US GIRLS

I choose happiness, is live in the April 2012 issue of Cafe: Stirring the Spirit Within. Don’t forget to check out my happiness playlist!

A well-lived life includes difficult times. Each of us could make lists of horrible things we have endured. But I’m mad at myself when I give in to self-pity. Even in the worst times, I still have a lot of reasons to be happy. And I have learned that nothing productive comes from wallowing. Dwelling on the bad stuff is exhausting and pointless.

Click I choose happiness to continue reading.

I write letters to my Z that she’s never read.

I assume she will read the letters when she’s older, should I decide to turn them over. I began writing them before before she was born. The first came within a few hours after discovering I was pregnant. The next, a few days later, then another the first time I felt her move inside me.

And so on. A writer writes. I suppose that includes the letters we don’t send and even those we can’t bring ourselves to write. I wrote them all, pouring them out from the time she was only an idea.

There are letters for milestones—normal things like the first time she stood up, birthdays and the like. There also are some for moments that make sense only to me. Should I decide to give Z the letters, I don’t doubt that my reasons for writing will make sense to her, because her consciousness is formed and informed, in part, from my own.

I know they are her letters. Or rather, I know they’re not mine.

I know this because they contain the lessons I fear I’m not smart enough to fully learn. I keep the faith. I have come to realize in the last year or so that Z’s letters are written to and for the woman I expect she will become—the woman I hope she’ll be.

In the time I have come to this understanding, I also have realized that Z will have to become this woman I imagine she’ll be in spite of me—my mistakes, my moods, my conceits. The letters I have written are from a girl who wants to be more like her daughter. 

The letters I wrote to Z from South Africa drive this home; I have drifted away from the woman I was at that time. I want to be that woman again—for Z, but more for myself.

Of the lessons I wrote of to Z,  the one I lost sight of has to do with abundance.

In my mind and by my estimation, my perception is that “success” revolves around having money. Lots of money—more than I need. I have the fear that only too much money will make me feel safe. Secure. Happy. Satisfied.

In South Africa, I saw pride, happiness, strength, confidence and unabashed hope in the faces of people with what I’d say is nothing. They had little in the way of financial security. There weren’t reserves or backups or contingency plans. But I saw pride, happiness, strength, confidence and hope everywhere I turned; it never failed to stare back at me.

It wasn’t that the people I met “didn’t know any better.” Far from it. Clearly, they knew better than I. They were well aware of the allure of what I craved. They may have craved some of it, too. But while they didn’t eschew the material markers of success, they also didn’t seem to believe such things would bring comfort.

They weren’t working to get a lot so they could work themselves sick to get more.

I admit I will—and do—scoff when someone says money can’t buy me love or happiness. I only ever hear that from people with a lot or less than a little. I’d like to find out for myself.

I’d like to be kidding. I’m not. But I do want to not want.

So I wrote to Z, because I had seen a different way of feeling and being that doesn’t wear a hole inside you for all the worrying about not having enough, being enough or achieving enough.

I marveled then and marvel still at how we determine society, civilization and culture. What we value. What we do not. Why we don’t measure success by the same standard as a grandmother from rural South Africa who calls it her duty to drive scores of kilometers each day so she can care for those dying from a disease she’s not supposed name.

South Africa reinforced and expanded upon what I have learned from all my travels: Success is abundance. It is the point at which you cannot reasonably ask for more.

Abundance can’t be held; it is fragile, fleeting and nearly indescribable. But we do wring the life from it. We do grasp hold long enough to feel its warmth. We do find words to claim and proclaim it.

An abundance of money is artificial for someone like me. I know that as much as I know my struggle is to let go of the belief money will make me feel OK. The more money I have, the more I want. The ceiling can be raised, and the walls can be pushed out.  

But I know what settles me. My true abundance is found in singular moments: watching my brother sleep. Z’s laugh. My niece’s knowing smile. That first squeeze when my nephew grabs my hand. A clear sky unfettered by city lights. My mother’s scent. Standing in the midst of a cornfield before dawn even thought about breaking. My dad’s hand on my shoulder. The first breath after something has halted those that would have preceded it. 

I will always want more of such things, but just once was enough. That I have experienced each many times—and keep the memories—is the blessing of abundance.

© Karris Golden, February 2012

In planning to have a child, one priority I had was to do all I could to provide for my child’s needs.

That includes giving Z a home—an incredibly daunting prospect. I see “home” as a base—the thing that sets a kid’s gauge for normal.

Over 15 years, he and I owned three houses. The longest commitment was the only one “in town.” We lived there 10 years. It had two bedrooms. It was equidistant from our workplaces and near “everything.” We worked until it was just right, investing labor and money.

Though the home boasted an expansive double lot, huge garage and two sheds, I often heard about what it wasn’t: a rural acreage. He wanted a spread. I wanted a third bedroom and a better kitchen layout. I thought we should wait. He looked. A lot.

The last home we’d own together merged our desires, offering nearly 5-plus acres, large rooms and a promising kitchen.

The house also was a colossal mess. The to-do list literally numbered in the triple digits. (Note: The previous owners removed 10 industrial-sized loads of various refuse and debris—an honorable start.) The appraiser’s ungenerous assessment was, “The entire property would benefit from a box of matches.”

He wanted it badly. I was scared. The house needed to be gutted and redone, after which we could really get to work. Z, an only child, would be isolated 20 minutes from school and town.

When faced with such a scheme, as I often was, I entrench in pragmatism, logic and asking annoyingly direct questions. He took up his usual role, too, promising the moon and dismissing problems with enthusiasm. 

To be clear, I agreed to the house and own the decision. What happened was my fault, because I so desperately wanted to say yes.  

The feeling arose from anger about my attitude, but it didn’t sit well. I considered all the times he said I blocked his wants and didn’t “support (his) dream.” The problem, I realized, was what he wanted: everything. Now.

He often referenced friends with expensive houses and the like. We have good jobs. Why do they have more than us?   

We’re just kids, I’d say. We can’t afford to have everything all at once.

He’d usually respond that I was “being controlling,” noting that he “never” got what he wanted.

That’s not how I envisioned myself as a wife. I wanted to be agreeable and fun. So there were a lot of expensive things. Myriad “projects,” from cars to motorcycles. A new truck every year or so. The best tools. Then two of this and three of that. Stuff. Stuff. Stuffed.   

He made a lot of money. I worked full time and always at least one part-time job, too. Still, we didn’t make enough to cover everything.We couldn’t; the list was a moving target.

“Enough” didn’t exist. I often dreamed my teeth had fallen out—the standard money-worry nightmare. So I quit sleeping. I hustled to earn money while not taking time from Z to do it.

I came to loathe my stuff. I felt guilty about our conspicuous consumption. I obsessed about coupons and sales. I cooked most of our meals, packed him lunches and did everything to ensure we could save, pay bills and chisel away at the mounting debt.

Our savings disappeared—and then some. I later learned Z’s had been decimated, too. We were overdrawn more often than not. He blamed the incongruous mash-up of math and me, usually adding that I was spending too much.

He was unhappy, even with the stuff that promised happiness. I wanted nothing more than to make him happy.

A few weeks before Thanksgiving,* he told me to leave. He “didn’t want the responsibility of being married or being a parent.” He was sick of being nagged to finish the household projects he’d started and abandoned.

You can take (Z), your clothes and your car. … I’ll have more money when you guys are gone.

Because I made a good living, he said child support wasn’t possible. He set my moving date at Jan. 15.* He forbade telling anyone. If I did, I’d ruin the holidays for Z.

I searched for a place to go and wondered how we’d find a place without telling family or friends what was happening.

As I wondered where I’d get money for deposits and other requirements, a  sad epiphany struck me: I had dropped my damn basket.

I was ashamed realization took so long. Despite knowing better, I settled into a life that revolved around not upsetting him. My daughter’s did, too. I was teaching her to lose herself in a marriage.

I started to tell others what was happening. I kept the house, and I’m learning to care for it. (All things considered, it was the best “normal” to give Z.)

Today, I can pay my bills. I’m saving money. I’m not so scared to spend—wisely.

I’m still scared. I’m embarrassed when someone comes over. I’m overwhelmed by all the house needs. There are days I don’t think I can handle it. There are days I’m sure I can’t.

But don’t most of us work on our homes for years? Don’t we make lists? And learn? And plan? And push through doubt when we near exhaustion?

I remind myself to look at our home through the eyes of others—at what’s done, not the tasks that remain.

©Karris Golden, January 2012

*As with all Us Girls entries, this blog was written several months ago.

I can hold a grudge.

If grudges were tangible, physical entities, no closet could contain what I’m able to harbor.

In my mind, a grudge is resentment, not hatred or revenge. My grudges tend to develop when someone knowingly does something wrong and doesn’t seek forgiveness or at least appear to be sorry. In turn, I avoid those people and situations where I might be forced to interact with them.

I can forgive. In the absence of an apology and/or acknowledgement of a wrong, I can move on. I can let it go. I must.

But in all the unsolicited advice from those who treat patients under a neon shingle, there is still this undercurrent—-a frightening message that doesn’t ring true: You must act like nothing happened.

It’s a new twist on “forgive and forget.” It’s as if we have to do better than avoiding a person’s company as much as possible—-we’re expected to play nice. In reality, I believe avoidance is the mature and healthy thing to do.

Expecting someone to adopt a “bygones be bygones” attitude is manipulative and downright cruel. That’s because often, such an expectation is handed down by those who would rather avoid conflict than respect everyone’s feelings.  

Likewise, it doesn’t make any good damn sense that it’s “healthy” to forgive someone who’s hasn’t asked for forgiveness and isn’t sorry.

Sure. That probably sounds like I’m justifying being a jerk to those I dislike. But in reality, I’m claiming my right to stop acting like everyone is cool and we all get along.

My resentment is not unhealthy. It’s not eating me up inside. What would cut a wide, ulcery swath through my gut is pretending not to have the resentments. I accept and embrace my grudges because I believe it’s human nature to not get over my shit on anything other than my schedule.

My grudges do not fester and ferment. They live, because I’m fed up with internalizing the imbalance of injustice. And as a mother, I’m sick of my child being told the same.   

I take great pains to ensure my Z won’t hate him. I don’t actively hate him or plot revenge. I don’t wish him ill or harm—-not just because it would hurt Z, but also because I don’t need that to feel better. Instead, my resentment is tidy, civil and precise. It also is unwavering.

I’m not going to pretend to be a bigger person than that.

Logic tells me to rail against the pop psychology mumbo-jumbo that would have us believe we must forgive everything, no matter how enormous the wrong.

I’ve been fed a steady diet of the idea that I must be on good terms with everyone, regardless of what they’ve done to me. That’s unhealthy. Human beings are messy and flawed. We don’t like everyone, everything or every situation. But then we believe there’s something wrong with us if we can’t find it within ourselves to like everyone.

I’m not saying I want to degenerate to my base level inner-asshole, but I don’t believe I should pretend to outwardly accept things I can’t.

I’d rather be real than be who everyone believes I should and must be. That person is someone who gets—-and stays—-pissed for as long as necessary.

Copyright Karris Golden, January 2012

When I worry—which I do with great gusto, frequency and relish—it isn’t over the bad that could happen. I mull the little things I could have done differently.

I believe worrying improves me. If I hammer away, beat up and beat down, I won’t continue in the same ill-fitting patterns and schemes.

On some level, I get that I’m rationalizing, but that’s where I’m at. It won’t be this way forever. I can’t come out the other side of this beaten and cynical. I can’t. I don’t want to constantly check the air above my head for dropping shoes.

I know I think too much. I don’t wallow, but I certainly worry. I have struggled lately with a fresh wave, wondering so much about the “why” that I am unsure of myself.

People tell me not to worry. Meh. The spinning wheels are my process—a path to what fuels me. Worry creates a phoenix fire of self-recrimination. Better, smarter and stronger emerge from the ashes.

It’s worth the price. But this time, it doesn’t feel right. I’m still in the fire—lost.

I keep settling on the collection comprised of images we received of each baby before it was gone. Ultrasounds, then surgical photos.

I carry them with me—almost always. Years ago, he caught me and told me to stop—to throw them away. Why in the world would you want to keep looking at those?!

Because I was wounded in every possible way. The pictures—especially the surgical photos—were the only thing I could fashion into a tangible link.

He was wounded, too, of course. When the first time almost killed me, he couldn’t endure it. He said so. And I don’t think anyone understood how deeply he—or any man—would grieve the loss of a baby. The emphasis is often the mother.

I asked; he was “fine.” I dropped it. I let myself believe he hadn’t lost his ability to hope.

I kept the pictures. They depict how easily everything is reduced to nothing and the only thing that has ever shaken my hope.

We all grieve, and we do so in our own way. I’m a retreater; I want to hide and lick my wounds.

This Southern aphorism is the balance of things: I’ve been in sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots. We all do it, in our own ways. You go, you lick out the pots, and maybe a good friend eventually tells you to move it to the pantry and out of sight. 

My pictures are my pots—the grief I cannot release. It has been long enough, I tell myself. But the pain is fresh. I think it always will be.

I feel guilty. I got my Hollywood ending—the glorious gloaming that follows the worst of bad days. Z is love and life—literally. She is perfect, just right and enough. To continue mourning so deeply after such an abundant blessing seems ungrateful.

Unfortunately, I’ve learned some of us will endure profound pain we can’t overcome.

The wound is always new; no scar forms, then fades. You figure out how to seem OK and may get to where you are most of the time. You try to find sense in the chaos. You hope your pain doesn’t define you. You struggle against being conquered.

©Karris Golden, Jan. 15, 2012

I have discontinued posts the past several weeks, either out of caprice or cowardice.

Although I organized Us Girls from journal entries and laid out the plan for this blog and automated the posts several months ago, I periodically review upcoming posts for errors, content issues and other reasons.

At the time I arranged these blog posts, I had made my peace with the content. Acting as a reluctant editor of my own work, I removed myself from the text and made the normal considerations.

But because I had removed myself, I failed to notice that, due to their content, the next several posts were unfortunately timed. Hence the break.

That break is over. I don’t believe there will be another interruption, but as a self-loathing editor, I make no promises.

Posts will resume Sunday evening.

Thanks for your patience.

Karris

UsGirlsATKarrisGoldenDOTcom
Twitter: @KarrisGolden

What is an all-time low? How do you know when you’re at rock bottom?

I don’t feel like my divorce is exactly “rock bottom.” That seems odd to write. I mean, I get it. The unraveling of my marriage certainly forced me to face the scrapings from the bottommost of barrels: Fantastical lies have been revealed. Blatant and elaborate adultery was finally exposed. Outrageous theft was uncovered.

If I were the sort who curses the heavens and screams, “What else could possibly go wrong?!” (I’m not), what happened next would have been the lightning strike of rebuke: betrayal and abandonment of my daughter and myself, wrapped in brutal humiliation.

It still goes on. And on. He wanted freedom from marriage and parental obligation—his words. He had already started, maybe 10 months ago. Or a year. Or two. He can’t remember.

Of course, my feelings about all this are immaterial. My decision to take responsibility is a non-decision, really. There are those who have a switch they can flip and turn off the parental mindset, and there are those for whom such an action seems impossible. I’m the latter. 

I know people choose other things over their children, but I can’t. With him, I planned to become a parent. Without him, my course will remain the same.

Maybe that’s why this doesn’t feel like rock bottom. It just doesn’t. I was devastated by it all. Disaffected. Desolate. Disconcerted.

Yet I feel like this life is better. Well, not this right now, but rather what I know is coming. I have this sense that all this is the price we‘ll pay—that Z and I will be better off. And it won’t take long.

We are already better. Before, I hadn’t realized how heavy things were. She and I constantly feared disappointing him or falling short. We went along to get along with him. We grew to suppress our natural independence, both trying to navigate a maze of growing rage, deceit and generally odd behavior.  

Just when it all seemed to be too much, the deus ex machina rolled in like a thunderstorm. It seemed like more chaos, if possible. But it did cause him to leave for good, resolution seemed as if it were in sight and things were far better within days.

Of all my fears, telling Z about the divorce and what it would mean scared me most. I knew I could love, provide for and protect her. I knew I could raise Z by myself. I knew I could do it alone. But I also knew I couldn’t fix her loss.

As I explained this to her, she cried. She asked if there was any chance her dad and I would get back together. That was a question I had dreaded. I told her there wasn’t.

She said, “Thank God.”

I was shocked. Z explained that she had known something very wrong, due to several occurrences and lies he’d told her. I’d had no idea it had gone on so long.

She said she couldn’t stand to see me treated that way. And she was angry that he had treated her “like a dumb kid.” “I’m not dumb, Mom,” she said indignantly.

No, she’s not. But Z is a kid; kids shouldn’t have to hide a parent’s transgressions from the other. But that’s what Z did. She said she kept mum because she worried about hurting me. She wasn’t quite 7 at the time.*

My mind reeled. How had I not seen that this was going on? Why didn’t I know Z was so unhappy? I explained that there would never be anything she’d tell me that would result in a situation that’s her “fault”—that worry is a mother’s domain, not her child‘s.

I also told Z that it’s not her responsibility to “make” me happy. Yes, Z is a source of great joy—always. But my overall happiness should never be her concern. Parents who load down their children with such a burden will never fill that bottomless well.

I understand I don’t yet fully understand what my divorce will mean for Z or me. I realize it will rank in my low points and probably hers, too. Someday I will probably say it was a time I hit rock bottom. I hope I also will say it revealed to me a better, stronger version of myself.

©Karris Golden, October 2011

*Note: As with all Us Girls postings, this entry was written several months ago.

The loss of a friend is no small thing.

When a disagreement can’t be resolved or the wrongdoer can’t or won’t make things right, it seems impossible to move past the loss.

I describe the breakup of my marriage as a “loss” because I am grieving. I can’t fix or restore my marriage. It’s gone, taking with it a unique and cherished friendship.

The loss of a friendship through unrepentant betrayal is among the most difficult to accept. To be wronged by someone who doesn’t regret wronging us brought feelings of heartbreaking helplessness for my daughter and me. I had to tell Z there was nothing I could do. I wanted to fight despite the odds. Instead, I had to surrender without taking the field. 

I tell myself this was a technicality: You lost, but you were not conquered. Come to. Come back. Overcome.

I believe, not because I feel I must, but because it feels right to believe.

Yes, it hurts. I feel lost under the weight of everything. Sometimes, I feel it will consume me, and I’ll just become part of this mass that rolls along with no course or purpose. Like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to lose myself inside that mass. Like that might be easy and incredibly comfortable.

But I believe I didn’t lose everything. I’m starting to understand I didn’t lose much—not really. That’s not a dig; it’s a logical interpretation of the reality I face. I can’t believe all that is all there will be. If it were, I have a lot of ho-hum years of nothing special ahead of me.

That’s not likely. I believe my future is jam-packed with edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckle, tummy-butterflies, don’t-close-your-eyes, leap-before-you-look moments. I’ll make sure it is.

While I would have initially preferred the lessons of divorce had chosen a different means of travel, I now appreciate this journey.

I can move past betrayal, dishonesty and humiliation, and I won’t be changed for the worse.

Yes, these things “happened to me,” but that is because I let them. I don’t have to do that, and I won’t in the future.

I must not place promise-keeping above doing what is right. I must stop viewing character as a set of ideals. I express my character through my actions.

And I must not feed what I can’t control. I have wasted too much time hating that the betrayal, dishonesty, humiliation and devastation Z and I felt were deemed by some to be immaterial and merely the byproduct of a breakup. 

So much of my anger was wrapped up in the unfairness of things. Truth, responsibility, justice and pure rage are important but irrelevant concerns. Notions like keeping a promise, keeping a marriage, keeping a husband, keeping Z’s father and keeping a friend were based on the precarious assumption that we shared motivations. When I replaced “keep” with “make,” I understood my futile, one-sided efforts.

None of it is fair, but it is right that I must scoop up Z and get on with getting on. I will. And it will be a spectacular success.

I have lost my husband—my friend. With anyone whom you love and like, love to like and/or like to love, nothing is certain.

That’s not a lesson I wanted to learn. I don’t want to know that doing the right things, trying my best and working my ass off won’t always be enough. I don’t want to acknowledge that I can’t necessarily count on someone—even if I do anything to ensure they can count on me.

I hate the way that looks when I write it. I hate the way that sounds when I say it aloud. I hate considering a life lived with shields up. A life without trust. A life without the intimacy that vulnerability brings.

One of my most baffling inconsistencies is that if it‘s business or money, I’m as cynical as they come. But in relationships, I give a lot of chances before I slam the door. Whether platonic, romantic or familial, I go in with optimism a-blazing.

As the cynic expects, I have experienced crushing betrayals. These have made me want to trust more. I can’t stop believing each new person is generally good; it can be the impetus that makes him or her want to be.

Growing up, I knew many people who lacked believers. In turn, they didn’t believe in themselves.

I am surrounded by people who believe in me. I believe in myself. It’s only right that I believe in others until they give me a reason to see things differently.   

In the case of my marriage, my desire to trust was used against me. Now I’m afraid I might extinguish that trust. I worry I don’t teach Z to be cynical enough.

More often than not, I find myself wondering if I truly want to try again. Part of my reticence is based on the fear that Z will see me fail in another relationship.

I also wonder if I really need another relationship and all that entails. Is that what I need to be fulfilled? Do I want to let down guard, take the time, build the trust, be vulnerable and hope?

I believe I could invest in another relationship—love and trust someone. However, I fear allowing myself to hope.


Karris Golden

© Karris Golden, June 2011