Half-truths and sugar-coated memories

I said something out loud recently. Something I hadn’t had the guts to say to anyone before. Not even to myself. I may not have even realized it until the words left my mouth.  

Saying this out loud not only took me by surprise, it shocked the hell out of the imaginary voices in my head.  The conversation went something like this:

#1: “OMG, did she just say that?”

#2: “Yeah, she did. Is she crazy?”  

Me: “I’m not crazy… Nooooo... Shhhhhh!”

#3: “Shut up and let her talk.”

While having dinner with a friend, I said: “I’ve never been completely honest in my journal.”

Say what?

I continued: “I never honestly documented what was really going on.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

While looking back at old journal entries, I realized that, in some cases, I had only scratched the surface. In others, I had so drastically glossed over the truth; I had to double check to see if it was actually my journal. 

It’s as if I was afraid to “go there.” The pages were filled with half-truths and sugar-coated memories.

What was I afraid of? Why couldn’t I be honest in my own journal?

Upon the realization of this, I became increasingly pissed off at myself. I’m talking chicken-neck, finger-wagging, “Oh no you did-ent!” pissed off. That’s right. I wanted to go all “Jerry Springer” on, well, me.

But there I was in a restaurant, surrounded by strangers, confessing this to a friend. Not a close family member. Not an inner circle girlfriend. But a friend/colleague who was hearing for the first that I was getting divorced and that I had committed a journal-listic no-no. 

I was guilty of fudging.

Why so pissed off? Because I lied to myself, and by lying to myself it kept me from seeing the real truth about my marriage, about my ex and about myself. It kept me from seeing the damage that was being done to my daughters. 

I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for that last one.  

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

I started writing a journal in early 2005. Ironically, it was late 2005 when I realized my marriage was in trouble. I spent the next five years trying to save it, with no luck.

My initial intention was to honestly document family events and life lessons for my daughters. Something they would read when I was long gone – mentally or otherwise.

“I dedicate this book to my girls… Never forget that my love for you is absolute.”

Aw, how nice…  

“I also dedicate this book to the love of my life …”

Wait… What?

“I can’t imagine my life without you…”

Someone please make it stop!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

 Suddenly, on Nov. 25, 2005, I got real. There was some truth. Finally! Unfortunately, after this journal entry, the truth faded.

“I’ve never hurt like this before… The thought of my marriage coming to an end knocks the wind out of me.”

Even now as I write this, I have to catch my breath.

“But I love you enough to let you go…”

And I did. I let him go. By doing so, I set myself free. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Once I set myself free I saw the real truth. However, with real truth comes real pain, and that kind of sucks, to be perfectly honest.

Haven’t I been through enough pain? Isn’t divorce painful enough?

Apparently not!

OK, so setting me free has a price. But it’s one I’m willing to pay. I have to. If I don’t, I’ll end up in the same boat of lies and half-truths that I was once in and I can’t – I won’t – do that again.  

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Now, for a chuckle, at my expense… I can’t help but cry-laugh (that’ when you laugh and cry at the same time) at the following, mostly because I’m not into horoscopes and because I found it by following a link on my oldest daughter’s Facebook page. (Snooping? Me? Nooooooo!)

So here goes…My horoscope for the upcoming week.

“Your mind will touch on emotional events that you may not have fully dealt with at the time they happened.”

Do they know me or what?

“Old feelings that you thought were gone could well up and bring tears to your eyes.”

Pass me a tissue, please…

“Honestly face these feelings now instead of stuffing them back down for another decade.”

@#$%!

My relationship with God is complicated

My relationship with God is complicated. Or simple, depending on how you look at it.

Although it’s been a while since I’ve been to church, I talk to God every day. Some days, I talk to God all day long. 

If God is truly present everywhere and at all times, then based on that logic, I don’t need a church or an appointment to talk to Him.

Am I done with formal religion? I don’t know.

What I do know is that my life, in its current status, is not welcomed in my church. I’m breaking a sacrament. I’m considered somewhat of a “giver upper.”

The last time I went to church, the sermon almost brought me to tears. It was my first time attending since the separation and I went alone. 

With my lip quivering, I listened to the scolding lecture. I braced myself as each word smacked me square in the face. It was as if the sermon was written exclusively for me and because of me.     

Leaving your marriage is wrong.  

Breaking up the family unit is wrong.

If you give up on your marriage, you give up on God.

I went to church looking for strength and left feeling as if I had failed as a wife, as a mother and as a Christian. It was a theological punch to the gut.  

Despite the rules of my religion, I know God loves me. And He’s been there during the deepest, darkest moments of my life. 

He was there in 1996 when I had my first seizure. He was there in 2001 when the epidural sent me into cardiac arrest; then later that night when my body hemorrhaged from the emergency C-section. And He was there in 2010 when the doctor said the tests were negative for cancer.

So it’s been a very personal relationship, this thing between me and God. One-on-one sessions, kind of like therapy, but free!

Unlike the not-so-free therapy, our sessions take place wherever and whenever I need Him. In my car, as I sit in my big chair or in the back patio.

His voice and presence is unmistakable during the most tumultuous times. The days that find me balled up on the bathroom floor, crying and praying for the strength to make it through another day is when I feel God’s love the most. 

Without fail, He extends his hand to me and I take it.

These days, our sessions rarely take place in a cathedral-like building adorned with beautiful paintings and saints. Yes, it’s a beautiful church. Yes, it’s a beautiful religion. But my relationship with God is so much more than that.

My relationship with God can’t be contained inside this church or that church. And it can’t be restrained within the rules of this religion or that religion.

To be clear, it’s not my intention to use this space as a forum to debate religion. You can take that somewhere else. This is merely a self-reflection at the highest level about my own spirituality and discovery on this new journey. 

So I ask myself again: Am I really done with religion? I don’t know. 

But this I know: I’m not done with God and He’s not done with me.

The day I made my therapist cry

How my trauma egg brought my therapist to tears

Draw an egg, she said.

"You’ll be writing all the traumatic events that have ever happened in your life inside this egg,” my therapist explained.  

I better draw a pretty big, frickin egg, I thought to myself as I stared down at the blank canvas of white paper in the middle of the floor.

“Do you have a bigger piece of paper,” I asked, half-joking. 

So I had my instructions. Draw an egg and list all the trauma I’ve experienced in my life. I had two hours. I was afraid we’d need more time. A lot more time!

The concept of the “trauma egg” was introduced to me a few of weeks ago during one of our sessions. According to the pamphlet, the trauma egg represents the “Original Feeling Child.” Inside the egg, you list events which caused pain, fear, rejection and so on and so on.

The pamphlet included examples of traumatic events.

“My dog died.”

“My best friend moved.”

If this is what my therapist was expecting, she was in for a shock.

When I first asked why we needed two hours, my therapist explained:

- The first hour will be used to list all the traumatic events

- The second hour will be used to analyze them 

I was to start by listing the earliest memory of trauma at the very bottom of the egg and work my way up through the years. The greatest hits, so to speak. (Pun intended.) It was a way to establish my trauma history so that my therapist could better understand my make-up.

This is going to be so awesome! (Not!)

But first a warning from my therapist! She said some people, as they remember the trauma, are so overcome with emotion, that they break down and relive the emotions they felt at the time it happened. She assured me that she would help work through these emotions in the event that this happened to me.

Yeah, more awesomeness! 
 

Doing this exercise was supposed to help us identify patterns of trauma and coping mechanisms. So I grabbed the black marker and started writing.

Age 5, my uncle dies…

Age 8, the abuse starts…

Age 9, abuse continues…

Age 10-17, still getting abused over here…

My therapist asked questions specific to the event each time I added a new line. I answered every single one of her questions in a very matter of fact way as I wrote them down inside my newly formed “trauma egg.”

Meanwhile, my therapist was puzzled.  

“How are you not falling apart?”

“How are you keeping it together?”

“Why aren’t you in the corner in a fetal position sucking your thumb?”

Kidding! She didn’t really say it like that. 

On a serious note, she was concerned by my lack of emotion.

“I just don’t understand what’s holding you together. At some point, we need to look into your cultural make-up.”

Ah ha, the race card! There it is!

Again, kidding… But, yes, Latinas are strong women. That stereotype is true, folks.

Well, with the exception of one of my aunts on my dad’s side. She cries if you use your outside voice inside. She married into a family of loud mouths. Good luck with that…

So my therapist was puzzled. In her eyes, I was an enigma. In my eyes, I was a survivor. 

“But as you remember these events, how does remembering them now make you feel?” she asked.

“It happened. I survived. Life goes on,” was my response. And it was true. These events happened. I survived all of them and life continues to go on.

And then I continued…

Life doesn’t stop when something bad happens to you. You deal with it at that moment, figure out how best to handle and move on. (And then you cry yourself to sleep after the kids have gone to bed. See! Problem solved.)

Then she asked: “Do you ever find yourself dwelling on any of these experiences?”

I laughed with a hearty, “Ha!”  

I quickly explained why this was funny to me, mostly so she would stop staring.

“I don’t have time to ‘dwell’,” I said, using air quotes. “I’ve got way too much shit to do. I barely have time for this. But I know I need to do this for me and for my daughters. ”

In other words, let’s keep this party moving, shall we?   

"Can I get you some water?"

As I continue to list each trauma and give a brief summary of the actual event, I can feel my therapist cracking.

It started with some sniffling. Next came the covering of the mouth with both hands. Then there was the shaking of the head with the “you poor thing” look on her face.  

I eventually grabbed the tissue box and handed it to her as she wiped her tears from the corner of her eyes with her fingertips.

“Are you OK? Should we take a break? Would you like some water?” I asked her.  

We were only halfway through this trauma egg business and here I was comforting my therapist. I started to wonder if I could bill her for the session.

“Again, I don’t understand how you’re holding it together,” she said, in between wiping her tears and blowing her nose. 

Great, I think my therapist needs a therapist. And it's all because of my trauma egg. 

I shrugged my shoulders and kept writing and writing and writing until the session suddenly came to a halt. 

Sorry, but we're out of time... 

“We’ll have to stop here,” my therapist suddenly announced. “We’re out of time.”

As I stare at my half-empty egg, I realize that we didn’t even get through the 80s, which causes me to blurt out, “But we didn’t even get through the 80s!”

That’s OK, she said, and then explained our new game plan. 

1. Schedule a two-hour session to work on the 80s to the present.. 

2. Then schedule another two-hour session to analyze the trauma egg.  

3. Then schedule another two-hour session to work on improving coping mechanisms in order to deal with future trauma.

Let’s see, that’s two, four… six hours! Are you frickin kidding me! Six more hours of trauma egg!

But as quickly as the panic sets in, the control and the calmness take over.

Alright, let’s do this. I’ll survive. Let’s move on.

Pass the chocolate-covered marshmallows

The smoke alarm is going off upstairs, but I just don’t give a damn. There’s no need to worry. It’s just the batteries. They’re dead.  

Besides, the chocolate-covered marshmallows are soothing the anger radiating throughout my body as I sit in my big chair, seething and cursing. I think I’ll chase it down with a beer. On second thought, maybe not…

I could blame my pissy mood on PMS… or on the ants I found in my kitchen… or the bills… or The Donald (Someone please tell him to shut up!).

Instead, I’ll be honest and place the blame squarely on the shoulders of the guilty parties: Me and my ex.

Pass the chocolate-covered marshmallows, please…  

My ex is to blame because, after weeks of the silent treatment (It was so nice while it lasted!), he decided to finally have a conversation, albeit a one-sided conversation where he does all the talking/yelling. When I finally get a chance to call him on his bullshit or verbally defend myself against his accusations, he hangs up. It’s his M.O. Then I’m left fuming on the other end of the phone with my words hanging in the air.

But let’s be fair. I’m also to blame. After weeks of meditation and counseling, I let him suck me in. And it wasn’t worth it. It never is! Not satisfied that I didn’t get in a few licks, I called him back, but he didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. Oh, how I wanted to leave a message. But that’s called evidence nowadays.

One second while I pour Hershey’s syrup over these bad boys...   

As I was saying… I allowed him to take me to that cold, dark place. You know the place. It's where your thoughts turn just as dark as the room. That's where you play back old episodes of CSI and Law & Order in your head, then ask yourself, “Did they ever get caught?”

Kidding! (Nervous laugh) Sort of…

I used to silently shrivel up like an old piece of fruit and just take his abuse. Now, I instantly turn into a steel-eyed shark circling the waters for blood, looking to take out a limb or two. And when I’m denied a taste of blood… Well, I reach for the chocolate-covered marshmallows.

Wait, I’m out of those… Hello, Rocky Road!

Crackheads, strippers and ex-cons

And other characters in family court's High Conflict Resolution class

The teacher talked about herself for about an hour. How she’s worked for the county’s family court system for 17 years. How she’s survived the budget cuts. How she’s witnessed the elimination of some family court services and the reduction in staff. 

Then she went back to talking about her qualifications, justifying herself to the room. It wasn’t like anyone in attendance was going to challenge her credentials. It certainly wasn’t going to be the guy next to me with the tattooed neck who reeked of cheap cologne and could barely keep his eyes open.

Welcome to the court-ordered High Conflict Resolution class!  

Fan-frickin-tastic.  

So how did I get here? Well, I can thank my ex for that. In fact, the judge said so.

During our last child custody hearing, my ex picked a fight with me while I was on the witness stand giving testimony. His booming voice, yelling accusations at me, immediately took me back to the angry house.

Like a scene out of a Law & Order episode, the judge swiftly let loose his gavel, demanding order in the court. “I can see why your wife, soon-to-be ex-wife, wants to divorce you,” he told my ex.

After my ex picked a fight with my attorney (just a few minutes later), the judge ordered my ex to attend the High Conflict Resolution class. He then looked at me and said, “You can thank you ex for this because you have to go, too. I can’t send one and not the other.”  

Fan-frickin-tastic.

Now here I was on this Thursday morning, wasting half of a personal day.

Far more interesting than the class, or the teacher and her credentials, were the characters in attendance. By characters, I mean crackheads, strippers and ex-cons. I was sure the woman in front of me was all three. I’ll call her “Blondie.”

When the discussion turned to “it’s not always the fathers who cause the conflict,” every man in the room instantly bonded. It was the first time I’d seen homeys and hillbillies unite.  

Let’s go back to Blondie for a minute...

When she finally arrived to class (20 minutes late), she immediately took off her shoes and began to pick her toes. When she was done with her toes, she rummaged through her big purse. Thirty minutes later, she pulled out a large brush then used it to brush her hair for about 15 minutes.  

She then put her hair in a ponytail. Then she took her ponytail down. Then she put it in a clippy. Then she put it back in a ponytail.  

Meanwhile, the teacher cited several real child custody cases that she had worked on over the years. Some were cases where one or both parents were on drugs, mostly crystal meth.

Every time the teacher said the words “crystal meth” Blondie’s ears perked up. She stopped fidgeting. She was suddenly attentive. Her eyes lit up as if she was half-expecting the teacher to pass the pipe.

Then there was the guy with a limp and a bad back. Let’s call him “Homey.”

I saw Homey limp as he walked in. Had I not witnessed the limp, I would have found out anyway because he announced to everyone that he’d been shot in the foot (thus the limp) and that he also had a bad back. He didn’t explain the bad back, but sitting down was so painful for him that he chose to stand for the entire four and a half hour class.  

He also refused to remove his sunglasses, referred to his ex as “the bitch” and incorrectly used the words alienate and alienation about half a dozen times. (“It’s not like I’m an alienate. I was born here.”)

I forgot to mention the two Japanese women. They were observing the class because somewhere back in Japan they’re considering implementing this class in Japanese family court. 

The Japanese women asked if each one of us could briefly explain our case. In other words... How did we get here?

This is where things got juicy…

Blondie had been married to a pilot. She accused him of being a cocaine addict (no comment) and bedding a different flight attendant every weekend.

Sally the Homemaker (not her real name, I’m sure) said her husband had left her for the nanny. At one point, she said something about how hard it was to find a good nanny. This prompted the teacher to say, in a very scolding manner, “I would strongly advise against hiring anymore nannies.” I found this extremely hilarious. I confess, I snorted!

Hank the Hillbilly said he’d only hit his ex once. Oddly enough, he took a moment to say he was thankful to his ex for waiting for him “that one time” when he was locked up.  

The (former) Trophy Wife said her ex uses money to push her buttons. The entire class simultaneously rolled their eyes.

The Vegan said the main conflict with her ex was that he treats the boys to a Happy Meal every once in a while.

But my heart went out to Marcie. I call her Marcie because she looked like Peppermint Patty’s best friend from the comic strip, Peanuts. Marcie said her ex had (allegedly) physically abused her son his entire life. Her son is 3.

Me? I just shook my head, meaning “I pass.” But the teacher asked me to reconsider for the sake of our Japanese guests. Yet all I could mumble was, “It’s complicated.”

Next!