Living Happily Ever After
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No Sorrow That Cannot Heal

Date: December 12, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

Step 4: Refrain from speaking useless words and never give in to what they spawn—anger, your’s or anyone else’s!

Thomas S. Monson once said the two most useless words in the English language are “if only.” He’s right, I’m sure, but I would also add two more: “why me?”

Too many people experience adversity—illness, financial reverse, betrayal, a divorce, an unexpected death, even a natural disaster—from which they never recover, usually the result of focusing on “why me” and “if only,” which leads to anger and a downward spiral that goes on to ruin not only their lives, but the lives of others. I was determined NOT to let that same thing happen to me when my world fell apart!

I’d had a friend whose husband betrayed her and asked for a divorce, and instead of carrying on she indulged in the four most useless words, which fed her anger (which she also indulged) to the point that she never recovered. She has been miserable for 11 years now and counting, still angry over what her former husband did, and she has completely ruined not just her life but the lives of her children. Meanwhile, her husband had remarried, had more children, is very happy and has a good relationship with his older children as well.

On another occasion, I met a 50-year-old woman without a job, a place to live, a winter coat or even shoes (other than sandals) in the snowy climate of Colorado. As I drove her to purchase a coat and some winter shoes, I couldn’t help but ask how she had arrived at such desperate circumstances. She said her dad had died unexpectedly when she was a teenager and that the experience had been very difficult for her because she had really loved her dad! She continued, “Why me? If only that hadn’t happened…” In that moment I realized I had been blessed with the same life experience she had, at close to the same age. I believe the difference was in what we had each allowed ourselves to indulge in.

It is never productive and actually, can be very destructive in my experience, if you let yourself indulge in, and wallow in, feelings of anger, resentment and hatred. Hatred, anger and resentment are like acid—they only destroy the vessel in which they are stored. And it IS possible to do that when instead of indulging in those feelings, you choose to allow yourself to heal.

“Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.” (Thomas More)

 

Proma Drama

Date: April 19, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I get letters from all over, all sorts. It’s really cool. I get a lot from inmates, which is kind of scary. But the best was the guy who wanted to send me a plane ticket to fly me to his prom.” (Laura Prepon)

Prom (at our house) is 10 days away and the drama continues. In fact, it has resulted in modifications to the English language: Proma Drama (say it like it rhymes with drama). Although my husband coined the term, if it were in any dictionary you could find it defined as, “anything having to do with the events leading up to the high school ritual known as Prom.” Or something like that.

Date to prom? Check.

As reported earlier, my daughter was asked to prom. A boy she works with and goes to school with asked her. (The invitation itself caused drama, as I’ve mentioned earlier, because the boy asked my daughter and another girl at the school walked around school for days crying in the halls and all of her classes and told everyone it was because the boy she wanted to go to prom with asked my daughter!)

We live in Utah, where “creative dating” is practiced by teens, so the boy didn’t just ask my daughter in person or text or call with his invitation, he did it in a creative way. Late one night our doorbell rang, I opened the door to find no one there, looked down and there sat three goldfish swimming in a container with the message: “If wishes were fishes and I had three, I’d use them to ask, ‘Will you go to prom with me?’” (Cute, huh? They even came with fish food!)

Due to my daughter’s busy school, work and spring track schedule she didn’t have time to answer for a few days. In the meantime, everyone enjoyed the fish. And fed them. Until sadly, I don’t believe any were actually alive by the time the reply was delivered. Oops!

Prom dress? Check.

Believe it or not, we found it online—a far different prom dress shopping experience than mine were in the 1980s. I never actually did find one that was “perfect,” which resulted in my mom designing and sewing me the perfect dress for prom my junior year (she was a fabulous seamstress, as good as any professional anywhere)—and then flying to another state the following year in quest of the perfect prom dress so she wouldn’t have to EVER sew another one!

Referencing prom throughout the days and weeks leading up to it? Check.

For example, my daughter’s birthday came a few weeks after the “fishy” prom invitation. Her birthday incorporated a bit of Proma Drama when her best friend sent her a beautiful bouquet of roses with two wishes: “Happy Birthday! I hope these flowers live longer than the fish did!” (For the record, the flowers are still thriving and looking beautiful.)

And then the moment came when my daughter’s date had to be told what color her dress is so their attire could be coordinated.

Stay tuned.

Oh. And speaking of dresses: “Some women hold up dresses that are so ugly and they always say the same thing: ‘This looks much better on.’ On what? On fire?” (Rita Rudner)

Sold!

Date: February 9, 2011  Author: Andrea Merriman

“This sentimental comedy…is said to have had a great success in its own country. So do fringed lamp shades.” (Richard Eder)

I determined not be sentimental about the sale of my violin. I didn’t really even let myself think about it. I just loaded my violin in the car and headed to Salt Lake City. The problem was that I had time to think as I drove to Mr. Prier’s store. And although I didn’t do it on purpose, my mind was flooded with memories of my parents, everything they had taught me and had done for me, competitions and concerts I had played with my violin, solos I’d had and even some funny memories–like how in the early stages of learning the violin, our family cat would attack me when I practiced.

As I drove, I started feeling pretty sentimental about the whole thing. Every few miles, I’d wonder if I should turn around and head home with my violin. But I kept driving. Too soon, I arrived at Peter Paul Prier. I parked my car and headed in.

The little shop stands exactly as it must have in the 1980s (and probably, earlier) when my parents walked through those same doors. Instead of a bell jingling your arrival as stores used to in the “olden days” of my childhood, Peter Paul Prier has a mechanism that strums the strings of a violin hung over the door when you open it. The walls have wood paneling. Art, depicting violins and European scenes, hangs on the walls. An adjoining room is lined with shelves of beautiful violins for sale.

Mr. Prier was on the phone, so I had time to look around the little store and soak up its atmosphere, which wasn’t good for me. It made me want to cry. I walked to the counter and saw the same receipt I had from my purchase–he still uses the exact same graphic and receipt paper! (I loved that.) I had plenty of time to sit and think about my parents being in the very same store, making a purchase–and there I was returning it for money almost 30 years later. I’m sure my parents had no idea how much their purchase would help me at a later date just as I’d never imagined the day would come that I’d return their gift.

The longer I sat there, the harder it got. I hoped Mr. Prier would soon appear so I could sell him my violin and get out of there before I started to cry. Finally, he came. He walked out, eyes twinkling, a slight German accent to his English and asked how he could help me. I showed him my violin and told him I’d like to sell it. He inspected it, told me a little bit about it, showed me special things about my violin and I gave him the original receipt. He asked why I wanted to sell it.

I didn’t expect him to ask me that. I didn’t have a smooth answer prepared so I told him the truth: I was divorced, a single mother of four children, and I needed the money. He looked at me with surprise, and said something like, “What? A nice woman like you? That is too bad.” For some reason, I explained that I am a nice woman; my divorce was the result of crimes committed by the man I was married to, that he is incarcerated, that I lost everything of value in a government seizure but I’d been allowed to keep my violin because my parents had purchased it in 1982, long before my marriage or my former spouse’s crimes. (I don’t know why I did that. I know better than to share my story!)

He nodded his head, told me what he would give me for my violin, I agreed to the amount, and he went to his office to write the check. While he was gone, I struggled to reconcile myself to what I was doing. Just when I thought I had moved on and healed from everything, apparently there was another undiscovered chapter to close. I was affected by it. I tried not to be. I fought back the tears. I just hoped I could get out of there before they began to roll.

Mr. Prier returned, came from behind the counter, gave me the check out and promised me it would clear when I cashed it. I held the check, but he didn’t let go right away. He offered some very kind words to me, along with the money, and that was when I did start to cry. So there I stood like a total idiot, crying, as Peter Paul Prier said I was a nice woman, he hoped his check helped me, he wished the best for me and my children, that things would get better with time–he knew there were good things in store for me. (I tell you, only in Utah are people like this! It’s amazing to me that I’ve had more than one encounter with businessmen who offer encouragement and kind words in the course of their business transactions!) He was such a handsome, kind, soft-spoken, older gentleman with sparkling eyes I couldn’t help but believe him. His kindness, compassion, empathy and my hope that he was right touched me and made me cry…all the way to my car.

And then the weirdest thing happened. As I got to my car, there sat a giant white dog that looked eerily similar to our dog Joe, our Yellow Lab who passed away last summer, barking and wagging his tail. Joe had such a deep, distinctive “Woof,” I could not believe a dog that looked, but especially sounded so much like Joe, was standing in a parking lot in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City, UT, at a time I was struggling and needed some cheering! Although for an instant it added to the brief wallowing I couldn’t help but let myself indulge in for a few moments, and made me miss my dog on top of missing my violin, my parents, my past and for a moment, every other thing I had lost, it actually cheered me up– the strangeness of things in my unexpected life!

“Expect the best. Prepare for the worst. Capitalize on what comes.”  (Zig Ziglar)

Thanks to my unexpected life, I’m doing that.

Life is SOME Book

Date: October 30, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

“Ideally a book would have no order to it, and the reader would have to discover his own.” (Mark Twain)

I began college as an English major. Somewhere along the way, I realized I just wasn’t deep enough (make that insightful enough) to compete with my peers; and at the same time, I realized they were ruining literature for me.

Here are just a few examples.

One class required we recite a poem. I opened a book, picked one that began “Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forest of the night…” (You’ve probably heard of it, it’s a pretty famous one.) I was prepared to recite it, but I confess it sounded comparable to how an elementary school student might have done it.

I knew I was in trouble when a young woman in my class stood to recite her poem, and began, “I’ll be doing such-and-such poem in a Meryl Streep, ‘Out of Africa’ accent because…” She went on to explain her deep rationale, but I completely missed her poem because I was so blown away by the fact she had even THOUGHT to do an accent! And that she COULD do an accent! And that she was up there DOING an accent, and didn’t appear to be mortified at all!

Other times we read poems and other literature as a class and discussed them. The things my peers inferred from what appeared to me to be an ordinary story about an ordinary event made me realize English wasn’t for me. Where were they getting their deep thoughts and all of that meaning? I had spent my life getting lost in stories, and simply enjoying the escape into whatever book’s reality I was reading at the time, NOT looking beyond what was right in front of my face for…meaning. Their “meaning” began to ruin it for me.

I found myself beginning to dislike the classics because of the analyses that took place in my college English courses. I started to dread reading (something I’ve always loved to do–I never dreaded reading, reading assignments or writing research papers. I had always enjoyed everything associated with reading and writing.) So I knew it was time to make a change.

I got out. I changed majors.

I tried interior design for a semester because I liked decorating things. Little did I know how much artistic talent was required for a career in that, and unfortunately, I had zero practical art background and no  skill. (I drew like a preschooler, and still do.) THAT was a tough semester, with a very benevolent end, when my professors basically gifted me with “C”s–as long as I promised to change majors!

About the only thing I did somewhat decently as an English major was write. As often as not, my papers would be returned to me with lots of red markings and notes by my professors encouraging me to submit the piece to a magazine or newspaper for publication. I finally took an aptitude test. It recommended public relations. I’d never heard of such a thing, but I was told strong writing was necessary for that career, so I signed on. And I never looked back. I had found my thing.

It was very unexpected.

One of the most valuable things I gleaned from my PR education was the counsel, “Don’t be afraid of getting fired.” Fired? I’d never been fired, but I knew enough to dread it and consider it a failure. Instead, my professor taught us getting fired can be the best thing that ever happens to you. In fact, he encouraged us at some point to “fire ourselves” if no one else ever did. He said it was good for every career, and every person, to make a big change at least once in their life. He said oftentimes, the situation you end up with after being fired (voluntarily or involuntarily) is often better than your previous one.

I never forgot that. And I’ve been amazed how well it correlates to the unexpected life. Especially mine.

I was living life, loving being a wife and mother, serving others in my own small ways and trying to contribute to the world…and then one day the bottom fell out of my world. Shawn Merriman revealed the lies and crimes he had been perpetuating for 15 years, he went to prison, and I was left alone to provide for and raise our children; forced to re-enter the workforce. I got fired from my life. And had to find, or create, a new one.

Like networking in the business world that leads to job placement, I didn’t find my new life on my own. I was blessed with tender mercies, miracles and a friends (old and new) who stood by me, encouraged me and helped me begin again.

And now, on this side of it, just 18 months later, I wonder if my unexpected life isn’t one of the best things to ever happen to me? Not because it’s easy, it’s not. Not because it has been fun, it hasn’t always been–especially in the beginning. But because of all that I have learned, the many ways I have grown and the good things that have come to me and my children because of it.

An unexpected life is an abrupt plot twist filled with antagonists that threaten to overwhelm. Sometimes it seems its chapters goes on far too long. Yet if you keep pressing forward through the drama, you’ll make it through some difficult chapters, and the NEW story directions that come unexpectedly into your life can amaze and overwhelm you, this time, in a good way. I believe you can actually end up with a story (and a life) better than it would have otherwise been.

Life is SOME book.

You just can’t put it down.

And like the few special books that have touched me deeply, enough to make tears roll down my cheeks as I read them, I think I’ll cry when it’s over.

“Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, ‘A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!’” (Robert Browning)

The Unexpected Life.

The 2nd Time Around

Date: June 18, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

Like I said, things with Bachelor #1 were ending. We ended up seeing each other one more time after the night he told me that to continue seeing each other was too painful for him, but I planned ahead. That last week, as I sensed things were ending, I decided to try the online thing again.

I still wasn’t sure, being new in town and single and commuting to work in another city, how to meet and make local friends. The one Sunday meeting, and the one singles dance, hadn’t helped me. The online option was the only one
I knew to try.

The second time around, I was optimistically hoping to last longer than 24 hours. I felt much better prepared. I had some dating experience under my belt, the rebound relationship had come and gone, and I went into it expecting some unusual surprises so I didn’t think I would be as shocked (and afraid) at what came my way!

So, before my last date with Bachelor #1, I switched to a different online site (I’d heard there were “better” people on there) and signed up online.

I posted my picture and info, and then, like watching stock move up the Dow, began to see the activity around my bio. The site shows you who is checking out your profile. The numbers can be unexpected–200+ men in 24 hours is not uncommon. I couldn’t imagine there were that many people trying to meet people. And at all hours of the day.

The online traffic was something I was careful of. So although a lot of people posted picture of themselves with their kids, I didn’t. As a mother, I didn’t have a single picture of myself without at least one of my children in the frame, and I wasn’t about to take special pictures just to post online, so I just made sure I was alone in anything I posted on a singles site. It required some careful cropping.

I heard from some men who had contacted me my first time online–I guess they’d switched sites, too, or they were on multiple sites!

I heard from widowers.

I heard from men from all backgrounds, all across the country, and even some from the Baltic. I think the quest for international friendships is huge online, based on some of the profiles that came my way that specified up front: “If you don’t speak English, don’t even bother contacting me!”

I even heard from celebrities. (Well, their pictures anyway!) There was one man I was pretty sure was using pictures of Guy Ritchie, Madonna’s ex-husband, for his profile. And several others I think were posting professional modeling photos, of other people, as theirs. It was entertaining!

I’d walk into work each morning, and my team wanted to know how the online situation was. I gave a few co-workers my password so they could have a good laugh at my online contacts, and it was a source of entertainment during many a lunch hour.

I gave my sister my password, too, so she could occasionally check things out on my behalf and make sure she felt good about things. (I trust her judgement.)

But eventually, sharing my password with so many turned out to not be so good. I started getting frustrated messages from men that I was online and not responding to them when in fact, it hadn’t been ME online! I explained I had lots of friends in my corner, helping me and giving me input. THAT went over well–scared quite a few men off! But that was o.k. by me. Given the public nature of my divorce and the whole unexpected life, financial devastation, destroyed credit, four children…my life was not for the faint of heart and I knew it. If men couldn’t take some degree of a lack of privacy, after all I had lived through, they weren’t for me!

And, just what I was hoping for, I heard from local men too.

Hello, Bachelor #2. Or should I say, “Bachelor Bee Gee”?