The After Christmas Drain

Recently, I received a thoughtful email from one of my sisters-in-law, apologizing for not being in touch. The reason I hadn't heard from her, she wrote, is because "the holidays are not my best time of year." She didn't go into detail why, only that too many loved ones were gone and there were too many expectations from others. She was obviously down, and I felt bad for her, but, at the same time, almost instantly, her words lifted my own depressed mood. Not that I was reveling in her sadness, I was just relieved to hear about it, because it made me feel more human, less like a scrooge.


Christmas sucks the life out of me. This year, afterward, I collapsed on the couch and stayed there for an entire day, drained of all my energy. Why? Not because of the rushing around to buy gifts, or the preparing of festive dishes to take to various gatherings, or even from hosting a dinner party for my husband's family. Nah, I breezed through all that. What took me down was the exhaustion from a month of faking the spirit, holding up the heavy, happy  façade, keeping a smile plastered over my sadness, so as not to ruin, for anyone else, what should be a magical time.


The truth is, I don't really like Christmas. Sure, I get a warm feeling when I think of the true meaning of the day, a soul-deep stirring. And who doesn't enjoy watching kids rip into their gifts? But the rest I could do without. There, I finally said it, and I don't feel as evil as I thought I would, thanks to my sister-in-law's email. Although for different reasons, she and I just aren't Christmas people, and I'm guessing we're not the only ones.


My annual depression starts around the end of November and runs well into January. The reasons are pretty straightforward. The Christmases of my formative years were not joyful ones, and in spite of all my attempts at happy holidays since, I have not been able to cover up those first horrible memories. When my kids were young it wasn't so bad. Their glee filled me up and their happiness was mine. But in the last several years, even as I'm surrounded by smiles and laughter, I can still see, vividly, the forlorn face of a little girl on Christmas morning, a little girl who thinks even Santa hates her. She's huddled in a corner clutching a package of socks, watching her brothers play with their bicycles and race cars, admiring from afar the same birthstone ring that she'd seen under the tree for two years in a row, but never worn on her finger. And most painful of all, years ago, my dad was killed in a car wreck just days before Christmas. The ruthless ghost of that Christmas past haunts me every year.


I hate this part of me, mostly because of my husband. He didn't sign up for his wife turning into a grumpy elf on his favorite holiday. And I'm ashamed that I feel the way I do. My reason for writing this is to reach out to others who feel the same way. Just getting an email from someone else who also gets the holiday blues lifted my spirit. Maybe someone like me will happen across this blog and take some comfort in knowing that he, or she, is not alone.

The "Scam"

Audiobooks. We all know what they are—the title is pretty much self-explanatory—but I, for one, had never given them much thought until someone claiming to represent  “Audible Studios” contacted me a few months ago offering to professionally produce my books,  Call Me Tuesday and Call Me Cockroach, to sell in downloadable spoken format.

Of course someone was trying to run a scam on me. What would Audible, the world’s largest seller of digital, downloadable audiobooks want with an indie author, who decided to go that route because she knew no big publishing house would want to take a chance on an unknown?  Yes, it has to be a scam, I thought, and shot back a snarky email that all but asked, how much? Even when the guy from so called “Audible” responded to clarify that they wanted to pay ME to produce the books, I was still skeptical. I Googled him and found his profile on LinkedIn. He was for real.

I was convinced that the offer was legit, but I still had questions. I’d run across other books in audio format and had casually wondered if the finished product was worth the money and extensive effort to produce it. With a reputable company like Audible taking on that burden for me, I figured I had nothing to lose. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the popularity of audiobooks. I could understand how they would be beneficial to the visually impaired, come in handy to someone who travels a lot, or make the time on a treadmill go by a little faster. Beyond that, I didn’t have a clue of an audiobook’s potential to reach readers who might be interested in my story, but I was eager to find out.  Some internet research led me to a staggering figure. Turns out, in this digital age, the audiobook industry is flourishing, estimated to be worth 1.2 billion dollars. Clearly that’s more than blind people and a few road travelers.

Audible serves customers in over 190 countries.  In addition to selling through Amazon, they are the exclusive provider of audiobooks to Apple's iTunes stores worldwide.  The Audible Service is compatible with hundreds of mobile players, including iPods, iPhones, Android-powered smartphones, BlackBerrys, Microsoft-powered smartphones, Kindles and hundreds of other MP3 players. Production values and narration quality of Audible's recordings are stellar and their efforts at creating superior audio productions have not gone unrewarded.  In 2014 they won 3 Audie awards, having been nominated as finalists in 32 titles across 18 categories.  They won Best Spoken Word Album at the 2013 Grammys (Janis Ian’s Society’s Child: My Autobiography).  Also in 2013, they won 9 Audie awards, including Audiobook of the Year (The End of the Affair) and Distinguished Achievement in Production (Dracula), having been nominated as finalists with 32 titles across all categories. This most recent Audiobook of the Year is their second, having won in 2008 for The Chopin Manuscript. With Audible Studios, I could be assured that my books would have the advantage of the best talent available in narrators and support from a great marketing team, in addition to top notch producers and engineers.

Now I was excited, embarrassed and feeling a bit stupid, but excited.  I’m all for getting my message out to as many people as possible, and if audiobooks will help accomplish that, “Then sign me up,” I said. Thanks to Audible Studios, (the real deal) a company willing to take a chance on an unknown indie author, Call Me Tuesday is now available in audiobook format through Audible: http://www.audible.com/pd?asin=B00W3ZKWKS&source_code==AUDORWS0416159DB3

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Tuesday-Based-Story/dp/B00W5UF0EO/ref=tmm_aud_title_0

And also Apple iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/leigh-byrne/id515690672?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Allyson Ryan is the narrator of Call Me Tuesday. She’s good. Her southern accent is awesome. Just listen to the sample here: http://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Tuesday-Based-Story/dp/B00W5UF0EO/ref=tmm_aud_title_0.  She has narrated hundreds of audiobooks, and can also be heard in promos, commercials, and animation. She received an AudioFile Earphones Award for On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren and narrated the successful parody The Fifty Shames of Earl Grey by Andrew Shaffer. She also has an extensive stage and TV resume and appears as "Young Mom" in dozens of TV commercials.

Audible is providing a few free downloads of Call me Tuesday, the audiobook, in exchange for honest reviews or ratings on the Audible, Amazon and Apple websites. If you are interested in reviewing the audiobook please contact me via this blog, or at leighbyrne@wowway.com, and I will provide you with a code to claim your free book.

To Believe or Not to Believe

A few days ago, I was scanning over some of the recent Amazon reviews of my first book, when one in particular jumped out at me. The reviewer started out by stating that she (or he?), too, had been a child abuse victim, and fully understood the incidents described in Call Me Tuesday. That, alone, is nothing out of the ordinary. It saddens me to write that I receive correspondence—through email, Facebook, and my blog—practically every day from fellow abuse survivors, many of whom suffered through almost exactly what I did. The thing about this review that struck me, really pricked at my heart, was what the reviewer said next. She said she would love to find the courage to write her own story but, “some of the incidents are too unbearable to comprehend that people could do that to a child and people would choose not to believe it rather than to try to understand there are heinous monsters in this world disguised as loved ones.”

Her childhood was so horrible, so incomprehensible that she’s convinced there’s no use writing about it, because there would be people who wouldn't  believe her. And the dismal truth is she’s probably right. If she were to write and publish her story, there would be many who would have no problem calling her a liar. I know, because I get it all the time. Not so much to my face, but I’ve read comments online and reviews saying they think the events described in my book were either all made up, or exaggerated. It used to bother me. Make me cry. Hell, who am I fooling? It still bothers me. Still makes me cry. But I’m getting tougher. And I needed to thicken up my skin some, so for that I can thank the non-believers. Truth is, they are the reason I, and most abuse victims, never told anyone what was happening to us when we were kids. We were afraid no one would believe us. And now as adults, when we’ve finally mustered the courage to tell, those of us who’ve chosen to write it all down must live out that childhood fear again and again with every “I don’t believe” review.

Really, in defense of non-believers, most child abuse stories are unbelievable. The majority of the population (thank God) has difficulty processing such information because they can’t fathom harming a child under any circumstances. Others just don’t want to face the truth that such terrible things happen. Possibly another reason abuse books garner doubt is because, besides their obvious, sometimes jaw-dropping, descriptions of inhumane treatment of another human being, the author almost always changes the names and locations. Why? I believe I can speak for all child abuse memoirists when I say the intent of telling our stories was not to inflict harm or cast blame, but rather to help, to heal. The true names are not essential to the message, and incriminating the individuals involved, after the fact, would not be beneficial to anyone except for the purpose of revenge, which in my experience has always been a waste of energy. Using real names would only cause trouble and pain, and Lord knows we former victims don’t need any more of either one of those things in our lives.

There are probably some authors who have pulled a James Frey and published fabricated material to get attention or make a few bucks. But I can’t imagine why anyone would do this because there are too many other, more pleasant and profitable subjects to write about. Abuse memoirists actually lose a large portion of the reading population because many people would rather not read about something so depressing. Whether or not some of the books out there are exaggerated, I don’t know. Speaking for myself, I can tell you that I wrote the way I remember feeling at the time. But, as with my fellow child abuse memoirists, I was a child, and when you’re young, things do sometimes seem larger than life.

The people who never doubt stories of abuse are other abuse survivors. I remember how I reacted when I read a Child Called It, by Dave Pelzer. It’s been a while, but if my recollections are correct, the author was stabbed, forced to drink bleach and eat the contents of a dirty diaper. Unbelievable, right? Not to me. I knew his account was true, every word, because I had once faced the same evil. At the time, Pelzer’s book was one of the few of its kind on the market. Today there are many touching and inspiring memoirs and novels about child abuse available to the reader. Like with any other genre, there are some good reads and some bad ones. If you are interested in the subject, a couple of noteworthy books to consider downloading to your reader, or adding to your personal library, are Spilled Milk, by K. L Randis, a lovely novel in which the author artfully recounts how she brought her abusive father to justice, and Ghost No More, by Cee Cee James, who, unlike me, was able to rise above her abuse with dignity and grace. 

In my opinion, there can never be too many books on the subject, because volume heightens awareness. I encourage every abuse survivor to write your story, and if you feel so inclined, publish it, even though by putting something unbelievable out there for the world to read, you’re setting yourself up for some harsh ridicule. Still, the rewards are worth the risk. Publishing my books has been one of the most emotionally fulfilling experiences of my life. And probably the most therapeutic part, aside from the actual catharsis, has been connecting with other child abuse survivors.

As for the non-believers, if our shocking childhood stories don’t ring true to you, please know, we didn’t write them for you. We wrote our stories for our brothers and sisters who suffered in secret right along with us, to let them know they were not alone after all. And for the boy in junior high school who decides to speak up when he recognizes that a classmate’s actions bear a resemblance to a character's he read about in one of our books. We wrote them for those of you who want to learn, to know the signs of an abused child, and be made aware so you can attempt to make the world around you a better place.

Call Me Morbid

Lately, I've been thinking far too much about death. Possibly an unhealthy amount. To be honest, I always have been, not quite obsessed, but probably one rung down on the crazy ladder: intensely preoccupied, at least twice a month, with what happens to us after we pass from this life. With this past Saturday marking one year since my younger brother's tragic and untimely passing, that occasional preoccupation has morphed into constant morbid thoughts: Will it really be what we're all hoping for, what most of us have been led to believe--a euphoric reprieve from this life's challenges, tribulations and sometimes unbearable burden of pain? Do we move on to another life, in another bodily form? Do non believers and the corrupt souls amongst us truly burn eternally? Or is there nothing at all waiting for us after we die? We simply cease to exist. After much contemplation and gobbling up of all the information I could find on the topic, I've come to believe in a combination of two of these possibilities: God has many lessons for us to conquer and so we live on and we learn, until our spirits have evolved enough for us to earn our places in what we call heaven. I believe this because it's what I want to believe, because it offers an explanation of why God would allow so many people, particularly children, to suffer so. In this way I can look at pain as being for our own goods, to strengthen our souls and make us more like our Creator and His son, fit to exist beside Them eternally.


Another factor that has prompted me to think so much about death is that, like many of you, I read in the recent news about the young woman with terminal brain cancer who, with the assistance of a physician, has chosen to end her life around the first part of next month. Medical professionals have estimated that if she lets the cancer take it's course, she has less that six months to live anyway, and the end of her life would surely be excruciatingly painful and without dignity. She does not want her family to see her go out like that, and her main justification is that she's not the one who's ending her life, the cancer is, she's only speeding up the process. I get what she's saying and I agree. I'm a strong proponent of sparing needless suffering in humans as well as animals, therefore, I am a supporter of physician assisted suicide in such cases, and I think that more states should allow it.


Some may argue that suicide is a coward's way out, and under any circumstances other than to end the suffering from a cruel, terminal illness, I too believe it is. The people who ridicule and judge this young woman for wanting to end, what must be hell on earth for her, surely have not endured anything close to what she has. She's made a brave decision, and going public to heighten awareness took almost as much courage. My fear, as a Christian, is for her soul. God forgives any sin, but how can she ask for His forgiveness after she's dead? I can only hope for His mercy on her and the many others before and after her that will be forced to make the same choice. When I think of the suffering of this young woman, I look back in disgust at the times in my early adulthood when I seriously considered suicide. How dare I, having been blessed with extraordinarily good health, (Daddy insisted my heartiness is because the unsanitary lifestyle I was forced to lead, as a result of Mama's abuse, subjected me to an unusual amount of germs, which, in turn, caused me to form strong immunities) even allow such a notion to enter my mind? Had I followed through with my thoughts of ending my life over a few unfortunate, yet tolerable, challenges, I would have been the definition of a coward.


Nobody wants to talk about death, although it's a fact of everyone's life. If what awaits us after we die, as most of us believe, is full of light and love, then why is everyone so afraid of dying? Call me morbid, but if everything I know in my heart is true, when the time finally comes for me to die (for good), death will be my reward, a much needed and hopefully well-earned rest for a soul that is growing weary.

Are You Happy?

In the past, I always hated when people asked me the simple question, “How are you?” because the answer—the truth—was ugly and something they probably didn’t want to hear. It’s a superficial question we all ask to be polite, and what we expect the answer to be, whether it’s true or not, is what almost everyone says: “I’m fine.” While deep down we may genuinely care about the happiness of others, we ask mostly for selfish reasons, to come across as kind and compassionate so we can continue our day feeling good about ourselves. After all, we have our own problems with which to contend, our own illusive happiness to chase.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of vacationing in Maine, in the Casco Bay area. Anyone who knows me can tell you I’ve always wanted to go to New England, and Maine was at the top of my list. Although there were many places I wanted to visit—Paris, England, Australia—I desperately needed to go to Maine. It’s something I have harped on for my entire adult life. Why Maine? I honestly don’t know; all I can tell you is the area beckoned my soul as if I belonged there. I just knew there was a quaint cottage nestled in a wooded area, near a rocky beach with my name on the mailbox. I was convinced that if I ever made it to Maine I would be truly happy.

So after a three hour airplane flight we arrive in Portland—my husband, Wally, his parents and I, and contrary to what I’d always imagined, I am no happier than I was back in Indiana. In a rental car on the way to our hotel, I am anxiously looking out the window at the lush landscape and charming Cape Cod houses in search of inspiration. Where was that magical feeling I’d dreamed of? Where was my instantaneous bliss?

The next day, in downtown Portland, I finally get my first close-up experience of a Maine harbor. As soon as the car is parked I bolt from it and run out onto the pier. Surrounded by docked sailboats, the salty air on my cheeks, seagulls above me dipping close to my head, all at once my heart takes flight and I feel a goofy, childlike grin take over my face. My in-laws are chattering behind me, and Wally is asking me something about his sunglasses, but I am speechless.

Now, once again, I’m back in my home in Indiana. Am I happy? Perhaps the most sincere answer I can give is "Most of the time." For me, happiness comes and goes. Even though I had a lousy childhood and my young adult years weren’t much better, there were snippets of joy sprinkled throughout so intense that when I recall them today they still bring a smile to my face. At eight years old, dancing on my grandma’s baby grand piano as she played it, and later, as an adult, hearing the laughter of my children.

It’s been said that we create our own luck. I say we create our own happiness too. We all have a choice. We can allow the dark spots of our past to overshadow our future, or we can recognize and seize the fragments of light all around us as life so generously presents them daily. I choose happy :). Which do you choose?

Why'd Ya Do it, Christie?

Why did you, at sixty-years-old, put on that sexy blue bathing suit and pose for the cover of People Magazine, and then let the publishers Photoshop the hell out of your picture? Do you really expect us to believe that a woman who, in some restaurants, is eligible for the senior discount, (and claims to have never had plastic surgery) doesn't have a sag in her skin, a broken vein in her legs, or the slightest pooch in her stomach? Don't you know the frustration you've caused every women over forty who has no chance of looking like you do, at sixty? Perfectly normal, lovely, middle-aged women standing in check-out lines at grocery stores all over the world, gazing at that cover photo of you, with nothing but rice cakes and celery in their carts, because they actually believe that in order to be attractive and worthy they must be thin and youthful. You are a beloved celebrity, an icon. Women have always admired your wholesome good looks and girl next door quality. Our hearts went out to you when your younger husband left you. And this is what you give us in return? Shame on you, Christie Brinkley! Yes, you look amazing for your age, but you are so not the face of sixty--what we should "aspire to look like" at that age--nor should you be. It's unrealistic, unfair, and just plain bull crap.


What's worse is People Magazine tried to pull the bogus photo off as a celebration of aging. If they truly wanted to celebrate aging they would have published an unretouched cover of a woman who has aged like the average sixty year old, and still enjoys a healthy, active, and productive lifestyle, sending out the message that it's possible to have a wrinkle here and there and still be happy. That it's okay for women to grow old, look their age, and still be beautiful and valued. But that won't happen any time soon. Old doesn't sell magazines, because it isn't pretty in the eyes of a shallow society that has cruelly defined a woman's worth by her appearance.

Bullying

Last week, while my husband was away on a business trip, with many sleepless late-night hours to fill, I got on a Netflix documentary kick. Into the wee hours of the morning, I became enlightened to the challenges of living with bipolar disorder, saw jaw-dropping accounts of extreme hoarding, and peeked out over the top of my covers in horror as I watched reenactments of people being mauled by wild animals. Then I ran across a documentary on bullying in our schools, and passed over it, fearing it would trigger painful recollections of my own childhood experiences. But the show kept calling me to watch it, as if a subconscious part of me needed to know what our kids are going through today. I gave in and clicked on it.


What I saw was so sad. Nothing has changed since I was in school. If a kid is the least bit different, they are at risk for being bullied by their peers. At first I cried buckets of tears, and then, I became nail-spitting mad at the bullies, and the teachers who turned a blind eye. And yes, as I had expected, I was taken back to those excruciating days when I was made fun of for my high-water pants and greasy hair. Having been bullied, I can tell you there is no deeper wound than being rejected and humiliated by the very people whose acceptance you seek most. A child should never have to suffer in this way.


Some of the kids in the documentary were so tortured by their bullies, in order to escape the pain, they ultimately took their own lives. Committed suicide at eleven and twelve years old! This got me to wondering why I didn't consider doing the same when I was a kid. I was abused at home, bullied at school. God knows I was miserable enough to at least be entitled to the notion. But suicide never once crossed my mind, and the reason is really quite simple: Death wasn't an option for me. I was too busy trying to survive to even consider dying. Looking back, I realize my life may not have actually been in danger, but, with a child's mind, I thought it was, and when you think you're in danger, automatic survival instincts kick in.


By the time I was in Jr. high school, I did, however, find a way to fight back. I was on the staff of the school newspaper, and could pretty much write about anything I wanted, so I decided to write about the cruel way some kids were treating those of us who were "different." In hindsight, I'm not clear what I expected to accomplish by doing this. Maybe I thought calling these bullies out might magically make them like me, or feel so ashamed by my words that they would stop making fun of other kids. I can't tell you what I was hoping for, but I can tell you what actually happened. The publication of the article only made things worse. Of course, I didn't mention any names, but the guilty parties somehow knew who they were (why is it usually the popular kids?), and they offered some snide remarks and dirty looks, and their teasing and ridicule of me continued with even more viciousness. But I also remember enjoying a silent, personal victory, because at least I got their attention. It was perhaps the first time I realized the true power of the written word.


My life at home was actually worse than my life at school, so I believe for that reason, I developed a high tolerance for abuse of any kind. But most kids don't have such thick skin. Being bullied is crushing and devastating, and sometimes leads them to a lonely, hopeless place, with nowhere to turn for help. They seldom go to their parents, because kids are often too ashamed to disclose they've been cast out by their peers, too embarrassed to admit they don't have friends. And I get that. Even if I'd had loving parents, I wouldn't have told them about my predicament because of this shame.


So what can I pass on to parents and grandparents from my experience? Your kid is most likely not going to tell you if he or she is being bullied at school. You have to be proactive and look for the signs yourself. Does your child consistently find excuses not to go to school? Has he or she suddenly become withdrawn? Does he or she never get invited to a friend's house for a sleepover? If so, there's a chance your child may be hiding something. And believe me, this is one dark and dangerous road you do not want your baby to travel alone.