"You don't like people"

This is one of the lies I believed for a long time about myself. Weird lie to believe, I know. But I believed a lot of weird things because I was told them over and over by someone who claimed to love me. And I had such a low self-esteem that I believed them.

I had always had trouble with friends. I never really had a best friend growing up. No one who I could count on to hang out with and rely on. Books were my friends and I spent many hours with Laura Ingalls and Anne Shirley.

Crowds made me uncomfortable. I would get lost in them. I wasn’t good at making small talk so I never knew what to say. I was also taught not to interrupt and so I couldn’t figure out how to break in to conversations. But my ex-husband came alive in those settings, telling stories and being the center of attention. Because a lot of those stories were about me and I didn’t always like or agree with the way I was portrayed – parties and social settings became things I dreaded. I would often find one person to talk to or go play with the little kids to escape my embarrassment.

Because of this I was told I didn’t like people.

And I believed it.

Even when I learned more about being introverted and realized I would rather have a good deep conversation with one or two rather than be in a large group, I still felt maybe there was something wrong with me.

Many crazy lies I believed from my dysfunctional marriage were brought to light over the years and shattered. Watching lies shatter is a beautiful thing. But this one didn’t shatter like some of the others.

This one dissipated gradually over a series of events and years. Small things like friendly conversations with strangers at the park, at the store or at retreats. Little things like meeting new people and finding connections right away. Larger realizations like finding that I am not truly happy in a job where I can’t connect with lots of people on a daily basis. Having people comment that I am friendly and function as an extrovert in certain safe settings – all served to further debunk that lie from so long ago.

I was slow to realize this truth about myself…but am glad that today I can actually believe it. 

I love connecting with people.

 In the last 48 hours, I have lunched with a new 24-year old friend where we bonded over our mutual love of “The Fosters” among other more serious topics, exchanged witty and hilarious text messages and swapped funny stories with my 26-year old coworker, had “drinks” with my 18-year old second daughter BFF, and had countless smaller interactions with co-workers, strangers and family. I think if I hated people I would be slightly less inclined to seek connections with such a diverse group of people.

Do I still struggle with small talk? Absolutely. I will always choose the deeper connection over the surface chatter. But I think that is why I seem to be the one others confide in. And while I might not have 1,000 friends on Facebook – those I do have are important and bring fond memories. 

So today I am going to banish that crazy lie from my head. It seems time…

Conscious Peace

As I pulled into my driveway last night coming home from my Writer’s Retreat at Ragdale, I consciously thought about how I could extend the peace and mellowness I felt as long as possible. On the ninety minute drive home, I had turned on the classical music station and chilled out to Mozart. I knew my daughter would be gone until Monday night, and I had decided to take Monday off of work so I could ease back into real life chores and deadlines. I felt that five hours was a reasonable goal. Surely I could isolate myself a little longer from reality and be blissful for five more hours.

My zen-like state lasted exactly this long.

This is how long it took for my garage door to open. You see, my ex-husband was moving out of his apartment this weekend and had asked if he could drop my daughter’s stuff off while I was gone. I had agreed to this plan after talking to Molly about how much stuff she had. It was a bed, a dresser and a bookshelf along with “a few” boxes. I specifically said to put it all in the basement.

Yeah…that didn’t happen.

What my open garage door revealed to me was a half-filled garage full of boxes. I couldn’t even pull my car in if I had wanted to.

There went my peaceful weekend and out spilled the exasperated anger that I so often associate with my passive aggressive ex. I was afraid to go downstairs because my only thought in that moment was that obviously he had filled the basement and the garage was overflow.

But no, the basement was not filled (and I will take that as the only good part of this story). BUT what I found down there was a heavy disassembled and half broken bed, two dressers (one of them completely broken and tossed in the corner), a chair and a bookshelf.

So the heavy stuff that I can’t move alone (including a broken 6-drawer dresser I am going to have to figure out how to get upstairs to the trash) is down the stairs and the multitude of boxes that I am going to have to move are in my garage.

I allowed myself to be angry for about five minutes. I ran through all of the scenarios of how this could play out. I had every right to call him up and demand that he get back to my house and haul everything downstairs. I could also (in a less angry move) ask Molly to ask him or ask Molly to ask a few of her friends to do it. Unfortunately, Molly can’t help with her healing broken arm – although together we can do just about anything – girl power.

Or, I could leave it all alone and go back to my blissful place.

I am happy to say that is the road I chose. I brought in my stuff from the car and turned on my computer. I took a few minutes to post my last thoughts from Ragdale on my blog and read through a few of the things I wrote. I let the house be silent for a while and didn’t feel the need to unpack or do anything.

After a while, I did go downstairs and attempt to fix the bed thinking Molly might like to sleep there tonight when it gets hot. I did get it upright although I would not advise jumping on it.

I also went on Pinterest and found a few ways I could salvage the broken dresser. This might be a good project once Molly leaves in the fall. I am actually excited about it now – using my creative energy in a more physical way.

This morning, I took 30 minutes to haul all of the boxes downstairs so I could use my garage. I also didn’t want Molly to see everything thrown in there. Unfortunately, in attempting to get back at me, thought is not always given to how it affects others.  Molly is already sad that there is no place for her in her dad’s life anymore. Before she had a room. Now she doesn’t.

Now I am lounging on my porch reflecting on the whole experience. The amount of effort it took me to stay in my zen place is really how I should be approaching my entire life. Giving in to the outside forces of the world that fight to pull me out of a place of peace takes work.

In retrospect, I am proud of the way I handled the situation. I allowed myself to feel my emotions of anger and frustration. I let them go rather quickly. I turned it into a positive (or at least less negative) and moved on. If only I could do this in more of my life.

Excuse me, I now need to go change the code on my garage door. After all, I am not stupid.

Goodbye Ragdale

The hours have turned to minutes now. One by one each member of our tight community takes their leave. There are four of us left, scattered about the grounds taking advantage of every last moment, every last word we can eke out of our inner depths before being dragged back into the real world.

But right now, in this moment, the world still feels far away. Yes, the magnetic pull of to-do lists (laundry, dishes, emails) has pulled most away early. But I refuse to be distracted. I think I live my life in a constant state of distraction. There is so much to do and I can get so overwhelmed by having to do it all alone- I distract myself. With unnecessary chores or more often with mindless television.

It is not surprising that I have felt no inspiration to write in the past few months with the constant progression of television programs marching across my brain. There is no time or space for creativity. I can’t hear the voices inside of me that struggle to break free and live on paper. I can’t hear the fisherman on my shoulder, the gay basketball coach or the toxic dolls demanding their voice in the teddy bear uprising.

Okay, I know I have borrowed those characters from other writers here but I have found some of my own as well. My teenage girl with her deadbeat hookup and mother who betrayed her trust but deep down is so proud of her. My inner “kind of” poet who wants to bestow words of wisdom on her young daughter who brings her so much joy. And even my own inner voice struggling to figure out how I view God in the midst of a messy life.

Being here seems to have brought a universal confidence as well. Each person shared their writing – even the messy first drafts with each other and found laughter, tears and encouragement with each beautiful phrase, heartfelt dialogue and poignant description. Each person felt heard as their work was brought up again and again in conversations over dinner, in examples and in honest declarations of admiration. I can’t tell you how many people sought me out in the prairie, in the dining room, and on the lawn to say, “you are SUCH a good writer.” People have asked me how I do it, how do I find the words to write on the page in such a quick manner – coming out so polished. Which I find fascinating since I feel the same about each of them. Everyone here is a writer.

Everyone here has a voice uniquely their own and I have learned so much from each.

I have loved watching Anita read her stories about toxic dolls with such sheepishness and sending the entire group into fits of laughter – cracking herself up so much she can’t even finish.

Sophia struggling to find her confidence in her blog piece, and admitting her naivety at writing fiction – then breaking through to find her fisherman character that had been haunting her for so long.

I have learned from Lauren, the young adult novelist who moonlights as a burlesque dancer. Her freedom to announce things about her life that may offend others without any concern was freeing. It wasn’t that she was rebellious – she was just honestly comfortable with her choices and invited others to listen to her story. It didn’t even occur to her to be hesitant to share or that she would be judged – which beautifully she wasn’t. Not even a little bit.

Kim, the African American woman who had two gay men in her head that she was bringing to life on the page. Telling their love story with warmth and realism that was easy for anyone to relate to. Why gay men? She just likes the genre…who knew?
Alyssa, the theater artist who performs her writing with honesty and beauty. Each word from her mouth is rich and interesting and poignant and real.

Nancy who is a novice struggling to find her story. She so earnestly wants to be able to call herself a writer. So genuinely touched by an expression of “wow” after one of her stories that she cried. I think she found her inner writer after all.

Gina with her imaginary world and characters we all wanted to help find their father. Watching her discover new parts of their personality and voice with each new segment was like watching a girl open her presents at Christmas.

And so many more – each with their own place in our group. Each with their own lives and experiences and talent. Each accepting each other for who they are with no judgment. Only love and encouragement and respect for the craft. Where else does this type of community occur? I am sad to report that I haven’t found a place.

Twelve more minutes. Only twelve more minutes to take it all in and figure out a way to hold on to the magic in the busyness of my life. I fear that the magic will stay here – abandoned like a baby on the steps of the firehouse. Waiting for someone else to pick it up and call it their own.

The wind rustles the trees – with a strength yet to be seen this weekend. It is almost as if it is helping wake us up as the yogi does after the relaxation pose at the end of yoga. Wake up your toes, then your legs, then your arms. Wiggle your fingers.

The magic of Ragdale might just need to become part of my yearly rhythm. For even if I lose a touch of it as I walk off the grounds, I can easily fall back into it again next year.

Eight minutes…time to say goodbye. Like a child being left at daycare I want to stomp my feet and say NO – I won’t go. But of course I will. Not only because I don’t want to draw attention to myself by refusing to leave, but because I know that I will return.

Thank you, Ragdale. Thank you for helping me to fall in love with writing again. Thank you for providing me a space to belong. Thank you for the magic you bestowed on me and on each of us for this brief 48 hours. You will forever be counted as a friend.

Ragdale

I don’t remember ever being in such a quiet and peaceful place. The stillness is broken only by the occasional bird call or faintly passing car. The air is warm, but not hot. The sky is clear and blue and perfect. We pay reverence to the stillness – instinctively walking slowly and on tip toes so as not to disturb the magic.

If only the ripened trees could talk, and whisper out the words of former writers, poets and artists who have graced this space. Thousands of sparks of ideas have begun here. Whether those ideas and thoughts ever became a finished work of art is not the point. 

The creativity and life come in the process. That moment, that flash of genius – a word, a phrase or a plot line, a new character or direction. That is the journey. That is what makes this space hallowed ground.

The joy of writing comes in the mystery. In the discovery of what lies deep inside of me. I don’t truly know my thoughts until I write them down. And reading them back is like remembering an old friend.

Today I feel grateful for this stillness and this peace that gives me a chance to listen to those who have gone before me. And join them with my own piece of genius.

A Day to Celebrate

As a young mom, I always wanted to make my children’s birthdays memorable and special. I worked hard to make each birthday unique and creative. My son's 3rd birthday had a fire truck theme. He ran around in his cute little plastic red hat and we had ice cream sundaes. He spit everywhere when he tried to blow out his 3 blazing candles. It was eighty five degrees on that April day and the kids ran around in shorts in the sunshine.

His fourth birthday was set in space. It was cold and snowy and I had 8 little four year olds in my cramped one car garage (which was also freezing) helping them decorate little space hats and playing space games. I think I may have fed them freeze dried ice cream and Tang but that could be something I made up.

The last birthday party I remember was pirate themed. We dressed the kids up like little pirates and decorated treasure boxes and searched for treasure. The ice cream cake was shaped like a pirate ship. He never was one to like actual cake. His present that year was a Fisher Price pirate ship with little pirate men and treasure chests. The ship is still in my parent’s basement in a giant Rubbermaid tub – waiting for grandchildren to inherit the joy in those plastic figures.

My memory of birthdays gets foggy here. I know that at some point having birthday parties with friends stopped and birthdays became about the family dinner and presents. My desire to throw themed parties was over ruled by the birthday child who preferred playing video games and reading books to having friends over.

Today marks the twenty-third birthday of my eldest child. This day has become a marker of one more year my child has stayed alive. After several hospitalizations and lots of therapy, staying alive is not something we take lightly. Every day there is a very real possibility that my phone will ring and I will find out that life just became too much to bear for my firstborn son.

So this day has become bittersweet. It marks another year of life, which I deem a precious gift from God. But it also marks another year of inner torment and suffering for my son. He struggles with acute anxiety and depression and was diagnosed as probably being on the autism spectrum not too long ago. Life has always been hard for him.

He has a brilliant mind. Reading by age two and doing complex algebra in first grade, you can see why he never quite fit in. His mind was always racing and learning, but his social skills were far behind. He was sensitive and other kids used that to his disadvantage. He was the target of bullying from the time he was six years old, once receiving death threats from another child. I was a young mom and did the best I could to try to protect my child and help him learn to deal with a life that was hard.

Getting into a gifted school in fourth grade helped him for a time. He was with others who were smart and loved to learn. They could talk to each other about the things they had in common. But still outings with friends were rare. He spent much of his time alone, reading or on his computer. Online friends and fantasy became his constant companions.

Because he was so funny and quick witted, he got along well with adults and it was hard to realize that anything was different about him other than his IQ of 165. They say now that he probably has very high functioning Asperger’s.

It wasn’t until senior year of high school that depression and anxiety started to paralyze him. His father had left and that relationship was strained at best. The stress of college (despite his near perfect ACT score) made it hard for him to get out of bed. Sleep became impossible and I finally convinced him to get on some medication. It helped for a while but didn’t fix anything.

He attended college for almost three years, but finally had to drop out. My sweet little brilliant boy had become a broken, angry and hopeless man who saw no other alternative then to end his life.

I never thought that I would be the mother visiting her child in the psych ward alongside the drug addicts and schizophrenics. I thought my proudest moment would be when my son graduated with honors from a top university but instead my proudest moment to date was the day he called me and told me he was checking himself into the hospital for an extended stay. This was a huge step, he recognized he needed help and he chose to get it.

But those days of choosing to get help don’t last when someone has severe depression. There is no magical pill that makes it better. I can’t step in and fix the problem with money or even with my time and presence. It is not a problem anyone can fix and it becomes a long road to trudge down one heavy step at a time with no glimpse of a destination. There is no guarantee that he will ever hold a full time job, finish college or even be able to pay for desperately needed therapy.

So today is my son’s twenty-third birthday. A milestone for sure. A marker on the journey. But also a reminder that the journey is long and hard and painful. I want to sweep in and take the pain away. Bring hope and comfort and joy into my child’s life. But I can’t do it.

Sometime in college, despite being raised in the church, going to Awana, church camp and youth group, my son decided there is no God. This adds another layer of complexity to trying to help him find hope. Where is the hope when there is no God? Bible verses that bring me hope and comfort, cause him to scoff and roll his eyes. Or worse, look at me with pity that I might be so deluded to believe in a God who came to save us. Like I am a Disney princess waiting for her prince to come.

It is easy to let the cloud of darkness that envelops him, come and devour my soul and suck away every ounce of hope. For a long time, I went into hibernation mode to keep the darkness away- functioning at the most basic level so that I could accomplish work and deal with life. Establishing boundaries around my heart so that I didn’t allow the despair to overtake me.

But as is always the case, the time of hibernation comes to a close and glimpses of spring work their way in. Even though the circumstances haven’t changed, I find myself smiling for no reason. I feel the sun on my face again. I start to remember why I believe in a God who created the singing birds, the glimmering water and the budding flowers. I start to hear God’s voice whispering in my ear that I am not alone. He loves my child even more than I do and yes, he does have a plan for him. He promises to carry him and watch over him, because I can’t fix him no matter how hard I try.

God didn’t promise me a life of happiness and roses. And I will admit, that makes me furious and tempts me to go into victim mode. I want to stomp my feet and whine about how it isn’t fair. But I then remember that he does promise to walk with me through the valleys. He promises to help me grow and shine in the midst of hardship. He promises that he is preparing a place for me where there is no more sorrow and no more pain and that life here on earth is fleeting. I choose to focus on those truths today and to celebrate another year of life for my child. Another year – difficult as it may be- where I can show him God’s love through acceptance and steadfast hope even when he is treating me badly and pushing me away. I can let God’s light shine through me in the darkest of circumstances and no matter the outcome, no matter if that phone call does come someday, I can know that love marked my son’s life whether he let it in or not.

I am eternally grateful for the twenty-three years I have been allowed to love my son – through the laughter, the tears, the frustration and the joy. And while today might not be a happy birthday, it is a day to celebrate just the same.