Cy Wakeman - Lifes Messy, Live Happy: Things Dont Have to Be Perfect for You to Be Content

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For the women whose strength and love
changed my DNA and my Destiny.
And to Cathy, whose name is
written on my heart.

H ere I am, back at the water.

The water is what calls to me when it is time to gather courage, make a life pivot, wash away some kind of devastation, and begin again. I have said goodbye at the waters edge to people I love, to people who are dead or who are dead to me. I have almost lost my life in the water, only to return to the surface for more. I have soaked in the water as baptism, emerging with wisdom.

This time, Im watching the restless Pacific Ocean crash onto the shore from a second-floor balcony in Mexico. The waves are dramatic, gathering and expending a force that creates undulating fountains of foamy spray. Depending on the time of day or what is happening with the sky, the waters color changes minute by minute, from deep indigo, to azure, to pale aqua.

Im exhausted.

Ive come back to the water because, once again, my life is messy.

As I look out at the beautiful, churning ocean, my heartbeat runs wild, like Im on the bottom drop of a roller coaster. My stomach is jumping like it does on that Silly Silo ride where everything spins, faster and faster. The floor drops away and youre pinned to the side, unable to move. I had such high hopes for myself, that I would walk through the world enlightened, perfect, acing the Test of Life.

In the cool morning shadows, I stand on the balcony doubting myself, worrying about the future and wondering about the choices I am making. I feel misunderstood. In the last week, Ive watched three months of business engagements, my livelihood, disappear in the face of a pandemic. My best friend just got a PET scan back, cancer has taken up residence in her liver, and she will be entering hospice. And Im feeling completely betrayed. Ive learned that my husband, from whom Im separated but not divorced, has taken up with his high school sweetheart and others, violating our informal agreement not to date as we try to negotiate our future. Hes even admitted to having trysts in our Mexican home. I want to resist the suck of a downward spiral, but my ego keeps seducing me with stories.

My head is dizzy from all the questions spinning in the center of the Silly Silo ride: How can I be so successful in one area of my life and unsuccessful in another? What if I cant rebuild my business? How can I see myself so differently from the way my husband now describes me? What kind of fun house mirror has distorted my self-image? What if the accusations Im hearingthat I am materialistic, full of ego, and undesirableare real? What if Im nothing without him? My dearest friend is dying, and how will I live in a world without her? How can I ever learn to live with the gaping holes left behind? Ive spent so much of my life helping others, but what if nobody is there for me? What if I can only be loved for what I give, and never for who I am? What if Ive peaked? What if Im a failure?

What if I lose everything and end up all alone?

My mind knows these Silly Silo feelings will pass, but in this moment, theyre unpleasant and painful. I share some of this with a friend sitting on the balcony beside me.

It doesnt surprise me youre feeling this way right now, she says. But sometime, you should let me tell you a story about a girl I know. Her life was so messed up that she lived for several months in a pup tent by the lake because she had nowhere else to go. She was resilient, and she came out just fine.

Oh yeah. That girl.

That was the first time my messy life drove me to the water.

I was twenty-one years old, and my bad choices had put me into a serious, dangerous predicament. Id been dating Joe (not his real name) since I was nineteen. We worked together at an incredible restaurant. He was an adorable, handsome, funny soccer star. He was charming, brilliant, and well-readpopular in a way I never had been. When he chose me, I was beyond thrilled. I honestly couldnt believe he wanted to be with me. But he did, so I broke off my engagement to a young man who was dear to me, had been good to me. I set him aside to satisfy the craving to be part of Joes glittering in-crowd.

It didnt take long to discover the high price required to be loved by Joe. Sacrifices had to be made. We both worked really hard, going to school full-time and waiting tables at night. After work, there were parties with lots of alcohol and drugs. To keep being chosen, I had to be vigilant: always looking good, saying the right things, and doing what he wanted me to do. To be part of his world meant partying, drinking a lot, using cocaineand not infrequently.

During the day, at school, I was the consummate good girl, earning straight As, knowing the answers, being the professors golden student. At night, I poured whatever was left of my energy, boosted by the drugs, into being loved by Joe.

Soon the fun started to feel pretty empty, and then scary. I discovered that, even though I was the girlfriend Joe presented to the world, he wasnt faithful to me. He wasnt choosing me exclusively. One day, I found him in bed with my best girlfriend. It should have enraged me. I should have left immediately. Instead, it negated me.

I questioned my choices and attempted to leave. But each time I tried, he became more controlling, demeaning, and belittling. His language sounded familiar. He repeated unjust tropes from my childhood, and demanded that I keep the peace. He told me I was the flawed one and created an obstacle course of things I needed to accomplish to be loved by himor at least keep peace with him. How could I trust my views when everyone else saw things so differently?

I would leave, and Id be persuaded to return. Id get out, get scared, and get back to the familiar. Each leaving became more frightening, every return increasingly demeaning and demanding. Intellectually, I knew what was happening was wrong, but emotionally, I was stuck. I told myself if I could change, become better, I could be the someone who helped him evolve. I could improve these crazy circumstances.

One night I felt resolute. I would leave and make it stick. I went to his basement apartment to deliver the news, unaware that he was on a three-day cocaine binge and seriously sleep-deprived. Me leaving him was not part of his plan. Our epic fight quickly turned crazy. He threatened me, letting me know he had a knife and could use it if I tried to leave. When he finally passed out, I escaped through a ground-level window. I was wearing a flimsy nightgown, and my purse was still in the apartment. I was so panicked that I hadnt even thought to grab my car keys.

Fortunately, a backpack in my car, full of schoolbooks, also contained a spare set of keys. I broke the window to get into my car. I didnt have my purse, but it didnt really matter. Id given my last $200 to Joe the night before so we could keep partying. I had no money for gas or anything else. I found a few coins to make a phone call. I fled to a girlfriends house, and she persuaded me to call my dad, to whom Id defended Joe time and again, to whom Id lied about where Id been going and what Id been doing. Even so, my girlfriend said, You can always go home.