Today I Feel Like a Failure

(This was originally my private journal entry today - but I decided to out myself on the chance that some of you, maybe many of you, have felt the same.)


Today I feel like a failure. There. I said it.

The past couple weeks have been the worst: chock full of disappointments, rejection, disagreements. My career is flailing. Three big workshops I was supposed to teach were cancelled. I’m getting paid peanuts to write boring research articles that no one will ever read. My tax returns are an embarrassment to all tax returns. My little ones are fighting constantly and I’ve tried everything I know to stop it, but Friday ended in them injuring each other, and me crumpling to a heap and sobbing. (For the record, I don’t cry very often, so this is kind of a big deal.) And then I got on my damn knees and prayed. And cried. And prayed some more.

I feel like a complete failure in my career, an even bigger failure as a parent, and a general failure as a human.

One of my friends was shocked that I could be having a bad day. “Your life looks pretty great from what I see on facebook.” And to that friend I said, everyone has a bright and shiny life on facebook, because we post only the highlights. We don’t post things like “My kids are at each others throats and I can’t find any work and I haven’t made one dime on my book.”  Another friend said CHEER UP! which is the most invalidating thing you can say to a person who is hurting. Even during trying times we all have much to be grateful for – I absolutely know this. But it’s a challenge to enjoy the lovely weather while your ship is sinking. I need to acknowledge the fact that my ship is sinking. I have to figure out how to fix it, or jump out and learn how to swim.

Over the weekend, bolstered by the kindness of friends and my husband, I pulled myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and by Monday I was ready to take on the week. And then wham-o. At 8am, major rejection from an agent who had read my full manuscript. And it was a nice, thoughtful response. She loved my writing, said the part about us being trapped in the burning house had her on the edge of her seat and near tears. She liked the drama and the dark parts. But some of the other parts she found “banal”. I’m sorry, she said, I’m sure that time in your life didn’t feel banal to you.

It’s been running through my head ever since. It’s not just my book she’s talking about. It’s my LIFE.

Here’s how Websters Dictionary defines it.

Banal: So lacking in originality as to be obvious and boring.

Synonyms: trite - commonplace - hackneyed - trivial - platitudinous

I know, I know…She’s just one person. That’s just one opinion. J.D. Salinger got rejection letters, too. And it shouldn’t bother me but it does. You put years into a book, you put your heart out there, completely vulnerable, and it’s hard. I had pain in my stomach all day yesterday, as if I’d actually been kicked in the gut. 

But listen - this blog is not a pity party. I’m not posting it so everyone will say “You’re not a failure!” This is a moment in my life – a shitty moment – but a moment nonetheless. I don’t intend to stay stuck here, but I’m giving myself a minute to grieve over dreams not panning out, the powerlessness I feel, my inability to find work, getting older, the fear that I’ll never amount to anything, the worry over my kids. That’s all real stuff. I can’t change it if I don’t acknowledge it.

I also know that this feeling is just part of being human. Everyone has failed. Everyone has felt terrible about themselves at some point. It’s what you do after you’ve failed that makes or breaks you. I could throw in the towel. I’ve done that before. Or I could decide not to give up, like these people did.

  

Here is what author Kathryn Stockett has to say about rejection: 

 “I received 60 rejections for The Help. But letter number 61 was the one that accepted me. After my five years of writing and three and a half years of rejection, an agent named Susan Ramer took pity on me. What if I had given up at 15? Or 40? Or even 60? The point is, I can’t tell you how to succeed. But I can tell you how not to: Give in to the shame of being rejected and put your manuscript—or painting, song, voice, dance moves, [insert passion here]—in the coffin that is your bedside drawer and close it for good. I guarantee you that it won’t take you anywhere.”

So I’ll keep sending my book out until I find the agent/publisher/editor who gets it because I know there are people who will find hope in my book- and hope is a much needed commodity in this world. And I’ll write these cheap research articles until something better comes along. And I’ll try each day to be the best parent I can be even when it doesn’t seem to be working.

Susan Sarandon said that every time she faces rejection, she celebrates because she knows she is being moved closer to what is right for her. I don't know if I'm that evolved, but hell, I like champagne.

Onward…

What We Can Learn From a 7 Year Old

Sophia paints Evan's face

Yesterday, my neighbor Lorie pulled me aside and asked if my son Evan had told me about the bench.

“No, what bench?” I asked.

“The bench in front of my house that he broke,” she replied.

Uh-oh, I thought.

She continued, “Evan knocked on my door and he said ‘Miss Lorie,  I was riding my scooter too fast and I couldn’t stop in time,” He pointed to the bench in front of her house, “and …I crashed into your bench and broke it. I’m sorry.”

At that moment, she said, his little friend Sophia piped in, “That’s called integrity.”

Lorie was so tickled by the two of them that she wasn't mad at all.

Today, Troy took Evan next door to teach him how to fix a bench.

Integrity is something taught in Evan and Sophia’s second grade class, and yet it’s rare to find that quality in adults.

Ghandi famously said, “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” If that is true, then integrity equals happiness.

Living without integrity may very well be that the reason happiness eludes so many of us.

Are you living with integrity?

Do you take responsibility for your own actions?

Are you impeccable with your word, both to others and yourself?

Do you make promises (to yourself and others) that you don’t keep?

Do you gossip and talk bad about others (but smile to their face)?

Do you blame others for your unhappiness?

If you want to be happy, try taking a lesson from a seven year old. As Sophia said- it’s called integrity.

So simple...it's child's play.

Evan and Sophia with Snowcone tongues

A Cautionary Tale

This is what I look like right now. This is my fifth bout with skin cancer, and the fourth (and by far the worse) permanent scar on my face.

I don’t go in the sun. I wear sunscreen every day (have for as long as I can remember) so how did I get this way?

This is a result of the horrible sunburns I subjected myself to as a teenager- all so I could look like someone else. Back in the late seventies, when we fair-skinned girls were supposed to be bronzed like Farrah Fawcett, I hated my body, I hated my skin. Kids used to tease me and call me Casper the ghost. That together with the fact that I was trying to be anyone but myself back then (if you’ve read my essay in Dancing at the ShameProm, you know what I mean) was a toxic combination. 

The girl who didn't want to be herself.

So I baked in the sun until my face blistered. And it was awful and painful and foolish, but still I did it again. And again. Anything to not look like me.

And here I am at 48.

When I think back on all the stupid things I did as a teenager…hitchhiking, drugs, hanging out in liquor store alleys asking adults to buy us booze, running away from home and sleeping in the park….Who would have thought that the most dangerous thing I ever did, the thing that caused me the most harm, on so many levels, was wanting to be someone else.

Now I have a permanent scar in the middle of my face to remind myself of the ways I didn’t take care of myself, the ways I didn’t honor myself, the ways I didn’t realize I was fine just the way God made me.

Take it from me- don’t long to be anything but you. Look like you. Embrace you. Live as you. Be grateful for you.

And you won’t end up looking like me.

Don't fight who you are.

Please feel free to use me as a cautionary tale for your kids who won’t wear sunscreen, and to your teens or friends who bake in tanning booths. 

Calm in the Center of the Storm

Last week was a tumultuous one. A lot of dust kicked up in the Universe on so many levels, all of it coming at me like a firehose in the face. A friend asked me why I seemed so calm in the middle of it all (reiterate: seemed) , and I’ve really given that some thought. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, trying to breathe and find my center the whole time, and though I stayed calm, it wore me out. 

For the past twenty years, I’ve been on a long journey of healing my spirit. I’ve been through three therapists, workshops, seminars with Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Julia Cameron, healing through life story writing, intuitive healers, medical healers, and of course I have a closet full of self help books- three shelves piled high. I’ve read them all cover to cover, some of them twice. Through this journey, this is what I’ve learned.

Trust.

If I don’t trust myself, I’ll never trust anyone else.

Love.

When I don’t love myself, I’m not able to fully love anyone else.

Betrayal.

If I betray myself by not living true to who I am, I have betrayed others by presenting a false self.

Blame.

If deep inside I blame myself, I’ll catch myself projecting that blame onto others.

Judgment.

When I judge myself, I will end up judging others.

Patience.

When I am impatient, critical and demanding with myself, I’ll be the same with others.

Forgiveness.

When I haven’t forgiven myself, I’ll find it hard to forgive others.

So when I find myself in a place where I am not trusting, not loving, not being true to my heart, blaming others, judging others…That’s not anyone else’s problem. The only way to heal that is within me. I start by forgiving myself for being human, and reminding myself that we are all carrying the same demons. No one is on this Earth with the intent to bring me down. We are all doing the best we can in this school of life, and each of us is carrying a burden.

I remind myself to be kind and patient with others, starting with me.

The quote I’ve kept on my wall for this two-decade long journey is this:

“Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.”

-       Mahatma Ghandi

I have found this to be absolutely true. Living in that kind of integrity is the only thing that’s ever brought me peace. When I am unhappy, I know that one of the above tenets is out of alignment, and I work to center myself again.

It’s so simple, and yet so few of us live that way.

I put that quote where I can see it each day, and ask myself, am I living in spiritual alignment? When I am, I know it. I make better decisions, I trust myself, I’m not rocked off my center by what others say about me. I can retain my calm in the center of a storm. I feel at peace. When I am at peace, my family is at peace, and like ripples in a pond, it spreads outward.

Who says we can’t change the world? We can each start with ourselves.

I wish you all integrity…peace…happiness.

Have a wonderful week.

And the award goes to...

This morning Troy and I went to Evan’s school to watch him receive an award. I assumed it was something academic, as that’s Evan’s thing. He’s the kid that asks to do “extra” homework because it’s fun.  Instead, I was happy to find that he was given the “Character Trait Award” that read:

For Evan Dexter: In recognition of demonstrating HONESTY.

I can not tell you how my heart swelled with pride. In my twenty-six years of parenting, this has been the trait I’ve stressed most to my children. And really, based on my life’s work, could there be a better award for my kid?

Just this morning as I was packing his lunch, he stopped me from putting a sweet granola bar in his backpack. “Mommy, you said no sweets for the week because I said a bad word yesterday, remember?”

And a few days ago, he and Ben had their first scrape with “the law”. Yes, that’s right. Our little five and six year old hoodlums got into a world of trouble.

On Sunday, Erin, Beth, Troy and I had spent the afternoon playing baseball with our boys. Afterward, Evan went to Ben’s to play. When I later called to check in, Erin sounded upset. “We have a situation…” she said. Erin and Beth’s neighbor had come to warn them that vandals were running loose in the neighborhood, and had smashed out the window of their Lexus. No worries, he assured her, we’ve called the police and they’re on their way.

Erin thanked him and shut the door, when Beth said, “Uh…did you check with the boys? They’re in the back yard.”

It turns out, Evan and Ben were continuing to practice baseball by seeing how far they could throw big rocks. Over the fence.

Troy and I rushed over, and the four of us sat the boys down to have a talk. We made sure they understood the seriousness of throwing rocks, and that even though it was an accident, they would have to take responsibility and tell the police. Evan processed the situation, as he often does, by drawing it out on paper.

We walked the boys next door, and they apologized to the neighbors (for a second time. Beth had taken them over immediately when she first found out.) We made sure they saw the damage the rocks had caused. Then we waited for the police.

As the two officers strolled up in their intimidating uniforms, billy clubs and guns in hosters, the lead officer said, “Okay, who can explain what’s going on here?” and before any of us could get a word out, Evan stepped up and said, “Mr. Policeman, we did it!” Ben nodded his head, “Yeah, we did it.”

“Well, Thank you for being honest boys.”  The officer shook their hands.

Evan continued, “Me and Ben were throwing rocks over the fence but it was a accident and here’s my drawing.”

The officer took the drawing, looked closely at it, then back at Ben and Evan. He was silent for a moment. Here comes the big lecture…I thought. This is good.

“I’m going to have to arrest you two…” he broke into a smile, “for being ADORABLE!” He chuckled, “You two are the cutest kids I’ve ever seen!”

Beth and I stood behind the boys, frowning and shaking our heads. This was not the intimidating life lesson we’d hoped for.

“But throwing rocks is BAD, right Officer?” I added.

“Yes, don’t throw rocks anymore, boys, okay?” 

They nodded, jumping up and down with glee. The officer looked back to Beth and I smiling. “Seriously, those guys are so cute…”

Ben asked Evan, “What’s gonna happen now?”

“Don’t worry Ben, we’re not in trouble! He thinks we’re cute!”

Beth was immediately on it. “Hey- you still have to take responsibility for this.”

After the police left, we sat the boys down again and told them they’d have to do some extra chores to help pay for the TWO brand new Lexuses that were damaged. (We’re still waiting to hear back for insurance on that…dreading the answer.)

Evan was excited about it. “Can we make a chores chart? Can I pick up trash? And sweep?”

I’ve had my ups and downs, my failures as a person and a mom, but one thing I’m proud of is teaching my kids to be honest. The most trouble Taylor ever got into as a kid was for telling a lie. It was over a silly thing (brushing his teeth) but I treated it with huge seriousness. I told him - when you tell a lie, you break trust with people. Your friends and family won’t believe in your words anymore. I won’t get mad at you for making a mistake, but I will always get mad at you for lying. In our house, lying was the most serious offense of all. Taylor threw himself face down on his bed and sobbed his eyes out for twenty minutes. Cristen, who was then about twelve, went and sat beside him, rubbing his back.

“Why are you crying, boopy-nose?”

“I TOLD A LIE!” He sobbed into his pillow.

Today, my daughter Cristen tells it like it is. She stands in her truth, lives her life on her own terms and, believe me, she doesn’t hold anything back.

Taylor is living a life of integrity and responsibility, and passing it down to his own son.

And Evan has just passed his first big “life test”.

I know it was just a silly little school award today, but I took it as a huge sign from the Universe that we’re on track.

As I know all too well, being honest does not win you friends, rarely are you rewarded for it, and never are you “awarded”. The true reward is the self-trust and self-respect you gain.  Living with integrity brings an inner peace – and that is what I want my kids to have.

The award today? Just icing on that cake.

Being True to You

Ophelia's art poster: http://www.zazzle.com/to_thine_own_self_be_true_poster-228306749335934814

Yesterday I watched an online discussion between Martha Beck and Oprah, following Oprah’s life class entitled “The Truth Will Set You Free”. This of course was of interest to me as my life’s work is centered in this issue.

Martha Beck had a spiritual experience while undergoing a surgery, and it changed they way she lived. She had been touched by a divine love, and the only way she could come close to experiencing that feeling again was to live in absolute truth. The alternative became too painful. She could no longer say yes when she meant no, or do work she didn’t believe in, or be in a relationship based on false selves.

This was the part of the conversation that riveted me. She said that if you are in a relationship in which you can not truly be yourself- meaning you can’t say what you really think or feel for fear of the other person rejecting you- then you are presenting a “false self” to the relationship, and therefore it is a “false relationship”. I could instantly flash on several relationships in my life past and present that fit that bill. And it made me wonder…If I’m not being myself so I won’t lose the relationship, but it’s a false relationship, then what am I really losing?

I can recall countless work or family functions I’ve attended where everyone forces a smile while simmering with resentment underneath. Or times I’ve said yes when I really meant no. And this is what I think shame really is. It’s when your actions are not in alignment with your heart. Shame is born in the moment that you betray yourself.

And yet most of us live this way.

So why do we do this? Why would we ever live a life that is not true? Why do we betray ourselves? Why do we say one thing and do another?

What do we gain by living this way? And more importantly, what do we lose?

Blue Hawaii

I have been blue all week, a deep sadness welling up inside me at random moments. It has really caught me off guard. No surprise that I also lost my voice this week.

One of the triggers is that tomorrow is Grandparent’s day at Evan’s school. They had to write and talk about it all week, and tomorrow the kids’ grandparents are coming to class for a celebration. This upset me. What about all the little kids who will have no one there for them tomorrow, like my son? Troy’s parents are in New Mexico, and my Dad is in Texas, and then there’s my mother who lives only twenty minutes away but doesn’t know Evan at all.

And perhaps the true source of my sadness, I just found out, through the grapevine, that my mother is moving to Hawaii next week.

My mother and I have been estranged for ten years. The rift between us was not a result of some petty squabble. In my extended family, there has been sexual impropriety, drug use and abuse, and, on the women’s part, enabling and denial. I made the choice to break the silence, and therefore break the cycle. I was rewarded for my honesty by being outcast, and then blamed for breaking up the family.

We tried to set it right again. We went to therapy, but my mother quit. She said she couldn’t afford it (then went on vacation to Costa Rica, and remodeled her house). We tried without therapists. We met in a park a few years ago to talk things through. I brought Evan who was only two at the time. My mother’s anger took on a life of its own, like a feral cat backed into a corner, hissing and clawing, and all of it directed at me. And there was sweet little Evan, witnessing it all.

I made the choice to protect my own children from that toxicity. I know in my heart it was the right thing to do. But when Grandparent’s day rolls around, it still hurts.

I realized that what I am experiencing is mourning. I still held on to a thin thread of hope for my mother and I. They say times heals…I was waiting. I kept telling myself, any day now, something’s gonna shift. But it never did, and now that she’s leaving, the thread of hope was snipped for good.

The bridge between us was not only burned, it was blown to smithereens.  This is not something that could be fixed long distance over the phone, or without professional help.

So as my mother packs her things and prepares for her new life, I am mourning the death of hope, and of possibility that things could ever be different.

I’ll give Evan pictures of his grandparents to take to school tomorrow. He may grow up without grandparent’s at his birthday parties, recitals or school events, but there is certainly no shortage of love surrounding him. As long as we have love, we can get through anything.

As for my mother, I wish her peace in her heart, and a beautiful life in paradise.

As the sun sets on our relationship, I guess there’s nothing else to say for now but…

Aloha, Mom.

The Stories I Don't Tell

It’s funny that I’m co-editing a book on shame, because if you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have said I was a shameless woman. What I mean by that is I don’t have a lot of regret. I made some mistakes when I was young, but that’s what youth is for. I feel good about my life in general. And yet…

There were some things I just never talked about. That’s what interests me now: the things we don’t talk about. Shame is the part of your story that you don’t tell. You may not dwell on it, but it dwells in you.

For instance, all my life, I tried to push away from the truth of who I was and what I came from. In the Shame Prom, I write about the fact that I was an unwanted pregnancy, born to two juvenile delinquents. My father was in jail when I was born, and would end up spending my entire childhood in prison. My mother, a 16-year old rebel, became a single mom who worked nights in bars. We used food stamps to buy our groceries.

But I wanted to be a Brady Bunch kid. I was a cheerleader. I wore the right clothes. I got good grades. Not until the last several years, after I wrote my memoir, did I start talking about my history. In denying that part of my reality, I became a fractured woman plagued by anxiety attacks and fear. Once I finally claimed that part of my story, it no longer held power over me. It freed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and opened new doors in my life.

I remember when Rob Lowe’s big sex tape scandal broke in the 90’s. Soon after, he was on Saturday Night Live, poking fun at himself over it. He never made excuses or tried to hide it. Suddenly, no one cared anymore. He claimed his shame, and it no longer had power over him. Look at him now- successful career, happy marriage and family. When you claim your truth, you take away the blackmailer’s power. YOU hold the power.

So that’s what this Shame Prom movement is all about. So far our Shame Prom writers have turned in gorgeous essays about the stories they never told:

Elizabeth Geitz, an Episcopal Priest and leader of her community, reveals her shame over her mother’s suicide

Kristine Van Raden comes to terms with the mother-guilt of her daughter’s eating disorder, and her daughter, Kate, writes a companion piece

Laurenne Sala struggles with her teenage shame over her gay dad

Julie Silver recounts the day she was banished from her loving community, and how she found redemption

Robyn Hatcher tells a fascinating story about carrying the shame of her race

Rachel Kramer Bussell, an erotica writer who would appear to be shameless, tells her  secret – she is a hoarder

If you think you don’t carry any shame, ask yourself…are their parts of my story I leave out? Parts of my history I’d rather not talk about?

There are for me.

Everyone knows I’m married to a wonderful man for 22 years, but few people know I had a previous failed marriage.

And no one, I mean NO ONE knows what I am about to reveal to you now, for it is perhaps my greatest shame ever.

In 1982, I voted for Reagan. If you defriend me on facebook right now, I’ll understand. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

So friends, this is what our mission is about, and Amy and I want you join us. Let’s get it all out, free ourselves, connect with each other, support each other, celebrate all we have survived and the strong women and men we are.

Let’s move from Shame-full to Shame-less.

Love and Letting Go

In the beginning...

It is a strange thing to love a child, for its the only relationship in which you can love someone fully, absolutely knowing that they will leave you.

In fact, every day they leave you a little bit more. The simple act of birth is their first push away into their own individuality. The baby whose eyes light up with wonder at the sight of your face soon becomes the toddler who says NO and tantrums against you. The five-year old who loved to cuddle and read stories with you will one day be the ten-year old who wants his space. The ten-year old who would still hold your hand if no one was looking will transform into a sullen, cynical teenaged alien from Mars who recoils from your touch. And then, just when they’re getting to be a little bit tolerable again, they leave home.

And through it all, we love them.

I’ve been through all the stages. Crying myself to sleep after driving my daughter to college, bittersweet tears watching my son become a man, get married and have a child of his own, and even now, at five-years old my youngest is flexing his newfound masculinity, preferring to spend his time karate chopping his imaginary enemies, rather than cuddling with mom. This morning, dropping him off at Kindergarten I reached out to kiss him goodbye but he was off and running toward his friends - he never even looked back. And that’s great, right? (sniff...sniff) It means he’s secure and confident. (sniff...sniff) And so today I have to let him go just a little more than yesterday.

It is only when I’ve resisted these changes in my heart that I’ve suffered. I’ve known all along that it was the right thing to back up and give my children the space to grow, but still I pined for the innocent days already gone, which passed too quickly while we were all busy having a life.

A couple years ago, I looked around my house filled with photos of my older children as babies, their huge saucer eyes peering out at me from the past, and a pang of sadness washed over me. I was longing for a time that no longer existed, and in doing so, I was not giving the present moment the appreciation it deserved.  My eldest babies had grown into beautiful and strong young adults: Cristen with her job in the music industry and world traveling, Taylor balancing gigs, his young family, and world traveling. I am so proud of the people they are today. And no, they no longer need me, or cry every time I leave the room like the good ole days, but they have rich, independent lives, and isn’t that what every parent wants for their child? (sniff...sniff)

So I swept the house of past memories, and put them in albums. I kept a few up, after all nostalgia does have its place, as long as you don’t live in that place. I hung new pictures reflecting who we all are today. My daughter in Paris, my son Taylor at the helm of a boat, embracing his wife, and of course current pictures of Evan and the grandbaby. Most importantly, I left room on the walls for new memories to be made.

Holding on to the past didn’t serve me, or my children. It’s like the sad feeling you get when you see someone still sporting a mullet. You have to honor that time for what it was, but embrace today.

Today I try to gather my family around a table for dinner at least a few times a month. It is such a joy to see the grown ones interact with their little brother and the new baby. It fills my heart with pride when Cristen, Aya or Taylor offer to cook for everyone, taking their turns being at the helm in the family. I am happy to see them shining in their new roles.

What I’ve learned about letting go is that I didn’t lose anything, though it may feel that way sometimes. In fact I’ve gained more than I could have imagined. Now I have a beautiful daughter-in-law who I love, and a precious grandson. Given the space to grow, love transformed into something new and miraculous.

One thing I know for sure - when I put my trust in love, it never disappoints. 

Cristen holds her brother's son... *sigh*

Taylor and his beautiful wife Aya

Aya has morning cuddle time with Evan and Ayumu

Sissy and Tay-Tay with Moomers

(translated: Taylor with his son Ayumu and sister Cristen)

Our family - where love brought us

Good Grief!

My little one has recently gotten into watching old Charlie Brown movies, and as a result, “Good Grief” is his new catchphrase. It’s funny how you can hear a phrase over and over throughout the years, and then one day, it hits you in a different way. Good grief.

I’ve been feeling some grief lately. I’m feeling stirred up, ruffled. And in talking to my friend Amy yesterday, who is feeling the same, I realized….it is sometimes good to feel grief. To feel things deeply. To recognize what is driving me from the inside. This grief, this aching that woke me with nightmares last night, that made me bolt upright this morning sure that we were having an earthquake, that keeps churning in my gut, it is good. It’s good because it keeps me on my toes, keeps me alert, reminds me I’m human and alive. It reminds me to look within, to examine what is motivating me, what’s holding me back.

There were violent windstorms last night, trees thrashing themselves against the house, battering the windows, reflecting what I feel in my soul. Winter is clearing me out, sweeping every corner of unfinished business. It's not letting me hide any more.

Grief is like a fire in your soul, purifying, transforming you. If you let it.

I told Amy sometimes I wish we didn’t feel things so deeply. It can be excruciating to be wide awake in your own life. But if we weren’t, what would we write about? What kind of artistic truth could we bring to the world? We would just numb ourselves out watching reality shows, thriving on other people’s drama.

Good grief!

The Truth Whisperer

My husband and I have a nickname for our friend Erin. We call her the “Anger Handler”. If Erin is your friend and someone has ever done something to hurt you, all you need do is tell her the grievous nature of this attack, and then let go. When I do this with her, she gets ten times angrier that I’d ever allow myself to be, ranting and raving about this horrible person and all the ways she should meet her doom. The funny thing is it polarizes me. Erin is so angry at said perpetrator, there isn’t any room, nor need, for me to be angry. My husband Troy and I joke about how we want to make some popcorn, sit back and watch Erin “handle” our anger for us, now and then commenting…”Yeah, yeah, that’s a good one. I should have said that. What else you got?” As if suddenly we are voyeurs into our own crisis. She could do a stand up act. Just let the audience members throw any story at her of how they were done wrong, and then let her at it. I’m telling you, it would sell out! Everyone could use an anger handler!

In my own way, I guess that’s what I’m trying to do with truth. We’ve had a lot of dramarama in our lives the past six months, and my husband doesn’t really want to talk to people about it. He’s really kind of embarrassed by it. But me? I hang my dirty laundry out on the line for the whole world to see. Call it a strange obsession, a birth defect maybe. I don’t know. I was born to tell it like it is. I give voice to some dark things. I’m learning through the comments and feedback I get that these are things others might feel, but never say out loud. So I do it for them, much to the chagrin of my husband. I’m in training to be a “Truth Whisperer”. I’ll say the scary ugly stuff you don’t want to say…and you can go make some popcorn. : )

People have commented how brave I am to tell the truth, how hard that must be. But here’s the secret - it’s actually easy. What’s hard is trying to project an image that I have it all together, that I’m not insecure, neurotic, damaged, confused, afraid. It is unbelievably liberating to tell the truth.

So here are a few “truths” for today:

I’m forty six years old.

I’m terrified of aging.

I doubt myself as a parent.

I often feel like a failure.

I worry in the middle of the night, which leads to pacing the house “checking” things…windows, doors, electrical outlets

I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression all throughout my life.

I’m vain.

I’ve been estranged from my mother’s side of the family for seven years, which feels like a colossal failure

I’m cynical and jaded but want to get back to hopeful

I watch reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond.

There, I’ve said it.

(Can I get a witness on any of the above?)

And you know what happens after I release it? I am lighter. I think to myself…yeah so I’m damaged and imperfect….so what. It’s really not that big a deal. I’ve gotten the scary stuff out and made room inside to feel all the good things that want to occupy space in my heart instead. Love, gratitude, joy….

So this is my mission: to be a Truth Whisperer and encourage others to do the same. I’m telling you, it’s not that bad once you get used to it, so jump in – the water’s fine!

Come on…I double dog dare ya!

Father's Day/ What's In A Name?

Seven years ago, I was standing in a Hallmark store choosing a Father’s Day card, tears running down my face. It was the first time in my life I had gotten to visit that section of the store, where the cards read: “To My Dad”.

Until I was 39 years old, I had lived with the fact that I had no father. I knew that was biologically impossible, but I was told not to ask about my real father, and never to tell anyone my real name. Growing up, my mother gave me the last name Holmes, but it was a lie. That was the name of her boyfriend, who was basically a stepfather to me for the five years he and my mom were together. Gene Holmes was a good and kind man, but unfortunately, he was a short chapter in my life. The truth is…I am not a Holmes, I am not a Dexter.

Today I’d like to introduce you to the real me.

Hello, my name is Hollye Fisher. I am the daughter of Ted  Fisher, a hard working man, a Baptist preacher who teaches bible study at the Second Baptist Church of Galena Park. My father is an oil painter, a gardener, a recovering addict, an ex-con and a huge sports fan. He reads the newspaper, the bible, and loves his family above all else. He is human and flawed, with an enormous loving heart. I have never heard him say an unkind word about anyone - ever. I have never heard him swear. You've heard of people who would give the shirt off their back? He recently gave his cell phone to a young couple who were struggling financially, and still pays the bill. That pretty much sums him up. Although my father was only present for the first three years of my life, he still left his imprint upon me. It is from him that I got my heart.

Although we’ve built a loving relationship, this year I found myself stuck in that Father’s Day section of the card store. There are no Hallmark sentiments that encapsulate the complicated relationship and history I have with my father (and I suspect that I’m not the only one.) Considering that he spent the majority of my childhood in prison, ours was not a Father Knows Best scenario. But he is the man who brought me into the world and set me on my unique path. I carry his blood, his genes, the fallout from his damages, and his history. I no longer struggle against that fact, I embrace it, and am grateful for all of it.

I feel that is an important thing to reflect upon and honor today. We are our father’s children, for better or worse. We carry their legacy in our very bones. What we do with it is up to us.

Today I not only honor my father, but I honor myself in claiming the truth of who I am, and who I come from. It is with deep gratitude that I say:

Thank you Dad, for ushering me into this crazy world, and for all the love, blessings and insanity you have handed down.

Now why can’t I find a Hallmark card like that?

Gratitude

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thankyou, it will be enough.

- Meister Eckhart

Every year I struggle emotionally on Mother’s Day. Yes, I know it’s a fabricated holiday, created by Hallmark cards, and all that. But the sentimental ads, the tear-jerking commercials, well, they get to me. And it took me a whole week to get it together to even write this small blog entry.

Many of my friends on facebook gathered last week, as motherless daughters, to have lunch and celebrate each other on Mother’s Day. In a way, I envied them.

I, too, am a motherless daughter. Although my mother is alive and lives only 20 minutes away, she is not a part of my life. For years, I wanted so much for that to be different. I hoped beyond hope that we could mend the wounds of the past. When she wouldn’t join me in counseling, I went alone for years. But even my therapists told me to let go of the hope.

It’s like this: Sometimes we break a bone, and it can be broken clean in half, but with love and healing, the break can mend and the bone made whole again. Maybe not exactly the same as it was before, but healed no less. And then sometimes…sometimes it is just mangled, shattered and twisted to the point where there is no choice but to amputate, or die. And that, unfortunately, is how it was with us.

Even when I was little, I learned early on not to count on my mother, but thank God I had the good instincts to seek out healthy role models and look for other ways of being in the world. It took me a while to perfect that searching – I picked the wrong people quite a few times and got burned bad.

But I look at my life now and I marvel at all the people who helped me to grow up and become a whole person.

My husband, my children, and my new-found family surround me with so much love.

My friends, oh my god do I have the most amazing friends who inspire me and encourage me, who make me laugh, who sing with me, write with me, paint with me. Brilliant, brave strong women and men who just blow my mind with their gifts.

I remember years ago reading about the lotus blossom that only grows in the deepest sludge of the pond, and I hoped that would be me one day, learning to bloom in the muck. Even though I am now at mid-life, I feel like I'm just beginning to blossom in my heart, and all the ugliness and pain of the past got me here. That, and the love of those who surrounded me and pulled me into bloom.

So today, here is what I wanted to say on Mother’s Day, when there was no Hallmark card that said: thank you to all those who have nurtured my spirit and helped me to thrive.

Thank you Mother for giving me life when you were only 16 years old. You taught me to survive.

Thank you Father for working so hard to be a better man, after spending fifteen years in prison. You taught me never to give up, and that no one is ever beyond hope.

Thankyou my sweet husband for being the patient gardener of my spirit, tending me, watering the hostile ground, pulling out the choking weeds.

Thank you my precious children for needing me, so that my checking out of this world was never an option. Thank you for loving me to the moon and back, as I have loved you.

Thank you to my friends, my true blue always-there friends who have become my family.

To my new friends who have become the wind in my sails.

To my old childhood friends, found again, who have become as necessary to my life as breathing.

And thank you to my furry friends who lie beside me contentedly every morning as I write, purring, snoring, drooling…

What once was shattered has been pieced back together, becoming the mosaic that is my life, and every one of you is a beautiful shining piece in it.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

The Gift of the Unexpected Family

Me and my brother Ted, or "little Butch" or "Straight-Ted"

I am counting the moments until tomorrow, when my family will be here from Texas to spend the week with us – the family I didn’t even know I had until seven years ago.

The cousins will play together, friends will gather for potluck dinners, and of course we will do the full Disneyland day. It will be a typical family experience for the most un-typical family you’ve ever met. We’ve come together from different parts of the country and different cultural backgrounds and lifestyles, but what we share is love, a dad, DNA and a very odd history.

I always knew I had a father out there somewhere, but I didn’t know who he was, what he looked like, or if he was even alive. Through some geneology work I was doing in 2003, I found him. It wasn’t what I had set out to do, in fact I feared it, but never-the-less, he is now in my life, thankfully. I finally learned the full truth of who I am, where I came from and how I came to be in this world.

I love my dad. Believe it or not, in seven years we have developed a relationship much like any other parent-child relationship. There is love, and resentment, and frailty. There are times I feel like I don’t even know him, and times I feel lucky to know him at all. There have been periods of closeness when we spoke on the phone every day, and a period when we didn’t speak for almost a year. To say the least, it’s been complicated.

But the greatest gift he has given me is my three brothers; Caleb, Ted, and Ted. Oh and my dad’s name is Ted. And my grandfather is Ted, too. How we ended up with a Caleb in the family I’ll never know, but it must have been the good sense of his mama. (I am very grateful not to be named Ted.)

There is a 20-year span between the oldest (me) and the youngest (Caleb). Ted Duane is 3 years my junior, and now lives in Tacoma. Even though we didn’t grow up together, he and I are two peas in a pod, so everyone says. “Y’all are just alike” says Caleb. “Yep” says Ted William, the quiet one.

Ted William is third in line. He is married to my gorgeous sister in law Heather, and has given me the additional gift of being an aunt to my two nephews Joshua and Jordan. Heather is another miracle in my life. She is beautiful and strong and has lived through way more than any woman in her twenties should have to, but still, she is the glue that holds our family together.

How my father found the time to populate the Earth with four children in between his stints in prison I’ll never know. In the 60s and 70s he was a heroin addict. He was in so much trouble all the time for stupid things like burglarizing his drug dealer’s house, violating parole, falling asleep in stolen cars, you name it, that they finally just threw him in prison. And that probably saved his life.

My dad has been living the life of the good citizen for the past 30 years, working for the city of Houston. His wife is the Head of the School Board. Dad was ordained a Baptist preacher 15 years ago at the Second Baptist church of Galena Park. Everyone in town knows and loves “Brother Butch” as they call him. (Too many Teds for such a small town). I am swarmed with well-wishers when I attend Dad’s church. “Y’all are Brother Butch’s daughter? Lucky girl! Your daddy is the best man in town” they say (and I can never get over them calling a singular person “y’all” but I kinda like it).

Here’s the kicker: Two of my brothers, Ted Duane and Caleb, are gay. So my father has had the challenge of coming to terms with his own past, and learning to fully accept his sons for who they are in contradiction to his religion. Suffice it to say he is possibly the least judgmental Christian you will ever meet. He accepts everyone as they are, and doesn’t criticize nor try to change them. He loves my brothers equally while acknowledging their unique qualities and characteristics. For instance, he appreciates that Caleb has a fabulous knack for decorating and helping my dad pick out matching clothes for church. Dad even has little pet names for my brothers, like Ted William is “Little Butch”, and Caleb is (add Texas twang here) “Gay boy” or “Queer Eye”. All said in love, and with good humor, but trust me, political correctness does not exist in this branch of my family tree.

I’ll never forget our family reunion in Texas a few years ago. We all stayed at Dad’s house, spouses, life-partners, kids and all. It was one big happy, week-long sleepover party. One night we gathered in the family room with pillows, blankets and popcorn and watched “Brokeback Mountain” together. At the end, my dad, the Baptist preacher, says, “Well, I guess I could kinda understand being gay. I mean, if it’s just hanging out with your buddies all day I guess I could be gay too….except for the butt-sex.”

Ah, those were good times.

Because we found each other late in life, it’s a priority for us to spend quality time together. We make the trip to see each other at least once or twice a year. We stay up late at night talking, asking deep questions about each other’s lives and histories. Often, Ted Duane and I have discussed how we feel we are closer than many brothers and sisters who have grown up together. We don’t have a lifetime of memories (or, for that matter, issues and resentment). We only have now, so we make every moment count.

This week will be spent with my brother Ted, or “Straight-Ted” as we call him, and his family. I’ll never forget the first time I met him. It was at my Dad’s house in the Fall of 2003. Ted and Heather walk in and I’m standing in the kitchen. He sees me, I smile wide, he walks up and throws his arms around me lifting me off my feet. Then he takes a few steps back to get a good look at me. “Wow, I can’t believe y’all are my sister!” He shakes his head with a look of wonder on his face. Heather looks back and forth at us standing together. “Y’all favor. Y’all definitely favor.” Ted hugs me again. “I’m so glad to meet you!” he says. He takes a step back again, looks puzzled. “Hey! What’s your name, anyway?”

Yeah, we had a lot to learn about each other. Since then, we’ve shared many good times, both in Texas and California. In 2005 Heather and I both got pregnant and had sons just three months apart. My nephew Joshua was born on Christmas Day, 2005. To have the father I never knew call me on Christmas morning to tell me I had just become an aunt was beyond surreal, and one of the best Christmases of my life.

It’s been a crazy journey for all four of us siblings. Not one of us had an easy life, but we’ve all grown up to be good, responsible, hard-working people. We are each a little bit wobbly, a little bit scarred, but hey, we’re still standing, and now we’ve got each other.

I just can’t wait to throw my arms around them all tomorrow. I look forward to heart to heart talks with my brother, coffee with Heather early in the mornings, watching the kids play together. I anticipate the rich memories that we are yet to be made this week, and for the rest of our lives.

I called this post the Gift of the Unexpected Family, and boy am I an expert in that area. In addition to this story, as many of you know I had the unexpected gift of my son Evan who came along in my forties when I was trying to have a mid-life crisis, and of course, now the unexpected gift of becoming a Mother-in-law and Grandmother in the span of six months. I'm having to remind myself to breathe quite often these days. But what great joy- what great gifts that I could never have imagined. I embrace every moment of it.

Today, my heart is full with the blessing that is my kooky, unexpected family. I encourage you all to take a moment to appreciate your kooky families today, too. In fact. how about we declare this “Kooky, unexpected, difficult, crazy-making-but-god-I-love-them Family Appreciation Week”?

On becoming a Mother-In-Law

Whew. I am still coming to terms with the fact that my son is now a married man, and will soon be a father. It’s a lot to wrap my head around, and it’s come so fast.

I am cool with becoming a grandma. The image of grandma conjures up warm, fuzzy memories. Everyone loves grandma. Of course, I want to set my own rules for being my own version of Grandma. I aspire to be a fabulous, free spirited, salsa dancing, gigging, world traveling Grandma who still rocks her grandbaby to sleep and bakes cookies with him.

But Mother-In-Law? I haven’t gotten used to that title yet. How many comedians have made their fortunes taking jabs at the proverbial Mother-In-Law? How about that movie “Monster-In-Law”?

I’ve given a lot of thought to this, especially since my son and daughter-in-law live with me. What type of Mother-in-law do I aspire to be?

I’ve always told my kids that I would love whomever they chose to love. I trust their judgment to find the person who is right for them. Whether it lasts the rest of their lives, or whether it lasts a summer, I know that they are choosing a person who is worthy of their love, and is going to bring rich textures and learning experiences to their lives.

But now that my son has taken his vows, and is committing his life to this beautiful young woman and their child, I feel that I should make some vows of my own.

My Mother-In-Law Vows:

I vow to be a support system and mentor to them as they make their way.

I vow to give advice only when asked. : )

I vow never to pass judgment on them, nor to intrude on their young relationship,

I vow to place confidence in their ability to make the choices that are right for them, even if it takes them a few tries.

I vow never to speak unkind words about them, even if I don’t agree with their choices.

I vow to give them the space to raise their child in their own way, which may differ from mine.

I vow to always be there for their children.

I vow, together with my husband, to set a good example of a respectful, loving married relationship with open communication.

I vow to keep my door open to them both, whenever they want to share something or ask for help.

I vow that, even when they have their fights and misunderstandings, I won’t take sides nor judge. I understand that this is a normal part of a young couple finding their way.

I vow to always be kind.

I vow to post this in a place where I can see it every day.

I vow to love my son, his wife, and child. Unconditionally. Always.

Don't Tell Me To Cheer Up

Greetings from the pit of despair. I’ve fallen into a black hole of my own making and I can’t get up. Where’s the life alert for that one?

Usually I’m pretty strong. I have a big life, with a lot on my plate, but I balance it well most of the time.

Some days I crash.

Hard.

Today is a bad day.

But the people in my life expect me to be strong and centered. Always. When I’m not, I find myself alone. People pull away from me. It makes them uncomfortable to see me down. The message I get is Go back to being how we expect you to be.

Sometimes its just not possible for me to wrap it up and put on the brave face. Someone dropped a boulder into my still waters, The ripples are still reverberating, and all the muck at the bottom has been stirred up. So I isolate. And I write about all that muck.

Muck.

Muck you, muck!

No matter how much therapy I’ve done, there are days it gets to me that I have two living parents who don’t want me in their lives. I’ve been estranged from my mother for seven years. And not because I’ve done anything to her. I was a good kid, never in any trouble, not into drugs, never got pregnant or brought any grief to them. No. My sin is I spoke up against abuse that had happened in the family. I had the nerve to speak the truth, and was banished from the kingdom of dysfunction.

Today is one of those days when I can’t shake the image of my mother staring into my eyes with pure hatred. I was her mirror. All of her disappointment and anger at herself was projected onto me. No matter how good a girl I was, I could never fix it. I performed, I excelled, I tried to shine as best I could, but I couldn’t ever change what she saw in that mirror- me. And I have the unfortunate added bonus of looking just like her.

Instead, she adores my brother. He has been a drug addict since his early teens. He was in a lock down rehab high school, and has been in and out of jail and rehab all his adult life. He has threatened her life with physical violence, punched and kicked holes in the walls of her home, cost her thousands and thousands of dollars in bail money and court costs. Yet he is the one she loves.

My father doesn’t hate me. He is ambivalent toward me, at best. He abandoned me when I was three years old. I found him when I was thirty-nine. When I asked him if he had ever expected to hear from me, he said, “ I always thought I’d get a phone call one day, and someone would tell me that you were dead.” So after leaving me in the situation I was in at three years old, he assumed I’d end up dead but still made no attempt to find me. He added, “I’m glad your mom decided to keep you.” Gee thanks, Dad.

I’ve spent the last seven years trying to build a relationship with him but he doesn’t return my phone calls, doesn’t acknowledge the cards and gifts I send. If my sister-in-law or stepmom answer the phone and physically put the receiver in his hands, he’ll talk to me, say he’s sorry for never calling, and tell me how much he loves me, but if I stopped calling and showing up on his doorstep, he would simply let me slip away. Again.

Is that love?

Today I am swimming in this emotional muck. Drowning is more like it. What can I do.

Write about it.

Write about how much it fucking sucks that I have two living parents who don’t care about me. Write about how much it hurts that until I met my husband, I never knew what it felt like to be loved or to have someone in my corner. Write about how mad I am at myself for holding on to some kind of stupid hope that if I was a good enough person, I could fix it all. For me this is a pain that never goes away. I vacillate between sadness, anger and apathy, but it’s always there.

It’s my pity-party and I’ll cry if I want to. So what.

SO WHAT.

But in our society, we don’t like people to be sad! God forbid. Get some Zoloft, Prozac, whatever it takes - make it go away! Don’t talk about it, don’t show it, and for god’s sake, don’t feel it! Cheer up! Be strong!

God it makes me crazy! We stuff our feelings and anesthetize ourselves with prescription drugs, alcohol, food. Look at us! We are dying of heart disease, obesity, diabetes, and stress. I don’t want to be numb to my life. I want to hear the message in my pain and learn from it. Letting the waves of sadness wash over me is a necessary part of the healing process.

I am grieving the loss of two living parents. So let me be sad today. Don’t tell me not to be. Don’t tell me to be strong. Don’t tell me to count my blessings. Let me find my own way back to strength, in my own time. And what ever you do, DON’T TELL ME TO CHEER UP.

And I know that in a few days I will brush myself off and get back up again, just like I always do.