An Open Letter To Me, On The Day He Asked For A Divorce

Today is the last day of my marriage.

It has been over for a while now; we haven't lived together in a year and a half.  The papers were signed and sealed months ago, but in our state there is a waiting period before the marriage is considered legally and officially over.

That day is tomorrow.

It has made me reflective, because if you had told me on the day my husband asked for a divorce that my life would look like it does today I would never, ever have believed you.

I decided to write her a letter, that broken, sobbing woman who had just heard the words: I want a divorce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My sweet, sad girl:

I know this feels like the worst day of your life.

He takes you to the beach to tell you, and you don't know why but this makes it worse somehow. It's not like there is a good place to hear your marriage is finished. Maybe it's because as you spread the blanket out on the warm sand, a tight ball of anxiety frozen in your belly because some part of you knows - just knows - what is coming, you have hope. You still have hope.

You start babbling, avoiding his gaze, because you can't stand the depth of the sadness -- no, worse: pity -- you see in his eyes. He waits patiently for you to fall silent, and as he takes a breath and begins to speak you wince, as if physically pulling away can forestall the sting of his words for one more merciful split-second.

This isn't working, he says. I can't do this anymore.

All the air rushes out of your lungs. You start slowly shaking your head - no, no, no - and silently pray: please don't say it.

I want a divorce, he says, like every cliched movie you've ever seen.

The ball of anxiety in your belly cracks wide open, and cold fear rushes through you; your hands and feet are suddenly freezing on this humid July day.

The world goes quiet; you can see his lips moving but there is no sound. You observe the family next to you, as if in slow motion: the mom is pulling sandwiches out of a cooler and the Dad is smearing sunscreen on his toddler's chubby cheeks, such familiar gestures, things you and he have done hundreds of times together. But now there is no you-and-he. There is no us.

Something inside you breaks. The wall of denial you have been pushing against, desperate to keep it standing, crashes down around you.

You walk to the water's edge and gaze out over the sunlight dancing on the water. You can't fix this, a voice in your head says. This time it's really and truly over. 

Tears stream down your face, but you keep your back resolutely turned towards him. You don't want him to see you cry, this man you swore to love forever, whose babies you had, who has stood by your side for half your life. You hide your tears from him like a futile punishment, one that has no teeth.

Hitching sobs erupt from your throat, and right behind them comes the rage; how dare he? After all we have been through he's just going to quit? To walk away?

You storm back to the blanket, sobbing, and say something like: we got through all this crap - the cancer, the death, the rehabs, all that LOSS - and now I'm also losing the love of my life? 

He tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze: I'm not the love of your life, Ellie, he says with determination, resignation and - dammit - love.

This is when it happens, my sweet girl, it's just that you can't feel it yet: a tiny spark comes alive deep inside you, a pilot light, a fledgling flame that signals the birth of something new.

It's a gentle stirring of something - is it freedom? possibility?

But right now, dear Ellie, all you feel is unadulterated fear. A deep, primal certainty that nothing will ever be okay again. He has been your mirror for as long as you can remember; you have measured your happiness, your sense of purpose, your value against his reflection for decades.

You have no idea who you are without him. You desperately don't want to know, but he has given you no choice.

Over the coming days, weeks and months people will tell you over and over that everything will be okay. They will deliver well-meaning platitudes: he has no idea what he's missing, you're better off without him, if he can't see how amazing you are good riddance. Their words bounce off of you, because they don't understand how convinced you are that you are never going to be okay, that you're broken beyond repair, unlovable.

Here's what you can't see, not yet, but it's happening: that little flame is growing. You feed it every day, even without realizing it. You open your eyes each morning, feel the plummet in your gut as you instinctively reach over to his now-empty side of the bed and feel like you can't go on, but then you do.

You cry and wail and curse and scream and trudge through each day, and it feels like you're dying, but each day you make it through is a stitch in that open wound.

And then one morning you won't reach over to his side of the bed. Your first thought of the day won't be one of rejection or despair, but rather about something you have to do that day, maybe, or a cute thing one of the kids said. It won't hit you until breakfast that you only have to serve three plates instead of four, and that one whole hour went by where you weren't in emotional agony. Stitch.

You'll kick your socks off and leave them right in the middle of the bedroom floor, which used to make him nuts, and giggle like a lunatic. Stitch.

You'll sprawl out in your king sized bed like a starfish, or wrap yourself up in all the blankets burrito-style. Stitch. Stitch.

You'll grope your way through things he used to do, like paying bills, resetting the fuse box, replacing a broken shower head, schlepping the garbage to the dump, snow blowing the driveway, muttering and cursing all the way, but you'll do it. Stitch. Stitch. Stitch.

That little flame will grow stronger, until it begins to throw its own warmth. You will no longer need his approval to feel a glow of accomplishment.

You haven't worked outside the home in over twelve years, but you'll get a job. A good job. You'll buy your own car.

After taking a year all to yourself, with no romantic entanglements, you'll feel ready to go on a date or two. This will be just as awkward and amazing as you pictured it would be. You'll realize you don't need to be someone's other half to be happy, and when a few people you meet want to date more seriously you'll resist, because you're doing just fine on your own.

The voice in your head - the one that sounded a lot like him - will lose its critical tone. Slowly - oh so slowly - it will be replaced with your own voice. A whisper, at first, but it will grow louder each day.

Each day you step closer and closer to the person you were meant to be, before you gave your power away and tethered your self-worth to him.

The gut wrenching sadness, anger and grief will fade. You will travel deep into yourself and face difficult truths you spent a lifetime avoiding, but you will be able to do this, now, because you matter to yourself. You will discover that the key to peace of mind has been in your hand all along, even though you kept trying to give it away to others. To him.

And although you can't believe it now, on this scorching summer day with the words I want a divorce landing on your heart like a ton of bricks, he has given you a precious gift. Because, you will come to learn, he was right. He isn't the love of your life.

You are.

Dating Online In Your (late) 40s; Life In The Discomfort Zone

If you ever want to test your self-confidence, try dating in your late 40s.

The last time I dated was 23 years ago. I was coming off an ill-fated two year marriage to my college sweetheart, all of 23 years old and on the prowl. The dating world was a tad different back then. 

In 1993 we dated the old fashioned way: I would take my nimble, dewy complected self to a bar with a gaggle of my friends, and we'd drink and flirt with guys.  Maybe we'd get a phone number, which we would write on a napkin and stuff in our purse, because cell phones were big clunky things that a few rich people and business executives had installed in their cars. 

Then we'd go home and angst over whether to call him, or wait for him to call. If we were feeling particularly obsessed we'd come home from work and dial *69 to see if we missed his call .  Or we'd call him to see if he was home and hang up, because caller ID had yet enter the scene and foil the plans of stalkers everywhere.

And if he didn't call? Oh, well. We had decades of youth stretching out before us; there was plenty of time and oh-so-many fish in the sea.  We'd simply slip into a little black dress or a cute pair of jeans that hugged our curves in all the right places, take our hopeful visages, toned legs and perky breasts out to the bar and wait for the boys to flock like bees to honey.

For some of us - like me - the mission was to find The Guy. I wasn't a serial dater; I've always been a monogamous type. I sought stability, predictability and loyalty. I was looking for a good future husband and father. Of course he'd have to be hot, though. And tall. And funny. And smart. 

I could afford to be picky, because I was all those things: funny, smart, tall and - although I sure didn't think it at the time - I was hot. 

And, lucky me, I met him by age 24. He hit every single "must-have" on my list. Sure, he was a tad commitment phobic, but I could work with that. I had all the time in the world, remember? And I was patient. I could wait forever for The Guy.  Forever turned out to be seven years, before he looked at me with fear and excitement in his eyes and said, "You're gonna marry me, right?"  The rest, as they say, is history. 

Or so I thought, as I skipped merrily into middle age thinking my dating days were behind me forever.  

Crash landing in the dating world in 2015 felt like time travel, but where the protagonist doesn't simply plunk into the future an adorably befuddled but still-youthful version of herself.  Instead, she wears every inch of the 22 intervening years.

So how does a 46 year single working mother date?  A sober one, at that? Long gone are the bar days. And even if I did go to bars, far in the rear view mirror are the times when all that was required to garner male attention was to walk into the room. 

Dating, nowadays, is (mostly) online. I don't think anyone has scribbled a phone number on a napkin since 2002. 

If you find yourself freshly divorced in your 40s, startled and blinking in the harsh light, I have compiled a timeline for you, so you know what to expect. 

You're welcome.

The first step is to join every single dating site you can find, because you know nothing about anything and casting the widest net possible seems like a good idea (you will live to regret this decision).

Then you create your online profile. You search for pictures that make you look good, but not *too* good because you don't want him to be unpleasantly surprised if you meet in person.  You find that full-body shot that still looks like you, but maybe with an arm or a kid or a chair placed strategically in front of your less desirable parts.

Then comes the dreaded self-description. You answer the basics: height/eye color/lifestyle choices/employment.  Then this: what is your body type?  Are you (a) slim (b) toned (c) athletic (d) average (e) a few extra pounds (f) Overweight?  Was is "average" anyway?  Unless you are decidedly in the first three, everyone picks (d).

Even worse than the photo selections is the dreaded self-summary.  Can you imagine if in order to grab someone's attention in a bar you started with this buzz-kill opener:  "Describe yourself in 1000 characters or less!  Make sure to include who you are and everything you've ever wanted!" 

If you survive the first two with your sanity intact, you get to describe what you're looking for in a mate. This will be a tad depressing, because long gone are the days when you could prattle off this list fully expecting to check every box.  You'll manage to craft an eloquent description nonetheless, but what you're really saying, you'll come to discover, is this:  "Not still married. Not looking for just a hook-up. Not living with his mother. Hair a plus".

You upload all of this information onto about six dating apps, and then obsessively check all of them all the time.  You swipe and click and wink and message your way to a first date. 

The first time you dress for a date you will agonize, try on everything you own, fling yourself on your bed, curse your middle aged body and wonder when it was that your boobs fell about six inches.  It will dawn on you, with horror, that if the relationship progresses someone will see your c-section scar which has evolved into a kind of reverse tummy-tuck (producing a jiggly pocket of skin you can't lose no matter how many sit-ups you do), your love handles and that mole you never had removed (because only your husband saw it, so who cares?). This thought will make you want to die, but you'll persevere. 

You won't want to look too nice (desperate) or too casual (slovenly).  It will take hours to find that outfit that says: "I tried but not too much".  You will then proceed to wear this outfit on every first date. You will wear this outfit a lot, because you will mostly go on first dates. 

You will quickly realize that everyone isn't who they appear to be online. There will be the date where the moderately handsome man, according to his profile pic, turns out to be at least forty pounds overweight and missing a couple of teeth. Oh, and an eye.  There will be the date that starts as a casual stroll in the woods and turns into a hike worthy of its own mini-series, and you are wearing sandals and striving valiantly to appear you aren't slowly dying (after all, you said you like exercise in your profile).  

You will learn most guys say they are looking for a relationship, but what they really want is to hook up.  You won't be able to decide if this horrifies or flatters you.

The first few times you meet someone in person you'll be nervous and coquettish. This will not last. You won't become jaded, exactly, but you will discover you know in about thirty seconds if you're even remotely interested, and become skilled in disengaging quickly (your go-to will become the fake text from home).  

It will take a while, but the day will come when you are totally interested after that first sniff-test coffee date and he isn't. 

Here you will realize how much stalking has progressed since 1993.  You will be able to see when he is on the dating site, presumably chatting with young, supple women who don't have stretch marks. You'll debate how often to check his profile, because of course he can see when you do that. All your messages back and forth are still there, frozen in virtual eternity, mocking you.  You may even find his Facebook page and die a thousand deaths when you see him with his arm around a gorgeous young blond. 

You won't be able to decide if you really like him or if you're just obsessing because he didn't like you.  

This may even happen to you a few times, and you will spend a few dark nights of the soul thinking you will be alone forever, that you're uninteresting and unattractive. You'll curse your ex, who enjoyed the last years of your youthful self and left you with this unrecognizable old-person's body. 

You will delete your online accounts in a snit-fit and curl up with Netflix and ice cream for a while, but eventually you will go back. Perhaps more selectively this time, on the more reputable sites.  You will become more adept at screening out the undesirables. You will no longer answer every message you get because you feel badly if you don't. You won't feel as guilty if you meet someone in person and there is no click.  Instead of lying your way out of it, you'll learn how to disengage with honesty and compassion.

And one day you'll wake up and realize you aren't obsessively checking the sites anymore, and that you are okay whether or not someone likes you back. You will have reached way out of your comfort zone - several times - and emerged okay.  You'll have ample opportunities to work on your boundaries, and will eventually learn not to go on a second date because you feel badly letting someone down.  

You won't spend every minute of every date wondering if he likes you.  Instead, you'll be thinking about whether you like him. 

You will come to embrace your beautiful, battered body, and you won't care as much about your perceived flaws.  You'll realize you're still pretty hot in your own unique way.

When someone doesn't like you for exactly who you are, it will no longer obliterate your self-confidence. You will learn to accept that you don't need to be all things to all people.

Most importantly, perhaps, you will come to know that you don't need everyone to like you. You will believe, for the first time in your adult life, that you don't need to be anyone's other half to be okay. 

This whole excruciating process? It will lead you back to you.

A Newly Seperated Girl's Guide to the Holidays

I went to the mailbox yesterday and received my first holiday card. 

I used to adore this time of year - both sending and receiving cards - picking out that perfect picture (always taken as a family at Thanksgiving) and running to the mailbox every afternoon to see it chock full of those non-bill-shaped envelopes bearing updates from friends and family.

When I saw that first green and gold envelope with a little heart sticker on it, my stomach plummeted.

This year there will be no holiday card from our family, because our family is separated.

I suppose I could send a card with just the kids on it. But what would the message say?  Joy?  Merry Merry?  Happy New Year?

I don't feel any of those things this year. 

Over the holidays, even more than usual, there are reminders of what-isn't-anymore all over the place, like little bomb-lets that explode in my face when I least expect it.

Holiday commercials of intact families celebrating over a Thanksgiving meal. Magazine ads of Moms and Dads kissing under mistletoe, or grinning conspiratorially to each other as they stuff holiday stockings or wrap gifts. 

The holiday cards with smiling Mom-Dad-Kids, their arms slung around each other, wearing goofy Santa hats or matching outfits.  All together, just like they were last year, only one year older.

The holiday season makes me glare at the wedding rings of the Moms in front of me in the grocery line, their chubby babies' drooling grins taunting me.  I used to be them, I think.  My stomach twists with regret and jealousy.  Why didn't I pay more attention when all that was mine.  

The changes are coming at me fast.  Our beloved dog, Casper, died last week.  She was thirteen years old, lived a long, full life, and it was time for her to go.  My husband and I got her when our marriage was only two years old.  As I mourn her loss, I find myself thinking: my marriage began and ended with her life.

I don't want to put up the tree.  I don't want to decorate.  I don't want to celebrate.  Every step of the way I'm haunted by traditions past:  he cuts the trunk, I hang the ornaments, a crackling fire blazing in the background. 

I want to curl up in a ball and unfurl on January 2nd.

Friends mock-complain about all they have to do: the in-laws coming to stay, prepping meals, planning trips to see family, grumbling about what to buy their husband or what their husband will get for them.  All of it sets my teeth on edge, but I just stand there and smile, feeling like I have a blaring neon sign on my forehead that says:  separated.

I gazed at the smiling faces peering out at me from that first holiday card.  Then I closed my eyes, and I prayed. 

May they have a happy holiday season. May I find joy in the blessings I have, instead of all I do not have.

It helped.  A little.

Here's the thing, though: none of these emotions have any bearing on our separation specifically, on the circumstances behind it, or the reasons why.  I don't regret the separation itself, I realize, although it's confusing and hard and sometimes I just want to get in my way-back machine and start all over.

What I'm grieving is the loss of The Dream, the one that is shoved in our faces over-and-over-and-over during the holidays.  If you were an alien from another planet and landed on earth on December 14th, or thereabouts, you would think we were the happiest-smilingest people in the Universe.

At least that's how it feels to me, newly separated for my first holiday season.

Our society commercializes happiness, and it's never more glaring than in November and December.  I'd like to see a magazine ad, or a commercial, of a single mom and her kids sitting down to Thanksgiving, or buying a Christmas tree. 

They'd be smiling, I know they would, because my kids and I smile together. A lot.  I am not unhappy when I'm able to live my life as it is, and not how I feel it should be.  Most of the time I am content, and I'm able to grow and learn from the hard lessons life is teaching me right now.

But, dammit. It's almost impossible not to lose myself in comparisons when family-and-togetherness is everywhere.  Logically, I know that we're still a family, just in a different form. I know my kids are over-the-top excited for Christmas, and that they had a great Thanksgiving with their Dad.  I had a great Thanksgiving, too, with some amazing sober friends. 

I would be okay, most of the time, if that damn cookie-cutter family wasn't grinning out at me from my television, Facebook stream and mailbox. 

That's not how the world works, and I know this.  This is hard core life-on-life's terms. When I'm in a good head space, I can find peace in chaos.  When I'm not, I find chaos in peace.  I fall into the 'shoulds' - how my life should be instead of how it is. 

Don't Should On Yourself, my friend would say.

I'm trying. I will get through this. I will say a prayer of compassion over every card I receive this year. I will pray for peace of mind, for acceptance of what is, and gratitude for all I have. 

But sometimes?  Sometimes I just have to get my truth out there, that this is hard. 

It just is.

On Simplicity, Serenity and Struggle

I find myself in a tug-of-war.  I love writing in this space, and I miss it.

Following the chaos of my relapse(s) and subsequent 90 days of treatment, I vowed to take a break from living my life so publicly.  I have been doing serious thinking about the role blogging plays in my life, in my recovery.  I have more questions than answers.

I still receive numerous emails from people who identify with my story, have been helped in some way by my words. People offer bits of their own struggles, their own triumphs, and it comforts me, makes me feel less alone. 

I don't have regrets, because despite everything I continue to believe that being open brings more gifts to me than being closed. When I share some of my vulnerabilities with the world, the blessings I receive back are beyond measure.  I am long past worrying about judgment, censure or sideways glances on the soccer field.

This blog has been, in large part, about my addiction and recovery story. But I also wrote about motherhood, creativity, advocacy, balance and family.

The past six months have shown me that I do not need to share all the intimate details of my journey. Some things are meant for the sacred intimacy of real-life: family, close friends and recovery people.  

I have focused on living a quiet, simple life. I stepped away from the day-to-day of running Shining Strong, I took a hiatus from my jewelry businesses and from blogging.

My main focus has been on self-care and my family.  My kids are my priority - after my recovery, of course, because without my recovery I will lose everything.

I find myself in an in-between space. There are lots of changes happening in my life, and I ache to write about them.  But it's not just my story to tell.  What I say here impacts my kids, my husband, my family.  

Because I have shared my struggles here, I am stopped often - even from people I barely know - who look me in the eye and ask me, in a heartfelt manner - how are you?  

I don't know what to say anymore.  I am someone who shares; I find comfort in connecting with people.  I want to be truthful, but I find myself uncharacteristically speechless.  

I struggle with the balance between what is private and answering authentically. It feels shallow simply saying, "I'm fine!  And you?"

So what to do about here?  In the land of One Crafty Mother?  I realize, looking back, that I have never been untruthful or misleading here.  I have written as authentically as I could.  But there is a kind of safety in crafting words to describe my life to the unseen masses.  It's the parts I didn't even have access to myself - the pain, the depression, the grief and anxiety - that got me in the end. Writing is powerful, but it can allow me to skip rocks over the really hard stuff, even as I believe I am digging deep.

So here is what I can say:  I am okay. I have an incredible relationship with my kids, and for this I am beyond grateful.  My recovery is solid. I am able to live in acceptance and surrender and keep it in the day, with lots of prayer, meditation and support.  

Recently I re-opened my online jewelry shops, but I haven't been marketing them aggressively. Like sinking into a hot bath, I am slowing reintegrating into creating again.  It feels good.  I am writing a lot on the side, away from the public eye. It is healing.

I am smack dab in the middle of a fantastic recovery community; I reach out for help.  I stay active, present and involved.  I lean into my feelings, and share them face-to-face with the unbelievable support network I have right here in front of me.

I am also not okay. My husband and I are separating. I won't get into the details, because it isn't my story to tell.  It's our story. It will always be our story, no matter what happens in the end.  We are working together with love and respect for each other, and that's a lot.  That isn't to say it's not hard - man, is it hard, but I find that anger, resentment and fear block my contact with God.  It's simpler to live in compassion and faith. Well, maybe not simpler, but certainly more serene.

I know that God's got us, that we need to row the boat but that He is steering. I know I will learn and stretch and grow. 

Our little family has been through a lot in the past three years, and a lot of it revolves around my issues: the death of my Dad, my cancer, my depression/anxiety, my relapse, my absence during my treatment.  And now our separation.  

I find myself waiting for things to settle down, for life to return to normal again.  I find myself grappling for a foothold, wanting to shake answers out of the Universe because I want to know, dammit, what is going to happen.  

When I do this, when I live in the land of expectation, I suffer.  When I pry my white knuckles off the steering wheel, surrender and ask for help, I am calm and steady.  I know now that this is the only power I have over anything: how I metabolize my world.   

I have the power to let go.  

The Other Side of Fear

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to all the support, love and encouragement I have received since my last post about my relapse.

I'm pleased to report that the saying "feelings aren't facts" is totally true.  My fear of being judged or alienated proved to be ill founded.  If there are people judging me out there they are remaining blissfully silent. 

I am overwhelmed (in the good way) by all the comments, messages and emails. 

When we are suffering, it is easy to feel like we're the only people on the planet. It seems like the bad feelings are never going to get better.  No matter how many times I have said to other struggling people "hang in there, it gets better", it is still very difficult to believe that when it's me who is in pain.

When I wrote about my alcoholism before - from the start of this blog - it was from the relatively safe perch of time and distance.  It wasn't as hard to write about the stigma, shame, regret and guilt of alcoholism with over a year sober tucked under my belt.  For someone who writes extensively about the power of truth and vulnerability, when it came time to share my own without the buffer of time I felt more frightened than I have in a long time. 

I had to wait to hit "publish" on my last post until I felt in my gut I was putting my words out there for my own healing, not because I wanted to dispel rumors or try to project some image of okay-ness that wasn't true.  I had to be sure I wasn't writing for anyone but myself and was able to let go of the outcome.  

I forgot about the power of truth and vulnerability.  Not everyone understands addiction or recovery, but everyone understands suffering and courage.

Because it takes courage to be vulnerable.  When someone speaks or writes their truth - unvarnished and straight from the heart - I feel awe and admiration, and no small measure of respect.  When it's my turn, however, the urge to varnish. minimize or maximize the truth is overwhelming.  

And why do I want to polish up the truth?  Why do I feel this urge to minimize my accomplishments?  

Fear.

Fear of being judged, of course, but also fear of the "who do you think you are's".  

I have learned that fear is at the root of so many deflecting emotions like anger or resentment. Fear is also at the root of pride, envy, perfectionism and shame.  At the heart of it all, for me, is self-centered fear of rejection and abandonment.  

Social media can amplify and exaggerate this fear.  People don't post about their vulnerabilities often.  We aren't practiced in expressing our fears.  When perusing Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. we can find ourselves comparing our insides to everyone else's highlight reels.  

What I felt from the responses I received from my last post was relief and identification.  Even people who aren't alcoholics, who aren't in recovery, wrote to me about their own struggles, fears and experiences with falling down and getting back up.

Many, many people expressed that they wish they could be more open about their fears, doubts and insecurities but that they couldn't because of fear of peoples' reactions, of not fitting in and being perceived as weak or inferior.  

There is a chasm between how we feel on the inside and what the world sees, and at the bottom of this chasm is a river of suffering.

Every time we open up and share our truth, our vulnerability, we are building a bridge across this chasm.  In recovery we do this all the time; we open our mouths to save our lives so the chasm doesn't swallow us whole.

I will never be rid of fear, but I am learning to embrace it as a great teacher.  The antidotes to fear are self-love, faith and truth.  When I can face my mistakes, regrets and truths with compassion and love, I can find the strength to build that bridge. The only way fear wins is if I stop trying; if I avoid what is really going on inside and keep polishing up the outside instead.  The shiniest castle built on sand will eventually fall.

My relapse happened, in large part, because I didn't want to face some hard truths about what was going on underneath it all; how my foundation was crumbling as I madly kept on building. 

I can't get well on my own; when I try to fix myself I inevitably make things worse.  Thank you - everyone - for your words of hope and encouragement, but mostly importantly for sharing the vulnerable, beautiful parts of yourselves. When we raise our voices together, fear doesn't stand a chance. 

If you're struggling and have been afraid to reach out for help because of fear, take a deep breath, and speak your truth to a trusted friend or loved one. Or even start by speaking your truth out loud in front of a mirror. Tell yourself what you're afraid of.  Truth shines a light on the things that make us suffer and sends fear scuttling into the shadows.

Let go.  It's worth it.  You're worth it.

And so am I.

Introverted Extrovert

Whenever I make a new friend, somewhere innocuous like the soccer sidelines, or a new neighbor, (as opposed to through a recovery, business or internet connection where someone already knows me, or knows of me) there is inevitably that moment.   The one where they say, "and what do you do"?

One of my first-ever blog posts ranted about the awkwardness of this seemingly innocent interrogative.  Back in my single working days this question never gave me pause.  "I'm a Blahbity Blah" I'd rattle off without thinking, my identify safely wrapped up in my Job Title Du Jour.

Becoming a full time Mom added a layer of puzzlement on how to answer this.  I hated how often I felt the question mark at the end of my reply, when I'd mumble out "I'm a Mom?"  Sometimes I'd even say, "I'm just a Mom", as if the merits of raising a child were lacking in some key way.

After I started my jewelry business, the question mark still loomed:  I make jewelry? 

When a person expressed an interest in learning more about this, I struggled.  I didn't own my creativity, refusing to believe I was an artist of any kind.  "Oh, it's no big deal," I'd say.  "It's just a little Etsy shop.  Something to keep me from getting too bored."

Blogging added another layer of complexity, especially five years ago when more than half the people would say, "You're a what?? What's a blogger?"

Again the question mark reared its ugly head. "Um, I write about my life on the internet?"

This was almost always met with a puzzled expression and a "Why?"

Back then I didn't know why.  It was just something I couldn't not do, but that answer seemed ridiculous.  And blogging carried for me more than a whiff of narcissism, of navel gazing.  I couldn't understand why I blogged any more than I could understand why on earth anyone would read it.

The awkwardness factor ratcheted up a notch when, left unsatisfied from my self-deprecating mumbling response to why I blog, the person would inquire, understandably, "well, what do you blog about?"

"Well, er, I'm an alcoholic in recovery, and I write about that," I'd sputter, bracing for the person's head to jerk back, for them to stare into the middle distance and concoct an excuse to walk away.

Most people had this response, because the of the uncomfortable vibe radiating from my pores; if I felt embarrassed about it, they felt embarrassed for me.

Little by little, my jewelry business and blog grew, but my self-deprecating manner did not keep pace with the public response.  I'd frame my answer to the what-do-you-do question with "Well, I'm a Mom and kind of a writer. Oh, and I make jewelry."

I wouldn't hand over the business cards I carried in my purse, feeling that was to pushy. If they asked for a card, I'd give them one with a tentative smile.  "You totally don't need to buy anything," I would say, as if that person possessed no free will.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Then I founded my non-profit, Shining Strong, encompassing all my internet outreach projects that were growing by the day:  The Bubble Hour podcast, Crying Out Now, and my advocacy work with other organizations working in recovery advocacy.  And I started my Arbonne business.

Still - STILL - I stumbled over how to answer the what-do-you-do question.  It all came tumbling out in one vomitous reply: I-run-a-non-profit-and-make-jewelry-and-blog-and-am-an-Arbonne-consultant?  And a Mom of two kids?

The middle-distance stare. The shuffling feet. The poor person wouldn't have the first clue how to respond to my rapid fire and apologetic answer that landed at their feet like a stone.

About a year ago, I wrote about this phenomenon in my post Killing The Question Mark. I was preparing to meet Brene Brown, of Daring Greatly fame, and I was trying to own my successes without apology. I sound all put together-n-shit in that post, but the only reason I gave a copy of my book to Brene Brown was that my Mom brought one. I left mine at home, feeling too sheepish about self-promotion.  To Brene Brown, for crying out loud, the QUEEN of overcoming shame and embracing vulnerability.  The question mark came lurching back like a zombie from a bad B movie.

Now Shining Strong is really growing.  I incorporated as a non-profit. I have a fantastic board of directors, and a gorgeous and informative website, thanks to the talents of my friend Amanda.

Suddenly I find myself standing in front of rooms of people, or being interviewed online, or advocating for The Anonymous People,  a movement all about owning your recovery and speaking unabashedly about your recovery to help others.

The critics are loud in my head, but only I can give them power over me.  Only I can allow them to fuel my Question Mark Syndrome.  They are a minority. Most people are a combination of curious and supportive about Shining Strong's mission.  The question mark is weighing me down, and starting to smack of false modesty.


I have always been an introverted extrovert.  Talking to me you would likely never know that I am cringing inside a lot of the time: do I sound like an egomaniac? Am I making sense? Are you bored? Did you just look at your watch? Do you like me? 

I don't know that the introverted extrovert will ever go away. I am learning to love her, to embrace her and tell her: "It's going to be okay. You're not an egomaniac, and the mission is worthwhile".   Now and again someone in person, or through the grapevine, or on the internet, will criticize my efforts to raise money for Shining Strong. Or even my jewelry business, implying that I'm hawking my recovery to make money.

That hurts, and the question mark gains power.

But in my heart, I know that's not true. I named my non-profit in memory of my Dad (my maiden name is Strong) who gave back to the communities he served his whole life.  My Dad doesn't want me to cringe. My Mom is my biggest cheerleader, carrying the flag for me at every opportunity.  My best friend is now in recovery with me and is as essential to me as oxygen.

It's time to kill the question mark for good.

I will advocate now and again on this blog. I will talk about the mission I believe so strongly in.  I will even, on occasion, ask for financial help if you can spare it. I will often ask for help spreading the word.

And, just recently, when I met my brand-new neighbor at the end of our driveway as we waited for the bus with our kids, and she asked me, "what do you do?"

I smiled and said "I'm a Recovery Advocate and an Entrepreneur, when I'm not Mom-ing, which is most of the time".

She smiled back, and said, "Tell me, what is Recovery Advocacy?"

And so I did.

I even gave her my business card.

Ramble On

I haven't posted here in a while - at least for me, it's a while.  A few weeks feels like an eternity in the blogosphere.

I unplugged (for the most part) since my last post.  It wasn't as hard as I feared it would be. I didn't realize how the constant stream of emails, FB messages, etc. was impacting my mental health.  It all got to be too much.

We went to the Florida Keys as a family - we haven't been away just the four of us on a vacation like that in, well, ever.  I had no idea how I'd do - wallowing in my kids, only peeking at social media periodically like a junkie sneaking a quick fix.  Very quickly, my Internet World felt far away indeed.

I closed my jewelry stores for the summer.  I haven't done that since I opened my first store in 2008.  I knew it was the right decision when I clicked into "vacation mode" with nary a second thought.

I don't really know how to describe how I've been feeling lately. Over my birthday (44 on July 4th) I had what amounts to an emotional and physical collapse. All the stresses of the past months - heck, the past two years - came flooding in. I missed my Dad terribly. I thought a lot about how on earth we got through the past year and a half with his death, my cancer, and all the day-to-day pressures of life.

In part, I realized, I got through it by throwing myself into work. My non-profits - The Bubble Hour, Crying Out Now, Shining Strong -- in addition to my jewelry and Arbonne businesses.  It only took a day or two of stepping away for me to see that I was, indeed, running from and not towards. 

It's baffling, really, because I adore everything I do. As I've written about before, I can't imagine my life without all these things in it.  I didn't stop from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night.  I spread myself too thin, but I did it willingly. Happily, even.

I don't know yet what will have to give.  I am giving it until the fall to figure it out.  My kids are thriving, and I'm grateful for that.  It's odd to contemplate giving up something that I've worked hard to build.  When I started ANY of the things I do, including this blog, I couldn't ever have imagined the places they would take me, the people they would bring into my lives.  Even my Arbonne business - young though it is - has already brought me SO many gifts.  And some much needed income.

I've decided to let it go - let the Universe direct me where I'm meant to go.  If I don't over think - if I stay out of my own way - I know the answer(s) will appear.

I'm heading to Chicago tomorrow, to the big blogging conference, BlogHer.  It's making me nostalgic; this is my fourth BlogHer, and it seems only yesterday I was heading to New York for my first one.  I remember the dizzying pace of that conference, wanting desperately to be in the middle of all the action.

I could care less about the middle, now, and ironically letting go of needing to be there has swung it around my way. I was chosen as one of twelve Voices of the Year to read a post in the "heart" category at the big community keynote on Friday night, in front of over 3,000 people.

When I saw my first Community Keynote I remember thinking "man, I'd love to be up there someday", but it was for all the wrong reasons, although I didn't realize that at the time.  I just felt so small there among all these well-known bloggers whose words and lives were such a big part of my life.

I hated feeling small.  I was just getting started, chomping at the bit to get the word out there about One Crafty Mother, Crying Out Now and my jewelry.

Now I know you can't force these things.  You can't just dive into the spotlight, or charm your way there.  

But now that the spotlight is swinging my way, I'm ambivalent.  This is not to say I'm not grateful - because I am very honored and humbled to have been chosen.  I think I'm ambivalent because I no longer crave the center of attention.  I think this is growth, but it's tinged with a feeling of undeservedness (now I'm making up words).  This isn't compliment fishing, or false modesty.

I think I simply feel kind of done.  Maybe reading at the Voices of the Year will be my going-out party.  I don't know yet.  We'll see.

If you're going to BlogHer, especially if this is your first time, be sure to come to the Serenity Suite, hosted by my good friends Heather and Maggie.  Read Heather's post HERE for a list of who is hosting.  The Suite locations are Sheraton-1287 and McCormick-921A (one in both locations as this conference is in two locales).  I will be hosting there as much as I can.

Every year someone - or more than one person - comes in feeling small, alone and questioning why the heck they are there.  Nobody is small in the Serenity Suite.  My favorite memories from last year's conference happened there.  So please, come on by and say hi. 

 I will leave you with a picture of a dolphin kissing me, because I can't think of any more words.

Almost

Four days ago she looked up at me with those big brown eyes, so much like my own, and said, "there's something wrong with my brain, Momma".

I leaned down, pressed my forehead against hers, and closed my eyes.  "There is nothing wrong with your brain, sweetheart. It's your anxiety talking to you. I know just how you feel."

A sob hitched in her chest and a tear rolled down her cheek. She was slumped on the front porch, hair falling around her face. She's been through a lot in the past few weeks, poor kid. My heart breaks for her, even as my own anxiety ratchets up in my chest.

"Will it ever go away?" she asked, quietly.

I hesitated. I have struggled with anxiety since I was about her age - 10 years old.  I'm almost 44, and it's still a monkey on my back.  What to say?  That this may be a lifelong struggle? That there are so many tools at her disposal, but that her brain is hardwired this way?  That it's not her fault? 

In the end, I opted for the simple truth.  "It will get so much better. I promise."

She worries about just about everything, from missing the bus to something falling out of the sky and squashing her flat.

She wants to be perfect, obsessing about homework and grades, twisting herself up into a tizzy over the simplest of things.

It's hard for me to know what to do; it's so close to me.   I self-medicated with alcohol because of anxiety for so many years.  My gut grows cold at the thought of my daughter slipping into the same fate.

It's hard to know where the line is, between truthfulness and reassurance.  I aim for the "not asked, not answered" philosophy, attempting not to give her more than she can absorb.

But she's an old soul, this kid, and she can absorb a lot.

A few weeks ago she fractured her foot, requiring crutches and a boot.  A few days later she had a suspicious mole removed, with the scary diagnosis of "moderate to severe indication of melanoma".  Over the past two years she weathered the sudden death of my father and my own battle with cancer.

She's too old for platitudes now. I can't simply tell her everything will be okay, because she knows I can't guaranty that.  My Mom Superpowers dim as she grows older, my very-much-human skin showing through that shiny veneer of All-Knowingness.

A few days ago the stitches were removed and the "all clear" was given on the suspicious cells.  It was almost melanoma; we caught it in time.  The boot came off yesterday.  Her smile is coming with more frequency, and I realize how much I've missed it.

This morning there were no tears.  She spun happily in the driveway, waiting for the bus, prattling on about a video they are shooting at school... a "Harlem Shake" spin-off.  She gets to wear an Afro wig.  She finds this infinitely hysterical.

Glimpses of the little girl that still resides in her shine through, and I'm grateful.

Almost melanoma. Almost a young woman. Almost.

But not quite.

Turret Thinking, A Health Scare and A Message (or two) From The Universe

I appear to be in the midst of a creative explosion.

Back in the late summer, I told myself (and some recovery friends, and my yoga instructor) that I was going to focus on self-care in the fall.  I was still healing physically from the cancer treatments, but feeling better every day.

I joked and said I was going to postpone my world domination plans until after the first of the year, at least.

I made it until about late October, and then my creative brain went a little nuts. In mostly a good way, but it's got me wondering where is this all coming from?   I don't say this in a braggy way (because I'm not sure it's something to brag about anyway) but in the past few months I have launched a new internet talk show/website/twitter page, published a book, sold a record amount of jewelry with the revamping of my newsletter with more attention to marketing, and hired a web designer for a last, bigger project I'm not announcing until January or February.

Some of my close friends, who know me well, have called me on this whatever-it-is I'm doing thing. It's a bit manic, and I freely admit that.  The thing is, I'm happy.  I definitely get overwhelmed, but I've asked for help with my creative babies (and am SO grateful to get it from so many lovely, compassionate, creative people) so at least I'm not doing all this alone anymore.

Then I was meditating the other day and it came to me - I knew where this creative explosion was coming from.

I spent six months incapacitated by cancer, unable to do much but think and sleep.  And think I did.   I thought about what really matters; a life threatening illness will do that to you.  Of course family came out right at the top of the list.

But another phenomenon happened as well.  I've always had a crazy creative brain.  Heather and I call it our monkey brain.  Having a shortage of monkeys (ideas) has never been a problem for me.  I was only happiest when I was madly chasing a dream or a new idea or building something online or talking to someone about building something online.

Basically, I was running from the drudgery of real life. Endless amounts of laundry, dinners, homework, baths, packing lunches, cleaning.  Letting my monkeys run wild was my escape - the antidote to my self-inflicted "I'm more than just a Mom" syndrome.

I was running from.  Not towards.

What cancer did - or rather what that forced stop did - was cause me to re-evaluate where I spend my time, even my mental time, because suddenly that was a lot more precious than it used to be.

As I emerged from my illness, began to physically feel better, I realized I have a mission.  I've had it all along, but it has been scattered.  I said at a round-table discussion recently, "I like to build my castles from the turret down. Turrets are pretty and everyone looks at them and I like that. Then I get to the last brick at the foundation and find out I'm building on a swamp".  I'm impulsive, and I like starting at the most interesting (and, let's admit it) noticeable part.

I've always had a mission - help people (especially women and mothers) who struggle with addiction and/or recovery feel less alone.  My mission is not to run around getting people sober.  My mission is to throw the doors of the stigma and darkness and secrecy and ignorance surrounding the disease of addiction WIDE OPEN.

This creative explosion is because I know what I want, now. I know why I'm doing it. Even the jewelry is tied to my mission.  It all folds back in on itself, and I'm getting advice (new anti-turret behavior!) on pulling my mission together into something even tighter, more meaningful and structuring it in a way that it can reach even more ears.

I'm running towards, and it feels really good.

And then yesterday I had a scare.  At the risk of sharing too much information, I woke up yesterday morning with a mouth full of blood, and it wouldn't stop bleeding. I didn't know where it was coming from. It was terrifying.  As luck (HA! I don't believe in luck any more) would have it I already had a radiologist check-up scheduled for that day. I wasn't going to go, though, because I'm to busy and was feeling so great.

Sometimes the Universe whispers to you, and sometimes it SCREAMS.  I looked heavenward, through my fear, and said "point taken".  I should never, ever be too busy to take care of myself. I was feeling so good, so far away from Cancer Land, so distracted from how recently I finished treatments.

Suddenly there I was slammed back into Cancer Land - full of fear and awfulizing thoughts and "shoulding" all over myself. I should be beyond this fear, I should be able to handle this better, etc.

I took a deep breath, called/emailed and texted some sober friends and told them where I was headed, what was going on, and got them lined up in case I got bad news. I can't be left alone with bad news.

I headed into the Radiology Department at Mass General Hospital, full of fear, spitting blood into tissues.  Why now? I thought to myself, playing the victim. Things are going so well. 

For some reason you always wait at least an hour for a scheduled appointment,which doesn't do much for rising panic and fear. My phone was buzzing away with encouraging updates from friends, which helped so much, but finally I turned the phone off, centered myself, and meditated.  Me. Meditating in a cancer ward.  I never, ever thought THAT day would come.

I sat with the center of myself for a while, counting my breaths and listening to my strong heartbeat, when suddenly I heard the first jingling bars of beautiful guitar music.  I opened my eyes to see a woman playing the guitar and singing with a circle of children with cancer - all full of smiles and clapping along to the beat.

Perspective? Firmly in place.

My appointment was fine. I'm okay. They think the blood is from dry air/sinuses, and when they scoped my throat, they said "it looks fantastic".  I have a lot to be grateful for.

I drove home thinking, hard, about how lucky I am to have found the thing I want to do with my life, for as long as I can afford to do it.  Cancer gave me this gift. I don't know if I have a day or sixty years, but I intend to make the most of whatever time I have left.

The other lucky (HA!) things? That afternoon I had both my cancer support group and a recovery meeting to go to.  I dumped all this out to people who understand, and felt a million times better. Sometimes the Universe Screams, but sometimes it Pats You On The Back, too.

I have a lot of work to do, some dismantling of turrets and some laying of foundations on solid ground, but I'm excited.  I can feel in my bones that it's going somewhere good - and I don't mean wild financial success or millions of people staring at my turret.  I mean my purpose, my heart song, the footprint I'm meant to leave in this world.  As long as I can focus on balance, self-care and support, I will be okay.

Knowing my mission in life, being so certain it's why I'm here, is so freeing. Even though I'm busier than I've ever been, I'm calm (usually - I have my moments as I recently posted about,, I guess I should say I'm existentially calm). I'm purposeful. I'm focused. I'm able to follow my mission and spend time with my kids because those other monkeys that don't fit in my life aren't there anymore.

It may sound odd to some of you - I was telling a friend all this recently and she said, "Well, DUH!  I think you may be the last person to see this, you know."

But she doesn't understand how many monkeys have gone silent, and how many I've let run free. If the monkey doesn't fit my mission - even if I think it's a really good idea - I'm letting the monkey go.  That's HARD for someone like me.

I am still trying to prioritize self-care. I go to yoga, my cancer group meetings, my recovery meetings.  I'm still searching for that elusive balance, but because I'm on a heart mission it all feels like part of my balance.

And I have NO idea where it's going. I'm not planning that part - that's turret thinking.

I'm opening my heart (not my monkey mind) to the messages the Universe sends me (or hurls at my head, depending on how much I'm really paying attention).

I'm just laying the next brick, as carefully I can and with lots of help. advice and more than a little prayer.

I can't wait to see how the castle will turn out.

On Waiting. And Zigging. And Zagging.

I spend a lot of time waiting.

At the kids' doctors or dentist appointments (we seem to be having a lot of those these days), or in line at the grocery store, or in the kid pick-up line, or standing on my stoop in the morning waiting for the bus to come.

I wait for someone to return an important call, or email, impatiently checking my phone or computer as though that person has nothing better to do than to respond to me.

I wait for that elusive clump of free time to open up so I can fold laundry, tidy up, wash the dishes, vacuum.

And in my new normal I spend a lot more time than I ever had in waiting rooms at my various doctors' offices.

I wait in the head and neck surgical oncology room.  I wait at the imaging center for CT scans or MRIs.

I wait at my oncology psychiatrist's office.  I wait at my radiologists office.

I wait at my regular oncologist's office.

In each of these waiting rooms I bear witness to all stages of the disease of cancer.  I see the woman who is all skin and bones and no hair,who needs help walking to the radiation room.  She is is smiling.

I see the impatient businessman who is clearly in remission, waiting for his 'routine' check-up.  He is huffing and puffing and checking his watch.

There will never be anything 'routine' about these visits to the waiting rooms, let alone to the doctors' offices themselves.

My mind wanders, as I try not to openly stare, peeking out of the corner of my eye with a fake disinterested look on my face.  There is a man covered in bandages; his whole head wrapped tightly, including under his chin. A drainage tube comes out of his nose.  He is holding hands with his wife and looking very, very scared.

I think about how life can zig while you're busy zagging. How fragile it all is.  I wonder what he was doing when he first figured out something was wrong, when his life zigged instead of zagged.

I think about how I am different, now. How these waiting rooms fill me with a kind of awed respect - for the patients fighting with all they've got.  For the doctors and nurses in the trenches all day,every day, delivering news that changes lives.  All the time.

It's odd to experience such a mix of gratitude and fear at the same time.  On good days the scales tip more towards gratitude. Actually, I mostly feel gratitude.  The fear still pokes its nose under the tent, now and then, but I'm learning to flip that fear into faith.

I remind myself that life was always precious, always precarious, even before cancer.  How we're all floating on a little raft on the open ocean, it's just that when life is zagging along the way you expect it to you don't notice how precarious, how precious, it is.

It's only when it zigs that you look down and think 'Holy shit, I'm floating on a tiny raft in the ocean and the world is suddenly very scary".

I realize this seems like an odd way to comfort myself, to think about how it has always been a tenuous miracle that we're here at all.  Kind of like backing into gratitude, I guess.

But that's what cancer does. It makes you stop taking anything for granted.  Instead of feeling victimized ('why ME?') I realize I'm no different than anyone else, it's just that I'm very aware of my little raft, of the fact that life could zig - or zag - at any moment.

I'm grateful to know this, now, to have metabolized how precious it all is into the core of my being.  Even when it comes to my kids.  Especially when it comes to my kids.  That's a tough thing to face, you know?  That they are on their own little rafts and I'm just paddling alongside, doing everything in my limited power to keep them safe.

So as I wait - in line, at doctor's offices, for that email or call that I think will change my life, for the Next Big Thing - I stop and I breathe.  I'm sitting smack dab in the middle of the Next Big Thing.  Each moment I'm in is important, because it's leading to that next moment, and the next, sweeping  me along on this joyful, scary, graceful, tenuous, precious and precarious ride we call life.

Navel Gazing for Social Good

Please read to the end of this post. Because it takes me a while to get to my point. That's a head-scratcher, I know...

I have done a fair amount of speculating, sometimes even out loud here on this blog, about what is the point of blogging?  When the sound of my own voice sounds tiresome, even to me, and I wonder if this is all just narcissistic navel gazing.

By now most of you are familiar with the story: I started the blog to promote my jewelry business, wrote exactly two posts about jewelry (actually, art) and then started writing about addiction and recovery.  Within weeks a community had found me -  a community of women (and some men) who identified with my story, were struggling or sober, or just compassionate people who wanted to offer words of encouragement.

Being open about my recovery on this blog brought me many completely unexpected opportunities (like Oprah, USA Today and Redbook) and changed my life in ways I could never have dreamed possible. It also helped me build up a readership (impersonally referred to as a 'platform') that boggles my mind to this day. And the friendships?  OH, the friendships. I have found friends that are like oxygen to me; who fuel my soul.

I was running out of things to write about (at least in my mind) when my Dad died last June.  Writing about losing him, grief and trying to move on after such a staggering loss was so healing for me. And once again, a community of people came out of the woodwork to offer empathy and support.  It blew my mind, how many of you reached out to me, sent flowers, supportive emails, cards, words of hope.

I was this close to shutting the blog down last October. I was struggling personally, I was tired of my own voice, I just didn't feel that spark anymore.  It did feel like narcissistic navel-gazing, and the day I write just to hear my own voice is the day I stop writing.

Last October, as I was literally crafting a post saying I was shutting it down - I found the lump in my neck and wrote a post about it.   A few weeks later I was officially diagnosed with what I already knew was true:  I had cancer.

Once again, so many people came forward, offered words of hope, support, encouragement.  You offered your own stories; once again the community of people I needed to know found me.

Then it hit me, what makes my blog special, meaningful:  YOU.

I'm slowly figuring out why I have kept up this blog.  First, because it helps me. YOU help me.  So much. Second, because there are causes close to my heart that I want to bring awareness to - like recovery and cancer.

I worry - because that's what I do - that the people who come here to read about recovery roll their eyes at the cancer posts, and vice-versa.  I'm just going to get out of your heads and back into mine and write about what it meaningful to me.

Now that my youngest is heading into first grade, I'm thinking about what it is I want to "do" with my time. Building up my jewelry business is one.  But finding ways to support the recovery and cancer communities actually tops the list.  So you'll be hearing more about this - especially the cancer community - in the near future.

I'm hoping you'll support me in this.  Even if you haven't been directly touched by cancer in some way - the odds are (sadly) that someday you will.  Spreading the word about resources for those of us impacted by cancer helps everyone.

I had the pleasure of meeting the Executive Director of Friends Of Mel - a vibrant, inspiring woman who has helped so many with this organization. Local people (and, increasingly, across the country) are familiar with the story of the bracelet.  If you're not, please go here to read about it. It's incredible.

What started as one courageous, funny, giving woman making bracelets for friends, family and nurses while she battled cancer turned into a multi-million dollar organization that helps SO many people.  What many people don't know is where that money goes - for example, Friends of Mel is a sponsor of the Cancer Support Community I go to locally for yoga, for group therapy (and it offers SO many more resources than just those) - and it has literally saved my sanity.

There are so many more places like this that have received funds and support from Friends of Mel, and I will be writing more about them in the future, because this story just blows my mind; speaks to the difference just one person can make.

YOU are that just one person.  You've helped me survive the death of my Dad, cancer and the daily struggles of life. You've been there to celebrate the successes, the small victories that keep us going.

I hope you'll come along with me as I endeavor to support some causes that mean a lot to me.  I won't be asking you for money over and over. I'll be asking you to help raise awareness by spreading the word on your own facebook/twitter pages, help use social media for good.

And, of course, I'll still write about whatever is in my brain - kids, motherhood, serious, silly or navel gazing. I've come to terms with that.  I just love to write.

I have noticed that posts like this one don't get a lot of comments. For a while it devastated me (OH, my precious ego) but then I'd see you posting the links on your FB pages, tweeting about it, spreading the word, and that's what matters.  THANK YOU.

One last piece of business for you local people: there is an incredible conference called The Art of Life After Cancer coming up on September 15th at the Marriott, Quincy, in Massachusetts. But it's not just for survivors; if you have cancer, have had cancer, are a caregiver, were a caregiver or have been touched by cancer in some way, I can't recommend this conference enough.  Click here for the link for more info, and to register (only $25).  If this doesn't appeal to you personally will you please share this link on your FB pages? Especially if you're local?  I am finding the challenges of life after cancer to be as difficult in many ways as life fighting cancer.

You are an incredible, supportive community, and I am so grateful for you.  I am not turning this into a cancer blog, or a recovery blog.  It's just evolving into something bigger than me, and I'm grateful for that, too. We all have the opportunity to give back, and as Mel (please go read her story) proved one person can make a HUGE difference.  So please pass the word along.  If you can't go to the conference but want to help in some way, you can always buy a gorgeous bracelet for $20 to help their cause.

Thank you for all your help. Thank you for propping me up when I need it.

Thank you for being an incredible, supportive community with such huge hearts.

-Ellie

Owning Well

Summer is entering an easy rhythm.   Our days aren't filled; Greta has a morning camp until noon for two weeks, and Finn does a little golf lesson one morning per week.

That's it.

When I was sick during the winter, I dreamed of long, lazy summer days where I could wallow in my kids, so I didn't over-stuff our schedule.  I wanted the time to piece each day together like a slow, lazy puzzle.

Now those days are here, and while it takes some getting used to, it's such a gift to be with them so much.

Yesterday, Finn scrunched up his nose at me and asked, "Momma?  Do we not have the babysitter every day anymore because you're bettah?"

I felt a cold stone in my stomach as I answered, "Yes, hon. It's because I'm all better now."

He grinned and ran off to play, while I placed a hand over my belly and thought about the cold feeling there.

I need to own being well, I thought.

I don't know why that's difficult, though I'm told it's normal.  I'm learning through therapy and talking to other survivors that it takes time - sometimes a lot of it - to trust the diagnosis of cancer-free. Something about saying it out loud to my children is extra hard - I don't want to promise something that might not be true - but I know that's my fear talking.

Physically, I'm feeling stronger every day. I got the feeding tube out yesterday, and that went a long way towards making me feel like a well person instead of a sick one.

I'm learning to turn the fear around, flip it over to its counterpart: gratitude.  I'm learning to put distance between the thought in my head and my reality: I'm so very lucky. So very blessed.

As we slide into the hot summer days of July - full of beach and friends and fun -  I want to be fully present for the wonderful. For what I longed for during the dark winter of sickness and pain.

I'm okay today.  I'm here now. And it's good.

A Little Something

It's a gorgeous, sunshine-y  day; I've got the windows rolled down and the radio turned up, and I'm singing along to U2's Beautiful Day at the top of my lungs.  I'm heading into Boston for two doctors appointments:  a routine check-up with my head and neck surgeon and then on to my oncologist to get the feeding tube out.  Finally. I'm thrilled about this milestone and my spirits are soaring.

I even mange to eat a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on an English muffin on the way in.

Life is good.

For once, the long wait at the head and neck surgeon's office doesn't bother me, because I'm not anxious, not waiting for test results, not thinking about anything except being tube-free in approximately two hours.

Finally, he comes in, asks me the usual questions and then starts poking around in my mouth.

"Has there been a spot that has been bothering you in your throat?" he asks. "More than usual?"

I think for a bit, and reply "well, there is this one spot on the left that has always hurt more than the rest of my mouth.  But I wouldn't say it's worse.  It's not better, either.  I've gotten kind of used to it, I guess."

His eyebrows knit together and he gets out his ultra-bright light, magnifying glasses and the scope.  My stomach does a little flip-flop.

"Hmmmm," he says, unhelpfully.

Then he looks at it some more, calls another doctor in to look at it, and by now I'm shaking and sweating; trying to make eye contact with him over my stretched-wide-open mouth is hard.

Finally, he sits down next to me, and exhales a little sigh that I've come to dread.

"I'd like to biopsy that," he says, shaking his head slowly.  "It's probably nothing, but I want to be sure.   We have to put you under for that, briefly, so you'll need to schedule a ride, but it's a day procedure.  You can't get the feeding tube out today, I'm afraid.  In case we do find, you know, something, you'll still be needing that tube."

I gape at him in a stunned silence.  This was not part of today's plan.  Today he was supposed to tell me how awesome my scar looks, give me a fatherly pat on the back and send me on my way to get the tube out.  Now we're talking about somethings?

A nurse comes in to give me a pre-procedure check-up and blood work, and they tell me someone will call to schedule the biopsy shortly.  I beg him to make it as quick as possible, because the waiting is hard for me.  

My voice sounds very far away and business-like to me; there is no note of the hysteria I feel welling up inside.

I make it to my car before I burst into terrified tears.


This is what cancer does to you; it never goes completely away, even if you remain in remission for the rest of your days.  There will always be tests, knitted brows, scans and waiting.  Always.

I clench my fists and shake my head back and forth and sob and sob.  I know I need to accept this, surrender to it, but for now I'm angry.  I'm pissed.  And I'm really scared.  What if they find cancer? What then?  I can't do it anymore, I just can't.

After ten minutes or so my sobbing slows to hiccuping sniffles, and I take a deep breath and start my car.  On the ride home I stare at my fellow drivers, wonder what they're thinking about.  Dinner? A big meeting the next day?  Someone honks and gives me the finger because I'm driving too slowly, lost in thought.  I gape at him - you think that's important? Being late?

~~~~~

When the kids get off the bus and pile through the door a few hours later, backpacks, papers and shoes flying in all directions and chattering away about their day, I feel that old urge to run and  hide.  Don't love me, I think.  I have a something.  I may always have somethings. I'm damaged goods.

"Hey Ellie, do you know what?" (that's Finn's latest thing, calling me Ellie).   He runs up and throws his arms around my legs.  "You're awesome and I love you!!'

My heart sinks and tears come to my eyes as I say, in what I hope is a convincing cheerful voice, "You know what, Finn? You're awesome and I love you, too!"  I manage a smile, listening to Greta going on about her day.

This is my new normal.  I can fight it, or I can accept it.  Those are my only two choices. I know which way is easier, more peaceful, but man sometimes it's hard to accept something you desperately don't want to be true.

"Oh, Momma!!!" Greta exclaims.  "Let's see your tummy!  You got the tube out today!!!"

I give her a small smile and explain that I didn't get it out because they are still checking something in my neck and I may still need it if they have to do more procedures.

Her face falls.  "Is that bad?  That's bad, isn't it? How bad is it?"

"It's not bad or good or anything, yet.  They are just going to do some tests and then we'll see what the next steps are.  I'm trying to tell my brain not to think about it until I know more, because worrying doesn't get me anywhere."  I pray I sound convincing.

"Just like when I worry about Spelling Challenge at school?  You always tell me to tell my brain not to worry about how I did until I get the test back.  That worry is just a waste of time."

"Yes," I smile.  "Just like that."  

 I slip upstairs to my room and get on my knees. Take it, please, I pray.  Can you carry this for me for a while?  Because I can't.  I whisper this over and over until I feel a little lighter.

I make my way downstairs to fix a snack for the kids.  My hands still feel a little shaky, but I feel better.  More present. More free. Less angry. Almost accepting.  Almost.  I'm getting there.

A Warrior's Sense of Peace

"Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way we like to dream about.  The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don't get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It's a very tender, non aggressive, open-ended state of affairs."

                 ~Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times


One of the reasons I adore Pema Chodron's teachings/writings, is that she shines such an honest, gentle, light on the darker shadows of the mind.

I have been feeling disjointed - disassembled - as though the old me (or my perception of the old me, at least) was being deconstructed one bit at a time, just as my tumor is destroyed, little by little, piece by piece.

My external and internal worlds are getting smaller, simpler. And Pema Chodron is right - this off-center place is where I can open my heart and mind beyond their usual, well trodden paths.  There is a tenderness to it, too, because my horizon has suddenly been pulled right up close, like a sheet tucked under my chin.

Until I got sick, I don't think I fully understood my Ego's desire to fly from the mundane.

I don't get up in the morning with a head full of ideas anymore - for writing, or jewelry or adventure. My mind was often like a house-afire .. always groping and searching for the Next Big Thing. Anything to save me from Tuesday, from the dull, repetitive thump of my days.

I wanted to feel something extraordinary, or do something extraordinary, every single day.  Maybe it was to write that piece that would finally set the internet on fire, or have a creative idea that would launch my business into the stratosphere, or find more ways to spread the word about women and addiction - bigger platforms, louder megaphones, more ears listening.

Next, Bigger, More - those concepts drove me much more than I realized.  I hardly ever just woke up, stretched, and said, "why, hello, Tuesday".

These days my thoughts revolve around medication schedules, traffic patterns to get to radiation on time, side effect management, what I will (or won't) be able to swallow today.  I experiment with soft foods - banana yogurt is a hit!, chocolate pudding is not! - and gently move myself from one end of the day to the other.

I spend a lot of time waiting.  In my car in traffic, in waiting rooms, in exam rooms.  I've gotten really good at it.  I sit in the Radiation waiting room and study the increasingly familiar faces there. Sometimes we exchange a smile or a nod, as we sit in our polka-dotted johnnies and socks.  We keep a respectful silence; this is not a place to exchange symptoms, side effects or diagnoses.  It is a place to simply be.

Simple tasks like folding laundry bring me pleasure.  The fresh, clean scents, the making of a messy pile into something orderly - I am noticing the simple pleasure in these things, and they are a balm to my darker thoughts.

I am finding the extraordinary in the small places - brushing my daughter's hair in the morning, helping Finn sound out a word, teaching them a card game.  I know they were here all along, these moments, and sometimes I would see them, if I stopped long enough on my mad rush to the Next Big Thing.

But now they feel like little gifts, these moments, not something to get over with quickly.

And when the darker thoughts come - and they do come - I am learning to open my arms and embrace them, because I can never, ever outrun them. It's futile to try.

"To stay with that shakiness - to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge - that is the path of true awakening.  Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic - this is the spiritual path."

                 ~Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times


Although nothing about my life feels familiar at the moment, being ill is bringing me closer to my center.  It is forcing me to walk through boundaries, through walls that I thought protected me from fear and vulnerability, but really only separated me from true peace of mind.

As I slash and whack my way towards truth, shed light on dark corners of my mind that I never thought I'd have to visit (hello, Cancer Patient; hello, Pride; hello, Avoidance; hello, Fear) I am getting closer to a true sense of self, a warrior's sense of peace.