"Just You and Me, Babe"

For Hayden:

"Firemen are going to get killed. When they join the department they face that fact. When a man becomes a fireman his greatest act of bravery has been accomplished. What he does after that is all in the line of work. They were not thinking of getting killed when they went where death lurked. They went there to put the fire out, and got killed. Firefighters do not regard themselves as heroes because they do what the business requires." - Chief Edward F. Croker

"There is no such thing as bravery. Only different degrees of fear." -John Wainwright

"You are one of the strongest people I know..." Nine words I never expected to hear consecutively in a sentence--much less directed at me for the past two weeks by some of my closest friends and family. I googled the word "strong" under the Webster dictionary to see if this definition unbeknownst to me meant "scared weakling who drags herself out of bed every morning to the coffee pot to make it through another day." I think Webster may have left this out, because this is what I found:

Strong: Having or marked by physical power, resourceful, striking, well established, having moral or intellectual power, ardent, and zealous.

I will back up a bit to explain...I recently decided to take a hiatus from my relationship with my boyfriend, Cameron, who I've been with for over a year. Not because of anything either of us did wrong. He is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet and has the biggest heart of anyone I know.  He's my best friend, my confidant; the one who has reached down into the hellish depths of my depression and pulled me out on numerous occasions. The one who is quick to give me a hug and cry with me when I am angry and frustrated by my own limits. (Don't tell him I said that...crying is an unforgiveable flaw in the eyes of the male species) In him, I see so much of myself, like the need to please everyone around him and give until he doesn't have anything left. This has left us both physically and emotionally exhausted and in need of regrouping. We are battle weary, broken, and un-trusting.

For the past two weeks, I've heard over and again how strong and brave I am for wanting to be single over being in a relationship and scared of committment. For choosing to be financially, emotionally, and physically strong for Hayden and our uncertain future. The truth is, I don't see it as a choice. We go to work every day to take care of our business. It's not always pleasent or appreciated, but it is a fact of life. There are times when I want to be quick to pull the "I'm a single Mom" excuse card. To set limits on myself because I am a single parent. To not take responsiblity for Hayden misbehaving at school because I can't be both Mom and Dad. The truth is, we can handle anything for them. The only one holding us back is us. In ten weeks, he'll be leaving to spend the summer with his dad. It is the longest we have ever been away from eachother. This is a scary leap of faith for me, but I know how good his father is for his heart. I see more of the little man he is becoming being coaxed out each time comes back from his visits. I can be soft and nurturing and nag him to death about his room because I am "Mommy." He asked me this morning why it is that moms are always so cozy. I answered that it is a requirement when you become a mom. That you must always be cozy. But I cannot help him become or show him how to be a man. He has had many good male friends and family members be influential in his life, but he seems to have a deep rooted sense that his father is the "the man." I pray every day that Brandon becomes that man for him so that Hayden will not repeat any of our mistakes.

I am not a firefighter. I don't wear an oxygen mask to work or put on 50 pounds of fireproof gear to run into burning buildings and risk my life for strangers. I carry 50 pounds of backpack, lunch boxes, briefcase, and the occasional stinky garbage bag (for which I wish I had an oxygen mask), but I am not a hero in anyone else's eyes besides my son's. We're single parents. We do what is required and we are there to shoulder the flames of life that will consume our children if we are not there to protect them and be involved. It is my deepest hope that our family will be complete someday. That I won't have to watch him go off to college alone and face my empty nest by myself. But more than anything, I want us to be as good for that man as he is for us. To be whole and healthy and unburdensome. We are building our tracks in good faith that someday the train will come. And if it doesn't..."It's just you and me, babe."

Becoming Donna Forte

"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered."
-Tom Stoppard

Almost a year ago, I sat at this same laptop and blogged about my new found single hood--sending it out into the void. I cried, I screamed, I beat against the invisible cage I built with my grief and my bitterness. A part of me had died with my marriage and I eagerly awaited for the feeling of "fine" to return. People do it every day, right? They get divorced, they move on..they meet someone new. Why couldn't I?

After my last post, I moved in with my best friend in Summerville South Carolina where my son and I struggled to meet our half of the rent in order to separate ourselves from our previous uncomfortable living arrangements. I worked full time in the Charleston cancer clinic, staring into the eyes of people who were physically broken and in even more pain that I was, but I had nothing to offer them. My own pain oozed from every orifice of my being; bleeding, discoloring everything in my line of sight. I tried to take a second job working part time in the evenings to give my baby a Christmas, but 8 months of no emotional support started to take their tole. I was starving for one kind word, encouragement, and love from those around me, while still grieving for a part of myself I thought I'd never get back. Most nights Hayden and I lived off of cheese, crackers, and cereal, and I felt like a failure. Those closest told me "It's not forever." "You're strong, you'll figure it out." "You just need more exercise and you won't be so depressed." Like a brisk walk would magically make food appear on the table and fill the gaping hole that was left by my son's father and ex-husband.

I quit. Through a complicated series of events that I won't get into, I found myself in the emergency room handing the only precious thing I had left over to the nearest nurse and I quit my life. I was in a fog for the next 48 hours. Tears streamed down my face in a constant flow, streaking my mascara, running into my hair. I couldn't stop shaking. I lay on the hospital bed for hours while nurses and doctors came in and out and asked me if I wanted to die, how I planned to kill myself, and if I wanted to hurt my son. They were angry with me for being too numb to answer their questions. Why are you crying? Who can we call to come get your son? (No one. Please don't call his father. We're here by ourselves. He can come in. No, you don't have to call child services) If I had been bleeding out or vomiting up pills, would they have been quicker to offer their compassion? I stayed in the hospital for another 24 hours before they released me to a behavioral health center. A place for people like me who quit. They told us we were brave for seeking help, even though more than half of us were there because of unsuccessful suicide attempts.

My name is Carolyn and I'm clinically depressed. It sounds so hollow saying it out loud. Like some sterile made up word coined by a psychiatrist to to make us feel more normal. What is normal, anyway? The truth is, I've always been depressed, but my desperate financial situation and ugly fights with my son's father brought it to a head.

I stayed in the Palmetto Behavioral Clinic for two of the longest weeks of my life. Two weeks in which we were monitored like prisoners. No makeup, no hair dryer, regular check-ins to make sure we weren't trying to harm ourselves, group sessions, and meetings with our psychologists. And what quickly became our favorite time of the day: medication time. A respite from the niggling, nagging feeling that we were an ink blot--a stain--on the white canvas of humanity. A feeling most of us have lived with our whole lives. Like there is something fundamentally wrong with us on a cellular level. Something that prohibits us from functioning normally and having the God given will to live. During those two weeks, I had to make a choice. My doctor and my counselor pushed me on a daily basis to find a reason to want to leave. I didn't want to leave. The fact that I felt more at home with alcoholics, addicts, and bi-polar manic depressives was only confirmation  to me that I belonged there. That I would never be a good parent, a good partner, a good daughter....ad nauseum. They warned us daily about the dangers of giving up and becoming wards of the state. At the time, spending the rest of my life with people who felt like me didn't sound all that bad. I wanted my newfound minimilistic routine. I wanted to surround myself with the sweet empathetic words spoken by our nurses, the glass walls the medication provided--separating me from all of the pain that was waiting for me out there, and the deep heavy sleep from the Trazadone. Sleep I hadn't had in over a year. I didn't have to be Mom there. No one needed me. No one needed anything from me. No one could touch me or hurt me or hate me in there.

Fortunately for me, I had a tough counselor who wouldn't let me feel sorry for myself. She dragged me into phone conferences with my family and Hayden's father. She forced me to face reality, even though that was the place I wanted to be the farthest from. This is where I learned my first lesson about depression. Sometimes the people we need are the tough ones who make you question your ink blot theory. Is my son really better off without me? Would anyone really miss me if I weren't here? These are dark and frightening questions for the clinically depressed. They are questions that plague us on a daily basis.

It's been almost a year since I was at Palmetto, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Slowly, and carefully I've re-built my life and my confidence, trying to spare my family any of the gory details of my "sprint in re-hab." I make jokes, I re-call funny stories about my fellow patients and friends, but they still don't know that a good day for me is a day when I don't think about all of that. A good day is when I forget about my ink-blot theory and feel alive.

I choose instead to be inspired by people from history who also struggled with depression. Charles Dickens, Lord Byron, Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe....these famous authors turned their pain into something beautiful and inspiring that would continue to influence the world years after they died. I seek out others like me who have learned to deal with their handicap. I "try on" their coping methods like a pair of new shoes. Hoping to find the ones that fit. That make me feel less exposed.

I saved the draft of this blog two months ago. At first, I didn't want to write it because I didn't think anyone would understand. That somehow my words would be twisted and translated into something unrecognizable to me.  But then I remembered that everyone already knows and that I would rather you know my side of the story than some version of the truth. I am healing. The sum of my parts are slowly being sewn back together through the love and support of my friends, family, and through my coping methods. I'm still here. Today, that is enough.

Witness

I am sitting in the dark with candles all around me, my margarita, and La Vien Rose playing on my laptop. It is moments like these that make my crazy hectic days at work, in a job I don't like, worth it. To come home to this every night, and all of you, gives me peace and I am my "la donna sola" self once again. Sometimes I catch myself aching to be in a relationship again, and then I think about the dozens of friends I have who are married or dating who are completely and totally unhappy. Friends who tell me almost daily they wish they could take it all back. I comfort myself with this thought. I don't stay up late worrying about where my boyfriend or husband is...the only one I have to keep tabs on is me. I don't get angry with anyone because they forgot to pick up something at the store or annoyed because their ex-girlfriend is friending them on Facebook or keeping me up late talking in their sleep. This chaos that is "having someone," something that is supposed to make us feel better on Valentines Day or at the very least, make us look like less of a loser by not being alone is driving us all crazy and depriving us of our own inner peace. I read something somewhere once that said that said that maybe the reason we want to be with someone so badly is to have a witness to our lives. There will always be people out there who think they know you or who haven't seen the good things that you do--only the bad things. Sometimes all we want is a witness to say, "Your life meant something." What if we don't have someone? What if the only witness we have are the few people in our lives who truly get us? Is it the same?

On a rare occasion of soul-baring between my son's father and I this week, I shared with him about this patient of ours who had come in with liver failure who was the color of a green bean. At first, I was annoyed, because her entourage included 10 of her family members who I was supposed to squash into a room that was meant for three at the most. Until they started talking about her being their "chief in command" and the one who "holds everything together," so they were going to be there for her just because she wanted them at her appointment. Her brothers..her sisters..her children...they were all there. I wondered out loud if my brothers and sisters would fly from around the country just to be there for one doctor's appointment.

Then I stopped and there was silence for a few moments before I heard a quiet, "I would be there."

Since I was not fishing for this reply as I would have normally had it been my current significant other, this caught me a little by surprise. It may not always come from the people we expect, but there is someone out there for all of us. Someone who is watching and that may take you for granted sometimes...but we have witnesses all around us. I know that there are people in my life that I would move into the hospital for if they were in that much pain and misery. I am surrounded by death and sickness every day and I see the people that are truly there for their families and those that leave to go to the parking lot while their 80 year old grandmother is too weak to even wheel herself into her own waiting room. My heart both overflows and is broken on a regular basis these days. I was desperately hoping for an escape from my roller coaster ride of a personal life. To hide my head in a hole at work, but lately I find myself racing for the safety of home thanking god that my life is not so complicated as all that. It is midnight and I have to be up in 5.5 hours, so I'll leave you with this thought. Who are the witnesses in your life? Is it enough to know that they are the ones who will be saying someday that your life meant something? Will they say anything at all?

"La donna sola"

"I wish I had a river I could skate away on.." -Joni Mitchell

Lately my blogs have been a little more optimistic, but I would not be honest with myself or my followers if I weren't to admit that every once in awhile, I have a bad day. I get lonely. I get tired of being strong. Days when hope seems like a fairytale and there's no amount of gin and tonic to help fill the bottomless void that is being single. Like all other relationships, working on your relationship with yourself is just as much work if not more. There is no one else to think about your needs, bring you chocolate ice cream when you had a bad day at work, brighten your bedside table with white cala lillies, or send you a sweet text in the middle of the day to let you know they're thinking about you. Deep down I know that this is what I need and that like a infant crying itself to sleep and learning to self soothe, I can learn to heal myself. I can learn to be at rest in my solitude. In her book, "On My Own," Florence Falk says, "Deep in our hearts we probably understand that aloneness is a natural part of life, but existential aloneness, the awareness that within us is a core self that no other human being, no matter how intimate, can ever touch, can be unsettling."

I also like the way that Elizabeth Cady Staton sums it up so perfectly: "Our inner being which we call ourself, no eye nor touch of man or angel has ever pierced."

We long to be truly seen for who and what we are, and I would like to think that I am selfless enough to be able to look into another man's soul and know him in the way that I would like to be understood. But I can't say that I am any more of an expert at that than anyone else. I carry my own baggage and battle wounds and most days when I look in the mirror, I see the eyes of a refugee gazing back at me. Beaten, bruised, and broken. Unlovable and uncherished.

But there is a time to fight for love and there is a time to listen to your heart's pleading to let go....la donna solo is Italian for "a woman alone." Although I've never been big on tattoos, I've always thought that I would get one when I found something that truly meant something to me and that I would want to have permanently sewn into my skin. When I look down at my body, I want to be able to see that these words are a part of me and that I am a part of them. No matter what my relationship status, marital status, life status, at the core I will always be a woman alone. And somehow I think I've always known that....

Roots

"No matter how much women prefer to lean, to be protected and suppported, nor how much men desire to have them do so, they must make the voyage of life alone, and for safety in an emergency, they must know something of the laws of navigation. To guide our own craft, we must be captain, pilot, engineer; with chart and compass to stand at the wheel; to watch the wind and waves, and to know when to take in the sail, and to read the signs in the firmament over all."


-Elizabeth Cady Stanton's last address to Congress, 1892




“...What keeps me from dissolving right now into a complete fairy-tale shimmer is this solid truth, a truth which has veritably built my bones over the last few years—I was not rescued by a prince; I was the administrator of my own rescue”


-Elizabeth Gilbert


It is Sunday morning and the house is quiet except for the hum of my computer and Pandora. It is times likes these when I do my best blogging. When I curl up in my chair with my cafe amaretto and think about my life. I have decided that I desperately want to travel. Up until this point, I had always thought my nomadic tendencies were the result of my upbringing (my parents moved at least 20 times by the time I was 14) and that when I continued this pattern as an adult, I was trying to run away from something going badly in my life. The funny thing about roots is that if you've never had them, you can't miss them. Living in Arizona for a year opened my eyes to how much of the world I was missing. This is perhaps where my ex-husband and I started to grow apart. Don't get me wrong, there will always be a special place for Paul in my heart since he was such a big part of my life for 5 years, but my traveling itch scared the bejesus out of him! He was a trooper and followed me to Arizona, but as much as I fell in love with the wildness of the desert, he was every bit as miserable. 

I was suffocating knowing that someday when my nest was empty, I would be flying alone.

This last move to South Carolina did not turn out at all how I expected, but something inside me told me that this was enough for now. I may adapt quickly after years of practice, but I remember how hard it was for me when I was younger to make new friends, and I would like for my son to have some roots. Funny thing about roots is that even though you may not desire to have them, your parental instincts tell you that your children need them. So I have settled in Charleston, South Carolina for the time being, but my heart is still out there roaming around, dreaming of the places I will see someday.

My first stop: Italy.

I have always wanted to take a trip to Europe for as long as I can remember, but lately my itch has been more specific. It is not that you can't see beautiful things from here in the good old US of A, but my desire is more to see a different way of life. To see how other people in the world relate to one another and get by without all of the extravagant things that we so desperately "need." I want to watch how they eat, drink, sleep, love, fight, and struggle in hopes that it will give me a deeper understanding of myself. Maybe the reason I have not had a need for roots yet is because I haven't found my home yet. So to prepare, I bought myself an Italian dictionary and a "Learn Italian While You Drive" cd. Don't laugh..I have decided that since I spend 3/4 of my life driving, I might as well be learning something and enjoying myself! I have an hour commute to and from work every day. So far all I've learned is, "There is a car," "There is a small car," and "There is a big car." This may not get me very far, but I have also found a group in Charleston that meets once a week to practice their Italian at a local restauraunt. Perfect!

My baby steps toward finding myself gives me a little more confidence every day. I am no longer jobless..still husbandless, but my excitement over discovering these parts of myself overshadows any previous gloom I may have had on this subject. I am not desperate. I am not waiting for someone to rescue me. I am Woman--hear me roar.

Building a Home for One

"...Between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. It is an impossibly steep, very high part of the mountains. They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew some day, the train would come."

I like to start my day off with a quote because no matter what it is that I am feeling, the internet is an unlimited resource of quotes from people who have said it better than me. This quote is from one of my favorite movies Under the Tuscan Sun. (Although I have made progress concerning my other bad habits, chick flicks are still my weakness) As I have mentioned in the past, the idea of dating again (much less being married again) makes me nauseous. If you were to find me in a Webster dictionary today, it would read:

    Carolyn Carreau:

Deficient in something needed or usual.

    Synonyms: bare, blank, devoid, empty, hollow, lacking, missing, unavailable,   vacant, vacuous, wanting."

I have spent years investing myself into relationships where I was giving 150% of myself, and received very little in return, so itt only makes sense that I resemble the flaky, molten exoskeleton of a crab during puberty. Not a pretty sight and probably not a pleasant process for a crab! But there it is...

I have a habit of picking emotionally unavailable men who initially flatter my inflated Librae ego, by strutting around in front of me like a peacock trying to impress it's mate. Once I have strategically aligned my life goals and favorite TV shows with that of my peacock, that is usually about the time our relationship starts to look like one of those abandoned western towns with the tumbleweed rolling by. I begin to savor every drop of affection like water I will not see again for days.


When one finds oneself in negative patterns such as these, one must ask, "What can I change about my dating patterns so I will stop resembling molten crab shells?" The obvious answer would seem to be pick better peacocks..er..men. The problem with this logic is that the older I get, the harder it is to spot these clever masters of disguise. They become more interesting, suave, more handsome with age (one of the many upsides to being a man), and experienced. There is something about this experienced male that outshines the "nice guy." Take George Clooney for example. I am convinced after decades of watching this man date that he will be a bachelor for life. If a woman as exotic and beautiful as Elisabetta Canalis can't hold him down, where is the hope for the rest of us!

My sons father, my first love, is a lot like George Clooney. We have had a rocky on-again, off-again relationship over the past 8 years. Ironically, the older he gets the more he is starting to resemble George in looks and in his dating life. The man has enough charm to turn on a light bulb, simultaneously wooing and crippling his prey. He is the male version of myself, albeit better looking. No matter how serial his dating patterns appear, this only makes him more attractive to women. I will now join all single women around the world in a collective cry: "IT'S NOT FAIR!!!" It is a well known fact today that a man who dates around is experienced and interesting, and there is practically an entire dictionary of unsavoury labels for a woman who is just as picky. Perhaps this is why we feel pressured to hurry and make a decision in a relationship before we are labeled ourselves. I have to admit, I have participated in more than one discussion regarding females who date around and my opinion is often swayed by the general public. Until it hit me one day that instead of tearing one another down (lets face it, un-happy married women) we should all be rooting for each other and yelling, "YOU GO, GIRL!" Instead of, "Jeez...what  a skank."

I will now step off of my soapbox and get to the point. The meaning behind the quote at the beginning of my blog is this: Don't wait around for a man to start your life or for the perfect family to come along. Build your house. Take care of the family you have around you even if you are not related by blood. Someday someone wonderful may happen to you, but if they don't, you will be a richer, more beautiful, evolved person who can accept this fact.


Eleanor Roosevelt said, "You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do."


Of all of the things out there we could be afraid of--why is dying single one of them?

"No Boys Allowed!"

I created this blog for all of the "Ex-Princesses" like myself who are struggling to find their place in the world after the initial shock of finding out that we are not princesses and happily ever afters do not exist. By ex-princess, I am referring to those of us who wore the poofy white dress, let others ooh and aah over our 8kt diamond rings (mine was not that big, that was just a number that came to mind..), and planned how we would train our husbands to be the perfect mates so that our lives would never have to be regular or plain again! "Ex-Princess" sounds so much nicer than "25 and divorced." It has been 3 months and I have been through various stages of grief, anger, self-loathing, with few moments of clarity and peace. When you are in a failing marriage, all you can think about is how happy you would be if you were out of it. The truth is, it doesn't stop. Despite the monotony and hum-drum life you had previously with your partner, they filled a void that is virtually impossible to fill with junk food, chick flicks, cigarettes, or alcohol. (Trust me, I've tried.) Junk food gives you a sugar buzz and makes you feel fat. Chick flicks make you feel more inadequate at having a successful relationship, cigarettes give you bad breath and yellow teeth, and alcohol is a depressant. Do the math.

I have read Eat, Pray, Love three times and as inspiring as it was the first time, I can't afford to travel around the world to find myself. So I have decided to go on my own journey of self-discovery. I call this phase of my life: "Ex-Princess on a Budget." A series of events since my divorce, which I will not bore you all with, has led me to Charleston, South Carolina jobless, husbandless, and void of any remaining self respect. I was sitting out on my front porch the other night, breathing in the muggy, bug-ridden air (god, how I miss Arizona..) when I had a thought. It was one of those nights I was contemplating re-entering the dating world, and decided then and there that if I were a man, I would not want to date me in my condition. Let me re-phrase that....if I were a man, I would RUN from me!! I have literally not been single in 13 years. Over the years, I have twisted myself and my desires to perfectly align with those of every relationship I was in so that no man would ever recover from me again. Ouch. Only recently am I discovering how devastating this was to my own heart and to those men. Another thought occured to me that had I been honest about myself and own desires, I might have met the One already. I have mixed feelings about this "One," but I will save that for another day and another blog. With the right blend of poetry, sex, and compromise of self, I have managed to lose myself completely in an effort to obtain my happily ever after.

Having said all that, one of the most important relationships of my life resulted in my four year old son, Hayden. So a certain amount of sacrifice is required in order to not add "Bad Parent" to my list of failures. This is one of the hardest things in the world to grasp when you are a new single parent. That you cannot just quit, hide behind your covers watching Keeping up with the Kardashians re-runs, and eat ice cream out of the gallon until a job falls into your lap. There is no time for grieving..no time for self-pity.

I will be honest, I have friends who seemingly have perfect lives and their blogs revolve around the fantastic news that is going on in their families, and their fantastic babies, and their perfect husbands who give them foot rubs at night. I write this without bitterness and I do not envy them their happiness...they are happy because they found the life that gives them joy. But I can only write what I know. There is a quote from Elizabeth Gilbert that says:

 "Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it."
So this blog is about my attempt at happiness. My journey to self-discovery, forgiveness of past mistakes, and surviving my Quarter-life Crisis intact.