybody. But hopefully it's not as gloomy as it sounds.

Bear with me.

So the past few days I've had a pile of clean laundry sitting in the laundry basket just waiting to be folded. I kept telling myself, and my husband, that I'd get to it later. Or tomorrow. Or next year.

And the thing is, I've had time to do it. Too much time. WAY too much time.

But it's too hard. To fold laundry, I mean. It's so much easier just to stare at it and ignore it and be completely in denial about the laundry that is growing more wrinkly by the second.

Sometimes life is EXCRUCIATING. We lose loved ones. We suffer from health problems. We experience painful relationships. We might be the victim of abuse, loneliness, trauma, or injustice.

Yes, life is HARD. It hurts. It throbs. It stings. And sometimes it is not fair. Sometimes it is not fun. Sometimes it is indescribably painful.

But sometimes life is a different kind of hurt. Sometimes life is a dull, constant ache that is both monotonous and discouraging. It is not just the external hardships we are given that are so hard to overcome, but the very internal ones we are faced with that can be exquisitely difficult.

Sometimes folding laundry makes you want to weep.

Before you roll your eyes at what seems to be nothing but self-pity over such a ridiculous chore, please know I am well aware there are people who are starving, and homeless, and living in dangerous, unsanitary, and tragic circumstances. People who would KILL to be folding laundry right now.

But no matter how much you compare your pathetic obstacle to other people with much bigger, tougher, scarier ones, depression, and all other emotional challenges, are still hard to be grateful for.

I believe that some of the toughest trials people encounter are the ones from within. Conquering irrational fears, overcoming poor self-esteem, coping with anxiety, and just simply getting out of bed in the morning when you are feeling down in the dumps can be some of life's most frustrating challenges.

And when you know you've got that laundry to fold but you just can't bring yourself to do it, it suddenly becomes a very heavy thing on your shoulders. Yes, something as silly as clean clothes can weigh you down to the point of despair.

But wait a minute! Shouldn't you be grateful for that mountain of laundry?! Because some people have no clothes. And here you are complaining about what you are so privileged to have. And how about the fact that you have two hands to fold laundry!?! Some people don't! Some people can't even do that! So stop being selfish! And for crying out loud, be more grateful!

Who has heard that before? And whenever people tell you that, what they fail to realize is you've already told yourself that a zillion times. You've already made yourself feel like a pathetic loser who is nothing but selfish and ungrateful because you are not a victim of the Holocaust. You are not living on the streets with no shoes and nothing to eat. You are not dying of a painful disease. You are not watching your family get murdered or being forced out of your country. You are not being kidnapped or beaten or tortured.

You just don't feel like folding your stupid laundry. Or putting on pants. Or going to that party. Especially because to go to that party, you definitely need to put on those pants.

But the only pants you fit into are sitting in the laundry basket, all wrinkled. Nice going.

Oh well. Now you have an excuse not to go. Because who wants to party when all you feel is worthless?

Worthless. And tired. And hopeless. And down.

But how dare you feel that way, when everyone else on this planet has it so much harder than you?! How can you even allow yourself to feel this way? You are fine. Why are you not being grateful?

Don't get me wrong. I am a HUGE believer in gratitude. My momma taught me to not only use good manners, but to be positive. And appreciative. In ALL things.

But being sad doesn't mean you are ungrateful. Some of the most depressed people I know are the most grateful. And the most aware of their infinite amount of blessings.

But their blessings do not cancel out their suffering. Their blessings do not automatically alleviate their astronomical load of laundry. So quit judging people for feeling the weight of their own, very personal load that you might not even have any idea they are carrying.

Still, it is always a great reminder to consider your blessings. EVERY DAY consider your blessings! I'm exceptionally grateful for a husband who doesn't even mind those no-laundry-got-done days. And who enriches my life in every aspect. I am so lucky! I'm also very grateful for a weenie dog who doesn't care at all about laundry. He's pretty accepting.

And I'm so very grateful for a God who somehow has the time to listen to me talk about "laundry" whenever it is something that I get to struggle with.

My prayers often go something like this:

"Dear Heavenly Father, I know you have waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay bigger things to worry about, but I really need to talk to you."

And then I talk. And with war, and world tragedies, and everyone else's prayers, and Donald Trump running for US president, my laundry is the LAST thing on God's list of things to worry about.

But He worries about it anyway because God loves us enough to care about our laundry. I'll never know how He has the time to do it, but He does. Because you and I are important to Him. Even when we don't feel like it one teeny bit.

And I realize not everyone believes in God. And many people view His role in their lives very differently than I do. I'm not telling you what to believe or how to believe it, but I don't know how people go through life without having Him in it. I don't.

I don't mean that unkind or judgmental. I just mean that life is hard! And I personally NEED that strength and peace and humility that comes from having a relationship with God.

And whenever I personally am facing overwhelming amounts of laundry to do and life is tough and my efforts never seem to be enough, it helps me to know that someone with a PERFECT love loves me no matter how lousy I feel or how much I am struggling.

Let me also add that praying does NOT take away your load of laundry. Nope. Whenever people give the advice: "Just pray about it", I don't think they understand God or how He works.

Because you cannot pray away depression or anxiety or anguish or loneliness or any kind of suffering. You can't! That's ridiculous!

Prayer is not a remedy to remove suffering, or even to heal it. But it is a remedy to endure your suffering with the support and love of someone who knows you are so much more capable of doing hard things than you are currently giving yourself credit for.

So here is my message to you. It is not one of self-pity, but rather a very deep and sincere effort to be self-motivated even when that feels impossible.

Quit beating yourself up. Quit comparing yourself to everybody else. Because YOU are important to the most powerful being in the universe, whether you want to believe that or not.

He cares about MY laundry. And he cares about YOURS.

And that seems hard to believe. But next time you're convinced that you're worthless and your problems are nothing but a trivial overreaction on your part and everyone else who lives and has ever lived has it five billion times worse than you, so you shouldn't complain or even acknowledge your hurt because it's just you being a baby-

I dare you-I DOUBLE DOG DARE you to talk to Him about it.

Because YOU are important to Him. And you are not defined by how well you do your laundry. Or if you even do it at all.

So next time you muster up the courage to fold a pair of socks that actually matches, instead of beating yourself up for not doing the 14 other loads that are waiting to be done, just be satisfied with your efforts.

And keep folding.