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.

The Frailty of Life

Most people, when confronted with tragedy, turn to family and friends for comfort. But because I have adjusted to life without a family, and grown accustomed to concealing and suppressing my pain, I turn to pen and paper instead. Some of my words--often the ones most drenched with angst--I destroy, or tuck away in a secret place, never to be read by anyone. Others I cast out into the world, hoping someone else who's had a similar experience will happen upon what I've written and glean a ray of solace, or, better yet, be compelled to make a positive change in his or her life, and, in this case, benefit from my mistake.

So here's what happened: One of my brothers recently passed away. By choice. He took his own life, leaving behind no trace of a reason for his action. Only questions, questions that wake me in the middle of the night: Was the way he did it a shrouded message? Was what he was wearing a hint as to why? Was his dysfunctional childhood somehow to blame? 

As masochistic as this may sound, I long to feel the devastation of this loss of a sibling, my brother, my blood. But because I never got to know him at all, because of the unfortunate truth that he was nothing more than a passing acquaintance, I am left only with these unresolved questions, and a gut-wrenching sadness at the thought of him reaching the hopeless point of where the only way to end his unbearable pain was to end his life. And guilt. Most of all I'm left with guilt. Guilt that I never put forth more effort to make the lanky cotton-top boy, who once played in the background of my childhood, something more than a vague memory.

I wanted to start a relationship with him after Mama's death, last year. I thought it would be a good time to at least begin. After all, Mama was the one who had kept us apart. Wasn't she? But he didn't think it was a good time. Too soon. So we put the idea on a backburner and that's where it stayed, simmering, waiting for one of us to pick it up. But neither of us ever did. I'll always be tormented by the thought that maybe if I'd tried harder--pushed harder--to become a part of his life, I could have somehow stopped him from turning down the dark road he ended up on. Or not. Maybe there's no amount of familial love and support that could have saved him. I'll never know, because now it's too late to find out. Too late to say I love you, brother.

Why Call Me Cockroach?

It has been a while since I posted to this blog, and many of you know the reason is because I've been working on my second book, a sequel to Call Me Tuesday. Now it's completed and for sale in eBook format on Amazon and B&N, and the paperback is in the final stages. I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who encouraged me to tell the rest of my story, and then waited patiently while I pecked it out on my laptop.

The second book was almost as painful to write as the first. After the release of Call Me Tuesday, initially, I was embarrassed to reveal the many horrific and humiliating incidents of my childhood. But then after I received the reader response, I realized I had not been giving people enough credit for their capacity for empathy. My abusive upbringing had unfortunately caused me to fear people, and to be leery of the possibility of their cruelty. The compassion, and the brave sharing of experiences I derived from others after they'd read my story made me truly grasp that there are many in this world worthy of trust. During the writing of the second book, in order to convey the true essence of the damage I incurred as a result of my abusive childhood, I found myself having to once again disclose  more shameful personal experiences. But I was able to move forward because of renewed faith and trust that I can only attribute to the kindness of my readers. What a priceless gift! For that I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

Because of the reactions I have been getting concerning the title of the second book, Call Me Cockroach--ranging from ooooh! to WTF--I feel I should address my reason for choosing it. While I had several options for a title, this one just seemed to fit my story and my struggles. Like it reads in the Prologue of the book, my daddy actually called me a cockroach, because of my ability to survive, not only under dire physical circumstances, but also the uncanny way I am able to disregard my emotions if need be to keep on living. Many people would have crumbled without essential parental love, and as a result of family turning their backs and doing nothing to help them. But I was somehow able to walk away from them all in search of people who would love me. Cockroaches, although not particularly appealing creatures, survive at all cost. In this way I feel a kinship with them, and I believe there are many more like me out there. With all this in mind, there was really only one choice for the title, and so I swallowed my pride and went with it.

Tell

Some people--particularly a few members of my family--have asked why I felt the need to write a book based on my childhood abuse. They can't fathom how I could possibly benefit from revealing such embarrassing family secrets. Was it cathartic? Was it to get even? To make money?

No, no and no.

You see, severe childhood trauma tends to get caught in the crevices of one's soul and therefore, it's not easily purged by something as simple as writing. At least that's been my experience. If it were that easy everyone who's ever been a victim would just write it down and be done with it. Healed. Happy. Normal.

As far as getting even goes, well, that's just impossible. There's no way to even the score of losing your childhood, your self esteem, your ability to trust, and part of your adult sanity. Besides, my blood relatives are so far-removed from my life, unless they wanted someone to know we're related, because our last names are different, it would be next to impossible to make the connection.

A money-making scheme? Hardly. As an independent author, I have no hopes of becoming rich, or famous from the meager proceeds of this book.

Then why on earth did I write such a disgusting, humiliating story based on my life? The main reason is really a pretty basic human need--I wrote it to tell.

For most of my childhood I was afraid to tell, forbidden to tell, and for a long time, I didn't tell. Then when I tried to tell no one believed me. And no one else in my family would tell, so for many years, my abuse was kept a secret, and of course, my family thinks it should continue to be a secret. But I'm no longer a child and no longer afraid. Now I can tell. And that's why I did tell.

Really, above all else, it's the key message of my book: It's okay to tell. By telling my own story I send my message to all abused children and adult survivors. But today, in honor of Child Abuse Prevention/Awareness Month, I send the message, not to abused children, but to their families. Because for almost every abused child out there today, there are family members who suspect something but are not telling. That's one reason, in my opinion, why child abuse is still so prevalent.

Every time you read an article, or hear on the news about another child dying from abuse, ask yourself this: why didn't anyone in the family tell? Surely a parent, stepmother, stepfather, brother, sister, grandmother, grandfather, an aunt or uncle suspected something. Unless the abuser was a single parent with an only child, who had cut off all contact with family and friends, believe me, someone knew something and didn't tell. I am convinced of this because after I became an adult, practically everyone in my extended family admitted to me they knew I was being mistreated but didn't tell.

Adult survivors, still keeping your secret, you now have a chance to have the tiny voice of the child within you to be heard. Tell. Or consider writing down what happened to you, like I did. You don't have to publish it (writing just happens to be my thing) but you can write about it and let someone you love read what you've written. No matter what anyone says, it did happen. And it's your turn to tell.

If by chance I'm fortunate enough to have a young person, who is in some way involved in abuse, happen upon this blog, or my book, I hope they get my message loud and clear: tell. If  you are afraid, or if the words are too horrifying to utter, then write it down and slip it to someone. If you're not being abused yourself, but a sibling is, or you suspect one of your friends may be a victim--please, please tell.

True Story or Based On a True Story

It makes sense that people wonder why I say my book, Call Me Tuesday, is "based on a true story" and not simply "a true story." The short answer is that personally, I believe every memoir--particularly the ones covering the earliest years of one's life--in which names, locations, etc. have been changed, conversations recreated, and in some cases blanks filled in, should be classified as "based on a true story."

To me, pure nonfiction is documented, researchable facts, not personal reflections, as seen through someone's eyes. For a memoir to be based on truth, I believe the bone structure of the story, to the best of the memoirist's recollection, should remain intact and not embellished upon, which in my case is the horrific, often twisted, childhood abuse I endured at the hands of my disturbed mother. Due to my young age when much of this took place, my recreations of conversations and insignificant events may be imperfect, but the day-to-day torment I suffered during these early years is etched into my memory in vivid detail. This raw, soul-baring account of what I remember is what I offer the reader in Call Me Tuesday.

Nevertheless, readers are understandably confused by all this, as evident in this interesting blog review: 
http://taralovesbooks.blogspot.com/2012/12/call-me-tuesday-by-leigh-byrne-cbr-iv-50.html.

So, the sequel to CMT (projected to be released in late spring or early summer of this year), in which my true experiences are diligently rendered as I recall them, will be classified simply, as a memoir.