Choosing Happiness

I've got happiness on the brain these days. Maybe it's because I'm happy in a way I've never truly been for any consistent period of time. No, that's not right. I am happy in a way I've never been. Period. Which is not to say I've never been happy, because it is my nature to be happy. I am happy even when circumstances are not optimal. I am, at the core, a remarkably happy person, despite the fact that I spent a childhood--including those all-important formative years--in an atmosphere more consistently conducive to anxiety than to bliss.

Genetically speaking, I am even predisposed to suffer from anxiety and mental disorder. My brother experiences anxiety attacks; my beloved sis seems to fall victim to depression. My mother lived with serious mental illness, which inflicted its wickedness on the whole family. It was literally like living with an invisible monster; we never knew where it was lurking or when it would attack. That kind of dysfunction breeds distrust and a serious level of angst for all those who endure its wrath.

And as a small child, I was anxious. I was prone to stomachaches and even obsessive-compulsive disorder-like symptoms. I would think awful thoughts about my mom--they were uncontrollable, really--and then capitulate to the mind-numbing guilt those thoughts imposed upon my young psyche. How could I think evil thoughts about the woman who is supposed to love me more than anyone else in the world? But then, how could that woman do and say such hurtful things if she loved me? I could not break free of that cycle of taking responsibility for her choices (at the time, I had no idea she was officially ill) and feeling like I was a bad child, that I in some way caused her to behave like she did. From my earliest memories, I remember that unceasing torment of feeling unworthy and yet not knowing how to fix the situation. I would never be good enough, and yet I couldn't figure out what "good" meant because Mom was so inconsistent in her responses and reactions.

And then somewhere along the way, I made a conscious decision not to let her break me. I was still young...not even in double digits. Where the strength and determination not to let my circumstances dictate who I would be came from, I can't say. I don't even remember the moment I made that choice. I just know that I made it. I knew that I was not going to give up my one shot at being happy simply because it seemed it was my destiny to grow up in turmoil.

Maybe I was able to do that because deep inside, I always knew Mom loved me. Her actions and words may have indicated otherwise, but children are wise; they see and understand what is not apparent. I see that all the time in my youngest daughter. Although her illness was not officially confirmed for me until I was in my 20s, perhaps I understood that Mom was not always in control of herself. Maybe I saw that finding her own happiness was a major struggle for her. I don't know. What I do know is that my determination to be happy allowed me to get to age 45 and feel--truly believe--I've had a wonderful life so far.

And it just gets better. I am happy--profoundly grateful--for small things: the smell of rain, the moments of raucous laughter I share with my children, the opportunity to sit on my patio swing in the morning while I drink my coffee and watch the birds at the feeder. I love waking under mounds of blankets, the cast of light in this western sky around 6:00 each evening, the taste of ice-cold water as it slides down my throat. I consider it a blessing to be able to fill my refrigerator with enough food to keep my family comfortable, and I never underestimate the power of a kind word to strangers and friends alike. The feel of my children's arms around me as they hug me goodbye or the urgency of my man's mouth on mine when we are reunited after weeks of separation...these moments are what bring me immense joy. They make me happy even as other circumstances might pose challenges and difficulties.

There is no doubt in my mind that happiness comes from within. You can't buy it, and if you spend your life searching for it in other people, you'll be left with only a lifetime of disappointment and emptiness. Being happy within the context of the life you have been given is a choice; wanting what you have and letting that be enough is so much more fulfilling than being on a dedicated mission to acquire what you think you want. Because once the acquisition is made, then what? Where do you go from there?

I am fortunate not to have inherited the DNA that leads to mental illness or even anxiety. Those anxious tendencies I experienced as a young girl gradually disappeared. If there is a lingering after-effect of growing up in a home with that type of upheaval, it's that I am a realist. I don't count on much and I'm not good at depending on others. I believe I am the creator of my own destiny in that I choose what to do with the circumstances in which I am placed. I can embrace what is before me or reject it, and the results will depend on my choice. I find comfort in that.

Happiness isn't a goal; you don't reach it. You live it through your thoughts and words and actions. No one has the power to take it from you unless you give that power away. The world will always be full of pain and suffering, of evil and wrongdoing, of injustice and despair. Accepting happiness in spite of that is not an easy choice; it requires constant vigilance and commitment not to fall prey to misery. It requires you to allow yourself to experience all the normal emotions that make up humanity--grief, sorrow, disappointment, anger--and then move past them into the light.

Happiness isn't always easy; it's not your birthright. But it's always there, just waiting for you.

Saying Goodbye to Tom

I awoke this morning to a phone call I didn't want to take. Tom, the man I have considered my stepdad for more than 20 years, had died some time during the night.

Mom and Tom had been together 17 years when she died quite suddenly and completely unexpectedly in 2004. They'd never married; I didn't care. They were more "together" than I had ever known my mom and biological dad to be, despite the fact that they were married for 27 years. In my heart, if not on paper, Tom was my stepdad.

Today he is gone. All those stupid things people say to try to comfort those in mourning mean nothing. I don't care if he is with God or if he is in a better place or if his suffering is over...he is not here. And yet, what was here to Tom?

In all the years Mom and Tom were together, she encouraged Tom to be dependent on her. She cooked all the meals, did all the shopping, the laundry...you see where this is going. Mom liked being needed; she liked playing the martyr. I'm not disrespecting her; Mom was a complicated woman. Her mental illness kept her from ever feeling she was good enough; in her own mind, she always fell short. Being needed gave her something to live for, something to make her feel worthy. And Tom seemed to enjoy being waited on, hand and foot.

But when Mom got a new job in her mid-60s, her responsibilities demanded she be away from the house, which meant Tom would be alone. Older than her by 5 years, he was not able--had not been trained or encouraged--to stay on his own for extended periods of time. And by this time, he had several health issues, though I can't tell you what they were because one manifestation of Mom's mental status was pathological lying. One week he had Parkinson's; the next it was Touretts syndrome. I couldn't keep up and I didn't know what to believe.

This new job of Mom's brought her a new circle of friends and gave her a renewed lease on life; she was happy and felt valued. But Tom's presence and neediness stood in her way. So she put him in a home. And she abandoned him. And of all the things my mom has ever done that hurt--and there have been more than I can tell you--this is the one I can't get past.

It hurts me to type that admission, that confession of one of her most mortifying acts. And yet as Tom's body is being prepared for cremation, I can't NOT say it. As these tears wash over my face and blur my vision, I see in my mind a picture of a healthier Tom. And while I'm grieving, I know it's not so much over his passing, but over his ending.

Because Tom worshiped the ground my mother walked on. She could do no wrong, even as she belittled him, chastised him, complained about him. In happier days, they would go dancing at the Fire Hall or the Legion. And people would back up to watch them, they were that spectacular. Mom loved to cook; Tom loved to eat. She was bossy; he didn't seem to mind being pushed around. It was a symbiotic relationship and one that brought both of them a form of happiness.

And so to know Mom just warehoused him because greener pastures were calling absolutely slays me. At the same time, I know she was not well herself. She never had been mentally stable, and her physical health was in rapid decline, though only she knew just how so at that point. Was this tossing away of Tom an act of love, done so that he would be taken care of when she suddenly dropped dead? I've wanted to--tried to--believe that, but I know better. She did this because she wanted something else. It causes me deep shame to admit that, and I know she would never have let me get away with doing something so morally corrupt.

But Mom didn't play by the same rules as those of us with all our faculties. And most of the time, I let her slide. But not this time. I told her I thought what she did was appalling. I reminded her of all the good times they'd had, how Tom loved her like no man ever had loved her. I beseeched her not to just lock him up and abandon him to a life she knew would be sheer torture for him. She did not listen.

And in fact, during the last phone conversation she and I had, she lied and told me she'd been to visit Tom at the nursing home. I, ridiculously enough, believed her. I thought maybe she'd had a change of heart. But no, I later found out that had been just one more in a very long list of lies. She wanted me to think better of her.

After Mom's death, I visited Tom whenever I went east, which was not often. And whenever I did visit him, he would be so drugged up he wasn't fully aware. He'd have lucid moments, but that was the most I could hope for. Still, I went because if there was even a remote chance my presence could bring him a moment of happiness, I wanted to give him that. He deserved much more than that, more than I was able to give.

The last time I saw him, this past October, he was bent over in his wheelchair so far that his nose almost touched his kneecaps. My aunt and I got him into his bed, propped him up, and made him as comfortable as possible. He remembered me and my kids; he didn't remember Mom. He had photos of my family on his bulletin board, and there were cards I had sent him on his nightstand. I tried to remain a part of his life, let him know he was still thought of and loved, even if I had to do it long distance.

As I sat on the bed with him holding his bony hand, I knew I probably would never see Tom again. In fact, I wished for him an end to the indignity, the emptiness, the nothing-life my mom committed him to. Yes, now he was sick enough to require professional care around the clock. When Mom sent him away, he was nowhere near the shattered man who lay before me. Did her getting rid of him cause this rapid decline? I can't say for sure.

But here's what I do know: Tom Bellante loved my mom despite a mental illness that caused her do to unspeakable things to those she loved most. He cared for her and made her laugh. He rescued her from a life of loneliness and gave her something--and someone--to live for. He told her she was beautiful and believed the sun rose and set with her. He took her dancing and made her feel important. He was all the things a partner should be, even when she didn't deserve it.

Rest in peace, Tom. And know how much you meant to me.