"Friends are like church. . . ."

It was nine o’clock, and I had not heard from him. I was concerned, but didn’t want to be pushy or annoying. But he had called me at 4:30, on his way to a stranger’s house that was located in a questionable part of town. He was supposed to call me after his date. I decided to text him, “Do I need to send a search and rescue?”. No response.

After 10 o’clock, I began to get very nervous. I was supposed to text Michelle the moment I heard from him, and she would text Traci. So, I texted her, “I haven’t heard from Randall. I texted and messaged him.” She tried calling him, with no answer either.

With that, we devised the plan: I would drive to Randall’s house and see if he is home. If not, I would drive to the general location of this stranger’s home and look for Randall’s car or his body. I would give Michelle updates, and I would not get out of the car in a bad area without calling her first and staying on the phone.

As I drove, my mind milled over the possible outcomes. He could be in bed asleep. He could be at the man’s house having a grand time. Or my worst fear, he could be lying on the side of the road, injured or worse. There had been a gay bashing in Tulsa just a few days before. Randall is a strong man, a healthy man, and an energetic man. But he is also gay. He had taken a risk by meeting a stranger at his home, instead of a public place. He normally has his phone handy and checks it periodically. He normally tells me what’s going on. This . . . .was not . . . .normal. I had already planned for the worst—call 911, call Michelle, call Randall’s daughter. . . .

I know that people assume a man can take care of himself, but ask that young man who had been beaten, bitten, and stabbed, and you realize the world is a scary place. Three people ganged up on him. Prejudices abound, and ignorant people do cruel things. Get more than one attacker together, and most men would not stand a chance alone.

I drove Randall’s house, and his car was there. It was 11 o’clock and his house seemed very quiet. I rang the doorbell. . . . . .no answer. So, I rang it again, determined to beat the door down if necessary. If he’s home, he’ll probably be in bed and surely be pissed that I’ve disturbed him. But I needed peace of mind.

“Kristi! What are you doing here?”, he asked as he opened the door, smiling broadly.

“Randall! I’m making sure you are alive! We are worried about you!!”

He laughed. “I’m fine. I left that man’s house a long time ago. He was an ass and I wasn’t comfortable so I left.”

Randall had quickly changed focus after leaving his date, and become pre-occupied with other things. He forgot about calling, and his phone was in another room.

“I’m so sorry! I feel bad you drove all the way out here! That is SO sweet!” He said.
‘I don’t mind, as long as I know you are alive and well!” I replied, relieved.

We hugged several times and upon leaving I called Michelle. She then called Traci.

The next day, Randall told me, “That meant more to me than you will ever know. I don’t know if that’s what you guys normally do as friends, but I’ve never had any friend or family member do that for me. You know, people go to church in hopes of making friends. You go every week, shake hands, and make shallow friendships. But I did that for years and never made close friends. After church, everyone goes home to their real lives. Being around you guys is better than church. When I leave you, I feel like I’ve been to church. I’ve never had friends like you.”

Losing a Friend

I had to let a friend go a few weeks ago. I created a boundary and distanced myself from someone who meant a lot to me. But his erratic behavior, negativity, and antagonizing actions were overwhelming. It was a sudden change from the person I had known.

It began with some bizarre purchases he made. He was already in financial ruin. Just when he realized the effect of his purchases, he quit his job. He became embarrassing in public, with random comments and overly zealous behavior. It’s as if his filter was removed, and it was a free for all as he said anything that came to mind, including “jokingly” discussing his desire for drugs, and his previous days as a dealer. In a bar, drunk, he gave me a “message from God’ that made no sense at all. When he wanted to buy my meal and I refused, he told me that I don’t have faith in him or God. God was going to take care of him. For some reason, that really hit a nerve, maybe because of my own relationship with God. Not only did it seem surreal to have him give a false prophecy, but it hurt that he questioned my faith in God or him. His understanding of God at that moment was very flawed. The truth is, we create our own hell much of the time, and we want God to save us from it. God doesn’t always clean up our messes, and when he doesn’t are we going to resent him?

I finally decided that he was on drugs. I do not use drugs, nor do I want them around me. I talked to him about it one night, and he denied using anything in months, which I knew was a lie. He expressed his anger at the world for dealing him a crappy hand, his resentment toward the young gay community for having it easier than he had when he came out, and his unwillingness to let go of bitterness. It’s his right to be angry, he said. I tried to tell him that holding onto that anger will eat him alive, and he should be happy that young gays have it easier than he did. But he kept talking over me. I finally told him that I do not share his anger, nor do I want to be around it. I wasn’t ending our friendship, but drawing a boundary with him.

I am a recovering codependent. Finding myself in friendships like this are dangerous. I will attempt to fix him. I will worry over his problems as much as my own. I will do whatever to appease him, so he will be happy. I will make myself his source of happiness, which is unhealthy. Recognizing my own tendencies, I drew a boundary.

His response was to for me to have a good life.

I tried to relay the story to a coworker who is a Christian, and her response was, “Maybe he needs a friend now more than ever before!” I understand her religious thinking, as if I could help “save” him by loving him the way Jesus loves us. I felt a tinge of guilt, followed by frustration that she doesn’t see the big picture. You cannot help someone who doesn’t want help.

So I had a good cry and I let go of the friend. I think of him daily. But I believe one day our friendship will return. I hope so.

P.S.

I don't cry at movies very often. My ex-husband used to joke that I was hard hearted at movies, while he would bawl. I'm not one of those stoic, emotionless people who are not easily moved. Actually, I'm very easily moved. But a movie is an escape for me, and although I lose myself in it, I alse separate myself from it. I've cried at Titanic (just a few tears, nothing major), but I have all out bawled at The Piano and My Life (with Michael Keaton). Usually people think I'm crazy to cry at those two movies, but I literally sobbed at those movies, gasping for breath.

Tonight, I was at a friend's house and we watched "P.S. I Love You". Yeah, I cried. I nearly teared up several times in the movie, but the point where I really lost it is when she realized. . . . . .she was alone indefinitely. That was the moment when she finally accepted the loss of her husband and the reality of moving on without any help. That was also the time that she said, "I promised I would never let a man hurt me again."

I remember in my divorce, realizing that I was alone IN a marriage. But then when we physically parted ways, the loneliness was overwhelming. The silence was deafening, and the hurt was numbing. I mean, how was I supposed to move on? My parents hadn't divorced. My sister hadn't divorced. I had no idea how to cope. And just as in the movie, I had been hurt before. I had been in an abusive relationship, and after that I swore no man would ever hurt me again. And yet, I trusted again and it all crumbled on me.

And so, this movie touched my heart. I felt like I was reliving that void--a void that is still there today, but that isn't raw anymore. I had to learn to be strong by myself. I had to learn to get out of bed each day, anyway. I had to learn to exist in a way I never wanted. I still don't like to be at home all alone, but that's what my dogs are for.

I hurt for anyone experiencing this pain, but life does get better. Trust me. And I think I need to go to Ireland to find me a hottie musician with an accent. . . . .

The hardest prayer

My mom started having my cousin Jane stay with us some weekends when she was quite young. She is 7 years younger than I, and she was always a nuisance. A redheaded, freckle-faced, stinky, disheveled, wild child. We loathed those weekends, because she purposely pushed our buttons. Jane’s mom is my mother’s youngest sister. Aunt Diane held a job and paid her bills, but she was always a little . . . slow, emotionally. She has married 4 different men, all of whom deserve a padded cell in a psycho ward. Jane was always second to everyone else. My mom’s reasoning for having Jane over was, “This is the only stable place she ever goes. She needs to know that she can have more in life. Maybe we can give her hope.” When it was revealed that Jane had been sexually abused by one of her stepfathers, we were shocked and sickened. Some of her unusual behaviors suddenly made sense.

Jane finally married when she was the ripe old age of 16—with her mother’s blessing. The church they married in was forever dubbed the “Church of the Circus People” in our minds. My family flinched at the little people, the hobblers, the amputees, and the greasy masses. There was an extraordinary number of deformed people in that church. Jane cried with joy the entire wedding. The reception included a delicate blend of tuna fish sandwich quarters and pimiento sandwich quarters. It was a redneck shotgun wedding. We all expected to see a bulging belly protruding from Jane at any moment. Why else would she marry so young? Well, we were wrong. She had not been pregnant, and did not become pregnant in her 12 year marriage. She was simply ready to be important to someone.

Jane is now 30. She is divorced from her abusive, controlling husband. She is the adult in her relationship with her mother. She worked for 9 years at the same place, until recently (laid off). She didn’t flee her marriage to live with her mother and her newest stepdad—she found herself an apartment.

I met her for a drink and to listen to some music one night a few weeks ago. We talked, laughed, and discussed her dreams. She is barely scraping by and looking for work, but she is going to a technical college. She has dated, and already ended a relationship because she knew she deserved better. She is . . . . a beautiful, strong, independent woman.

I dropped her off at her house after a few hours, and as I drove away, I was overcome with emotion. As I maneuvered the winding roads, I thought of the disheveled child that annoyed us, the wedding that shocked us, and the husband that concerned us. You could not see or predict any of those scenarios when looking at her today. Tears filled my eyes as I thanked God for keeping her safe throughout the marriage. For keeping her sane throughout her childhood. And for giving her the resolve she needed to start over.

I actually prayed one of those really hard prayers. A prayer where your heart cries one thing, and your mind tries to stifle it, knowing you may well regret that prayer. But, after a moment of hesitation, I did it anyway:

“God, give her the desires of her heart. She has overcome so much. Show her your love and your blessings. I will give up the desires of my heart, if it means giving Jane hers. She deserves it more than I do.”

I hesitate to even write that. It’s such a deep, personal, difficult thing to think, worse to utter, and nearly impossible to write. When it is written, it is proof. I did it. Maybe God wouldn’t withhold my desires over a goofy prayer. But the reality is, I thought it, I voiced it, I wrote it. It is a plea from my heart to God.

Following that prayer, I texted her: “When u left my car i almost cried. U have overcome so much, and become a vibrant, beautiful, intelligent woman. So many prayers have been sent your way thru the years. I am proud to be your cousin.”

The following day, she responded via text: “Just wanted to tell u that I love u…you made me feel so good after your text ya sent me last night. I now know people see how proud I am of myself too.”



.

Letting Go

Years ago, I was in my mid twenties, and a coworker, Karen, was in her late 30’s. We became friends, and one day I asked if she ever served jail time, expecting her to say no. “Well, yes, I have. Remember how I told you I don’t have kids? I lied. I have 2 sons.”

And she began a harrowing tale of marrying into a very wealthy and very controlling family in Kentucky. After years of emotional abuse, and fearing for the future of her sons (and after hearing of sexual abuse that the youngest had endured), she filed for divorce. She had not worked outside of the home, so she had limited financial means to fight for her freedom and her boys. A very nasty legal battle ensued that was devastating. In the end, she had no proof of abuse, was labeled emotionally unfit, and lost custody of her boys. She was awarded limited visitation. Fearing for her boys, she visited them one day and fled with them. She took them to Kansas, where she had them for a few months before being found. She served 90 days in jail, and lost all parental rights.

Her boys contacted her a few times on the sly, but Karen was informed that they were severely punished when caught, and they stopped trying to reach her at all. Out of fear for them, she didn't attempt to contact them.

“When people ask me if I have children, I tell them no. They wouldn’t understand how I can let go of my children. People assume I was an unfit mother or I was doing something illegal. But I let go of them because I didn’t have a choice. I did all I knew to do, short of killing their father.” She had tears running down her face by now.

She hoped eventually they would understand that she fought for them. She started over in Oklahoma and earned a degree from OU. She had to move on, in case they did find her one day. At that time, she had no contact with them for years, and the oldest was nearing adulthood.

********************************

I have never had to let go of anything that serious. I have had to let go of a marriage, along with many relationships and careers. I usually stayed in them much longer than I should have. I don’t let go easily of things I care about. But I’ve done it enough I should be a pro at it by now.

Today I’ve been thinking a lot about letting go of some things once and for all, and Karen came to mind. I had let go of these things previously--or so I thought. But the desire for a husband and a child, along with other things, have continued to bother me periodically. Apparently, I've continued to secretly hope for them. If my friend can let go of such a huge part of herself, I can let go of these small things in my heart. Her desires were tangible--they were human, and she had once held them in her arms. Mine are mostly intangible, and only ideas and dreams.

I have held onto them for so long that letting go isn’t easy. It’s going to be a long process. But I have to do it, before bitterness becomes a permanent part of who I am. I don't want to be bitter, but I am. I hate to say, "Stop dreaming" or "give up hope". But for my own peace, I believe I need to do just that. I need to live in the now, because tomorrow is too uncertain.

**********************************

As an end to this story, Karen contacted me again a few years later. Her oldest son had found her through the internet while serving in Afghanistan. He then paved the way for her to obtain custody of her youngest son, since he was a witness to abuses in the home and was now willing to go public with it. The last I spoke with her, she had remarried, and her sons were with her.

For Real?

The other day 2 of my friends were complimenting each other in a sweet but slightly uncomfortable way. Being the person who likes to make jokes in uncomfortable situations, I said, "Hey, what about me? Am I chopped liver?" They stopped, looked at me, and one of them said, "You . . . . .are just real." The other said, "That's exactly right! you are completely real. You are very down to earth." There was so much emphasis put on the word real, and such heart in what was said, that I took that as a huge compliment. I've not been very real for much of my life. I've been what I thought I was supposed to be:

As a kid, I was the girl who pretended not to be severely depressed and contemplating suicide. Doing so would mean my parents were failures and the church would be sorely disappointed in them.

In church, I was the good Christian girl who followed the rules. When things were said that I didn't agree with, I silently disagreed and hoped no one asked my opinion (and God help me, I disagree with much of mainstream religion). I always felt like I was hiding my true feelings.

While in college, I tried to be a good christian girl and not be a party freak. Granted, I had no money to party on and no friends to party with. But I was struggling with my own desires to be social, and my christian teachings that my environment should consist of other christians only.

When I was out of college and living in Dallas, I tried to be a party girl. I really tried. But I was not comfortable with myself at all. I thought I was ugly and fat. And I didn't know how to be in a social setting. I was completely overwhelmed by it all.

I married a man with about as many friends as I had. That means we had little to no social life. We were never our truest, authentic selves to each other. I always held back my thoughts, desires, opinions, hopes, etc. I was afraid he would disapprove of them. And he didn't let me in on his, so I was afraid to announce mine.

After my divorce, I couldn't hold my head high anymore. I was ashamed of failing in marriage. And all of these emotions poured out of me. All of these expectations and let downs poured out in a sea of tears. I couldn't fake having it together anymore. I had to be the Kristi that God made, because being the Kristi that my church and family had made was failing me horribly.

After taking a codependency class, and subsequently teaching it, I found that I am not so freakish or unusual. And it was OK to be real. It is OK to be the odd person that God made me. It was OK, and even a bit humorous, to be myself and to laugh at myself. The more I understood me, the more I became me, the happier I was.

So, at the tender age of almost 37, when my friends told me I was "real" it was touching. It's been a long road getting here.

Getting Healthy . . . . . .Slowly

Dieting is a bitch. Food is my biggest addiction. I have no will power when it comes to sweets. Reunions, holidays, house warming parties, etc. They are all kicking my fat, white butt. Cake and sweets are everywhere. I’m a very picky eater-- I don’t like most veggies. So finding a good balance is hard. The Southbeach diet ruled out fruit for 2 weeks. I really love fruit, since I don’t get enough veggies. I did great on that until I came into contact with cake. (mmmm, cake.) Yeah, I was totally derailed after that. The Zone diet has “blocks” that overwhelm me. Weight Watchers has points, but I tend to use my points on crap and skip the healthy stuff. Jenny Craig has food I don’t like. I have an excuse for all of it, and it boils down to me not being able to say no to sweets and breads. So I’ve decided to do something different—I’m cutting out the starches and lowering the carbs, and eating more greens, more protein, more fruit. It’s a change to a healthier diet, without measuring or counting anything, and without expecting to lose chunks of fat per week..

Also, I have to change my focus. I will never arrive at a certain size and be able to maintain it unless I’m FOREVER on a restricted diet. I will never be the high metabolism person who can eat her cake and ice cream without paying a price. So I will not one day be able to eat anything I want. I will forever have to keep my weight in check.

My family struggles with my desire to change my diet. They get testy when I say, “I can’t eat that” or “Can I have that without the bread?” and “Can we make some green beans instead of chips?”. At work, our chef has started her “summer, figure friendly” meals, which is basically a sandwich and chips. Umm, that’s not healthy at all. So I find myself with a drawer full of green bean cans at work now, along with a can opener. I have my own salad dressing that I keep with me. I now take vitamins (a probiotic, a digestive enzyme, cod liver oil, and B-12) to help me poop, help me digest, give me energy, and help my heart and inflammation. I am lugging this bag of paraphernalia with me—vitamins, food, and exercise gear (and sometimes skates)—and it gets frustrating at times.

I am still going to the gym, and skating on Wednesdays. I have 4 more sessions with my trainer and I’m finished. I still have my gym membership, and I have a lot of info and exercises to keep me busy. I am stronger now, and I can feel it. I’m always sore somewhere on my body.

But I have to learn to say NO to the potatoes and corn and bread and cake and ice cream and French fries and brownies. . . . . .. ..

God, give me strength!!!