It's OK to Laugh

INTRODUCTION

I am not a victim. I’m not a martyr either. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure what or who I am. What I have put myself through and what I have allowed to be done to me would by all accounts make me either the most immature, naïve human being I have ever known, or the luckiest woman to walk the planet.

Fear is a funny thing isn’t it? Mix that together with pride and just plain stupidity, roll it up together and you get a very large chunk of me. I don’t know where I lost myself. I’m not even sure when I found myself again, but I have, for the most part, I think. Jesus, I don’t even know if I have or not. I do know that I take full responsibility for everything that I have done; and for that matter, what I allowed other people to do to me. I know that isn’t so popular today, but I made the choices; I decided all by myself that I wasn’t worthy of my own opinions or thoughts.

Peer pressure at its finest ladies and gentlemen. I was the perfect subject. God forbid I hurt someone’s feelings or offended someone by standing up for myself. Why didn’t I think that I was worth the price of admission in the human race?

I was having sex when I had no business even thinking about it, let alone having it at the age I was, for the reasons I was and then continuing to have it when I still didn’t want it. I chose to try cocaine, acid, and those crazy magic mushrooms because almost everyone else was doing them. I wasn’t forced. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have the strength to say no; so I hopped right up on that bandwagon and took part in things that scared me to death. What scared me more than doing things that I knew was wrong and wanted no part of was being disliked or worse yet, being laughed at. The thought of being laughed at, for me, was the worst. I believe that is why still to this day I make jokes about myself constantly. My weight, looks, personality, you name it, I joke about it. I create the laugh before anyone else can. Laughing with me is very different than laughing at me. I set the mood, I call the shots. This way, no one has the chance to laugh first. That makes me feel very safe, like a warm blanket or the embrace of your lover.

I married a man at the tender age of twenty for all the wrong reasons. I did love him that I know for sure, but I was so immature. At only six months past my teen years, I had absolutely no business playing house. What I didn’t realize then was that it wasn’t playing, it was the real deal; all the fun and independence that I was looking for, but also all the responsibilities that I was not prepared for at all. Immature youth can be very dangerous.

I knew on my wedding day that it was a mistake, but I went ahead anyway, full speed ahead. Then came the honeymoon; I should have bailed out then too. My husband saw less of me than the two female boarder guards that performed the strip search. That little brush with the law was just one more of his brilliant ideas that had consequences beyond his grasp.

To make matters worse, I had the nerve to bring two children into the world with this man when I was a baby myself, totally unable to defend myself emotionally or physically. I wanted children and that was that. There would be no discussion about it.

I had always wanted children at some point in my life. That wasn’t the issue. It was my timing that was off, once again, for all the wrong reasons.

It is because of my actions and how I reacted to situations that caused the most damage I believe. My children were helpless pawns in a very dangerous marriage. Although it was Gary, my first husband, who was the unstable one insofar as his behavior and his violence, I was the one that allowed him to behave the way he did, out of control, with us there. I was the one that gave him an audience for his bullshit. If I had left him when it all started, he might have become more violent, or maybe he would have been happy to see us go. I don’t know the answer to that. I was afraid and ashamed to try earlier; foolish pride has its consequences. I should have taken that chance, put my fear and misguided pride aside and just gotten the hell out.

I don’t dwell on that and I don’t look back on these days often, but I will say that that is something that I will never forgive myself for. And that my friend is why I am who I am today. I am still trying to forgive myself for all those lost chances and putting my little ones through so much. Those beautiful children have never once looked to me and asked why I stayed, or why I allowed them to be put in harms way, they have just loved me with a strength and sincerity that I surely don’t deserve.

I can’t go back in time and change any of the mistakes that I made, but I try to instill in my children that they were in no way responsible for his or my actions. I won’t take the blame for Gary but I will take the blame for all the decision that I chose to make, or worse yet, didn’t make. Fear is not a viable excuse when children are involved.

All of these things combined have shaped and molded my family and me; some of it good, some not so good, to say the least. I have tried to learn from these mistakes the best I could, and to take with me the good things from growing up and just do the best that I can. Unfortunately, the best isn’t always good enough.

I have also come to realize that although I didn’t think that I carried many scars from those days; while writing this book and really taking a long hard look at myself, I began to realize that some of my most bizarre phobias and fears are a direct result of those past days with Gary. I don’t think that you can go through certain traumatic events and not be affected, one way or another; it just isn’t possible.

I am a very strong woman now, although I have some very weak moments. I am independent and can take care of myself, but want so much to be taken care of. Does that make sense? Can we have it both ways? Where does it say it has to be one way or another? Can’t woman be strong and independent and still be vulnerable and cared for all at the same time? I think we can. God I hope we can.

I do the best I can and try every day to make up in some small way for the damage that I have done to my children. Even Anthony, my youngest child from my second marriage, who wasn’t there when this all happened but had to deal with the overflow of shit that followed, has scars. I guess we would consider what Anthony has gone through as collateral damage. Doesn’t that just say it all?

By reliving and looking back with an honesty that is difficult when looking at yourself, I realize now that it wasn’t Gary that made me insecure.  I was that way long before I met him.  It was just unfortunate that I hooked up with someone who preyed off of that weakness. It never occurred to me to seek out and find someone who would play on my strengths, not my weaknesses. My mind didn’t look at life like that. It still doesn’t really. I just don’t see the world the way others do. It has proved to be a blessing and curse throughout my life. We are who we are though.

I don’t really understand how you can lose your identity before you even know who you are.  At the half century mark, is it too late to find out who I really am, I mean deep down?  Who the hell am I? I ask, but never get an answer.  

It also came to me early on that if you continue to hate, it will consume you.  It will eat you alive until there isn’t anything left inside of you but a bitter, empty shell of your former self. Wait a minute; I might be on to something here. If I hate, just for a short time, will it eat away some of my fat? No, it was just a thought.

It would have been so easy for me to just wallow in my hatred for Gary. Hate is easy, forgiving is what’s hard. My feelings for Gary have gone from love, fear, hate, pity, and now, indifference.

When you are all about the hate and the revenge, you can’t be of help or any good to anyone, including yourself.  It just won’t happen.  You will alienate all those around you and end up creating hate in everyone you are trying to protect.  I’ve also learned that you must go through the process of hurting and maybe even hating for a short time before you can heal.  I didn’t let myself do that at first; I was too busy blaming myself for every single thing that went wrong. If I had been stronger, if I had been prettier, smarter or more interesting Gary wouldn’t have been the way he was. WRONG! People are who they are, but even that is only partially true. I do think if I had been more confident in myself, a more mature person, I could have gotten a handle on his anger and maybe helped him find his way out of whatever hell it was that he was in.

That is something that we will never know. That confident person did not exist during those years. Unfortunately, she doesn’t exist today either. So, as much as he pulled me down to becoming a person that I detested, it is safe to say that he was pulled down by me also. It takes two.

My thoughts on whether or not I could have saved Gary from himself had I been more mature, has been known to cause heated discussion with my friend Kathy. She was furious with me for even suggesting it. Her exact words I believe were No dear, neither you nor Dr. Phil could have helped his sorry ass.

These days, I still detest being angry or upset with people.  It makes me very uncomfortable.  When you are treated so badly, and you know that your children are suffering because of it, you need to get that anger out some how.  Only then can you move on. I will admit though that even now in my present situation with hubby number 2, I find myself so angry at times for things that he has done, and just don’t know how to deal with it. Therapy my friend is helping.

I decided to turn my anguish, hate and despair about my very troubled past with Gary into something humorous.  It has helped me a great deal and I think it has shown my children that hating is not the answer

I won’t be a hypocrite though, I have hated before, hasn’t everyone? Even now, I must admit that there are three people on this planet that I do feel I hate for.  Horrible word and I detest using it, but truth be told, I do.  I am working on that and trying to practice what I preach, and that is proving to be difficult. I don’t think about it or put any time or effort into it, unless that is, someone brings up one of these people. Then the feelings surface and I tend to go off at the mouth. I really need to concentrate on overcoming these feelings.   Time will tell if I can get rid of the rage I feel for these three individuals.  Nope, Gary isn’t one of them.

Is it a coincidence that these three people are women and all have one common denominator, my oldest son? I can’t find it in me to hate the one person who made life so miserable for all of us, but I can hate three women who hurt my son. That’s a mother for you.

So, why write a book about all my failures, phobias, and faults? In the event that anyone actually reads this book, why would I put it all out there for the world to see what a completely clueless and foolish person I have been, and continue to be at times? I think part of it is because some of it is really funny. I mean, how many people do you know who got strip searched on their honeymoon?

I also know that I am so much more than the bad choices and decisions that I made. If this book has a message, which I’m not even sure it does, it is to say that you can screw up, make mistakes, do stupid things and never seem to get to where you want to be with your life and still be a decent, good person. Mistakes don’t make the person, how you handle those mistakes does.

Never give up, never lose faith in yourself or those around you and never forget who you are down deep. Don’t let anyone tell you what your worth is; I did for a very long time and it has left its mark on me. I am working now at finding out who the hell I am and what my purpose really is. I think we all have one; a path that we were meant to follow. I don’t believe you are ever too old to find it and I don’t for one minute believe that any one person is better or worse than another or has a better path.

It all comes down to choices really. Good people can make bad choices, repeatedly; that fact doesn’t make them a bad person. Dense and thick on changing their ways maybe, but not bad. Of course there are exceptions; mass murderers, child molesters and the like. It would be foolish for me to assume that everyone is good at heart and all mistakes or actions are redeemable. I know that is not the case. But I do feel that people in general are good, not bad, and given the chance it will come out for all to see.

My children, and husband for that matter, accuse me of living in fantasy land; looking at the world through rose-colored glasses; maybe I do. But I do know if you walk down the street and smile and say hello or good morning to someone you will often get a smile back. People react to kindness. Simple kindness is contagious; so is hate. So, for me it’s a no-brainer that maybe a simple smile could turn someone’s bad mood or day into something just a bit more positive, which in turn could prevent some miss-deed or wrong doing on their part.

I am not foolish enough to believe that a simple smile will cure the world’s sadness and anger, although it would be nice to think it would. I know that isn’t the case. But, take one person at a time and maybe, just maybe you can at least help someone lighten their load; one person who isn’t so sad or alone, and the cost for this kindness? Nothing.

Of all the mistakes that I have made, some with dire consequences, I can still look in the mirror every day and know that for the most part, I have tried to do the right thing when dealing with anyone but myself. I’m afraid I still make very bad choices when it comes to me. I am still working on putting myself in the position of caring as much for me as I do for everyone else. Still paying for my sins of the past I think; in my mind anyway.

It’s only by the grace of God that I am not a complete lunatic, or a lesbian…. 

MY MOTHER

Ruth. Mother, friend and oh so special

Before this book saw the light of day in the world of publishing and purchases, we lost our mother at the age of 90 and my dad lost his wife of almost 60 years.

I had spent my life refusing to believe that my parents would someday die. Thoughts like that would infuriate my husband and instill panic in co-workers.

What the hell was going to happen to me when the time came was their fear. Would I collapse in a heap, not being able to function, or would grow up and realize that people die, even people we love?

As it turned out, I handled it, as did my sisters and dad. It hasn’t been easy for any of us. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss her. Some days are worse than others; that goes without saying I guess.

When I think of my mother it is how she lived her life. A loving wife, a mother who loved and cared for her children, a fierce friend with an uncommon ability to love gently and speak softly.

I can lay in bed knowing that I will never be able to hug her, or talk to her, but still try to figure out a way to do those things just one more time. An exercise in futility I’m sorry to say.

My mom was more than just a mom. As my sisters and I grew up, she became a friend and ally, always ready to help with a kind word or silly story.

With the wedding of my son fast approaching, the loss seems even greater.

For our dad, the loss is even worse. We have lives and jobs and things to keep us busy; our dad does not.

It has been a year and a half since mom left us; some days I still go call her and then, after a split second, I realize she isn’t there to call.

Ruthie had a good life, a long life, which is not something that everyone can attain. For me though, it was still too short.

TURNING FIFTY

Fifty, fat and gray; wonderful!

Now I realize it is a very good thing to wake up everyday.  The alternative sucks.  So many people are denied the privilege of growing older.  Waking up dead is not what I had in mind for my big day.   I had been anticipating my fiftieth birthday for the last year, excited at the changes that would take place for me once I reached that Golden age.

The Fantasy

Fifty is a magical number, or so I thought.  I had planned out the day so many times in my dreams the preceding year that I knew how the entire day would unfold.   I would rise with the sun, my husband anticipating my stirring body. We would proceed to make passionate love, music playing in the background, and bouquets of multicolored roses strewn all around us. 

I would then rise, hoping to gaze upon my reflection in the mirror and behold the beautiful, mature woman who had reached this milestone with poise and elegance.

That was not to be the case.   There was no music. Ditto on the roses.   The love-making session that I had so looked forward to turned out to be a kiss on the cheek capped off by my husband jumping out of bed describing what a massive crap he needed to take.  Happy Birthday Nancy!

The Reality

I woke up this morning and I was 50 years old.  I am utterly amazed that I made it to this age as sane as I am. I knew it was coming, and I thought I was prepared for it.  Wrong. No one is prepared for hitting the half century mark. Those words alone are enough to make anyone cringe and crawl into a hole and not come out. The phrase As old as dirt came to my mind.

It has nothing to do with vanity. It all comes down to the realization that our generation is now at the top of the death meter. It’s our turn. How long did we look at people who passed away and thought, Wow that is old; I’m so far from that age only to look at your refection one day and realize it is your turn. We are those old people we used to think would never be us.

But, being the optimist that I am I was sure that today was not going to be any different than any other day. I was wrong yet again. I got up, looked in the mirror and was horrified.   I don’t wear make up very often, but I needed it today.  The bags under my eyes must have packed for the celebration, they were huge.  I looked like one of the creatures that our animal control man, John John, carts away in his truck in the dead of night. 

The body can be a cruel thing.  I seemed to develop overnight, a curved and hunched back when I walked.  I looked like Quasimodo, sanctuary, my ass!  Now, I am a full figured woman, so I am used to sagging body parts.  But what I saw this morning in my reflection was beyond anything I had seen before.  My breasts were rebelling.  Not that I ever had perky breasts, perky was not a word in my vocabulary, but today they were down right horrible. I almost caught them in my shoe laces as I was putting on my sneakers.   I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was nothing less than a full-body mutiny.

The translation of a full figured woman means; I am fat.  Trying hard at the moment not to be, but if you tip the scales over 200 you are fat.  Shit, in this country if you tip the scales over 100 you are fat.  Who was I kidding?  Fifty, fat and gray. Wonderful.  I had the world (and my breasts) at my feet.   

I know what you are thinking. Fifty is not old, not by today’s standards anyway.   But it did give me reason to pause; to look back on my life and reflect.  Sounds deep I know, but that’s what happens when you turn 50.  You reflect and become deep.  I assume it is the mind’s way of protecting itself from the realization that Holy Shit, you’re 50, it’s all down hill from here.

For some, looking back on their life would be a pleasant journey, a time to relax and revisit the joys of childhood, the passion and excitement of youth, and the calm, peaceful time of their golden years.  For me, that is not the case. It was like a horror show.  I was not prepared for it, but