What I Know For Sure (4 page)

I once filmed a show in which I interviewed seven men of different ages and backgrounds, all of whom had one thing in common: They had cheated on their wives. It was one of the most interesting, candid conversations I’ve ever had, and a huge aha moment for me. I realized that the yearning to feel heard, needed, and important is so strong in all of us that we seek that validation in whatever form we can get it. For a lot of people—men and women—having an affair is an affirmation that
I’m really okay.
One of the men I interviewed, who’d been married 18 years and thought he had a moral code that would withstand flirtatious temptations, said about his mistress, “There wasn’t anything special about her. But she listened, was interested, and made me feel special.” That’s the key, I thought—we all want to feel like we matter to somebody.

As a girl growing up shuffled between Mississippi, Nashville, and Milwaukee, I didn’t feel loved. I thought I could make people approve of me by becoming an achiever. Then, in my twenties, I based my worth on whether a man would love me. I remember once even throwing a boyfriend’s keys down the toilet to keep him from walking out on me! I was no different from a physically abused woman. I wasn’t getting slapped upside the head every night, but because my wings were clipped I couldn’t soar. I had so much going for me, but without a man I thought I was nothing. Not until years later did I understand that the love and approval I craved could not be found outside myself.

What I know for sure is that a lack of intimacy is not distance from someone else; it is disregard for yourself. It’s true that we all need the kind of relationships that enrich and sustain us. But it’s also true that if you’re looking for someone to heal and complete you—to shush that voice inside you that has always whispered
You’re not worth anything
—you are wasting your time. Why? Because if you don’t already know that you have worth, there’s nothing your friends, your family, or your mate can say that will completely convince you of that. The Creator has given you full responsibility for your life, and with that responsibility comes an amazing privilege—the power to give yourself the love, affection, and intimacy you may not have received as a child. You are the one best mother, father, sister, friend, cousin, and lover you will ever have.

Right now you’re one choice away from seeing yourself as someone whose life has inherent significance—so choose to see it that way. You don’t have to spend one more second focusing on a past deprived of the affirmation you should have gotten from your parents. Yes, you did deserve that love, but it’s up to you now to bestow it upon yourself and move forward. Stop waiting for your husband to say “I appreciate you,” your kids to tell you what a great mother you are, a man to whisk you away and marry you, or your best friend to assure you that you’re worth a darn. Look inward—the loving begins with you.

The key to any
relationship is communication. And I’ve always thought that communication is like a dance. One person takes a step forward, the other takes a step back. Even a single misstep can land both people on the floor in a tangle of confusion. And when you find yourself in that position—with your spouse, your colleague, your friend, your child—I’ve found that the best option is always to ask the other person, “What do you really want here?” At first, you might notice a little squirming, a lot of throat clearing, maybe some silence. But if you stay quiet long enough to get the real answer, I guarantee it will be some variation of the following: “I want to know that you value me.” Extend a hand of connection and understanding, and offer three of the most important words any of us can ever receive: “I hear you.” I know for sure your relationship will be the better for it.

I’ve never been a
social person. I know this may come as a surprise to most people, but ask anyone who knows me well, and they will confirm it’s true. I’ve always kept my downtime for myself, plus a wee circle of friends whom I consider my extended family. I’d been living in Chicago for years before I suddenly realized I could count on one hand—and still have some fingers remaining—the number of times I’d visited friends or met up with someone for dinner or gone out just for fun.

I’d lived in apartments since leaving my dad’s house. Apartments where I often didn’t take the time to know the person across the hallway, let alone anyone else on my floor. We were all too busy, I told myself. But in 2004, shortly after that realization, I moved to a house—not an apartment, a house—in California, and a whole new world opened up to me. After years spent in the public eye, conversing with some of the world’s most fascinating people—I finally became social. For the first time in my adult life, I felt like I was part of a community. Just after I arrived, as I was pushing my cart down the cereal aisle at Von’s, a woman I didn’t know stopped me and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. We all love it here and hope you will, too.” She said it with such sincerity that I wanted to weep.

In that moment, I made a conscious decision not to close the gate to my life as I had for so many years living in the city, shutting myself off to even the possibility of a new circle of friends. I now live in a neighborhood where everybody knows me and I know them.

First, Joe and Judy invited me next door for Joe’s homemade pizza and said it would be ready in an hour. I hesitated only a moment. I put on my flip-flops, headed over in sweatpants and zero makeup, and ended up staying the afternoon. Chattin’ it up at a stranger’s house, finding common ground, was brand-new territory for me—bordering on adventurous.

Since then, I’ve had tea with the Abercrombies, who live three doors down. Been to a backyard barbecue at Bob and Marlene’s … a pool party at Barry and Jelinda’s … had watermelon martinis at Julie’s … took in a rose garden gathering at Sally’s. I attended a formal sit-down at Annette and Harold’s with more silverware than I could manage, and a rib-cooking contest (which I deserved to win but didn’t) at Margo’s. I watched the sunset and ate black-eyed peas at the Nicholsons’, and attended an all-out feast under the stars with 50 neighbors at the Reitmans’. I knew all but two of them by name. So, yes: I’ve become
verrrrrry
social.

And because of that, my life has a new, unexpected layer. I thought I was through making friends. But much to my surprise, I’ve found myself looking forward to hanging out, laughing, connecting with and embracing others as a part of the circle. It’s added new meaning to my life, a feeling of community I didn’t even know I was missing.

What I know for sure is that everything happens for a reason—and the stranger who approached me in the grocery store with such feeling triggered something: the possibility that I could make this new neighborhood a real home and not just a place to live. I’ve always known that life is better when you share it. But I now realize it gets even sweeter when you expand the circle.

Let’s face it:
Love’s a subject that’s been done and overdone, trivialized and dramatized to the point of mass delusion about what it is and isn’t. Most of us can’t see it because we have our own preconceived ideas about what it is (it’s supposed to knock you off your feet and make you swoon) and how it should appear (in a tall, slim, witty, charming package). So if love doesn’t show up wrapped in our personal fantasy, we fail to recognize it.

But this is what I know for sure: Love is all around. It’s possible to love and be loved, no matter where you are. Love exists in all forms. Sometimes I walk into my front yard and I can feel all my trees just vibrating love. It is always available for the asking.

I’ve seen so many women (myself included) dazed by the idea of romance, believing they’re not complete unless they find someone to make their lives whole. When you think about it, isn’t that a crazy notion? You, alone, make a whole person. And if you feel incomplete, you alone must fill all your empty, shattered spaces with love. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.”

I’ll never forget the time I was cleaning out a drawer and came across 12 pages that stopped me in my tracks. It was a
looove
letter I’d written but never sent (thank God) to a guy I was dating. I was 29 at the time, desperate and obsessed with this man. It was 12 pages of whinin’ and pinin’ so pathetic that I didn’t recognize myself. And though I’ve kept my journals since age 15, I held my own burning ceremony for this testament to what I thought was love. I wanted no written record that I was ever that pitiful and disconnected from myself.

I’ve seen so many women give themselves up for men who clearly didn’t give two hoots about them. I’ve seen so many women settle for crumbs. But now I know that a relationship built on real love feels
good.
It should bring you joy—not just some of the time but most of the time. It should never require losing your voice, your self-respect, or your dignity. And whether you’re 25 or 65, it should involve bringing all of who you are to the table—and walking away with even more.

Romantic love is not
the only love worth seeking. I’ve met so many people longing to be in love with somebody, to be rescued from their daily lives and swept into romantic bliss, when all around there are children, neighbors, friends, and strangers also yearning for someone to connect with. Look around and notice—possibility is everywhere.

On the other hand, if you find it a strain to open your heart full-throttle to the Big L, start in first gear: Show compassion, and before long you’ll feel yourself shifting to something deeper. Soon, you’ll be able to offer others the blessings of understanding, empathy, caring, and—I know for sure—love.

In times of crisis,
I’ve always marveled at the way people reach out with words of encouragement. I’ve had moments of real devastation in my life—we all have—but I’ve been sustained by the grace and love of friends who have asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?” not knowing that they already have, just by asking. People I’ve known well and others I’ve never met have, in tough moments, built me a bridge of support.

I’ll never forget when, after a particularly difficult setback a few years ago, my friend BeBe Winans stopped by unexpectedly. “There’s something I came to tell you,” he said. And he started singing what he knows is my favorite spiritual: “I surrender all. I surrender all. All to thee, my blessed Savior, I surrender all.”

I sat silently, closed my eyes, and opened myself to this gift of love and song. When he finished, I felt a release of all pressure. I was content to just be. And for the first time in weeks, I experienced pure peace.

When I opened my eyes and wiped away the tears, BeBe was beaming. He started laughing his
huh, huh, huuuagh
laugh, and gave me a big hug. “Girl,” he said, “I just came to remind you, you don’t have to carry this load all by yourself.”

To know that people care about how you’re doing when the doing isn’t so good—that’s what love is. I feel blessed to know this for sure.

I thought I knew
a lot about friendship until I spent 11 days traveling across the country in a Chevy Impala with Gayle King. We’ve been close since we were in our early twenties. We’ve helped each other through tough times, vacationed together, worked on my magazine together. And still there was more to learn.

On Memorial Day 2006, we set out to “see the U.S.A. in a Chevrolet.” Remember that commercial from years ago? Well, I always thought it was a charming idea. When we pulled out of my driveway in California, we were singing the jingle loudly, with vibrato, cracking ourselves up. Three days in, around Holbrook, Arizona, we were mumbling the tune. And by Lamar, Colorado, five days in, we’d stopped singing altogether.

The trip was grueling. Every day, six, then eight, then ten hours with nothing but road stretched ahead. When Gayle drove, she insisted on constant music; I wanted silence. “To be alone with my thoughts” became a running joke. As she sang along boisterously, I realized there wasn’t a tune she didn’t know. (She called almost everyone her favorite.) This was as nerve-racking for me as the silence was for her when I was behind the wheel. I learned patience. And when patience wore thin, I bought earplugs. Every night, landing in a different hotel, we were exhausted but still able to laugh at ourselves. We laughed at my merging anxiety, interstate anxiety, and passing-another-vehicle anxiety. Oh, and crossing-a-bridge anxiety.

Of course, Gayle will tell you I’m not a great driver. She herself is a masterly driver, taking the curves on the Pennsylvania Turnpike with ease and steadily leading us into New York. Only one glitch: By the time we reached Pennsylvania, her contacts had been in too long and her eyes were tired. We approached the George Washington Bridge, relieved to end the long run of Cheetos and pork rinds from gas stations. Dusk had fallen, and night was approaching fast. Gayle said, “I hate to tell you this, but I can’t see.”

“What do you mean, you can’t see?” I tried to ask calmly.

“All the headlights have halos. Do they have halos to you?”

“Uhhhh, no, they do not.
Can You See the Lines on the Road?
” I was shouting now, envisioning the headline: FRIENDS FINISH JOURNEY IN A CRASH ON GW BRIDGE. There was nowhere to pull over, and cars were speeding by.

“I know this bridge very well,” she said. “That’s what’s saving us. And I have a plan. When we get to the toll, I’m going to pull over and take out my contacts and get my glasses.”

The toll was a long way ahead. “What can I do?” I said, near panic. “Do you need me to steer for you?”

“No, I’m going to hug the white lines. Can you take out my contacts and put on my glasses?” she joked. At least I think she was joking.

“That would be dangerous and impossible,” I said.

“Then turn up the air, I’m sweatin’,” she said.

We both sweated our way to the toll booth—and safely pulled into New York. The crew following us had T-shirts made:
I SURVIVED THE ROAD TRIP
.