Only the Beginning

I’ve received a ton of requests over the course of the last year asking for another collaborative post with my two friends who joined me in marking the one-year anniversary of my sobbing, gut-wrenching, coming out confession to my friend in a conference room at our office. And many of those requests have been very specific in nature … “Please write a then and now post with your friends. I want to know details about what’s happened since you came out.” That’s enormously frightening to me, you know, examining my progress (or lack thereof as the case may be) of the last two years because it forces me into a place of vulnerability … it makes me vulnerable to my own self-assessment, vulnerable to the honesty of my co-authors and vulnerable to the judgment that well may come from others. I had pretty much convinced myself not to write this post … until I read the following email in the middle of a very stormy night.

“I was forwarded a blog written by you and your friends after my 4^th time to try and kill myself and wanted to tell you it made me know I’m not the only one. I’m seeing a doctor now and told my family two weeks ago I’m gay and they told me they don’t ever want to see me again. I’m writing to ask if you and your friends might think about another blog together to help me and other people keep going.”

There was no name on the email so I don’t know if it came from a woman or a man … I don’t know if the person is young or old, rich or poor, if they live in the U.S. or in another country. But I do know this … it doesn’t matter who that person is or who all the people are who write to me. I know that every single person who reaches out is worth the risk of me being vulnerable. If I haven’t learned anything else over the last couple of years, I’ve learned that there are things that are way bigger than me … things that are so, so, so much bigger than my ego or my pride or my vulnerability. Sometimes … okay, okay, a lot of times … I get overwhelmed by it all, and I sink into the all too familiar pit of unworthiness and fear. But then I read the words … the words of the young, the middle-aged and the old … words of guilt, shame, hurt, loneliness and betrayal that pierce my heart to its very core and cause me to know that I’m on this journey for a reason. I’m on this journey to do whatever I can to help you along on yours … to help all those others along on theirs … to learn to be brave and courageous as I travel my own.

Thank you to my friends for joining me as guest authors … you gals are truly amazing. Thank you for believing in me, for not giving up on me, for helping me be me … the two of you truly make me a better person, and I’m beyond grateful for both of you. Thank you for taking time from your busy schedules to share your words of wisdom and compassion and love with the multitude of people who need to read them. I know your words will change people’s minds … your words will touch people’s hearts … your words will save people’s lives.

The saying, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” has certainly taken on all new meaning for me since the day I broke down and told the truth about my sexuality. I remember well that first single step … boy, do I … I couldn’t forget it if I tried. Sometimes that one step seems like it happened only yesterday and sometimes it feels like it was a lifetime ago. I had at least some cognitive recognition of how much taking that step would change me … of course I did … I spent decades of my life trying desperately not to take it. I didn’t, however, even begin to anticipate the reality of the far-reaching effects that single step would have, nor did I have even a tiny inkling as to how difficult it would be to keep on walking.

“That first step.

Isn’t it interesting that sometimes you know and sometimes you don’t know what that first step is or when it will happen. At times, it’s intentional. You plan for it. You know what it’s going to feel like, how it will impact you, what it will mean and how you’ll move forward. But other times, it’s not planned at all. And you look back and realize that it was the first step. Now what? What if I don’t know what’s next? What if I don’t want to move forward? What if I’m afraid? What if that wasn’t the right decision? What if it was the best decision? What if I’m not good at this? But you did it. And it’s time to move forward. And at times, the second step, and the third and the fourth, can feel even harder than the first.”

“I've never liked consolidating, not that I mind getting rid of unwanted or unnecessary items; it actually feels freeing. Rather I dislike the decision-making, determining what stays and what goes. It's fairly easy with the broken items, off to the trash or recycling, but the perfectly functioning working items stump me. Or stuck me – I get stuck because I’m unable to make a decision. Will I use it again? Why haven't I used it? Should I use it? Someone could use it. Where can I take it that someone is able to use it? Repeat those questions 100 times, all while the item remains in its current spot awaiting the next round of consolidation.

We naturally go through a similar experience as we develop. Sorting, deciding, and discarding aspects of ourselves we won’t use again, or continue to carry around despite them having no value. Some things even get in the way, cluttering space for new things to develop. What if I was told a belief was wrong my entire life? Do I believe it still today? Or has my perspective of it changed – did I even believe it in the first place or did I simply acquire it the way I would inherit my great grandmother’s dishes?”

I would liken the first months of my journey after I came out to driving in the dark in the middle of a raging snowstorm … with headlights that kept flickering off and on. There were times when the lights shone brightly, illuminating the road before me and keeping me heading in the right direction. There were other times when it was so dark that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, and it took every ounce of courage I had to grip the steering wheel and try to stay on the road. Perhaps the most important thing that happened during those months was that for the first time in my life, I was able to be me … the real me … no more pretending, no more hiding, no more being terrified that someone was going to out me. I was far, far, far away from being okay with who I am, but at least I was finally free from the bondage of living in the closet.

“That first step was a big one, and for the next couple of months following, the steps weren’t much easier. Telling her family was extremely hard, but rewarding, and telling her co-workers was painful, but exhilarating (my words, not hers!).

There were many, many tears, but also excitement that followed. It was a relief, I could tell, but still a pretty big, okay, a really big, burden. There were times when Terrie kept to herself, but also times when she wanted to celebrate her true self – at one point even bringing a date to the company party. During these times, she got a lot of support from the people around her, but that wasn’t enough. She needed to feel this herself. She needed to know that it was okay, not from others, but from herself, in her heart.

This could be the toughest lesson of all. Once that first step is over, once you’ve mustered up all the courage you can to take it, to make it, shouldn’t that be enough? In reality, it’s taking that courage and knowing you can keep going, to take the second, the hundredth, the thousandth steps. To keep going and to have faith in yourself that that first step was a great decision and to just keep swimming.”

“Becoming authentic means I sort through who I am, what I am, what makes me the unique person I am independent of others: my values, my belief systems, my preferences, my relationship with the Universe around me. As much as I often wish someone would come to my home and sort through my piles of stuff, I’m the only one who can decide what I want, need, or still use. When it comes to sorting out my authentic self, I also have to go inward, alone, and recognize what speaks to me, something that says, ‘Aha, that is ME! That is who I AM!’”

It’s odd, but for a while, the guilt and shame I had carried inside all those years actually intensified after I came out, and there were many, many times when all I wanted to do was climb back into my closet and never venture out again. There were days when I was so ashamed of people knowing the truth about me it was all I could do to force myself to leave my house or to look anyone in the eye. I wish I could tell you I found a potion that magically transformed me into a completely confident in who I am 50-something gay woman, but we all know that would be a lie. But I can tell you this … many days now, I wear the clothes I love to wear … many days now, I can almost say the words, “I am gay,” and not feel like I’m going to throw up … many days now, I care more about what’s inside my heart than I do what other people think about me … many days now, I want to live … and perhaps most important of all … many days now, I believe the day will come when all those “many days now” will become “almost every day now.”

“The steps turn into milestones. One year, now two years later. Wow. What an accomplishment and what a first step to look back on. But wondering, why isn’t it over? Why am I still in this process? It’s remembering that anything we’re struggling with, or celebrating, or just experiencing, is simply a part of the journey. It’s listening and learning. How can I take this experience and understand that it is part of my journey, too? How can I learn from what others are going through and remind myself, this is it. There isn’t an end, a beginning, a first step, a last step. It’s a step, and it’s part of my journey. And how awesome is it that part of my journey has intersected with someone else’s? The part I’ve played in Terrie’s journey is a listener. A friend. Someone who slowed down one day and cared. Thank goodness. There are many days that I’m too busy, I’ve got other commitments, I have a packed calendar, and so on. But I owe the Big Guy a big thank you for that day. That I was there, and I was listening. It wasn’t just for Terrie. It was a lesson for me, too. Stop. Listen. Care. Be there.”

“It can be lonely, sorting and consolidating. Some of the things passed down to us were given to us by people we love, who gave us their beliefs and values with genuine care and guidance for us. Discarding them seems wrong, unloving almost. Yet it is freeing, allowing us to be our own person having our own genuine life experience. The challenge in life is looking beyond our differences, finding commonality, and connecting. In these connections, if we are curious and brave enough, we may even begin to find pieces of ourselves that fit our developing mosaic. Because let’s be honest, no matter how often I sort through my stuff, more will accumulate. It is a fluid process of growing and changing and evolving into the more authentic version of who I am today.

Terrie has been in this lonely place of sorting, discarding, questioning her beliefs, relationships, and what her authentic life looks like. It has meant losing people she cared about (and whom she thought cared about her), while also finding connection with new people. The biggest struggle has been renegotiating her relationship with God. That relationship was shaped by the values of her family and religious community, which are in direct opposition to being her authentic self. In fact, the only way to be accepted within that community is to cling to a façade which disconnects her from her true self, making her feel as though she must choose between a connection with herself or a connection with others in the world.”

Do I still struggle with guilt and shame? Yep. Do I still feel unworthy to help other people? Yep. Do I still wrestle with my faith and with what I believe? Yep. But here’s the thing … now there’s something else mixed in with all those feelings and emotions … now, I have hope. I have hope that one day, people will no longer be judged because of their sexuality. I have hope that my story will help others know they are not alone and understand that it really can and does get better. I have hope that the God who created me loves me just as I am. I’m not there yet … and I’m trying my best to understand that it’s a process … but now, I have hope.

I get a lot of mail from folks expressing their opinions about whether or not I once chose or am continuing to choose to be gay … a whole, whole, whole lot of mail from folks hoping I will change my mind and make the “right” choice. You know what I hope? I hope I’ve learned over the last couple of years that there are some things I most certainly can choose and that being gay isn’t one of them. I can choose to be loving … I can choose to be kind … I can choose to be compassionate … I can choose to be loyal … I can choose to be humble … I can choose to be brave … I can choose to be honest … I can choose to be me.

“Choosing.

It’s a great reminder for all of us. To be sure, there are some things we do not choose. But for other things, we do have choices. Choosing to be kind, compassionate, a listener, a defender, a leader. Or choosing to be brave, to be positive, to get up when the weight of the world tells us not to. Choosing to be the person your grandma would be proud of. Choosing to be the person your children look up to. Choosing to be the friend you want to be.

Choose wisely. Because take it from me, you never know when your life’s journey is at an intersection with someone else’s. You never know when your choice is affecting a first step, or a hundredth step. Every day is full of choices. Choose wisely.”

“Progress can be measured in small ways – the moments, however small, of feeling comfortable in your own skin; having a place to be your true self; finding joy in the things which speak to you, like suspenders and Converse; conversations with someone who really gets you; relishing in laughter with a child; celebrating life events with meaningful people. Slowly, more authenticity begins to shine through as you sort, decide and discard – slowly, the true you begins to take shape, much like the organized room takes shape after a major consolidation. Progress is found within the process – it’s up to each of us to not only take the first difficult step but to choose to keep on stepping so that we can grow and change and evolve into who we really are.”

It’s the people who are closest to me who see me for who I truly am … my children, my grandchildren, my family, my friends. Those are the people who really know me … those are the ones who on the darkest of days and the deepest of nights remind me to consider how far I’ve come. Two years ago when I walked out of the conference room, I was certain my life was over. I knew I had opened a door I could never close again, and I was certain my life was over. I was wrong, friends … I was so very, very, very wrong. You see, in all the ways that matter most of all, that first step two years ago today was really only the beginning … that first step toward honesty and realness and vulnerability … that first step toward trusting in the power of unconditional love … that first step toward just being me. In all the ways that matter most of all, that first step really was only the beginning, friends … only the beginning indeed.

Why I Generally Don't Post on Fridays

This post is for all you folks who write to me and ... ummm ... "vent" about me not posting on Fridays. I appreciate your fervor for reading my blog, but every good writer knows that it's better not to write than it is to write junk just for the sake of saying you are writing. Or for the sake of writing you are writing, I suppose. See? That last sentence totally proves my point ... sometimes it's better not to write than it is to write junk. 

Most of you know that my desire not to subject you to poor writing is only part of the reason I generally don't post on Fridays ... you know why I don't post on Fridays has way more to do with my weekend issues than it does with my writing ability. After all, we all know that I'm always on my game when it is time to write, right? Come on ... you know that's worth at least a slight grin. 

I'm breaking my Friday posting fast this evening for an important reason ... I'm writing tonight because I really, really, really, really, really want you to read tomorrow's post. My two co-authors from the Not One More Mile post on August 30, 2013 have graciously agreed to join me in writing once again. Our previous joint post was the most-read post of any in the history of The Tree House, and I'm betting that tomorrow's will quickly surpass it. These two gals have some incredible words of wisdom to share with all of you ... trust me, it will be worth your time to check out what they have to say. 

So until tomorrow, friends ... laugh, love and live. 

The Three Hardest Words

For all the things I don't like about the weekends these days, there's one really special thing I actually look forward to ... Skyping with my son, daughter-in-law and granddaughters who live in Canada. When my phone rings and I hear my precious little C.J.'s voice say, "Ghee, you wanna Skype now?" ... gosh, those are the sweetest words ever. I've said it before, but I really don't know that I could survive if I couldn't see her cute face pop up on the screen each week. Sometimes I miss her so much it hurts, and though I wish I could hold her in my arms, Skyping with her at least makes me feel closer to her and like I'm part of her little world. So far, she's not too keen on letting me talk to her new baby sister much ... suffice it to say that C.J. saying "Ghee's my Ghee" coupled with moving the laptop away from her sister has happened more than a time or two since Amelie joined her family.

Whether I'm reading them at work, writing them at home or speaking them to others, words are quite literally my life. Okay, maybe that's a touch melodramatic, but it's completely true that words are my livelihood ... I get paid to make sure that words are spelled correctly and used in the correct context. Sometimes I wonder just how many words I read throughout the course of one workweek ... I'm sure the number would be staggering if I actually devised a way to keep count. Add to all the words I read each day all the words I write each evening and ... well ... you get the picture ... most of my waking hours are spent thinking about words. And occasionally, as you well know if you've been reading along with me for a while, I get sort of stuck ... more like consumed, some would say ... with learning all I can about a certain word or combination of words. Like a couple of nights ago, for example, when I spent several hours reading about the words that are generally considered to be the most difficult for people to speak or write.

I must admit that I was surprised by the phrase that claimed the top spot in the "most difficult words for people to say" category, but the more I've thought about it, the more I think I agree with the researchers' conclusions. The truth is that I was pretty sure I knew the answer to my quest ... I was almost positive the hardest words for folks to say are "I am sorry," followed closely by "Please forgive me." Since I consider myself a relative genius when it comes to words, you can only imagine my shock and dismay when I discovered I was wrong ... seriously, me wrong about words? How in the name of all things good and holy could that ever happen? But alas, not only was I wrong, I wasn't even close in my assumption. But as I said, the more I've pondered and stewed on the findings of the studies, the more I agree with them ... and, I might add, the more I know I was wrong.

The three hardest words for people to say? "I need help." As surprising as it was to me to learn that a huge percentage of folks struggle to say "I need help," it was even more surprising to learn that the reason for needing help had very little to do with the difficulty people have with asking for help. So many of us view asking for help as a sign of weakness or as a lack of knowledge ... we think that strong, smart people don't need help and that they can (and should) handle anything and everything on their own. Or we don't want to burden others ... or we fear being rejected ... or we believe we aren't worthy of receiving help ... or we think we'll be judged ... or for so many other reasons. There's something all the reasons we offer up for not asking for help have in common, you know ... they all stem from fear.

I've been thinking about what I wanted to say in this post for a couple of days, and more specifically, I've thought an awful lot about how I wanted to close this evening. Last year on August 30th, I wrote a joint post with two friends who have helped me more than you could ever imagine. And for the hundreds of you who've been begging for another combined post from the three of us, you'll be thrilled to know that I'll be posting that much-requested entry on Saturday. I'm pretty certain that my two friends would tell you in a heartbeat that I hate asking for help ... for pretty much all the reasons I listed above, along with a few hundred more that lurk in the murky recesses of my mind. But ... but ... but ... I hope with every ounce of hope I have in me that I'm learning to change ... I hope I'm growing less afraid to say "I need help" and more afraid of the outcome if I don't ... I hope I'm coming to understand that asking for help isn't about weakness at all, friends, but about strength. 

Come on, say it with me ... "I need help." See ... that wasn't so hard now, was it?

P.S. Happy National Bow Tie Day!

The Un-asked Question

Last night I mowed my yard for the first time since I had surgery on my finger back in April. Now lest you think I've been living in a jungle for the last four months, let me assure you that my yard has been quite adequately taken care of by one of my young neighbor boys over the summer. The truth is my finger's been healed enough for several weeks that I could have been mowing the yard myself, but I felt sorry for the kid and knew he could use the money so I just let him keep on mowing. He's been having some serious allergy issues for the last couples of weeks though, so I told him I'd just go ahead and mow this week. Of course, as fate would have it, it's like a gazillion degrees in Kansas City this week, so by the time I was done, I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. I was dizzy and queasy so I went straight to the fridge when I came inside, knowing I needed to hydrate and fast. But even though I knew I desperately needed to drink something, even though I was devastatingly thirsty, I stood in front of my open fridge and said to my dogs, "What do I want, dogs? What do I want?" I finally settled on tea, and yep, I absolutely drank it straight from the pitcher ... you bet I did.

That question has been on my mind a lot for the last couple of days ... the "What do I want?" question ... mainly because of a conversation I had with my life-saving head doctor on Saturday. She was telling me that I need to care about myself the way I care about others, that I should stand up for myself and stop letting people treat me poorly, that I need to think about my own happiness for a change. 

"No one ever asks me what I want ... no one ever just asks me what I want," I mumbled as gigantic crocodile tears rolled down my cheeks. "I ask them what they want, but no one asks me what I want. They don't ask me what I want on the little things in life, and they don't ask me what I want on the big things either. No one asks me what I want."

The dear head doc didn't miss a beat as she quickly asked, "So what do you want, Terrie?"

"I want to help people ... if I had tons of money, I would want to buy a ranch in Montana or Wyoming and open a retreat center for kids. Kids like me ... like the kid I was ... kids who are terrified of being who they are. It would be a place where kids could come and feel safe and accepted and loved. A place where kids could just be themselves ... where they wouldn't be judged or made to feel less than anyone else or like there's something wrong with them. I want to help people ... that's what I want."

"Well, I'd say that's a pretty wonderful want, Terrie," she said quietly as I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose. "But what do you want for you?"

Here's the thing ... it's easy for me to say what I want when it comes to my dream to help people, really super easy. But saying what I want for myself feels selfish to me, wrong somehow ... because down deep inside I don't believe that my desires or opinions or feelings are as significant as the desires and opinions and feelings of others ... because down deep inside I don't believe my wants or needs are as important as the wants and needs of others ... because down deep inside ... way, way, way down deep inside, I struggle every single day with believing I'm worthy enough to ask for or receive any of the things I want. 

So ... what do I want? Believe it or not, I probably want the same things you want, friends ... to be happy, to be loved, to be needed, to be appreciated, to be shown kindness and respect, to be heard. I probably want the same things you want, friends ... because for as different as we all are, we are all very much the same in the things that matter most of all. 

If Nothing Else

Working in the advertising business means working with a lot of younger folks, some of whom are younger than my youngest child ... sheesh ... guess I really am getting old. I've written quite often about the family environment of our office, and about how in many ways I've sort of been the office mom. I'm glad the young people have always felt like they could come and talk to me about anything ... and I do mean anything ... I love, love, love that they knew beyond any doubt that they could trust me with anything and everything that was on their minds or in their hearts. I'm sure they didn't realize it, but their confidence and trust in me has truly been like medicine for my soul ... they thought I was helping them, but in reality, it was them who helped me. I'll be the first to admit that growing older isn't always much fun, but being a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on for those young folks has certainly been a wonderfully great part of racking up some years of life for sure.

Being available to listen to my young friends pour out their troubles or encourage them through difficult times has been quite humbling to me, and celebrating with them when they are excited or rejoicing with them when they succeed has been beyond exhilarating. But my most favorite part of being the office mom is when those young folks have babies ... yep, I love it when they have babies ... love it, love it, love it. You know why? Because when they bring those babies into the office, I get to play pretend Ghee with them for at least a few minutes. In just the last couple of weeks, I've gotten to sit in my chair at my desk and rock some of those babies. And I can promise you those young folks have no idea how much it means to me when they seek me out and pass their little ones into my arms ... there's no way they could even begin to know how very much that means to me for so very many different reasons. 

Pretty often the young parents at work will ask for my advice on kid or baby stuff ... it seems like that type of questioning comes in waves; one parent asks me about something and then several others ask for my input about other various child-related situations. Like last week, for example ... I lost count of how many times a young parent said, "So did your kids ever ...? or "Should I be worried if my kid ...?" In answering their questions, I became perhaps more aware than I've ever been before that being Matt, Brad and Meghann's mom has been without a doubt the greatest blessing and highest calling of my entire life. For all my mistakes and disastrous parenting moments, they somehow managed to become amazing, wonderful, brilliant, caring, compassionate, understanding, loyal, talented adults in spite of all my failings.

Last night, I had dinner with my son Brad's girlfriend Shelby, her sister and her sister's friend. As many of you know, it's rare for me to go out anywhere on the weekend, unless of course, I'm spending time with one of my kiddos, and sometimes ... well ... suffice it to say that sometimes the weekends aren't exactly my favorite times of the week. I can't remember when I've spent a leisurely Saturday evening chatting with other gals, and it was absolutely wonderful. As is true anytime two sisters are together, Shelby and her sister had me howling with laughter as they told story after story from their childhood. I can't remember the context now, but at some point I asked Shelby what Brad tells her about me ... I asked her if he ever talks about the kind of mom I was when he was young. Her reply blew me away ... completely blew me away.

"Brad always says that you were his greatest encourager ... that you were his biggest fan."

While I know in my heart that Brad is being far too kind in his description of me, I also know that if that's what he remembers ... if that's the mom he perceived me to be ... then I at least got that part right. If my kids remember nothing else about me for the rest of their lives, I hope they remember I was always on their side cheering them on. Maybe that's the answer, you know ... maybe that truly is the answer for every parent, whether your kids are babies or young adults or even ... gasp! ... teenagers. If nothing else, be sure you are their greatest encourager ... be sure you are their greatest fan. Something tells me if you do, everything else will work itself out ... something tells me it will indeed.

Where I Belong

Sometimes it seems like it was only yesterday that my three children Matt, Brad and Meghann were little tykes ... actually, the older I get, the more often I find myself wondering how all those years flew by so quickly. Matt turned 30 a few weeks ago ... Brad will be 27 in the fall ... Meghann is now 25 ... seriously ... where did all those years go? It couldn't possibly be 30 years since I first became a mom ... it feels like only yesterday that the three of them were playing in the sprinkler in the front yard or making sugar cookies with my mom or building Legos in the basement. As I'm sure is true with most of us who are parents, sometimes when I see the wonderful, caring, happy adults they have become ... well, sometimes I don't see two young men and a young woman ... sometimes I look at them and see my little ones. I see all three of them snuggled together in my bed as we read books on a cold winter's night ... I see three little heads of white blonde hair and piercing blue eyes ... I see my three precious babies as they drew their first breaths and wailed their first cries. Seriously ... where did all those years go?

People who are divorced often talk about how vulnerable they felt when their marriage ended ... about the overwhelming sense of loss they experienced as they tried to make new lives for themselves. And if you spend time talking with them, almost without fail, they will talk about how incredibly difficult it was to lose their sense of belonging. Think about it ... often, your couples friends feel forced to choose a "side" ... you lose the relationship you once had with your former spouse's family ... people don't know what to say or how to feel when they're with you. With the stroke of a pen and a decree from the court, you go from being together to being separate ... from belonging with someone to not belonging. If you've never had to experience those feelings yourself or walked through them with a friend or family member, you should get down on your knees right now and thank God because it's not an easy place to be ... trust me. In fact, I personally believe that having a sense of not belonging anywhere may well be one of the leading causes of suicide. It's tough to go from being "part of" to being "disconnected from" ... suffice it to say you can totally trust me on that one for sure.

Driving home after work this evening, I started thinking about something Meghann said to me one day when we were walking home after she got out of school. She was either in kindergarten or first grade ... I can close my eyes and see her blonde, blonde hair and those big blue eyes, her little pink backpack and her favorite sneakers. As we walked down the sidewalk, she slipped her hand into mine and sweetly said, "I'm glad I belong to you, Mom," to which I replied, "And I'm glad I belong to you, Meggers ... I'm so glad we belong to each other, babe." I remembered Matt announcing in a loud voice when Brad was a baby, "She's my mom, Brad ... she belongs to me." And I remembered a sobbing and terrified little Bradley falling into my arms one dark night as he said, "I belong with you, Mommie ... I belong with you."

The truth is I've lost my sense of belonging more than once or twice in my life ... okay, more like a million times in my life ... and some of those times, I wondered if I'd ever belong anywhere again. But I've come to understand something over the last couple of years ... pay attention because this is super important ... even when I don't belong anywhere else on the face of this earth, I will always belong in the hearts of those three little blonde-haired, blue-eyed kiddos who tore through the family room on Big Wheels ... those three little pranksters who dumped a whole bag of sugar on the carpet and topped it off with glitter ... those three little sweeties who sat in my lap, slept on my shoulder and snuggled in my arms. 

If I'm blessed to belong somewhere, friends, there's no place I'd rather belong ... no place at all I'd rather belong than there.

Wait ... Power Clashing is a Good Thing?

Some of the biggest arguments I remember ever having with my mom took place in one certain store in the town of Red Bank, Tennessee ... Cooley's Fine Clothing on Dayton Boulevard. Yep, Mom and I had some knockdown drag-out fights in that old store ... you betcha we did. Our heated disagreements had nothing at all to do with the store itself or with the family who had owned it for generations. The store was one of the nicest clothing stores in town at the time, and the Cooley family were all great people. It was the clothes that caused Mom and I to almost come to blows, or more specifically, the clothes Mom wanted me to wear and the clothes I wanted to wear instead. I hated it when Mom would tell me it was time to go shopping for new clothes ... I remember once I wedged a chair against my bedroom door in a stand of defiance, confident that my obnoxious behavior would mean never having to go to Cooley's Fine Clothing store again for as long as I lived. Suffice it to say that it only took a few minutes for Mom's unleashed fury to crush both my no-shopping plan and the hinges on my bedroom door as well. Mom was a little thing, but nothing could stop her when she got mad ... and certainly not something as insignificant as a chair wedged against the door or the smart-mouthed teenager behind it.

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know how much I don't like to shop, unless I'm shopping for Converse shoes for my granddaughters ... or anything else for them for that matter. I don't like to shop for groceries or lawn mowers or eyeglasses or pretty much anything really. And I especially don't like to shop for clothes ... I really, really, really don't like to shop for clothes because I have zero confidence when it comes to choosing clothing for myself. What I like and what I should like are on opposite ends of the spectrum ... shopping for clothes is best described as the most stressful situation you can possibly imagine times a gazillion for me. Choosing styles and colors and trying to figure out what goes with what or what's appropriate for a certain event or ... sheesh ... my palms are sweating and my stomach is churning even just writing about it. But there are times when I have no choice but to shop, you know ... times like last Saturday when a friend I haven't seen in a couple of years was in town for the day AND I had a 30 percent off coupon for Kohl's.

It's more than a little ironic that I first met my friend at the last Christian women's retreat I spoke at before ... well, you know ... it's ironic because he's a man, and trust me, it's not often you see a guy at a Christian women's retreat. He was there as a special guest to teach the women how to make floral arrangements and bows and wreaths and stuff, and I knew the moment I met him that he was a great guy and the kind of guy I would be honored to call friend. It turns out my instincts were right for once ... he stuck by me when a ton of people decided to leave, and he blesses me over and over with his quick wit and positive and upbeat attitude. Needless to say, when he messaged me to say he was coming to town, I was over-the-top excited to see him. I knew it would be a fun time no matter what we did, but shopping? Seriously? Our shopping excursion would have to rank right up there with the one when my friend helped me shop for clothes for my first-ever office party outing ... too, too, too much fun on both counts. Those two friends of mine are expert shoppers for sure ... mixing and matching and putting items together to create outfits and looks that I never could on my own. And ... they make it look so stinking easy ... it's like they have special shopping powers or something. Watching them shop is like watching a famous painter create a masterpiece work of art from a blank canvas ... don't laugh ... I'm dead serious.

Last Monday when I put on my new pink and white checked shirt, black jeans and new pink and purple and white and orange paisley tie and looked in the mirror, a smile crossed my face as thoughts of Mom and Cooley's Fine Clothing store roared into my mind. Checks and paisley together? "Mom is turning over in her grave, dogs," I said to Julie and Ollie as I tightened my belt and slipped on my shoes. "She would have an absolute fit that I'm mixing checks and paisley together ... nope, old Mom wouldn't like this mixing of checks and paisley one little bit." I got a ton of compliments on my outfit that day, including several of the young people telling me I was "totally rocking the power clash, girlfriend." After about the fifth time, I went back to my desk and got on the Google and typed the words "power clash in fashion." It turns out my dear shopping friend was correct in his choices on my new shirt and tie ... power clashing is all the rage in fashion right now ... mixing differing patterns and textures in clothing is cooler than cool. I'm pretty sure I smiled a little more that day ... I mean, after all, who wouldn't smile when they are rocking the power clash, eh?

Here's the thing, friends ... sometimes being a little different is a good thing, and I think maybe, just maybe, being myself, different though myself may be, is the best thing I can be. And a bonus "here's the thing" tonight ... I should never shop alone ... wait a sec ... I got a call last week telling me I've won an award and the lady asked me to attend a special event in November to accept it. I'm thinking my two friends and I should shop together for something for me to wear ... a shop-off competition between the two of them for the sharpest outfit for me ... oh, my, that could be some serious, serious fun. 

Here's to power clashing ... here's to friends who stay ... here's to love and laughter and life. 

Rampant Empathy

When I was a teenager, I piled into a car with a bunch of my friends and we headed to downtown Chattanooga ... and yes, we were most definitely on a mission. Maybe some of you are old enough to remember the television shows The Six Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Woman, and if you're just a young pup, you should Google them and take a peek ... if nothing else, you'll be blown away by the difference in technology between then and now. The stars of those two shows, Lee Majors and Lindsay Wagner, were more than just famous, they were cool, too ... cool enough that my friends and I, along with most of the teenagers in Chattanooga, headed downtown to try and get a glimpse of them, or better yet, an autograph, at the event they were co-hosting. I ended up getting Lee's autograph, which I promptly sold to one of my female friends for a tidy sum, but I was bummed for quite a while that I didn't get to meet Lindsay. I had a ginormous crush on her and Lynda Carter (aka Wonder Woman) ... of course I did, duh. It wasn't the mesmerizing beauty of the two women that drew me to them, however, but rather the compassion and empathy embodied within the characters they portrayed ... it was their never-ending desire and quest to help others and make the world a better and safer place that garnered my admiration.

I'm well aware that I've written about the death of Robin Williams in my previous two posts, but something happened on Tuesday evening that I simply cannot get off of my mind ... something I feel I must write about tonight. I was at a meeting when a gentleman rose from his chair, climbed up on a table, and with tears streaming down his face said, "O Captain! My Captain!" There wasn't a dry eye in the room as the man spoke, his voice trembling with emotion.

"I became a teacher because I was so impacted by the way Robin Williams acted out his role in the movie Dead Poets Society. I always thought someday I might meet him and tell him I'm the man I am today in large part because he was my inspiration and my hero. And not just because my desire to be a teacher was sparked by that movie, but because his performances and natural gift of comedy brought light to me in my darkest hours. I know it's dumb, but I feel like I've lost one of my best friends."

And then I watched in amazement as first one and then another and then another and then another person rose to their feet until we were all standing ... the room's silence broken only by the sounds of people weeping.

As I, along with most of the world, have read and watched the coverage of the death of Mr. Williams this week, I've been most captivated not by the stories of how he died but by the stories of how he lived. By all accounts, he was a kind and generous man, and he helped people in ways that most of us can only dream of. I was especially struck by the words from one of his close friends who said, "Robin had rampant empathy." Rampant empathy ... rampant empathy ... rampant empathy ... each time those words pop into my mind, I can't help but think of a line from the movie Patch Adams.

"See what no one else sees. See what everyone chooses not to see."

Just think, friends ... just think how different the world would be if we all had rampant empathy. Think how it would be if we truly felt the pain of others ... if we truly saw their needs ... if we truly shared their struggles ... if we were all truly rampantly empathetic to others. I've got a feeling it would change the world ... I have a feeling it would indeed. 

Behind Closed Doors

I know I said in last night's post that this evening's post would be about my shopping outing last Saturday, but I feel like it would be wrong for me not to respond to the flood of messages I received concerning my previous post's subject matter. While I haven't been able to read all of them yet, I've read enough to know tonight's post needs to attempt to address what thus far has been a recurring theme in the notes that continue to fill my inbox. To my friend who endured shopping with me, don't think you're off the hook, good sir ... our shopping extravaganza post will be written soon.

Details concerning the death of Robin Williams have flooded the media today, and again, my heart is so very heavy for his family and friends ... I cannot begin to imagine the depth of their sorrow today nor can I fathom the sorrow they will surely carry with them forever. Along with the reports surrounding his death came the discussion and revelation of his long-term struggle with depression. Mr. Williams had been very open concerning his battle with alcohol and drug addiction, speaking out about his times in rehab and his daily quest to remain sober. From the accounts I've read and heard, however, it seems I'm not alone in saying I never knew that he also suffered from clinical depression. I haven't been able to shake the tremendous irony in that ... it wasn't the disease he openly discussed that eventually claimed his life, but rather the one he tried so desperately to conceal.

As I mentioned, there's a common recurring theme in the messages I'm receiving ... people who have never faced the beast of depression themselves or witnessed it firsthand in someone they love have little to no understanding of what it can and does do to those who are affected by the disease. And yes, it is a disease of the brain, just like diabetes is a disease of the pancreas. I, like so many of you who have written to me, often wish that others could spend a day inside the brain of a person with clinical depression ... I'm pretty sure if they did, very few of them would say, "Oh, you're just sad ... snap out of it ... put a smile on your face ... get happy ... stop being such a downer ... you're a drama queen ... geez, what a baby; suck it up." I've thought all day about how many times I've heard those words over the last few years of my life ... and I want people to know ... I want to help people understand at least a few things I've learned.

I remember when I used to be able to smile no matter what was going on in my life, even when I was hiding my true identity and pretending to be someone I wasn't. Even then, I had a base, a foundation of stability and happiness. I was always the life of the party ... yep, I used to actually be invited to parties, believe it or not. I made friends easily and sincerely, and other people commented often on my outgoing and helpful nature. I played with my children, and I laughed with my family and friends. I was a fun, gregarious, friendly, afraid of nothing kind of gal. Until one day when something happened inside my brain, and I wasn't. I learned that it was a combination of both chemical abnormalities and trying so desperately to not be who I am, but when it all first started ... I honestly thought I was losing my mind. And now ... now I fight every single day not to let the beast win, and the truth is, chances are pretty great that I'll have to fight it for the rest of my life.

There's been a lot of discussion and questioning today about how to know when it's depression and not just sadness that will pass in a few days. Depression is when you go for days without showering or leaving your house because you don't have the strength or desire to get out of bed or off the couch. It's when you believe no one would care if you lived or died, or even more, that they would be better off if you were gone. It's when you become convinced that no one cares, that no one loves you, that you are a burden to everyone around you. It's when you are surrounded by people, and you feel more alone than you ever have in your entire life. It's when you know people you love don't want to be with you because you aren't happy or fun. It's when you feel worthless and empty and sad and ashamed. It's when you feel you have nothing to offer anyone and that you don't fit or belong anywhere. It's when the silence becomes deafening, and the noise becomes silent. It's when you try and try and try and try and try and try and try and try to find your way out of the darkness without success. At least that's what depression is for me anyway ... it's when I desperately want to rid myself of the disease and the medications and the stigma, but I can't ... it's when I would give everything to just be normal, to just be happy, to just be well.

Many of you have asked how best to help someone who's been diagnosed with depression, and the best answer I can come up with is actually pretty simple ... just love them. Don't leave. Don't run away when the going gets tough. Be the family member or friend who refuses to give up, who won't let go of the rope. Pay attention. Notice the signs. Don't be judgmental. Ask the hard questions. Make eye contact. Put down your stupid phone and really, really, really listen. Check in. Care. Know that depression is an illness and not a choice ... people don't choose to have cancer, and they don't choose to have depression either. Please, please, please understand that it's not their fault or an attempt to garner attention. Depression is a disease, and the people who suffer from it need your support and unconditional love.

Be kind to one another, friends ... look out for one another ... watch over one another ... shield one another ... love one another ... above all else, friends, please love one another.

Monsters Are Real

I had planned to write about what a fun time I had on a special shopping excursion with a dear friend last Saturday, but I'm going to save that entry until tomorrow. Tonight, my heart is aching for the family and friends of Robin Williams ... the news of his death today by apparent suicide has left the world stunned and saddened.

Most days before I leave the office, I jump on the Internet to check the news ... most days, but not today. Today was super busy and by the time 5:30 rolled around, all I wanted to do was come home and rest my eyes for a while. I had just sat down on the couch to eat dinner when my phone rang and I saw that it was my son Brad. I had barely gotten out the words, "Hey, buddy," when Brad said, "Mom, have you seen the news today?" I told him I hadn't, to which he replied, "Neither did I ... Mom, are you sitting down? You need to sit down ... I have some bad news ... some really bad news." My heart make a quick jump into my throat as I assured Brad I was indeed sitting down and asked him what had happened. His voice cracked with emotion as he said, "Mom ... Robin Williams committed suicide today. I can't believe it, Mom, he committed suicide." As I tried to wrap my mind around Brad's words, my heart screamed, "No, no, no ... that can't be true ... that just can't be true." 

As I've read and listened to the news stories about Mr. Williams this evening, it's a painfully personal reminder to me of the beast that is depression. Robin Williams had the life that many people dream of having ... to those of us looking in from the outside, he had everything in the world to live for, and yet today, he took his own life. The death of Mr. Williams proves that depression is no respecter of persons ... it is a monster that knows no boundaries of race or position or sex or creed ... it is a monster that is real, and it is a monster that can strike without warning or reason ... it is a monster that must be recognized and revealed.

I've said it many, many times in my posts, friends ... if someone you love is dealing with depression, step up and step in. Stop worrying that you might make them angry or hurt their feelings or push them over the edge ... step up and step in. One of the commentators on the news this evening said something that really, really struck me. Something we would all do well to do.

"Pay attention. Ask if they are okay. Watch for the signs. And then do something, anything it takes, to help them. Robin Williams was a much loved son, husband and father, and yet, he died alone in the prison of depression, convinced that death was the only way to end his pain." 

Rest in peace, Mrs. Doubtfire ... you will be sorely missed ... you will be sorely missed indeed.

Signs and symptoms of depression include:

• Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. A bleak outlook—nothing will ever get better and there’s nothing you can do to improve your situation.
• Loss of interest in daily activities. No interest in former hobbies, pastimes, social activities, or sex. You’ve lost your ability to feel joy and pleasure.
• Appetite or weight changes. Significant weight loss or weight gain—a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month.
• Sleep changes. Either insomnia, especially waking in the early hours of the morning, or oversleeping (also known as hypersomnia).
• Anger or irritability. Feeling agitated, restless, or even violent. Your tolerance level is low, your temper short, and everything and everyone gets on your nerves.
• Loss of energy. Feeling fatigued, sluggish, and physically drained. Your whole body may feel heavy, and even small tasks are exhausting or take longer to complete.
• Self-loathing. Strong feelings of worthlessness or guilt. You harshly criticize yourself for perceived faults and mistakes.
• Reckless behavior. You engage in escapist behavior such as substance abuse, compulsive gambling, reckless driving, or dangerous sports.
• Concentration problems. Trouble focusing, making decisions, or remembering things.
• Unexplained aches and pains. An increase in physical complaints such as headaches, back pain, aching muscles, and stomach pain.

 

What I Should Have Said

A few nights ago when I couldn't sleep, I decided I would try to make a dent in the mountain of unread emails in my inbox. As is always the case, there were some that were positive and encouraging and some that were just plain old mean. It was after reading one particularly scathing rant about me burning in hell for all eternity that I decided I'd read enough for one night and was getting ready to close my email when the notification of a new email popped up. I sat with my finger on the button trying to decide whether to read it or not as I said aloud to the empty air around me,"Maybe I should read just one more ... maybe just one more." And with that, I clicked open the email and began reading ... I began reading a letter from a mom whose daughter had committed suicide on the night of her 17th birthday. The woman's words were heart-wrenching ... absolutely heart-wrenching as she painted a perfect picture of the young woman who was her daughter, and I wept as I read. Their story is one I've read too many times over the last couple of years ... far, far, far too many times, my friends ... too many young lives lost, too many grieving parents left behind.

While all of the woman's words were powerful and touching, there was one paragraph that left me reeling ...

"There are so many things I should have said to her. I should have said it was okay to be who she was. That I knew. That she could tell me. That it didn't matter. I should have said I loved her. That nothing could ever keep me from loving her. That she was perfect just the way she was. There are so many things I should have said that I will never have the chance to say now. My beautiful daughter is gone because I didn't say what I should have said."

Regret is such a tough thing ... perhaps one of the toughest things in life to deal with. The standard dictionary definition of regret is "the feeling of sadness, repentance or disappointment over something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity." The last two words of that definition are particularly haunting to me ... missed opportunity. One of the biggest regrets of my life is that I didn't have "that" conversation with my mom and dad ... I should have talked to them about who I am. I had countless opportunities both when I was young and as I grew older, but I never said what I should have said to my parents. I should have trusted their love for me ... I should have believed in them ... I should have told them the truth. But like the mother who will never have the opportunity to say what she should have said to her daughter, I will never get to say what I should have said to Mom and Dad ... and I will regret it for the rest of my life.

I've read a lot of letters over the last couple of years from a lot of hurting people ... from teenagers who are afraid to go to school because of the names they are called ... from middle-aged folks who are terrified of what they might lose if they tell the truth ... from senior citizens who have lived in hiding their entire lives. I've read letters from children who have lost their parents and parents who have lost their children. I've read letters from people who are sick, people who are lonely, people who are overweight, people who are struggling in their marriage, people who are gay, people who are straight, people who are depressed ... I've read a lot of letters from a lot of hurting people. Take a guess as to how many of those letters are laced with regret ... how many of them contain the words, "I'm sorry I didn't ..." ... how many of them are filled with the words they should have said.

Say what you need to say, friends ... say what you need to say to the people you love before it's too late. Don't let what you need to say become what you should have said.

Stepping on the Clean

As I'm sure is true of many of us who are parents of adult children, sometimes I think back to when my kiddos were young and wish I would have done some things differently. For the most part, I think I was an okay mom ... at least I tried to be anyway ... but there are definitely some things I wouldn't mind having a do-over on. Some of the things I was so adamant about back then were just ... well ... stupid things that in the grand scheme of things weren't nearly as important as I thought they were. I wish I would have spent a heck of a lot more time listening to my kids ... really, really listening to my children ... more time playing with my children ... more time reading with my children ... instead of worrying about whether or not the house was clean. Back then, I was way too focused on the way things looked on the outside than the way they really were on the inside ... go ahead and chew on that for a bit ... I'm talking about way, way, way more than my house being clean, friends ... way, way, way more. Yep, there are definitely some things I wish I would have done differently when my kids were younger.

My son Brad along with some of my friends at work have been telling me forever that I needed to sign up for Netflix, and I finally succumbed to both peer and son pressure ... that's right, I now officially have a Netflix account. Since I'm like the last person in the world to finally get Netflix, I'm sure most of you have heard about the original Netflix series Orange is the New Black. It's a show about women in prison ... and it's intense, funny, emotional and raunchy all at the same time. It took less than one episode of watching for me to become completely and totally hooked, and I now fully understand what the term "binge TV watching" means ... boy, do I. I'm not sure what I'll do when I get through all of the first two seasons and then have to wait for new episodes to come out each week ... ugghh.

There are some truly interesting characters on the show, but one of my favorites is an African-American gal who is nicknamed Crazy Eyes. I spent the first few episodes thinking she was just over-the-top insane, but as the show progressed and more was revealed about her, I realized that she's actually a very intelligent woman with a good heart. I'm not far enough along to know what crime she committed that resulted in her incarceration, so don't spoil it for me by telling me if she is like the worst serial killer ever in the history of the universe. Just when I was convinced that all of the scenes featuring Miss Crazy Eyes would be at least somewhat comedic in nature, one of the episodes I watched last night was anything but funny. It was so powerful and conveyed such raw emotion that I haven't been able to get it out of my mind.

The scene takes place in a prison restroom when Crazy Eyes comes in to mop the floor and encounters a fellow inmate ... a fellow inmate whose boyfriend had appeared on a radio talk show and told the world that Crazy Eyes was ... well ... certifiably crazy and should be in an institution. When she walked into the restroom and saw Piper, her fellow inmate who had betrayed her trust, I fully expected Crazy Eyes to beat the crap out of her. But instead, she simply told Piper she was a mean person ... that she wasn't nice and that she was mean. As both Piper and Crazy Eyes mopped their respective parts of the floor, Crazy Eyes spoke the words that now refuse to release their grip on me.

"You gotta start from the inside out, or else you'll step on the clean."

Here's the thing ... I've done an awful lot of stepping on the clean over the years because I was mopping the wrong way. I've stepped on the clean over and over and over again because I wasn't starting in the right place ... I wasn't mopping from the inside out. And my guess is ... my guess is I'm not the only one who needs to change the way I mop ... my guess I'm not the only one who's stepping on the clean, friends ... my guess is I'm not the only one at all.

"You gotta start from the inside out, or else you'll step on the clean."

Cheers to the Copycats

It's hard for me to believe that I've been working in the advertising biz for more than 17 years ... that's more years than some of you have been alive. I'm not sure which is more astounding to me ... the fact that I've worked in the ad world for that many years or that so many of my readers are young folks. I've seen a ton of changes in the way businesses market themselves since I first started out as a proofreader all those years ago, not the least of which is the incredibly fast-paced explosion of social media as a means to share information. If you know anything at all about Facebook or Twitter or Reddit or any of the gazillion other social sites, you know that it doesn't take long for things to spread like wildfire once they are posted. Trust me, I know that to be true ... boy, do I ever know that to be true in a big, huge, gigantic way.

When I was in Canada at Christmas visiting my oldest son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter, it didn't take me long to become completely enamored with some of the adorably precious things she would say. Okay, okay ... I loved every single word that came out of her mouth and still do ... duh. One night as I was sitting on the couch with Matt and Becca after C.J. had gone to bed, I logged into Facebook to see what was going on with everyone back in the states (that's what the Canadians call the U.S., you know ... the states). On a whim, I decided to post a simple conversation C.J. and I had earlier in the day ... one that ended with her saying, "I Ghee's buddy." I was so surprised when the number of "Likes" on my status began to climb ... and climb ... and climb ... people loved it. That simple post began what has now evolved into weekly posts recounting parts of my weekly Skype conversations with my precious C.J. And people love them; in fact, I've started getting messages asking me to put my "Chats with Boo" into a book ... maybe that's not such a bad idea, eh?

Recently I've noticed that quite a few of my Facebook friends have been posting status updates that are quite similar to my chats with C.J. ... conversations with their kids or grandkids. If they had been doing those kinds of updates before, I never noticed it ... and my initial reaction was ... well ... ummm ... I was a wee bit irritated that they were copying my idea. Actually, that's kind of an understatement ... I was stinking ticked off that they were stealing my awesomely original and incredibly genius idea. But the more of the conversational updates I read, the more I realized that it was really pretty darned cool that other people had been inspired by my chats with C.J. ... inspired enough to perhaps pay a little more attention to their own conversations with the little guys and gals in their lives.

You see, here's the thing ... I've gone from arrogance to humility in regard to my Facebook status updates with my baby girl C.J. It doesn't matter whose idea was whose first or who recounts the most clever or humorous stories ... all that matters is that families and friends talk to one another ... that families and friends listen to one another ... that families and friends love one another. That's why people like my conversations with Boo ... because they know those chats are about love.

Cheers to the copycats ... cheers to the copycats, indeed.