Smile :)

We are told to never give up hope; that there is always some glimmer of a chance that the universe will cast its favor upon you. Within a week I have gone from hopefully optimistic to devastated and to resolve.In this moment I feel absolutely ridiculous for making this an issue. Earlier today it was my focus and heartache.

Sixteen years ago I woke up with half of my face paralyzed; Bell's Palsy. Nothing serious. After five weeks and medication my face returned to normal. A month later; Bell's Palsy. Instead of getting medication that would correct my facial paralysis I endured months of tests just to confirm that it was only... Bell's Palsy. Unfortunately, the left side of my face never fully recovered, resulting in my crooked smile. I was told that I would just have to live with the face that I was now graced with. I never fully accepted it, but hey, what do you do?

And then there was last week. I was in my doctor's office for a routine check-up. He mentioned my face which instantly made me self conscious. In a conversational tone he suggested that there may be treatments available now that were not available 16 years ago. I was still sitting there overly self-aware that he had noticed my lopsided face.After I left his office the wheels started turning. What if I could have a normal smile? What if I could feel pretty?

So I flew into my typical Type A mode: research, more research, referral to neurologist, appointment made. It normally takes a month to get an appointment, but the heavens had smiled down on me in the form of a cancellation. My appointment was today. Surely this was a sign or karmic repayment.

I walked into the doctor's office with hope and left in tears. She could not help me. I was broken. I moped around in a sea of self-pity. I acted as if I had been given a fatal diagnosis.

Only after a proper pity party did I gain clarity; I hadn't lost anything. I was still a healthy human being with a crooked smile. The same person that I was a week ago and years before. I was given a gift hidden in my imperfection. I placed entirely too much value on appearance. Not of others, but only for myself. I wouldn't dare speak to another person in the tone of my own personal monologue.

So I am back to reality. I have temporarily regained my sanity. Priorities have been reshuffled to the proper order. I am giving up hope; giving up the hope that I will have a "normal" smile, but very grateful that I have something to smile about.

  And I feel a little bit stupid...

Phyllis

My one true constant, my role model, my security, my Phyllis.
She was more than an aunt. To call her my "aunt" negates the magnitude of her impact on my life. With no children of her own, she nurtured me with everything she had.

As a child I did not appreciate the level of her generosity. She picked up walnuts to earn enough money to buy me a winter coat. She wore yard sale clothes to afford clothing for me. Phyllis dedicated her life to building me up where others had torn me down.  I must have seemed like a never-ending project; in constant need of repair and reassurance. She showed me how to "fake it till you make it"; look like you have it together even when you are falling apart.

I had no idea how beautiful she really was. Behind those dark eyes and red lipstick was a person who placed everyone's needs before her own. She was my family's glue. She held us together; making sense out of the whole mess.My attempt to replicate her sentimentality is a cheap knock off.
 
How do you commemorate a soul so giving and kind; the type of person who would pack Paul's newly restored hot rod with the outcasts of society, in hopes of getting them to attend church? The one who was the first to gather a care package for families who lost their home in a fire. Or the woman who sat and cried with me while we watched a telethon about starving children in Africa, for which we gathered every cent we could find in order to call in a pledge. Looking back, she knew that our small donation would probably never even reach those in true need, but she had taught me to do what I can, where I am.

When she became ill and disease robbed her body of grace and dignity; erased her glamour and forced her to rely on others for the simplest of tasks, she was still my Phyllis. When old friends stopped coming to see her, she was given the heartbreaking gift of realizing who her true friends were. The one who would come to her to cut her hair and let her still feel like Elizabeth Taylor, if only for a moment. The ones who would bring Paul food so she didn't have to worry that he was getting to eat a decent meal.

There are things that I have done that I know would have disappointed her greatly: my choice to not indoctrinate my children with religion. She would have given me the silent treatment till I complied. Her guilt would have been the only guilt that would have worked on me. You're welcome, kids.

In her last week before she died, I believe she willed herself to continue breathing until I could be with her; so she could hear me say "I love you" one more time. I believe that she visited me as she was leaving this world, however hokey that is. I've never grieved anyone or anything as I have Phyllis. I'm so thankful that I did not have to find out how my life would have turned out without her. She taught me compassion and how to love without condition. She taught me to be generous even when I had little to give.

So I bake her giant chocolate chip cookies. I prefer my hair to be big and my lips to be red. I love Gone With the Wind and the smell of books.Unfortunately for me, I did not inherit her stunning beauty, but I take it as the highest compliment when told that I am like her.I make a feeble attempt to honor her with who I am becoming. Her legacy, for me, was life-saving. I am a ripple .

Chapter One

I wrote this in August 2015 and posted it on Facebook. I wanted to share this for those who are stepping into my story mid-chapter.

I am not a blogger so this will probably be the longest post that you will have to endure from me. This is not for sympathy or pity; exactly the opposite. My intent is to encourage and empower those out there who are like me: you keep moving, keep doing for others, all the while neglecting you. Only those closest to me know of my struggle with depression and anxiety. I can put up a brave front while I am dying inside. I stay in constant motion as to not give in to the luxury of depression. Of course, much of what I go through is chemical, but the majority is from my past. If letting go were easy it would have been done years ago, but there are certain events that engrave a cavern in the soul that cannot be erased; words and actions that infiltrate DNA and become attached to the very essence of who we are.

Days of depression turn into a lifetime: a lifetime of coping in the most convenient ways for the ones that I love. My biggest hurt was to think that my family would have to feel the pain and self-loathing that I had for myself which is in no way a reflection of them or their love for me. I allowed my personality to disappear into an imaginary persona that would be pleasing to everyone; no real likes or dislikes, just complacency.

During a really difficult time in my struggle, I had an old friend tell me “you are a warm shining lantern in a dark dense forest.” I had always thought that I was the forest. How was I conveying light? I slowly started to realize that my situation was not unique. So many others feel the same way that I feel; like the forest. But to this person, I had shown an ounce of kindness that helped them through that moment. How often do we discount our actions? How many times do we underestimate the power of caring?

Since that time, I have done some deeply painful soul-searching. I have grieved the “what could have beens” and given thanks for what life has so undeservingly blessed me with. I have become more deliberate with praise and much more generous with hugs. I have vowed to be present in mind, not only in body. I’m working on finding out who I really am, and hoping that it is someone that others can accept and love, but more importantly, someone that I can love.

I chose this tattoo as a constant reminder; that I am a warm shining lantern in a dark dense forest.

I Am Not a Licensed Therapist...

In the middle of trying to finally take responsibility for myself and get my shit together, I came up with this great idea to write; not only write, but to blog and share my Crazy with the general public. I mean really, do most of you come up with your very best ideas at 4 a.m.?Yeah, me neither.
While my brain is spewing words via my fingertips, I have complete tunnel vision. My intent is to get this out of me! If I speak it, I own it, it does not own me. I really didn't think that very many people would care enough to read my ramblings. I was wrong. I've been wrong before.

I knew that there would be gawkers; those who really do not have a personal investment in me and who would read for entertainment or who would see my pain as amusing. After all, this is a blog. It is not a private message sent between close friends. I hung my granny panties on the clothes line for the world to see.Judge like you are sitting on the Supreme Court.  My give-a-shit is broken.

There were those who got it; who started putting together the pieces of the puzzle.  Those who looked past the mask that I'd been wearing for 30+ years and saw the unedited version of Me. There were friends who have known me from the beginning of my life who did not have a clue of what was happening behind closed doors. Hell, I have family that didn't know and some who are still happily oblivious.

And then there were the private messages and texts from women who had lived and fought through the same ugliness. I had opened a confessional. I held the "Master Lantern" to guide someone out of the cave of loneliness and darkness housing her self-hate and humiliation. My initial reaction was shock. Then I wanted to help everybody, but in the same breath:Panic. I am such a mess!  How can I be of use to anyone when I can't get a hold on myself?

Then a shining ray of light illuminated my angelic face and wisdom was bestowed upon me... Just kidding.

Then I took a deep breathe and had an actual, rational thought. People are not looking to me for answers or to solve their catastrophes.  They are searching for someone who has weathered the storm and made it out alive. They needed to be reminded that shitty things happen to all of us and that they can be honest with themselves and other. They are needing a flawed person to hear their story and to not judge them for it. I can do that!

Secrets...

A hallway covered in grooved linoleum paved the path to what would become my personality, my insecurities, and my self-image; a narrow corridor containing the doors to hell and only one for escape.  The perfect setting for recurring nightmares to invade my dreams; only one way to leave, but the door was always locked.  The second door on the left opened to a bathroom.  The décor was distinctive, 1970’s trailer house.  The tub, sink and toilet were avocado green.  The walls were paneled with gold flowers.; mass-produced shit with no individuality besides the occurrences contained in that metal box of a house.

This is where my childhood ended as quickly as it had begun; where I lost the beauty of being an innocent who knew nothing of the differences in human bodies, who felt that adults were supposed to protect kids. This is where I learned that nobody really wants to hear your story because then responsibility would be placed on them to act. How inconvenient and messy that would be. Just shut up and take it, no one really cares about you. Piece of shit, piece of shit, piece of shit….

So I became a carpenter. I built walls. My own shelter of protection and self-preservation. I began with my body. I put on an armour of fat; creating bulk between me and the world. Men don’t like fat girls so if I constructed a wall of unappealing flesh then I would be safe. Sugar became my drug of choice; the heroin of fattys.  It could make me comfortably numb while achieving my goal of self-destruction.

I built a wall of silence. I only spoke of things that others wanted to hear, wanted to know about me. After all, who would want someone so damaged and foul? I must become someone who deserves to be loved. So I will shut my mouth and be pleasant. Pleasantly generic and compliant.

I then constructed a giant wall of wit and sarcasm. I was always a warrior on guard for the next blow. I could counter attack with a creative insult or figurative gut punch that would stop a bully in his tracks. I had discovered that you could take another human’s weakness and turn it into a weapon. In striking the first blow, my opponent didn’t stand a chance. I never accepted a compliment because, frankly, everyone is lying and just waiting for me to put my guard down so they can torture me.

I don’t remember my breaking point; the actual moment that I decided that I could not live this anymore. It is not a date I can point to on the calendar, but rather a frame in my life when I began speaking honestly to myself. I stopped making excuses and decided that I was going to have to reconstruct who I am; building on truth and honesty, finding out what I am actually made of. It has been an adjustment for me as well as for others. I am sure that some people prefer the old me; generic, compliant, fat. Yes, that is a more pleasing combination. It is often easier to stomach than opinionated, liberated and strong.

But I choose to no longer be a victim, to find out who I am and nurture that person. I don’t have to hide my “secret” that I had no control over. I am working on forgiving and letting go of anger towards those who did not protect me and those who turned a blind eye to what was so obviously happening to me. I want to create worth in myself that comes from a pure place. No one else has to see it. I will know when it’s there.

Good Enough

In the first 40 years of my life I cannot remember a time that I felt "good enough."  Good enough to be loved unconditionally, good enough to play sports, good enough to have friends, good enough for, well, most anything. This self-doubt had seeped into my brain and set up camp. It must've happened before my first actual memories; before confidence could be constructed. You know that shameless, self confidence that you see in children? I never had that. I have always been overly aware of myself.

The little family jokes about my shortcomings still ring in my head: you can't throw a baseball, you run funny, you are lucky to have any friends who will put up with your fat ass. I'm sure in the moment, these comments seemed harmless, but with repetition they became truth. I have been surprised when I have had successes in my life, almost as if it were an anomaly. I felt that I was only worth what I could provide for someone else.I still struggle with this. I question whether or not my motives for good deeds are pure or just a way of validating my worth. Maybe a touch of both.

When my kids were younger, my husband Andy and I loved to play baseball with them.  We turned our yard into a poor excuse for a baseball diamond; complete with a lopsided pitcher's mound. One evening as we were playing ball, Caleb who was 9 or 10 asked me, with childlike innocence, why I threw funny. I immediately put up my guard but caught myself before I became defensive. I told him that that is just how I throw the ball. I also shared with him that I never had anyone show me how to throw correctly, but rather I was just made fun of.

The next day Caleb asked me if I wanted to go outside and play catch.  I was busy with something so unimportant that I cannot even recall it now.  I made an excuse of why I couldn't make the time to play with him. He persisted and I started to get short with his refusal to take no for an answer. He said, "I want to show you how to throw so no one never makes fun of you again."

 The compassion that came from my own child was more than I had ever been shown.  He probably does not even remember that day or that he made such an impact on me. But, through his innocence I saw someone who loved me and didn't want the world to hurt me.Maturity is finally catching up with me and I have become kinder to myself. I see life through more loving eyes and a softer filter. I am trying to be more forgiving of my faults and to change the ones that actually matter. I am becoming good enough.

So, Here We Go

I’ve know for a long time that I am a woman driven by written words. The tangibility of feelings expressed in print speaks to me much deeper than oral verbiage.  When words are visible they paint a reality that is not comparable with any other form of communication.

While sitting on the deck at my sister’s lake house, having a few too many and singing at the top of our lungs, she encouraged me to put pen to paper and write. Our primary form of communication has been through email for the past several years. I write her stories of my life’s happenings of which she shares with her husband and co-workers. She helped me see that I really do tell a pretty damn good story.  I have to fight the urge to jump straight to the point, but rather let it marinate for a time; seasoning the plot with detail and direct content.

I will add this disclaimer: this blog will be honest and reveal my true self as well as my opinions. If you are unwilling to see me as I am and would rather stick with the 2D image, please read no further. I will not attempt to sugar-coat life as in a Facebook post knowing it will be read by all of my small town acquaintances.  This blog is the real me: the struggles, the inspirations that I find, my story. It is more for me and my word infatuation than anything else.  Writing the story releases the pain.  It frees my soul from the burden of lugging the baggage of circumstance.

This is about to get real.