I have seen my companion animals seem to be able to let things go a lot quicker than humans do. Granted, if you abuse an animal long enough, they will probably snap. Literally and figuratively. But I don’t think that is because they are holding some angry grudge at you. I think that it is because they associate the abuser with pain and fear, so they react on a subconscious level of “fight or flight.” But for the most part, with animals that are humanely disciplined and are not abused, when they are released from being disciplined they can quickly go back to being a happy animal. They will rebound with joy when they see you again and shower you with unconditional love.
Why can’t we do that? Why can’t we let go of things and just move forward with joy? When I look back at events in my life that have caused me pain or anger, I can often see how long I held onto those emotions and how they continued to cloud my thoughts until everything in my life felt like it was poisoned by that event. It is only when I released that pain or anger that I was able to move forward with joy. When I compare events that were caused by others or caused by myself—my own choices or mistakes—I can see that I was always able to forgive others much quicker than I could forgive myself.
I was finally able to forgive Will and move on with my life without carrying the baggage of that hurt anymore. When he called me out of the blue this year to wish me a Happy Birthday, we were able to talk—and laugh—for over an hour. That was the first time we had spoken in almost five years.
For so many years when I was in that abusive marriage I felt that it was always my fault. Aside from the fact that I was constantly told it was my fault by my husband, I told it to myself even more. Looking back even farther I can see how much my childhood influenced my low self-esteem. Always feeling unwanted, unloved, and alone. No wonder I sought out men who would just reinforce those feelings. My Dad was there in my life, but he wasn’t really “there.” He provided for us, put food on the table, a roof over our heads, but my first memory of him telling me he loved me is from when I was an adult and I said it first. I had no memories of him hugging me as a child, taking part in any school activities, or just being involved with us. I remember Volksmarches in Germany where he would set out at his own pace and leave the rest of us behind.
I once researched and wrote a term paper on emotional abandonment and its affects on children for an undergraduate child psychology class. In the course of my research I started to see myself in some of the case studies and I asked my Dad why he was never really “there” for our childhood. He was confused by what I meant and said that he raised us the same way that his father raised him. It dawned on me then that sometimes the emotional dysfunctions are so ingrained that a person never even realizes what they are missing, or what they have lost. They can’t give what they never had.
An editor recently advised me that I needed to work on my “show don’t tell” experiences in this writing process—“actions speak louder than words.” Valuable advice, not just in writing but in life. I’m sure that my father loved me in his own way, but his actions never made me feel like I was loved or wanted and so I sought out that feeling from others using my father as a measure. It wasn’t until I was able to see that the measuring stick I was holding was dysfunctional that I realized I needed to find a new measure. One I created myself.
I still remember the day I picked up his ashes. I placed him on the passenger seat as we drove back to his house where the rest of the family was gathered, and I was overcome with emotion. All the things I had longed to hear from him, I would never hear. As I drove I poured out all the things I had tried to say to him when he was alive, the things he hadn’t wanted to hear—my fears, my hurts, my dreams, my goals—all the things I wished we had talked about. I told him how much he meant to me, and how I wished that we had been able to have a closer friendship the last few years of his life without his last girlfriend’s insecurities and jealousies getting in the way.
Laura hated me from the moment I moved back into town because she couldn’t stand not being the sole focus of all of his attention. I tried everything to become friends with her because she was such an important part of my father’s life, but nothing made any difference.
When I learned of her severe allergies to scents and perfumes, I stopped wearing all scented deodorants and hair products, seldom wore perfumes, and used only unscented laundry detergents and softeners because I never knew when I would get a last minute call inviting me to dinner—which I would jump at as an opportunity to spend time with my father.
Not long before he became to sick to work, he had started to “sneak around” just to have lunch with me—he would call me on his cell phone from a job site and ask if I could get away that day. After he was hospitalized I went to see him every day after work. One day he asked if I would check in with her to see if she needed anything, and so I called her on the way from the hospital to see if I could stop by (I had learned years before that stopping by unannounced was an unforgivable offense). When I got to her house, after we had talked for a few minutes she excused herself from the room and when she came back, there was an unmistakably strong scent in the room. I couldn’t identify what it was, but I panicked. Had I slipped up? Forgotten that the coat I was wearing had been around someone else with perfume that might have rubbed off on me? I no longer even bought scented deodorants or hair styling products, and couldn’t imagine what it was. I immediately made excuses and left her house, sniffing my jacket as soon as I got in the car to figure out what the scent was and where it had come from. By the time I got home, my phone was ringing. It was my father was calling. Yelling at me from his hospital bed about how could I be so insensitive to deliberately wear perfume to her house when I knew she was so allergic. I knew then that she had set me up. Whatever she did when she left the room was what caused the scent, and she was using it as another way to drive a wedge between my father and me.
When he was released from the hospital and began hospice care at her house, she would only allow me to come over to sit with him when he was unconscious from the morphine. I talked to him anyway, knowing that some part of him still heard me. The day he died—the day he was dying—she had known from early morning that it would be his last day. But she didn’t call me until two hours after he had died.
The day after he died, she said that she needed to tell me the truth. I was a bad daughter. I didn’t love my father enough.
I knew even before I had completely digested her words that she was speaking from grief and anger. I also knew that getting into an argument with her would be pointless. She had needed to hurt me one more time to show that she was better than me, and if that was what she needed to get to 129 sleep that night, then good on her. I wanted to yell at her that I had loved him enough to let her win, to not argue when she had lied to him so many times about things that I had said or done that drove a wedge between us. I wanted to scream at her that I loved him enough to want him to be happy and so I stepped back out of his life and settled for whatever time I could get. But I said and did none of that.
I told her I was sorry for her loss, sorry that she was hurting so much, and that I did love him more than she would ever understand, and then I walked away from her.
Talking to my father’s ashes in the car that day, I forgave him for the hurts of my childhood, knowing that he had missed out on knowing love from his father as well and that it had been hard for him to show his emotions because if it. I forgave him for feeling forced to choose between his girlfriend and me, and that he had chosen her. I also forgave her for all the things she had said and done to keep us apart. I felt sorry for her, knowing that her own childhood must have been so lonely and insecure that she had to cling to whatever she could just to feel whole.
Forgiveness. It heals. It lightens your burdens, and casts off that baggage that keeps you from growing and feeling joy. Baggage that is better left at the curb.
CHAPTER 14
Carry-on Baggage
I started to look at what kind of emotiona
l “baggage” I wanted to carry into my future. Did I want oversized and overweight baggage that was always going to hold me back from experiencing love and joy? Baggage that was going to cost me more than it was worth just to bring it along? I knew that I needed to start to purge the things that I had packed. Try on those emotional clothes and decide what fit, and what could be trashed. Decide what was in style and what was out of style. I needed to decide what was really important, what emotions I could just not live without. I would especially have to forgive the things I still blamed myself for, the self-images that I was never good enough. Hanging onto those thoughts and feelings was only hurting me.
Fortunately the realization that I could forgive myself and “lighten my load” had started when I was working on my MBA—so I’d already had about eight years to work on forgiving myself and others by then. Time I really needed actually since some forgiveness wasn’t as easily given as I thought at first it would be. As I began to receive acceptance and approval from outside sources, I started to look at myself as they saw me and began to accept and approve of myself. I began to forgive myself and others, like myself, and eventually love myself.
I realized that life was too short to spend it praying for death all the time and that I really didn’t want to be in such a hurry to get to the end of my story.
It wasn’t an easy thing to do, and didn’t happen over night. Some hurts I wanted to hang on to because they had been packed for so long that they conformed to the shape of the bag now. I had to pull some things out of the bag more than once because they always seemed to find a way back in. I sought counseling when certain issues reappeared, especially after the death of my father.
There were the “stupid” shirts that I had packed in several sizes, especially after my marriage to Marc. Those were finally gone when I realize that I wasn’t the only one he conned into thinking he was a great guy. He had even fooled my family and friends before we got married. I’ve also “wised up” and realize that when I see a red flag—I need to pay attention to it, no matter how small it may be. In spite of what it cost me financially, I have been able to forgive him for using me and betraying my trust in him.
When Marc and Ryan moved out, I chose to give them almost half of the furniture in the house—regardless of the fact that we hadn’t been married long enough for him to have deserved half of anything if we had to fight about it in court. It was furniture he hadn’t bought, and in some cases, I was still paying for it. But I considered it a “Good Will” donation to purge my home of the things (baggage) that would remind me of them. It was just “things” and “things” can always be replaced if necessary. It was my self-esteem that was harder to replace, and to start doing that, I needed to walk the higher road and not be hateful and vindictive.
That “you’d be a horrible mom” apron that I was forced to wear for so many years… I left it behind when I left California. I won’t ever get the chance to be a bio-mom now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be the most Awesome Aunt that ever walked in the South. And I was a “mom” in a way when I bottle raised Oreo, and helped Chynna give birth to her puppies. Maybe I should have called this book “All My Kids Have Hairy Legs.”
My home isn’t always perfectly spotless, but my true friends don’t mind and they always feel welcome and comfortable here. So comfortable that I have some friends who come over for a visit and often wind up falling asleep on the sofa. I’m told that is a compliment. I haven’t killed anyone with my cooking—and I even have a spoon rest and new apron that say that! When I throw parties my house is filled with friends and laughter. I don’t often have too many leftovers when everyone leaves, and no one goes home hungry.
It has taken a while to finally feel like my “baggage” will fit under the seat in front of me, or in an overhead bin. I no longer worry about having all that excess “baggage” that had to be checked at the gate. Considering the changes in air travel costs… that is probably a good thing!
I don’t waste space in my bag, in my heart or my mind, on anger, judgment, hate or fear. Now my carry-on bag just has room for forgiveness, love, acceptance, and laughter. I’ve learned that life is better being able to laugh at myself instead of hating myself. When I had my annual neighborhood Christmas party less than three weeks after my retinal tear, I wrote “Ho, Ho, Ho” on my eye patch for the night. When I was planning my wedding to Marc, I had the church’s wedding co-ordinator almost in a panic when I told her I wanted to change the theme to a pirate wedding so I could wear a black eye patch. It was a week before she believed that I was just kidding.
My house is filled with humorous and meaningful plaques and artwork that remind me to respect myself and others, but mostly, to enjoy and laugh at life.
But the one that I have in my bedroom—that I look at every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep—the one that reminds me of what is most important to remember—is an art print from Terri St. Cloud that says “I will not allow myself to be less than I am to meet anyone’s expectations.”
No, never again.
I trust enough to finally make myself available again to date. I’ve dropped hints to friends, family and neighbors that I’m interested in meeting new friends if they know of any nice, single men (yes that was probably an oxymoron) and where things go from there who knows.
I even went on a date the other night. My first since my divorce almost two years ago, so technically my first in over four years if you count Marc being the last person I dated. It was fun, we played pool, darts, and I got to hear him sing karaoke. But for some reason though, he didn’t mention the fact that he had a girlfriend he was living with before he asked me out.
Big Red Flag.
Why would a man who was living with his girlfriend… Flirt with me? Ask me out? Try at first to tell me she was “just” his roommate when she had called him three times in an hour?
But no worries, I didn’t have any expectations for the evening except to get out and have fun, so I wasn’t disappointed.
Dating in the 21st century as a 40-something is so different from dating in the 80’s when I was 20-something. Then, I just wanted to find someone to “love” me, and I’ll be the first to admit that when I was 20-something, I didn’t have a clue what love was.
Now, we all have some kind of “baggage” to consider—divorces, children, grandchildren, or elderly parents to take care of. One of my best girl friends is two years younger than me, and raising her four grandchildren alone. Another is dealing with sick parents. Dating now I have to wonder if someone I’m serious about practices safe sex and whether or not he has always practiced safe sex! I have to wonder whether or not he will show up on some criminal list if I Google him. The stories I could tell of the men I dated even before I met Marc… but that will be another book….
Trooper is much happier and more relaxed now. He has a healthy attitude about meeting new people. He no longer tries to run, and accepts new friends much faster than ever before. Recently we were out walking and a neighbor asked if I had jumper cables he could borrow. I went to get them, and I left Trooper off leash in the field across from our house while my neighbor watched him. As I rummaged around in the trunk of my car, I could hear my neighbor talking and walking closer. I turned and saw Trooper. With his head high and searching he had crossed the street to look for me, certain that I was in danger and needed his protection when he realized I was not in sight. I called to him, and he came to me. Happy that I was there. Happy that I was o.k.
He is my protector, my companion, my best friend.
I have a necklace that I wear occasionally it is a pewter pendant with a heart cut into it and says “I Am a Survivor.”
I am. We are. The light shines in us again. Our “peaceful hearts” glow with the joy of knowing that we are happy and content with who we are. We are loved. We are wanted. We are not alone.
I recently started doing something every time I go out to eat alone. As I’m eating, I will look around the restaurant and will
pick a table to pay for their meals anonymously. The wait staff are sworn to secrecy and instructed to simply tell them that someone decided to bless them today and pay for their meals. It has brought tears to an elderly couples’ eyes, and to a wife dining out with her disabled husband. I have seen smiles of gratitude on more than one single mother struggling to treat her children to a night out. It has made a table of military members returning from deployment, and a table of two police officers taking a break during their shift feel appreciated for their work and sacrifices. It has also given the wait staff at the restaurant a part of the blessing that comes with giving unconditionally. I’ve seen a tired, overworked waiter or waitress suddenly feel a little less stressed after they tell their table that they have been blessed. They smile more, laugh more, and the atmosphere in the whole restaurant seems lighter. Even I have felt lighter—and brighter.
I think sometimes we all let the worries of this world dim our light. We carry too much baggage or too many burdens on our shoulders. We forget that we don’t have to carry it all alone. As I was driving to work one morning I prayed with gratitude for the tiny bunnies I saw on my drive that brought a smile to my face. Watching them nibbling at the grass at the side of the road, I felt blessed to realize that even those mornings when I didn’t see them, I knew that they were still there, in the shadows of the bushes. The thought occurred to me that those days that I felt unloved, unwanted, and alone I was never truly alone. Never truly unloved or unwanted. Just because I could not see it at that moment, it did not mean that it was not there. The bunnies are a reminder to me that regardless of what other people have said or done to me, I am loved. I am wanted. I am not alone. I may not know yet what my life will be like or how I can serve His purpose, but I do believe that I am here for His reasons. Even if He remains in the shadows and I do not see His hand in my every day life, there are times when I can see, and feel, His light shining through me as I bless others.
My Best Friends Have Hairy Legs Page 9