True You (15 page)

Reg stayed in France for five years. From there he went to China, where the economy was booming and the opportunities were unlimited. His amazing facility for language allowed him to learn Chinese in only six months. His past experience paid off. He began his own firm, specializing in publicizing Chinese fashion designers in Europe. He did extremely well and soon had beautiful apartments in Shanghai, Paris, and London. Magazine articles were written about his success. His services were in demand, and Reg became a celebrity in his own right.

“I flew from one country to another,” he said. “I was never in a city for more than three days. There were exciting meetings with exciting personalities, exciting plans for the future. Now when I went to a fashion show, I was escorted to a prime seat in the first row. There was no velvet rope I couldn’t get past. I was wearing velvet sport coats and flying in private jets. But you know what? Inside I still felt empty. I heard that song you put on
Velvet Rope
called
‘Empty’ and realized it was about me. It was about someone who had a fantasized romantic relationship on the Internet. There were all sorts of men who were attracted to me and I to them, but that nagging self-doubt deep inside kept me away from real romance. Despite my resources, despite my high profile, when it came to intimate relationships I lived in the world of make-believe. I was afraid of going out there and getting rejected. There were sexual encounters, but most of them short-lived and even anonymous.”

Things went downhill for Reg. He developed a cocaine addiction that nearly did him in. He fell apart and nearly lost his business. When he completed a long period of rehab, he spoke to me of the experience.

“My entire life has been about filling up that famous hole in the soul. It turns out not to be a hole, though, but a bottomless pit. Prestige, drugs, luxury apartments—you name it. None of it gave me what I lacked. Self-respect. Self-love. I had to be stripped down to nothing to realize that the running had to stop. I had to look at myself for who I am, accept who I am, and find, through the grace of a divine power, an appreciation for myself, flaws and all.”

I wanted to know what rehab was like for Reg.

“There was group therapy,” he said, “as well as individual therapy. I did a lot of journaling and also attended twelve-step meetings. But the biggest eye-opener for me was this simple realization: I hadn’t been taking care of myself. And, to be honest, I didn’t even know what it meant to take care of myself. That had never been part of my life. When they spoke of surrendering and admitting that I was powerless over the mess I had made of my life, I didn’t know what they were talking about. How could I surrender? I was
the one who had graduated college, moved to France, moved to China, learned both languages, built up a thriving business. I had the power. I was in control. And I could never give up that control. ‘When you decided to enter rehab,’ said one of the counselors, ‘you decided that this job—repairing your soul and gaining mental health—was beyond your control. You knew you needed help. You surrendered the care of yourself to others. You admitted that you needed others to teach you self-care.’ That surrender and admission were monumental. Because the paradox is that most of us need others—other people, programs, and prayers—to show us how to care for ourselves.” Yes, and how to love.

A picture no one has seen until now.

J
ermaine Dupri was my boyfriend for many years and remains a close friend. He made me feel beautiful in a way that no one else ever had. He praised parts of my body that I didn’t consider attractive, assuring me that they were beautiful.

“All of you is beautiful, Janet. Don’t be ashamed of anything,” he told me.

If I told Jermaine that my booty was too big or my thighs too fat, he never failed to say that I was wrong.

“I love you the way you are,” was his constant mantra.

During those days in 2006 when I ballooned up to 180 pounds, Jermaine was always positive, supportive, and loving.

To be reassured by a friend is a gift from God. Often others see the beauty in you while you, conditioned by hypercriticism, see only flaws.

Long ago, a friend gave me a helpful exercise. He said, “Look in the mirror until you see something you like.”

“There’s no part of me that I like,” I said.

“No matter, stand there until you find a part that you do like.”

I cried in front of the mirror for a long time, still unable to find a part that looked right to me. I wanted to bolt.

“Keep standing there,” my friend insisted.

Finally, glimpsing myself from the side, I liked the look of the small of my back. I liked the way it curved.

“Good,” he said. “You’ve started the journey. There’ll be other places you’ll learn to like.”

To honor that one place, I had a tattoo inked into the small of my back, a permanent reminder that positive self-regard is possible.

One day I answered the phone and heard someone I cared about crying on the other end. She said, “I’m moving out on him. He’s critical of every part of me. Whatever positive picture I had of myself is gone. I’m moving far away from him and starting a new life. I’m moving to a new coast, a new city. I’m starting over.”

“Okay,” I said, and kept listening.

“He’s like a drug that messes up my mental health. I tell myself that he can’t do me any good—and I know that’s true—but I also know he needs me. And I need him to need me. All that neediness is insanity. We keep running around in a circle like dogs chasing their tails. He cheats, he lies, he gets caught, he apologizes, he begs for forgiveness, he convinces me, he gets me back, and then he makes me crazier than ever. I gotta get away. I gotta put three thousand miles between him and me.”

I was silent for a moment and then I said, “If that’s what you need to do, go ahead and do it. But you also need to look inside and not simply run away from dealing with the issue.”

A month later Greta called from the East Coast. She had moved, found an apartment, and gotten a new job.

“Jan,” she said, “I’m flying out for the weekend.”

I didn’t want to ask her why, but I knew. The pattern continued. In fact, it still
does
continue.

I believe we’re either moving forward or moving backward.

“That applies almost to everything,” my friend explained. “We can change cities, countries, and hair colors, but nothing changes until we figure out how to change our attitude and belief system. We move backward when we keep doing the same things and expect a different result. We get discouraged and fall into despair. Superficial external moves—like a new wardrobe or a new apartment—just have us moving from side to side. Different scenery, same sensibility. Be careful, because all of that may be just smoke and mirrors, because it’s not going to cure your pain. But to move up, to gain a higher consciousness and a more effective way
to deal with our problems—that requires faith. Faith in something bigger than yourself.”

I found faith in God as a child when my mother brought us to the Kingdom Hall of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. My mother leads a rich spiritual life. I have beautiful memories of her sitting by the beach, reading her Bible, while La Toya and I roller-skated on the promenade overlooking the ocean. As I grew older, I no longer followed every aspect of Mother’s beautiful faith, but I have never wavered in my belief in a loving and compassionate Christ. My mother exemplified that love and compassion. It really didn’t matter to me that her scriptural journey was different from mine. The beauty of her spirit said everything. In my own journey, I’ve tried to find my personal understanding of divinity. I’ve listened to preachers, teachers, rabbis, ministers, monks, priests, and anyone else who seems to be connecting to the source of love. When it comes to the spiritual life, I’m committed to having a closer one-on-one relationship with God every day.

A man I know recently went through a nightmare divorce and spoke to me about the spirit of generosity.

“When I discovered that my wife, the mother of my three young girls, had met another man in another city, my heart shattered into a million pieces. My mom had left me and Dad when I was ten, so you can imagine my reaction when my wife said, ‘You no longer interest me. You no longer excite me. I need to move on.’

“At first I didn’t believe her. Our marriage had seemed good,
our children are terrific, our lifestyle is comfortable. Where were the indications that something was wrong?

“‘The indications were subtle,’ she said, ‘and you’re too insensitive to notice them.’

“‘Was it sex?’

“‘The sex between us was decent,’ she said, ‘but not spectacular. I want spectacular.’

“‘Well, can’t we work on it? Can’t we go to a sex counselor who might help us discover how to make it spectacular?’

“‘I don’t have the patience,’ she let me know. ‘Besides, it’s far more than sex. You box me in. You cramp my style. You fill up the room with your presence and there’s no room for me.’

“‘I’ll work on that,’ I replied. ‘I see that as a problem, and I promise I’ll do my best not to dominate.’

“‘You’ve tried before, and you failed.’

“‘I’ll keep trying.’

“‘It’s too late.’

“And so our discussions went nowhere. When I questioned her about her new man—what he looked like, what he did for a living—I got no response. It was none of my business. When I questioned her about how in the world she could destroy a young family like ours over an impetuous romantic fling, she said, ‘You call it a fling. I call it love. In this beautiful relationship, I’m finally allowed to be who I always wanted to be. I’m no longer suffocated or intimidated. I’m flowering as a woman with her own mind, purpose, and talent.’

“The more she spoke, the more devastated I became. There
was no ambivalence in her attitude. She wanted out—plain and simple. Because I’m close to the girls, and because I knew our girls desperately wanted us to stay together, I considered using them in my determination to win back my wife. But thank God the therapist I was seeing said, ‘That’s the worst thing you can do. It’s called triangulating. Instead of pleading your case to your wife, you use your children to plead for me. That puts them in a terrible position. All that does is confuse and frighten them. They’re confused because they’re taking on an adult role, and they’re frightened because they aren’t certain that, in that role, they can make a difference. If they don’t—and chances are they won’t—their feelings of failure are tremendous burdens for them to carry. Whatever you do, don’t put your children in the middle of these emotional negotiations.’

“I listened to the professional. I kept my children out of the fray as best I could, and instead I pleaded my own case. I lost any semblance of self-respect and basically just begged my wife to take me back. I wrote her letters, emails, text messages—you name it. I cried crocodile tears and literally got on my knees. I didn’t know what else to do. I love this woman and couldn’t imagine life without her. But as you might expect, the more I begged, the more repugnant I appeared to her.

“‘You’re weak,’ she said, ‘and the last thing I want is a weak man. Just move on with your life. Put this behind you.’

“How could I do that, though, when she haunted my days and my dreams, week after week, month after month? Someone said the pain will pass. ‘You’re mourning the death of a relationship.
And the mourning period, although long, can’t go on forever.’ It sure felt like forever, though.

“Next came a period of bitterness and vitriol on my part. I wanted to hurt her—if not physically, certainly emotionally. I wanted her new man to cheat on her and leave her as she was leaving me. I wanted her to lose her job, lose her looks, lose her peace of mind. I hated myself for these cruel fantasies, but I couldn’t turn off my negative mind. How to stop this destructive pattern of thought? After all, I married the woman; I once loved her deeply and probably always will.

“‘Pray for her,’ said my minister.

“‘Pray for her!’ I exclaimed. ‘After what she’s done to me and our girls?’

“‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Pray for her. Pray for her happiness, her well-being, her spiritual and material prosperity.’