This…

I haven’t written much lately because my usually traveling husband has been spending an unusual amount of time home. That has been an incredible blessing and a great way to start the summer. It also means that instead of writing to process all my overthinking I lay it on him. He has an amazing ability to take all the complex craziness in and make it seem okay. And since he is an incredible judge of character, the fact that he loves me and believes in me have helped me overcome many obstacles.

Recently I read a novel about a family that suffered a horrific tragedy akin to the tragedy(ies) my own family of origin endured. It was bizarre to read this story while remembering how my family members absorbed the pain … watching how it ripped this fictional family apart while considering the path of destruction it carved through our lives.

My younger kids ask about my dead brothers a lot because they never met them. I think they’re a bit like me in that when I love someone I want to know every single thing about them. Recently, in talking with Peyton, I likened my brother Chris to the sun. Of course this was just my perspective and certainly everyone in my family would tell a different story, but to me, he was the center and the rest of us orbited around him. When he died, everyone kind of spun out of control in different ways. When my next brother died, those wounds that had scabbed and scarred but never actually healed were ripped back open.

When my dad died, the one common thread holding us together–our affection for him–was severed.

In a prophetic moment a few weeks before he died, Chloe said, “Mommy, I’m afraid if Papa dies everything will fall apart.” By everything, she meant my family of origin. And in many ways, it did. I don’t have the kind of close relationships with my siblings I hope my kids will have one day.

I look at my siblings now, and I think they’re good people. They’re great parents and friends. They contribute to the world in positive ways. The few times a year we see each other, we’re mostly able to enjoy each other’s company. Considering our history, that’s pretty good. Sometimes, when I look at other familial relationships I feel sad for what we don’t have. But our common ground is a burial ground of secrets and pain. But in many ways I think we’ve all created the lives we wanted, and I don’t know about them, but I no longer care to look back. Families of origin though…they always remind you where you came from, who you were, what you shared.

My dad wasn’t really part of the façade; he was pretty real. We talked about everything. He was at times the worst person I knew and at others the best. A lot like me. He was black, white and a million shades of grey, but I understood him because we were the same. Learning to understand my dad, loving, forgiving and accepting him flaws and all helped me to do the same with myself.

And now when I look at my family … my husband and kids and friends I realize they are the family I always wanted. People I can trust and rely on. People who love and accept me unconditionally. People who remind me of everything that is good and pure and loveable about me instead of pulling me back to dark places I’d rather forget.

Not too long ago a very dear friend said to me that she thought we had a perfect life. We did a good job of faking it. And in many ways we still do. But, I have a hard time with fakeness, superficiality, small talk. It was always hard for me to smile and nod and pretend things were great if they weren’t. On Father’s day, Brad saw through my attempts to be cheerful and asked what was bothering me. I didn’t want to ruin his day, so I simply said, “It’s father’s day and my dad is dead and I don’t want to talk about it.”

That frankness is hard for some people, but I can’t be responsible for other people’s stuff anymore. I’m way more comfortable with someone divulging their deepest darkest secrets than a conversation about the weather. I mean I can make small talk because I am enough of a pleaser, a good little girl, that I want people always to be comfortable, but I’d really prefer not to. This has always been one of my biggest struggles with my mom. My mom’s chief forms of communication are jokes and gossip. She doesn’t want to talk about feelings, and I don’t want to tell her anything that is happening in my life because she just turns it into gossip.

It’s a super weird dynamic. I’ve pulled myself back enough from the madness now that I can see how it plays out. I can see how she plays my siblings and me against one another. I had to see that in order to deal with the underlying causes that drove me to binge eat. When I was little, my mom controlled every single aspect of my life. What I wore, what I watched on tv, the activities I participated in, who I played with … she even pulled me out of elementary school and home-schooled me so as to exercise complete control. My sister rebelled against my mom by not eating. I think probably the same way my mom rebelled against her own mother. However, I took the opposite route.

I would sneak bags of cookies and chips up to my room and eat under the covers. Then, when she would go to bed, I would watch forbidden tv shows. And sometimes, I would steal my grandmother’s cigarettes and smoke them behind the garage when I was swinging on my tire swing. Once she caught me and said, “You didn’t put that [the cigarette] in your mouth did you?” I told her no and she was able to stay comfortably in denial.

One reason I feel compelled to talk about everything is that my whole life was filled with secrets. It was a show–not one my mom approved of–and we were the cast. Pretend everything is okay. Lie about the bruise on your face. We don’t really know how Chris died–it was an overdose. Blame Brian’s suicide on his “demons”–the demons actually lived in our house. But no one ever told the truth about what the fuck was actually going on.

Once, my mom, gossiping about someone else said, “I feel so sorry for her. I don’t think she had very many happy holidays when she was growing up.” I asked her, “Were you ever at one of our holidays? Where someone nearly always got beat, cussed out or stormed out in a rage?” The windows of our glass house are jagged shards.

So, I decided to look at all this stuff again, slog through it, and try to be done with it once and for all. I can’t change anything that happened and honestly, I wouldn’t. It all brought me to where I am surrounded by people I love and who truly love and accept me. People who dislike me are dealing with something in themselves, and though I offer them compassion I no longer feel driven to gain their affection. Sometimes that desire still wells up inside me, but I feel it and move on. It’s not a bad thing to want people to like you, but sacrificing who you are to gain acceptance isn’t healthy. That statement seems so commonsensical, but it’s taken me a good part of my life to truly believe that my worth isn’t contingent on anyone’s approval.

I’m not going to “share” this because it’s too real for Facebook. But I felt compelled to write it whether it was just for me or if it would help someone else. I listened to a great message last week by Steven Furtick, and in it he said that two of the most powerful words we can say to another person are, “Me too.” So, if you’ve lost someone you love, me too. If you’ve felt not good enough, me too. If you have felt undeserving of love and grace, me too. Thought you were broken or flawed? me too. Strived for acceptance? Me too. Made bad choices? Me too. Wondered if your family would be better off without you? me too. Drank too much? me too. Sworn at your kids? ME TOO. Done things you’re ashamed of? Me too. Questioned your sanity, your worth, your goodness, your purpose, the reason you’re here? Me too. Keep going. You’re worthy. You’re deserving. You’re good. You’re loved more than you’ll ever imagine. If you’re breathing you’re here for a reason, and you have a purpose. Me too.

Full Speed Ahead

I just wanted to take a minute to thank you, my friends, for reading, commenting and sharing your reactions to what I write. I’m really vulnerable and transparent in this little space, and you always make me feel less alone in my struggles. That’s such a good feeling. Your kindness is an amazing blessing; thank you.

Since last week, I’ve been paying closer attention to my interactions with people and the vibe I give off. Men and women. Brad told me recently, “Sometimes you change the rules, and you don’t always let people know.” That is a very true statement. God bless my man who can lovingly point things out in me that I am unable to see. It took him about 23 years to master this without making me feel defensive (or for me to realize that he was actually being loving and not critical or condescending.)

Anyway, back to changing the rules. I do. All the time. Quick example: I decide that I no longer want to go to the gym because there’s a creepy guy there who stalks me–I’m kidding, a little–but I don’t tell my gym friend. I just start saying no. All the time. She thinks I’m mad at her, which is completely untrue, but I didn’t communicate the rule change.

Another example: I nearly always decline “going out” invitations. But when a bunch of my friends go out and post awesome pictures on Facebook, I would sometimes feel hurt. In the past, I said no, so if I decide now that I’d like to be included, I need to advise my friends of the rule change, instead of whining about being left out.

Evidently feeling left out is a huge trigger for me because on a few occasions, my extended family have done things and not invited me, and I have felt extremely hurt. Granted, I’m a hermit who declines about 97% of invitations, so very few people would ever consider that my feelings would be hurt by not being invited somewhere. Additionally, I am positive that none of my family would intentionally exclude me to be hurtful. Still…trigger.

Once a friend told me when she hears people talking about doing something fun if she wants to do it, she simply invites herself. She’s absolutely delightful, so of course everyone would want her to come along, but that was kind of a revelation for me. Oh, hey, just say you want to go. Huh.

Sometimes I get so upset over slights that have mostly occurred in my head that I cut people completely off from my heart so that they are incapable of hurting me again. They generally have no idea why or what they’ve done. I’m working on the whole “setting healthy boundaries” thing. It’s going swimmingly.

Despite the aforementioned neuroses, I am really, really close to a few people. These people know all my secrets. I’m actually very proud of that because up until a year or so ago, I desperately kept those secrets to myself, fearing that the baggage I carried around would alienate even the most loyal person.

But outside of my inner circle, and some wonderful friends whom I adore but try not to drag into my cyclone of crazy, I am better at one-sided relationships. I used to joke that I had enough friends and wasn’t auditioning new ones, but it wasn’t really a joke. I like to listen to people’s stories without having to share anything about myself. This usually works fine since lots of people would rather talk than listen. But I’ve also pushed people away because after sharing personal things with them, I felt they couldn’t be trusted with the information. I often advise girlfriends: People who gossip to you will gossip about you. But, it’s always difficult to listen to your own advice.

And as I continue to learn: I can’t change anyone else’s behavior, but I can control my behavior as well as my reactions and perceptions. I have had to rethink (or overthink) how I present myself to people. It’s natural to feel close to someone whom you feel gets you, and I get lots of people. I think God gave me that gift in order to show people kindness and compassion. However, there are people who will misuse and take advantage of gifts.

I really need to exercise discernment more consistently. For me, discernment usually comes in two ways. One: A sick feeling in my stomach that says, “This person is not genuine and does not want you to achieve your highest good.” Two: My husband saying, “Babe, you might wanna put the brakes on a little bit with this one.”

So it continues, revisiting the Boundaries book that has been collecting dust on my shelf, learning how to be kind and compassionate without becoming enmeshed, and finally back to The Four Agreements, which today sound like this in my head:

• Be impeccable with your word–don’t say mean things about people. Ever.
• Don’t take anything personally–no one thought you would even want to be invited.
• Don’t make assumptions–you have to tell people when you change the rules. No one else lives in your head, lucky for them.
• Always do your best–don’t beat yourself up; just keep trying harder.

Now that you mention it…

Today we moved our 20-year-old daughter into a new dorm room. This is the fourth move since she left for college two years ago. She’s never come back for any extended period of time since that first move, and she’ll probably never live with us again. I still cry every time I have to say good bye to her, which this year has included goodbyes to Brazil and Taiwan in addition to Pittsburgh. You’d think I’d be getting used to it. Me too. I’m not.

On a detour through a familiar neighborhood on our way out of town, we got to visit briefly with two of the most darling women ever to grace the universe. As the lovely mom and I commiserated the whole kids growing up business, she pointed to my 7-year-old and said, “You’re so lucky to have this little one.” I know. Thank you. Right? Wow.

I’ve thought a lot of stuff since getting pregnant unexpectedly 8 1/2 years ago such as: There goes grad school. There goes my body. I’m too old for this. My poor boobs. This baby is gonna kill me. My big kids hate me. How can I be a good mom to all of them? But I never really thought until Chloe went to college that I was really lucky to get this little bonus baby.

From the time she was born, my oldest daughter has been my constant companion, soul mate and best friend. She filled a Chloe-shaped space in my heart, and I felt as if I was made to be her mom. When Peyton joined, answering my prayers and completing our perfectly symmetrical little family, I felt lucky. I have never been so in love with two people. So six years later, when it became apparent that our family wasn’t quite complete, I felt different levels of resistant, afraid, angry, and resentful … but I didn’t feel lucky.

However, in her nearly 8 years, this little chick has challenged me in ways I can’t even begin to explain. She has taught me more about myself than the library of self-help books I’ve read. She can be jarringly direct and achingly compassionate. She strolled out of my womb and wrapped her dad right around her tiny finger. She carries his heart around in a Hello Kitty purse. It’s impressive, really, because he is not that guy.

She can be bossy and whiny and smart-mouthed. And she can be cuddly and dreamy and precious. She’s a little bit like my clone, and I’m a better person for getting to watch and learn from a mini version of myself. She’s growing into a pretty cool person, and it’s interesting to watch her free from the pressure of signing her up for every sport and making sure she’s involved in a million activities.

I’m grateful for another round of prom dresses. I’m grateful for more shoe shopping and hair appointments and manicures and pedicures and even more stupid Ugg boots. I’m lucky to have more opportunities to say the right thing to ease the pain of a broken heart and remind her that other people’s opinions of her are meaningless. I’m lucky that I can remind her that pain builds strength and character. I’m lucky that she has the most amazing role models in her sister and brother. I’m lucky that I get another opportunity to raise a strong, empowered woman who will make a difference in the world.

So thank you for the reminder, my friend. I am so lucky.

25 years

Today is February 5th. I hate today. I’ve hated it for 25 years. Five years and one week longer than my daughter has been alive. I have lived so many lives in those 25 years. All of them mine but all of them different. I’ve been angry, jealous, bitter, sad, in love, loved, depressed, hopeless, hopeful, dreamy, flighty, stupid, and happy.

Today, like every February 5th since 1989, I will relive that awful morning. Hearing my mom’s voice. Knowing something was wrong. The huge pit in my stomach. I wonder why, but I don’t dwell on it. I remember his smile, his smirk, his strong arms hugging me so tight I thought he’d break my ribs. I will cry but just a little bit.

When my brother died, my life took a sharp turn. I was no longer loved, cherished, protected…safe. I felt alone. Nothing could go wrong when he was here. But now, everything could go wrong. And lots of stuff did. And then stuff went right. And then wrong. And more right. Hills and valleys.

Brene Brown talks about foreboding joy–the fearful sense that joy is fleeting. Something bad will happen. Don’t get too comfortable being happy because it won’t last. That’s how I lived a lot of my life. Brad asked me, “Why do you always go to the worst case scenario?” Because the worst case scenario had played out in my life. A couple times. I wanted to be prepared.

But preparing for the worst doesn’t stop it.

Instead of preparing, I’ve learned to heal, love, and let myself be happy without waiting for the bottom to drop out.

After my brother died, I heard him called lots of things. A junkie, a drug dealer, a liar, a thief. But to me, he was amazing. What a gift that I could carry that person who loved me wholeheartedly around forever, letting his memory fill in the broken places in my heart. Maybe if he’d lived longer, I would have been forced to see him as some of those other things.

I try to be real, honest, and transparent, but there are people who don’t like me. I spent a good part of my life doing cartwheels, saying the right thing, doing the right thing, but always for the wrong reasons. If people would just see me, love me, understand me, then…I don’t know what. Then it would be okay? What would be okay? Life? I would be safe? I wouldn’t be alone? I don’t know.

Looking back at 25 years of changes, I realize I like who I’ve become. I don’t always like the number on the scale or the color of my hair or the waddle under my chin (seriously, I really dislike that freaking waddle), but that’s not the point.

Today, I worry less about what people think of me and more about how I treat them. I don’t care if people judge me, but I try not to judge them. I don’t need to tell everyone my story, but I sure love to hear theirs. I don’t need people to think I’m a good person; I want them to know they can count on me. I don’t memorize scriptures to preach to people; I help them feel Jesus’ love in how I treat them.

Twenty-five years later, I still think my brother hung the moon and rocked the world, and I will love him forever.

God in Me. God in You, You, You, and You Too.

On Sunday, my daughter got on a plane and flew to the other side of the country. This is the farthest she has ever been away from me. She’s never flown without me. The last time we were this far apart, I was in Las Vegas, and she was reading Harry Potter. That was nine years and one child ago. My reason for sharing that is: My world is a bit off-kilter, and I am using that as an excuse for bad skin, unexplained crying, crappy eating, not working out, and this is starting to sound a lot like pms…

Anyway, that wasn’t my point for writing. My point was this: I have been reading this awesome series (and if you have a penchant for self-awareness or just appreciate great writing, you should read it as well) and every day little granules of truth plunk me in the head.

Most recently I’ve been overthinking how we all process the same things so very differently. In my family of origin, if you ask each of us to describe the same event, you’d get five different stories. When my other two brothers were alive, their stories would be different still. Add in my parents’ views and you’d have even more. Each person firmly believes his or her version is the truth. Many of them were the hero in their version. But, it’s kind of like this:

Remember the time:
No, that’s not how it happened. It was like this…
OHHHH yeah, but then you said…
No, that’s close, but I said…
You did not…
She wasn’t even there…
Were you even there?
Oh, I remember, we were having Neopolitan dinner dish…

Even though we experienced a lot of the same things (we all lost our brothers and our dad), each of us walked away–except the two who didn’t–with different scars, stories, and memories. A few weeks ago one sibling summed up another sibling’s behavior with, “That’s just how he processed the shit that happened to us. We all dealt with it differently.”

I recently read Carry On, Warrior, and my biggest take away was her description of “Namaste,” acknowledging that the divine in us recognizes the divine in those we meet. That was bigger than a granule, it was like a rock on the head. God in me; God in you.

Ughhhhhh…we all process it differently…we all have the same God in us…My daughter’s on the other side of the world, and I have pms, OBVIOUSLY…

God is in my brother. He is in my mom. He is in that person who annoys the CRAP out of you. He is in the guy who cut you off in traffic. I’m not entirely convinced that there is the same amount of God in everyone…I’m kidding; calm down. God is in the Fed Ex driver that can’t find my house–dude…really? God is in the union guy that calls my husband at 1:00 a.m. and drags him out of our warm bed. He is in your boss. He is in the four disgruntled old ladies who complain the entire time in line. He’s in your kids. He’s in your mother in law. He’s in that homeless man, and you walked to the other side of the street to avoid him.

It is not my job to fix you, nor are you called to fix me. I may not change the world, but I can love and accept you and me as God loves and accepts us both. We might never be best friends, but I will see past your humanness and look for your divinity. Today my prayer is to step out of my own way as the divine in me reaches out to the divine in you.

This Is Not My Home.

After my dad died, I cried every morning in the shower. It is safe to cry in the shower. No one hears you. You’re wet everywhere so no little hands reach up to wipe tears. The tears mix in with the rest of the water. Your eyes are red because you got shampoo in them. So careless. I could cry without anyone trying to care for me, feel sorry for me, pity me, fix me.

My morning routine started by slathering Preparation H around my eyes to conceal the shower crying. Friends, here’s an awesome beauty tip: Hemorrhoid cream does wonders for eyes puffy from crying, not sleeping, drinking, allergies…whatever. For real.

I have been through tragedies, but this time, I had three people who were relying on me not to fall apart. When my first brother died, I completely fell apart. I could. I was 16. No one relied on me. The people around me held me and worried about me and picked me up. Unexpectedly losing someone you think is invincible makes you feel really small and vulnerable.

When my good friend died of cancer, it wasn’t as bad. I am not minimizing her death, but I had months to get used to the idea that she was going to die. I could say goodbye. I told her I loved her a million times. We talked about how bad it sucked and how unfair life could be sometimes. And we cried and we laughed, but we prepared.

When my second brother died, it was the worst. Suicide is the worst. No preparation. No conspiracy theories. Nothing left but a big pile of regret and guilt and questions. People said that I would be mad at him. How could I be mad at him for being in so much pain? I was mad at lots of people, but he wasn’t one of them.

For a long time, I felt a sense of safety in pain. Well, at least it can’t get any worse. But don’t say that or think that or God forbid allow yourself to believe that because it can. It can get worse. It couldn’t get any worse than my brother dying unexpectedly until my other brother chose to die. Well, it couldn’t get any worse than…Yes. Yes, it could.

I have dealt with the pain and the questions and the stages of grief more times than I can count. Grief, pain, tragedy have become like my hometown. I don’t live there anymore, but I visit from time to time. I remember the streets and can still find my way around. Lots of things look the same. Some places have changed. Some people have moved away, but some still live there.

It’s a choice. It’s my choice. It’s your choice. You can stay in your hometown. You can give in to grief. You can let abuse or neglect or grief that you suffered stunt your growth and keep you mired in shame, regret, and self-pity. Or you can move. It doesn’t mean you forget. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just means that you are choosing not to let what happened to you dictate who you become.

I have a big family. People are gonna die. My mom is 82–today. I’m gonna have to visit that place many more times. But I’m not moving back home.