In Defense of Jason Russell, Invisible Children, and the KONY 2012 Campaign

Over the last few days, the KONY 2012 campaign video has become one of the most watched and shared videos on YouTube. I watched this video and as you can read from my last blog post, I was blown away by the documentary itself, but also by the message and how it was delivered. I knew a little about this conflict and these issues, not much at all, but enough to recognize some of the issues and consequences. I can say without pause that the tiny amount I knew was more than most Americans. By a landslide.

I won’t go into my constant frustration with American media and just how “American” it is. Global news isn’t nearly as in depth or covered as it should be, and it is even hard to find the details if you are looking for them. It isn’t truly the media that is to blame, we are only given what we ask for as a nation. We want quick snippets of the latest news, and we want mostly to know about things that pertain to our little corner of the globe.

So, this young filmmaker and activist, Jason Russell, has the audacity to go out and make an incredibly well crafted 29 minute documentary highlighting an issue that is close to his heart, and that he has fought for, mostly in obscurity, for nine years. Within this film, he also has the audacity to come up with a clever idea, harnessing the power of social media to try and make a small dent in an issue that the masses in the US know little about. I am sure he hoped for the best when all was said and done and his video would be posted. I am also quite sure he never knew what was coming, both the good and the the bad.

The video took off, spreading virally from Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter the way cute animal videos and news blunder footage usually spreads—videos of no real consequence. People were moved to share this video, and at 29 minutes, people were still watching every second of it, taking it in, getting outraged, wanting to learn more, to help.

Jason Russell, how dare you!

I don’t care if every detail isn’t 100% factually backed by all the organizations out there trying to help Uganda. I don’t care if he glossed over some things, or inflamed some moments for theatrical affect. In the end, this isn’t a video about Jason Russell or some hidden personal agenda. It is a man and an organization who thought- let’s make a difference in the world. That is a huge undertaking. Where do you start? Are you careful or brazen? How do you start? Who will hear you?

With an undertaking this huge, are you going to offend some people or make others angry? Evidently, yes. Very angry. I will probably get a nice little stack of hate mail (via my email inbox) for saying this, but I honestly think that some of the organizations doing good work for the same or similar causes are all worked up over this documentary out of a good bit of jealousy. These organizations struggle every day to get the message out, to have their work be seen. And maybe they HAVE done more and done it better than Jason Russell. But here HE is getting all of this attention. Social media is powerful. Right now, I think more than any other moment, social media has become such a powerful tool in so many ways. Jason Russell is a gifted filmmaker and found a way to harness that power better than a lot of other people and organizations.

What angers me more than anything is this. Will this campaign alone solve all the problems? No. But tens of MILLIONS of people are aware of an issue that they knew nothing about last week. The ONLY reason we are talking about these atrocities right now is this campaign. And that is good. The ONLY reason that anyone is listening to the other organizations that are upset about this campaign is because of this campaign. This awareness will cause people to seek answers and find ways to help. Whether it is through Invisible Children (the organization that Jason Russell highlights in his film) or not, people will try and find ways to help now. And honestly, at the base of this campaign is nothing but people wanting to make a difference in the world. Are the people behind it perfect? No. Is there room to criticize? Always, I guess. Yesterday, Jason posted this from his twitter account: Gandhi said, "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win."

Jason Russell is a good man fighting a good fight. I believe that. While the internet and social media have power, it can be both good and bad. I have seen evidence of both in so many ways. I guess it is human nature to doubt and criticize, to want your voice to be heard above the fray. But, today, I hope that Jason Russell hears a few voices like mine that say, thank you. Thank you for raising awareness for dark places in the world that need a little light. Thank you for being one of those souls who does not sit back and just wish for peace and good things, but tries and keeps trying even when it all seems futile and hopeless.

I have said many, many times that my favorite quote in all the world is this one: “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” This is also a quote from Gandhi. When I think of that quote, I think of all the things I wish I could do. I think of all the things I wish others would do. And now, a little part of me will always think of Jason Russell and what he is DOING to be that change in the world.

Read a recent NY Times article about Jason and the KONY 2012 campaign here.

If you haven't seen the KONY 2012 video yet, I encourage you to watch it here or in my previous blog post.

Read more...

Invisible Children: Joseph Kony 2012

Every day, I see quite a few videos posted on my friend’s Facebook walls, and on twitter. I click on some of the humorous ones—especially when folks who share my sense of humor post them. Every now and then, a cute animal video will also snag my attention, and I pass some of those along, as many of my friends are also animal lovers.

But today, I saw a video shared by several people -the same video- and by people from all shades of my friendship spectrum. I clicked on it, and I was transfixed. First, by the pure and amazing skill of this filmmaker. The video in itself is an amazing piece of work, the kind of documentary that is so perfectly timed, edited, narrated, and sewn together that you dare not think of pressing pause.

So, there’s that. Then, the subject matter.

In Central Africa, a war is raging. To me, it is a war against innocence and the future of small children. But however you see it, and however you categorize it, it is indeed raging. Children are being kidnapped --stolen—and indoctrinated into an army against their will. The young girls are sold into sex slavery, the young boys are given weapons and a choice: kill or be killed.
You may know a little about this war. Some movies allude to it, books have been written, and every now and then, a nighttime news show covers the story in some small way. I know a lot about this war, I have read quite a bit previously, but this was one of those problems in the world where you think…how can I possibly make a difference? What could possibly stop this?

Joseph Kony’s Ugandan rebel group is responsible for tens of thousands of kidnappings, killings, and mutilations over the last 26 years. The atrocities cannot be totaled when you think of all of the lives affected, destroyed, and lost, and the ripples of after affects in generations to come.

It is bigger than we can imagine, more horrific than we can fathom.

And then, someone like this filmmaker, like this group that formed this nonprofit, comes together and decides that saying, “It’s too much, I can’t help,” is not an acceptable answer. They look at the vast, unending reach that the internet and social media have right now, in this moment. They form a plan, simplistic, yes, but also a little brilliant.

I am so inspired by this declaration, this stop-at-nothing movement that is blazing across computer screens at this very moment. The confidence they have in the world, the confidence in they are banking on in response...there really is no way for this to fail. Whatever criticisms come this organization’s way...they are reaching and affecting people that had never heard of this nightmare.

They are teaching us all to think bigger than our own world, and father away than we thought our whispers or shouts could carry. Bravo to them for that, and for everything else they will accomplish.

The world is watching.

And I can tell you one thing I know for sure, Joseph Kony wasn’t banking on that.


Watch and share the video above. Visit the Invisible Children website, Facebook page, and twitter account. Join the cause, make a difference.

Read more...

What We Wish For

With the benefit and wisdom of hindsight, I can easily realize that in the past, when I have tried so hard to bend and shape the events in my life to create the outcome I wanted, it was pointless. What was going to be, would be. I don’t think of myself as a religious person, but in some crazy pattern of circumstance, I have come to believe in fate. I think we have a matter of influence in what happens in our lives, but I do think that certain things are meant to be. Maybe that makes me unrealistic, or a dreamer, or crazy, but I have too many instances in my life that I can only believe clicked together by some force in the universe that I have little control of.

However, I don’t think fate always equals beautiful outcomes. As much as we are destined to see certain wonderful things happen, fate also has a hand in the ugly parts of life—diagnoses of disease, death, loss of friendships, family, and yes… dreams. However, in the same breath that I am expressing my belief in fate, I can’t always say that I believe everything happens for a reason. Yes, it may be fate that brings about a child’s diagnosis of cancer. But is there some bigger, cosmic meaning? No, it is just awful. This was fate dealing the hand of destiny, but that doesn’t mean we can sit back and say, ah, yes, I understand now. Some things are just terrible and dreadful, it may be fate that it happened, but there is no beauty in it. Suffering can’t be explained away or softened by some force “working in mysterious ways”. Suffering and death aren’t mysterious in that sense, especially when you are the one in the middle of that experience.

Right now, I am wishing for so many things. I am wishing for my husband and I to be in a place we are dreaming of, starting a new adventure. I am wishing for financial pressure to be eased—even just a little bit. I am wishing for my nephew and his fiancée to find the peace, happiness and support they deserve. I am wishing for other members of my family to wake up and become better people. That last one is beyond the reach of fate, I am afraid. Though I wish for it, some things are impossible. Better that I know and accept that: Lesson #589 learned in years of therapy.

I wish that both my husband and I had extended families that were healthy and whole, and that we could cherish being a part of. Unfortunately, the stars haven’t aligned on this for either side of our family, and likely never will. It is not without our wishing or trying for that outcome. It is not without many nights of tears and frustration and so much pain on our end. It is also not without lies and painful rumors and comments that come back to us via all the wonderful ways we are connected to the world. It has taken some time, but we have learned that we can only control what we do, we know the truth and what is right, and we have to let the rest go. It is hard not to openly defend yourself to the world, to gossip, to hometown whispers. But, it doesn’t solve anything, or undo the words already spoken, or what many will continue to think and believe.

In a sense, some things we wish for are often unachievable even from the moment we murmur the words. We know this, and we still wish. I think there is some forgiveness in that process. Forgiveness of the universe that you know can’t give you what you need and want…but by putting it out there, somehow the hope is ever present, undying. The beauty of the hope outweighs the unattainable wish.

I am caught in a state of waiting for several wishes right now. These hopes of mine have an expiration date. It isn’t the unexpiring dream of a writing career that can outlast decades of birthday candles, and years of lost summers and sessions at the keyboard. There is always hope for that. The wishes of this moment are soon to be granted or denied…within days. I love and hate this time. Right now, the whole world is open and the possibility is there…the chance of the best outcome is still possible. In a few days, I can be crushed or elated, but right now, the there is still hope. As I watch the clock too closely, check my email and phone messages incessantly, and count the days left of possibility, I remind myself that what is supposed to happen, will happen. And with years of proof behind me as perhaps I have never had before, I have to trust in that. I can look back and see the times when I forced my hand, tried to reform the unyielding path of fate. Almost always, I took a much more painful path that led to the same place. That path was also always longer and fraught with added troubles that I might have avoided had I just let things progress as they were meant to. 

So, I wait. We wait. I have done my part, tried my best, given the pieces of myself that I can. I have done all I can do without trying to force or pressure something I know in my heart isn’t right. But knowing I have to wait and trust does not lessen my longing for all of these things to snap into place. It doesn’t diminish my yearning for things to be easier than this…to be able to snap my fingers and find us in the right place and the perfect time, with everything we need and want in place. 

And then, I remember when my wishes were so different. Not so long ago, only a few years ago, my wishes were so much more basic: To survive the depression I was battling, to find love, to see some kind of a light at the end of the tunnel I was constantly facing. Somehow, those things all happened. Those were huge wishes, far bigger than the ones I am waiting on now. 

But no matter how much wisdom I have gained from all of that experience, today I still feel like the little girl I was so many years ago…standing barefoot in my back yard in North Carolina in the heat of the southern summer, holding tight to a dandelion stem and closing my eyes, making a wish, and blowing the billowy seeds into the air, hoping somehow my wish would be granted.

Read more...

Twitter: Where the Bullies Are

A few weeks ago, a friend of a friend contacted me through my twitter account. Could I help her monitor some activity on twitter?—a friend’s child was being bullied. Absolutely, I replied. Basically, neither of these mothers had any experience on twitter and didn’t have the first clue as to how to set up an account or to monitor others accounts and what the owners of those accounts were saying, or tweeting.

What I didn’t know is that even given my computer savvy, my five years of blogging, my knowledge of all social media platforms, I had no idea what twitter has turned into for the junior high and high school set. Sure, twitter is all about sharing the minutia of a teenager’s life with some acerbic spin, all in 140 characters or less. It’s about being quick witted and cool, and complaining about the same things we all did at that age—homework, dating, parents, teachers. But more than anything, and with an overwhelming majority, twitter is where bullying is rampant, and for the most part, these student’s twitter feeds are not monitored or policed by parents. At all.

And your kids are banking on that. 

All of these kids have slowly migrated over to twitter from Facebook. Many people don’t realize that Facebook began as a platform that only college students could join. Later it opened up to high school students, and then the flood gates opened when anyone, age 13 or above, was allowed to sign up. What happened then, with this open access, is that your mother and your aunt, and even your grandmother were on Facebook, killing the “cool” factor for most kids- especially the high school demographic. While this age group (high schoolers) still has Facebook accounts, and the ability to monitor who sees what, parents are much more savvy with Facebook, and are at least a little more aware of what’s being posted within their child’s inner circle.

Twitter, however, is a whole different animal. Most adults I know have a hard time understanding twitter, and I admittedly didn’t understand the fascination at first. For me, it is a chance to follow several of my favorite authors and editors, and is full of links to articles for advice on writing, getting published, and other things that help keep me on top of my burgeoning writing career. Twitter is also a great source for breaking news and keeping up with headlines. It is fast-paced, and it is easy to understand why it doesn’t appeal to everyone.

But, believe me, the high school crowd knows that most of their parents aren’t paying attention. There is a freedom in posting on twitter, and an unrealistic view that no one is seeing their twitter updates except their small group of friends, and any other followers. The truth is, unless your twitter account is locked—or set to private—anyone can see your messages. Anyone.

What I discovered is that it seems all too easy and harmless for these kids to, say, set up a twitter account in someone’s name. Let’s say that a certain group of kids all dislikes someone named Sally Smith. So, they create an account: @sallysmith or @sally_smith. Done. Then, the tweeting begins. They can tweet messages about how many people she supposedly slept with at a party the night before, or other negative activity. It appears to be coming from her own account. Can you imagine at that age how humiliating this would be? Plus, people can re-tweet these updates, so this one account starts getting quoted by dozens of students all within the same school—and then maybe it keeps growing—and reaches students outside the walls of just the one high school. In a flash of a few keystrokes, rumors become fact, a reputation changes, a person’s life can be changed.

The sad fact is, as I began monitoring the students I was asked to, I found myself in a web of students and bullying that I wish I didn’t know existed. And I will say here that the kids that are doing this –at least the ones I know about—are honors kids, the top of their class—with middle class to wealthy families. I am sure there are other kids doing it---I just don’t think you can label a group or distinguish. It is rampant. It might not be the students you “expect”—the troublemakers or whatever group we somehow think of as bullies. You can’t say “not my child” until you know. Until you check. Until you read what they are writing, and who they are following.

What scares me is that the words they are typing, the messages they are sending, are more vile and hateful than I want to imagine anyone from that age group being capable of. The words I read stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t imagine what would prompt these kids to spread and encourage so much hate. I have seen a lot of things over the years, but the viciousness of these attacks has haunted me.

In the process of trying to help this one kid, I have discovered other accounts where it is obvious that the owner has set up a fake account in someone’s name. It is pretty apparent once you are accustomed to viewing it. What is sad is that the victim of the bullying often knows about the account(s), but feels helpless. Some of the language and material are so vile, that I am sure they are ashamed or afraid to show their parents. So, in a sense, they remain helpless and bullied, and watch as these rumors spread and others cheer on the attacks.

I was in the middle of all of this when the latest high school shooting occurred in Ohio. I don’t know the circumstances around that incident, but it made me think of one young man in particular that I knew was being bullied. I could see and understand how young people get pushed and hurt so much that the pain overwhelms any other sense or reason.

I don’t have children, but since I have learned about all of this bullying on twitter, I have been unable to wrestle myself away from it. I have reported accounts to the security team at Twitter, and action is being taken. In appropriate cases, I have had someone local contact the police departments in their areas on their behalf. One thing I know, Twitter and law enforcement take all of these issues VERY seriously.

I have to believe that these kids don’t realize the ramifications of what they are doing. They are young, foolish…like we all were. They think this is all a joke, and that a few of their friends find them terribly witty. They don’t realize the unbelievable wrath of pain they are unleashing. At least I hope they don’t.

I have put several messages on Facebook asking all of my friends to PLEASE check their kids’ twitter accounts, and if you are reading this, I am begging you to do the same. If you don’t know how, find someone who can. If I can help, I will.

A few tips:

• First, ask your child if he/she has a twitter account. I believe in granting kids this age some freedom/privacy, but I encourage you to tell them you will be doing a routine check of their account here and there for their own safety. Also, please tell your child that if they are being bullied, no matter what people are saying about them, no matter how vile or explicit the words are, to come to you—to not be ashamed or afraid. Get that out in the open now.

• Go to www.twitter.com and sign up for an account. It is super easy. You don’t have to use it for anything except to monitor or check in on your child/children’s feeds.

• Once you have an account, do a broad search for your child’s name from time to time. You can often find out if they have an account, or if others are tweeting about them in this way. It is a good way to monitor activity.

• The important thing is to watch what your child’s friends and followers are tweeting. Look at who your child is following. Check those feeds, too.

• Report bullying. If you know the child’s parents, call them, report it to them, and sadly, if they don’t act, report it to the school. The schools are becoming much more savvy and much more vigilant. But, more reports and more awareness from the parents will only continue to aid in stopping this wave of cyberbullying. The school will usually involve law enforcement if direct or physical threats are being made against another student.

I believe strongly that it takes a village to raise a child. And right now, that village extends out into the Neverland that is the internet. There is such a mix and tradeoff of good and bad, beautiful and ugly, inspirational and frightening things that happen and are created because of the itnernet’s reach. It is overwhelming for a skilled adult, and I think can drown a child in all the opportunity and anonymousness. 

I know we can’t make it stop tomorrow, and I know I can’t catch every bully, but if I do my part and you do yours, in one small corner of the world, we can make things a little better, one child at a time.

Other Resources:

Twitter Help Center

Stop Bullying Now: website -- twitter feed

Read more...

Signs that Perhaps I Have a Few Things on my Mind

During the year that we dated before we got married, my husband quickly learned about a few of my most prevalent quirks. Namely, I lose my keys and my cell phone a minimum of three to four times a day. I have some other more endearing idiosyncrasies, but the loss of the cell phone and keys is a constant. And yes, I have tried the clap-your-hands-to-locate-the-key-ring gadget, and the simple bowl by the door where I could easily deposit these items when entering the house so they can be effortlessly located later. But no matter what, all attempts have failed to rid me of these issues.

Luckily, as I have said before, my husband is patient and is pretty constantly amused by this phenomenon. And I don’t use the word phenomenon very often. But I have managed to lose my keys and/or cell phone within seconds of holding them in my hand, taking HOURS to find them after. I have been late or had to be a no show to dinners and gatherings because of my inability to locate my keys. And if you are still doubting my use of the word phenomenon, I present exhibit A, a photo of my keychain. The fact that it resembles a janitor’s key ring is no accident. I did this on purpose. My thinking was that SURELY if I put my keys on this HUGE keychain, I couldn’t lose them. I mean, seriously. HOW can you lose this set of keys? How can they not remain in plain sight wherever I leave them?

I have tried to blame a lot of things: stress (probably a factor), my busy schedule (possibly, at times, also a factor) and then, when I am desperate, I blame our dog Bear, or some other innocent bystander, including my husband. This usually draws the reaction of a raised eyebrow from Shea, and maybe the reminder that at NO time since we have been together have my lost keys been anyone’s fault but my own. This reminds me to shut up and keep searching, because as I am honestly aware, this is my issue.

I have also occasionally run out of gas. However, this hasn’t been as frequent, at least within the last 6 months. So, I am going to write that one off to issues we DID have with the gas gauge, and the fact that the majority of those occurrences took place while I was working and trying to plan our wedding simultaneously. You can blame a lot of things on the stress of planning a wedding, it comes in handy, people actually do sympathize if they have done it before. I have done a much better job of monitoring the gas level in the car after the third time my husband had to pick me up, stranded by the road, with one of the many gas cans he had to buy in preparation for these occurrences. But, like I said, the last time that happened was over six months ago.

So, if you are thinking, wow, her husband is AWESOME and patient and wonderful, you would be right. Most of the time. But he was all of those things last night when I topped my own record of absent-minded activities.

We were both a little excited that our favorite breakfast restaurant was hosting a pancake supper to benefit a local charity. We were also happy to be able to see Shea’s cousin and her boyfriend and get to visit and chat with them, which we don’t get to do enough. So, we headed to the restaurant, arrived and parked, walked inside, and were immediately seated and enjoying the conversation and pancakes. I should probably mention here (in my own defense) that I was having a migraine last night, but I was determined to power through dinner.

So, after dinner, we walked out of the restaurant, and I had difficulty locating my keys. This is not an unfamiliar occurrence, so everyone was giggling a little as I dug through my purse. My husband was shaking his head, and without any prompting, went back in the restaurant to look for my missing keys at our table. He came back empty handed.

I knew that the keys weren’t in my purse, and that sinking feeling in my stomach hit. I knew that I had locked the keys in the car. Shea shot me a sideways glance as he led the way to the parking lot. He was walking a little ahead of me, and in a somewhat irritated voice said, “Honey, you left the lights on!” I cringed. Then, he stopped in his tracks. I am not sure I will ever forget the look on his face at that moment- a combination of horror, shock, anger, and amusement. I was standing a few feet away in the parking lot, Shea was beside the car. “Honey,” he said, “THE CAR IS RUNNING!” Everyone got quiet for a second. I honestly shocked myself with this one. When we had arrived, Shea had gotten out of the car and walked ahead, waiting for me closer to the edge of the parking lot. (It sometimes takes me a few moments to get my things and get out of the car). I had followed behind him, locking the apparently running car with the lights on, behind me.

Again, in my defense, I was battling a migraine that I didn’t want to keep us from one more event (this happens more often than I would like). AND, I have some family stuff going on that is worrying me these days. But, to be honest, I battle migraines two or three times a week, and there is ALWAYS something going on that is worrying me.

To make the rest of the long story short, there were two police officers who were also enjoying the pancake supper (at least before I came back in the restaurant and begged for their help). They tried to help us get into the car, with no luck. They were so incredibly kind and stayed with me in the parking lot while my husband was driven by one of our dinner companions to our house, where he was able to break in through a window and get the spare keys and come back to remedy the situation.

The policemen were kind and funny and enjoyed giving me a little grief while we waited for my husband to return.

So, it all turned out fine. This is just a little snippet of life with me.

I once mentioned to my husband that perhaps there was an upside to all of this phone and key losing nonsense. Perhaps there was some award I could receive for the sheer number of times this sort of thing happened. My husband, without hesitation, looked at me and said. “Honey, you would then lose the award”.

…sigh.

Read more...

Worth this Love

Several months ago, I entered an essay contest. I found out about it close to the deadline, but I felt good about my entry. I know thousands of people also felt good about theirs. The winners have not been formally announced, but they have been notified.

So, I didn't win, but thought I would share my entry anyway. One really good thing about contests and submissions, no matter the outcome, it gets me writing and makes me finish things. All good. The subject of the essay was this: When did you first understand the meaning of love? Maybe you were a child, witnessing a generous act by your father or mother. Maybe the lesson came later, as you grappled with the challenges of being a friend, a spouse, or a parent yourself. Whatever made you understand love—and yourself—better, tell us about it.

As I always do in the aftermath, I see a million things I could have done differently now, maybe made it better or different...but it is what it is. I feel like I write a lot on this blog about my husband and my joy in finding love when I had given up. I always share my story, not to brag or gloat, but to hopefully give someone out there hope. I lived a long time without it, and that is a very hard and lonely place to be. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

So, here is my essay, and my dose of hope out there to anyone who needs it.

Worth This Love

I thought I had found it one hundred times before. It was the whisper of my mother’s voice in her moments of denial. It was my father’s brief flashes of noticing me in his clouded mind. It was the boy I loved who reminded me so much…of him. The one who came after and the next, all the same pain—just in a different package. Each time I quaked with relief—finally, I have found it. Finally, I know love. And then, the bottom would fall out. My mother would retreat to her cocoon, my father would lose sight of me, the boys, one after the other, would suddenly become clear to me as false, no longer shadows of pain, but vibrant in their own colors of deceit, betrayal, and abuse.

Each time I felt more alone in the aftermath, farther away from love than before, and I slowly saw my faith in its existence erode. Maybe it was all a fairytale. Fiction. Or maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe the problem was with me.

I remember so well the day I gave up. Sitting in my apartment I told myself what I believed to be my destiny: I would always be alone. It seemed out of control—beyond my ability to change. Each attempt at love pulled me deeper into a pit that was so hard to crawl out of. It seemed simple: leave the pit behind, face the facts, go it alone. Forget the childhood that didn’t make sense, the alcoholic father and lost mother, stop trying to be the light of someone’s life when my bulb had obviously burned out. Find a way to make a living supporting myself and hopefully needing no one.
 

And that’s just what I did. Something changed in me that day. My career took off as I focused on nothing else. Moving up the corporate ladder, I felt the pit not only far behind me, but filled. I no longer felt in danger of slipping, falling, hitting bottom and trying to crawl out. The ground behind me was solid. I chattered with girlfriends about longing for love, wishing for dates, but I knew I was just painting a picture of normal for them. I invested no hope for a first kiss, love at first sight, or even a comfortable arrangement. I wasn’t playing it safe. I truly believed I was too flawed to participate. Too imperfect, too damaged, too broken to be worthy of love at all.
 

I crisscrossed the country on business trips, gathering compliments, raises in salary without asking, recommendations, and glowing reviews. It was the air I breathed. Each new company event I created was my first date, my relationship, my happiness. I was at the top of my game, making more money than I could have ever imagined. I would stare at my paycheck—every paycheck-- in disbelief. Staring back at me was my worth. More than I had ever been worth before.

And I cried myself to sleep every night. For years and years and years.

The cracks came when the economy tumbled. There were thousands of people just like me—with the glowing reviews, the ability, a successful track record. Jobs were cut, layoffs became commonplace. There weren’t enough jobs even for the best and the brightest. I was unemployed. No large paycheck. No worth.

Everything came crashing down. Friends were concerned. My phone went unanswered. Why keep it connected? Unemployment scarcely paid any of my bills. I awoke to eviction notices taped to my door. Large bold letters telling the world what I had known all along.

The pit opened up again—this time so fast and with such force that I was almost swallowed whole.

The therapist’s couch seemed a farce in the beginning. A place to sit and hear the endless excuses for my failure, to be told all that I wasn’t. I sat staring for the first visits. Refusing to talk, in a standoff with the supposed professional across the room. I had given up. I didn’t need to be saved. I wasn’t worth being saved.

After a few visits, silence turned to tears, words rose from pain I hadn’t let through. I didn’t want to go back, but there I was, dealing with everything that had brought me here. For the first time saying the words. For the first time hearing it was not my fault. For the first time, beginning to believe it.

I had lost everything. That was when I found myself.

My therapist stayed two steps ahead and lit the path for me. My path. The path back to a life without fearing an unannounced sink hole. A life of believing that I had value, I had worth, I was more than the sum of my mistakes, more than the pain I had suffered.

It was a slow, steady climb. Some days were brighter than others. Some days the therapist’s couch was the only place I felt safe.
 

The world was different to me now. I looked again at my paycheck in disbelief, this time questioning how I could survive on so little. My life was scraped together, but whole. My life was my own, not a company’s and not dependent on the next glowing review. Work was work. Home was home. The presence of my dog Bear, a new addition, who never would have fit into my career-based life before, was a comfort. A true to my heart, not laced with guilt, comfort.

My friendships were deeper, richer, more authentic. I was almost someone they had never met, with the comfort of years of shared memories, middle school photos, and bridesmaid’s gowns. I had time to be the friend I always wanted to be, and to truly know the joy of returned phone calls and emails—not checking on me, not asking when I would ever be in town, not just a required note on my birthday. Real engagement in my life, and renewing bonds that thankfully outlasted my descent.

One friend suggested a date. Someone we both knew. Someone we had grown up with. Faint memories of junior high classes, passing in the halls. No flicker of romance then, barely an acquaintance. Definitely not the stuff of chick flicks or fairy tales.

Even more the reason to go. No real chance of anything. Just a date- maybe a new friendship. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.

The night was normal and electric. Unfamiliar and personal. Unlike any other date or wish or figment of my imagination from my past. Nothing fiery or predestined. Just a night.

Then another night, followed by more. What I thought I had found one hundred times before, in another lifetime, when I felt I wasn’t worthy or deserving…was becoming real. I was 40 years old. I had never married, never been close, never thought it could happen. Even now, wasn’t it too late?

This love wasn’t something I created; it wasn’t something I tried to be for someone else. It wasn’t the conjured moments of something I wanted so badly. He didn’t remind me of him…at all. It wasn’t the same pain. It wasn’t a perfect Hollywood set up. It just was.

I slipped into a level of comfort I had never known. Not for one moment of my life before this love was I ever completely myself. How sad, but how beautiful at the same time. I felt myself trusting completely for the first time, knowing the freedom that is saying I love you, and knowing the words returned have meaning and are not just spoken.

My husband Shea was my classmate in 7^th grade, sitting half of the alphabet away from me in Language Arts class. He is the person who taught me the meaning of love, its definition in strained moments, its beauty in trusting the unknown. He is the person who makes me laugh until I am gasping for air, who knows the secrets of my childhood and my innocent wishes for unattainable dreams. He knows the emotions behind my indiscernible facial expressions—and when a smile is masking a painful memory. He has given me a new definition of love, far away from how I had defined it before. It is knowing there is a tomorrow, brighter than the present day- even with whatever struggles we face. It is a life without the fear of betrayal, the truth always between us, and the belief that the most flawed parts and quirks I posses are endlessly endearing. This love is not regretting one moment of the life behind me because it led me here, to this place, this instant, to this dance of life I am living that never leaves one second taken for granted. Something I tried for so long to define has been explained, written for me, given to me as a gift at the age of 40.
I have found my worth, I have found my value.
I have finally found love.

Read more...