Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  The home was impressive, bigger than what we had expected and unique in that it was crafted and designed unlike anything else we’d seen in our house hunting. There was nothing that needed to be done to it. It was perfect.

  In the months that followed, Matthew and I made the big decision to move. We realized that we didn’t want to raise our family in California. We loved the idea of having access to a Buddhist community and the chance to be in such close proximity to our teachers. Matthew and I were both outdoor enthusiasts, loved adventure, and knew that the Rockies would provide all that and more. Thankfully, we saw eye to eye on the environment in which we wanted to raise our children. California had grown crowded, and even the small town of Mill Valley was becoming too busy a location. We made an offer on our dream home in Colorado in March and closed within a few weeks. The process of putting our Mill Valley house on the market wasn’t easy for the already busy six-months-pregnant mother of a toddler. But somehow I knew that everything would fall into place. I trusted that it was time to leave California. I trusted that our house would sell. With this in mind, I packed up the majority of our Mill Valley home and made arrangements to move three months after our second child was born. We already knew we were having a girl; we had named her Kaya. As I set up the nest in preparation for a home birth, Matthew looked at me in both wonder and concern. “Are you sure you’ll be ready to move when the baby is just three months old?” He asked this more than once.

  “Absolutely,” I would respond, unwavering in my resolve.

  “What if our house doesn’t sell?” he would ask.

  “Not an option. It will. Just wait and see.” And just like that, it did, right before the market crashed. It was unbelievable how things all came together for us; the move was simply meant to be.

  When June came around, I felt enormous. Of course—I was. But I was also ready, physically and psychologically. I had continued my hikes up the mountain and felt stronger than ever. The only thing that could get in the way of my having a baby naturally at home would be my mind. And that’s something I knew I could work with.

  On the morning of June 7, 2008, Jade had woken me up early. The sun was just peeking out, the late-spring heat already on the rise.

  “Mama, come read me a book!” she said, pulling me from my bed and Matthew’s slumbering body.

  I sat up and smiled. “Okay. What do you want to read?” I asked, padding softly into her room behind her.

  “Frosty the Snowman,” she said, pushing the book at me. We lay down on her bed, snuggled up together nice and tight. She had wrapped her body around my humongous belly, as she loved to do.

  I began to sing the words to the song by the same name, as out of season as it might have been. Just then I was stopped by a strong cramp. “Ohh. That was strange. I need to go to the bathroom, Jade,” I said. But before I could get up from the bed, another “cramp” tore through me and a wave of nausea rose up. Whoa.

  In a flash I knew that I was in labor. And something about this was different from before.

  “Matthew,” I called out as I began to breathe heavily. “Matthew!” I screamed as he came running in, wiping sleep from his eyes.

  “The baby’s coming,” I said quickly.

  Jade started jumping up and down. “Baby’s coming! Baby’s coming!” she squealed in delight.

  “Call Nancy. Call Catherine.” Catherine was the doula whom we’d known since Jade’s birth, an amazing woman who’d been a great nurturing support to us all in the previous months. I had wanted her to be at our home birth to do whatever was needed to keep Jade comfortable. We had agreed that if Jade wanted to be by my side, she could, or if she wanted to go to the park instead, that would be fine, too. It was up to Catherine to help either way.

  As Matthew got busy making calls and filling the birthing tub in our living room, my labor quickened. I could barely speak, and within twenty minutes my contractions were coming on the heels of one another. I made my way to our bedroom, where I proceeded to rock back and forth on all fours on the bed, roaring loudly, trying to work with my baby, who seemed to be fast approaching. I had never, ever felt anything like it. With Jade I’d had an epidural. I was unprepared for the wild intensity I was feeling at this moment.

  “Forget the fucking birthing tub, Matthew!” I shrieked. “I need you!” He had up until that moment been in the other room readying things. I somehow knew I wouldn’t make it there. Matthew came rushing in. He looked confused and concerned. I moaned loudly and was relieved to hear Catherine’s songbirdlike voice in the background.

  “Help me!” I screamed. “I don’t think I can do this!” I was in terror. I really didn’t think I could go through with it. Another contraction rolled through me, and my body arched involuntarily as I roared again. I was being transformed into a primal birthing animal. I had no control.

  Catherine climbed onto the bed beside my naked body and soothed me. “But you are doing it, my dear. You are,” she said.

  I was finally able to catch a breath. As I looked wildly into her eyes for some clarity, she held me in her gaze and in her certainty. By the time the next contraction came, I was able to breathe a bit more calmly through it.

  “I have to pee,” I wailed. “No, I have to poop!” I screamed. “I don’t know what I have to do! Help me to the bathroom,” I begged. The last bits of my desire for dignity were gripping me; I didn’t want to crap on the bed! Matthew and Catherine brought me into the bathroom, and I sat on the toilet, wrestling and writhing in the unknown sensations, not at all sure what it was that would relieve me, praying that something would. I started to groan again. Involuntarily, my body was pushing and heaving.

  Catherine called from just outside the bathroom door. “Are you pushing?” she asked.

  “I don’t know!” I growled. I hadn’t felt the sensation of pushing with Jade. I didn’t know what it was.

  “You need to stop, Carré. Slow down,” she said in as collected and firm a tone as possible.

  “I can’t!” I sputtered. And I couldn’t. Just then I felt a burst and a gush. My water broke. It was such a relief that before I realized what I was doing, I had flushed the toilet.

  “No, Carré!” Catherine screamed, rushing in. She needed to look for signs of meconium to be sure that there was no chance that the baby had inhaled any. On the toilet lid, she found a small splash of a greenish black substance. I panicked and dropped to all fours.

  “Are we okay? Is the baby okay?” I cried. I could hear Catherine instructing Matthew urgently as she knelt down behind me to get a better look. Just then it felt as if my hips had popped and as if Kaya had dropped down an inch.

  “Oh, my. Matthew . . . the baby is coming now! Call Nancy!” Catherine was as calm as could be, but I knew we needed help. It was all happening too fast.

  On the bathroom floor, my body began to pulse uncontrollably. I was moving like a wave with each contraction. I was vaguely aware that Nancy had finally arrived and that she had slipped into the bathroom and dropped to her knees as well.

  “You’re doing great, Carré,” she whispered. “Let’s try to take a ­couple of long, slow breaths. Your baby is crowning.”

  I could feel my world splitting open. My life, my heart, my body.

  “She’s coming out my asshole!” I screamed. I was certain she was.

  “I promise you, she will take a sharp turn. Just bear with me. Give me a few breaths here.” And in my silence I tried to pause, to rest in the moment of splitting wide open. It was a hell of a place to hang out.

  And right there, with me wedged in the doorjamb between my bathroom and bedroom, right there on all fours, in one last contraction Kaya Elizabeth emerged into the world. I reached down between my legs and caught her, that slippery body and crazy shock of jet-black hair. My labor had been an hour from start to finish.

  I rested in one of the sweetest victories a woman can know: I had endured a natural labor, and I’d had my baby at home. And almost as important, I’d found the real pow
er and grace that rested in my body.

  COLORADO BOUND

  On September 15, 2008, when Kaya was just three months old, we made our move. It took courage to pack up my entire family, including two children under three years of age, and drive across California, the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, and into our new life in Colorado. But I’ve learned that with every step in life there are gambles and sacrifices, risks and rewards. We will never know what’s on the other side unless we take that leap of faith. My years of dedicated spiritual practice and hard work on myself had given me the ability to trust my judgment and my instincts. And it was now clear to me where it was we were supposed to be. Not just me, but the entire entity my family had become. The entire unified, functioning energy that we are collectively. I was becoming accustomed to thinking of myself no longer in the singular but in the plural. It was no longer “I” but “we.” This move we made together has proven best for all of us.

  As much as California was and will always be my home, I realized that it was time to move beyond what was convenient for me. I knew in my heart that our daughters deserved what all children do: their childhood. It was my job and Matthew’s to provide them with that and protect them from growing up saturated with the messages and expectations of urban and suburban American culture. I had been a child who was in a rush to grow up. And I did grow up prematurely, forced as much, if not more, by circumstance as by choice. I knew that my childhood was not something I could get back. I could heal and forgive, but reclaiming those formative years was impossible. I accepted that for myself, but I wanted—we wanted—to make a different choice for our daughters. I understood the sacrifices that we were making as parents to move to such a remote place, yet I felt absolutely certain that these were the right sacrifices. We have been rewarded abundantly.

  I was thirty-nine years old. I had come further than I’d thought I could. I’d had a lifetime of challenges and adventure, and as we drove away from the setting western sun, I realized how utterly grateful I was. I was ready to give up all else for the happiness of my family and the simplicity of a small-town existence. I was relieved that my life was no longer just about me.

  Two weeks after we left California, and under a big southwestern sky in our new Colorado home, I turned forty. My friends and family were with me to celebrate. My teachers close by, my children playing in the field of wildflowers that make up our backyard. They do not yet know my story, my daughters, but as time unfolds, they will. They have a chance at knowing me now. The simple me. The recovered me. The extraordinary me who worked intensely for years to be able to stand exactly where I do today, with no regrets, no shame, and with absolute forgiveness. To say I had a hand in it all is true. To know I made choices along the way, and to own them, sets me free from being the victim I once thought I was.

  I am at peace, too, with my ex-husband. We haven’t spoken since the day he threw that fit in a Santa Monica restaurant, but from afar I have rejoiced in the resurrection of his career. I’m pleased to see Mickey working again as an actor. Matthew and I sat and watched The Wrestler together. Everyone has said that Mickey put so much of himself into that part, and I think that’s true. I laughed in surprise to see so many traces of his real self come out in the film. At the end of the movie, I was filled with compassion for this man whom I had once genuinely loved. Mickey was and is a remarkable talent, and I hope that he continues to be well and continues to enjoy success.

  My happiness at his comeback turned to anger, however, when Mickey repeatedly brought up my name during interviews to promote the film. He discussed aspects of my history without care to accuracy, the life I have since built, or the public forums in which he was sharing those details. I was furious. I was even tempted to speak out then. But I chose instead to wait, and to put my energy toward writing this book. Many parents can choose to hide their pasts from their kids. I can’t. My daughters deserve to know the truth about my life, and when they are old enough, they deserve to find out that truth from me, in context, and not from the Internet or from stories told by my first husband.

  Today I have a healthy relationship with all the members of my family. I’ve worked hard, and so have they. After all I’ve been through, I’m not a child anymore. I’m a powerful adult woman with excellent boundaries, boundaries I’ve worked very hard to create and maintain. And this work has afforded me a chance to give Jade and Kaya wonderful relationships with my parents and with their Aunt Chrisse and Uncle Jordan. Since becoming a mom myself, I’ve gained enormous insight into my parents, and I have a great deal of compassion for them. They parented without the tools that I am blessed to have today.

  I take responsibility for my life and my choices now. What wisdom I do have was hard-earned. Earning it cost me and many who loved me years of pain. It nearly cost me my life. If there’s one thing I believe, it’s that while suffering is indeed part of life, the kind of suffering I endured to get where I am is not something I want any other young woman to go through. The path to wisdom and joy doesn’t require degradation, despair, and misery. That’s a message I’m ready to share.

  As the great Mahatma Gandhi once said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

  Anything is possible.

  Acknowledgments

  When I first began writing this book, the collective events of my life were almost too big to get my arms around, so I tackled the task story by story. I knew that one day I would somehow piece all the elements together to represent the whole, but I was never quite sure how. My sincerest appreciation goes to Hugo Schwyzer, for meeting my intense pace and passion in the writing of this book and for providing some much-needed balance and insight.

  Thank you to HarperCollins for seeing the value of my story and standing behind me so I could tell it the way I wanted to tell it. And to Frank Weimann, my literary agent, for your support and for pairing me with my publisher.

  I would also like to acknowledge my dearest friends, who have encouraged me along my path, assuring me that a time would come when I would be ready to tell my story. Without their steadfast support, I might not have recognized the opportunity when it presented itself. Carolyn Cavallero; Nan Koehler; Lama Tsultrim Allione; Anne Klein; my mother, Carol Otis; Clare Waismann; Dr. Nancy Sobel; Dawn Agnew; Catherine Stone; my dearest sister, Chrisse Otis Sahadi; Karen Young; Liza Boles; Michelle Peck; Jody Kemmerer; and Marie Christine Kollock. Without all your love, support, and belief in me, I’m not sure if this book would have come to fruition.

  Thank you to Ellen Serrano, with whom I shared the first edits—she encouragingly held my hand and caught my tears as I adjusted to my story being “out.”

  And to my dearest teacher, whose name is in my heart even if for the sake of his safety it cannot appear on these pages, I thank you for guiding me flawlessly along the path and pointing out the most precious teachings one can have revealed to her.

  Thank you, David Petite, for the profound lesson your life and death has brought to my life over the past summer.

  To my father, Morrow Otis, who is one of the most courageous men I’ve known: Thank you for your love and support as well as for your heartfelt efforts to walk such a clean and honest path, one day at a time. Many thanks also to my brother, Jordan. And to Jeffrey Dash, for being one of the first safe, honest men I met on my journey. My trust was renewed in the male gender as our friendship and work partnership grew.

  Warmest thanks, of course, to my beloved husband, soul mate, and consort, Matthew Charles Sutton. You have rocked my world and provided inspiration, safety, love, trust, nurturing, and many laughs along the way. Truly, if it were not for your profound place by my side, the better half of this book would not have come to be.

  Finally, to my daughters, Jade Yeshe and Kaya Elizabeth Drolma: Carrying and birthing you both into this world has completed my cycle of healing and brought me onto the path of profound compassion and radical truth. Your presence has blessed me with the opportunity of looking deep into myself and having the courage t
o make changes where otherwise I might not have. You both have graced my life in innumerable ways and no doubt will continue to do so.

  Photo Section

  This is one of my favorite photos of my parents in the early stages of their marriage.

  My mother, channeling her hippie spirit at our annual visit to the renaissance fair.

  My father, sporting some style in 1972.

  I love this photo of my sister, Chrisse, and me sharing sweet dreams.

  We had our own fashion style and loved making faces for the camera even then.

  The only one who really looked happy by the time this photo was taken was my brother, Jordan, pictured here between me (left) and Chrisse (right). I was steadily drifting from friends and family, as life had already thrown me a few serious curves.

  Here I am with my mom on the day of my eighth-grade graduation. As you can see, I was growing up very fast.

  By age twenty-one, I’d made the controversial film Wild Orchid with Mickey Rourke. Two years later we were married.

  Photograph by Ron Galella, Ltd., courtesy of WireImage.

  Sadly, our tumultuous relationship frequently made the news. In this moment, caught on camera by the media, we were seeing each other for the first time in months. It was during New York Fashion week in 1994, after I’d fled California to avoid testifying against him on charges of domestic violence.