Category: Family

What to Do When You’re Caught in the Middle

Being caught in the middle doesn’t feel like conflict — it feels like captivity.
It feels like being stuck in a snare with no way to move without hurting someone.
Like a mouse trap waiting to snap shut.
Like you’re locked in a raccoon cage, unsure if speaking the truth will free you… or cost you everything.

People talk about “taking sides” like it’s simple.
But when you’re caught in the middle of family, trauma, loyalty, and truth, nothing about it is simple.

It’s one of the loneliest places a person can stand.

What You’re Really Caught Between

Sometimes “caught in the middle” means choosing between two opinions.

But sometimes — like in my life — it means standing between your own child who was harmed and your own child who did the harming.

Between the daughter who still carries wounds and the son whose actions caused them.

Between the victim in your home and the perpetrator who shares your blood.

Between your mother — who continues contact with the perpetrator — and your daughter, the victim.

Between your loyalty as a mother and your integrity as a protector.

Between who you used to be and who you’re becoming.

Between the pressure to keep quiet and the truth that refuses to stay silent anymore.

It’s not two sides.
It is layers of emotional conflict, guilt, fear, and responsibility colliding inside your chest.


Why This Position Freezes You

People say, “Just say what you feel,” but they don’t see what comes with it.

When you’re in the middle, speaking the truth feels dangerous.

You fear hurting someone you love.
You fear being misunderstood.
You fear being shunned.
You fear being blamed for protecting the wrong person — when you know exactly who needs protection.
You fear your mother’s reaction.
You fear the silence, the withdrawal, the guilt she might use.
You fear your childhood patterns pulling you back into old roles.

You fear becoming the target for finally telling the truth.

That fear freezes you.
Not because you’re weak, but because you’ve carried too many people’s emotions for too long.


You’re Allowed to Step Out of the Middle

This is the truth many of us need spoken out loud:

You are not betraying anyone by protecting the victim.
You are not abandoning someone by refusing to enable harmful choices.
You are not wrong for saying, “Enough.”
You are not required to cushion your truth to keep someone else comfortable.
You can love someone and still say, “This crosses a line for me.”
You can grieve what happened without sacrificing your integrity.

You are allowed to choose clarity over chaos.
You are allowed to choose protection over appeasement.
You are allowed to choose truth over silence.

You are allowed — fully allowed — to walk out of the middle.


How to Un-Freeze When You’re Caught in the Middle

Here are the steps that help you move from paralysis to clarity:

1. Name What’s Actually Happening

Write it plainly.
Do not soften it for someone else’s comfort.

2. Ask What Aligns With Your Values

What decision reflects the kind of mother, woman, friend, or human you want to be?

3. Decide Who Truly Needs Protection

Protect the vulnerable one.
Protect the honest one.
Protect the one who did not choose this.

4. Set One Clear, Simple Boundary

Not a debate.
Not a speech.
A boundary.

“This is not okay with me.”
“I won’t participate in this.”
“I love you, but I cannot be involved if you continue this.”

5. Speak With Clarity and Compassion

Firm does not mean unkind.
Compassion does not mean surrender.

6. Allow People to React However They React

They may:
– Shame you
– Guilt you
– Pull away
– Play victim
– Get angry
– Give the silent treatment

Their reaction belongs to them.
It is not proof you did something wrong.
It is evidence that you set a boundary they didn’t like.

7. Anchor Yourself After the Conversation

Your body may shake.
Your stomach may twist.
Old fears may roar.

That is normal.

Here are anchoring practices:

• Breathe: 4 seconds in, 6–8 out.
• Hand on chest: “I am safe. I told the truth.”
• Move your body: walk, stretch, shake out your hands.
• Ground yourself:
5 things you see
4 things you can touch
3 things you hear
2 things you smell
1 thing you taste
• Write what triggered you.
• Remind yourself: “A trembling body is a brave body.”
• Talk to someone who truly understands the situation.

Anchoring doesn’t erase fear — it prevents fear from dragging you back into silence.


Taking a Stand Doesn’t Make You Divisive

Taking a stand does not divide a family.
Harm divides families.
Silence divides families.
Minimizing what happened divides families.

Standing for what’s right is clarity, not conflict.

Protecting a victim is integrity.
Refusing to stand in the middle is courage.

A Soft, Steady Closing

There comes a moment when staying in the middle becomes impossible.
Not because you stopped loving people.
Not because you’re choosing sides out of anger.
But because the truth finally whispers:

“You don’t belong in the snare anymore.”

Stepping out isn’t selfish — it’s sacred.
It’s the moment you choose protection over silence, healing over guilt, and courage over captivity.

It’s the moment you finally allow yourself to stand somewhere solid —
where your truth has room to breathe.

How to Recover After Someone Humiliates You

How to Recover After Someone Humiliates You

If something happened that left you shaky, ashamed, exposed, or suddenly doubting yourself, I want you to know this:

What you’re feeling is real. And it makes sense.

Most people have no idea what humiliation actually does to a person. They think it’s “just embarrassment.” They think you should shrug it off. But humiliation is a psychological wound. It hits the same part of your brain that reacts to physical pain. It knocks your confidence, your voice, and sometimes your sense of self out from under you.

And if no one ever taught you how to deal with this kind of emotional blow, you might be blaming yourself for a wound you never deserved.

Let’s walk through this slowly, in a way that makes space for your pain and gives you a way forward.


—

1. Something painful happened — you didn’t imagine it

Someone cut you down.
Someone used their words, tone, or power to make you feel small.
Someone spoke to you in a way that pierced straight through your dignity.

You weren’t “overreacting.”
You weren’t “too sensitive.”

You were caught off guard by a moment that should not have happened.

Humiliation exposes the person who delivered it — not the person who received it.


—

> “A painful moment happened to me. It does not define me.”




—

2. Your body responded because humiliation is a body-level injury

Most people don’t talk about this part, but humiliation hits the body first:

Your throat closes.
Your stomach flips.
Your face gets hot.
Your mind blanks out.
Your chest tightens.

This is your nervous system trying to protect you.

It doesn’t mean you’re weak.
It means you’re human.

Before you try to make sense of anything, let your body settle.

Try this:

Drop your shoulders

Loosen your jaw

Place your hand on your chest

Slow your exhale

Whisper, “I’m safe enough right now.”


You cannot think clearly in a body that feels attacked.


—

3. The wound came from the story your mind created afterward

There’s the event itself…
and then there’s the meaning your mind wrapped around it.

Humiliation tries to whisper things like:

“Everyone saw.”

“You looked foolish.”

“You should’ve known better.”

“They were right about you.”


But those thoughts aren’t truth.
They’re the bruise talking.

Say this gently: “The story I told myself was…”

Name it so it stops running the show in the dark.


—

4. Humiliation makes you want to hide — but hiding keeps the wound open

After you’re hurt like this, the instinct to disappear is strong.
You avoid eye contact, replay the moment, pull your energy inward.
You shrink as if shrinking will protect you.

But hiding is exactly what keeps the wound tender.

You don’t have to tell the whole story.
Just start with one simple sentence:

“Something happened that made me feel small.”

Speaking it breaks the isolation humiliation depends on.


—

5. Reclaim your authority over what the moment meant

When someone cuts you down, their voice can become louder in your head than your own.

But your dignity is still yours.

Say: “I get to decide what this means.”

Not them.
Not the moment.
Not the fear that followed.

You.

Every time you say it, something inside you stands a little straighter.


—

6. Give yourself what you needed in that moment

Ask yourself: “What did I need right then?”

Respect?
Understanding?
Protection?
Someone to step in?
Someone to say, “That wasn’t okay”?

Now ask: “How can I give even a small piece of that to myself now?”

This is what begins to repair the psychological wound.


—

Here’s the truth I want you to carry with you

You are not the smallness someone tried to put on you.
You are not the version of yourself their words tried to create.
You are not the moment that knocked your voice out of your chest.

You were wounded.
And wounded people don’t need shame — they need understanding, space, and a way back to themselves.

This is that way back.

👉 Download the Humiliation Recovery Guide

Why Happiness Makes You Nervous

Why Happiness Makes You Nervous

For the girl who thinks the tightness in her chest is normal

Good times make you nervous, don’t they?

You don’t call it fear—you call it “being cautious,” or “not getting your hopes up.” But the truth is quieter: you’re not used to peace. For so long, love has felt like tension, panic, apologizing, overthinking, and walking around someone else’s moods like they’re landmines.

So when something finally goes right… Your whole body glitches.

You look around, waiting for the explosion.
You wait for the tone in his voice to shift.
You wait for the moment he decides you’re “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” or “too much.”

And if nothing happens right away, your brain fills the silence with dread: Is this the part where it all turns again?
You don’t trust happiness—not because you’re broken, but because you’ve survived too long without it.

Girls like us learn early that peace feels like a trap.
A setup.
A calm before the next storm.

No one told you that real love isn’t supposed to feel like bracing for impact.
No one told you that safety isn’t the same thing as “keeping the peace.”
No one told you that if your body relaxes only when he isn’t home… that’s not comfort. That’s survival.

Listen, sweetheart—if happiness feels foreign, it’s not because you’re incapable of it.
It’s because someone taught you to expect pain.

And here’s the part I wish someone had whispered to me sooner:
You don’t have to keep living in the story where fear feels like love. You don’t have to keep shrinking yourself just to fit into a relationship that was never safe to begin with.

Real peace doesn’t make you nervous.
Real love doesn’t make you flinch.
And real happiness doesn’t feel like a setup—it feels like finally coming home to yourself.

You deserve that kind of happiness.
And I promise… it won’t explode.

When someone ties despair to God Himself, it buries you in a deeper kind of fear. You stop dreaming. You stop believing in the better. And every time life gets quiet, you brace yourself, because you know the calm never lasts.

I remember once, after one of our rare calm seasons, we tried to dream again. We made a little vision board together — nothing extravagant, just things a normal couple would hope for. A peaceful home. A reliable car. A future that didn’t feel like walking through broken glass.

But his face went dark, the way it always did when anything felt too good.

He looked at me and said,

“God hates me. We will never get any of this.”

And just like that, the air changed.
The hope drained out of the room.
My body learned — again — that peace wasn’t safe, and happiness wasn’t to be trusted.

Not All Storms Are Destructive

Not All Storms Are Destructive

“The wise man in the storm prays God not for safety from danger but for deliverance from fear. It is the storm within which endangers him, not the storm without.” –  Ralph Waldo Emerson

It was black outside, dark as night.  The wind was blowing so hard that the tops of the trees were bowed, touching the ground. Our trailer shook from the wind’s fury.  Alvarado was rural in those days, with no audible tornado sirens.  It would not have mattered. We did not have a storm shelter and did not know where one was located.  I grabbed my son and we sat in the middle of the living room floor. I held him tight, rocking back and forth. “What time I am afraid I will trust in thee. When I am afraid, I will trust in thee. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.” I quoted repeatedly. Praying, “Please, God, protect us. Please do not let anything happen. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.”  I was shivering, not from cold but from fear. The wind whipped around the trailer.  I am sure there was thunder, but I only remember the wind and the feeling that I could be transported into the heavens at any moment. 

People have often asked me, “What is worse, a tornado or an earthquake?” I used to answer, “Earthquake, because you can predict a tornado.”  But living in the infamous “Tornado Alley” has caused me to change that answer.

I have heard Preachers say, “You’re either entering a storm, in a storm, or coming out of a storm.” Although this statement might be true, it is such a pessimistic philosophy.

Bear with me while I give you some statistics.  In 2022, 1,329 tornadoes were reported in the US. 160 of them were in Texas. Only one of them hit Houston, the biggest city in Texas. Harris County (Houston) has the most tornadoes reported in the state. From 1950 to 2022, 246 tornadoes were reported.  That averages to 3 a year. If Houston is only seeing three tornadoes a year, then what is Houston doing during the other 362 days of the year?  Are they stressing about the next approaching storm? Are they talking about how horrible they have it because they go through so many storms?

The only thing affected by the storm that day was my faith. There was no damage to any of the surrounding homes.

“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.” – Louisa May Alcott.

You cannot or should not live each day worrying about the next storm of life headed your way, nor should you fixate on the one that just passed.  Not all storms are destructive.  Most are just a sideshow, a distraction. Enjoy the days in between the storms. Don’t worry yourself sick about the things you cannot control.  It usually isn’t as bad as you imagined.

Question Everything

Question Everything

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.  The important thing is not to stop questioning.” – Albert Einstein

Have you ever asked God, “Why?”

Have you ever questioned His existence?

Have you ever screamed out in agony, wondering why YOU even exist?

Have you ever wondered how a “loving God” could allow such pain and suffering?

Have you ever sat in a puddle of your own tears and felt you couldn’t go on?

Have you ever felt the hatred burning in your bones?

Have you ever tried to wake up, hoping it was just a nightmare?

Have you ever sought answers but found none?

Have you ever wondered, “Why me?”

Have you ever put on a fake smile so that you didn’t have to talk about it?

Have you ever wanted to start all over?

Have you ever wanted to give up? Everyday?

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t get on the good side of life?

Have you ever felt cursed?

Have you ever felt depressed and regretted so much of your life?

I have.

“The power to question is the basis of all human progress.” – Indira Gandhi

How many times have you been told that you should never question God? I lost count of the times I was told that.  But guess what? He understands.  We were born questioning everything around us.  That is how we learn and grow.  The only ignorant question is the one that is never asked.  Asking questions clears confusion, gives us a better understanding of any given situation, and helps us find answers.  Questions help solve problems.  It is absolutely fine to question our life; it shows that we do not accept our current position or status and that we are willing to improve.

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I should have said was:
“Oh wow! That’s a unique name. Where did you come up with it?”

But instead, I said:

“P?? That’s a boy’s name.”

My oldest son and his wife were expecting their first child, my first granddaughter. I remember the night they called to share the fantastic news that they were having a girl.

“Do you have any names picked out?” I asked.

With pride and excitement, they told me the name they had chosen.
In my old-lady shock, I blurted out:

“P? Why do you want to name her that? That’s a boy’s name!”

I didn’t realize how in love they were with that name. To my embarrassment, I later learned the error of my disappointing words. What I should have said was:

“Oh wow, that’s really cute.”

Even though at the time I had never heard that name used for a girl, I’ve met a few girls with that name since then. I’ll tell you what, when I hear baby name announcements now, I say things like:

“Ohhh, that’s unique!” or

“Sweet!”

Or, I immediately look it up to see what the name means.

Irie means God’s grace looking down on us.

It was too late to look up the meaning of “P.” It didn’t matter how hard I tried to smooth it over; I said what I said, and what has been said cannot be unsaid.

Turns out “P” means keeper of the parks and nature, the perfect name for a little girl who loves the outdoors. Like a wildflower growing in an unexpected place, her name bloomed in my heart, slowly, then all at once.

These days, I keep my Grandma mouth in check. I’ve learned the art of the polite pause, long enough to Google and nod appreciatively.

I’ve also learned that names, like people, grow on you. And sometimes, the name you couldn’t understand becomes the name you can’t imagine living without.
Now, when I call out to little “P” and she turns around with that curious sparkle in her eyes, I think…

“What a perfect name for such a wild and wonderful little girl.”

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

What You’d Never Guess Just by Looking

Does it have to be just one? There are a few secrets I keep.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I gave birth to 11 children. One at a time. However, that’s no longer really a secret. It is information I usually do not tell people. Not because it is such a big secret, but because their brains cannot seem to comprehend how one woman gave birth to that many children. Or why. Now that is the true secret.

Why? Why did I have that many kids?

Well, first and foremost, because we were in a religious mindset that allowed God to choose how many children we have. But I will tell you that when I was 40 and pregnant, I chose for myself to get that fertile tube tied up, or cut off, or whatever they do, so I cannot get pregnant again. (I only had one tube and ovary by the time 11 came around.) Another reason I had 11 children was that, with the birth of each new baby, came another person/soul who would love me unconditionally and make my fractured life feel whole, even if only temporarily. I desperately longed for someone to love me. And when a baby looks up at you and smiles because you are their entire world, you get the feeling.

Love. The missing piece of me.

Maybe it sounds selfish, but I wanted someone to need me the way I had needed others who didn’t show up.

Another secret I  keep is about my oldest son being in prison. He was a highly respected individual. Everyone loved him. So, for the longest time, whenever anyone asked me where he was or how he was doing, I would answer, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But the bigger secret in that is why he is in prison.

Why?

Because he was so traumatized as a child that he sexually traumatized a child, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, just a truth I’ve had to live with. Pain that isn’t healed will try to find something — or someone — to break.

A third secret I don’t tell anyone: I was a pastor’s wife for 20 years. I never really asked myself why I was, so the “why” in this situation is: why do I keep it a secret? Good question, good soul search here.

Why?

Because I do not want anyone to ask me what I believe now, I am still trying to figure all that out. Like, do I still want to use the term “God,” or is it the Universe, or is it just Spirit? None of those feels right. The closest to feeling like my truth is Universal God or Universal Spirit. But like I said, I am still working that out. I keep it a secret because I do not want people trying to persuade me back into church, back into conformity. I do not want to go to church every Sunday and Wednesday. I don’t want to go door-knocking, soul-witnessing, or whatever they call it. I cannot sit in a service without being overcome with anxiety. My nervous system shuts down, and I usually fall asleep. But I sit there and feel like a ghost of myself, singing words that no longer have a place to land inside me. I know this because I have tried. I tried to find a church so my youngest son could get a taste of religion and decide for himself whether it is something he wants. It’s a secret because I probably disagree with 90% of what they might be talking about if you tried to strike a spiritual conversation. I have read the Bible cover to cover multiple times. There is nothing they can say that will get me to see things differently. It’s a secret because I have not yet dared to share my beliefs with the world.

But here’s a start.

I believe God was female in nature. I believe the Bible is a history book. I think every religion has its great “man of the hour.” The Christians had Jesus. The Muslims have Mohammad. The Jews have the Messiah, and so on. I believe it’s the same thing, just described in a different style. Reaping what you sow is the same thing as karma. The Ten Commandments do not differ much from the Delphic maxims. Maybe the real secret isn’t what I’ve kept — it’s how long I’ve waited to say it out loud.

And the last secret I keep is my age.

They say you’re only as old as you feel. Some days I think I’m 37. Other days I feel 57. It changes with the weather, the weight of the day, or the way my knees sound when I stand up too fast. People often tell me I look so young — thankfully. And I want to keep it that way. Because age isn’t just a number, it’s a perception. It’s the difference between someone listening to your story and brushing it off. So I let them guess. And I let myself believe it too, some days.

The Book That Changed Everything

How grace broke the chains of control in my home and heart

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”
— Jeff VanVonderen, Families Where Grace Is in Place

I don’t remember the exact year or even where we were living at the time. But I know it was somewhere between 2007 and 2009 when I picked up a book that would change everything: Families Where Grace Is in Place by Jeff VanVonderen.

I didn’t know it then, but those pages were about to unravel everything I thought I believed about parenting, marriage, and faith.

Before Grace

At the time, I was a stay-at-home wife and a homeschooling mom of ten. Number eleven would arrive later. I was also a preacher’s wife. My husband and I were fully immersed in Independent Fundamental Baptist ministry. We pastored churches, traveled as evangelists, and held revival meetings across the country.

We were loyal. Passionate. Zealous. And convinced we were right.

We preached that having a television was sinful. That women wearing pants was sinful. That too much makeup was sinful—though a little was allowed, so long as it didn’t “draw attention.” I sewed all my own dresses and wore my hair long—though thanks to my hormones, it rarely got far past my shoulders.

We were strict with our children. They had no phones, no TV (because we didn’t own one), no outside friends, no sports. We believed all of those things would lead to sin. We even pulled our oldest son out of college once, convinced he was living “outside the umbrella” of parental authority.

We spanked often. Sometimes for small things. Sometimes for nothing more than an attitude. Every day, we sat our kids down and taught them right from wrong. We drilled obedience into them—not from a place of love, but fear. Fear that if they messed up, it would reflect badly on us. That we’d look like failures. That God would be disappointed.

When we lived in Iowa, I made my girls wear skirts over their snowsuits just to play outside. When we went swimming, it was always in remote places. The girls swam in culottes. The boys wore jeans. My children weren’t allowed to have their own opinions or make their own decisions.

They were born walking on eggshells—and we made sure those eggshells never cracked.

The Book

I don’t recall how I ended up with Families Where Grace Is in Place. Maybe someone passed it to me. Perhaps I picked it up on a whim. But as I began reading, the words leaped off the page. Sentence after sentence felt like someone had opened a window I didn’t even know was there.

The book talked about how families fall into cycles of control, pressure, and manipulation—often in the name of love or righteousness. It spoke of the deep weariness that comes from trying to meet impossible standards. The perfectionism. The fear of failure.

That was us. Especially with so many children, we constantly felt watched, judged, and evaluated. Our theology was built on performance. And we were exhausted.

Then came a line that hit me in the chest:

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”

It undid me. All at once, I saw the truth. I wasn’t parenting out of love—I was parenting out of fear. I wasn’t guiding my husband—I was trying to control him. And he was trying to control me. Together, we had built a family that looked good on the outside but was suffocating on the inside.

The book painted a different vision: one where grace replaced fear. Where children were free to make decisions and mistakes. Where love didn’t mean control. Where acceptance was not conditional on perfection.

And something inside me shifted.

The Bridge

As I read, I had one aha moment after another.

I realized we were trying so hard to protect our children from the world that we were crushing their spirits. We didn’t want them to sin, so we removed their freedom. We didn’t want them to mess up—so we made every decision for them. We called it holiness. But really, it was fear.

Even our decision to homeschool wasn’t about education. It was about control. About keeping their behavior within a bubbl,e we could manage.

After trying to “homeschool with grace” for a while, I finally admitted the truth: we weren’t equipped. So we enrolled our children in public school.

It wasn’t a seamless transition. One of my daughters started school in her junior year and had to double up on math to catch up. Thankfully, Arkansas accepted her science, history, and English credits. One of my younger girls had to repeat kindergarten because I hadn’t finished the year—we had opened a daycare in our home, and it consumed my time and attention.

My third daughter and fifth son—only a year and a half apart—both entered fourth grade the same year. He had fallen behind under my teaching. I warned the principal to separate them; I knew she’d do all his work if they stayed together. They listened, and the school helped bring him up to speed within that year.

During this season of change, I was also starting to rediscover my own worth. I filed for a restraining order against my abusive husband. For a time, I let him come back—still caught in that old belief that if I just tried harder, he would change. That if I prayed more, obeyed more, submitted more, he would become the man I needed.

But I was beginning to see: you can’t change someone by controlling them. You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed.

After Grace

It’s been over 16 years since I read that book. My baby is now a junior in high school. The way I parent him is entirely different than how I raised the others—especially the oldest ones.

I’ve apologized to some of my children. I’ve told them I wish I could go back and do it all differently. And I mean it. I see some of them now, parenting the way I once did—out of fear, trying to control everything. But I don’t lecture. I offer gentle reminders. I try to model something different.

Our family structure isn’t perfect. Our children aren’t perfect. I’m not perfect. One of my sons is in prison. That hurts to say. But even in that, grace remains. We no longer try to control each other. We don’t panic when we see a child or sibling making choices we wouldn’t make. We offer love. We offer space.

And we let go.

Letting go is hard. Watching someone you love repeat mistakes you’ve already made is hard. Trusting grace instead of fear is hard.

But control?

Control is harder.

💬 Want to share your story of breaking free from control-based parenting or faith structures? Comment below or message me privately — you’re not alone.

I caved

I caved

About a month after the separation from my ex, somehow he convinced me to bring him home and “work it out” (for the sake of the kids).

August 2014
I’ve never considered myself a person with an addictive personality. I’ve done my share of drugs, drinking, etc. I’ve always been able to stop when I wanted. Without having withdrawals or extreme needs to go back to it. I’ve always been able to “take it or leave it.”
Things have transpired in the last week to show me that I actually do have an addictive personality. I’m not addicted to substances. I can’t quite put my finger on what to call it. So let me go into a little bit of what has happened.
To make a long story short, my husband is home. Yes, I allowed him back. I know, you don’t have to tell me. I’m insane. I’ve already questioned myself over and over. What was I thinking? Don’t get me wrong, he is being kind and sweet and all that goes along with making up after any fight, but I know in my heart I can’t give him that 100% that is necessary to make a relationship work. But I see the joy in my children’s faces now that their Dad is home. I buckled. I caved in. I think about how clean my house will be again. I think about how I hate being alone. I think I’m addicted to my struggle.