I recently turned a milestone age, although, people tell me I don’t look a day over forty!  (However, my daughter recently turned forty – but she still looks twenty!)  I guess age is relative and “you’re as young as you feel,” so to speak.

Anyway, I have been cleaning out and organizing boxes that have been stored in the corner for several years.  They hold scrapbooking items, memorabilia and pictures.  It was during this rather large and daunting project of cleaning and organizing these things that I turned sixty.  I realized what a huge milestone age this is. The age, along with the project helped me view my life chronologically and to realize that, as John Denver sang “It’s been a good life after all.”

I have found a lot of treasures that I had forgotten I had… letters from my mother, aunts, great-aunt, my grandfather’s coin purse, letters from old friends who have since passed away, remnants of my childhood, my children’s childhood, grandchildren, concert tickets, wedding pictures, and cards galore! I’m not really a hoarder, but I am sentimental and there are just some things I can’t seem to part with.  I realized that  I don’t have a lot of regrets, though, and there are a lot of things that have happened in my lifetime that I wouldn’t change for all the money in the world.

As I have been reflecting, I realized that through every stage of our lives there is baggage.  Good and Bad.  We are either accumulating new baggage, metaphorically speaking, or getting rid of old baggage.  Sometimes we are doing both at the same time.  These bags make up our lives and it’s up to us to figure out which bags to keep and which ones to leave behind.

I have been at a stage in life for several years where I have been unpacking old bags, leaving items strewn along the path behind me as I go.  This includes stuff, people, thoughts, feelings, and beliefs.  It takes effort to unload bags in order to get rid of meaningless things, meaningless experiences, people who have come and gone, in order to find peace and contentment in life.  Some of these bags have been very heavy and hard to let go of.

There are still some bags that I continue to hold on to, because I can’t seem to loosen the grip I have on their handle.  They are old, tattered and worn, yet I still cling to them because they are the hardest to let go of.  (My mother’s shrill voice telling me that I did something wrong, when I was only trying to do my best.  The look in my father’s eye when I did something shameful.)  Some of these hurts and pains rear their ugly heads in the strangest places, which is why I am determined to unpack these bags and leave them along the side of the road.  They are not serving me well and I have been carrying them far too long.  Let’s face it, they are the bags that hold the old smelly socks and crusty underwear and seem to be the ones I carry with me constantly.  Frankly, they’re getting a little rank.

On the flipside, I am also accumulating some shiny new baggage such as my unrecognizable body and it’s alien-likeness with it growing things where they shouldn’t grow, spreading out where it shouldn’t spread, and sagging where it shouldn’t sag.  These are bags I didn’t know existed, but even though it’s different and new to me, I wouldn’t change it.  This body has taken me through this wonderful life with its ups and downs and it will continue with me until my last breath.

The most memorable and valuable bags that I will hold on to forever are the small, simple, beautiful, soft velvet bags of love, laughter, and joy in life’s precious moments.  These are the days my children were born, the day I got married to my very committed husband, walks on the beach with my daughter, big bear hugs from my son, grandchildren’s giggles and jokes, laughing with friends, late night talks with my husband which end in laughing half the night, and hearing guitar practice in the next room.  These are the bags that I have a tight grip on because they will stay with my soul through eternity.

It’s time to keep a tight grip on the bags that bring me joy, and time to unpack and stop clinging to the bags that drag me down.  It’s time to let go and lighten the load!

I really hate being fat!  There.  I said it.  Out loud.  Now that I’m older, it’s worse.  I just can’t move as well as I used to and carrying around this extra weight seems ridiculous!

I have struggled with weight virtually all of my adult life, but have yet to find the reason my body chooses to hang on to every morsel of food, for days it seems, until every tiny little nutrient and fat gram has been stored in my body somewhere.

Most likely I have my dad to thank for his genetic contribution, because I am fairly certain it wasn’t my mother.  Her family was all very small, petite and thin.  I can’t remember any of them that ever had an issue with weight.  My dad’s side of the family, however, was tall, solid, and just plain big boned “good stock.”

I have looked at my weight from a physical perspective, an emotional perspective, and a behavioral perspective and have yet to figure it out.  There are not a lot of answers that I have found that really work for me and it’s just plain frustrating trying to think about diets and food all the time.  I’d rather be out doing something or taking a nap than counting and writing down every bite of food that goes into my mouth.  I’ve tried it all.  Diet, exercise and whatever else is the latest and greatest and the weight still hangs on.  My body must think that I am preparing for the next ice age or something because it just won’t leave and every diet ends in failure and me the same size.

In spite of all the failures, it hasn’t all been in vain.  I have learned a few life lessons along the way…

1) Diets don’t work in the long term.  They are not meant to be used forever, just long enough for you to lose weight then get back to a “normal” pattern of eating and a healthy lifestyle.  Diets give you guidelines to follow in order to lose weight and if you can follow them for any reasonable length of time, the pounds will come off.  When you stop “dieting” is the hardest time because you then need to make a choice.  You can either go back to your old lifestyle that made you fat in the first place, or make a lifelong commitment to eat better, more wholesome and life sustaining food.  (This may be where I’ve failed, because I do love my Cheetos and Diet Coke!)  I heard someone speak at a conference a few years ago who was explaining to the audience that she had lost over 90 pounds in the previous year.  She asked “Do you want to know how?” She said she’d be glad to share.  Man, you could have heard a pin drop in that room!  Her secret, she said?  “Stop eating junk!”

2) Your body is made to move and your muscles need exercise.  Otherwise, as you age, you start noticing a diminished look to the muscles with a few more sags, bags and wrinkles where they weren’t before.  Yes, I speak from personal experience.  What I had is gone and has been replaced with a squishy, gelatin like substance. (This is also known as “fluff”)  Since muscles support a lot of other things in the body, such as bones and tendons, pain creeps in where you never had it before.  So, I’ve taken it upon myself to join as many classes for “those over the age of 50” that can help me find some muscle again, while developing a little stamina, and gain balance.  It’s been working out well, but I feel like I’m in a bad movie scene in an old folks home.  You know the ones where they’re all walking around the room and moving in slow motion but breaking a sweat?  That’s me and all those other “over  50” folks in my class.  I can only laugh because by the time I get home I can hardly walk.  I do it, though, because my body needs it.

3) Our country is getting fatter and sicker every single day due to the poor food choices that we have available to us.  Just hang out at Wal-Mart sometime on a Saturday and you’ll see what I mean.  More and more people are getting heavier and heavier.  It’s almost rare to see someone who looks a normal size.  Sadly, a lot of young kids are included in my observations as well. Most of the choices we find in the stores are forms of processed food.  (No, really, Cheetos and Diet Coke are not food!) There’s  not a lot of “real food” in its natural state anymore.  You really need to read labels and be careful what you are buying.  I try to go with a list and be more conscientious about what I am buying but things still seem to sneak into the cart anyway.  I do try, really, to make the best choice I can.  If I can’t pronounce whatever is on the label, it stays on the shelf. (Well, maybe except for Cheetos)

4) Emotional eating is one of the triggers I have a difficult time with.  When you’re eating due to stress or trauma, sometimes you don’t even realize you are doing it. I developed a pattern of emotional eating at a very early age.  It’s “why” I eat, rather than “what” I eat.  I remember times when I ate a whole cake throughout the course of a day and can’t tell you why, other than it was there, available, and I wasn’t paying attention.  Sometimes I am on auto-pilot and eat to numb myself from pain and stress – whatever pain or stress comes to the surface.  It has been my mode of self-medicating for a very long time.

I have times when I struggle to identify the pain.  It’s rooted so deep that it’s hard to tell what emotion I am even feeling.  It takes a lot of getting silent and digging deep in order for me to figure it out.  I know some of it started when I was a young girl. My mom was pretty much “anti-fat” and condemned anyone who was overweight in her eyes.  She controlled everything I ate when I was around her.  I remember being forced on the “grapefruit diet” with her and my sisters when I was eight years old.  She always made dieting a competition between “us girls.”  The first one to lose ten pounds would be the winner.  Mom always won.  This developed in me a sense of shame around food and my body.  It was very damaging to my self-image.  I wonder what might have happened if she had taught “us girls” how to support each other rather than compete against each other?  I wonder if it would have made a difference in how I feel about my body now?

I remember my first “public shame” around weight.  I was in second grade.  It was time for all the students to get a health check with the school nurse.  We lined up in the hallway to be weighed, measured and have our eyes checked.  As I watched the students in front of me weigh, I realized that I was a lot heavier than most of them (we’re talking ten pounds…remember the solid, heavy genes?)   My mother continued to reinforce that shame during my pre-pubescent phase.  You know, the time when girls normally have a little extra weight?  She would constantly berate me and tell me that “no-one is going to like you if you’re fat” or that you need to have a “flat stomach” for people to like you.  In high school, as I reached my full height, I weighed in at 135 pounds.  Even though that was a pretty average weight and I wore a size 10-12, I was still badgered by my mother.  My non-flat stomach was too big for her eyes. (yes, I am good, solid stock!)  I honestly didn’t know who I was supposed to look like or what I was supposed to be.  I just knew that who I was and what I looked like was not good enough. Ever.

What I learned at an early age is that there is shame in eating and that if I wanted anything good to eat, I had to sneak it so I wouldn’t humiliate or shame my mother.  Yes, I still find some of satisfaction in sneaking food that I know is unhealthy.  It’s like I am still trying get away with it, somehow.  I’m making myself sick trying to make a point to my (now dead) mother that this is my body, my life, and I can do whatever I want with it.

I know that underneath, at the very core, there is a skinny little girl who was hurt and still angry.  A girl who never had a chance to have a voice or a say even when it came to her own body.  Someday that little girl will heal and understand that we only get one chance at having a body and it is our responsibility to care for it by eating right, exercising and making good food choices.  I know she’s in there somewhere and wants to come out and play because that’s what little girls do.

Maybe we should start with a game of hide and seek.  Counting down…ready or not, here I come!

This was written nearly a year ago…we still remain estranged from some of our kids and grandkids…I suppose the hurt ran too deep this time and not sure the wound will heal…

Reposting on my new website.

If anyone has ever been in a step-parenting situation, you have to know that it isn’t easy and in most cases it seems doomed from the start.  Divorce is really painful and tears you up inside.  You question yourself and your worth.  You wonder if you will ever get through the pain of rejection, feeling like a failure at marriage, and wondering if you will be “enough” for anyone ever again.  It isn’t easy and I don’t know if it’s worse than having a death of a spouse because I have never been through that, but you still go through an extremely painful grieving process.

When you finally meet that next “someone” you are a little more cautious and try to make a better decision about who you want to give your heart to.  You have to take EVERYTHING into consideration, including the children and make sure you are making the right decision.  You have to look at living arrangements, finances, how you will handle holidays, everything.  You have to go over it with a fine tooth comb over and over with each other before you commit again.  You have to be sure you’re not going to make another mistake and end up with yet another failed marriage.

When my husband and I met, we did all these things and made a decision to stick together no matter what.  That has made the difference in keeping our marriage together.  We made a commitment to each other first and foremost.  He promised to take me dancing every week so that we always had a special night set aside just for us so that we could talk and laugh and dance until our feet hurt.  He kept that promise until we got to the age when we had to start taking it easy due to health issues.  We still go as often as our health will allow because it brings back that spark again and a reminder that we are forever each other’s dancing partners.  This is what has kept our marriage intact (and a lot of communication).

It hasn’t always been easy, because what we have left in the wake of us taking care of each other first are five beautiful children who often felt neglected and hurt because we didn’t have enough time to go around.  Do we have some regrets?  You bet.  Would we do the same thing again?  You bet.  Putting the most important relationship in your life as a number one priority is not a mistake and who would we be as parents if we didn’t set the example for our kids.  You have to stick with it and it takes a lot of grit sometimes but you just keep going.

I’m not sure how to navigate through the hurt we have caused some of the children, though.   We have done the best we can while still trying to piece our lives together.   As I have pondered it, I have come to the conclusion that at some point, they need to learn to work through the pain just as I have had to do.  The hardest part is looking at yourself in the mirror and asking “What was my part in all of this? Did I do everything I could to make things better? Or did I let my hurt override everything and make it worse?”  I have learned that the road always goes both ways.  The phone lines go both ways.  One sided relationships don’t work.  Could we have done more with our children?  Yes, for sure.  Will it ever be enough?  Probably never.  When you take on an already broken family, it is sometimes irreparable.  You have to learn to take care of yourself first.  It’s hard to put a mirror back together once it’s been shattered.

So, you go through life doing the best you can with what you know and keep moving forward and hope that the pain that has been caused from the fracture is not passed on to the precious next generation.  My hope is that the future can shine a little bit brighter for these beautiful young ones.  That they can see hope and success in the future and not hate and pain.   It’s very difficult when you are hurting to not want to shout it from the roof tops, but these young ones need protection and they don’t need to take on other’s pain and suffering.  It’s hard enough growing up in this crazy world.

I know quite a bit about taking on the pain of an adult in your life.  My mother shared all her crazy stuff with me when I was growing up.  It took a toll on how I viewed the world and has taken years of working through it to get my head on straight and be a somewhat normal human being.  She was a narcissistic personality that viewed her world as it revolved around her.  Those in her world were her pawns to do her bidding.  This created in me a people-pleasing mentality that has gone on for years.  I was always worried about what everyone else thought or needed and put everyone but myself first.  I am not doing that anymore.  I have changed my dance from a waltz to a tango and when you do that, others don’t like it.  I had to do this because I have learned that I need to put myself first and those who truly know me and love me will continue to do so.  Those that don’t will be left out of my world because it’s not about them.  This is about me and my most precious relationship, my husband.  Life is a choice.  We don’t have to spend time with people who hate us or do not have our best interest in mind.  I am trying to surround myself with those people in my life who truly do love me and although my world is getting a lot smaller, it is richer.

What to do about the kids?  I can only hope they know that we all do the best we can at the time with what we know.  I know that after of having a love/hate relationship with my mother, I still loved her in the end.  I still respected the fact that she was my mother and she did the best she could.  I took away all the good things she was able to do for me in my life and left the bad.   She taught me how to sew, how to can and preserve food, to work really hard and how to be independent.  She wasn’t always there for me emotionally, but she was there.  I visited her often and learned to appreciate the things that she could give me and not dwell on the things she couldn’t.  I had respect for her in spite of all the hurt she caused me.  I treated her with kindness and dignity and went to a lot of therapy.  I never once wished her any ill will because in the end, she was still my mother and I loved her.

I can only hope that my children and grandchildren can learn from this.  Our family doesn’t have to be fractured if we can let go of expectations and accept who we all are.  It might be good to have a conversation once in a while just for fun, not because we want or need anything from each other.  We might just learn something about each other and learn that there’s a lot of love to go around if we give each other a chance.  I just want a little bit of respect and dignity for my husband and I and a civil conversation.  Simple as that because it’s not easy being a parent and it’s even harder being a step-parent.

The phone goes both ways.  Let’s talk.

This was originally posted in February 2016…now moved to my new website…Enjoy!

I listened to a free call from Geneen Roth this week on the subject of forgiveness. I absolutely love her and if you’ve never read any of her books, you need to. She, like many of us has struggled with food issues and has some really good insight about why we overeat. She also offers advice in the way of a simple strategy for overcoming it that has nothing to do with diets I, cutting back, or taking medication to lose weight.  Her philosophy gets down to the core reasons of why we overeat, which is filling a void or feeding our emotions. This is why I love her so much. She makes me feel like I can learn to love myself and accept myself without judgement.  She makes me want to be kind and gentle to myself. There seems to be some message I just didn’t get in childhood about loving myself. You know, the one that says “you are worthy of love just by being born?”  I never got that. So I struggle and am still working at it. It is a process.

The call, as always, was great!. It made me think about how I handle forgiveness, not necessarily of other people because that’s far too easy. I can forgive others, but I beat myself up for being human and for doing silly things myself. Then I keep beating myself up over and over again.  It’s like running over someone with a bus, backing up, then running over them again except that you are the one in the driver’s seat and also the one under the bus.

I was reminded of an incident that happened about fifty years ago (yes, 50) that I just can’t get past. It haunts me and rattles around in my head from time to time.  I have found that I don’t know how to process things if I don’t have closure and I never got closure on this. Perhaps the adults in the situation didn’t know how to handle it well, or maybe it just didn’t seem like a big deal. I have never forgotten it though, nor have I ever forgiven myself.

Here’s the story:

Once upon a time, there was a dark haired, hazel-eyed, very shy little girl of about age seven.  She lived on a farm with her parents and a lot of her brothers and sisters.  She was the youngest of all of them.  Some of her older brothers and sisters had moved away from home and, once in a while, would invite her to come over and stay for a few days or a week during the summer.  Although she was very shy, she liked going to visit because she loved her family very much and missed them all.  One summer she was visiting her oldest brother and sister-in-law.  They lived in the city where there was so much more to do than there was at the farm.  At least, more fun things.  Her brother already had three children who were very close  to her age so she liked to play with them. They played at the park, in their backyard, played games in the basement, or if there was nothing else to do, they went across the street to the neighbor’s house to play.  Their neighbor was about her age, had dolls and a playhouse and it was so much fun! 

One day, her sister-in-law told her about the popsicle man that comes around the streets to sell popsicles.  “You can hear him down the street, just watch and listen,” she said.  Sure enough, the tinkling sound of the truck was getting closer and closer.  She was fascinated by it all.  She had never seen anything like that living at the farm so she was so excited to try it!  She was given some money and took the three kids with her to buy popsicles.  The man saw them coming so he stopped the truck.  They went to the window and she asked the man for four popsicles then gave him the money she had in her hand.  She was a little nervous doing something new like this all by herself.  The man told her she didn’t have enough money for four popsicles, just three. She was very disappointed, but asked the three kids what flavors they wanted.  The oldest one asked for Root Beer, which was her favorite.  She started to hand the popsicles out, still disappointed that she wouldn’t get one.  Then she had a really bright idea!  Maybe she could split one with one of the kids!  She gave the two smaller kids theirs then told the oldest one they were going to need to share.  She broke the Root Beer flavored one in half thinking the sharing idea was brilliant.  Apparently she was the only one that thought so because he started to howl!  Then, as she ate her half she felt horrible and guilty for making him cry.  She kept eating but it didn’t taste as good as she thought it would. He cried all the way back to the house.  When they got back her sister-in-law asked what happened and he told her he didn’t get the whole popsicle.  She asked the girl “Didn’t I give you enough money?”  The little girl just responded with her head shaking side to side.  “No, there wasn’t enough.”  All she knew was that she had made her nephew cry and she felt horrible, guilty and selfish. 

I honestly have been trying to understand why I can’t let this go.  I was only a child, but I knew that I had hurt someone and made them cry and it hurt me very deeply.  I also know that I was taught not to be selfish.  Deep inside of me is a very clear message that everyone else’s needs matter more than mine, so when I hurt others I don’t handle it well.  I have tried for years to laugh things off, but sometimes things just aren’t funny and when you do things that hurt others, you need to apologize and make amends.  I just don’t know how to very well because that kind of behavior was never modeled for me at a young age.  It has been a struggle.  I seem to have this disconnect between being truly human and this utopian world in my head that says life is peaceful, everyone is happy, no one ever gets hurt and everybody plays nice.  It is true that everyone does the best that they can, with the knowledge that they have, and also when we know better, we do better.  I never make that allowance for myself, though.  I am hard on myself and the voices in my head are even harder.

So, where do I go from here?  Take a day at a time, do my best and learn to forgive myself.  Perhaps it would be good to have a conversation with my nephew and say “I’m sorry I made you cry.”  Or “I’m sorry I ate half of your popsicle.” Or even, “Let me know next time you are going to be in town and I’ll take you to Dairy Queen.  My treat!”  Then say to myself “It’s done, you did your best, let it go.”

I hope you enjoy my musings and share them with others.  I know my writing can be a little raw at times, but it is very therapeutic for me to write it out.  My wish is that it may inspire and help you to know you are not alone.  We all struggle with being human at times.  Peace, love, and joy.

Thank you for reading!

This was originally posted in June 2016…re-posting on my new website…Enjoy!

I sometimes feel like I have spent my whole life waiting for the shoe to drop, so to speak.  Life can be pretty crazy.  Just when you think things are going well and start sailing along, something happens.  The shoe drops and you have to re-adjust and find a new normal.  It’s been that way my whole life.  I’m the kind of person who likes a calm, easy going existence.  I want the fun to last forever.  That’s not always what life has to offer, however.  Life is messy.  It’s up then it’s down.  It is constantly changing and for someone who really despises change, it takes its toll on me.  It takes a while for me to get up to speed again and reach a point of acceptance.

Holy cow, it took me a good twenty-five years to accept the fact that my Dad had passed away and was never coming back.  It’s been almost three years since my mother passed and I still want to call her on the phone every weekend.  I suppose this is all normal for anyone going through the grieving process, but I want to get to the point in my life someday where I grab that shoe, hold it to my heart, and say “Yes! This is life and I love it!!”  You have to have sorrow and disappointment in order to appreciate the joy in life.  It’s not living if you are constantly going through life afraid of the shoe.  It’s not healthy living in fear that someone you love may be snatched away from you at any moment or that something you have may be taken away from you through no fault of your own.  (yes, I have these thoughts from time to time)

So, I have been giving a lot of thought to how to embrace the shoe.  I suppose I first need to find the right shoe.  My mother loved shoes!  My sisters and I had a contest once when we were cleaning my Mom’s house.  We had a bet going on how many pairs of shoes she had in her closet.  My bet was thirty-five and I was the closest to the actual number, thirty-seven.  Thirty-seven pairs of shoes!  Talk about literally embracing shoes!  My mother did it well and without apology.  One of her favorite things to do was to go shopping and invariably, end up in the shoe department.  She was always on a quest for the most comfortable and most stylish pair she could find.  It used to irritate me because I am the kind of person that has a few basic pairs – no more, no less than needed.  But my mother loved shoes!  I guess the lesson I can learn from that is to find what you love and go for it with gusto!

So, how does one find the right shoe for them?  I started by painting a picture in my mind.  Four inch stiletto heels smothered with large emerald cut diamonds, with a hue of deep ocean blue underneath.  Now that would be a beautiful shoe!  (not that I would wear it, because it would be very uncomfortable)  It’s a shoe, though, that I could embrace and a symbol of everything beautiful about life that makes it worth living.  It would be something that I could hang on to when I’m feeling low or smile and laugh at when I’m having a great day.  It could be a visual reminder to me that life can be a little “rocky” at times but it is also very joyous, beautiful and exciting.  It would be a shoe that I could hold to my heart and say “Yes! This is a great life!”  Even in times of sorrow and pain, because after you work through all the pain, there is joy at the other side.  That’s the way life is.

So, go out there and find your shoe!  Embrace it, love it, and nurture it.  Love that shoe for all you’re worth!   You are worth it!  Life is worth it!

This was originally posted in May 2016…I lost a lot of blog posts when I moved websites and am now re-posting them…Enjoy.

About a year ago I was struggling with something and asked a “close” friend for support and she couldn’t give it to me.  I took a step back from this friendship and gave it a hard look.  It was not a healthy relationship, it being more one-sided and off balance.  I was the designated giver and she the taker.   I was always the one doing the running errands or driving her where she wanted to go.  I was the people pleaser trying to make her happy by doing things that she wanted to do.  The minute I needed something from her, she dropped me like a hot potato.  I felt angry, hurt, and used.  Then felt confused about how I got myself into this situation in the first place.

As I took stock of myself and took a close look at my M.O. (modus operandi), I realized that I have always been attracted to needy people.   I have this underlying need to be needed.   I think my mother was much the same way.  She was always there for the underdog.  If you were struggling she would try to help.  If you weren’t struggling or she didn’t know about your struggles, you got ignored.  The squeaky wheel always got the grease in our family.  Maybe she and I aren’t so different after all.  I must have observed that behavior over and over and absorbed it as part of who I am. I honestly can’t say if it is my true nature, though.  I was always shy as a child but I think it was a survival mechanism rather than who I am.  I got shut down a lot and my needs never mattered. No one listened to me.  If I wasn’t told to be quiet, then I was told I was wrong.  I just couldn’t win so I just gave up trying and became a very shy little girl.  So now, I don’t know if my peacemaking is a natural part of my personality or a learned behavior.  I do know that it is the one thing that helps me to remain kind and have empathy for others.  It’s not a bad behavior to have unless your life is out of balance.

Co-dependency is not healthy.  When you give too much of yourself away, you start resenting those you are helping and it keeps you from learning how to take care of yourself.  This is something I struggle with.  It is awkward and makes me feel uneasy trying to put myself first after behaving just the opposite  for so long. I honestly can’t even comprehend how many hours I have spent taking care of others, how much money I have literally just given away to please someone else and how much doing all of that chipped away at my own self worth.  I’m not saying that helping others is wrong, but when you give up who you are in order to do it, then your own well-being is at risk.  You must take care of yourself first or you have nothing to give.  This is the state of mind I was in with my “friend” about a year ago.  I decided I needed to take a year off and have no interaction with friends for a year so that I could start taking care of myself and fixing the things inside me that needed fixing.  So, I kept my husband and children close, but let go of all others.

What have I done over the past year?  I finished a degree that I started over twenty years ago,   I read many books,  I started exercising so I could rehabilitate my back, I went to Sea World and spent precious time with my family.  I started dreaming again.  I dreamed about what my life could be if I started doing what would make me happy.  Who would be included?  Who would I exclude? Where would I live?  What would I do with the rest of these precious years I have left?  The answers are not simple, but they are ones that are bubbling up to the surface from deep within my soul.  This little shy girl is becoming who she wants to be and living the life that suits her.

Over the last month, I have re-connected with a few old friends.  You know, these are the kind of friends you have always looked up to and wished you could be like?  Those friends that previously intimidated me because I thought I could never be like them or have the self-confidence that they have.  Funny thing is, when you start a very authentic conversation with people, you hear their stories.  Their stories are very powerful and much the same as mine.  They struggle too.  A lot!  I believe though, the difference between people who are confident and people who are not, is evident in how they respond to their struggles.  They have the courage to ask for help.  They ask others for tools and are open to new ideas that may help them.  How do I know this?  I asked.  I wanted to know how they did it and they told me.  We connected.  I wanted to have a conversation to see what messages they got when they were young and  found out that their stories were not so different from my own.  The difference is that they found the tools they needed by loving themselves enough and having the courage to ask for help.  That’s what I’m learning to do too.   These “new” old friends of mine are the jewels in my crown and I am grateful they are in this world with me so that I know I’m not alone in my struggles.  They are priceless.

Now I have a new mantra.  It’s one I stole from the most recent Cinderella movie.  In the scene where she is getting her last message from her dying mother, she is told, “Have courage and be kind.”  That is what I tell myself every day.  It gives me strength to know I can have courage to take care of myself, have courage to ask for help, have courage to be who I am.  I only do things now that I want to do, only buy things that I absolutely love, surround myself with people and things that reflect who I am, and only share my deepest thoughts with people who I know who love me and have earned the right to hear my story.

Keep your life simple.   Have courage and be kind.

A few months ago, my niece, who has been teaching school in China for a couple of years, brought back a beautiful set of pearls for all her Aunties. (Those of us privileged enough to be her mother’s sisters.) The pearls were all different colors and unique for each of us. The sets included a necklace, a bracelet and earrings that were all genuine. You could tell from the shape and luster of each pearl that these were the real deal. They were heavy, not like the fake ones you get at department stores. They made me feel very special and I felt such gratitude towards her that she would think enough of me and my sisters to give such a beautiful gift.
I started reminiscing about my own “Aunties” and how, in even the simplest and smallest of ways, they made a big impact on my life. They probably had no idea that just by being themselves, they taught me a lot about life and living. In reality, they just came to visit a few times, or we went to visit them from time to time. In other words, we didn’t see each other very often, but knowing that I was a part of something more than my immediate family gave me a sense of connectedness.
I have to explain that I am the youngest child of a youngest child, so I didn’t know a lot of my relatives. All of my cousins were older, more the ages of my brothers and sisters. Also, most of my aunts and uncles lived a state away and we didn’t have many opportunities to see each other. So, when we did see each other, it was always a special experience. It was a chance for me to feel a part of my extended family and realize how much we were alike in many ways including how we think, act and look. Genetics definitely plays a part since we share the same DNA . We can live far away and still be so alike in many ways. This gave me a sense of belonging.
A few stories stand out in my mind and bring a smile to my face as I remember even some of the smallest acts of kindness and realize that these experiences and expressions of love have left a huge imprint on my heart in ways that helped shape me into the person I am today. They made me feel special, noticed and that I mattered.
One of my mother’s older sisters made a visit to Idaho once every blue moon. I call her my Tic Tac aunt because she introduced me to Tic Tac’s and always had them in her purse. She was always bubbly, excited and happy to see us. Her first husband, the father of her children, passed away fairly early in their marriage. I believe their kids were mostly grown, but she was still young enough to have a full life ahead of her. Consequently, she re-married and brought her new beau to meet the family. I honestly can’t even remember his name, but I remember her excitement and enthusiasm. We had to make a trip to town to go shopping and it happened to be right before a swimming party I was attending that evening. I wanted a beach towel so badly because all of the kids had beach towels, not just old bathroom towels that my Mom preferred I use in order to save money.  Me? I just wanted to fit in with my peers and avoid embarrassment. I begged my mother to buy me one but she just wouldn’t give in. My aunt, seeing my distress, told me to pick out the one I wanted and she would buy it for me. I was both relieved and excited. I used that beach towel for many years and thought about my aunt every time I used it. I kept it until it was ragged and torn. It was a good reminder that someone understood me enough to come to my aid in my teenage angst. A small gesture on her part created a long lasting memory that reminds me to be a little kinder, a little more thoughtful and treat people a little better no matter what your circumstances may be.
I remember my father’s oldest sister being the most gregarious.  We always stayed with her when we went to visit his old stomping grounds in Cache Valley, Utah. My paternal grandparents had passed away by the time I was five years old, so when we visited his sisters, hers was the place where we landed. Most of his sisters still lived close to home, so we made the rounds to visit, and then spent the night with her. She fascinated me. She was very opinionated, but also very kind and wise. She also had a dry sense of humor and you could always tell by the smirk on her face that she was kidding around. She wasn’t the sort of person to let anyone get away with anything, though. If she saw you doing something wrong, she would call you on it. She always said what was on her mind. (Probably where I get it from, which oft times gets me in the doghouse.) My mother didn’t always fully appreciate this trait in her, but I thought it was awesome. I remember her being very tall, strong, and talked with a little bit of a lisp. Her living room was home for a cuckoo clock that was downright fascinating. It is probably the reason I have one in my home today. I loved watching it and waiting for the little bird to pop its head out at the top of the hour.
Once when we were visiting her, we all ended up at a thrift store to have a look around. I was admiring an old necklace in the case and she came over and bought it for me. I was so thrilled! It was very unique and it cost less than a dollar but I wore it all during my high school years. I kept it for a really long time and one day started looking at it a little closer. Turns out it was an original Miriam Haskell necklace that was worth quite a bit of money. Miriam Haskell made costume jewelry from 1926 through the 1960’s. Her pieces are now considered vintage. I ended up selling this piece during a tough financial period, but I will always remember my aunt and the kindness and joy she brought to my life. She adored my Dad and I believe she adored this little niece of hers as well.
I suppose the take away from all this is that you never know how much a small act of kindness will affect someone. I believe we all have a genuine need to be loved, noticed and connected. The pearls I received from my niece were a good reminder that just a small simple act given freely from the heart can make a big difference in someone’s life. You never know, you may be the next one to brighten someone’s day.
Here’s to life’s little gems!!

This was originally posted in January 2016.  Re-posting on this site March 2017.

Let me begin by first saying that I loved my mother. She taught me a lot about how to be independent and self-sufficient and how to work hard. She suffered in life, though, from depression, paranoid delusions, and a narcissistic personality disorder. I know that she did the best she could with, most likely, the behavior that was modeled for her by her own parents and family. Despite all that she suffered, I turned out o.k. I am now trying to work through some of the more painful experiences in the only way I can, by writing. Once written, it seems, I am finally free of the pain and suffering. This is not meant as a ploy for sympathy, but as a release through artistic expression put out in the universe in the hopes that those suffering from bullying, low self-esteem, and/or emotional abuse will know you are not alone. Please help me help others who are being emotionally abused and help stop the cycle now.

 The Bee…a story

 Once upon a time there was a cute little dark haired, hazel eyed girl who loved to read, loved school, and was excited about learning anything new. She was like a sponge that swelled as she absorbed everything new that came her way. She was very good in school and got straight A’s most of the time and was extremely good at spelling. 

In 6^th grade, her class had a spelling bee competition and she was awarded first place. Then they had a competition between her class and the other 6^th grade class in her school and she was awarded first place again. It was amazing! She was so excited because she loved words and loved to figure out how to spell them. She really didn’t care about winning because competition and being in front of people made her very nervous. In fact, she was extremely shy and unsure of herself. Nevertheless, she always participated because she loved all of her teachers and did whatever she could to please them.

One day, her teacher announced that there was going to be another spelling bee with two other schools in the area and since she was first place in their school, she would be representing them at this competition. This made her very nervous because she would be spelling in front of a lot of people. She went home and told her mother, who immediately started to drill her on many very hard words in order to prepare her for this event.

The day finally came and this very scared little girl drove to the school with her parents.  The gymnasium was filled with people from all over the valley. Veritable strangers mixed with a few people she knew from school and church. There were conversations buzzing all over the room. Her throat was dry and she could hardly speak. She went to see her teacher for instructions and he encouraged her and said she would do great!  “Just spell the words, and do your best,” he said. He also reminded her that if she made it to the finals, she would be required to write the words on an overhead projector, and to remember to keep it covered until the judges told her to turn on the light. She did remember because they had practiced at school a few times, but it made her even more nervous because she didn’t like using the overhead projector.

The competition started, she was doing great and she made it to the finals with only three students remaining.  Now the three of them would go to the stage where the projectors were. Her hands were shaking as she picked up the pen. The first word was good, she nailed it, but the third participant didn’t. Then it was down to just two students.  The judges asked her to spell yeast. She started writing…y-e-i-s-t. That didn’t look right.  She started to panic because she knew something was wrong but couldn’t think. Her brain wasn’t working properly and the more she tried, the less she could think. It was time to turn on the light and there was nothing she could do. She flipped the switch and looked at the screens. There it was, clearly written on the other girl’s screen, the correct spelling y-e-a-s-t. She nodded, understanding the other one was correct and she had failed. She let down her teacher, her school, her parents, and her classmates. She was humiliated at the failure. The next few minutes became a blur. All she could think about was how she had failed. She received her second place trophy then went to find her parents because all she wanted to do was to go home.

On the way home, her humiliation escalated to guilt, shame and self-loathing because her mother gave her a verbal lashing from the time they got into the car until the time they got home. “How could you be so stupid?” she screamed. “We make bread at home all the time and you should know how to spell yeast! You should know better!,” she yelled. “How could you do such a thing?” she continued to scream.  And on and on it went for the two miles that seemed like an eternity.

Her father sat silent as he drove them home. 

She felt small, stupid, insignificant and all alone as she held her trophy in her tiny hands.  She didn’t dare cry because her mother would then yell at her for crying, so she sat quietly, listening, and believing everything her mother told her. She had shamed her family and most of all, her mother.  She felt horrible.

When she went back to school the next Monday, her teacher told her how proud he was that she had received the second place trophy out of all those students, that she had done a great job and that he and the school were very proud of her. She shyly nodded, but she didn’t believe him. The ones she believed were the boy at school who teased her about it until she graduated high school, and her mother who teased her about it her whole life. She was constantly reminded how stupid she was for not spelling that word “yeast” correctly.

It always came up when they played Scrabble at family parties or during holidays.  One day when this little girl, who was now a woman of nearly 50, was with her mother and she brought it up, something rose up inside her and she knew she needed to do something about it and make it stop. She found her voice and kindly, gently explained to her mother that it really hurt her when she made fun of her about the spelling bee and asked her to please stop bringing it up. Her mother agreed. Then, the very next week at a Thanksgiving dinner at the beginning of a Scrabble game, her mother brought it up again. This time, she got up, gathered up her family and went home. She decided she was not going to listen to the shaming and bullying anymore.

She stayed away from her mother as much as possible after that, just to protect herself from the abuse.  She did not need to have the hurt and pain of the constant berating and bullying.  She had finally had enough and decided to learn how to stand up for herself. It didn’t make the voices stop, though, and even after the passing of her mother, the voice is still there. It haunts and rears its ugly head from time to time. It has quieted some, however, and things are more peaceful. The voices are now changing to things like “You are beautiful, you can do this,” and “I love you very much.”

 It wasn’t until my mother passed away and in reading a short memoir of hers, I found out that she, herself, had won a spelling bee at her school. I wonder if, on some level, with her skewed thinking, she felt it was her right to make fun of me because if she could win, I certainly should have been able to. It put a small piece of the puzzle in place for me. It does not excuse the bad behavior, though. I only hope that I broke the cycle within my own family by raising my children a little better, a little kinder.

I often wonder what it would have been like to have a mother who loved me unconditionally. I also I wonder how different my life might have been if had I been told in that moment, “Oh, sweetheart, you were so brave!” or “Wow!  Look at that great trophy!” or “I am so proud of you, you did great and I love you,” or even “You did your best and that’s enough.”  What a different path it might have been.

Words are powerful weapons, use them wisely and be kind.  Break the cycle.

Watch for my upcoming book “Menopause, Moms, and Muu Muu’s” that contains this and many other stories as I explore ways to navigate through adult recovery of emotional abuse and mental illness.