Category Archives: music

Nov23

you, stop talking

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My dear therapist has done nothing but listen to me cry for an hour a week four weeks on end now. Poor woman. She’s grossly underpaid. She’s good; to her credit she doesn’t try to talk me out of my sorrow, or fix it. She just listens. My son and a few close friends have been stoically doing the same practice. They are hanging in there with me, “keeping vigil,” as one friend says. I’m not sure I could show as much patience, although what choice do they have, really? I’m uncontrollable. I’m entirely dependent on them right now.

My counselor did say yesterday, “you are grieving all the losses of your life again.” I think she’s onto something there. And more: I am allowing myself to grieve all the losses I perceive, mine and my loved ones. And by loved ones, I mean you, and the trees, and the animals. I am grieving because, as I said to my counselor yesterday, “given the state of things, how could I not?”

Life as we previously knew it is over and we’ve fucking survived, for better or worse. I remember watching the war in Vietnam on my television every night and being shocked that humans could possibly treat other humans that way. Am I the only person who saw screaming naked children running from the bombs? For years to come I lived in the comfort of complacency, believing things couldn’t get any worse, and that surely – surely – we had learned something there. I mean, something more than how to be better at war. How to achieve the goal more efficiently and cheaply, and screw the loss of life. Apparently that’s a renewable commodity.

So here I am, sobbing unconsolably. Pay no mind. I’m grieving the loss of my mother all over again. Being in this horrific blackness, I just want my Mom. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow that. George Floyd didn’t. You haven’t either, whether you know it or not yet.

If I were to list all the things my subconscious is dredging up these past days, all the harms and grievances I have apparently filed deep inside somewhere over the past 72 years, we’d be here for decades. I’d produce volumes. Suffice it to say that I have not learned how to process grief and anger. I seem to have a lifetime of it stored in every cell of my 187 pound body. I don’t think it will ever be consoled again.

The cruelty of the current political regime in the U.S., and the fact that so many Americans support this, has me right back in my high school mentality of shock. 50 years later. Absolute and utter shock. There is no other way to say it. The blatant disregard for humanity is not something I will ever learn to “process” because I am unequivocally uninterested in processing it. It is wrong.

The way women are treated, and people of any religion other than our own – wrong. There is no other here. The fact that children are being gunned down in school – jesusfuckingchrist. WHO thinks it is alright to live like this?! WHO?!

But let’s pause here a moment and remember something else: I have ALWAYS known right from wrong. I did not need to be taught this awareness. I knew from early childhood that the world does not need guns. Killing has no justification. Neither does the slavery of poverty. None. Period. Do you hear me?! I shall assume that you are also a highly sensitive person or you would not be here reading this blog. So we don’t get it. We’ll never get it. Because it is insane and we are not.

This immense grief that is threatening my way of life, perhaps my life itself, began a month ago with the death of my cat. It’s seems far greater than our brief relationship. But I will not diminish the importance of our devotion. I miss him terribly. I don’t care how silly it sounds that I am grieving the loss of my cat this deeply. He was a magnificent being who graced my life with his companionship.

What happens now? I haven’t a clue. I want the world to change and we both know that isn’t going to happen. I want to find hope among the ruins of my shredded heart. I can’t see it. I want the pressure in my chest to let up. I want to feel love and kindness again. It vaporized. Fuck this “earth school” approach to reconciling trauma. That does not work for me anymore. Don’t come to me, world, with ideas about healing. Not interested in anything about anything.

Do not – I repeat, DO NOT say to me that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I have been strong for far too long. I surrender. I only want to be softer. If the world eats me whole, so be it.

Maybe don’t talk to me right now. Pray instead. Stop talking and pray as if our lives depend on it.

Oct24

becoming my full size

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With the recent drop in temps, I asked my son if he is working outside this week. “Outside what? My comfort zone?” “Comfort zone? What’s a comfort zone?” I replied. When was the last time you felt comfortable? I don’t mean in your clothes or bed, of course…I mean with your life. To quote one of my favorite artists, life is so life-y right now. We are reminded not to let our guard down daily, at least in these here United States. We know we are teetering on the precipice of hell; too many are already living in it daily. Don’t look down.

My personal hell revolves around my personal grief right now. I must do the last few chores to prepare the house and yard for winter. Everything was put on hold when the cat became ill. The deck still has its’ outdoor rugs and umbrella. The outdoor iron furniture scoots around in the wind like plastic toys. As the leaves fall the wind becomes a screaming locomotive on top of this sand dune. Bring it on. I’m so angry. I just want to scream back.

For over a decade now I have harped on about how it will ultimately be the artists who save us. They warn us, then they fight for us, then they lead us through our redemption. That’s their job. That and creating beauty from nothing. In case you thought they had a comfort zone, think again.

Unknowingly, but not coincidentally, Florence Welsh wrote me a song. She is the voice of our times. Comfort zone this.

“Here I don’t have to be quiet. Here I don’t have to be kind, extraordinary and normal all at the same time.” – Florence Welsh

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.

Sep2

I don’t clean up for less.

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Okay, I admit, I am easily entertained. Although I’ve become increasingly pickier with age. Want my money, my time, my attention? That bar is high these days; it will remain so. My standards have been raised. Some people have the gall to tell me that my standards are too high. Others might say they had nowhere to go but up. However, I don’t much care what some might say anymore…

My criteria for acceptable entertainment (as well as information) has been refined, taste aside. I expect high quality in everything I take in, whether that be news, movies, television, music…or our relationship. And by quality, I mean on every level. My senses are going to be bombarded with the culture of sensationalism every day, so bring it. If I am going to watch, I want high quality cinematography. Listening? Crisp high quality sound while I’m weeding out the crap. No more perfumey candles to smell or scratchy fabrics against my skin. I’ve had to improve the quality of the food I eat if I want to be healthy – and isn’t that work these days?! Read the labels, research – and then pay more to have them leave the chemicals and the seed oils out. Even my cat deserves nothing less than the best quality food I can possibly afford.

Now in my 70’s, I’ve survived more than most people can imagine. A lifetime of narcissistic abuse and neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, financial abuse. I have walked through hell. I’ve watched – and felt – almost every person I’ve ever loved suffer through cancer and addiction. Now I watch my beloved child struggle from decades of absent adults, never present enough to protect him from the same ravages. My gorgeous, brilliant nieces and nephews – and their children now; living out the 4th generation of trauma. To say I have paid my dues is an understatement. The only thing I’m sorry for are all the years I wasted making compromises. Repeat after me: “All my debts are paid, seen and unseen.” And be absolutely certain of it.

Now – just now!, am I really getting to the good stuff of life. Droppin’ off the shame. I’m not made for that. Neither are you. So, no more apologies. No more begging to belong. We are everything we are meant to be.

“Be kind to me, or treat me mean. I’ll make the most of it; I’m an extraordinary machine.” – Fiona Apple

May10

and I just ain’t got the time

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“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.” – Maya Angelou

Recently I wrote that my mojo was missing like Car 54…and then I wrote nothing for weeks. I had nothing. Crickets. Where does it go, the muse, the inspiration, the energy…life? In the barometer of my body it feels to have dropped…way down deep inside. And it feels like death. Well, not that I know what death feels like, although I’ve been close a few times. But it feels something has stopped breathing. It’s hibernating. It can’t be prodded or cajoled to surface; I have to wait until it – she – crawls out from under the covers. It’s always tentative at first. Shy. Vulnerable. Immature.

Music is often the ladder I climb out of that dark womb back to the misty surface of the early morning light. Many years ago a friend told me I have a musical heart, and I think I always have. I come from a family of musicians. I don’t seem to have any talent there, but I often dream in song.

The first time I heard Stevie Winwood’s haunting voice my soul recognized a fellow spirit. That’s what good art does. It wakes something hiding deep inside. How many times did I experience Stevie Winwood in concert? Spencer Davis Group, Blind Faith (at the Grande Ballroom?) Traffic at Joe Louis Arena – The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys tour in 1972 (the year I graduated high school.) I went to hear him. Not Eric Clapton, or Ginger Baker.

Sing to me, Stevie. I’m all alone in this cage, and somebody holds the key…

Feb2

what if the dreams are ours to keep?

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We did it! We did it! We survived January! Woohoo…let’s celebrate already. It is still brutally cold outside, but I do sense the days getting a bit longer, and we have had some intermittent sunshine the past few days. It makes such a dramatic difference in the way I feel. Apparently I have terrible seasonal affective disorder (SAD) and I think I always have had it, since childhood.

I’ve had a lot of things since childhood…ha! Autism and ADHD and anxiety and…and…a great big open musical heart and a pretty good mind and some artistic talent…and best of all, an innate curiosity about how life works and a sense of wonder about the world. I wouldn’t want me any other way.

And in my deep and endless curiosity I have always asked, myself and you: what if? What if, in fact, we are right where we need to be doing exactly what we need to be doing? What if, as Einstein posed, everything is a miracle? I’ve always known the truth of it – as have you – somewhere deep inside. And the 238 days of January just reminded me. I need reminding, seemingly constantly.

I need reminding that the world was made to be free in. I need reminding that all life is precious. I need reminding that I am enough – just right, in fact. Not too big, too small, too smart, too stupid, too much. And most especially, I all too often need reminding – SO ARE YOU. You’re just right.

I’ve left far too many people behind. They silently disappeared in the rear view mirror when I moved away. They ghosted me out of anger and frustration. They threw up their hands in defeat and walked away. They drank themselves into oblivion. I told them off and never looked back. They died of cancer. Their heart gave out. Some I didn’t really know. And some I didn’t know how to lose and I still haven’t caught my breath. All just right, right where they needed to be, doing exactly what they needed to be doing. It’s hard to trust, but it has to be. It has to all be sacred. Nothing else makes any sense.

What if…what if we wake in the afterlife, in the many mansions prepared for us, and find we brought all our dreams with us? What if, as I hope, we get to meet everyone again under different circumstances, in peace? Without expectations or need. Just love…

…just love. These are wild historical times we are living in. Everything gets overwhelming every day. And yet something inside us recognizes the moment as a choice. Love or fear. Trust or doubt. Yes or no. If every choice, every thought, every action boils down to yes or no it suddenly becomes straightforward. Yes to love. No to everything else. That doesn’t always mean it is easy, but it is simple. What if…we were made for a time such as this? What if it is all just right right now? What if…we didn’t know we were ready?

Jan25

can you hear me now?…

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Well. Where to start…again. It has been a loooong January and dark night. But I am not finished here. I am she who shall not be defeated. Any one who has known me for any time has heard or read me say again and again: “Remember, it will be the artists who save us.” My soul knows it is true.

And so I shall return to my youth for inspiration. I was raised in a musical family, beginning with my grandparents and aunts and uncles. My father and sister played piano, my mother the guitar. My southern Mimi could shake the tambourine so fast you only saw a blur at her hip. They all sang and danced. I was the least talented musically, but I could draw and paint anything before I could write. I won a dictionary for my copy of Rembrandt’s Young Woman at an Open Half-Door in the Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards when I was in the fifth grade. This is not to brag, but to inform you that art and music run in my blood. And so when I am struggling in any way, it is art and music that inevitably pulls me out of the abyss. I believe that is a universal truth for us all.

I entered high school in 1968. By this time I was already sick with ulcers, depressed and fed up with the dysfunction of my family. I had no idea. No idea what I was dealing with; that would take a lifetime of undoing. It was the height of the British invasion in the music scene and Detroit was the center of it. Hollowed out historic old theaters soon became the Grande Ballroom and the Eastown, offering stage side seats for $5. every Friday and Saturday night. It was my salvation.

Unbeknownst to me I was so old so young. Retrospect being what it is, I now understand that I assumed the role of parent in my family somewhere around the age of 10. I was already functioning as caretaker of my four younger siblings. I was tucking my parents in when they got home from the bar in the early morning hours and making breakfast and doing the laundry and getting the kids off to school. I had no choice. Were you to look at any of my yearly school pictures from junior high on, they would scare you shitless. You would think you were looking at a woman in her 30’s. Perhaps like Benjamin Button I have aged backwards.

The Vietnam war was being televised nightly. I watched my beloved Detroit burn in the riots of 1967, school having been cancelled because of it. College students were being shot down by police. I remember well the day Kennedy was shot (I was in the 3rd grade). And then his brother. And Martin Luther King. My father kept loaded guns at the doors and we all had a bug out bag on the boat, ready to flee to Canada if the war outside came to our front door. The world was on fire.

There was no peace, no solace, no safety – at home, or in the world. I remember being eleven or twelve and thinking, “what is wrong with this planet?! Are these people insane?!” I am a product of chaos. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I was made for a time such as this. Day of judgement, God is calling…

Nov3

I won’t let you leave my love behind.

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Something remarkable and normal has happened. As I said in my last post, I have been going through a bit of a tough time. So when I went to bed shortly after dark last night I said a prayer. I asked very specifically to be shown that I am being heard and guided – and I said, “either in my dreams tonight or in my YouTube feed in the morning.” Strangely, I didn’t remember any dreams. But as I checked in after reading email and messages, here was the first video in my feed:

Next question! I’ve written about Tiokasin Ghosthorse in prior blog posts. I’ll try to link those at the bottom here. He teaches us that in the Lakota language there are no nouns. They don’t need them. They know something we don’t in our Western culture: everything is a verb. Everything is in relationship to everything else, and everything is in process. We are becoming.

I’m writing this on Saturday (to post Sunday) and the election is 3 days away. Everyone is on edge. Friends and family I haven’t heard from in years are contacting me and want to know what will happen. Throughout my adult life I have often been employed, paid or not, to be a psychic. I do know where this is going. I know who will win the election and I know what will transpire afterward (btw, I have predicted them all accurately, as a few close friends could attest. They all argued with me prior to election day in 2016.) However, I am not telling. You do not need to know. If you never hear anything else I ever say, hear this: you never need to know. This was explained to me directly by God, who showed up in a dream in my 20’s, and did not look at all as expected. We argued about that. I wanted proof. He pointed at the television and started playing movies made just for me with my people in them, showing me things I could not have imagined. That gave remote viewing a whole new meaning…

Yes, I read tarot cards. No, I am not a fortune teller. That is not what the tarot is for. The Indigo Girls said it best: “the less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine.”

You will be fine. No matter what happens, and most especially no matter how you feel about it. Did you think that meant it would be easy?! Yeah, I make that mistake myself, hence the dark night.

We are having a spectacular fall here along the Lake Michigan shore. The weather is warmer than I remember in a long while. I think we had snow last year by this time. Yesterday it rained gently off and on all day while the sun shone. In many native cultures they say that means you are being blessed. I’ll take it.

Big, Beautiful Questions: https://apainterlyhome.com/category/tiokasin-ghosthorse/

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.

Sep18

I hear the band playin’…

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Please remember, always click on the blog heading for the updated version as I often edit after hitting publish…

The cat woke me around six a.m. His bowl was empty. This is my favorite time of day, just as the sun is coming up. But I hadn’t slept well and I really didn’t want to get up. My son was already in the kitchen getting ready for his work day. He’s been staying here since his relationship broke up. Feeling he had no other choice, he left her with the house they bought together, her teenagers, the dogs they adopted, his dreams, and oh yeah, much of his self worth stayed behind, too. He has continued to be as supportive of them as he possibly can be, physically, emotionally, and financially. This has required considerable patience on my part (let alone my friends and therapist) – but then, I don’t want to be the mother-in-law who thinks her son can do no wrong. I’ve had one of those.

The day he called and asked if he could come here I felt a huge sense of relief. Finally. Watching the abuse he seemed determined to cope with was nothing short of painful. He was mimicking the scapegoat role I had so effectively demonstrated for him my entire life. Everything about us must be wrong because God knows we never did anything right. But perhaps some healing could finally happen. We are a multi-generational family of survivors – survivors of alcoholism, physical and verbal abuse, and blatant narcissism. Our awareness continues to grow as our healing unfolds.

He’s been here longer than either of us expected; the better part of two years now. It has not been easy. But most days I am grateful for this time to get to know him as an adult, to spend time together investigating family history, to address our mental and emotional dysfunction, to have the opportunity to do the healing work we both need and deserve. I’m in my seventies, he’s in his forties, and for the first time in our lives we are safe. We have a safe place. I wonder where that will lead us.

Most mornings I am up hours before him or any hint of daylight. I feed the cat first (the boss of me), make coffee and head back to my cosy room with a book. If I haven’t fallen back to sleep, I hear him in the kitchen but leave him in peace. Well, I leave me in peace, because let’s be honest – I am far too easily irritated when my thoughts are disrupted before I’m ready to talk. But this morning I wandered out and made us both coffee. Here’s why he is one of the few people (okay, maybe the only person so far in this life) I’ve ever been able to live with: he is funny. He is blessed with my mother’s sense of humor. My brother had it, too. I was not so blessed. He is funny right from the get go when his feet hit the floor. Wow that is impressive!

My auDHD does not allow me to think that fast. So when I caught myself scowling this morning, I circumvented my crabbiness by saying, “Help me out here, please. My face is stuck,” revealing my frown. I had just sat down at my laptop. He simply replied with a directive: “Hello, Dolly by Louis Armstrong.”

Little did he know it would bring tears. I was ten years old the year my mother took me to see the musical at the Fisher Theatre. It starred Angela Lansbury. God, growing up in Detroit in the 1960’s was magical. As a privileged white child, of course. But back then what did I know…