Memoirs of Normalcy: Journey from Sedentary to Extraordinary

by Joleene Desrosiers Moody

Overview

Do I stay? Or do I grow?

It's never too late to reinvent yourself. You can start right now, no matter where you are in your life. If you desire to make change and follow your passions, realize you've already begun the journey to extraordinary because you're thinking about it right now. Life is yours to play with; to build and mold just the way you want it. There's only one catch: you have to be willing to understand that it takes time.

But time is all it takes.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781452545684
Publisher:	Balboa Press
Publication date:	02/06/2012
Pages:	220
Product dimensions:	5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.46(d)

Read an Excerpt

Memoirs of Normalcy

Journey from Sedentary to Extraordinary

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By Joleene DesRosiers Moody

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2012 Joleene DesRosiers Moody
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-4568-4

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Chapter One

A short story.

"Choose Growth over fear." – Elizabeth Lesser

I need to begin with a little story before we get into anything else because it's the entire reason I wrote this book. If I start throwing all sorts of words and ideas at you without you knowing where they come from, you may not see the authenticity of who I am or what I'm trying to say. And it's important that you do see my authenticity. I write these words as a humble human being, equal to each and every person on this planet. I am equal to you and to your children and your spouse and your best friend; equal to Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan and President Obama and Lady Gaga. There is no one person on this planet greater or better than another. We are all made of the same matter and energy and we all come from the same source. We are all beautiful in our own skin, big or small. The knowledge I offer is nothing new. It has been shared through sermons, books, and indigenous peoples for hundreds and hundreds of years. But I digress - which is often the case - so here's the story.

I used to be a television reporter in Upstate New York. I wasn't the best, but I was pretty darn good. I won a few awards and even had the privilege of appearing on an episode of Snapped on the Oxygen network after I covered a trial that gained national attention. I graduated from a field reporter to a fill-in anchor and as far as those watching me from their living rooms were concerned, my life looked shiny and sparkly and perfect. But it wasn't. I was very unhappy. I didn't like what I did for a living. I liked where I worked and most of the people I worked with, but I didn't necessarily enjoy what I did. And I drank a lot because of it. I dreaded getting up every morning. I put great fear in front of me as I drove into the city of Syracuse day after day. What story would I be covering? Would I do it successfully? Who would I have to call and bother to get more information? Would I meet my deadline? What would the other stations produce? Would their story be better than my story? At the time I thought I played this question game with myself because I wanted to be the best. I wanted to be recognized as a damn good reporter. Now I realize it was because I simply didn't enjoy what I was doing. I was miserable. I hated calling people and pestering them for an interview. More than that, I loathed showing up on their doorstep, especially when a mother who had just lost her child in an accident was on the other side of the door.

If I truly loved what I was doing, I wouldn't feel that way. Instead, every fiber of my being would light up. I would enjoy going to work. I would look forward to tackling my assignments. But that just wasn't the case. I felt dead inside. Nothing lit up for me. I wanted more. I needed healthier challenges and a clearer avenue. It was time for change. And I knew it. I just didn't know how to get there.

And then one day my brother called me with news that would change the way I looked at my body and soul forever. It would reshape and redefine the meaning of my life, forcing me to color it with new crayons and put it in a completely different perspective.

It was a hot Saturday in August of 2009. I was sitting on the front porch of my two-bedroom apartment smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. I had just finished cleaning my house and was thinking about how lonely I felt with no one to love and share the day with. My daughter was with her father and I had just left yet another failing relationship and was awfully busy feeling sorry for myself. All of that self-pity disappeared when my big brother called and told me my mother's husband found her dead in their bed. She suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) and lived with an oxygen tube up her nose. Apparently her husband was out mowing the lawn on that very hot day. When he came back in to check on her, he said he found her lifeless. The doctor told us later she died peacefully in her sleep. I wasn't so sure. I imagined her gasping desperately for air, dying frightened and helpless as she tried to call out his name. She was sixty years old when she left this world.

The months that followed without her were easier than I would have imagined. I seemed to deal with grieving fairly easily. I remember thinking that too, that handling her death wasn't so bad. What I didn't know was that grieving is different for everybody. Some experience what is known as delayed mourning and that was apparently what was happening with me, because eight months after she died it hit me – and it hit me hard. I woke up every night for weeks sobbing relentlessly. I thought about the end of her life and how miserable she must have been. The kitchen counter in her house was full of pills (both prescribed and natural supplements) that she took in an attempt to rewind the damage she had done from years of smoking. The week after she died my brother and I scooped dozens of those bottles from the counter into a garbage bag. A spare bedroom in the back of the house was home to at least ten oxygen tanks and other machinery used to keep her breathing steady while she was still alive. I would think about how she could barely walk three feet without stopping, panting for breath and demanding that I, my brother or her husband get her a glass of water or a tissue. Thinking of how she suffered bothered me. But more than that, the part that killed me the most, was the fact that her husband buried her tiny box of ashes - without ever telling us. My brother and I went to the house one afternoon to pick up some things and I noticed her ashes weren't on the table in the living room. When I asked her husband where they were, he told me he had buried them. I can't even begin to tell you how angry and sad and shocked I was. In my mind, I felt he dumped her on the side of the road like a piece of garbage. And that troubled me for weeks.

As the rain pounded on my roof in the middle of the night, I would imagine her little box of ashes in the ground with her inside, cold and forgotten, and it would rip my heart out. All I could do was sob. Until one day I woke up and decided I couldn't take it anymore. The pain was more than I understood it to be. And not just because she was gone, but because I was experiencing an awakening in the light of her death that I didn't understand. I wanted to understand. I needed to understand. That meant I wasn't going to work that day. And so I didn't.

Now I should mention that shortly after my mother passed, I got to know a really wonderful man and we started a quiet relationship. Mark was as much of a train wreck as I was, which is probably why we got along so well. So when I told him that morning that I didn't want to go to work because my mind was "full", he understood completely. He kissed me goodbye and headed out the door to waddle through the ever-growing and often complicated world of the criminal justice system. Mark is a prosecutor.

I spent the day in angst, contemplating my life and rubbing my chest where my heart is. I hurt. I was confused. I had no idea where I was supposed to be or what I was supposed to be doing. I sat in the chair in front of my computer looking through the want ads with zero motivation. I didn't want another mundane job inside the walls of a building with partitions between the desks and animosity among the workers. I wanted to feel alive and full of purpose. I wanted to feel passion for my job and enjoy positive challenges. I wanted to live life like I had never lived it before, taking risks that could catapult me to a place I'd only dreamed of but never dared to go.

I knew that night as I pulled the covers up over my chin that I wasn't going to work the next day, either. Mark figured out my plan the following morning when I didn't head downstairs to beat him into the shower. I stayed in bed, my eyes fixated on the ceiling. I listened as he buzzed around downstairs, getting ready for his day. Soon he came upstairs and sat next to me on the bed.

"You staying home today?" he asked me.

I nodded.

"Do you plan on ever going back?" He said kiddingly as he pushed my hair off my forehead.

"I have to at some point. But not today."

He smiled and gently kissed me goodbye, leaving me in a cloud of contemplation lined with deep confusion. The house was quiet. I felt very alone and very scared. I wondered if other people I knew felt like this. Was I the only one suffering this kind of angst? Who else in the world, at this very moment, was hiding under their covers not wanting to go to work? And how long have they been hiding? A week? A month? A year?

I dated a guy once that hated his job. Hated it. He was the bass player in a band I used to sing with. He worked six days a week, by choice, in a factory putting together car parts on an assembly line. This man was divorced with four kids and said he worked almost every day because he needed the money. One night after a show, we sat at the bar and he told me he was fortunate enough to have an ex-wife that didn't ask for alimony or child support. But she racked up so many bills when they were married, he said, that he was forced to work long hours to pay down the debt.

"How do you do it if you hate it so much?" I asked.

"Money talks," he said. "I get double time and a half working on Sundays. I can't say no to that."

"I dunno," I said taking a swig of my beer. "If I didn't like being someplace, I sure as hell wouldn't spend anymore time there than I needed to."

He nodded. I figured he had to be knee deep in debt to suffer going there six days a week.

"I suppose that's why I'm miserable," he said. "I can't go anywhere else. Where am I gonna go?"

He was significantly older than me, sporting a life of hard work that spawned heartache, a broken marriage and a less-than-stellar abode. But he had an amazing heart. I remember hoping I'd never end up in his situation. And if I ever did, I would fight like hell to get out of it.

I suddenly realized, as I lay there scared and practically motionless in my bed, that I had a very real decision to make. Do I stay in a place doing what I don't enjoy - or do I leave, so I can grow?

Even if everything seemed fuzzy one thing was clear: I was unhappy and I wanted out. I didn't want to go through another day feeling this way. You know the old cliché life is too short? Well it's true. Those used to be just words to me, but now I understood them – really understood them. What I heard as that little phrase echoed through my corroded brain that morning was: It's time to move on. You're not doing what makes you happy and therefore you're not living to your full potential. Life is too short to wait any longer.

I decided in that very moment that I wasn't going back to work. I'm sorry, but I just couldn't. On so many levels that I can't even begin to explain, I experienced absolutely no joy when I walked through those doors. As far as I was concerned, I shouldn't have to tolerate that feeling. Nobody should.

I yanked the covers off of me and wandered into our home office. I sat down and stared at my phone with tears in my eyes. And then I did something that I was very afraid to do: I called my supervisor and told him that something was very wrong with me – and that I needed to process whatever it was before I could effectively come back to work. I could tell he wasn't happy with what I was saying, but I really felt I had to be honest. I needed to take time to breathe and think. I had a huge decision to make and it wasn't going to come easy.

I spent the next four weeks out of work, living each day in a haze of pain and frustration. And I cried, too, every day. I cried everyday for hours, sometimes. Every afternoon that didn't bring rain, I would go for a walk through the open and empty field across from our little rental house and look to the sky begging for answers. What am I supposed to be doing? What is my life purpose? What am I doing wrong and how do I right it? Please show me the way. Show me the way.

I would pray to a God I couldn't define, asking for answers to guide me in my confusion. And then I would apologize, asking that I not be forsaken just because I wasn't sure of who or what "He" was.

Two general thoughts plagued me as I wandered through those fields: The first was the reality behind my turmoil, which included the need to feed my daughter, pay my bills and fulfill all of the responsibilities that come with being an adult. The second was the guilt I carried because I had a job. In 2009 and 2010, hundreds of people were losing their jobs or getting laid off thanks to high oil prices and drama between the democrats and republicans in Washington. The result was a tanked economy and plenty of unrest with voters. There were people out there that would kill to have a job. And here I was whining because I didn't want mine anymore. I knew I just couldn't quit, not without a plan, anyway. Demons stalked me at night, taunting my decisions and laughing at my demise. Even some of my closest friends told me I was a fool to ditch my career to pursue deep-seeded passions that were still a bit fuzzy to me.

"What will you do for money?" one friend asked me.

"Write," I said. "I've always wanted to write. I freelance for a business magazine now. I'll just focus on finding more clients."

"There's no money in freelance writing," she scoffed at me.

Her words hurt me. And not because they were true - they were far from true - but because I didn't have her support. At that very vulnerable time in my life, I felt desperate for her support. Sometimes changing your life requires you to move in the opposite direction of those around you. Good friends will caution you with love. Great friends will root for you, even if you don't take their advice.

With all of this uncertainly swirling around me, I decided I needed to talk to a counselor. I had seen one several months prior for hypnosis in an effort to quit smoking. Now I found myself reaching out to her on a psychological level. Going back to see Kelley was just what I needed, and not because she was a licensed counselor with a cozy chair and a box of tissues next to it. She could relate to exactly what I was going through. I mean, exactly. Listening to someone else tell me they struggled with the same questions put me at ease. I believe I was led back to her so I could see I wasn't alone in this struggle. I was just one in a million who felt this way. And the fact that I wanted change was okay. Truth be told, it made me feel a hell of a lot better knowing I wasn't alone.

Kelley told me that once upon a time she had been a substance abuse councilor, working a mundane 9 to 5 job that eventually burned her out. After years of doing the same thing without growth, she realized she needed change. She felt no joy, no satisfaction. She was grateful for her job, just like me, but that gratefulness simply couldn't match the disdain she felt.

"In a very Buddha kind of moment," she told me, "I decided I wanted to leave my job and learn hypnotherapy. I had never done it before, but I was pretty sure I wanted to do it. I had to give up a lot to make the change. I was lucky enough to have a supportive husband, too. But with or without him, I would have done it. I would have found a way. So I left my job and went back to school."

"Just like that?" I asked with big eyes.

"Well, no. Not just like that. It was weeks of worry and wonder and decision-making. But I knew I was doing the right thing. I always knew."

"And are you happy now?" I asked her.

"Yeah! Oh, yeah. I love what I do."

"That's how I want to feel," I said. "I just don't know how to get there. I know I want to write, that's for sure. But I want to help people, too. I want to help people that are as unhappy as I am and guide them to a better place. I'm just not sure how. I need to figure it out before I explode."

"Is Mark supportive?" she asked me.

"Incredibly. He's the entire reason I came back to talk to you," I assured her. "He's very supportive."

"That's often half the battle, you know, finding someone that will support your decisions. Does Mark believe you can both handle the cost of living if you decide to leave your job?"

"Funny you should ask that," I said, leaning back in the cozy chair. "He seems to think we can."

"Well, figure it out," she suggested. "I bet it's entirely possible. Don't tell yourself it's not. Anything is possible when you put your mind to it."

I left Kelley's office that morning full of new hope. I drove home envisioning myself as a writer. More than that, I began to see myself as a motivational figure, on a stage in front of hundreds of people, sharing a truly heartfelt message that would lead them on a path that would change their view of life and love forever.

Later that night Mark and I huddled at our desk in the office and talked. We played with numbers and scratched our heads, trying to figure out how we could afford our now-merged life in light of this intense, indescribable transformation I was experiencing. None of which, by the way, felt wrong. That's the amazing part. My mind and body were telling me that leaving my job was absolutely the right thing to do. My father thought I was nuts.

"You want to do what?" he said when I told him, his mouth full of peanuts.

"I'm not happy, Dad. I don't really like my job."

"How can you not like your job? Look how far you've come!" he bellowed, bits of chewed peanut falling from his mouth.

"I know. But I just don't enjoy it anymore. I can't live my life doing something I don't enjoy."

"Yes you can. People do it every day. I did." He shoved another handful of nuts into his mouth.

I didn't pursue the subject any further. If he didn't get it now, he was never going to. But Mark got it. And if I haven't said it yet, I'll say it now; I am so grateful for his support. He didn't question me once about taking the leap. As a matter of fact, I was shocked when he agreed that I needed to move on. There was no argument and no question. It was like he could read my heart. I wish for everybody looking to make passion-based change to have the same kind of support I have, yet I know that's not always possible. More often than not, the people closest to you will discourage you before encouraging you because they don't want to see you succeed. Usually it's because they want to make change too, only they don't have the courage they now sense in you to do so. But there are people out there that will cheer you on when you break the news that you intend to change jobs or move out of state or marry someone they've never met. There are people that will guide you to the right place when you announce that you intend on having a baby all on your own or that you're leaving your job as a defense attorney to become a missionary in South Africa. I promise you, they are out there. And once you become clear and open to what it is you want to change, despite any kind of resistance, the floodgates will open and the right people will appear. They're out there. Maybe not in the traditional form of father, mother, sibling, husband, wife, friend or co-worker, but I promise you, they are out there.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Memoirs of Normalcy by Joleene DesRosiers Moody Copyright © 2012 by Joleene DesRosiers Moody. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1: A short story....................1
Chapter 2: There is no such thing as instant gratification....................16
Chapter 3: Change your thoughts, change your world....................25
Chapter 4: When you fall apart....................37
Chapter 5: Support....................47
Chapter 6: Follow the signs....................57
Chapter 7: Letting Go....................68
Chapter 8: Now is a really good time....................79
Chapter 9: Dealing with the fear....................86
Chapter 10: Visions and affirmations....................102
Chapter 11: The Bridge....................115
Entry #1....................128
Entry #2....................131
Entry #3....................137
Entry #4....................143
Entry #5....................153
Entry #6....................167
Entry #7....................171
Entry #8....................188
Entry #9....................201