Random journal entries from a woman who has been to "The Edge" and back detailing everything from the fallout from growing up in you're typical American dysFUNctional family, to her daily survival quest to be the best wife, mother, and friend she can be despite her several small shortcomings.
to let go of the past
with its mistakes and regrets,
move into the future
with a new perspective,
and appreciate the opportunity
to take a second chance.
Acceptance means you'll find
Security again
When difficult times come
Into your life,
And comfort to relieve any pain.
You'll find new dreams, fresh hopes,
And forgiveness of the heart.
Acceptance does not mean
That you will always be perfect.
It simply means that
You'll always overcome imperfection.
Acceptance is the road to peace-
Letting go of the worst,
Holding on to the best,
And finding the hope inside
That continues throughout life.
Acceptance
Is the heart's best defense,
Love's greatest asset,
And the easiest way
To keep believing
In yourself and others.
Verbal exchange from this morning between my 4 year old son and me:
Helmut: "Mommy can I tell you something, and do you promise not to tell anyone?"
Me: "Yes."
Helmut (whispered tone): "I love Bobby."
Me (Confident): "Honey, you can love whomever your heart chooses to love. Don't let anyone ever tell you anything different......" (Confused): "Bobby? Who is Bobby?"
Helmut: "You know...Bobby...Bobby Dahl."
Me: "No, we don't know anyone named Bobby or Mr. Dahl. But if you love Bobby, the I love Bobby too!"
At this point I maintained my confidence in letting my children choose their own paths throughout life and holding back my own dreams and will for them as much as possible.
Later, when I saw him playing in his sister's room I realized I had it all wrong. Helmut was saying Barbie Doll NOT Bobby Dahl. He loves Barbie NOT Bobby! I am such an idiot of a mom. Frankly, I don't care if he grows up and lives with Barbie or Bobby or if they all three live together...he still might turn out to be the best fashion desginer, choreographer, or interior decorator of all time.
His dad has his fingers crossed for line-backer, but I am still holding out for chorus-line. Damn! There I go with pushing my own dreams again. A talking Barbie Doll was once recalled for saying, "Math is tough!" -- Well Barbie, I say math IS tough, but parenting is even tougher.
So let's just say that although I am quite tidy by nature, I can let things go for a while before I muster up the motivation to actually get the deep cleaning done in my home. With my husband Ken and kids at home with me all summer - ALL DAY LONG - I find very little time to do the things I want to do, let alone the things I would rather have done for me.
The other day Ken was getting quite frustrated with the piles of paperwork on the kitchen counter and dishes still in the sink from breakfast. I could tell his displeasure was mounting to the point of possibly grumbling his frustration in my direction at any moment. In order to subvert a lecture (I know, I married my father) and a follow-up "action plan" for maintaining the household orderliness, I came up with a better plan.
My darling husband arranged a playdate for both Valerie and Helmut and packed them in the car letting me know he'd be back in ten minutes after dropping them off. I took this as a warning that something must be accomplished or in the process of tidying up before he returned. This meant I better get out of my jammies, off the couch, and shut down the computer asap.
The moment the SUV left the driveway I spent three and a half minutes emptying and loading the dishwasher, organizing the paperwork, wiping down the cabinets and floor, and spraying the kitchen with my super-secret-miracle cleaning weapon: Mrs. Meyer's Cean Day Countertop Spray in the Lemon Verbena Scent. I need only spray down the kitchen surfaces with this Heaven sent helper to make my husband think I spent all day long scrubbing the kitchen.
With six and a half minutes left I slipped into my red lace thong boy shorts and matching bra, and tied my red and white Jessica Steele hostess apron over the ensemble while finishing it off with my red satin stilettos. I sprayed my morning bed head with Suave's Dry Shampoo and gave it a quick neck flip and root tease, then borrowed my six-year-old's strawberry flavored Lip Smackers. I returned to the kitchen with a clean sponge and my best friend Mrs. Meyers.
As I heard my husband ascending the stairs towards the kitchen he mumbled, "CARRIE! Are you still in bed?" huffing and groaning all the way up.
"I'm in the kitchen Sweetheart!" I cooed in my best Marilyn Monroe voice.
As Ken made it to the kitchen entry, his facial expression changed from grumpy and frustrated to delighted and quite humored.
As I bent over stretching across the countertop spraying and wiping I said with pouty lips, "I'm just trying to clean up this dirty, dirty, dirty kitchen...and next I am going to go to work in the bedroom where things always are even dirtier!"
Ken received my creative expression with great enthusiasm and I led him to the bedroom where I had candles lit and his most beloved French porn cued to his favorite part. We spent the next few hours delighting in the "dirtiness" of one another while abandoning all stress of having a perfectly tidy house. I also convinced Ken that until everyone is back in school and out of the house for the day, we will just have to live with the disorder as is. Of course I will continue to swallow all evidence of the messes he and I make together.
I learned one more thing about myself today: I was never designed to successfully pull-off the Brazilian wax look. This is not because of aesthetic reasons, but more about how I am perhaps the most challenging client in the history of hair removal for that particular area. Let me explain.
Being of Northern European descent, I am not typically a very hairy person - except in one area. I believe I must have some ancestor way back from deep within the African Congo with more ape DNA than human DNA. During conception I captured that rogue gene and express it quite enthusiastically throughout the area of my body called, the mons pubis. Some people have even looked up at me during certain intimate moments to tell me, "Its a jungle down there!".
Years ago, I went with my girlfriends Terri and Bergen to see The Vagina Monologues. There is a part of the performance where the audience is asked, "If your vagina was a color, what color would it be?" Our answers went like this:
Terri: "I think mine would be red because it is very sensual, hot, sexy, and is at its best when treated with love."
Bergen: "Purple, definitely purple. The color which represents regalia, the season of Lent, sacredness, and deprivation of reckless action is how my vagina has been living as of late."
Me: "Camouflage! From all the bush-waking that takes place down there. I swear, it is a good thing I never crossed sexual paths with a shell-shocked Vietnam vet because had he gone down on me - his PTSD would have sparked an urge to grab a machete and start whacking his way through the jungle."
There was even a time in my early twenties where I would intentionally not shave my legs and intimate areas because I thought it would be a deterrent from slutting-out. My thought was that no matter how drunk and easily seducable I became, I would keep myself from getting naked with a man out of embarrassment about my hairiness. Unfortunately my plan rarely worked out and as the alcohol and approaching testosterone finally overtook my willpower and fueled my desire, I would find myself thinking, Well maybe this guy is really into '70s porn and will find my look quite sexy!
So with summertime approaching I decided to extend my usual seasonal bikini line waxing into a full Brazilian. A girlfriend had just had it done and highly recommended a very inexpensive spa and esthetician named Nancy who charged about half of the going rate. For $40 with monthly upkeep at $10 a visit, I couldn't think of a reason not to go for it.
Several sources recommended taking two Ibuprofen one hour before the Brazilian to help ease the pain. Being my mother's daughter, I of course interpreted this to mean that I must take three Advil and two Vicodin while washing them down with a glass of wine.
It was evident as soon as I walked into the salon that manicures and pedicures were a majority of this salon's business. There were probably fifteen Vietnamese American women scrubbing ladies feet and painting Hello Kitty images on their acrylic finger nails. Nancy took me to the back of the salon to an area partitioned off with a curtain which reminded me of the triage area at the emergency room.
With a combination of hand gestures and very slow, loud, over articulated speech I said to Nancy, "I want a Brazilian wax and this is my 1st time." She simply nodded, pointed at my yoga pants and said, "Take off now and get up." I took this to mean that I should undress from the waist down and lie on the gurney covered in butcher paper while she made no effort to leave the room while I got myself situated.
The moment she looked at the work ahead of her, Nancy's eyes grew very big and I heard her exclaim, "Wow!" Next she looked up at my face and said, "You want eyebrow, and chin too? And you need lip...I do all first." I hadn't really planned on getting my face waxed, but I figured I would acquiesce and let her warm up with some easy work before tackling the rain forest.
Throughout my Brazilian waxing, Nancy kept yelling over the open ceiling to her co-workers. Everything was said in Vietnamese, so I could only guess that she was saying something like, "You wouldn't believe what a hairy white woman I have here. For Buddha's sake, I thought the stories about Sasquatch sightings in Oregon were a myth, but now I am waxing her. Make sure to call our wax supplier today because I am going to need to access the entire five gallon drum in order to make it across her perineum."
I asked Nancy if I was the worst she had ever seen, and she just kept her head down furiously applying wax and yanking the strips while responding with an, "Uh-Huh." I was hoping our language barrier kept her from really understanding my question and therefore she must be giving me a generic response.
The experience came to a finale with me in a most vulnerable and humiliating position which up until now had only been shared with men who had invested several thousand dollars in me over a good deal of time: face down, ass up, with my hands spreading my cheeks towards both coasts. I would have made the perfect centerfold for a hard-core BDSM magazine if only I was sporting a dog collar and had the patent leather boot of a dominatrix to lick while the last two strips of wax were yanked away. Gross, I know.
I plan to do my best with upkeep of my new look throughout the rest of the summer. Everyone tells me it is never as painful the second time around. Next time, I think I will need to find a new esthetician as I doubt "Nancy" will ever be available again anytime Carrie Valium calls for an appointment.
Today is the The Oprah Winfrey Show finale. The end of an era and, I fear, the beginning of a long heartbreak for millions of fans around the world. What excuse will I now have everyday at 4pm to shut off the world, pour a glass of wine, and get on the phone with my girlfriends to say, "Oh my God, are you watching Oprah?" I just might have to have a lesbian affair with a bi-polar, body building, politician who jumps up on my couch to declare her love for me then surprises me with a makeover by Carson Kressley in order to fill the void.
Where will I get my spark of inspiration to look inward, or my gratitude for the life I am living versus the life of her guest? Where can I now find the sheer carnival effect of plagiarists defending their actions (James Frey), pregnant men defending their "xx" chromosomes (born a woman), swingers defending their lifestyles, and authors of books defending their works as something I am supposed to "get" (Toni Morrison). I really tried to read Beloved, The Seat of The Soul, and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, but I just lost interest and ended up feeling like I wasn't smart enough to stay engaged.
In tandem with my twenty-five year relationship with Oprah has been my consistent treatment in psychotherapy. Since the age of twelve I began sitting across the couch from a stranger divulging my dirty little secrets in order to answer the question my family members always yelled at me, "What is wrong with you?" Watching Oprah interview guests which suffered the same maladies I had suffered like eating disorders, sexual abuse, depression, and overall failure, I was able to find my voice. Between Oprah and numerous therapists I figured out that the only thing wrong with me was the fact that I was too scared to live my authentic life for fear of what other people might think.
When I try to be who I think others are most comfortable with me being, it never seems to work out very well. Anywhere after three hours to three years of sporting the pink cashmere cardigan, headband, and pearls that my peers wore while trying to present a demure, ladylike persona I always found myself crying in bed for days while shoveling spoonfuls of gourmet ice cream in my mouth between hysterical sobs. I just can't do it. I am too loud, too clumsy, too bawdy, too uninhibited, too hyper-sexual, too direct, too big-boobed, and too intolerant of other people's bullshit to fake it any longer.
No matter how hard I tried, I have finally come to accept that I will NEVER be able to pull off the "Susie-Bow-Head/Sorority Girl" persona. I may not have been a poor colored girl growing up in segregated Mississippi, but just like it took an outsider to tell Oprah to take off the Tina Turner wig in 2005, it has taken teams of professionals over the years to convince me that I am okay just as I am.
How does one even stay in therapy for twenty-five years? Well, after my sixth or seventh appointment with a new therapist I typically hear this familiar phrase:
"Carrie, normally I don't do long-term therapy where I keep a client for years and years. My style focuses on identifying the problem, working it out, and giving you the tools necessary to leave this room confident to confront whatever it was that brought you here. You, on the other hand....well...I think it would be best if you just kept an appointment on my books at all times and perhaps came to see me no less than once a month for the time being. I think it is best that we keep in touch to monitor your progress."
At first this statement was somewhat insulting, making me think I must be so screwed up that the practitioner needs to keep a leash on me as some sort of professional obligation. But then again I drew great comfort as therapy has become something of a hobby for me to sort out confusion, plan goals, relieve stress, and talk about what I saw on Oprah that made me sob for two days. Some people golf, some shop, some do yoga, and some others even compulsively drink, gamble, eat, or polish tile grout. My vice of all vices is therapy, as it is the only thing which keeps me from doing each of the former all at once while standing on my head naked then posting it on YouTube for the world to see. Yes, I had to agree that it would be best to keep in touch.
So as of tomorrow, I am on my own on that therapy couch. No longer will Oprah figuratively be at my side to guide my voice with the courage and conviction to tell my truth. I must rely on myself to capture the power to change my own life for the better. I am reminded of the quote which Oprah is most fond of where Glinda, the good witch in The Wizard of Oz tells Dorothy,"You don't need to be helped any longer. You've always had the power." It is true, we all have always had the power, now we must be brave enough to use it.
For the first twenty-nine years of my life I spent the second Sunday in May each year celebrating my mother and the mother of whomever I was dating or married to by remembering at the last minute to hit the Hallmark store and pick up a card. After securing a heartfelt sentiment written by a stranger I would then advance myself to a family celebration at "someones house" to devour brunch or dinner. I now realize that once you become a mother, the importance of that sacred holiday is not to be taken lightly. Mother's Day is second only to a woman's birthday in terms of having the luxury of thinking of no one but herself, if for no more than a few brief hours . If you are lucky and have trained your husband and children well, you might look forward to this day more than any other payday you have ever experienced.
If you are like me, on the other hand, you will spend your first seven Mother's Days deeply frustrated and disappointed at the inability of your loved ones to read your mind. My husband, Ken, just last week -- six days prior to Mother's Day -- was seeking my enthusiasm and support in his effort to spend my special day golfing with his buddies, while leaving me alone at home with our two small children. After he dislodged the ice pick I thrust into his head via his left eye socket, he said, "So, I guess what your saying is that perhaps another day would be best?" My silence and refusal to clean up the blood stains were enough to clarify my opinion that this coming Sunday was created for Mothers, NOT Mother Fuckers!
My very first Mother's Day I was six months pregnant and day dreaming about how much fun motherhood was going to be. A grand scene in my delusions included sharing my love for piano, singing, and music with my perfect family of four. I decided I needed to quickly learn a more mobile instrument to accompany the next Von Trap Family Singers, The Von Valiums. Pure delight and love oozed from my pores when Ken bestowed upon me the gift of a ukulele in tandem with a "You Can Learn the Uke" book and CD. I remember sitting on the couch with my feet up for the rest of the day furiously learning my new instrument while Ken spent a few hours at the gym, then picked up his favorite dinner for us to share and headed over to his mother's house with a card and a gift for her. I cried tears of joy about how the life I always wanted to live was coming to fruition.
My second Mother's Day I remember suffering from post-partum depression, exhausted, teary eyed, and wearing the same extra forty pounds and maternity clothes I had worn nine months earlier when I gave birth to 4lb. Valerie. Life was miserable, sleep was a foreign word, and post-traumatic stress disorder was too light and breezy a concept to relate with. I am sure my husband tried hard, but my memory is that Ken spent the day at gym working out, then picked up his favorite lunch to share before heading over to his mother's house with a card and a gift for her. I cried tears of desperate darkness believing I simply wasn't good enough to pull this motherhood thing off.
My third Mother's Day was spent puking and sprawled out on the bathroom floor which had been my new home since conceiving Helmut six months earlier. Between dry-heaving and simultaneously mothering my eighteen-month old, I don't remember much of that day. The main part that sticks out is how Ken went to the gym to work out, then picked up his favorite lunch to share before heading over to his mother's house with a card and a gift for her. I cried invisible tears because I was too dehydrated to produce them.
My fourth Mother's Day is very clear. Now that my perfect family of four consisting of one daughter and one son was achieved, I was now ready to start playing family. My crisply starched dream of waking up to breakfast in bed, followed by being taken by my husband and children to Sunday Mass, then picnicking in the park on a blanket for the sunny afternoon was the cruelest joke I ever played on myself. Reality went like this:
Ken believed eating in bed was unsanitary, so he summoned me to the table for runny eggs and burnt toast which I ate while balancing both squirming kids on my lap while he devoured his meal in peace.
Halfway through Mass, three and a half year old Valerie thought it would be the best time to throw a temper-tantrum, take off her dress, and run away from her parents who were trying to quiet a screaming baby.
Any plan I may have had for a picnic in the park was vetoed by the cold rainy weather and Ken's plans to go to the gym to work-out then bring home his favorite meal followed by a trip to his mom's house with a card and a gift.
I cried tears of defeat and surrender as I furiously flipped through my address book to call Glenda the Good Witch who had been my therapist since first discovering my post-partum depression three years earlier.
"I want everyone out of this house for the day!" I exclaimed the day before my fifth Mother's Day, "I want to be LEFT ALONE in my house for the first time in six years! Please be gone all day." I figured all my attempts to celebrate motherhood had ended in disaster so this year I would simply spend the day doing what I wanted to do without interference or interruption from others. Ken did just as I asked and left me alone in stillness and silence.
It took at least ninety minutes for me to stop furiously cleaning my untidy home which had not been perfectly clean all at once in five years. In cleaning out the refrigerator I discovered an unopened bottle of champagne leftover from Easter mimosas weeks earlier. Still in my pajamas I helped myself to a glass and made a toast to mothers everywhere. I spent the rest of the morning watching the Edith Piaf movie, La Vie en rose, which was so wonderfully dark and depressing that by movie's end I had polished off the entire bottle of Veuve Clicquot and was soaked in my own tears. Between the sadness of Edith's tragic life, which included being abandoned by her own mother, and my own constant battle to remain tethered to my own sanity, I found that my sobbing quickly evolved into a primordial scream like none I had ever experienced before. Releasing years of frustration, confusion, desperation, regret, angst, and emotional pain, I truly felt like an involuntary exorcism was taking place from the depths of my soul through my cataclysmic screams and sobs. Only through sheer physical exhaustion was I finally silenced.
It had only been three hours since my family dutifully followed my command and abandoned me, but it felt like a lifetime. Aching for the "almost too tight" hugs from my kids, and the always forgiving and passionate kisses from my husband, I immediately called Ken and extended my command to bring everyone home at once. Ten minutes later I was given the best Mother's Day gift ever consisting of sticky maple syrup scented kisses from my babies, and the luxury of Ken recycling the empty champagne bottle without a word to me, patting me on the head, and then gently putting me in our bed with the kids where I passed out for a three-hour nap with them. Ken promptly went to the gym for a work-out, picked up his (and now my) favorite dinner, and brought me home a card and gift of impatients in a hanging basket. I like to think his choice of flowers wasn't by accident.
Like all other important lessons I have learned in my life, finally understanding the true importance of what Mother's Day means to my family instead of what the rest of the world thinks it should be, may have been the least complicated but certainly the hardest to learn. So on this second Sunday in May, I sit here at 10am from my bed alternating sips of coffee and mimosa while indulging in my favorite soul-food -- writing. As Ken clears my breakfast tray away, my kids joyfully color pictures to take to both their grandmothers later today while I enjoy the only silence and stillness I ever will crave again, sleeping.
I am a FIRM believer that a woman should NEVER fake an orgasm. When we are sharing our sexuality with a partner it is only through vulnerability, honesty, courage, and faith that our ultimate sexual and human satisfaction can be achieved. This isn't necessarily a very easy thing -- especially for a woman, where most of our intense pleasure happens on the inside.
Having made my declarative statement, I admit to betraying my own creed a handful of times in my early years. Remembering a time I couldn't get "unstuck" in the plateau phase of arousal, I realized I was too self conscious of my body and trying to "perform" for my partner. The following is an old journal entry of mine answering the question -- why did I just do that?
Dear Passing Lover,
Feeling you between my legs last night was strangely exciting in the most incredible intensity of the word. Under normal unattached and unmedicated circumstances, I would have been able to truly experience the quick and intense orgasm which has come quite naturally to me since the age of thirteen. Last night though, I ultimately felt compelled to fake that part with you. I only faked it because I felt myself at the height of pleasure and vulnerability that I would allow myself to feel with a stranger like you. I may have also been limited due to the cocktail of pharmacology swimming through my own physiology. I was so close and simply wanted to give you credit for a job well done. The fact that I warmed up to you to the point of getting hot enough to carry off a fake orgasm should be a compliment enough, don't you think?
I mean, I eventually brought myself there - after we parted and without anyone else in the room - so the fact I was relying upon my remembrance of our encounter to finish it up should count for something. After you left I could still smell your scent all over my body including that good old fashioned smell of clandestine seamen which somehow soaked into my tucked up bra cups after you came all over my exposed tits. I can still sense it while I write this and I cannot help but smile. The fact that I may not ever feel this again, or at least for a long while, makes it that much more sweet.
So please don't be disappointed with my honesty. Take it as a compliment that I chose not to give up the 20% remaining focus I had which was sucking in my tummy, arching my back, and keeping me in the "perfect porn pose" for your visual pleasure. Were I to let that remaining focus go in order to bring me over the edge - I may not have ever come back. And that would have ruined everything.
