We are Damaged but It's Okay

During my hiatus from the blog, I experienced one of the coolest moments in my professional life and one of the most life changing moments in my personal life and now I get the chance to share it with you all.

Over the past year, I’ve had the honor to do quite a bit of freelance work with Savannah Magazine. They have been very good to me as a writer. With the help of one of the editors, Amy, I decided to pitch a story about The Lady Chablis.

If you don’t know who she is, let me explain. She is a real-life character from John Berendt’s book “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.” She plays herself in Clint Eastwood’s movie version of the book and she headlines at the infamous Club One here in Savannah.

I’ve been fascinated by her since I read the book and watched the movie when I moved here over 10 years ago. I remember seeing her face plastered on the brick wall on Jefferson Street near the entrance of Club One and I thought, “Holy moly, she’s real.”

Robby’s former-roommate and dear friend Dan was kind enough to get the Grand Empress’s email address for me. I emailed her about the story idea and never heard back. My editor told me to try again. The whole idea began to seem silly to me. Why in the world would someone like The Lady Chablis want to talk to me?

I emailed again and got a response and her cell number. My stomach did a flip flop and I thought, “I guess I’m gonna pick up my phone and call Lady Chablis now.” More stomach rumblings followed.

I sat at my table for hours writing down questions and avoiding the inevitable dialing of the phone. I finally called her and got her voicemail. The pre-recorded voice told me that the mailbox was full and I couldn’t leave a message for “Superbad!” I froze when I heard her voice yell, “Superbad!”

After more emails and missed calls, I finally spoke to her. All I could say was “I’m sorry to bother you…”
She told me to meet her at Club One for a performance and we would chat there. I had no idea what I would ask and more importantly I no idea what to wear.

I knew she was a diva and that I might only get a few minutes alone with her. I narrowed down my questions to a few, but looking back I can see how stupid those questions would sound to her—what’s your favorite kind of makeup? Yeah, I wrote that down….

I had no idea who she was and it never occurred to me that she was anyone besides the loud-mouthed diva I had heard so much about. I never saw her as a person—only a celebrity who was too good for me.

Me hanging out backstage.
Photo taken by Beau Kester.

The owners of Club One were excited for me to visit. I had to admit to them that I had never been to the club before. Tickets to shows are out of my price range and hanging out in a gay bar was too overwhelming for me—I knew I had nothing to wear. Still not sure why I thought gay men cared so much about what I wore?

I met the photographer at the club and we walked around to check everything out. We were told we would do the interview in the dressing room. I was excited. I imagined a glamorous den full of movie posters signed by John Cusack and big mirrors surrounded by glamour and glitz and lots of champagne. Perhaps cool swag to take home? Yes, please.

The owner let me kill time backstage with the ladies from the cabaret show (notice I don’t use air quotes for ladies.) I got to watch them go from regular guys to flawless-skinned beauties. Gorgeous doesn’t begin to describe these performers.

I walked around the dressing room looking at the dresses and the wigs and I noticed the rack of sparkling stilettos. I asked how they found heels in their size.

“You can find anything you need on the internet, honey,” they said in unison.

Everyone laughed and took a sip of their drinks.

“Where are you from,” someone asked me.

“I’m originally from Texas,” I answered. “But I moved here with my ex-husband about 10 years ago.”
Their faces got sad and someone asked, “Was he military?”

I nod my head.

“Honey, my ex-husband was in the military, too,” she said. “He cheated on me and left me all alone.”

Hanging backstage after the interview

The surreal nature of the moment struck me hard. Here I was talking to a group of drag queens/gay men/beautiful ladies/trannys/whatever and we were bonding over shared experiences.

I realized that my story was not special. My pain was not special. Lots of people share my story—even people that don’t look anything like me.

We continued to talk about everything from divorce, how to find sexy stripper shoes, and cooking up chitlins.

I began to relax a little but my suit was too hot for backstage. I chose to look professional with the one pant suit I own, but I tried to sex it up a little with a low-cut navy tank. I couldn’t take notes and carry my jacket at the same time, so I opted to sweat it out.

I went to the meet and greet at the bar to wait for Lady Chablis’ arrival. Sonny Seiler, also a real-life character from the book, arrived in his trademark black suit and red shirt (Georgia colors). My stomach rumbled and I realized I’m not good around celebrities.

The owner offered me a drink again, and I finally took him up on his offer. Lady Chablis walked in and grabbed her fresh vodka cranberry off the bar. I ordered the same thing and guzzled it down as I struggled to find the courage to approach her.

My suit had become a sauna and I could feel a steady stream of sweat dripping down my back and rolling through the waistband of my slacks. The champagne fountain was calling my name but I had to focus.

I approached Lady Chablis and introduced myself as her stalker. Her stern look faded and she laughed out loud. “You have been stalking me, haven’t you?”

She began to explain to me that I couldn’t come to her dressing room. She wanted to meet for lunch. I envisioned us sipping vodka cranberries and chatting at her hotel.

Reality set in and I realized that the chances of getting to interview her were slim at this point. Maybe that would be my story—the interview that never was…

I started to walk off and she grabbed my arm and whispered, “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to talk to all these people.” I noticed the line of people waiting to talk to her and then I looked at her eyes.

I realized I knew nothing about this person. It had never dawned on me that she was a real person with real feelings. Perhaps she had insecurities like me? Maybe she hated the outfit she picked for the night, too? Doubtful. She looked amazing.

All I knew was that she and I had a connection and I had to figure out what it was.

The next part of the story is here.

After the story was published on March 1st, I sat and waited to hear something from The Lady Chablis. I felt a true connection to her and I worried I made it up in my head.

I thought the publication of this piece would be the turning point for my writing career in Savannah, but it wasn’t. My phone never rang and no new jobs came my way. I felt like a loser. I had no job. No money.
And no one wanted to hire me.

Then out of the blue, I got an email from Lady Chablis. She loved the piece. She wrote that I saw the “real” her.

It was the validation I needed. I realized I hadn’t made up the whole story in my head.

I could see the “real” her because she and I are the same on so many levels.

Meeting again for hugs at Club One

We are both so full of love and we desperately want to share our love with people, but we tend to keep it to ourselves. Most people never get close to us or get to know the “real” us because we are afraid they will reject us—and we both know rejection hurts so badly.

But for some reason, when we are together, something clicks. I can tell her I love her and she says it back and it’s not weird or forced or watered-down. It’s real.

She’s real. I’m real. She’s damaged. I’m damaged. She says, “Two tears in a bucket, mother fuck it.” And I say, “Amen, sister.”

I confessed to Lady Chablis that I was scared to talk to her at first.

She looked at me and said, “I knew from the moment I heard your voice on the phone and you said you were so sorry to bother me that you didn’t believe in yourself.”

I shook my head and felt embarrassed.

“Keep your head high, baby,” she said. “Don’t let nothing stand in your way.”

Maybe most of us are damaged. Maybe somebody did something so horrible to us that we may never feel good enough again. Maybe? Who cares? It’s time to let it all go. Everyone has a story. The trick is to make yourself believe you have conquered your story.

I have to remind myself that I will conquer my story and leave it far behind. I have to keep moving forward and I have to quit listening to that voice in my head that tells me I'm stupid.

My head will be held high and I will walk this catwalk of life like I’m a diva in a sequin dress in four inch stiletto heels and a vodka and cranberry in my hand.

I thought I forgot about you...

Life has a weird way of bringing people into your life that you “think” you have forgotten about. The truth is, of course, you never forgot about them, you were just lucky enough not to have to think about them for a while.

Before Robby and I got married, we made the decision that the children and I would leave our long-time home and move in with Robby in Savannah. They would leave the only school they had ever known and make new friends in a new school system.

But our old school system is probably one of the best in the state of Georgia. As a matter of fact, the schools are probably some of the best in the country. It was a tough choice, but as things began to fall into place, I knew it was the right decision.

The children also lucked out because they ended up with an extra 3 weeks of summer break due to the move. But with all the excitement of a move, a wedding, and life, I had failed to withdraw them from their old school yet.

Last week I was driving Jude home from karate class. My cell phone rang and I let it go to voice mail. When I listened to the message, I began to laugh out loud. “What’s so funny Mom?” Jude asked from the backseat of the car.

The message was from one of Veronica’s former teachers—she was calling to inform me that she would be Jude’s teacher this year. I had forgotten about her—or at least I thought I had. But as soon as I heard that name and that raspy voice, I knew exactly who she was. I replied to Jude, “You better thank Robby when you get home.”

Jude was confused until I said, “That was Mrs. H (I will keep her name private). She was going to be your teacher this year if we had not moved.”

Jude was horrified. He remembered that name very well. Mrs. H had tormented Veronica to the point that I almost pulled Veronica out of 3^rd grade. And the ironic part was that Mrs. H was a resource teacher who was supposed to be “helping” Veronica raise her grades and catch up before state testing began.

Third grade was a lousy year for Veronica. I was getting divorced and my soon to be ex-husband had just suffered a partial amputation of his leg and was in the hospital in Texas. And to top things off, the cast of “Mean Girls” had apparently set up shop in Veronica’s homeroom. She was a very sad little girl and she hated going to school. She had constant dark circles under her eyes, she rarely smiled, and she never ate.

She was so depressed that her mind began to not work correctly. She couldn’t comprehend short stories she read and she couldn’t even add simple numbers together. I began sending Veronica to family counseling and her homeroom teacher began to send her to Mrs. H’s classroom for extra help.

I went to eat lunch with Veronica at school one day. I gave her money to buy an ice-cream and she had just pulled off the wrapper when she saw another classmate come into the lunchroom to fetch her for Mrs. H. A look of terror swept over Veronica’s face and she stood up and threw her uneaten ice-cream in the trash and said, “I gotta go.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You still have over 5 minutes of lunch time left.”

She hurried to the door and said, “I have to go or Mrs. H will scream at me.”

I walked Veronica down to Mrs. H’s room and then walked across the hall to Veronica’s homeroom. “Why is Veronica not getting her full lunch?” I asked her teacher.

She looked uncomfortable. “Well, Mrs. H needs all the children in her room at the same time and some children have already had lunch.”

I told her I didn’t care. “Veronica gets her full lunch from now on or I’m going to the principal next time. Got it?”

The teacher looked scared. But I knew she wasn’t scared of me. I began to realize everyone was scared of Mrs. H.

Veronica’s teacher did fix the situation with lunch by sending her to the lunchroom 5 minutes early. I didn’t complain because I got what I asked for and I thought that would be the end of the situation.

Several weeks later, I was trying to help Veronica with her math homework. “Veronica, you got every single one of these problems wrong.” I wasn’t angry, I was worried.

She started crying. “I know. I’m stupid. I can’t do math. Mrs. H says I’m never gonna pass and I’m gonna be stuck in 3^rd grade forever.”

I almost broke my front tooth from clenching my jaw so tightly. “She said what?”

Then it all came out. Veronica began to tell me everything from how Mrs. H screams at them to how she yells, “None of you will ever pass anything! You are horrible students!”

I put Veronica’s homework in her backpack and told her, “You don’t have to worry about that woman ever again. I’ll take care of this.”

Veronica cried off and on for the rest of the night. I was so angry with this woman. Here I was trying to do everything I could to restore my daughter’s self-esteem and sense of self-worth and this stranger was tearing down everything I had built up.

I sent a note with Veronica the next morning and told her teacher that under no circumstances was Veronica to go to Mrs. H’s classroom. My phone rang about an hour after school started.

“Hey, is this Veronica’s mom?” said a gravelly voice.

“Is this Mrs. H?” I asked.

“Why, yes it is,” she said with a laugh. “I think we have a misunderstanding.” She was laying on the sweet pretty thick.

“No we don’t,” I said. “Veronica told me everything. I will be at the school at lunch to take care of this, so I suggest you get your story straight before I get there.”

Later that day, I met Mrs. H. She looked the way I expected—she had those crazy bitch eyes that she tried to hide behind her fake smile. She informed me that her method of teaching was very successful and that children do better when they think they are going to fail.

“That’s the biggest bunch of crap I ever heard,” I laughed. I told her that she better treat my little girl like a princess and do something to turn her self-esteem around or I would make sure the school board knows she’s the kind of teacher who picks on disabled children. I pulled every card I had and I didn’t stop until I saw that woman cry. Then I went across the hall and I got Veronica and brought her into the room. I made her apologize to Veronica and explain to her that the state tests have no bearing on her ability to pass 3^rd grade. I made her tell her she was wrong to treat her that way.

Veronica looked up at Mrs. H’s teary face and said, “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

Perhaps it was mean, but I wanted her to feel the way she made my child feel. I wanted her to feel stupid. I wanted her to feel like an idiot. I wanted her to feel like everyone was laughing at her. I wanted her to feel something besides entitlement and self-justification.

It worked. She began to treat Veronica the way you are supposed to treat a child. She praised her hard work. If she asked if anyone needed more time to finish a test, and Veronica raised her hand then she would say, “Take as long as you need, honey.”

Veronica’s self-esteem began to blossom again. Her grades went up and she not only passed her state test, but she blew them out of the water. And most importantly, I got my little girl back. I got to see that smile again. I was able to see those beautiful brown eyes again and they weren’t clouded with tears or sadness anymore.

But the name Mrs. H still evokes fear in Veronica. When I told her that Mrs. H would have been Jude’s teacher, she almost cried. She hugged Robby and said, “Thanks for moving us to Savannah.” I guess it was just meant to be.

No backing down

Some days I wished I had taken a different route in college and became something else. Like on the days when I am having problems with Veronica’s leg braces and I wish I had gone to prosthetics school so I could help her myself. Or the days when the children are sick and I wish I was a nurse so I didn’t have to pull them out of bed and take them to a doctor’s office.

Then there are days like today when I wish I had gone to law school. I was always very interested in mass communications law and theories and I had strongly considered going to law school after undergrad. But I didn’t and now I need some serious legal advice.

I knew this day would come. My ex-husband moved to town. He has been pleasant, but not much else has changed. He continues to push the fact that he does not have overnight visitation with the children. He believes it is my fault and he is threatening me with the usual, “I will drag you into court and make you pay for this.” Same song, different day…

But it’s not my fault. His lack of visitation is due to the fact that he never took care of his business. If he had followed through on his court ordered evaluation with the family psychologist, then he would have had normal visitation with the children over 2 years ago and this wouldn’t be an issue. Instead he decided to do things his own way and do what he wanted to do. After all, his favorite catch phrase is “rules are for chumps.”

When my ex-husband and I separated back in 2009, I had some very damaging proof against him that he didn’t want released in court. It gave me the upper hand, and I needed the upper hand. He had done things to put the children and me in serious danger, and I couldn’t allow him to be alone with them until he proved that he had undergone serious psychological treatment.

For those of you who have been divorced and through a custody battle, you know that most judges could care less about “accusations” made against the mother and father. They tend to just split custody and force the parents to share the children. The children have no one to advocate for them and life goes on…

My upper hand gave me the chance to say, “Hey, I have serious reasons to keep the children protected.” And by some miracle, people listened to me. Well, they listened a little bit. But it was enough for me to protect the children and buy some time until they were old enough to protect themselves.

Now, if someone had told me that I had to do X, Y, and Z in order to have my children, I would have done it immediately. But not my ex-husband. In his first chance, he did X for a little bit. But since he feels rules are for chumps, he thought he would take me on in our final court hearing and win. But I agreed with the court to give him a second chance.

So, he was given a second chance to do X, Y, and Z. He did X and Y. But he never did Z. I mean why should he? Rules don’t apply to him. After all, he just assumed he would take care of Z later and everyone would be fine with that. I mean, why not? He has always been able to do whatever he wants, and he lives under the notion that if you let enough time pass, people will forget about Z and all will be forgiven.  I would that he is usually right about that, too.

So, now I am remarried and happy. Life has gone on for me. Enough time has passed that I have lost steam when it comes to court battles and I just want this to be over with. But I’ll be damned if Z is going to be swept under the rug because I’m too tired to fight.

The notion of Z rears its ugly head about every 6 months when my ex-husband casually mentions that he is taking Jude on a camping trip or that he is taking the children to spend the night at the beach and I have to say, “Sorry, you can’t do that until you take care of your business.”

Then my ex-husband uses it as a threat to me with the words, “Fine, I will take care of it and then you can’t tell me what to do ever again!” But what he doesn’t understand is that I don’t care if he takes care of Z. Taking care of his business would be best for everyone. I wished he would have almost 2 years ago. But he didn’t and now it is my responsibility to decided when and where he can see the children. It’s a horrible burden on me.

But, I followed the rules. I completed X, Y, and Z several times even though I didn’t need to.  I was questioned and humiliated. I have been told that “I just need to let things go” and “quit being angry with the fact that my husband cheated on me.” I have been made to look like the perpetrator instead of the victim. And I swear to God that if it hadn’t been for other women like me, I would feel crazy.

So it begins again—calls to attorneys, scrambling to find out my rights, and nightmares and panic attacks. But, I’ll be damned if I let everyone forget about Z. It’s still there and it needs to be addressed—Z came about for a very important reason. This is a battle worth fighting for. So, get ready—I plan to not only follow the rules, but I’m going to enforce them as long as I can.  I will never be too tired to make sure Z is resolved.

The truth is a beautiful thing

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”  John 8:32 NIV

When I first learned the truth about my marriage several years ago, it took me over 6 months to begin to accept the truth. I was embarrassed that I was headed to divorce.

I was ashamed that my husband had been cheating on me. But most of all, I was humiliated by the notion that everyone knew about my ex's infidelity except for me.

I didn’t tell anyone what was going on for a very long time. I confided in my parents, but that was it. Several months later, I finally told a friend what was going on. Before I packed my bags and headed home, I finally told my sister the truth.

I soon realized that the more open I became about my divorce, the more liberated I felt. After attending several S-Anon meetings, I learned that “we are only as sick as our secrets.” That phrase really struck a chord with me. In order to heal, I had to start being honest with myself and everyone around me.

Writing this blog and putting the truth out there for everyone to see has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. But it has freed me from the chains of secrecy and shame.

I used to have a lot of secrets and I was very sick because of those secrets. I felt tired all of the time and I eventually had to be treated for stomach ulcers. Now that I have been able to slowly shed myself of those secrets, I feel better than ever.

It has taken me over a year to get to the point where I don’t breakout in a full sweat when I want to be honest with someone. Now I find it hard to “fake it” and I find myself saying, “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but I have to be honest…”

I know I will have to continually remind myself that I am only as sick as my secrets. Coveting secrets and living in shame is a hard habit to break.

I thought the truth would set me free immediately—but I soon learned that these things take time. When I first learned about my ex’s secret life, I was devastated. I wished I had never found out the truth.

But here I sit—2 years, 10 months, and 14 days later and I can honestly say that the truth did set me free. The secrets that destroyed our marriage and the secrets that I chose to continue to carry with me made me sick—physically and mentally.

I have also discovered that this new-found honesty I display makes it impossible for my ex to control me. So now I know that I am free—free from control and free of fear. I am now free to live my life the way it was meant to be lived.

A new friend

What a difference a week makes. Or maybe I should say, “What difference does a week make?”

I guess for me, this week has made a lot of difference. This time last week, I was sitting at home getting things ready for Veronica’s surgery in Jacksonville. My sister came to town to take care of Jude and get him to school. She was also a big help in taking my mind off of things. I am happiest when my sister is with me.

Amy and I on vacation--laughed so hard I hurt myself...

The surgery went amazing—the hospital, doctors, and staff were incredible. It was one of the best hospital stays we have ever had.

My ex showed up and decided that he was not speaking to me and it made me very uncomfortable. He was the only person who showed up at the hospital, so my loneliness was overwhelming.

Of course I had people calling my cell phone and checking in so I felt the love from the outside world. And one of the best things that happened was Robby’s sister reached out to me through email. We emailed back and forth while I was sitting in Veronica’s dark room watching her sleep.

She sent me the most hilarious stories about co-workers and her survival strategies of dealing with the “public” at her job at the library. Despite the humor we portrayed on the surface of our emails, there was this underlying sense of connection that began to develop through our communication. I realized that I have the unique opportunity to gain another close sister relationship. I only have one sister and our relationship is the most remarkable connection I share with anyone.

My sister Amy and I are very close. We share the most devoted bond that I have with another person. We have always been that way and I know that nothing will ever change that. We talk at least once per day on the phone and I never get tired of our conversations.

Robby and his sister are extremely close as well. He adores her. She is, without a doubt, the most important person in his life.

Even though we have never met face to face, I now feel a very strong bond with this woman. We both adore Robby and she knows that he adores the kids and me. But more importantly, we connected in our bizarre sense of humor. That doesn’t happen often to me, so it makes an impact.

So, while I realized this week that I will most likely lose my home and a large portion of my already depleted savings, I realized that I gained a new friend—perhaps a sister. And that relationship means more to me than the material objects that have held me hostage over the past few years.

So, in one week I went from sad, depressed, and distraught to encouraged, hopeful, and accepting. While a week may make a huge difference in my view on life, I have a feeling that this new relationship will once again change my life for the better.