Category Archives: dysfunctional family

Aug3

the better end of the deal

Posted on by
Standard

“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” – Gloria Steinem

In my sweet little blessed life here I was recently swimming in the warm, clear water of Crystal Lake. Out from the beach at my friend’s summer cottage, not another person in sight. She was thanking me for something – oh, driving her around, as she had flown in from her home in another state. She had bought me dinner the previous night. Our conversation turned into a back and forth of silly compliments and thank yous. Standing on a soft sand blanket, shoulder deep in blue water as far as my eye could see, I said, “well…I got the better end of the deal.”

That was the day after I got home from attending The Detroit Book Festival with another friend. She needed to attend for business and had asked me to drive her downstate. Not only because I know my way around, but because I have often bragged that “if you can drive in Detroit, you can drive anywhere.” It was a chance to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. However she paid for gas, hotel and fabulous meals in return. She also provided one on one counseling – not sure she knew she’d signed up for that, but that’s what transpired along the way. When I dropped her home she thanked me. “Well, I got the better end of that deal,” I replied. I didn’t say it lightly.

Days before my father died he said to me, “I sure hope your friends are going to take care of you in your old age.” He was implying that my family would not, because I had not taken care of him properly in his old age. And I had abandoned my siblings. The five of them (my mother being long dead) had unanimously agreed that they were done with me. They had put up with me long enough. They wouldn’t speak to me for years after my father died, or ever again in the case of my brother.

My father was in the hospital for a life saving surgery. His heart would give out a few days later. I think he knew he was dying, and it was his final chance to let me know how disappointed he was with me. My sister yelled at me to shut-up that afternoon and I would leave in tears. My father was almost deaf and apparently I was speaking loudly – as I had gotten used to doing in the recent years he had lived with me. Perhaps I, too, have become somewhat hard of hearing. For whatever reason, I was embarrassing them. They made it clear they did not want me there. This wasn’t anything shocking or new. I was their burden to bear. To say that I never fit in was a gross understatement; I was an albatross in a flock of swans.

Decades had passed since I’d left home – decades of therapy, ACOA meetings, and self examination. Failed marriages. Failed businesses. The loss of my mother. The loss of friends. I’d raised a child with his narcissistic father – who, by the way, my family loved and got along with. My mother lent him the seed money to start his own business right after our divorce. She didn’t tell me that, he did. He leveled it as evidence of how stupid and crazy I was to leave him. He won. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d gotten the better end of the deal.

My family has always told me that I am lucky, wielded this announcement disdainfully like an accusation. In fact, I am lucky. And I do not take for granted that I have fared better than they have in life. I had a better education, for one thing. But years before that I was lucky in birth order – eldest, and specifically because my maternal grandmother was close. She was a huge influence in my upbringing. And as I’ve said before, my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. My Mother was 19 when she was pregnant with me. My father was in the army and so Mom and I lived the first 8 months of my life with my grandparents in a big Tudor house in Detroit. I remember playing as a toddler in that magical house with it’s many secret nooks and crannies. My siblings have no recall of it at all. I’ve imagined my grandparents arguing about the decision to drive us to Texas, where my father was stationed, and drop us off with him. I’ve dreamt about it. I’m guessing my grandmother could hardly bear the idea, but that my grandfather felt it was the only possibility of my father taking responsibility for his young family.

Three years later we would return to Michigan. My father went to work for my grandfather. Mimi was often my babysitter. In grade school I would ride my bike to her house, often with friends in tow. We knew we could count on lots of food and goodies, and a quarter to spend around the corner at the 5 & Dime. So lucky.

I fared much better than my younger siblings in so many ways. They have lived with ongoing health problems, plagued with cancer and heart issues. Now in my 70’s I’ve still had neither – how’s that for lucky?! They have all four battled the demons of addiction – to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and gambling. I’ve not had that to deal with. They have all faced homelessness more than once. It is true they were not so lucky.

And now in my old age I live quite an isolated life. I have lost more loved ones than remain. Thankfully I have a handful of close friends. I can count on them. They can count on me. A chosen family. It sure feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal.

If you were to ask me today my greatest achievement in life, I would say it’s having learned to value kindness in the face of cruelty. Not entirely. God knows I’ve slipped up more times than I care to admit. I’ve certainly been cruel at times. But I hope I am becoming kinder with age. It is a choice, a choice that requires practice. Kindness and curiosity are the way forward, of that I’m sure.

Feeling like I got the better end of the deal isn’t about comparison to anyone else. It isn’t a competition. It’s about being grateful. I want you to feel like you’re getting the better end of the deal when we are together, and I want to feel like I am. That’s why I say it; it reminds of how grateful I am to be with you, here, now. It’s a “just pinch me” moment. How lucky are we?!

Aug2

it’s never out of your sight

Posted on by
Standard

Admittedly, I’ve never been good at separating out timelines in my life. It’s all going down at once in here. This morning at three a.m. I woke from some wild cosmic ride thinking about my RAYHOPE experience. And having an ah-ha I would like to share. It had me buzzing.

You may not remember reading the post about this (May 8, 2024). Here’s the synopsis: my father was dying. As I was driving to be his caretaker one day I had to pull over to calm down, overcome with grief and blinded by tears. It suddenly occurred to me that I was habitually praying for him but not for myself. And so I said a prayer for myself, a solicitation for help. And I ended it with, “show me just a little ray of hope…” Those are not words I have ever used. My Mother, perhaps, but I don’t remember ever saying them, let alone thinking them. I was desperate for some relief, physically and spiritually.

My father was living with my brother, way out in the middle of nowhere in some tiny cabin my brother had rented when I kicked him out of my house. Homeless, my brother had asked to stay for a few weeks, and over three years later I kicked him out. I was tired of his abusive behavior. But I wouldn’t see him that day, or ever again. So I took them groceries, cleaned the house, filled the refrigerator with prepared meals. My father was still able to get around on his own, and one of my sisters would be there the next day. Around the middle of the afternoon Dad said he wanted to lay down and take a nap. My brother would be home from work by dinner time, and so I said goodbye to Dad. It would be my turn on the caretaker schedule again in a few days.

Slowly I dodged the potholes of the dirt road for a few miles to get back to the highway. There was traffic to wait out before I could turn left. Once I did I was following a big black SUV, and as I got up to speed I couldn’t help noticing that it had a specialty license plate. A government vehicle? It wasn’t legible until we came to a stoplight miles later, and as I inched up behind it the license plate read R-A-Y-H-O-P-E.

Literally, a little ray of hope.

I had to pull over again, this time in a parking lot, to compose myself. I was shaking. Did I hallucinate that? How can that happen? There was no predetermined time frame for my visit. Imagine the complicated sequence of events that had to culminate in that exact place and time. The State of Michigan sells customized license plates. They run a check to make sure no one is already using that exact plate; there are no duplicates. What was it doing on a big SUV on a northern Michigan rural highway nowhere near anything? At some random time in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon? I did not hallucinate it. It was carefully orchestrated, perhaps over months or even years, for me. It had to be.

My father did not live but a few more weeks. My brother would never speak to me again. He was a gambling addict, and once my father was gone he would not be able to pay rent and would soon become homeless again. But he would not reach out to me. The day that had given me so much hope did not mean what I thought it meant. I have never understood it.

Until very early this morning – twelve years later – when I woke knowing something even more fantastical. Help me wrap my head around this awareness: that event was a glimpse into how the world works. It was not a miracle, not unique, or even unusual. It was momentary insight into how life works. All the time. It is all unfolding perfectly. In any given second. On any road, anywhere.

The past several months have broken me open. My days are consumed with unreconcilable grief. Maybe it’s been percolating under the surface all my life and only now has the time and safe place to express itself from my body. And this grief has simply sharpened my awareness to the point in time where I can almost grasp the enormity of this. There has always been a little ray of hope. There will always be a little ray of hope. Nothing here is happening by accident. Nothing ever has.

Aug1

public service announcement

Posted on by
Standard

Part 3 of 3:

7/30, 3:33 am; I’m awake thinking about my brother again, about how he didn’t have a voice. About how I feel a responsibility to speak up for him, to tell the story of how abuse in the family of a narcissist steals the childhood of a spectacular child, an innocent child, who would never find himself again, never know joy. Who would never know his soul, his voice. Who would die alone in the rented room of a coworker’s trailer at the age of 62.

What if, at the age of 72, I drop the guilt I have carried my entire life? What if I was never responsible? Oh sure, part of me always knew my four younger siblings weren’t my responsibility. I left home at 16, telling my parents that I would no longer raise their children for them. Never mind take care of their drunk asses at three am when they stumbled in from the bar. But I didn’t really let go of the guilt, ever. The sense that I had abandoned them all. I remember being in my late thirties, sitting in a therapy session with my sister who looked right at me and told me she still could not forgive the fact that I left them all to fend for themselves when I was sixteen. I abandoned them. I abandoned my siblings. She told me they were angry at me – not at my parents. And I get it now; in many ways I was the parent. When I left at 16 they had already depended on me for years.

And I didn’t just disappear. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. No, I went away to boarding school. To what I still call the real Hogwarts. I went from a living hell to magical days full of beauty and art and inspiration. I went to Kingswood Cranbrook. I was in my heaven. I left my young siblings to fend for themselves against a monster no one could name. It was 1970. There was no such thing as Child Protective Services. No one to call, should anyone in the community realize something was wrong. I only realized it at a subconscious level myself. My body knew it, but my psyche wouldn’t define the fear for decades to come.

And I have carried guilt ever since. It is heavy. My body can’t seem to lose this visceral fat. My ankles are swollen, my knees ache. I can’t eat anything spicy, or digest gluten anymore. I’m a walking inflammation factory. Rather than accept this all comes naturally with age, I protest. There is nothing natural about this. This comes from aging in a dysfunctional, misogynistic family and culture. The one that flourished in the post-war industrial boom of the mid 1900’s.

The internet is full of articles about the inflammation that occurs with age. WHAT IF it actually only occurs in an aging society of narcissistic abuse victims? And don’t tell me you aren’t one. Not if you live in the United States, or under any oppressive government. HOW the everloving fuck do you think we got here??!!! Wake up. We are a misogynistic culture of narcissistic victims. AN ENTIRE CULTURE, people. And regardless of your age or gender or socio-economic status, ain’t nobody done here until everybody is done. You don’t have to like it. But you do have to live it. Some day I’ll tell you what we all lost when we lost my brother.

And you wonder why I’m angry all the time.

Jun16

it’s all a stretch these days…

Posted on by
Standard

Monday, 6/15: Good morning. I’m gonna change up the format here a bit. Since it’s basically always been a journal, let’s go with a journal format, beginning with the date…but all bets are off. Consistency is not a virtue I claim. I aspire. I’m…ya’ know, aspirational. It is a gorgeous summer morning. It is sunny and cool. Fifty-three degrees. It reminds me why we live in Michigan. But Michigan is not for everyone…it’s an “if you know, you know” kinda thing.

Detroit is the same. What an absolutely magnificent city. But if you know, you know. As a young woman I couldn’t wait to leave, but it was never because I didn’t love Detroit. It was because I wanted to live away from my highly dysfunctional family. Well, I wanted to raise my son away from them. And while I am very happy to be living “up north,” I will always miss Detroit. You can take the girl out of the city…

Growing up in Detroit was one of those “right place, right time” things. Born in the early 50’s, I became a teen in the 60’s. Detroit was the U.S. center of the British Invasion of rock in the 1960’s. And I was there for it. I was a sponge for it. I was growing up in a musical family, and as I’ve often said, my parents were beatniks in the 50’s who became hippies in the 60’s. I was the flower child.

I’ve also talked here a lot about being a privileged white girl in Detroit in the 1960’s. And having a conscience, thankyougod. Let’s just say, it shaped me. It would not make my life easier. Naive and 13, we were on one of our many summer getaways with our big-ass Chris Craft cabin cruiser to Georgian Bay, Canada. If you know, you know. It is one of the most spectacular places on the planet. We would use the depth sounder to check how deep the water was at our mooring, often off the beach of some deserted little island. We would watch the fish swimming thirty feet below us as we scooped up a pitcher of water to make orange juice or coffee. We had somehow stumbled into heaven, never suspecting we might not be worthy.

Bored in Tobermory harbor one stormy afternoon my younger sister and I walked into town, where I bought my first-ever record album. Not only did Joni Mitchell sing like no one I’d ever heard, but she had also drawn the jacket cover. Song to a Seagull caught my eye because it looked a lot like my fantastical drawings. Little did I know my life would never be the same.

Fast forward (hahahaa!) another six decades and here we are, you and I…talkin’ trash and livin’ our best life. Have I mentioned how grateful I am? I would try to articulate this sentiment, but then I would turn to a mush puddle and not be able to type through the tears. That’s me these days. Hence, the month-long hiatus since my last post.

Life continues to unfold and reveal it’s many complex layers. I can barely keep up. Is this progress? Who TF knows…it feels like a loop. A loop of grief and addiction with brief glimpses of joy. Is that joy? Would I recognize joy if it bit me?! Today I sit here in dappled sunlight looking out through the trees in a state of absolute delight and possibility. Yesterday I was sick and in a state of dread. Did I mention that consistency and I are not natural companions?

I had big plans for yesterday. A long ta-da list. But I woke with a migraine. Nauseous. Stiff joints and sore muscles. Where did this come from? I had been working outdoors in the garden the previous day, and I had been stung. It could just as easily have been caused by something I ate that day. The raspberries I put on my yogurt were just beginning to mold but I couldn’t stand to lose them. I live on that edge between blissful wellness and painful incapacity. It’s called chronic illness for a reason. So yesterday was a lost day. I sipped electrolytes, ate tiny bites of dry sourdough toast and stayed in my dark, cool bedroom.

But these days I have a job. I hate having a job. Oh, I love my work. It’s the schedule I resent. Having to be up and out of the house (preferably dressed) and then drive 40 minutes to get anywhere. Regardless of how I feel. Take Sumatriptan if necessary, but show up. Because consistency counts. I was loving retirement. I will again. Life threw another curve ball that I was ill prepared for, and now I face a new challenge: find a new way to earn income. So you’re 72?! Buckle up, buttercup. You live in Michigan, and Michigan is part of the good ol’ USofA….

Honestly, this is very likely good for me, being forced to get dressed and leave the house on a schedule. With the inconsistency of ADHD, and it’s sister component lack of discipline, a little imposed structure usually serves me well. It stimulates creativity and I am forced to overcome my preference to hide; forced to engage with others. As in people. Ugh. Present company excepted.

During this past month, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief and…well, despair – for lack of a better word. I guess I must admit despair. It has been a long 6 months of winter filled with grief. I am depressed. Getting out and driving through gorgeous countryside will do me good. I have reconnected with a dear old friend, who gave me work immediately without question when I called for help. And I’ve also met some very nice people. I certainly cannot complain. How fortunate I am when I get out of my own way. Honestly, are we all our own worst enemies?

I’m beginning to engage with life again. One new rabbit hole I’d love to share here is a vlog I’ve recently discovered on YouTube. I love YouTube…so way better than television. Apparently so does everyone else. In fact, in her first year on YT, Angie has rapidly grown to be one of the most popular channels. There are reasons obvious to me, but I will let you see for yourself.

Confession: I found this vlog because I am researching lifestyle channels, thinking about starting one myself. Sort of a live-action adjunct to this blog. There are aspects of Angie’s vlog I would copy – like wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. And her vulnerability, which I would much rather disguise – but what are the chances?! However, mine would also be quite different. For starters, I’m 12 years older. And far snarkier. Hard as I might try, I am not British. My vlog would have to include my metaphysical studies and spiritual experiences to be authentic. We all know I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life. But there are many things I admire about Angie, not the least of which is her consistency. I could learn something.

I have a long list of ideas…I would love your ideas. Let’s share our curiosity, in hopes that you and I can continue this conversation about life and loss and hope and inconsistency and beauty and all things human. Thank you for being here.

So here is my offering for today: Rare Birds, for those of us growing older, expanding rather than shrinking. For real people, highly sensitive people, who take life as it comes with all it’s foibles and inconsistencies. People like us, who keep on keeping on. Meanwhile, I’m off to my local hardware store to buy myself a garden fork…I hope Angie would be proud.

Apr5

you can have it all

Posted on by
Standard

It’s seven-thirty in the morning as I write this. In the nightmare I just woke from, the bear was looking in the back door at me longingly. I had locked it out, along with my sweet beloved little Corgi, Hariat. I was so angry. Who does this bear think it is, befriending my dog?! Getting her to do it’s bidding to get close to me?! That is not going to work with me.

At three a.m. this morning I had a dream in which I had let Hariat in and the bear had come out of nowhere and snuck in behind her. They both ran straight to my bed, curled around each other and went sound to sleep – the sleep of innocent children in the safety of their mother’s womb.

So hours later, in the 2nd dream, I was wise to this bear. I’m getting to know him well. I say him because I know who this is now. I know who the black bear – who is actually hanging around outdoors – is a metaphor for. And I know what it represents, what it is trying to communicate, and what needs to be healed. I now know exactly what is going on. I am living inside an adult fairy tale.

I am writing this early on the morning of Easter Sunday, 2026. It is Resurrection Day. If you are reading this, know that we are living in a new reality. We have been reborn, just this morning, into a renewed consciousness. Healed. Sing with me: Hallefuckinglujah!

Excuse the pun, but bear with me, and I will tell you a true story. This is the first draft of a fairy tale you can live inside of, as a conscious adult. It has been 72 years in the making. So far.

Four days ago I received a phone call that my former husband was dying, suddenly and unexpectedly. He had taken a nasty fall at his daughter’s house and was rushed to the hospital via ambulance. He had cut his face and tongue open and required stitches. They missed the brain bleed. By the time I had arrived he was only slightly conscious and unable to speak, although he certainly tried. He was desperate to tell me something. He kept gesturing with his hands for me to bring him pen and paper, but he wasn’t able to use them. I knew what he was trying to say. My heart was broken, too. I stayed that night, grateful to sit holding his hand as he slipped further into unconsciousness, allowing his daughters to go home for a few hours of much needed rest. They had come back and I had just left when he took his last breath.

This past week I had posted here about my deceased cat telling me not to do anything before March 30th. It sounded crazy, I know. That’s the day before Richard fell. So it has been five months of knowing that my life was going to change. Has changed now. And like a long string of dominos falling over in succession, it is as though my entire life makes perfect sense now. And a new awareness, a new reality, begins today. Ready or not.

Here is what little I can tell you this morning as I wake from the visiting bear: there is one thing and one thing only between you and a life of abundance and joy: your codependency. In the spiritual realm that forms all physical reality on earth, codependency represents the line between heaven and hell. It is the gatekeeper. With it intact, in working form within your psychology and physiology, you shall not pass. Life will present one helluva challenge after another on the slow painful descent toward oblivion. It must be healed.

And there is one way, and only one way, for healing to occur: forgiveness. Complete, utter – on your hands and knees – forgiveness.

Codependency takes on many forms. It is the master shape-shifter, after all. It’s most recognizable form is addiction. We all have them. Chemical addiction, alcohol and drug abuse, being the most obvious. But we are a culture of addicts. Food, sugar, tobacco, television…self-righteousness, hate, bigotry. We are addicted to being right. Better than. Smarter. Power is a slippery, evil mistress. She hides in the shadows where you dare not look. She hides in the folds of your belly. She hides in your complacency and your mediocrity. She hides in your neediness.

The bear trying to get in is my former husband, the manipulative, narcissistic, completely-self-absorbed-irresponsible-addict-ass-hole-love-of-my-life. He thinks I know something, have something for him. He is clawing for my attention and devotion. He is right that I have something he needs…if only it were mine to give.

He has been my greatest gift. Along with my family, my child, and the bear he sent…all bringing me a wake up call. Come out of your slumber, Susan. Life as you previously knew it is over. Forgive them all. Forgive everything you thought you knew. Forgive even what you think you know about sanity. Forgive the world. Or you shall not pass.

Here is what else I can tell you this morning: the world as we previously knew it is over. In this new reality only beauty holds power. Beauty in all it’s forms: kindness, intuition, nature. Something I learned about intuition this winter is that it is simply pattern recognition. My neurodivergent self calls it intuition; my genius knows it as pattern recognition. I see it everywhere, in everything. Dominos lining up.

Today I am reborn. I will no longer doubt myself. I shall converse openly with deceased cats and dogs; with my husband as bear. I will no longer coddle fear in my belly. I will not be repressed or shushed. I am not sorry. I do not care what you think of me; I forgive you for not knowing me. You can have it all – all – the control. I am not interested. I forgive you.

Jan5

giving up all hope

Posted on by
Standard

“Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.” – Anne LaMott

Forgiveness has been a recurring theme lately in my thoughts and dreams. Call it the cosmos if you wish. The end of the Year of the Snake. The great shedding of old skin. Preparing to meet the Horse, which is my Chinese astrology sign. It’s a sign alright, and I don’t care what we name it. Bring it on.

I have been in a biglongugly funk. Fortunately, I do know how to get myself out of this: W R I T E. I can write my way out. I can draw or paint my way out, too. So can you. You can do any or all of those things. It has nothing to do with talent or experience – it depends on one thing and one thing only – willingness. Well, and a pen and some paper. I recently saw a quote by Dan Poynter that pissed me off. He said, “If you are waiting for inspiration to write, you’re not a writer. You’re a waiter.” Thanks for that, Dan. As my friend Lyn would say, “well that hurts my feelings.” Doesn’t it just…

So I have to sit my butt in a chair and write. Or draw. Or paint. A combination of the three actually works best for me. Because the alternative is insomnia, nightmares, migraine. Lately I have been raging in my sleep. My anger will not be contained. It shocks me how violent my dreams are. I’m fighting for my life, kicking and biting and stabbing and screaming. I am really angry. Keep your distance.

That has to come before the forgiveness. Because I don’t understand forgiveness. I do not know how to forgive. To give forth. To give it up…to let go.

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks.” – David Foster Wallace

Apparently my body and my subconscious keep excellent records. I assume you also have an inner secretary; mine functions at an executive level 24/7. And there is a thriving Slights Department. I have 70+ years of slights filed here, just waiting for their moment to be justifiably indignant.

In the middle of the night my inner secretary drags out the trauma files and tries to convince me that someone is going to murder me. My nighttime assailant can be any number of people. Usually my father or my sister. They, along with other family members, were prone to violent outbursts. They all spent time in jail for violence against other people. They all weaseled out of more serious charges with the help of a good attorney. As did my former husband, my son’s father. They all drove drunk on a regular basis and never left the house without a gun. I knew what they were capable of, and for anyone who has ever been manipulated by an abuser, that is all it takes. A certain look in their glassy eyes is all it takes for them to back you right into a corner.

To say that I have clawed and chewed my way free of the manipulation of narcissists would be an understatement. The one thing I have not ever done is threaten them back. Oh, I am capable of it, believe me. I, too, have a vengeful murderer deep inside my psyche. I understand them. But I have never actually threatened anyone with any kind of violence at all. I loathe violence. I lived in it’s shadow until I was sixty years old. I had to learn how to walk away and never look back. So I guess I do actually know how to let go. I just don’t know how to make it not hurt.

And, I do swear a lot. Recently my son brought this habit to my attention and asked me to reconsider it. I told him that social psychologists have studied swearing and concluded that it does, in fact, help the body dissipate stress. He said something very wise about it, though. He asked me if it were not a form of violence. And I think it is, yes. I think I will curb my habit of swearing in my effort to live more softly. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? Consider it an experiment.

I have often joked that my obsession with murder mysteries is because I want to know there are people out there more psychotic than my own family. There is always some truth in humor, isn’t there? For the past decade or so I have played with the idea of writing a memoir. But I haven’t wanted to be the angry, confrontative whistle blower of the family. This week, as we begin a hopeful new year, I don’t think I have a choice any longer. I’m tired. I know truth heals. And only truth heals. I want healing. I will be careful and respectful to the best of my ability, but I will tell my truth my way.

Anne LaMott also said, when asked about exposing family dysfunction in her memoirs, “you own everything that’s happened to you. Write your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I admit to you here, now, that I still need to overcome the actual fear I carry that my family will lash out and harm me. My sister threatened me years ago when I began this blog.

Many of my family members also had a great sense of humor. My son certainly does. I will incorporate that into my stories, but I will tell them however they show up. And I will share here what I can of them – not because I need you to know, but because I want us to heal. If I can do this, so can you. It’s time. It’s the year of the horse. We ride at midnight.

Jan4

you can call me Phil

Posted on by
Standard

“The opposite of faith is not doubt; it is certainty. It is madness. You can tell you have created God in your image when he or she hates all the same people you do.” – Anne LaMott

I cannot tell you how many times I said to my sisters, “you have created God in your own image,” but they didn’t get it. I had never heard of Anne LaMott at the time. It just seemed obvious to me. They would yell and scream at me – as if perhaps that would convince me – that God hates fags. And blacks? A lesser race. Forget indigenous people. They were savages. My sister told me once that if she had her way all Muslims would be wiped off the face of the planet. To this day I am shocked how such different people could come from the same two parents. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it. That’s how I knew they’d been brainwashed into a cult. We were not raised that way. Quite the opposite; we were raised to be kind to all creatures, and treat every person with the same respect.

In my 20’s I started a tradition of taking my Mother to a summer concert, just us two. It was a manipulative way to get her all to myself for an evening. I would pack us a picnic and we would often sit in our car enjoying it after the concert, waiting for the parking lot to clear out. I’d given up buying the less expensive lawn tickets after being caught in a downpour. But I didn’t want to abandon the picnic part of our date.

Mom was a country music fan and over the years we saw some great concerts I never would have experienced on my own. Neil Diamond…Anne Murray…and when Willy Nelson came to Pine Knob I purchased tickets. But I just couldn’t bring myself…so I asked my sister to take her. They brought me a pink handkerchief as a souvenir. I had it framed and gave it back to my Mother, where it hung in her hallway for many years.

In 1993 we had both moved north from the Detroit suburbs, so I chose from the summer concert series at Interlochen. And I chose to get us tickets to see K.D. Lang…because, well, who wouldn’t want to see that icon live?! My sisters got wind of my Mother’s plans and had a hissy fit. How dare I take my Mother to see a lesbian?! My reply was, “well…we weren’t going to sleep with her…we were just going to listen to her sing.” That infuriated them. As usual, I didn’t get it. Thick as I am. But Mom and I had a great time. I hope she didn’t carry any guilt about going.

My siblings and I have very different gods. Mine doesn’t care what you call her. Theirs is definitively a him. And he cares very much how he is named in prayer. Sometimes I envy them their certainty that they know God. My God is magnificently mysterious and unfathomable. Big as all creation and yet personal, loving and kind. So is my faith.

“Maybe a great magnet pulls all souls towards truth, or maybe it is life itself feeds wisdom to it’s youth…” – K.D. LANG

Nov26

Happy Thanksgiving for all.

Posted on by
Standard

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Well…almost all. Unless you’re an indigenous native…or gay…or black…or female…or…well, okay, unless you’re anything other than straight white male. And then, depending on your political affiliations, to be determined subject to the current balance of power…or…fuckall…

We children all stood obediently, put our right hand over our heart and repeated after our adoring teacher. In any other setting that ritual would be called indoctrination into a cult. The cult of nationalism has many sub-cults. The cult of school (yay, team), the cult of church. The cult of family. The cult of loyalty, unquestioned and unquestionable. Don’t you dare question. By the time we’re around the age of 10 (too generous? maybe 7?) we are gone. As in, so completely turned around and conditioned that we have no idea who we are. We do know what we stand for – because we have been told. God help us.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in these here United States. Let the celebration of genocide begin. That is not to say I am not grateful, because I truly am. I might be female, but at least I was born into a privileged white family. In a peaceful, free country. Might not have been the same United States you were born into. But let’s be honest, I’ve had many advantages. And much to overcome. I doubt my father would have been an abusive narcissist were he not born where and when he was. He certainly would not have had so many advantages, least of all a culture of protection around him to hide his psychopathy for 82 years. Talk about an invisibility cloak, phew! That worked well.

My mother died of liposarcoma at the age of 69. The oncologists refer to that cancer as “the anger cancer.” I suspect all cancer takes root in anger, but suffice it to say she died of repressed anger. I’ve told many times here about my memorable 16th birthday gift from her. She gave me two books: The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan and The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. Was she trying to tell me something? Ya think? At least she made an effort. God knows she never had a chance of any freedom for herself. And I was so conditioned by then, I had only a smidgen more.

Had I not been born into privilege, in a relatively safe environment with abundant food and shelter, would I have ever have gained any insight into the underlying dysfunction? I’ll tell you what my family thinks: they think I am blatantly ungrateful. They couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m grateful for all the same things they are, and so much more. I’m just grateful for different reasons.

You see, I think they are living in a deadly and toxic state of denial. I think they are altogether unwilling to press pause on their insecurity button for just a little moment, long enough to consider – not accept, just consider – that they are not actually superior to everyone else. And so, they behave as if they are absolutely terrified of everyone around them all the time. They don’t leave the house without their gun. The world is a very scary place. It’s full of others.

I don’t envy them that position, although I have at times in the past. God knows most days I’d give anything for that previous naivete. For one more day back home with them all around the dining table on Thanksgiving, laughing. I didn’t know those were fields of gold.

I have often envied them the certainty of their convictions when I was questioning my own motives. When I was requiring myself to be as honest with myself as I possibly could bring myself to be about why I thought I might be smart enough to have figured something out.

I’m not. Smarter. I haven’t figured out shit. But I do have certainty of my convictions now. Not because I accepted what I was taught, but precisely because I have questioned it all and decided how to think and what to believe – beyond a shadow of a doubt. Insert belly-laughing emoji here.

What a mess we have created from fear. Of course, I’m neurodivergent, so conservative ass-holes seem to have everything backward from where I stand. And this grief I am going through recently comes with an equal measure of terror. Most of my fitful sleep is composed of my fighting for my life. Nightmares of my family trying to kill me aren’t new, but lately there are trained assassins after me. I’ve moved up in the world. Or they have. Now they can hire it done.

I’ll tell you what: fuck this shit. I’m determined to look the demons right in the eye and beat them at their own game. It’s freedom or nothing. Give me liberty or…

“Being an American means reckoning with a history fraught with violence and injustice. Ignoring that reality in favor of mythology is not only wrong but also dangerous. The dark chapters of American history have just as much to teach us, if not more, than the glorious ones, and most often the two are intertwined.” – Ken Burns

Oct19

we live here…

Posted on by
Standard

Bitch, please…I grew up in Detroit. For those of you who are not familiar, or accept the cultural collective’s jokes and voodoo euphemisms of Detroit, you’re missing out. Detroit is the heart and soul of America. It is fu@king awesome. Go. Stay in the New Center area and spend a couple days at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Drive around and take in some of the most spectacular historical architecture in the United States. You won’t see it all in that time, but enough to enjoy yourself enormously and appreciate it’s beauty and world-class culture.

Then take yourself “up north.” This is where I have lived the past 40 years. Let me tell you a bit about how I came here, and why I stay.

My father grew up on a farm outside of Traverse City, where my Irish ancestors had immigrated and settled during the potato famine. About to enter high school, his father moved the family to Detroit during the automobile boom. And so I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit and often visited my great-grandparents and aunts and uncles on Long Lake, west of Traverse City, in the summer months. By the time I was in my early twenties I would spend as much time as possible here, staying with my great Aunt Edith, my grandfather’s sister, in the old farmhouse out on Cedar Run Road. My young son had baths in the big iron sink after I pumped water from the well and heated it – on the stove I’d built a fire in. I would put on one of my great grandmother’s old house dresses, crank up the Victrola, and dance around the living room…romantically imagining I lived in a simpler time…way back when. Until Aunt Edith became impatient with my immature fantasies and reminded me that we had no trash pick up or mail delivery – and I needed to get my arse in gear. Those errands were not going to do themselves.

I have about a million and thirty stories I could tell that depend on the geography of both places, and all around the Great Lakes. There is nowhere else like Michigan on earth. And while it is great, not all of my childhood was great. I came from a big dysfunctional family that often settled differences with fist fights and spent years stubbornly not speaking to one another, depending on the current offensive issue. This blog is full of many – by no means all, of those stories, from day one, back in 2012. That was when I began to write as though my life depended on it, not knowing how true that was.

The move from Detroit to Traverse City was purposefully to get my child away from my family, and their drug and alcohol-induced violence. To be safe. To start over. It was the naive plan of a young woman suffering from PTSD, not yet aware of her ADHD, her mental and emotional limitations. It didn’t work. Not only did I not escape my own demons, but my family members were inspired by my new life and followed me. Over the course of the next few years they all moved north, too.

We live here now. Now I actually live about 50 miles west of Traverse, near the shore of Lake Michigan. My son grew up here. We have both traveled some; enough to know this is home. But home has come to mean an internal space for me as I age. It’s funny, the name of this blog…a painterly home. I thought it would be about interior design. Little did I know it would be about interior design – as in, my spiritual interior. There are so many more stories to unpack and share. I’m grateful beyond words for this journal and your readership. It continues to save my life on a weekly basis.

Today I am grieving as my sweet familiar, Chewy, is dying. I’m not ready to lose him. Many of you know that I had two elderly dogs I cherished when Chewbacca the cat came to live with us. I was asked if I could please help out a friend and foster him for a couple of months about 8 years ago. What a blessing he has been. He fit right in with the dogs, becoming immediately inseparable from my little beagle, Odie. I’ve written other posts about them, of course (see Sept. 9, 2025, Chew de Monk). I never would have chosen these silly names for these magnificent beings. But they were already displaced and going through enough adjustment to impose any others unnecessarily. For starters, Chewy became known as a catdog. He did not know that he wasn’t a dog. Since we lost Odie in 2020, Chewy has seldom left my side. Like the dogs, he feels it is his duty to be constantly underfoot. He follows me from room to room. He insists on touching while we sleep, just as he did with Odie; he extends one of his back legs and pushes it against my thigh. I will aver that he understands English perfectly. All of it. Only an hour or so ago I mentioned out loud that I would give him a bit more liquid and medicine in the syringe again, hoping he can rally. He begrudgingly pulled himself up and walked the few steps to his water fountain and took the first drink he has had in two or three days.

Yesterday doesn’t count. We spent the day at the emergency clinic while he got IV liquids, a warm enema, pain and diabetes meds, in an attempt to save him. We came home last night exhausted. He has barely moved and still isn’t eating. I haven’t given up. I keep telling him that I won’t ever give up on him, and that if he can pull through this I will do everything in my power to improve the quality of his life. I’ve promised new toys. I also told him that if he is too tired he is free to go. I will miss him every day for the rest of my life, and I will remember daily all the joy he brought. Rejoice at the thought of he and Odie together again. Still in a magnificently beautiful place, with all the loves that I don’t know how to live without.

Sep8

you make the choice of how it goes…

Posted on by
Standard

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.