Category Archives: recovery from abuse

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

Jan6

a gathering of lost parts

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For decades I’ve been told that I am hard on myself. I’m not convinced. I am unequivocally uninterested in lowering my standards. For anyone. Including myself. If anything, I think that I let myself off the hook too easily.

But perhaps they are referring to my self talk. It isn’t nice. I once had a telephone conversation with my sister about my other sister. She said, “I’d much rather talk to you. At least you don’t start your sentences with ‘you know what your problem is?” I replied, “No. But I do often end them with, ‘what were you thinking, you stupid idiot??!!!!!” We laughed.

How do you talk to yourself? Do you know? Do you catch yourself saying things you wouldn’t say to anyone else? I often start my self talk with, “well, if you’re so smart…” followed by whatever the current mess happens to be.

I will say this changed a great deal when I was so sick a few years ago. I was hospitalized with Lyme disease, and I was in the worst pain I had ever experienced. Intravenous Dilaudid (morphine) was not helping and I could do nothing but lay as still as possible, tears flowing down my cheeks, barely breathing. I remember thinking that I had never been in that much pain. Now mind you, I gave birth to a 9.6 pound baby completely naturally. I’ve had laparoscopic surgery with no anesthesia, and extensive dental work without novocaine. None of those things touched the pain from the Lyme infection.

The nurses who were caring for me that week were so enormously kind. It was dramatic and astonishing to me how different it felt. I felt like a little child being nurtured by a kind and loving caretaker – and I had to admit to myself that I had no conscious memory of ever feeling that way before. I left the hospital days later just wanting to learn how to live more softly. Wanting a softer life. Not an easier life, but softer in all the ways possible. I wanted to eat softer – more fresh fruits and green veggies. And lay in softer, warmer, sheets and blankets. I wanted to move slowly through the world; quietly. I wanted to speak in whispers. Kindnesses…just kindnesses…

I was changed. Sickness does that. Grief does that. I lost a lot of weight that summer; I shed a lot of grief. I have to admit today that I have fallen back into a lifelong habit of being rather unforgiving with myself, let alone others. And I am not happy about that. But today I am reminded that I want to live softly. I need to learn to live softly. I want to find my magic again. Magic is soft. Magic is kind. Magic is a sweet child skipping through the world in awe of life.

I love my life. What do you need to love your life today? Do you have any idea how magical you are?! You are. And I appreciate you.

Dec14

Gloria!

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“If we are lucky not to be displaced by war or poverty, the places we live are like bird’s nests.” – Gloria Steinem

I have long since lost count of how many times I have moved. Here’s a confession few know about me: I have been married four times. Three husbands, four marriages. All four ended in divorce. My first husband was a high school boyfriend. My parents had agreed to send me to boarding school after I threatened to run away – and I did so one summer. I managed to hide out for a couple of weeks in friend’s basements before a friend’s mother agreed to intervene on my behalf. By the age of 15 I couldn’t live at home any longer. I instinctively knew the situation was abusive, although it would be decades before I even began to unravel that situation.

I was 18 the first time I got married, and it only took a few months to figure out that my husband had a drug problem, and a few more months to realize there was nothing I could do about it. So I went “back home” to my parents, but only for a few awful days before finding a girlfriend I could rent a room from. And I never looked back, although I did go back again and again to pack up my younger siblings one by one and move them out. Not soon enough, of course, as the damage was done. Scrambling for survival myself, a safe place to sleep was all I had to offer.

By the third time I got married in my forties, I was no longer enduring physical or sexual abuse. That marriage would also prove intolerable, and not once, but twice. To this day we are still friends, and to this day he yet fails to comprehend any responsibility in it’s failing. As he so often said, we didn’t have a problem. I had a problem. As it happened, he was right, and my problem had a name.

The first fifty years of childhood are the hardest. I survived them by being scrappy. For the first 3 decades of living on my own I was able to find decent work, and when an emergency or large expense threatened my housing and independence, I would supplement my meager income by selling off family heirlooms, primarily beautiful antique furniture. I wish I could have kept it. Only a few small momentos still exist.

But this way of life (which I am only grateful for) leaves it’s scars. One of mine seems to be a deep, simmering grief for the home – THE home – that I have never known. It is truly all I’ve ever wanted for. A home of my own. Safe. Clean. Beautiful. A nest. Perhaps that is why I have always been fascinated by bird nests?!

In October of 1990, House and Garden magazine published an article by Gloria Steinem about her newly decorated NYC apartment, ‘Ms. Steinem on the Home Front.’ I still have that magazine. Somehow weird items have survived all the relocations…but in truth, this article made my heart sing. It has continued to inspire me all these years.

This morning, the 12th of December, 2024, I opened my YouTube feed and found this story. Gloria Steinem talking about her home of 58 years. I am watching through tears. If I had no other inspiration at all, Gloria would be enough.

Oct20

the cherished outcome

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“Oh love, bring every grief you’ve carried with you as a door you’ll walk right by / if you don’t stop to look with that loving heart and a troubled eye.”

Our troubles feel as if they are like stone, a compacted, impenetrable medium which will not allow us in. It’s time to “put my money where my mouth is…” so to speak. Time to show up, front and center, and face that stone inside, standing steadfast between me and my own liberation. I talk a good game, don’t I? All this wisdom about getting free. As if I had a clue.

When I am lost as I am this week, in the rock hard grief of my own making, I have few places I can turn. I can always turn to David Whyte. Ironically, I was introduced to him long ago by a friend I no longer have any contact with. She chose to stay in the comfortable captivity of her abusive marriage, and I had to stop pretending that I could be her supportive friend. If you read this journal once in a while, you’ll realize this theme has carried throughout the 13 years since I began here. I’ve gone no contact with more people than I have in my life anymore. Every single one has been a death I am mourning. In retrospect today, this seems an obvious theme. After all, I began this outlet as a means to help me process my divorce and separation from family, from everything I’d ever thought I wanted. To come up against that rock hard resistance and face the unknown.

C.S. Lewis is quoted as saying how shocked he was to realize that grief feels so like fear. There is good reason for that. Grief is the last doorway between us and our freedom, and we are terrified of our freedom. How, exactly, do we manage to be in the world, but not of it? Get back to me on that, won’t you, please?

It turns out that ignorance is never bliss; it’s really only ignorance. It also turns out that bliss was never the goal. It has always been awareness, whether we care to admit that or not. Bliss would be, well, blissfully easy by comparison. But awareness is how we get to freedom – which is our one and only job here. We like to pretend the god ate our homework. Yes, you read that right. So what is all this angst-ing about? Well, I have come up against the biggest boulder my heart has ever encountered, and I’m guessing you have one, too.

Since my teenage years, all of my relationships have been hard. I am hard. I have always been difficult to get along with. Something inside of me has always been as uncompromising as a boulder. I was the eldest of five children, and the scapegoat in a narcissistic family system. Yada, yada, yada…I married young. I got out as soon as I could, and I wasn’t going back. At the age of 24 I had my son, and he has been the light of my life. In many ways, my salvation. I don’t think I’d be alive today were it not for him, and I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am. He inspires me endlessly. But we are at odds right now, and it is breaking my heart. It has shaken me to my core.

Intellectually, I can explain everything. To tell the entire story, I have to begin with the health problems which impacted that pregnancy. I was always a nervous and thus scraggly kid. In high school I was diagnosed with bleeding ulcers. I struggled all of my young life to keep weight on. So I was considered medically malnourished when I became pregnant at 23, and I proceeded to lose 24 pounds. I gave birth to a healthy 9 pound, 6 ounce baby with teeth coming through his gums, but I left the hospital at just over 90 pounds. I’m 5′ 6″ tall. Perhaps because of this, he has always had some (miraculously mild) learning disabilities, despite an extraordinarily high I.Q.

During his first year in school he began to show behaviors that we would now recognize as autism. I took him to every doctor of every type that I could think of. We checked his eyesight, we checked his hearing, we checked his cognitive abilities. The doctors all told me exactly the same thing: this child is a genius. He is bored. With the wise counsel of some teacher friends we began a discipline of working through a daily checklist. I would write and draw it out on a blank sketchbook page at night, and he would work through it after school the next day. He had to complete it before he was allowed to play. It always included 2 or 3 light chores and 2-3 fun, creative activities. It always included Hug Your Mother (because I’m not above manipulation.) Then, an hour before bed we sat together and read a story or watched a favorite cartoon while I massaged his feet with a grounding oil, usually sandalwood. This routine was working beautifully. To this day, when he becomes stressed he will often create a checklist.

I am telling you this now because he has been struggling again. As mentioned recently, he is quite depressed. The aftermath of the recent natural disasters seems to have impacted him deeply. He is a highly sensitive person. But I, too, am struggling terribly as a direct result of interacting with him, in his mental and emotional distress. And because I am literally the only sober person he knows, I’m the sole voice of reason in his life right now. I must make mental health the priority of our lives.

And yesterday, I suddenly felt terribly helpless. I was consumed with fear, and I blew it. He came out of left field touting some wild conspiracy theory about the corrupt government having created the weather disaster and being out to get us all – and I lost my shit. It isn’t even that I necessarily disagree with everything he was saying, but I absolutely cannot – cannot – function from that perspective. It is mired in fear. It is entirely divisive. And it is utterly hopeless. Talk about a conspiracy!

I don’t know that I have ever screamed that loud before in my life. I screamed at the top of my lungs – at him. I told him he was dead wrong about so much of what he has recently adopted to believe. And in no uncertain terms I told him that he is subscribing to cult behavior, and that I am afraid for his sanity. I frightened him, and I frightened myself.

And so, shaken as I was yesterday, I must ask myself some very tough questions. Do I want to defend my own personal beliefs at the cost of anyone else’s freedom, including my sons’? What if he and I become estranged and never speak, as the current politics has divided so many families? Can I live with that? Are my convictions that important? Are yours?

Do I have other options here, besides finding “the truth” of the situation? Of course. Firstly, I recognize that if I am not experiencing peace, I have given away my sanity. Somewhere in the hours/days/weeks leading up to this blowup I have assigned meaning somewhere it doesn’t belong. If every upset is a setup (and it is,) I bought into somebody else’s agenda. Or in this case, depression. I picked it right up because it’s a familiar habit. And if I picked it up psychically, so did my empathic son. We can put it down just as fast. I’m not going to give assholes my vote this election. My pussy is not up for grabs. Neither is my mind. Out, demons, out! Here’s to our better angels.

Both my son and I lost our sense of humor – and perspective! After all, that’s what depression is. I fell into that bad habit, and so did he. Now I want my funny son back. I want my kind, intelligent son back. I’m thinking that screaming at him isn’t the best approach. But I’ve been holding on too tightly. Too much fear bottled up inside. It is no coincidence that I am having a flare-up of asthma symptoms. I have been holding my breath. I’m done with that. You want to see what created weather looks like? Watch out for that boulder rolling downhill. Tomorrow’s forecast is warm and sunny.

“You too have travelled from so far away to be here, once reluctant and now as solid and as here and as willing to be touched as everything you have found.” Thank you, David Whyte.

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…

Sep21

the journey to 100

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The PBS series is called Brief But Spectacular, to which I must respond, “yes.” Just yes. I became 70 years old this year. I was already intimately familiar with ageism; it’s been tedious for the past 20 years. Recovery from c-PTSD has taught me nothing if not how harmful it has been to skirt the issue of my invisibility. Like Grace, I refuse to be irrelevant:

But I’ve also dealt with gender inequality all of my life. And being raised to stand against racial prejudice in Detroit, I’ve certainly had first hand experience with racial discrimination. I remember being denied a table in a nice restaurant with Black high school friends – as one example among dozens. I remember how that felt. Firstly, the dissonance of questioning what was happening. How I was horrified by it and my friends didn’t blink an eye.

I was 16 in 1970 when the movie Five Easy Pieces came out. My best friend’s family was moving to South Carolina that summer and they took me with them. We were staying in a hotel until the moving van arrived a day behind us, and to entertain ourselves we walked – as a family with her parents – across the street to see the new movie. When lawyer Dupea (Jack Nicholson) says not to worry, “they haven’t hung anyone around here lately – at least not anyone white…” the mostly Black audience let out a collective moan. Afterwards we went next door into a drug store to use the pay phone so that I could call home and check in with my parents. An elegantly dressed Black woman was on that phone and so I waited around. When she hung up and I walked up to grab the receiver the cashier let out a yell. She came out from behind the counter with disinfectant spray and a cloth and wiped down the entire phone before allowing me to touch it. What foreign country was this?! You think that cashier did that for everyone regardless of race? Don’t be naive.

In 1972 I became 18, legal voting age. As the descendent of a founding father and presidents who owned slaves, I was being courted by Daughters of the American Revolution and The John Birch Society. I didn’t contact them, they contacted me. (It would be decades before technology would show that I have African DNA.) But I had never heard of these organizations, and so sought to educate myself. Back then you did that by physically going to the library and The Detroit News archives. You had to be able to read, you had to own a car, know how to follow a map, and most importantly, be able think for yourself. I would take all of that for granted.

Many evenings I engaged in conversation with my parents about what this new responsibility meant and how to decide who to vote for. Bless their drug and alcohol raddled hearts, they both told me the same thing: always vote for the person you believe to be best qualified for the job. And so I did the logical thing – I volunteered to work for the campaign of Shirley Chisholm, certainly one of the most qualified people for the position of President the country has ever seen.

And then. Then she made that statement. I didn’t think much about it at the time, which proves how much I underestimated her brilliance. She said, “Of my two handicaps, being female put many more obstacles in my path than being Black.” Jesus. Let that sink in.

Fast forward a little over five decades, and I am still female and now I am also aged. Don’t be fooled, ageism is as real as any form of bigotry. It is just as invisible as my African blood. And my blood is boiling.

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…

Aug26

going home…

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When my son was 15 I began teaching him to drive. At that time you could get a “student permit” one year before you were old enough to get your license, but then you could practice driving as long as there was an adult in the car. Driver’s training was a required class for all sophomore high school students. That year for Mother’s Day my card contained a Backseat Driver’s License, officially signed by then Secretary of State, Mac U. Nervus. My son is nothing if not funny! I carried that in my wallet for years, and I do not know what happened to it. Probably wore it out.

My son is a good driver, which I cannot say about my former husband. He reminds me of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. He was declared legally blind about the age of 2 and wore thick “Coke bottle” glasses taped to his head throughout childhood. And with a ‘Little Man Tate’ genius IQ, he graduated college at the age you and I were graduating high school. In retrospect, we now know he is autistic. I used to marvel at how I could rattle off numbers to him, my own human calculator, and he could add them in his head and give me an accurate total faster than the computer. But he couldn’t change a lightbulb. That task, like many others you and I do daily, would frustrate and overwhelm him.

Shortly after he and I met lasik laser surgery became readily available. With that miracle and a regular pair of glasses he qualified for a driver’s license. Just because the state issued him one does not mean he can drive. He’s a menace on the road, but he has never been in an accident. I’m sure he’s caused a few…

Last week we met for lunch in the city where he lives, about an hour from me (yes, by design.) I had mentioned in a phone call that I had an appointment that was bringing me in to town. During our lunch conversation he asked about the tires on my new (to me) car and offered to purchase a set of tires if I would follow him to the shop up the road. You know where this is going? Ha! Wait for it…

We met at his favorite restaurant, Big Boy. Leaving the restaurant, we would have to turn left onto a busy 55mph five lane highway. He pulled right out into oncoming traffic and zoomed out ahead miles before I could safely turn…and…he lost me. He would say I lost him, and he’s right – I can’t keep up. But as I frantically searched for the tire store and finally turned in, relieved to be alive, he called. Where the heck was I? What was taking me so long?! And I looked and looked and couldn’t see him anywhere. I sat still two minutes knowing he would call back. He did. He couldn’t see me, either. It occurred to me to ask him what he could see (we’ve been at this over 30 years) and of course, we were NOT in the same location.

He had driven to the place of my appointment – NOT the tire place at all. My appointment had nothing to do with him and we had not discussed it. (I had mentioned it in our previous phone conversation.) It was an entirely spontaneous decision on his part, but he thought I was right behind him, and would follow him in…so, no need for communication. But now he was angry with me; I hadn’t kept my part of the agreement – which was to follow him. And now I would have to turn left out into heavy traffic twice again, once toward the appointment location where he waited for some unknown reason, and again leaving for home. It was nerve wracking to say the least. By the time I got there about 20 minutes later I declined his offer to wait for me and then go buy new tires. By this time I was a nervous wreck. He wasn’t. He was just confused. After all, he was just trying to help. If this sounds a bit like senility, I must tell you that it’s been this way the entire time I have known him. It’s just SOP with Magoo. Obviously he must be an enlightened master because he is cool and collected in the midst of chaos. Even if he did cause it.

Here I sit at seventy wondering why my nerves are shot. I’m not saying this is my former husband’s fault; far from it. He was one in a loooonnnng line of crazy-makers I have lived with all my life. You know about crazy-makers, right? (We have one running for President if you need an obvious example.) People who have some innate talent for wreaking havoc all around them without being affected. They’re everywhere; every family has them. My family was full of them. Grandfather, father, aunt, sister to name a few. Of course I attracted them in my adult relationships; they were familiar. The less susceptible you are to gaslighting, the more covert their passive aggressiveness becomes. But I’m by no means immune, and maybe never will be.

As I have talked about in former posts, I’m not havoc-ing it any more. It takes a varying degree of upset for me to register the crazy making, but the moment I catch it happening, I’m out. I will still love them, just from a distance. Will my nerves ever heal? I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, Going Home is my new old theme song, from the greatest movie soundtrack ever written. Close your eyes and listen. Everything will be alright.

Aug17

guru books, the bible

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Watching YouTube videos about these artists has been fascinating. It’s been heartwarming and inspiring. And I am wondering if maybe I could be an artist. In her classic (or should I say epic) workbook, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron tells us about shadow artists. I remember identifying with this immediately, which would take me back to somewhere around 1993. I’m a shadow artist. For whatever reason I don’t believe I could ever be a real artist. And so naturally I have never worked at any art form – including this one – seriously. But this morning I pulled my original copy of the book out to investigate further. I treasure this book; we’ve been through a lot together for more than thirty years now. I was surprised to find all kinds of cards and notes, and even some of my small paintings, stuffed inside. The pages have yellowed. I can document how my handwriting has changed over the decades in the notes and scribbles throughout.

But what actually shocked me this morning was looking up shadow artists in the index and turning to the page. It’s the entirety of WEEK ONE. As in, start here. And the title of the chapter is Recovering a Sense of Safety. Hit me like a ton of bricks.

For those who don’t know me well, I have been in bed for the past three weeks quite ill. I’ll keep it short here, but what began as an upper respiratory infection led to a diagnosis of E. Coli. On my third trip to the doctor in as many weeks she wanted to admit me to the hospital. My body doesn’t seem to be responding to the antibiotics, which have increased in strength the past week. I objected to being hospitalized and agreed to being monitored every 24 hours this week. I am getting better, it’s just slow. The respiratory infection is gone, albeit leaving behind an annoying cough.

But the doctor is more concerned about the E. Coli. She told me “it is rampant here right now.” Again, oh the joys of living in a resort area where hundreds of thousands come from all over the world to swim in the pristine lakes. I mentioned this to my therapist the day after the diagnosis as she asks to have health updates to keep tract of in her notes. Come to find out she knows 2 unrelated young people who are in the local hospital with this, one in intensive care.

So of course, because I believe that every physical pathology has a psychological/spiritual pathology, I asked in meditation several nights ago; what is at the root of this? And I got it! ROOT. The answer was in the question. That was fast! This is a root chakra blockage. What is the root chakra all about? SAFETY. Not feeling safe in the world.

Am I in any actual real danger? No. But when I ask my sweet innocent inner self if I feel safe? Absolutely not. And I’m old enough and maybe just wise enough to know that affirmations are not going to turn this around. Some internal archeology is required. Joni said it first: “when you dig down deep you lose good sleep and it makes you heavy company.”

So here we go! This is my theme for the coming week – to investigate and report to you dear souls everything I can glean about healing with yet again an ever deepening exploration. I try to suss it out – when did I originally feel unsafe in my environment as a child? I was cared for; I was loved. I was also sexually abused, only snippets of which I have any vivid recall of. That inquiry was quickly shut down by my family and I was gaslit to doubt those memories. Only with the help and wisdom of many counselors, insightful physicians and gifted bodyworkers have I realized over the course of several decades how truly unsafe my childhood home was – and how I unconsciously recreated that environment in my adult life. Never mind waking up to the realization of the macrocosm – that I live in an unsafe culture.

I do know that this exploration, guided by the infinite wisdom of The Artist’s Way, will bring us full circle. You heard it here first: ultimately, it will be the artists who save us. Let’s see if we can become healthier on every level. Let’s heal our bodies and our psyches and then our culture. We owe it to ourselves and our children.