Lost in the Between

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2011-12-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

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Cliches

2011-12-05T00:38:00.012-07:00

I want to engage you in a conversation about cliche.

I'm not talking about those dreary writing cliches but rather those tidy little things we say to one another when we either don't know what to say to someone or frankly [Scarlett] we just don't give a damn. Let's be truthful shall we? Since when do any of the following cliches really make a difference:

What doesn't kill you will make you stronger.
You can get through this, you're a survivor.
You need to understand they're mean to you because they are jealous of you.
Be the bigger person.
We all need to have a sense of humor (even when grossly offensive things are said).
God will never give you more than you can handle.
You need to see things from the other person's perspective.
Work...work hard...work will see you through. (Tom Hank's character in Sleepless in Seattle)

Those are just a few off the top of my head.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

care enough to actually listen

1. What doesn't kill you will make you stronger?

So prove that to me because from where I stand, that's faulty logic. If something doesn't kill us it's because it doesn't have the power to do so. If it did...let's face it..it would. Just because we aren't dead doesn't mean that by default we are stronger for surviving. It means we aren't dead. Oh...I know...you are thinking but we can CHOOSE to be stronger for our difficulties that don't end our life. Okay, maybe that's true. That's a reasonable approach to take and yet, how many times have you or someone you know said that to a loved one or friend who was struggling and you had no idea what to say to them? And rather than take time out to help them through the process of finding an actual answer you dismissed them with a trite little diddy in the hopes of escaping more conversation that didn't concern you.

2. You can get through this, you're a survivor.

Alright, I've survived but what you aren't addressing is this: Am I thriving? Life shouldn't just be about survival though it most certainly is a part of getting through all the bumps and rocky places we trudge through. Living is more than survival. It's about joy, fulfillment, self-actualization, love, learning and growth. Again, how is telling me that I'm a survivor helping me?

3. You need to understand that they are mean to you because they are jealous of you.

Sure, many times this is true. But then, sometimes people are mean because we aren't so nice to them. And sometimes they are mean because they are mean and they like being mean. And since when do we need to understand why someone is mean to us as if that excuses their bad behavior? I recently had an interview with a man whom I respect. He wanted me to understand why someone had been so cruel and aggressive towards me. He asked me to understand them for my own sake and to forgive them. I wanted to shout at him (I didn't, you can be proud of me, my children). After all, I don't go around lashing out at others in an effort to feel better about myself. Instead, I asked him why the suffering of someone else was more important than my own? Understanding that the person is jealous, petty and down right malicious because of their own bad choices doesn't make me feel sorry for them. In fact, I think they need to suffer the consequences of their actions and if I, do as others and give them a pass because they are "suffering", then I'm enabling them in their bad behavior and only encouraging them to do it some more.

4. Be the bigger person.

Well, given the difficulty with my weight, I'm already that but I'm quite certain that's not what people are referring to. This is meant to mean, that even in the face of abject hatred and aggression, I'm to extend a hand of friendship to my enemy. Let me just ask: Would we tell someone who has been stabbed by another person, "It's okay, you go hang out with them and befriend them. Don't mind the repeated stabbings, they just have issues." Now...now don't tell me it's not the same thing. Because it soooo freaking is! We wouldn't dream of putting ourselves in harms way by walking out into the middle of rush hour traffic but for the sake of societal customs we expect ourselves and others to "turn the other cheek". I don't know about you, but I'm sick of being slapped.

5. We all need to have a sense of humor (even when grossly offensive things are said).

And we've come full circle again. I realize that in today's age, sometimes we can be a little too PC (Politically Correct is yet another cliche...and no don't get me started). I agree, we can be oversensitive at times. YET, I don't think that's a bad thing and here's why: It helps to keep the socially backward in check and remind us that people have feelings. People like me (yes me) who don't think it's funny when a university professor spouts off in class by saying, "I think all fat people should be put in the cargo hold." Really? (Excuse me, do you mind being on hold while I phone my attorney to see if that's actionable and let's see how much of a sense of humor you, my learned professor and certain of my fellow students are expelled for your offensive discussions)

6. God will never give you more than you can handle.

Are they God? I see you shaking your head no so you obviously know they're not. It's not God who is being obnoxious, insensitive, cruel, maniacal, manipulative, menacing, and down right vicious. God has nothing to do with those actions. No my cupcakes, that's us. We are the ones who need to own up to the things we do to other people and stop trying to pass them off as "Life's trials".

7. You need to see things from the other person's perspective.

Oh yeah? Who says? They? Well let me tell you a little bit about what I've learned from "they". They don't care if I see things from their perspective because they aren't interested in me understanding them. They are only interested in them (another form of they). I once had a therapist (yes, I've gotten help) who told me that 95% of what we spend our day thinking about is ourselves and 5% about others. I'll tell you what, that opened my mind to a lot of possibilities. In particular when he also added "So what they say and do isn't really about you, but all about them."

Or is that yet just another cliche?

I think I've probably given you enough to contemplate for today but let me part with this simple message: STOP FREAKING PLACATING OTHERS.

now that's a magic hug!

If you really care (I know some of us really do) then put down your digital device and listen to them and at the end of it all, if all you can say is, "I'm sorry I don't know what to say to help but I care and I'll listen to you when ever you need me to and by the way, here's a magic hug (my kids and hubby give the best ones), well then, at least you were HONEST about it.

Learn, really learn that giving out platitudes shows how LITTLE we care and reveals a side of us we probably don't want to be seen.

Lost in Dis-order

2011-10-30T18:28:00.007-06:00

Moments like this are rare, far and few between when I find the courage to talk about what it really means to be me. Not what it means to be a mother, sister, daughter, and wife but just me. Living in my skin, walking day to day and finding the strength to view the past and then let go. That's what this post is about. Today, I openly share what I've only hinted at in the past.

Some of you may or may not know of my aversion to cameras and mirrors. I've watched as it's been confusing and difficult for family and friends to understand my blatant refusal to be photographed in recent years. I watch with envy as others without hesitation stand in a group photo or even a snapshot of a moment. My worst enemy has been my mirror. I approach it every day with trepidation wondering what horrors it will show me.

My friends and loved ones insist that I'm beautiful. To that I can only say, humbly, thank you. Forgive me if I don't believe you..

The truth is...I don't know what you see. Ever since I can remember I've had difficulty with seeing photos of myself or looking in the mirror. Literally...what you see, I do not see. I see someone whose features are twisted like that of a mirror in a fun house and someone who weighs over 300 pounds. The frightening thing is, I've had no accidents or incidents to cause disfigurement and I don't weigh anything close to the images in my mind. In recent years the more anxious and difficult my life is, the worse it gets.

For me each day begins with a game not dis-similar to Russian Roulette. What will Kim see today?

Will I notice my post-menopausal tummy or will I see someone who is slimming down...slowly but surely? When I look in my bathroom mirror will I notice the hyper-pigmentation spots on my right cheek and the enlarged pores on my nose or I will I notice the rich brown color of my eyes and the naturally graceful curve of my eyebrows? How about the roots of my hair? Is my hair getting thinner? How bad are the fine lines forming around my eyes? Do my ears and nose stick out today as overly large or will I see them as my husband does? Do my teeth slope inward too much? Are they too yellow? Where's my whitener? Will I smile and think how my face lights up when I do or will I think it makes my cheeks look too fat? Are my lips receding as I get older? Are my clothes doing their job of hiding my excess weight and if so, are they frumpy? Why do I have to have such muscular legs? Why can't I have bigger hips and a smaller waist? What's happening to my bust? Does my bra show? Are my breasts too big or too small? Was the breast reduction enough? Do I need to have implants to keep them perky? Do I feel acceptable enough to attend that activity with friends or family tonight? Will they hate me because I'm fat? Will I be listened to or dismissed because they are all thin and I'm not? Throughout the day I constantly check my hips and stomach and the padding under my arms to see if they are smaller or bigger that day. And there are times when I don't have the nerve to face the world and tumble into anxiety or panic attacks when forced to attend events I feel insecure about.

Welcome to Body Dismorphic Disorder. You may have heard of it. It's the same disorder that Michael Jackson suffered from. As my son explained to me, it goes along a spectrum. From mild to severe. I'm fortunate that it isn't anywhere near as severe as Michael Jackson. It's probably a good thing I loathe and fear surgery. However, in 1997 and 1999 I did elect to have two procedures to correct what I felt were hideous defects in my appearance (Upper eyelids tucked and a breast reduction).

I wish I could tell you this started back in 1989 when I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. Or when I was diagnosed in 1999 with Anorexia Athletica but I've come to understand that it started back when I was 8 years old.

The day it began is forever burned in my memory. I was at the pool with my father, step-mother, and two brothers. My father kept repeating to me how I was chubby. He poked fun at me repeatedly. In fairness I remember my step-mother scolding him but that didn't stop him. Every time he came to visit or each summer vacation when I went to visit him, he would harp on me about my weight. For his obsessive behavior, you'd think I actually was a chubby little girl, adolescent and teen. I wasn't. Please indulge me while I show you some photographs. (I couldn't find the swimming pool one, I swear I had one but the first photos I could find start at age 10. (to the left, I was so proud)

His words were so powerful and it allowed my brothers to do what most brothers do and that was to torment me and reinforce his neurosis by calling me fatty the entire time I grew up.

And so....I tumbled into the abyss, lost in my father's obsession.

At age 12, I was already 5'3" tall, had measurements of 34-24-34, I wore a B size cup and I weighed, (wait for it, it's shocking) a whopping 105 pounds! According to a doctor's chart I was 10 pounds underweight. Do you think my father could see that? No. He lectured me on how I wore the same size clothing as my step-mother, who at the time weighed 115 pounds. He reasoned that I was only 12 and not allowed to have matured so quickly, therefore, I was fat.

It didn't help that my "best friends" had fathers and brothers who made remarks about their prematurely developed friend. One father complained when my friend got her first bra saying she might as well use a band-aid for her mosquito-bite sized breasts and how she wasn't as developed as I was. In defense my friends resorted to mocking and viciousness, claiming they'd have boobs too if they were fat like me. In my seventh grade photo to the right, do I look fat to you? Yeah, I don't think so either. Not NOW anyway.

So ya gotta love photos from the 1970's right. They fade to pink! in the photo below, I'm 13 years old and according to my father, chubby. In the one to the left, I'm 14, don't ask me how much I weighed, I didn't care.The summer I turned 15, I arrived in New York to spend a month with my father and was immediately put on a diet. I had stretched to 5"5 and I weighed in at 144 pounds. "You're obese." he said. "Look at your arms, they are as big as one of my thighs." My weight was posted on the refrigeratortor for everyone to see and I was forced to weigh in front of him every morning. At night when the family was having dessert, when I'd ask if I could have some too, I'd be told, "No, you can't have any because you are fat." I dropped to 124 pounds over two months and when I left to go home to South Dakota his parting words to me were, "Don't forget, you still have to lose another 9 pounds."

Every phone call from then on started out with, "Hi, How are you? How's your weight?" By my junior year in high school whenever my mother said my dad was on the phone, I'd break out into a sweat and get sick to my stomach waiting for it to be my turn to talk with him. The photo on the left is my 10th grade school picture and the one to the right is my 11th grade year. By the 11th grade year I'd rose to an unacceptable weight of 136 pounds and I stayed there through my senior year. At 5.5" tall, I'd say that's pretty damn good.

But tell that to a 17 year old girl who is facing the world with her father's words echoing in her mind, "You're fat, you'll always be fat."

Did they really think that reverse psychology was such a great thing back in those days? Isn't that just mean and manipulative?

Where my father left off at, my first husband picked up, complaining about my 148 pounds (5'5.5") on our wedding day. He repeated to me, my father's words upon seeing our wedding photos that day. "You're so beautiful, if you just lost another 25 pounds, you'd be Hollywood beautiful."

Pardon me while the 53 year old in me gapes at the photo of me on the right (with my mom who looked fabulous, btw) and say, "Excuse me, mr-exhusband, but Hollywood has NOTHING on that 25 year old bride. Then again, at the time, when I saw my wedding photos I cried, thinking I looked like obese.

Okay so now you've seen the evidence that I wasn't fat growing up. And yes, that' s me in the photo at the beginning. (taken in 2004 when I weighed roughly 210 pounds) I hid from that photo thinking I was so hideous and today all I can think of is how beautifully done my hair was and what a light I had about me.

If by now you are wondering what this post is all about, let me help you by spelling it out now. This is my way of telling the Kim that is me NOW, that what I see in these photos, the beautiful child and beautiful woman, she exists today. She's right here. I don't have to be lost in the past or let my disorder rule the day. I can wrestle those demons into silence and remember, that no one is perfect. And that's really okay.

I told a friend today, "You are not a number" and I went on to list all of her admirable traits. I think it's about time that I let go of the past, give myself the same encouragement I gave her, while recognizing that my father wasn't perfect. He had his own demons to slay and he just didn't know any better.

But to you, reading this today, I ask you, what part does body image play in your life? Does it affect you to the extent that it does me? Are you passing this on to your children, spouse, siblings, parents or friends? Please examine not only your self talk but how you talk to your children and grandchildren. Point out their strengths don't pick at them. Keep in mind that being thin might be genetically easier for you. Don't judge them. If you are concerned about their physical well-being, go do something that's a fun physical activity with them. Lead by example.

As for me, I'm free now. I know that I can be what I want to be. As Oprah said in one of her life classes, "When you know better, you do better." I know better. I'm doing better.

Does this mean I'll make an appearance in photos any time soon? Maybe. But on my terms. When I am ready. I'm getting there.

If you get a chance, I'd like you to stop by a site. Miss Representation. The world is upside down and it's hardly news that many of us suffer from Body Dismorphic Disorder in our own ways. Look at what the media and Hollywood portrait. Please join me in a pledge today that you will begin to see this as a serious issue. Do something about it. Let your voice count. Start with you and your family. When we break the cycle of abuse, whether self-inflicted or inflicted by organizations or others, we create a new world for those who come after us. It's worth it!

Lost in Resolution

2011-05-14T14:59:00.023-06:00

Times come and go but the constant that remains in my life is this pervasive feeling that somehow I've managed to get lost...

Again.

Displaced by the merging of lives amid relocation to unfamiliar scenery, I wander within my thoughts to find a landmark to help me find my way.

The incessant bickering battlefield of a life that never belonged to me in the first place, creeps through the borders of the peace I had once acquired and I tremble in fear that the quiet may never return.

Lost and found co-exist in a mixture of blessings and tribulation that confounds me beyond my reasoning. Chaos reigns over moments of clarity and dis-spells any optimism that life will settle into the silence that exists between the dawn and waking, before the world stirs and I am lost once again in the activity of survival. Yet...

I attempt to retreat to the safety of the fortress of my choosing. Surrounded by majestic beauty, the cliffs of clay are all that anchor me to a new life I've fought to find and keep.
Like their crags and jagged crevices I am wearied by elements as they batter and rail against my determination to withstand controversy.

Still, I am inspired to believe that perhaps the answer is as simple as their unspoken example to...
Stand...

Silent...

Resolute...

Immovable....

In the belief that... I belong right where I am.

Here...now...and forever.

Courage in the Face of Fell Circumstances

2010-09-16T18:48:00.009-06:00

We stood, the four of us (my three children and I, to one side and peered into the bars of the cell as we listened to the quiet African voice, reciting for us the story and conditions of Nelson Mandela's incarceration at Robben Island. Unaided by a microphone the tour guide's soft voice carried with it a reverence and solemnity that we all felt.

This was hallowed ground for many a South Africa. I stood fixed looking at the tiny dimensions, trying to comprehend what it must have been like to live in such a small space for 18 years. It seemed to me then and ever since that day in April of 1999, that any difficulties or challenges I might face in my life are mere petty complaints and trivial issues on my part.

Imagine being trapped on an island with a view of freedom (Table Mountain and Cape Town in the photo to the right) just out of reach. To know that you were considered a terrorist by a minority that held in it's hands the power of life and death but also knowing that you fought as a freedom fighter for an oppressed majority.

Not long ago I watched the movie, Invictus with Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. I wept as I listened to the words of a poem that Nelson Mandela recited to give himself courage.

I want to post those words here as they inspire me today and will forever more. They are as follows:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloodied, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Invictus
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

On the boat trip back from Robben Island to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, one of the attendants insisted he take our photo. The waters were a bit rough that day but we quietly humble after our visit to see where our beloved Nelson Mandela spent so much of his time forging his will and determination to make a difference, not only for the people of South Africa but to be a voice to be heard around the globe.

May it be said of us, that we will face our fell circumstances with such faith and courage as he has demonstrated for us. May we persevere with an unfailing sense of purpose to find our place in this world and raise our voices with messages of hope.

Finding and using our voice

2010-08-19T12:03:00.014-06:00

As writers we often talk about finding the voice of our characters and I am reminded that just as important as that is, we must find our own voice in our daily lives. Contemplating beyond the obvious of the mechanism we use for speech, voice is a reflection of everything we think and feel.

Experiences throughout our lives can help us find a way to express our voice or they can silence us. In my own life, I became a willing participant in the silence. But...

I wasn't always that way. No...at one time, I was very free in expression and thought. Without intimidation or censoring, I spoke my mind. I've always been articulate but eventually not always open. It's what happens when we grow up...

...right?

So who is the girl in the photo below?

That'd be me. 27 years ago. I remember her and I marvel at everything she was and everything she stood for. She spoke the plain truth and always managed to be compassionate at the same time.

I look back to those days and I remember..how unaffected I was. Life in my eyes was miraculous. It never occurred to me that I should filter my thoughts as they were always positive and filled with wonder.

Yet, there came a time when I could no longer shared my thoughts and feelings as openly. It didn't happen all at once. It was an erosion of conviction and confidence that took place over a period of 18 years. My story isn't uncommon but consider, we tend to think of it as maturing and I realize now, I was a better communicator back then, than I am today. No second guessing, no worrying about what someone might think, I was just me.

In the world of the politically correct speak-ease, for the sake of everyone smiling and in pursuit of amiable connections, I have learned to filter everything. I've even observed that with things like twitter and facebook, we ramble on about everything and yet nothing and we lose the most important thing that our voice can bring us...

...Strong, deeper and lasting relationships.

So why do we post so much on these social media networks? Isn't that being heard--using our voice?

Unfortunately, for many, it's just a tool to fill the void. To put a bandage on what's really affecting us: our lack of meaningful communication, our emptiness when we have silenced our own thoughts for the sake of peace and to comfort our loneliness. Being "connected" gives us a sense of belonging that's shallow and momentary. I have found it to be flat--without dimension or individuality.

So, I think I'll take a page from my former self and be more involved in the tangible and somewhat tenuous world and see what the ages has added to the voice that is uniquely me.

Looking at both sides now

2010-08-10T14:51:00.007-06:00

I think I've spent most of my life running from who I am. I've never felt I measured up, nor that I ever could. Getting lost in the shuffle of what we call this mortal existence is a bit confusing and messy sometimes.

Life just...
.................................is.

I find myself more reminiscent today. I chalk it up to Joni Mitchell and her music that takes me back to the 60's and 70's when I was just a girl, struggling to grow up in my mother's home.

Last night while I watched the movie, Life As A House, I realized that I looked at my mother through the larger-than-life lens of a child. Her father, my grandfather had been a Mason and my mother belonged to the Daughters of Job. By virtue of the title alone one can surmise that when my mother set her mind to something, she never gave up.

In recent months as I hit the two year mark since I had full-time employment, I've received comments from others saying, "I don't know how you do it. I would have given up by now." And my thoughts always drift to my mother. She never hesitated to tell me that I could do anything, be anything if I wanted it bad enough.

It was my birthday last week but my youngest boy, wise teenager that he is, probably sensed I needed the present he thoughtfully picked out for me and gave it to me a week before my actual birthday. He gave me the poster depicted below: Persistence.

The quote along the bottom is from Ralph Waldo Emerson and reads:

"Challenges are what make life interesting; overcoming them is what makes life meaningful."

I was laying on the couch at the time with a bad back injury and his well timed gift brought me to tears. My son knows just how discouraging the last two years of unemployment have been and the toll it's taken on his mom. His gift served to remind me not only to hang in there but of a long standing family tradition of taking everything as it comes and never giving up.

Amazingly enough, three days later, I got a call telling me that I was being offered a full-time job.

Sometimes we think we stand alone in this life. Our children grow and leave home, but then when we need them most, they do come to our side. We are never alone in the love our families share.

I'm so very proud of my children. I think they are proud of me. We've been through so much together and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, this victory belongs to all of us, the Fabulous Four.

And I like think that my mom would be proud of me too.

Larger Than Life

2010-07-27T22:01:00.018-06:00

Whenever I feel I've lost my way, I come back to my children. All three of them.

And I remember, three important truths:

1. I love my children.
2. They love me.
3. Nothing will ever change that.

They are my anchor and they are also my rudder--so to speak. When life seems more than I can handle and I've disconnected in an effort to isolate myself from the fear that seems to permeate every fibre of my being, I stop--I listen--and I remember.

When I first divorced and we moved to our new home nestled against the mountainside overlooking the Salt Lake Valley, there was a sense of freedom that all four of us felt. It was a time of redefining who we were as a family and each of us in turn as individuals. The challenge though daunting was not more than we could handle.

Still there were times when the pressure was about to explode and take all of us with it. That was when we took matters into our own hands, locked the doors, turned off the phones and cranked the volume up on the CD player.

I'm talking lip syncing and dancing to...

......................................dare I say it?

Backstreet Boys.

Yes, I said, Backstreet Boys.

Because back then, in 1998 they were the coolest thing on this planet in the eyes of my three children; ages 13, 11, and 7.

This was the fireplace in my family room back 13 years ago. Tonight:

I want you to imagine if you will, each of us taking turns on our very own little stage, performing for each other and giggling ourselves sick. The center of the red carpet was our spot light. A hair brush our microphone and we sang...

...at the top of our lungs.

We mimicked the moves we saw on MTV and our fears and sorrows vanished in the joy of the moment.

Gone--the thoughts of failure--abandonment and isolation.

Suddenly--

........................................life was

...................................................................MAGIC!

And the four of us, dubbed ourselves--

...........................The Fabulous Four

............................................and we were

................................................LARGER THAN LIFE!

Now tell me that listening to that video and imagining my children and I dancing our way through those troubled times, doesn't make you smile. Go on, I dare you!

I see you smiling, don't pretend you aren't. ;-)

Destiny Takes A Hand

2010-07-10T12:20:00.012-06:00

After reading the previous blog entry, a young friend of mine said, "I didn't realize you had gone to South Africa after having kids. I always assumed you'd gone before. Why did you go there?" I promised I would answer him in today's post.

I've learned that my life has been far from linear. That is to say, I don't think it's followed a straight line but rather more zigzagging than anything. Sometimes, I take for granted that life lessons have a habit of jumping back and forth through time. Decisions I've made are often in a moment of clarity years before action is actually set into motion. I wandered off the beaten path and would find my way back again. Such was the case with my traveling to South Africa.

To answer my friend's question, I'm going to take you back to 1976. I had just graduated from high school and the summer was underway. I remember standing in the kitchen when my mother called me into the living room. She was watching a news report. The following video from YouTube shows some of the images presented that day and subsequent days as the news of the riots in Soweto, South Africa reached international headlines.

I stood behind my mother as she sat in her recliner chair; the dish towel I held suspended in mid-air as my heart felt a crushing sensation. I was fixed to the spot, wanting to look away but not able to as we watched and listened to the horrific images and sounds as they played on.

"I'm going there one day." I said without conscious thought.

"What?" My startled mother looked up at me.

I nodded, my eyes glued to the TV, "I'm going there one day."

I went back to doing the dishes and phoned my best friend to tell her my news. From that day forward, whenever I wanted to get away from my family, my friend LeeAnn would say, "No matter what happens, I'll follow you to the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa." Years later (1998), we sat at the Holiday Inn, in Rapid City, South Dakota (my home town) and talked at length about my experiences in Cape Town.

LeeAnn leaned across the restaurant table and said, "I know you always said you'd go there... but I never really dreamed you would. You're braver than I am." (This coming from a friend who as an interpreter for the U. S. Army was stationed in East Berlin...before the Wall fell)

So let's jump back ahead to May, 1996 (like I said, not exactly linear). I had hired three people to take over my responsibilities in the company I co-owned, so I could go home and try to be just a housewife and mother (as IF there is anything JUST about that). I wanted to save my marriage.

As the months progressed a friend of mine knew I was bored to tears so he introduced me to the Internet. He taught me how to chat. And to make a long story short after several unsuccessful experiences in stateside chat rooms, I came across a guy who told a mutual friend (keep in mind these are online friends) how to connect to a server from his country and reassured us it was highly moderated. Where do you think I landed? Yep.

South Africa.

And a year and five months later, on October 27, 1997 (7:00 AM) I walked down the steps and on to the tarmac at Cape Town International Airport.

Life is like that. Sorta linear, sorta not.

We jump back and forth.

.............................................. We zig...

....we zag.

We get lost, we get found. We get lost and we get found again.

..............A series of stops and starts.

Decisions?

..................................Coincidences?

Or perhaps it's...

.....................................Destiny...taking a hand.

Getting Lost On Purpose

2010-07-09T19:36:00.011-06:00

I ran.

Oh yes I did.

As far and as fast as I could.

Faced with the impossibility of choices I'd made in my life I took myself to another continent, even another hemisphere and tried to disappear.

The day I arrived in Cape Town, South Africa (October 27, 1997) I thought I was getting lost. Little did I know, that had already happened-- long ago and this was actually the beginning of finding my way back home.

In the solitude of the self-catering flat a friend had found for me to rent, I spent a lot of time sitting in the quiet and listening to my emotions. Seven weeks of isolation from family and friends held moments of crisis in which I faced some of my darkest fears. For the first time in my life, I came face-to-face with my fear of abandonment.

Imagine, at that time, Dolly was 12, Buds was 10, Bubba was 6 and I had been divorced only 6 months. Prior to my separation, I'd never left them for more than a night or two. And even then, maybe once or twice in all those 12 years. I don't really recall ever leaving them with anyone. During my separation, I'd ventured out a week at a time but never very far from home. Most of the time, I'd escape to my refuge in the Uintah Mountains only 45 minutes away. I spent a week or two in California training in jiu-jitsu but always only a couple hours away at the worst. The divorce forced me to be separated from them three nights a week (mostly spent somewhere between mindless activities and dead cold sweats of panic). I was so terrified my children would feel abandoned and I couldn't bear the thought of them being afraid I wasn't coming back. And I learned, just how very much I was afraid that they would forget me and abandon me.

I spent at least a half hour each day on the phone with Buds. Other days it was an hour between all three, though Bubba didn't have all that much to say at six years of age. Many of the calls were heart-breaking. Afterward, I would spend hours weeping and I wanted to climb back on the plane and go rescue them. But I knew if I was to survive--if we all were to survive--I had to find out what was left of me.

So I escaped, got lost and created a space in which I began the process of rediscovery.

I'll never forget that first moment when I knew I was going to be okay. I was at a braai (barbecue for us Americans) that I'd been invited to attend. There we all were--my new South African friends and I--joking about our differences and poking fun at one another. So caught up in their infectious humour, I forgot myself...

and I was laughing.

The Unwanted Child

2010-07-08T23:05:00.010-06:00

Please don't be mislead by the title of this entry. It's simply my way of introducing my own childhood perceptions. I can't speak for my parents. I would never be so disrespectful as to put words in their mouths. I only know that from a very early age, I felt unwanted.

I think in a very real way, it had much to do with the unfortunate but necessary divorce of my parents. I mean, I was only a three year old little girl when Daddy went for a "carton of milk" and didn't come back for a few years. I felt lied to and betrayed.

I had been his little princess and he just...

disappeared.

Oh I know- it isn't like they meant to hurt me. It's just how life works. Parents are allowed to be human, after all. Right? Grown ups make mistakes. Children pay for them.

A baby is born and we all wish there was some sort of parental guide book on how NOT to screw up raising our children into reasonably well-adjusted, rational adults. We even stay up nights, losing precious sleep over how we should or shouldn't have said this or that to a child. We should have listened when she cried into her pillow or he sulked at the table and went to bed without a word because they lost all their friends at their old house. It's no longer, "let's go home". It's now, "Mom's house or Dad's house."

Perhaps if we weren't so stuck on our own short comings or too busy finding fault with our spouse, we'd have time to notice a child's suffering right under our very noses. But adults become obsessed and self-indulgent in their self-pity when marriages fail. We aren't superhuman after all. Or are we? Superhuman-ly flawed. Divorce doesn't just destroy a family, it destroys the marriage partners and their self-worth. But at least as adults we've had time to learn how to adjust and recover.

For children, the reality is, in the midst of the chaos that dysfunctional relationships create, a child feels unwanted and lost. That whole idea that children will have two sets of parents and now four sets of grandparents and therefore more love; is just trying to put a very pretty bow around a very frightening experience. No matter how many dispassionate words they use to describe a "blended family" (let's face it's still a broken home), a child still believes that "Mommy and Daddy don't love each other any more and I'm probably next".

Even in the best of parent/step-parent families, children can lose their sense of belonging when they are no longer tethered by the original family. It is what it is. In the shuffle between custodial rights and from house-to-house, a child has no place to call home.

Because--we forget...home...isn't a place.

Home is Mommy and Daddy.

What If...

2010-07-04T19:21:00.004-06:00

...you woke up one day and realized, you were lost? Would you know how you got there?

Would you know what to do or where to go?

Journey with me as I walk through the steps of self-actualization in an effort to recover a bit of my former self and forge the new me.

This...

.............should

be...

............interesting.