Surviving the Bombs

Part Three:  Surviving the Bombs

          I forecasted another storm, a bomb already launched and on the way, locked onto its target:  my girls.  Ever since their dad first told them that he didn’t love their mommy anymore and wanted a divorce—back when they were 8 and 11—both girls have struggled with goodbyes.  They absolutely hate saying goodbye to those they love, especially when they don’t know when they will see those loved ones again, so I knew an emotional fallout was imminent.  They would watch daddy leave, give him one last, long hug and one more kiss, wave goodbye, and watch him drive away, headed to the airport.  Then, the bomb would detonate as tears fell, sobs escaped, and devastation wrapped around us all.  Even the cats seemed sad. 

          Because I could see the incoming bomb and knew that my daughters would need to heal, I had a plan in place.  Step one:  Save myself first.  Check.  In other words, process my own emotions.  Having time alone to work through my personal issues helped as it is so much more difficult to be there for them when I am an emotional mess myself.  Like the stewardesses caution on the airplanes…I had to put on my facemask first or else I would not be any help to them.       

Step two:  Take them to The Fix Therapy (http://thefixtherapy.com/) for a twenty-minute therapeutic muscle massage in order to release built up tension and stress.  Check.  For the past year, I have enjoyed a weekly (and affordable!) muscle therapy massage from The Fix, and it has helped me with so much.  I am learning to notice when and where I hold tension in my body/mind and to relax, surrender, let go—not only of physical knots but also of negative thoughts and feelings.  At the same time, the weekly therapy has helped with various aches and pains.  I definitely wouldn’t miss a session, and I definitely wanted Devin and Beth to enjoy this.   We walked through the gym and into the office.  The girls entered with knotted muscles, clouded thoughts, heavy feelings, red noses, and tear-streaked cheeks, and 30 minutes later, they left with loose muscles, clearer minds, and lighter emotions.  Peace.  The Fix is like a shelter in the midst of a raging storm.  

          With the first wave of defense/recovery accomplished, we headed to the Avenue to watch a funny movie.  Step Three:  Generate loads of laughter.  Check.  My priority that night was to hear my girls laugh, so I took them to see the funniest movie that I ever remember seeing:  21 Jump Street.  I grabbed us tickets, popcorn, and bottles of vitamin water, and we found seats near the middle edge.  I had warned the girls that the movie was vastly inappropriate yet uproariously hilarious, “Be sure to cover your eyes when I tell you.” 

For two hours, we lost ourselves in the silliness.  For two hours, our laughter and giggles surrounded us, filling empty places and lightening our spirits.  The entire time, Beth had one hand over her face as she chanted, between laughs, “This is so disturbing.  This is so disturbing.”  As we exited the theater, she said, “We’re buying that movie when it comes out!” 

Then, my favorite part of every day:  at home with my girls as we share and talk and dance and laugh. That night, we each recounted our favorite parts of the movie and laughed some more.

Step Four:  Spend time in nature.  Check.  The next day, we spent an afternoon at the beach.  Part of the time, we read.  The rest of the time, we soaked up the sun, digging our bare feet into the embrace of the sand and listening to the lullaby of the waves.  Each rush of the water soothed as the heat of the sun warmed us all the way through and the salty breeze invigorated us.  We took a short walk to hunt for seashells and let the silence speak to our hearts.  We returned home renewed.

Step Five:  Spend time with God.  Check.  While the day at the beach had already spoken to our spirits, attending church brought us closer to God, ourselves, and each other.  When singing lyrics from Matt Redman’s “10,000 Reasons (Bless the Lord)” such as, “The sun comes up, it’s a new day dawning…whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes.  Bless the Lord oh my soul,” cleansing tears streamed down my face.  After church, we ate curry and bourbon chicken at Asian Too while discussing the sermon, and I sat back and observed Beth and Devin.  They were once again brimming with confidence, light, laughter, and love.  

Time and the five steps had worked.  I couldn’t stop the bomb from detonating, but I could help keep it from destroying them.  And, I could model how to survive the bombs that fall, especially the unexpected ones.

I Stand Strong

Part Two:  I Stand Strong

Suitcases packed, they left for the next few days.  I kissed my girls, waved goodbye, and breathed deeply with relief.  Rare time for myself, but to begin with, I needed to relax. 

I wasn’t sure why this was affecting me so much as I had worked hard to move on and create a good life for me and my daughters here; it pissed me off that I was allowing his past words and thoughts to get inside my head now.  Something had triggered this hurricane of raw emotions, and by God, I was going to discover a way out of the storm and into peace. 

While I didn’t know it at the time, I found a good routine for handling this intense stress.

First, I did my P90X Kenpo workout and visualized M’s face as I punched the air.  Then, I wrote morning pages, pouring out my thoughts and feelings onto the page.  Next, I put in a funny movie and laughed a lot before calling some friends for much-needed consoling.  Finally, I went to the beach and walked while taking photographs.  By this time, my mind and body had calmed down, and I felt so much better.  Ultimately, I realized that it was important to do positive things that make me happy.

Stopping by home.  I want to make white chicken chili for dad. 

The text from Beth restarted all of the pounding tension.  He dropped them off to run to his hotel, and I helped the girls make the chili.  Before he returned, I left to get some dark chocolate for me.  Again, I needed something to calm me down, and food has long been a comforting presence in my life.  As I struggle with emotional eating, I did not want to turn to that during this crisis; however, I also did not want to turn to alcohol as alcoholism runs rampant in my family.  I ate half of the sea salt and almond dark chocolate bar, and on the way home, I stopped at Publix and walked to the alcohol section.  I stared at the Corona Light for a long time; an employee asked if I needed help.  I didn’t want to buy a six-pack of beer because I knew I’d drink it all within a day or so, so I left without purchasing anything. 

When I returned home, they were talking, so I said that dinner was ready and dished up.  I sat at the table, and Beth sat down with me. 

“I don’t want us all to sit at the table together,” Devin said.  “It’s not a good idea.  It’s too confusing to have us all there.”

So, Beth carried her bowl out to the patio, which is directly across from the dining room table.  I picked up a book to read at the table and sat alone as M and Devin dished up and sat outside with Beth.

“Devin, I’m not really comfortable with this.  I don’t think it’s fair to your mom,” M said.  I didn’t hear Devin’s reply, but I told them not to worry about it.

“Since you’re allergic to cats, I’m really okay with the three of you sitting outside to eat.”  Yes, it was extremely awkward, but finally, it was over. 

Again, they were all gone, and again, I couldn’t calm down.  I didn’t know what to do.  I stretched and took some deep breaths.  I wrote.  I watched TV.  Nothing helped, and all I wanted was a beer. 

I drove back to Publix and called a friend on the way.  As I paced outside of Publix, right before their closing time, she cautioned me against using alcohol to dull my emotions.  “Get a good night’s sleep.  If you need to, grab some Melatonin to help you sleep and then go to bed early.”  I bought Melatonin and went back home to watch Hungry for Change, which was inspiring and soothing.  At 11:30, I popped a pill and was out by midnight.

Two other times during my time “alone,” the girls stopped by to grab something, and every time I experienced the gathering storm of agitation and had to find things that helped me release and quiet my mind and body. 

I hope I never feel that raw again, but now I have strategies and activities that I know help me survive.  Now, I remember to stop and look at how far I’ve come and all I’ve accomplished alone.  Snip, another string, hopefully the last one connecting us, is gone, and I stand strong.

To Be Continued...

(Check back tomorrow for the next part)

All I wanted...

          When you are hurting, sad, or depressed, what helps you feel better?  Where do you go? What do you do?  What about when it’s your children who are in pain?  In her essay, “Bombs Bursting in Air,” published in a The Longman Reader, Beth Johnson discusses the dilemma parents feel between the desire to protect our children from the inevitable “bombs” in life and the need to teach them how to handle these unwelcome explosions.  How do you do that when the devastation is something that both parents and children face together?

Part One:  All I wanted…

          My ex visited our daughters during the first part of spring break this year.  The first I’d seen him in over two years, and the first time I’d seen him since our divorce was final in December, I did not handle it well.  I was a live wire of pulsing raw energy.  He was all smiles and political politeness, as if saying, “Hey, isn’t it so great now that we are divorced and we can be best friends and everyone’s happy.”  As if the world approved of his actions and smiled down on him.  Usually not much of a drinker, all I wanted was to pound a beer.  Either that or pound the smile off of his face.  I needed something to take the edge off and didn’t know what to do.  After arming myself with makeup and my best outfit, I drove to meet them at the Avenue.  It was the only night we planned to hang out together as he’d just arrived in town after not seeing the girls since summer and I wanted to see the Hunger Games with the girls the first time too. 

I’d encouraged them to start dinner without me.  On the way, I dialed my best friend who said, “The only thing that works for me is a shot of tequila straight up.  Or valium.”  So, I took a deep breath and walked into Pizza Gallery, and there he was.  He looked exactly the same and yet somehow different…maybe more at peace.  They were all three eating pizza.  Beth had saved a slice of the gluten-free, dairy-free for me, and Devin had ordered me a cup of chicken Tuscany soup.  All I wanted was a beer.  I sat down and greeted everyone.  The girls glowed from fatherly attention, though Devin looked a bit anxious.  Nervous tension vibrated throughout my body, so I excused myself and went to the bar. 

My anxiety spiked until we were all sitting in the theater, spread among a few aisles.  I thanked God for the huge turnout.  Even though we’d arrived thirty minutes early, the room was packed, and we were lucky to find seats for Beth and her friends to sit with M and Devin and our friends to sit with us.  The movie enthralled us, and I was happy to lose myself in the story for a couple of hours. 

Afterwards, I just couldn’t do it anymore, so I decided to forgo Redberry’s frozen yogurt and told them I’d meet them at home.  I’d offered for the girls to stay in the hotel with him, but they weren’t ready to that night.  For whatever reason, they wanted the comfort of their own bedrooms.  For me, that meant my ex in my house when he dropped them off.  For me, it meant prolonged torture of the hammering energy.  The girls showed off their cats and rooms.  Finally, he left, and the girls talked to me about the excitement of seeing their dad again, about the intensity of the movie, about the confusion of their dad being in what has been only my house, my town.  And, Devin also expressed some anxiousness about opening up to her dad only to say goodbye again in a few days.  After listening to them and helping them work through their emotions, I fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning he arrived early and came in to wait while the girls finished getting ready.  I decided on a good night’s sleep over the armor of makeup, and I felt naked. Thank God I’m not married to her anymore with her lounging around the house like that.  Beth packed the lunch I’d bought her, and I took my morning vitamins.  Devin dressed in her room, and he paced the hallway across the bar from us.  Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; look at the Craig's List furniture and hand-me-downs.  I handed Beth her vitamin drink, and she made a face while drinking it.

“Why are you making that face?” He asked her.

“I don’t like it.”
“Then why are you drinking it?”

“Cause Mom’ll be mad if I don’t.”

Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; she’s such a mean bitch and tries to control everyone and everything.  Like the narrator in Edgar Allen Poe’s ”The Tell-Tale Heart,” I could hear the ticking of the “heart” of our 19-year marriage—I could hear the noise, building louder.  Louder.  Louder.  Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; she’s so big.  Faster.  Faster.  Faster.  Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; she takes all my money. The ticking increased.  Louder, louder, louder. Thank God I’m not married to her anymore.  It was all in my head, in my body.  A chaotic mass of throbbing pressure that all equaled me:  unwanted.  Discarded.  Not enough.  Nine o’clock in the morning, and all I wanted was a beer.  

To be continued...

(Check back tomorrow for the next part!!)

Truth is...

April 4, 2012

          Rollo May maintains that “It is easier in our society to be naked physically than to be naked psychologically or spiritually.”  All of those things take courage, but most importantly, they take facing and living in truth. 

          Last week, two true artists passed away, leaving the world a little dimmer.  I first met Adrienne Rich, through her writing, during a Women’s Lit class for my MFA in creative non-fiction where I discovered feminism for the first time in my early thirties.  She taught me to “re-vision” and “understand the assumptions in which we are drenched” and to “know” myself.  Her ideas, her words sprouted like seeds tossed into fertile ground, and two years later, we met again during my final semester at Murray State University.  That January residency, we read and discussed her essay, “Women and Honor:  Some Notes on Lying,” and her words bloomed into a tree of knowledge as I realized my life was a lie.  

January 2009:  On a blustery, lonely evening in Murray, Kentucky, we gather in a room at the Holiday Inn to read Adrienne Rich, revise our work and, more importantly, converse.  

          “I don’t like it,” C says as she lies on the bed, the book on her stomach, eyes closed.  “It’s too abstract.”

          “I loved it.  The ideas in it have been swirling in my mind for two days now.”  In an easy chair, I pore over the words on my laptop.

          C tosses the book on the bed, “I don’t know what to write about.”

          “Me either.  I can’t see any images.  I’ve written a bunch of disjointed thoughts—like these in the book—the white space—philosophical.”

          C swings her legs over the side of the bed and turns to me, “It’s about lying.”

          I nod, wondering where she’s going with it.

          She grabs the book and reads “Liars use silence” before tossing it aside.  “That’s not the passage K assigned, though.”

          “I don’t think she’ll care; if something else comes to you, then write it.”

          C crosses to her computer, sits and stares at the screen.  “I’ve got nothing.”

          “I keep thinking about that void.  What is it really?  Here’s what I have so far:

The liar fears the void; truth is we’re all liars.  Someone asks, “How are you?” and you answer, “Fine” while your mind screams.  What my husband told me today is unbearable.  You can never tell anyone about that pain, so you bury the shame and try never to look at it again. 

“I tell it like it is, tell people what I think of them,” my birth dad once told me.  “If I don’t, I drink, and I’ll die.”  The void, that dark nothing suffocates.  James Joyce wrote about people trapped in horrible lives unable to escape because their denials and illusions hold no room for “the polished mirror.”  Ensnared in a body I despise ….”   

I wince at my writing.

C paces the room, turns off the football game.  “Remember at dinner what Caitlin said?  The void is what we avoid.”

“Yeah, the void, the unnamed within.  The void, the emptiness.  What we avoid and attempt to escape is part of the void.  Still crap.  Last night, K talked about how we use things—food, liquor, busyness, TV, jobs, sex—to avoid the void.  But we’re still just lying to ourselves.”

C returns to the bed.  “I can’t think of any details.  I can’t see anything.  It’s pissing me off.”

“Me, too.  I want to not lie anymore.”

“That’s it.”

I look at her, waiting.

“That’s what I have to write about.  I’ve hated living in Nashville and lied about it to the people there.  You just slapped me in the face with that thought.”

“Happy to help.”  Our laughter echoes in the room as I type.  “Listen to this:

I want to say I will never lie again, not to others and definitely not to myself.  But that would be a lie.  I could say that my intention is to never lie again, but that, too, would be a lie.

Still, I am a seeker of truth, a pilgrim searching for the light of understanding.

Now I sound like a preacher.”

C scoots back on the bed, reclines against the pillow.  My mind continues to churn.  I see words like truth and lie and void.  Something hovers below the surface.  Unsettled, I fidget.  My mind rests on something C said to me earlier.  I look at her and say, “C, you just slapped me back.” 

Back in my plain, depressing, white dorm, I write this conversation.  Only later can I write what I don’t want to touch. “Your family wants you to lie,” C had said.

My family wants me to lie.  At ten, I was badgered until I admitted to stealing, hiding, the phone.  I didn’t take the damn phone, but I did take the punishment.  I just wanted to be left alone. 

My family wants me to lie.  For sixteen years, my parents kept silent.  At sixteen, they finally told me the truth.  I grew up not knowing that the man I called dad wasn’t my biological father.  My childhood equals void.  Too much I cannot see. 

My family wants me to lie.  Now in my thirties, my marriage is falling apart.  My mom tells me to submit to this man who will, in her religion, be my husband in God’s eyes for the rest of my life.  Another family member tells me to respect my husband who will then, miraculously after seventeen years of marriage, respect me.  My husband tells me we’re divorced in his mind but he’s not leaving, so we live as a married couple, miserable and fighting.

My family wants me to lie.  Patterns of lies weave into a web of self-deceit.  I lie to myself.  I deserve this.  It’s all my fault.  If only I tried harder. 

Wrapped in layers of lies, I couldn’t see reality.  Truth is…my life is a lie.

Once I wrote those words in 2009, I knew change was necessary.  “The unconscious wants truth,” Rich shared, and more than anything, I discovered a love for truth.  Sometimes it is difficult to see, and other times, I don’t want to face it.  But always, for me, speaking truth keeps me (somewhat) sane and alive…breathing.

Now I type this in my condo in Florida, the first place I have ever paid for on my own.  The first time I have ever had a room of my own.  I am a divorced woman, starting over in a new place, raising two teenage daughters alone.  I work hard teaching and tutoring, and I have met some amazing people.  I live ten minutes from the Atlantic Ocean and love seeing the sun shine most days.  These small details are part of my current truth as I piece together a new path. 

          Thank you, Adrienne Rich, for helping me to recognize the lie my life had become.  I am still cleaning up the messes from living those lies, but I am doing it.  And part of that process is getting to know me.

I didn’t know Harry Crews as well as Rich…I only met him in his documentary, The Rough South of Harry Crews, during my last residency.  Immediately, he stood out as someone who spoke only truth.  No matter what.  "If you're gonna write, for God in heaven's sake, try to get naked. Try to write the truth. Try to get underneath all the sham, all the excuses, all the lies that you've been told," he said.  And, "A writer's job is to get naked, to hide nothing, to look away from nothing, to look at it. To not blink, to not be embarrassed by it or ashamed of it. Strip it down and let's get to where the blood is, where the bone is."  Where is the blood?  Where is the bone?  Where are the dark places that I don’t want to see?  For now, I am open. 

Thank you, Harry Crews for your willingness to dive into the dark heart and share what you saw.  As I clear up the lies and burn away what is false, I begin to see and speak truth.  I begin to know who I am.

Although all of this is scary, it is also freeing, which is what keeps me delving back into places I don’t want to go.  It is what keeps me asking, “What do I not want to see today?”

Are you able to see and speak truth?  How are you living your truth today?

Chrysalis

A long time ago, Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Whether a blessing or a curse, this philosophy is a mantra that I have always lived, and I first remember hearing it as a quote from a childhood literary hero, Thoreau. The oldest of ten children, I found it so romantic that he built a cabin in the woods and lived in solitude.

I grew up on an Angus beef farm in the Bible-belt of the Ozark Mountains, and I loved nature so understood the part about living in the forest, surrounded by trees, birds, berries, creeks, flowers, vines, and wildlife. That I could do. However, I didn’t know anything about solitude.

I was never alone.

With all my younger siblings tripping around, I was constantly surrounded. Sure, I escaped into books all the time, David Copperfield and Jane Eyre two of my comforting companions.

Yet, I was completely alone.

Alone in a family where I was the caterpillar in an ant hill. Alone in that I didn’t have anyone to talk to other than Anne, my diary that I named after both Anne of Green Gables and Anne Frank.

Still, I didn’t understand living in solitude, choosing it, and considered being alone the same thing as lonely. Now I am learning that they are two very different things.

More importantly, I’m learning that not only is it important to examine my life but that it is just as important to “live the questions” as Rumi said.

As a recently divorced, working mother, my life is a mess. In some ways that is terrifying. However, I am learning from the caterpillar; while protected by the outer shell during the chrysalis stage, the caterpillar is a mass of chaos as it recreates and transforms into the butterfly. For a time, the caterpillar is a literal mess, but that stage is vital to its metamorphosis, crucial to its future.

So, I am embracing the mess. While I recreate and transform my life in all areas, I will live the chaos.

Are you struggling with something similar? How are you living your chaos?