Category Archives: ACES test

Sep8

you make the choice of how it goes…

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Sound asleep, my sister would rock back and forth on her hands and knees and bang her forehead against the wall. It would wake me, and I would get up and go into her room and softly coax her back to laying down, tuck her in again, and go back to bed. My brother would regularly sleep walk while talking out loud. He would pace through the entire second floor where all of us five kids slept. It would wake me, and I would get up and gently walk him back to his bed and tuck him in. I was scared he would fall down the long staircase some night without my hearing him, but fortunately that never happened.

My parents bedroom was on the first floor at the opposite end of the house. They were either at a party, the bar, or passed out drunk. They never heard a thing. None of my four siblings ever remembered any of these instances that so terrified me. Did they think I made it up?

My brother died two years ago of an apparent heart attack in his sleep, at the age of 62. He had overcome alcoholism, drug addiction, and quit smoking – all cold turkey with no support. He was a remarkable person, but he was never able to quit a gambling addiction. And so he lived in abject poverty, working right up to his death and living in a rented room in the home of a coworker.

My sister knows for certain that his heart attack was caused by the Covid vaccine. She blames those good-for-nothing evil Democrats. Thank god we have RFK now to save us all, and a president who knows what is truly going on here – the spiritual war we are fighting for the redemption of mankind’s soul. In case you don’t know me, yes – I am being irreverently facetious. Also believe me when I say I really don’t get it.

I have three siblings still living. We barely keep in touch; we’re about down to reporting the obituaries of our mutual friends and relatives. We exchange emojis on holidays…you know, Happy 4th of July and all. As if we didn’t share the first 20 years of our daily lives. Suffice it to say we have nothing in common. Oh, we all five grew up in the same house. We all five had the same two parents. We went to the same schools, had many of the same teachers. We shared every holiday, the same music, all the vacations, the same four grandparents, we ate the same food. But we had very different childhoods. How does this happen?

Seriously, can someone please explain this to me?! Gabor Mate can theorize about it and I understand what he is saying, but my own experience just doesn’t jive. Hard as I try, I cannot reconcile our continued disparate realities.

I miss my family. I still miss us. I have no one to share the stories and the memories with. Meanwhile, my cells don’t seem to run dry of the endless tears. I’m old enough now to know they will come forever. And just wise enough to welcome them. Some days my grief will not be consoled, and still I am nothing but grateful for it all.

From their point of view, this separation in our worlds is entirely down to me. I’m the different one; the one who questions everything. The one who needs answers when obviously, there is no problem except my mental illness. This is on me; they do not suffer these imaginary indulgences. They figured it out long ago. They found Jesus. They are healed. How I envy them their conviction.

On the rare occasion when we do talk, I am guarded. If I slip and say the wrong thing I will be corrected, maybe even ghosted for a time. I am too much for them. Given time to reflect on the error of my ways, I realize I am wrong. To them. They love me, but they do not like me. They have no desire to connect, to understand me, to know me. And I have finally given up the need to be understood and accepted by them; I’m sure they’d say the same. That only took way too long.

Of us five children I am the eldest by 3 years. The four of them were born in close succession, four within six years. I was the first child, the first grandchild on both sides, and for over 3 years I enjoyed being the center of their attention and the apple of their eye. My siblings, like my father before them, will tell you that is why I am a narcissist.

Not in any effort to defend myself here (it’s my platform, after all…) I would aver that I prefer an evidence based model of reality. Or as I say to them, I choose my crazy. I value science and therefore neuroscience and psychology; I see no discrepancy between science and religion. My God is a quantum physicist and still, miraculously, maintains a sense of humor. My siblings refer to this rebellious misguidance as my “Jesus is just alright with me” spirituality, referring to the days when we all enjoyed a good spliff and some Doobie Brothers on Dad’s dime.

Here’s the thing, I guess…the evidence says to me that they live in vapid denial. There is no worse thief on the earth plane than denial. It has stolen our lives. It has taken everything from us. Everything except my hard-earned sanity.

Of the 7 of us in my family of origin, I am the only one who has not suffered the ravages of chemical addiction. Since my early 20’s I have not drank or smoked or used drugs. I tried them. You were a square and no fun and a snob in my family if you wouldn’t partake. I’d resist, hence my nickname, Little Goody Two Shoes. I remember a Sunday night during high school when my father ordered me to do a line and fill in at the Euchre table as they were down a player. I protested, explaining that I had a History final the next day, and he gave me his I’ll-knock-you-into-next-week look. “You can make it up!” Yes, sir.

Pardon me if I call that evidence. There are more stories like that than I will ever have time to tell. None of them were living their best life, but not for me to say. They all six struggled with homelessness, depression, addiction, all of their lives. A couple of them were grifters, committing fraud, and somehow narrowly dodging the law. I was called to provide bail and an alibi more than once. I learned to hide my valuable possessions. I wish I’d learned sooner to hide my heart.

The other side of this insane equation is that I also got so so so much from them. Each and every one of them were extraordinary people. They all were born with high IQ’s, enormous creative talent. Funny! Wow, I wish I had the quick wit of my mom, my brother, and my son. How does anyone think that fast?! They’d have gotten on well with Robin Williams! Had they been any less intelligent and charming they might have ended up in prison, but in fact they all had so much going for them. Yet they lived in poverty and pain. Denial does that, theirs or yours. Makes you a refugee in your own life.

My physician asked me to take the A.C.E. test a few years ago. You can take it here and compile your own evidence. I scored an 8.

Oct6

when push comes to shove

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The year was 1980. We stood in front of the Oakland County Court Judge and my husband looked incredulous. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Susan, I never hit you.” And the Judge asked me to respond, to which I had to tell the truth, so I turned and faced him, standing with his attorney at the other table, and shaking, said, “No. But you pushed me into the wall and I fell down. And you kept coming after me when I was on the floor.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the Judge stated, “motion granted. You will have 24 hours to vacate the home, and you will not come within 50 feet of your wife. Do you understand?” The neighbors had called the police three days before. They were tired of being awakened between two and three a.m. after he had returned from the bar and begun to attack me. The young officer asked me if I had somewhere to go. I had called my friend and business partner, woke she and her husband and their children. I would hastily pack the baby, two overnight bags, and the officer would escort me to the edge of town, the border of his jurisdiction. We would live on their family room sofa for the next three nights, and I would show up for this hearing at 8 a.m. Monday morning.

That was husband number two. Number one I had snuck out on while he was passed out high, and never looked back. It would be 14 years before I married again, husband number three. I was 40; he was 57. He was not a drug addict. He was not physically abusive. He was, however, an alcoholic and a gambler. I would divorce him and remarry him, believing he had grown and changed; he had not. He had learned some new language and become more manipulative. They all had addiction in common. They were all narcissistic.

The counselor drew three stick figures stacked vertically, and connected each of them via lines between their hands. Marionettes. He labeled them from the top down: father, husband, me. Apparently he felt a visual aid was needed. He literally drew me a picture.

However, it would yet be decades before a different counselor would finally convince me that codependence IS, indeed, an addiction. There is no ingestion of substances. The body’s physiology produces the substances to create the addiction. It’s an invisible dis-ease. I suspect the problem with overcoming substance abuse is that the substance serves as a symptom of the underlying mental health imbalance – that being codependence. No one is going to successfully get off substances if they don’t face the demon of codependence head on.

Industries have thrived upon the medical knowledge based on addiction recovery research. You can’t stop drinking; you have to substitute something that tastes like the alcohol of choice without the alcohol content. Hence sparkling wine and non-alcoholic beer. You can’t stop the brain’s addiction to smoking without replacing the action; hence the vaping industry.

There is no demonstrable action to replace people pleasing. That is the causal level of addiction. Fixing the gigantic hole in the soul. Fixing the original wound. And most of us don’t remember it like Robyn here. But we see the evidence, the symptoms of our dumpster fire lives as they float past us in the flood. So where do we start? Take the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (ACE) and find yourself a counselor. If you are old enough to read this you need – and deserve – a counselor. Carolyn Myss said it decades ago: therapists are the tribal shaman of the Western culture. Find yourself a shaman. And then a streaming service with British, South African, and Australian murder mysteries. They do it best. I will highlight some this coming week here, but only the really funny ones…

I am immeasurably grateful that I have never had a substance abuse addiction (well, okay, coffee.) But I am no less of an addict. I am a people pleaser, what Melonie Beatty (Codependent No More) refers to as a Master Enabler. I will forever be in recovery. I will never quit quitting. I will practice setting healthy boundaries as if my life depends on it. Because it does. So does yours.

And people wonder why I’m obsessed with murder mysteries…

Sep24

I am not knowing.

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“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.” – Emily Dickinson

Baptized Mary Katherine Crawford, my maternal grandmother Mimi was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. She lived most of her adult life in Michigan after marrying my grandfather, but she never lost her southern accent. Or charm. Or that great cooking gene that I did not inherit. When you came to her house she was not happy unless you were eating. Breakfast always included biscuits and gravy. From scratch. You smelled the pies cooling coming up the street.

In grade school I wrote her a book of poetry. I remember tying together the pieces of paper into a hand made tome and penciling the title on the cover: Mimi Beanie Bellie-Beenie (chocolate cake or ice cream-eenie?). Dear woman, she was never not kind. We children absolutely adored her. As the first grandchild on both sides…well, let’s just say I was a little spoiled. I credit having had four grandparents around as my salvation. Hind sight being what it is, I have no doubt they all did their best to be a positive influence. They had to be watching my parents descent into addiction with horror. And they didn’t see the half of it.

When you are my age and you discuss your lifelong depression with your doctor at your yearly Medicare physical (they have to ask), they recommend therapy. And so, I gratefully have a weekly session via Zoom. I love my “care manager.” I’ve always said that I have to be in therapy to cope with all the people in my life who aren’t in therapy. Long ago I’d confide my frustrations to Mimi more than anyone else in my young life. She would say, “you’re alright, kid. The world’s all wrong.” Hooo boy, she was not just whistlin’ dixie…

She had a funny way of talking that I attributed to being from the south. If you asked her a question and she didn’t know the answer she would respond, “I am not knowing.” I was still in grade school when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and told she had about six months to live. I certainly don’t remember any of that ordeal. I know she went through surgery, chemo and radiation, but I was entirely unaware of her suffering. She lived another lifetime again, into her 80’s – before the cancer would finally take her. When asked about it, she would simply state that she would rather die than go through that treatment again. I’ve heard that said by almost everyone I’ve loved now, myself being one of the lucky few who hasn’t had to face that demon.

What makes one person luckier than the others around them? Of the seven members of my biological family I am the only one to escape the long evil tendrils of substance addiction, of cancer or heart failure, of crushing depression. At 70 I haven’t had cancer or heart problems, knock on wood. In spite of scoring 8 out of 10 on the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (no to #6), I manage depression, I am functional, and sane. I am fairly happy most of the time. The simple pleasures of my days far outweigh the occasional difficulties. I am truly blessed and highly favored. But I do look back and long for a deeper life, a more authentic connection. I wish I’d known more of what I didn’t know, at least how to ask the questions I wish I’d known to ask. What was that like for you, Dad? What do you really want, Mimi? What would you do differently now, Mom?

My grandfathers were building railroad tracks in Detroit and across the country during the boom of the automobile industry, and my father inherited that business. But he was a frustrated artist. When my parents 27 year marriage broke up after raising 5 children together, my father would come out to us all and confide that he had always been living a double life as a gay man. He never had a choice back then. Neither did he have the choice to be a musician instead of a contractor. It wasn’t gonna pay the bills. My mother’s choices were even fewer.

Like most middle class parents in the 1950’s post war economic boom, they sheltered we children from any hardships we accidentally caught glimpses of. We didn’t watch the news. We watched Ed Sullivan; he had a really big shoe. They made up stories about where people and pets had gone when we were confused by their absence. If Mimi had bad days during cancer treatment we certainly didn’t see them.

Our every physical whim was met with all the food and comfort and luxury my parents could possibly provide. Music and merriment were abundant. Holidays were exaggerated celebrations always full of people and gifts and singing and dancing and games. I remember asking why we needed so many televisions and record players; there was one in almost every room. Some nights they were all going at once. Our house was full and loud and chaotic. We had a somewhat tongue-in-cheek saying in our household: “life is a party.”

But some precious opportunity was lost in my parents’ utopia. Something is always lost in any falsely contrived utopia. It manages to keep life humming along quite superficially, and it tends to create the side effect of anxiety. Especially when eventually faced with any challenge and realizing that reality wasn’t so real. There’s a reason they say ignorance is bliss, and it’s because awareness is painful. Growing up is hard to do.

That said, it’s the only dance in town. There is no way out but through. If there is any more meaningful reason for being here, now, well…I am not knowing.