Losing Yourself in Giving to Others

When I was going through my second divorce, I decided that I needed some serious counselor to understand why I have seemed to fail so miserably.

Oddly enough, my therapist suggested that I was too much of a "giver" in my relationships. I laughed at her as I remembered all the times that I threw a tantrum when I didn't get the attention that I wanted from my spouse, all the times that I took a nap instead of cleaning the house, and all the times that I focused on my friends, career, and child instead of nurturing my marriage (well, marriages).

Furthermore, there were all the times that I could have been less selfish to my family and peers. During my days as a hooligan, I was often self-serving.

After telling her that she was a couple of sentences shy of being a quack, she convinced me to explore this idea.

I wasn't quite Machiavellian, but I was nowhere close to Mother Teresa. The best way that I can describe it is in terms of Anakin Skywalker.

Life was hard when I was young. I far too aware of the ugly in the world and I was frequently bullied. As fear, anger, and sadness made my heart dark, I turned into a defensive and hateful being at times.

Yet, like Anakin/Vader, I had a love that lingered beneath the chains of the Sith.

I had little moments of giving throughout my life.

For example, my biological father made the trip to Arkansas once and he bought me some new shoes. A little girl who was raised by a single mother in our apartment complex did not have nice things. She admired my new shoes and asked to try them on for a minute. After seeing how happy they made her, I told her to keep them. My mother was floored and touched at the same time. I still wore my ragged shoes until it was time to get new ones.

As a friend, I was always the protector. Because I had no issue being a villain in the cafeteria, I would take out anyone that upset my close friends with either rhetoric or my fist. For many years, I thought that I was doing a noble service.

Eventually, I had a change of heart. After years of watching the women in my family give to those in need (that's just want good Southern women do), I began to slowly make positive changes in my life.

I visualize the change in my heart as that of The Grinch.

This is great, right? Not necessarily. I went from one extreme to the other. When I started teaching, I ended up in situations where I would do the work of others, only to get through under the bus when the lessons weren't so great or to have all credit stripped from me completely. I have had two marriages that where "give and take" wasn't the mentality, but rather an "all or nothing" way of life.

I scrambled often to find a balance and I did not.

After my second marriage finally crumbled, an event that had been coming since before our nuptials, I went overboard on the giving.

None of the giving, gave me what I needed.

I gave tremendously of myself, my time, my heart, and my worry. I gave a handful of friends loans to help them in their struggles. I bought products to help people become more healthy and feel better. I made little crafts, I created little events.

I got nothing in return, nor were the loans ever repaid (even though I am a single mom that lives on a teacher's income).

Pity party time, right? Nah. 

It was lessons well-learned. I have to be wiser with what I give and to whom I give.

There are those that will always prey upon you during low points in your life: divorce, grieving, job loss, etc. They are always dressed up as friends and as people who want to help you in life somehow. These people know how to convince you that you are valued in their life, even if their hand wasn't somehow in your pocket. Yet, it is that "dog-eat-dog" mentality of which many Americans have become so accepting.

After depleting my financial buffer in helping people that I cared about and trying to get repayment for the money that I had given during that time, I realized that those people only cared about themselves in that moment and I simply gave them an opportunity to use. I had done this in various ways for most of my life.

Are there people who appreciate me? Are their people that help me in times of need? Absolutely. In fact, I have some of the most supportive and loving people in my life that one could ask for.

It was new people and the ones that pop in and out that were taking to the point of my emotional and financial detriment. It was never the ones who have consistently been a part of my life.

At the end of the day, I think giving to others is good for the soul. I will continue to find ways to give to others and others who will sincerely benefit from whatever I have to give.

Until Next Time,



LOVE LOUDLY!!!

The Terrors of Teaching: Part I

The Terrors of Teaching: Part I

First and foremost, I love being an educator. I decided when I was in elementary school that teaching was what I wanted to do with my life. I also wanted to be a fashion designer, a singer, and an actress; teaching was always on the top of my list, though.

I have taught for 7 years. I returned to the school from which I graduated many years ago. Walking down the halls during my first couple of years, I was fill with a variety of emotions. There is one stop that alumni refer to as The Indian Tile. Each time I would cross that section, an area where many of us would meet up between classes, I felt like I was being transported to the past.

I was an academically advanced student and I was raise with very high morals. Yet, I became a state ward who did not have any regard for my future. 

Despite the best attempts by my parents, I had serious behavior and mood disturbances throughout junior high and high school. After trying every intervention possible, I had come to a place of potential legal trouble and/or serious physical injury. By 10th grade, there was nothing anyone could do to stop me from "going 100 miles per hour towards a concrete wall," as my mother would say. She mostly likely suffered the most because she could not save me from myself.

I wasn't a drug user, I wasn't a thief, and I wasn't promiscuous (although, all those rumors followed me throughout high school). I was angry and very defiant; it sounds so simple and easy to handle, but it certainly was not for those that tried to help me. I couldn't control my rage and anyone was a potential victim of a blow-up or a fight. I lived for picking fights during those days for the slightest offense, even if I knew that I wasn't going to "win." With what we as a society now know, one could say that I was a bully. It can also be argued that I was teenager with long-standing post-traumatic stress, anxiety, and clinical depression. Anger and depression was all that I felt for many years; the only way that I knew how to cope with my "diagnoses" was to lash out with vicious verbal and physical attacks.

I can never apologize enough to the people who I unjustly hurt.

As a teacher, I have seen children who truly know what trauma and suffering is in their young lives. While most parents seem to do the best that they can, there are always those that abuse and/or neglect the needs of their children. 

My school has many problems, but the lack of security at home and the amplified rate of "fight or flight" is a major factor. In fact, school serves as a safe haven for many kids. 

The fact is that our schools are not going to have great change until the community rallies together to bring about change in our neighborhoods.

Sadly, the socioeconomic struggles have bled over to the schools. The two schools in this video are within walking distance from another. It was said that the "lesser school" mentioned was said to be transformed into a similiar school to the "nicer one." There have been changes that have occured within our district since that was stated and I am holding faith that all students will recieve a "fair and equitable" education regardless of any behavioral or socioeconomical struggles.


Until Next Time,

LEARN LOUDLY

And Then Life Makes a Full Circle

I often refer to the teenage version of myself as a hooligan. I was certainly not the worst of the worst, but I caused a great deal of heartbreak and havoc. Due to a combination of chemical imbalances and childhood traumas mixed with teenage hormones and an inability to express the hurt and anger that I had carried for years, I was a one-girl team of destruction.

This is not a blog about casting blame on anyone, so don’t jump to the conclusion that I may reveal some big answer about why I was so out-of-control. I can’t, and if I could, what purpose would it serve? The most simple and most accountable answer that I can give is that I had pain, and for many years I handled hurt through displays of anger and aggression.

It was the 1990s and I was diagnosed with a myriad of disorders, some of which are no longer recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). There was no place for me and my behavior was becoming increasingly dangerous to myself and others, so I was placed in a variety of residential group homes.

Change in Philosophy

 

I believe in the power of education and the cliché that knowledge is power. A strong education and a good work ethic can help anyone change their situation. When you are a teen, you have a choice to start building the life that you want to have regardless of the life that you were given at birth. Literature was my path, my salvation, my escape, and eventually, my career.

During my fourth year of teaching, I met R. I have had many students who were wards of the state, so when I found out that she was in a group home, I gave her the same speech that I give all the kids in that situation. It is essential, “I have survived the group home circuit. You can make something positive of your life if you chose to do so. I will have high expectations for you during your time here, because that is my teaching style, but if you need additional resources, please let me know.” Other than that and providing occasional supplies, I had not gotten involved in their cases.  

R and I looked similar, had similar literacy (high) and math (low) scores, and a similar sense of humor. I gave her my speech and was going to leave it at that, but she wrote me a letter detailing her life experience so far. She had no one. I wrote back a list of survival rules/pep talk quotes. It was pretty cheesy stuff like, “Sometimes you will feel like you can’t go any further, but you must always put one foot in front of the other and eventually, you will look back and the struggles will be behind you.” I really thought that I was sharing seriously sage advice at the time.

R’s story was so outrageous that I started to suspect that she was manipulating me for some reason. I called her case worker and discovered that the most disturbing things that this young lady had written were true and that she was, indeed, in need of someone to care about her well-being. I decided to be her mentor.

I believe that God put that child in my life. I wanted to stop her road of destruction and hurt. I wanted to help her realize that she was just as valuable as every other person breathing air and that she had every reason to love herself. Maybe I was trying to save myself or right the wrongs of my personal history through sharing my experience as a teen with someone else. I don’t know, but as time goes on, it is reaffirmed that R was put in my life for a purpose. I hope that I am serving a purpose in her life, but that is not my story to tell.

I failed miserably at being a mentor. I could not simply give her advice that she would follow; I could not fathom why she would not accept what I said and just do what I suggested. For a long time, I was temporary to her.  Naturally, being failed by everyone else in her life, she looked at me as another person who was going to let her down and make her feel inadequate. I understood it, but I couldn't stop it.

Eventually, she left my town for another placement. 

I maintained contact with her caseworker and would hear from R every few months. For awhile, she stabilized and was thriving in a new foster home. Still, like most teenagers and like all children who have suffered in life, she started to push boundaries, made some mistakes, and had to leave the foster home for a group home.

This particular group home was the last one that I was in as a teen. It was 1996 and I was 17. I did not give a single damn about working any aspect of the therapy and was simply buying my time. After six months, the program informed my parents that I was not going to be successful in the program. I left there and didn’t really look back too often.

I wasn’t successful there at all, but I did learn a lot about myself and there were words that rang in my ears years later from three very dedicated and hardworking professionals there (H, A, and E). The first time that I drove to this facility to pick up R for a visit, I became very saddened and angered. I have cried every time that I have dropped her off at the facility. I have cried for her and her lack of options right now and I have cried for my younger self.

I am not nearly as glamorous as Brittney when I cry and drive

I finally understood tonight.

R has become a part of our family over the course of our journey. She has made some mistakes along the way, but we have watched her struggle, grow, and change. We see the good in her and believe that she can succeed. She still cannot see that in herself, aside from moments of sheer defiance to prove all the people who didn’t believe in her ability. Because she has been systematically failed her whole life, it is hard for her to trust that people will be there for her no matter what. Sometimes, she pushes people away as a method of self-preservation. You know, the whole, “I will hurt you before you hurt me” bit.

Tonight was one of those nights. She felt inadequate and frustrated. She was tired of living in a group home instead of a real home. She wanted normal teenage freedom and felt like all of her work has been fruitless.

Again, I understood all of her points.

She started to tell me that she didn’t want to go on passes anymore because she didn’t want to let me down and she didn’t want her counselor to say that she was co-dependent on anyone. She eventually calmed down as I listened and I explained that it wasn’t necessary for her to push because after all this time, I was not going to bail.

And then I said, “If you think I’m giving up on you, you’re crazy.”

There it was. 

My dark shadow of unresolved lingerings that will never be answered and healed.

During my stay at this same group home almost twenty years ago, my biological father sent me a letter. I had not heard much from him during my time in group homes. In fact, the last time that I had seen him, I had severed our relationship in an attempt to gain a solution that I thought would fix all of my hurt.

My parents had me when they were very young and they divorced before my first memory. My father was immature and emotionally distant, but there were things that I look back on in life that tell me that he loved me. There are songs, places, and memories of things like dancing on his feet that bring tears to my eyes. In fact, the best summer of my life was spent with him in Savannah, GA. He was a park ranger at Fort Pulaski, and on his days off we would go to Tybee Island and play at the beach.

Things change.

My mother, step-father (whom I typically refer to as Daddy), and I moved 8 hours away. I began to convert from a tomboy to a girlie-girl and this was completely alien to my dirt-digging  (archaeologist) father. His way of handling all things uncomfortable was to shut-down, cut-down, or make a joke. We were losing the frayed strings that held us together. He also married my step-mother, who hates me to this day (to her credit, I was such a terror to her from 12-15 years old during a total of three visitations that she has never been able to recovered).

This picture is for satire only. My step-mother is a blonde. 

On a side note, his daughter is more than a sister. She is one of my best friends. We developed a secret relationship over six years ago because she was warned by her mother about me. I never turned my sister into a devil-worshipper nor did I try to sacrifice her to the underlords. Plus, she is an adult now so we don’t have to hide the fact that we have talked three to five times a week since she was 15.

Nature wins over Nurture 

My father and I speak once or twice a year. When he does call, he says, “Jaimie, this is your father.” His formality is so reminiscent of Darth Vader that it is funny, but otherwise, it hurts. When I was a struggling teen, I didn’t want to leave my mother, but a part of me wanted my father to save me. He probably couldn’t have because many people tried and no one could stop me from destroying myself except for me. I spent many years in the confinements of whatever facility that I was in thinking that he was going to come “rescue” me.

I understand why he didn’t. I was uncontrollable and he had small children at the time to protect; my mom was in that same boat. Having a small child of my own made me understand how precious those early years are and how vital it is to protect them from hurt, abuse, and confusion. This was something that I didn’t understand until I became a parent myself.

He wrote me once. The letter came during my stay at R’s current placement. I remember two things: he told me that as I get older, more doors closed and he told me to listen to “Just Wait” by Blues Travelers.

Without a second thought, I quoted a line from that song to R tonight.

I have rarely listened to it over the years because I argued with it (or rather argued with my father’s intent on sending it). At the time, the lyrics offended and hurt me. “If you think I’ve given up on you, you’re crazy. If you think I don’t love you, then you’re just wrong, “ is sung softly in the song. I would hear those lines and think, “Really? Why didn’t you come get me? You haven’t loved me in years.” And so the negative thoughts would roll.

I have softened quite a bit towards my father since the passing of my grandmother, our only real connection during my adult life. Yet, we don’t have a relationship. I forgave him years ago for not “saving” me or making me feel loved enough to counteract the burdens that I had carried.

But, tonight, I understood him differently than before. It is one of the hardest things to watch someone you love start to self-destruct and not be able to do anything to save them other than say, “eventually you will stop hurting yourself.”

There are no real answers in life and one thing that my father has always said is, “Your mother and I did the best we could with what we had at the time.” I am doing just that with R – trying the best I can with what I have.

So, I sit here with an ache in my heart for the hurt and helplessness that parents (my father, my mom, and my daddy) felt. I ache in my heart with a new-found empathy that I have for their situation so many years ago. Not being able to help someone that you so desperately want to reach is devastating. 

But most of all, I ache in my heart for R because she has yet to understand all the beautiful things that can come from an ugly life.

So, like my father, all I can think to do at this point is to write and tell her to, “Just Wait.”

Until next time,

LIVE LOUDLY!!!

Blended Family: Waffle House Inspiration: Revisited

This was posted originally on January 17, 2011 by exwifenextwife blog, which is now Louder Than Most Women. I feel passionately about trying to create the best situation for children in all cases, especially divorce. As this was written over 3 years ago, there will be an update on the how this philosophy has worked for me outside of a mere theory. However, the back story has to be revisited.

In late 1997, I was a low-level hooligan. I wasn't old enough for the bars, but I certainly spent my fair share of post "ugly lights" time at the local Waffle House. I went to drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, flirt with slightly older, drunken men and torment my boyfriend in one fashion or another. 

At no point during that time was I considering that the future would hold a marriage, a child, a divorce, and step-parents. Not once did it occur to me that the lady in yellow and brown polyester would share a wisdom through her life experience that would impact my ideas of raising a child in a divorced home.

No one gets married thinking that one day they will get divorced. No one holds their child in their arms for the first time and thinks, "When your daddy and I divorce, I am going to do my best to get along well with your step-mom." 

My only thoughts were of love and happiness that day. 

But more than that, I do not think any woman reacts to the news that her Ex Husband plans to marry the "love of his life" with the thought of a 12 year old conversation with a Waffle House waitress.

I think her name was Debbie. She had severely bleached hair with harsh roots. She was obviously once a dazzling woman, but years of grease splatters, smoky rooms, and natural tanning had taken a toll on her. I knew that her husband was the manager of the local Waffle House and that her best friend, a plump brunette, was a fellow waitress. In my naive and limited world, I viewed all of them as sad souls with nothing more to offer than coffee and scrambled eggs (slightly burned).

When I had overheard her planning her child's birthday party, I realized that she, her manager/husband, waitress/best friend, and all of their kids lived in the same house. Having just gotten my first apartment and taste of freedom, the thought of sharing a home with that many people was too much for my 18-year mouth to refrain from commenting on. I asked, "How can you stand that many people in your house? I know she is your best friend, but don't you like private time?" She smiled a toothy smile and said, "Sweetie, that is the mother of my child's brothers and sister. I can't let her be homeless and all the kids get to grow up with their father."

Now remember, I was naive and stupid in my limited world, so it is understandable when I said, "Oh! Are y'all polygamists?" In her street-wise manner, she said, "I don't even know what that is, but I do know that family is forever. My best friend is my husband's ex-wife." WHAT!!! Hold the coffee!!! "You mean to tell me that you would let someone stay in your house that your husband used to sleep with? Are you crazy?" She laughed and explained that their previous marriage had nothing left but a friendship and wonderful children. She told me that she trusted them both, but that more importantly, she maintained a philosophy about how she wanted to raise her children. She even added "You would be surprised how much an Ex Wife and a Next Wife have in common." Yup! She was nuts. I imagined some sort of perversion or dysfunction was occurring in that house, but I listened politely, as I did not want to get my bacon served raw.

Debbie went on to explain that she did not hate, dislike, distrust, or have any other emotions that overruled the love she had for her child or her willingness to work her hardest to give her child a full life. Shirley believed that her child had the right to love The Ex-Wife because she was the mother of her children's brother and sister. To her, that was blessing enough. She chose to focus on family and love instead of jealousy and the past.

I left around 2 a.m. that morning thinking that those Waffle House workers needed to step away from the heat of the grill and get a reality check. After all, hostile work environments (have you been to a Waffle House on a Saturday night?) and dehydration can cause confusion and mental instability. I threw that conversation in the "junk pile" of my mind and did not think of it until 2009.

So, when I realized that The Next Wife was going to be a part of my life, I remembered Debbie and decided to develop my own philosophy about raising a child in a split family.

My  #1 Rule of Blended Families – Love your child more than you hate anyone else.

My next blended family related blog will be – Robert Burns Warned Us about "Best Laid Plans"

Until next time, BE LOUDER THAN MOST!!!!