The Adventure of Pain and the Pursuit of Happiness

I have a frown line. It slices my brow in half and renders me looking "bitchy" even when I'm feeling rather docile. It's a real condition, you know. I know because I've read about it on the internet. It's called 'Bitchy Resting Face'. You learn more about BRF HERE.

I have pondered several theories about how I developed this condition. Was it from squinting too much? Concentrating too hard? Do I pout a lot? Did squirrels descend upon me in my sleep and scratch my brow? Or, Am I a bitch? We may never know...

There is one theory that I've recently contemplated with some seriousness. Maybe, I have been unhappy. Unhappy, a lot. More than I've been happy. Enough to leave a permanent (at least without Botox) imprint on my face. A symbol to the world around me that I have been angry or sad or distressed... unhappy.

I watched a PBS movie a month or so ago, called 'Happy'. It discussed what makes people happy, presenting the very common philosophy that happiness is somewhat self-made. Happy people DO certain things that unhappy people don't do. The narrator introduced viewers to a variety of very happy people living in seemingly destitute surroundings, but, because of their community/generous spirits/positive outlooks they were untouched by their lack of comforts and conveniences. Of course the movie also touched on the merits of low-stress living and lots of good sleep.

The positive-thinking model for happiness has always disturbed me. Books like, 'The Secret', left me empty and unsettled, irritated even. It's not that I don't see value in optimism, or seeking out the silver linings; I just strongly disagree that a person can positive-think themselves out of legitimate trauma. The theory ignores the very natural and necessary stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I'll concede that everyone is impacted differently by the disappointments of life. Some seem to wear no evidence of hardship at all. I'm both happy for, and question the depth of, those people.

Then there's the, "it could be worse, you could be...." answer to adversity; or the, "but look at all that you still have," response to loss; or even the, "buck up, we all have bad days!" pat on the back in the midst of devastation. These statements come from a place of naivety; at least I choose to believe that people don't say these things with the intent of belittling a person's very real pain. (See, I can be positive!) I'll never forget receiving a card from a well-meaning friend, at a time when I (the mother of three small children) had just lost my home, my church, much of my social support, and was facing my husband's pending imprisonment. The card said the equivalent of "darn, I got a run in my stockings and hit all red lights today - time for chocolate!" Do I even need to explain why that sentiment came nowhere near to easing my pain at that time? A "bad day" does not equate to a devastating blow. And yet, even a bad day merits the stages of grief, if only mildly so.

Like every other being, I have experienced loss. Some of my losses have been disappointing, some have been heartbreaking, and some have left me in utter desolation. I have no need to compare my losses to those of others. Certainly, and sadly, others have experienced more loss than I have. But the tragedies in my own life have challenged the plans laid in my DNA, and changed my very form (evidenced by my BRF??); much like the scars left by falling off a bike, chicken pox, pregnancy/giving birth, or injuries from war.

Last night I sat in a group therapy session. I listened to the stories of others and the insights of the moderator and internalized what I could. The group is for codependency, a little habit I picked up (in truck loads) along my way. Essentially, the message is to love myself better, and to love others without destroying myself. It's teaching me to allow the grief, be kind to my heart, and take care of myself.

I think I've struggled the most with letting go of the injustices and the hurts and accepting the reality of my life's picture. The death of my birth-father, painful break-ups and multiple divorces, betrayals, losses of homes, cars, income, beauty, and struggles with health; just typing the memories causes my throat to tighten. I've become disillusioned with so many of the desires of my youth. The canvass, which in the optimism of my childhood was soft and fluffy white, has over the years been slapped with abstract lines and harsh tones, portraying a scene that is drastically different from the hopeful visions of my prior self. Who is this painting of? Is she ok? Do I accept her, this ragged Picasso-like shadow with a frown line etched in her brow? I want to. I want to be proud of her. I want to LOVE her... me.

In our group, the moderator re-stated the ever cliche, "Life is not fair." She gave some impactful quote that more eloquently said that pain is a fact of life; the sooner we accept that truth, the sooner we can move on. Half of getting through the pain is just acknowledging that it could even happen to us. Hence, the 'denial' stage of grief. I guess many of us have a tendency to believe that we shouldn't have to feel pain.

Pain is the inevitable challenge of life. The irony in the acceptance of pain and the experience of loss, is that therein is the birth of empathy. It is in learning to cope with pain that we experience the rawness of compassion for the hurts of others and the beauty of our connection with humanity. Empathy is a powerful ingredient in the ability to love. It is in the adventure of pain that we find our courage, stamina, resilience, and our capacity to love, which, I suspect, is also the epicenter of genuine happiness.

In the words of Helen Keller, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

For the Love of All That is Holy; Losing My Religion

I've mentioned before that my birth father left my mother for another woman. He left her the day before I was born. He was angry at her for getting pregnant. He was very narcissistic according to all accounts I've gathered from those who knew him.

Growing up without a father in the home those early years didn't phase me all that much. I mean, I missed my dad and I wanted my parents to be married like other kids' parents were, but my day-to-day life was relatively unhindered. One issue that did plague me, however, was that my parents were divorced. From what I'd picked up (from somewhere in our church-centered circle), divorce was a grievous sin, punishable by eternal damnation. This disturbed my impressionable five-year-old mind deeply. I'd learned that divorce was only permissible if infidelity had occurred, so I found some relief in learning that my father had been unfaithful. At least my mother, who was raising me, wasn't going to burn. Of course, I couldn't shake the guilt I felt over the recognition that I was glad that my mother would be saved, even if at the cost of my father's soul. It wasn't that I wanted him to be eternally damned, it's just that I knew her better. This notion that I chose my mother's salvation over my father's haunted me in my teenage years, following my father's early and torturous death from colon cancer.

I was a "Believer". From my earliest memories, I believed in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I believed the bible was the infallible word of God. I believed I was born into the one true church. And I wanted to be good. I couldn't wait to go to heaven. I was told that death would be over and in an instant I would open my eyes to the coming of Christ. I would get to go to heaven, where there was no pain or suffering; no fathers leaving pregnant mothers; no hardworking single mothers leaving their children in the care of babysitters for weeks at a time; no suffering from cancer. I have a vivid memory of standing in the kitchen one sunny afternoon, holding a knife I'd pulled from the kitchen drawer, contemplating the pros and cons of killing myself so that I could skip the living part and go directly to Heaven. I wasn't depressed or suicidal at all. I was just a believer. But, standing there, I realized that it might make my mother sad if I died, and I wasn't totally clear on the whole suicide thing - is it suicide if you're just trying to fast-track it to the streets of gold? So I decided to put the knife down and go out back and play. This is a true story.

I wavered in my faith at times, and tripped up quite a lot on following God's word, but I maintained my deep belief into my early years of motherhood. I wasn't just a blind believer either. I studied my bible. I learned of grace and attempted to practice love and forgiveness... acceptance of others. I become open to the possibility that mine wasn't the one true church, but that God was bigger than that and would make all things clear in the end.

On April 2, 2003, my pastor-husband returned home late from a church leadership meeting with news. I sat on the couch of our little Oxnard home as his words blew through me with a paralyzing chill. A betrayal had occurred. A confusing act of dishonesty, for which we would now stand trial.

I cannot overstate the profound devastation that I felt that night, and in the harrowing months that followed. I recognize that sensation now as shock. It's a feeling of surreality, a separation of your mind from your self. Denial, disbelief, panic, pain, bargaining... all the stages of grief hitting at once in an overwhelming wave of loss. Too much for the mind to process.

The church had their own reaction to the betrayal. They were hurt. They were hurt and exceedingly angry. In the wildfire of the news, they frothed with fury. They held meetings discussing the unforgivable sin, and the punishments they felt we deserved. The rumors grew into their own form of evil. We started getting threatening phone calls and letters. People that I had loved... the conclusions they drew, the hate they expressed, the absolute confidence they held in their actions against us. Group think. Burn him at the stake! Who cares what happens to his wife and children! They made callous statements, "I'd feel better if he lost everything," "Maybe if Cherie left him or if he went bankrupt or tried to kill himself, then I'd think he understood the magnitude of his sin." "We are warriors for the Lord, we need to break him at foot of the cross." They sent letters out to all of the churches on the west coast, exposing the allegations against us. They sent letters to all of the churches in Arizona (where we had moved to escape the hate) warning of our evils and telling church leaders that we should not be allowed to attend. I know of these letters because I saw them. At one point we were informed that private investigators had been hired to follow us and hack into our computers.

Nothing felt safe anymore.

A very precious few extended words of comfort to us during those days. I'll never forget those that did. One was the realtor that handled the sale of our home.

We sold our home in order to use equity to pay off debt to the church conference, but the conference leaders played dirty with the escrow and strong-armed the escrow officer into turning over funds that exceeded their due; funds that, by prior established contract, were the rightful property of my parents. Funds that exceeded $50,000.00. To be more clear, the conference leaders knowingly and effectively stole $50,000.00 from my parents while in the same breath publicly condemning us. And, while they had promised to drop the allegations against us if we repaid our debt to them, they withdrew that promise at the last minute.

It was our realtor that saved us. When he discovered the actions of the conference during the escrow process he was so disgusted that he contacted his friend at the LA Times who agreed to write up an expose of the conference leaders' underhandedness. Then our realtor informed the conference president that the expose would be published that Sunday and there would be picketers outside the conference offices Monday morning if he did not return the money to my parents and withdraw all allegations. The next day we received the call. The official statement from conference leadership was that they had decided to show us grace. I know otherwise.

We lost everything. I lost everything. I lost my home, most of my friends, my church, my denomination, my happy marriage, my sense of safety, my faith in people. I was suddenly more alone than I had ever imagined a person could be. I prayed. I cried. I worked my ass off to keep my children fed and housed. I sank in my soul-hollowing despair. I retreated from all relationships. I developed anxiety about answering the phone, checking the mail, or logging into the bank accounts.

In the years following our traumatic exit from the church, I sought answers to my questions about religion, God, the Bible, faith. How could a loving church, built on an act of grace, be so cruel and condemning? So quick to discard us?

Initially, I craved the familiar comfort of church. I found a grace-oriented non-denominational church to attend for a while. It was great. The people were so friendly, the praise music was inspiring, the women's fellowship group was very active, and they even had a cafe! The pastor knew of our history (thanks to a letter he had received) and accepted us anyway. I thought maybe I was safe. But, it was there, the spiritual comparisons and judgements being made. The homeschooling moms looking down on the traditional schoolers. The frequent attendees questioning the spirituality of the sporadic visitors. The awkward alter calls. It was subtle but I could still feel it, the sense that these people were just as likely to be in the crowd at the next heretic burning as those that were at ours.

Then there was the day at a women's breakfast event when the ladies passed around a petition to sign  for the preservation of the sanctity of marriage (i.e., the opposition of gay marriage). That little twinge of discomfort I had been feeling rushed to the surface. It was wrong. I knew this action was wrong. It wasn't what a loving God would want. But it was what the God of the Bible required; at least as I understood it. The conflict was so blaring and obvious that it could not be ignored. Not by me. Not anymore. That could not be my religion. If it meant my eternal damnation, then so be it. I could not turn my back on real, raw humans, who needed love, just because an ancient book seemed to tell me to.

I followed my questions. I read. I studied. I read, 'If Grace is True: Why God Will Save Every Person,' by Philip Gulley and James Mulholland, and 'End of Faith, Letter to a Christian Nation,' by Sam Harris. I read parenting books like, 'Kids are Worth It,' by Barbara Coloroso. I researched homosexuality. I researched the origins of the Bible, how it came together at the hands of both religious and political powers-that-be, motivated by agendas of manipulating the masses. I considered the findings of modern science and its inability to support biblical accounts. The more I read, the more I let go of the belief. The more I learned, the more I understood how little I knew; that there was no religion, no human, that had the whole truth. No perfect book. I let go of my understanding of God and faith. I concluded that if a truly loving God did exist, he would not punish and condemn; rather, he would love and restore. I decided that, as a human, I was gifted with life, and with that gift I was given the ability to choose how I wanted to live among the rest of humanity. I concluded that, if my actions or beliefs failed to reflect love, they should be questioned. I realized that the only way to grow and learn was to be open to new information and willing to adjust my beliefs accordingly.

And I concluded that the only thing I truly believed in was love. True, blazingly honest, empathetic, selfless, restorative LOVE.

Those Beautiful Scary Boys

I have few theories as to why I have been "gifted" three boys (other than the obvious laws of random selection).  First let me state that, despite my hesitation on birthing another boy, from the moment that my sweet Elliott was placed on my tummy I have been deeply in love and can't imagine him as anything other than a perfect little boy.  


Ok, so if there is another force at play in the selection of my babies' genders, other than 'this sperm swam with more determination than that one', why would I be chosen to mother three boys?  


Men are foreign and scary to me.  A few have betrayed me in BIG, devastating ways.  This is just a statement of fact.  I don't think these men evil.  I try not to dwell (well, sometimes I dwell).  I know we are all flawed and those flaws lead us to wound those closest to us.  **Damn.  That is the hardest truth to swallow as a mother.**  Anyway, to date, I have yet to experience a traditionally successful relationship with a man.  They remain a mystery to me.  It is a noticeable handicap of mine.  Despite being born a profound optimist, I have managed to develop a magnificent forcefield around my heart.  


I wanted the dream like most everyone else.  I pursued it intensely.  I've seen others find their spouses and have their babies in the accepted order and with the proper outcome.  My own grandparents were married 50 and 70 years.  Not all happy years but the good outweighed the bad.  


I have believed in marriage.  Have even been a major advocate for the right to marry.  I have to admit though, my belief wavers now.  I mean, I support marriage if people so choose.  It is a beautiful and romantic notion.   I'm just not sure it's always a positive or constructive institution.  The 50% success/failure rate is a bit discouraging and, so far, I'm two for two in the darker half.  It hurts to embrace something so completely and face disillusionment.  It hurts to lose the faith. 


My therapist says these are normal thoughts for someone with my experiences.  He says there's a good chance I'll change my opinion and feel safety in love again... some day.  I don't know.  I hope so.  I still love the idea of building a life in union with another.  I don't know if marriage is the key to that or not.  I have so many clouded questions about human nature, love, men, and accepted social norms.    In fact, if you have insight to share on the topic of marriage, please do.  

So, three boys in my care.  Such a huge responsibility for someone so ill equipped in the category of love and men.  And yet, if ever I've fallen in true, uninhibited, lay myself down on the tracks, LOVE; it has been when my babies were placed in my arms.  I so want to do them justice.  I want them to feel loved and to love well. I want them to successfully bond with another and build beautiful lives.  

Can this be one of those "do as I say, not as I do" things?    

Ahh, but I love them so...

34 Weeks, 2 Days... Going Scared

"I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing." ~Anais Nin  (I stole this quote from my friend, Janet.)

How do I feel?

"

I feel scared.  

Not so much about the delivery; I've been down that road before, so I have an idea of what to expect.  It probably consumes about 5% of my fear.  I do worry about getting to the hospital in time.  I don't want to birth my baby on the side of the 680 (albeit a cool story if all ends well).


I have questions.


I wonder if my supporters will have time to be there with me, or if I will be alone.  Will Biscuit's daddy make it in time to welcome him into this life?  I know the desire is there.  Time and circumstances could be our enemy.  Will that be OK?


Will the postpartum depression kick in right away like it has in the past?  Can they inject me with estrogen and Zoloft to fight those demons off?  I have to fight them off.


Can I do this?  Again?  Will I love him well enough?  Give him the life he deserves?  Do my three know how deeply I love them?  Are we doing OK?  Will we?  We will.  I know we will.  


Where is the money coming from?  


I want to heal.  So much.  To heal. To love.  To press forward.  The loss is still so overwhelming.  Life still feels intensely foreign... and, is about to feel even more so.  


Sometimes I feel so alien.  Like no one in the world understands what I'm experiencing.  Where's the, "Older, pregnant, financially destitute, mid-divorce mommies" play group?  I don't fit.  Not a soccer mom.  Not a career woman.  Not feeling real successful in the marriage department.  I don't blend.  Most of the time I'm at peace with that.  I even appreciate some of my eccentricities.  But, when I want... need... belonging.  Support.  I feel a million miles out in the middle of nowhere.


I don't mean to wallow.  And, I know I'm not special.  I know everyone has pain that sets them a part for a time.  I do know this.  BUT, I wish some of my traumas were a little more run of the mill.  The kind books are written for.  It's just that several of the major events in my life, which have left me altered, just don't have support groups named after them.  And the sensational quality of some of my trials have left me wary of the motives of would-be supporters.  Is it the "scoop" they want, or do they care?  About me.  Who can I trust?

Will life get better?  Experience tells me that it will, eventually.  But, I'll always be aware of the fragility of it all.  I wish naivety could be restored.  I would so love to recapture the spunk and optimism of 17-year old Cherie. 


I'm here now.  37 years old.  A mother.  I'm looking for hope.  Light.  I am learning.  I am finding some of my own beauty.  Creating it.  I'm scared.  


Years ago I was scheduled to speak in front of a large group of people.  My nerves were eating me alive.  A good friend at the time said, "you don't have to feel calm, just go scared."


I am...
          going scared.

Making Peace With 'Less is More'

As I've mentioned before, I live in a small two bedroom house with my three kids, three dogs, and a guinea pig named Princess. It requires a great deal of medication creativity, but it's happening.

It hasn't always been like this.  A few years back I lived here:

Spent weekends here:

And drove these:

It was nice. I won't deny it. So far, from my experience, many aspects of life are easier with money.

BUT... The STUFF. That was a lot to manage. The book keeping, the cleaning, landscaping, furnishing; making enough of a living to keep up with it all and then managing that. I remember wishing I could find a way to simplify. 


I remember missing the single mortgage and no car payments. I loved that my kids were living such a comfortable life, but I was overwhelmed with it all. But knowing how to (0r wanting to) deconstruct what we'd worked so hard to build was beyond me.

DONE

What I didn't think I could do, the universe did for me (and for way too many others). It was a painful process. 

I remember the first thing I sold. It was a garden fountain. I couldn't even be there when the buyers took it away. I hid inside my bedroom until it was over. I sort of just went on auto pilot for the rest of the purge. Detached. Let it all go... 

I remember my load lightening even with the pain. A sense of loss mixed with acceptance. Of course, I'm not suggesting the transition was that simple. I still dream about my homes, that life. I still feel it all slipping away...

But I have been given something fantastic.  LESS.  I am constantly amazed at how little we need to be comfortable, functional and happy.  And it has been a wonderfully creative challenge to learn how to live well in a smaller space.  I refer to it as "Jewel Box Living".  It is liberating and can be very beautiful.

There is a whole movement of small space dwelling out there.  I have found countless blogs and websites providing tips for simplified living.  People are embracing this lifestyle for a variety of reasons.  Obviously, the economy has been a major unsolicited motivator for many; but there's a large number of people choosing to live with less for environmental reasons, or to escape their hectic jobs, or to simplify what they manage, or to afford living in a city that they love, or to free their funds up for experiences like travel, etc.  

I'm loving the decor/design inspirations I've been finding.  This is a great example of an eclectic living room from a small space design contest hosted by Apartment Therapy:

I also enjoy the blogs on patio and balcony gardening.  It's fun to explore the possibilities of these frequently neglected retreats.  The blog, Small Place Style, posted this sweet pic of string lights:

My mother was a single mom for many years.  She was also a born designer.  She created beauty where ever we lived.  I learned from her that financially challenged doesn't equal trash, it just fosters greater creativity (if you let it).  What a gift she gave me.

I am pouring my heart into my jewel box and finding healing in it.  I would love to spotlight your petite spaces as well if you care to share. Inspiration is a fabulous motivator.

Independence Day

Independence Day.  


A time to celebrate freedom, bravery and the American legacy with hotdogs and semi-controlled explosives.  


In college I loved driving to watch the fireworks over the ocean in La Jolla, Ca.  It was so beautiful because there were always multiple shows glittering in the distance so it felt like the whole coast was celebrating together.  


For the past 13 years, I have spent the holiday dazzling my kids with sparklers, or taking them to community park celebrations, or driving them all over, chasing the various fireworks displays.  I have collected some very treasured memories.  


This year was different.  This year, it was just me.  


Independence Day.


I spent several hours in my car.  My radio options melted down to blended variations of spanish/christian/country with a consistent you're-not-quite-in-range-for-this-station buzz.  So I traded that noise for the hum of my car and the thoughts in my head.


Thoughts of my kids.  My life.  That new mystery sound coming from my engine which I can now hear since I turned the radio off... 


Thoughts of Independence.  


This year I visited a precious friend in rehab.  Fighting for his freedom from addiction.  His independence from misery.  I met the others and heard their stories.  Saw their loved ones.  Felt the hope.  Considered my own steps.


Independence is rarely painless.  It almost always requires bravery.  It requires a willingness to think differently, behave differently, risk being misunderstood or rejected.  Risk comfort, safety, companionship, change.  


It's the pivotal cliff.  For whatever reason, life has culminated at this ledge.  The choice is to either regress or step forward and hope to grow wings before hitting the rocks.


I made it back home by 7:00.  Fed the dogs.  Ate left-over casserole and chocolate chip cookies.  Climbed into bed around 9:00.  As I was drifting, I heard the pops and crackles.  It was a good day.


I spent Independence Day celebrating the process of progress.  Contemplating the fire of change which makes way for the brilliance of what will be.  Because, it seems, some of us are the phoenix.  We don't find our wings until after we've been reduced to ashes.  Scary.  Painful.  


But then... 
                       We SOAR...

Weave

It's a curious thing how people grow into each other.

I actually feel them inside of me.

I feel them. I know them. They're there.

Family, neighbors, childhood friends, soul-sisters, old flames and lost loves. They live inside of me.

They're in my soul.

Even if they're gone.

I love them. They are all my beloveds.

Where do you go when you die?

You are carried in the souls of your beloveds.