a writer's journey: one daughter's healing process
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Final document presented as completion of my Bachelor of Arts degree in Liberal Studies at the Vermont Academic Center in Montpelier, Vermont--part of Union Institute & University I do not consider this a finished product. It is merely the beginning of a larger body of work.TRANSCRIPT
A Writer’s Journey: One Daughter’s Healing Process
Submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree
of Bachelor of Arts at Vermont College
Faculty Advisor: _______________________________________________ Maida Solomon
Robin L. Bernstein
July 28, 2009
Abstract
My last study is a search, internal and external, for my creative
place in the world. As searches often go, the path turned out to be different
than I originally imagined. While exploring my own writing voice, I found
myself immersed in the interconnection of my childhood and adult
experiences. The journey became one of healing in addition to finding my
own voice.
This is a studio study of my creative writing. My process essay
comes first, laying the foundation for understanding what follows. My
creative writing, in its variety of forms, is separated into three sections:
child, child/adult, and adult.
The first section is comprised of three vignettes—three reflections of
memories from my childhood. The second section is a single piece written
in the voice of the adult unable to separate from the emotions of the child.
The final, and largest, section is the voice of the adult. This section includes
memoir, personal essays, blog entries, and an occasional poem. Together,
they are the substance of my healing process: a writer’s journey.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Preface....................................................................................................................v
A Writer’s Journey: One Daughter’s Healing Process......................................1
Introduction................................................................................................1
I Must Speak...............................................................................................3
I Must Write................................................................................................6
I Must Read.............................................................................................. 14
I Must Heal............................................................................................... 22
Conclusion................................................................................................ 28
Child..................................................................................................................... 31
Gymnastics .............................................................................................. 32
Homemade Clothes ................................................................................. 36
Did You Wash Your Hair?...................................................................... 39
Child / Adult........................................................................................................ 43
She Arrives .............................................................................................. 44
Adult .................................................................................................................... 45
Biological Side Effects ............................................................................ 46
Standing in the Hallway......................................................................... 49
Out of the Hallway................................................................................... 54
I’ve Lost my Earmuffs ............................................................................ 57
Strange Pains .......................................................................................... 59
Too Tired to Write ................................................................................... 63
Thoughts on my Experiment................................................................. 64
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Avoidance of Good .................................................................................. 69
Persistence .............................................................................................. 72
Heartbreak Salve .................................................................................... 75
Goodbye to March ................................................................................... 78
My Body is Not a Temple ....................................................................... 81
My Body Screams ................................................................................... 82
Morning Walk.......................................................................................... 83
Dead Leaf or Emerging Bud?................................................................. 84
Works Cited......................................................................................................... 86
Annotated Bibliography.................................................................................... 88
Study Bibliography.......................................................................................... 103
Appendix: Eulogy for Eldora Johnson .......................................................... 105
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Preface
I arrived in Montpelier in the fall of 2007 eager to be a writer. I
threw myself into the community, perfectly comfortable with my decision
to join Vermont College and excited to get started. I happily attended study
exploration sessions. I showed up early to faculty lectures. I cried through
every culminating presentation. Then, about two days into residency, I was
blindsided by a paralyzing fear.
I was skipping along, singing, “Look at me! I am a writer!” when I
tripped right over the word “artist” and fell flat on my face. Amy Cook was
giving a presentation on art and photography. The entire, overarching
concept of artist left me curled up in a ball on my thin, foam mattress in my
cinderblock dorm room. Sure, I had come to own my place as a writer, but
don’t you dare call me an artist!
As is my way, I knew this could not be ignored. My fear was
screaming at me, shaking me by the shoulders, “You will pay attention to
me!” I started to share what was happening to me and allowed other
students and faculty to suggest ways I could approach my fear. Sure! I
could study it!
My first study was entitled “The Identity of the Artist.” Patricia
Burke guided me in the nuances of writing annotations as I read books on
creativity, spirituality, meditation, and, of course, artists. I listened to how
other artists described themselves and their work, and the mystery
surrounding the word began to lift. I allowed myself to integrate the term
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into my world. I also spent a good deal of my first study attached to my
digital camera, delighted with the new vision it provided me. At my next
residency I presented a seven-minute movie of some of my photographic
“stories” set to music, proudly proclaiming at the end that I, too, was an
artist!
My second study was a natural progression and continuation of what
I had learned in my first study. I knew I wanted to delve deeper into my
writing, yet I did not want to stop my exploration of photography. To show
how far I had come from my first residency, I requested to work with Amy
Cook. Together, we designed “Photography & Personal Essay.” I
experienced a tumultuous six months of study, during which my partner
began renovating our home (herself), half of my coworkers resigned, a new
acting president was hired, and after assisting my board of directors
during their massive strategic planning project, I learned via a listserv
email message that they had decided to eliminate my position.
Throughout one of the most stressful periods of my life, Amy sent me
constant words of support and encouragement. I just kept reading, one
book after another. I found that when my energy for writing waned, my
energy for photography would take its place, and vice versa. My two
creative outlets fed and supported each other, both giving me the variety of
expression that actually helped me pull through the study. My
presentation at the following residency was a multi-media production of
the yin-yang relationship of my creative endeavors. I read my personal
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essays, accompanied by slideshows of my photography, and allowed each
to inform the other.
When faced with defining my culminating study, I knew it was time
to give myself the space to truly explore my voice as a writer. There were
many classic books I had always wanted to read, and I wanted to see how
they would, in turn, inform my own writing. So, awash in the nurturing
energy of Maida Solomon, I left Montpelier on “A Writer’s Journey.”
This journey started out with the sad passing of my maternal
grandmother a month after I returned from residency. Being with her the
week before she died was a gift I will always cherish, and writing and
delivering her eulogy was my first act of speaking my truth to my family.
Witnessing my own mother’s response to the entire process and having my
aunts and uncles witness me as a separate adult became integral to my
study, as did one uncle’s honest assessment of my mother’s behavior:
“She’s nuttier than a fruitcake!”
Slowly, this journey became more internal than external. Childhood
memories arose unbidden, regardless of what I was reading, and I
struggled to put them into writing. Then a former coworker’s innocent
book recommendation created an entirely new path of study: narcissistic
personality disorder. While I was exploring many classic stories, I was also
learning new terminology to reframe my own past.
Armed with a clearer understanding of my mother’s mental illness,
at least as I defined it, I found the courage to begin sharing my writing with
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others. I researched blogging and designed my own site. I experimented
with online writing and the immediate exchange of ideas. To my delight, I
even had strangers find my site and comment on my writing!
The result became a virtual dance between the reactions of the child
I was and the adult I am trying to be. What follows is a personal account of
the journey I took, followed by my creative pieces. The process essay is the
foundation, informing the reader of what is to follow and how it came to be.
The creative writing is separated mindset: child, child/adult, and adult.
There is no formal ending because this journey has no end. Just as when I
arrived in Montpelier to find myself staring down an unknown fear, I am
unable to turn away from that which offers me growth. Adulthood—and
education—is a lifelong process, and this is just the beginning.
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A Writer’s Journey: One Daughter’s Healing Process
Introduction
I begin at the end and complete my study at the beginning. I quote
from the last book I read during this study, Breaking Out of Prison, written
by the first faculty member I met in this program, Bernice Mennis:
Individuals are born within a family, in a certain time, place,
culture, world. Everything shapes us. The question is not
whether we are pine seeds or acorns, milkweed or burdock;
that, really, is out of our control. The question is how who we
are is shaped by different environments—which environments
foster the individual’s growth and which stunt, which allow for
diversity and which insist on a monoculture of standardized
forms and shapes. (27)
I am a writer. I am also the product of my birth and the
environments that have shaped me. My journey is inseparable from these
facts. The path of this study has been shaped by the variety of books read,
the changing environments encountered, and the questions asked—some
by me, some by my advisor. I consider the result open-ended because the
reading, the questions, and the journey will continue.
Ask me to do something, and I instinctive have a dualistic response. I
will either resist—thinking Why me?—or comply, assuming I must fulfill
the request perfectly or risk losing your approval, if not your love. This is
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the response of my inner child, the part of me that has never grown up: shy
yet rebellious; deeply hurting yet playful; resentful of responsibility yet
begging to be loved. In order to accomplish anything as an adult, I must
negotiate with this child. It has become a dance, weaving and twirling,
dipping and lifting. We take turns leading sometimes, and my life changes
course accordingly. Or, as my partner likes to ask, “Who’s driving the bus
today?”
My creative process follows this same pattern: resistance and
procrastination dancing with deeply felt urges to write, passion for all
genres of writing, and a life force within me that believes it needs to be
heard. For me to succeed in writing, to complete a piece of personal work
that is viewed by others, I must step out of the shadows and stand side-by-
side, adult with child, visible in the light of day. Both of us are excited and
terrified by this notion.
Surprisingly, I am a logically-minded person. I love order. My work
life consists of spreadsheets and files and checklists, everything accounted
for, everything in its place. It provides a sense of safety. It creates an
illusion of solidity from which I can venture out into the untethered realm
of creativity.
My creative writing within this study is born from essentially one
place: my past. To fully understand, it is indispensable to know that I am
an only child. I have no one with whom to compare experiences, validate
memories, or share the heavy burden of growing up with a mentally ill
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mother. There, I said it. During this study, I have come to believe my
mother suffers from narcissistic personality disorder. I have heard no
official diagnosis. I have no credentials of my own to back up such a claim. I
have only forty-one years of life, my own memories, and the information
gleaned from a myriad of books. This is still a tenuous assertion because
the guilt I feel as an adult is circling with the growing awareness of the
child. The internal dance will continue, but I now stand firm in this claim.
My mother is mentally ill, and this is a vital aspect of my study, my
creative process, and my life. Yet, this study is not about my mother. It is
about me. This journey is about the courage to face the truth and the
determination to learn to write about it. This study is about healing, my
healing.
I Must Speak
Soon after my last residency, my grandmother died. Over the
previous year or so, while she lived in Oregon and I lived in Maryland, we
spoke sometimes a couple times a week. Prior to her passing, while she
recuperated in the hospital after a heart attack, I was able to spend a week
with her and her children: my mother and my uncles. I stayed by her side
as much as possible. We laughed as she joked with the nurses. I held her
hand at night as she tried to sleep. On my last night there, we looked into
each other’s eyes and said good-bye. In her presence I always felt special. I
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was her first grandchild. Even when I did not conform to her standards of
living, she had found a way to accept the diversity of me.
During this period of time, I spent any available alone time reading
Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife. It was a nice escape from
the realities of my life. Niffenegger’s creative novel, a love story involving a
man who involuntarily pops back and forth along the timeline of his life,
provided an easy story within which to lose myself. The themes of time
travel, loneliness, and solidity versus emptiness ran parallel to my
experiences of wandering through memories, losing my grandmother, and
being among my family.
The female character in the book makes an interesting observation,
“The compelling thing about making art—or making anything, I suppose—is
the moment when the vaporous, insubstantial idea becomes a solid there, a
thing, a substance in a world of substances” (284). I find my form of art,
the act of putting thought into written word, to be compelling. Since I am
drawn to write about myself—my memories, my ideas, and my feelings—it
is as if I become more substantial by doing so. I become more of a
“substance in a world of substances.”
During the week my grandmother was in the hospital, my mother
and her siblings and I stayed at my uncle’s nearby farm. One day as I was
driving with my mother back to the hospital for a family shift change, I
brought up the subject of preparations for Grandma’s service. Although I
have attended remarkably few funerals in my lifetime, I felt prepared to
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write and deliver my grandmother’s eulogy. I knew my mother had
delivered her father’s eulogy many years earlier, so I was not sure what
she had in mind for her mother. I asked an open-ended question, and to my
surprise, my mother turned to me and asked if I would be willing to do it.
Naturally, I agreed.
So, the writing portion of this study began with a piece I would
deliver to both family and strangers. It would be my voice, my presence,
and my substance standing before an assembly and speaking my truth. I
imagined that it would be difficult, except it wasn’t. The words came
naturally, the images of the piece easily accessible. I did a short research
project on the Internet about what eulogies are and what they commonly
contain, and then I opened a new file and wrote it in a single sitting. Much
of my writing comes out that way because I spend so much time,
sometimes months or years, weighing pieces in my head, playing with the
words and speaking them in my imagination. Most of the edits and
revisions have already occurred before I ever sit before a computer.
As it turned out, my two trips to Oregon and spending extended time
with my mother and close relatives provided something critical to my
study: perspective. Observing my mother and the way she behaved around
her siblings and her dying mother was a challenge because I have often
been embarrassed by my mother’s behavior. Even as a young child, I knew
instinctively that something was “off” somehow with her, but I internalized
it as embarrassment and shame. My grandmother’s passing provided the
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environment that shaped the focal point of my journey: to finally
understand, to accept that something really is wrong with my mother and
to begin to see that all the baggage, guilt, pain, and mourning that goes
along with this journey is not entirely mine.
In conversations with my uncles, I received validation. They, too,
knew that something was not right with my mother, although they each
had their own level of understanding and acceptance of this truth. I
listened to their stories of frustration and anger at their older sister. I
heard their agitation with her. I watched them leave a room in disgust. As
a result, for the first time I felt a connection that I had not known existed
to this part of my family. As an adult, I was finally included in the
conversations that I had missed out on as a child. Perhaps all the years of
feeling like something was wrong with me could be set free with the
knowledge that instead something was actually wrong with her. I returned
home with a different interpretation of my relationship with my mother,
and it became a part of everything I would read and write from that point
forward.
I Must Write
Why am I a writer? I know no other way to be. I love words. I love
the rhythm words make when well composed. I am in awe of authors who
can create sentences that make me want to sing them aloud to everyone
around me. I do not yet feel confident in my ability to create lyrical prose in
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the same fashion as the authors who inspire me—Jeanette Winterson,
Maya Angelou, Virginia Woolf—but I do feel confident that my thoughts, my
experiences, and my life lessons have value to others. I believe I am meant
to write and share my work with a larger audience.
While I am steadfast in my identity as a writer, I usually falter when
someone asks me, “What kind of writing do you do?” I typically want to
answer, “Um, I just write.” Not a very awe-inspiring response. My
hesitation is born from the fact that 99.9% of what I write is in the first
person. Writing has long been a tool I use to move me through difficult
periods of my life. This may also be why it has taken me forty years to even
admit that I am a writer.
My hope for this study was that by reading a wide variety of
literature and allowing them to influence my own writing, I would come to
find a comfortable place of my own. Whether or not I accomplished this is
hard to for me to ascertain. I have no doubt that writers from different
countries and time periods influence, if only briefly, my language style. I
am a bit of mimic. However, regardless of what I read, I seem to stick to
what I know: myself. I write about what I think and feel, how I react to a
book, what a book makes me think about or talk about or shy away from.
Instead of finding a comfortable place of my own, this study confirmed that
I was already in a comfortable place. The books I read over the past nine
months are inseparable from the events that inspired my writing. My life
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informs how I respond to a particular book, and the books I read inform my
view of the events of my life.
About a month after I wrote and delivered my grandmother’s eulogy,
my job in Washington, D.C. was eliminated. For the first time in twenty
years, I was unemployed. I was faced with the question, “If I am not
working, if I don’t have a job, a title, then who am I?” Around this same
time, I was enjoying a happy hour with former coworkers, regaling them
with funny stories of my mother’s wacky behavior in Oregon, when one of
them suggested a book to me. The book I never remembered, but she
explained that one chapter referred to a condition called narcissistic
personality disorder (NPD). She said I might find it interesting based on
the stories I was telling about my mother. It was another turning point, a
serendipitous moment that would finally locate the missing piece of the
endless puzzle that was my mother.
I began to research NPD on the Internet. I ordered books on the
topic. Memories of my childhood began to rise unbidden. I decided to write
them as clearly and innocently as I experienced them as a child. I did not
have a name for this style of writing, short intense pieces with no planned
beginning, middle, or end. My faculty advisor and I called them vignettes. I
didn’t write with an outline or follow a timeline. I simply wrote stories as
they appeared before me, images I had been carrying around my entire life.
Putting them into written format gave them weight and substance, and it
also relieved me of having to carry their weight myself. It was like setting
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down a burden and then opening it up to look at it, except I could not look
too long. I found it exhausting to write them, and I usually had a few days
of shame attacks after I completed each one. Putting the sad and scary
truth into form left me feeling extremely vulnerable. After a few of these
pieces, I turned away. The purchased books arrived and collected dust. I
continued to keep a list in my phone of key phrases that would trigger
particular memories I might want to write about later. I just wasn’t
entirely ready yet.
Instead, I focused on the action of waiting. I had the luxury of not
having to work for a month or two until I found out if a couple of major job
opportunities would come through. In the meantime, I let myself sit with
the discomfort of not knowing. I found myself full of thoughts and ideas
and began composing personal essays in my mind, at least what I thought
were personal essays. Here again, I do not easily define what it is I do. I
make up speeches in my head, commentaries on things both trivial and
serious, and I write them down. Are these essays or memoirs? What is the
difference if I call them a story versus a vignette? Does it really matter?
I spent a lot of time online, connecting with other students, past and
present, via email and Facebook. In this online world I became curious
about this concept of a blog. I learned that a blog is similar to an online
diary. There are a variety of free services that offer predefined templates
so anyone can create their own Web page in minutes and begin to “post” to
it. A post is like a diary entry. Each post can be defined as open to the
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public or completely private or accessible only by a specific set of people.
Each post can also include photographs or videos about anything that
interests the author. Some people have blogs about a particular topic, so
their entries are more like articles with links to other information. Some
people have blogs about their families. Some people write about anything
and everything. Some people even blog about how to be better bloggers!
Eventually, I turned to my partner and asked what she thought about me
putting some of my writing online. Up to this point, I had never considered
making my writing available to the public. With my partner’s
encouragement Robin’s Corner (http://robinlbernstein.blogspot.com) was
born.
I found two things that made blogging especially interesting. First,
readers could comment on my posts (if I gave them permission to do so).
This made the process interactive. If I chose to ask questions in my blog,
then readers could post a comment in response at the end of my entry. I
learned that authors are generally encouraged to post their own comments
responding to their readers’ comments. Also, readers can add comments
responding to each other. Depending on how many people read a particular
blog and choose to comment, an online community can form around a blog.
Nothing of that sort happened to me, of course, but I did have some loyal
readers, and it was a wonderful feeling to receive immediate feedback.
Secondly, blogs have the option to create a “feed” or “RSS” which is
often defined as “Real Simple Syndication.” This means that readers don’t
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have to remember to go to a Web site every day to see if there are any new
posts. They can “subscribe” to the “feed” and have new entries delivered to
them automatically. There are various ways to do this. Most simply, fans of
a blog can sign up to have each new entry delivered to them via email.
However, if some people like to read a number of different people’s blogs,
this can quickly fill up their email in-box. Alternatively, readers can select
a “feed reader” service which gathers all the new entries to all the blogs
they like to read. This way, they can go to one place, either within their
Web browser or by logging on to a specific online service, and browse
through all the new blog entries from all their favorite sites without having
to go to a bunch of separate sites.
Another aspect of subscribers is the whole new topic of “readership.”
As the author of a blog, I had various ways of knowing how many people
were subscribed to my blog. There is a sense of legitimacy associated with
larger subcriber numbers. (I maintained approximately six or so. I’m not
entirely sure.) At this point in my writing career, I felt this was a
dangerous trap. I am still working on using the word “success” less
frequently and hoping not to be so reliant on other people’s positive
feedback to feel good about my own work, but at the same time putting my
writing in front of anyone’s eyes feels like a helpful risk.
At the top of Robin’s Corner I wrote the following description:
As a young child I was frequently subjected to my mother's
unique brand of punishment. I was sent to stand in the
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corner—on one foot. After an hour or so, she might happen to
walk by my room, notice me, and tell me I could switch legs. I
think sometimes she forgot about me altogether. Today, I am
turning around, facing out from the corner. On one leg or two,
sitting, standing, or dancing, I am allowing myself to be seen,
heard, and perhaps remembered.
Creating this site was an act of immense courage. I had no plans to publish
anything directly about my mother, but just to write this description
carried a risk. If or when my mother found out about it, I would most likely
have to endure her dramatic and vengeful reaction. In order to take this
step in my writing, I had to be willing to fight for it, to stand up for myself,
and most importantly, to believe in it. I had to believe that sharing my
writing was more important than hiding from my mother’s wrath.
In the introduction to Karyl McBride’s Will I Ever Be Good Enough? :
Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers, she describes the most
basic of human experiences:
Our relationship with Mother is birthed simultaneously with
our entry into the world. We take our first breath of life, and
display the initial dependent, human longing for protection
and love in her presence. We are as one in the womb and on
the birthing table. This woman, our mother . . . all that she is
and is not . . . has given us life. Our connection with her in this
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instant and from this point forward carries with it tremendous
psychological weight for our lifelong well-being. (xvii)
I am conscious of the fact that, in our culture, to speak ill of my
mother, of any mother, is particularly taboo. Motherhood is an exalted and
cherished institution, some say. I have witnessed the instinctive nature of
friends and family members to explain away, excuse, and minimize the
realities of my childhood. More precisely, while others may accept and
acknowledge the horrors of my experiences, they are still compelled to
protect my mother at the same time. They are worried about the power of
my words to devastate her. I understand their concern. Yet, I will speak
again in a different way.
They are worried that the truth of the child has the power to
devastate the parent. I worry about this, too, but not in regard to my
mother and me. I worry that withholding the truth of my inner child has
the power to devastate me as the parent, the adult in the relationship with
myself. I have reached a point in my life where I can no longer avoid,
ignore, repress, reject, or negate the obvious role my past plays in my
present life. Nor do I want to do so because when I pay attention to myself I
am rewarded, supported, and validated.
Writing and publishing on my blog gave me this support and
validation almost immediately. I shared what I noticed about my reactions
to life, the feelings in my body, my thoughts on faith, and, to my wide-eyed
surprise, people commented. I connected my blog posts to my Facebook
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page, so my online friends would be aware of what I was doing, and some
visited my site. I posted the address of my site on another writer’s blog,
and strangers—even a published author—commented on my writing.
Suddenly, I had a very small, but very real audience.
This bolstered my confidence and inspired me to challenge myself. I
gave myself the assignment to write on my blog every day for one week.
More than the writing itself, I found the interaction with the readers to be
my reward. Some gave me support; others kept me honest when I jumped
to conclusions that might not be correct. It was a difficult task to maintain,
and I wrote about that, too. At the end, I shared how I felt about the entire
process and forced myself to look at it in a positive light, rejecting my long-
held habits of embracing only my perceived failures. Overall, it was a
wonderful experiment in finding my voice and learning that people other
than my closest loved ones are interested in what I write. Eventually, I
stopped writing new posts as I put more focus on the reading I was doing,
but I believe the blog will continue to be an important tool in my evolution
as a writer.
I Must Read
One of my goals in this study was to read some works of classic
literature, pieces I believed most people had read at some point during
their education but I had somehow missed. I wanted the chance to allow
these classics to inform my own writing style.
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One in particular was Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham.
I reveled in Maugham’s strong descriptive style and the main character
Philip’s wildly fantastic and dramatic internal world. Having lived most of
my life feeling a victim to my own emotional upheavals, I easily rode the
highs and lows of Philip’s coming of age. At one point in the story, Philip
stuns himself by his sudden realization that he doesn’t believe in God:
Faith had been forced upon him from the outside. It was a
matter of environment and example. A new environment and
a new example gave him the opportunity to find himself. He
put off the faith of his childhood quite simply, like a cloak that
he no longer needed. (123)
I related to Philip with my newly found belief that perhaps the
shame of my childhood belonged to my mother and not me. My deeply
engrained negative image of myself, as I had learned it from my mother,
might possibly be shed “like a cloak.” Philip’s liberation continued,
“Suddenly he realized that he had lost also that burden of responsibility
which made every action of his life a matter of urgent consequence. He
could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He was responsible only to
himself for the things he did. Freedom!” (124).
I continue to dance with this concept of freedom. How do the effects
of my mother’s narcissism imprison me? How can I live free from my
mother’s illness? How does my writing unburden me? Or does it?
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After reading Maugham, Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and
John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, I longed for a different genre. I turned
to memoir, a style of writing closer to my heart. My next selection was
somewhat random, but as I’ve learned throughout this study, nothing is
truly random. I began reading Deborah Layton’s Seductive Poison: A
Jonestown Survivor’s Story of Life and Death in the People’s Temple, and
on page four I read, “Being a good obedient daughter seemed incompatible
with having questions and doubts.” I knew immediately that Layton’s book
would hit closer to home than I could ever have imagined.
Reading her story of the deteriorating madness of Jim Jones was
both captivating and horrifying. When Layton finally confronted Jones via
radio that she intended to leave Jonestown, she was subjected to the brutal
force of Jones’s psychosis:
Are you so ignorant to believe anyone will want you? I am the
one who saved you. I took you into my heart, my mind, and my
confidence. You are my soldier, my creation. Do you think you
would have been in a position to even have these thoughts if I
had not taught you? It’s been under my tutelage that you have
blossomed, through my eyes that you discovered this world. . .
. You’ll rue this day forevermore. I will never allow you to
forget . . . What . . . What is your little mind saying? That I
cannot? Have you forgotten my powers? They will haunt you
forever. (262)
17
My visceral reaction to this book brought up childhood flashbacks of
my mother’s rages, cruel and demeaning. I knew I had to begin writing my
memories again and return to the books I had purchased on narcissistic
personality disorder. It was time to face the heart of my journey.
I started with Eleanor Payson’s The Wizard of Oz and Other
Narcissists. From the very beginning, I realized I had found my answers.
The author was describing my relationship with my mother. Every other
explanation I had come up with over the years to understand the core of
my pain paled in comparison to the precision with which NPD described
my life:
For countless generations, the average person has been
encountering and coping with individuals who suffer from
character disorders—one of the most significant, yet least
understood, of these character disorders is the narcissistic
personality disorder (NPD). . . . The relentless need for the
narcissistic individual to command the majority of another
person’s resources will eventually deplete the energies of the
healthiest individual. . . . The inevitable impact on the
individual in a relationship with an NPD person is a dangerous
erosion of self-esteem. (1)
Payson gave me the foundation for a deeper healing. I was no longer
floundering for the illusive explanation for my mother’s behavior. It was
18
right there in black and white. I finally stopped dog-earing the pages and
underlining every sentence. It all made so much sense.
Having educated myself on the effects of narcissistic personality
disorder, I returned to reading memoirs and novels related to a child’s
experience. I started with Daniel Tomasulo’s Confessions of a Former
Child: A Therapist’s Memoir. Tomasulo deftly merges serious parts of his
childhood with hilarious life stories, but more importantly to me, he
courageously writes about how group therapy triggered his understanding
of narcissism in his family. In the following dialogue he finally speaks up in
a session about his problems with another group member named Lulu:
“So, it is more than just her breathing. It’s as if she attacks me,
robs me of being who I am when she jangles her bracelets and
breathes funny. When she draws attention to herself, it’s as if I
don’t exist. Everything is about her, she doesn’t really know or
care about me or anyone else in the group; it’s only about her.”
“So, around Lulu . . .” Jackie prompted.
“I feel invisible, yet I am unbelievably angry. It’s as if I am split
between having to shut down, keep quiet, and get depressed,
or get crazy and act out all over the place.” (139-140)
In the session, Tomasulo makes the connection between his reaction
to Lulu and his childhood experiences of both his mother and
grandmother. I could have written the very same words about my mother.
The dichotomy of “her versus me” is a very real sensation, one I still
19
experience today. Do I stay silent and wither with depression or do I
confront and look like a crazy person?
Slowly, as I continued to read, I started to notice an underlying
theme. As I read stories about abused children, I also heard the children’s
inner faith, their instinctive determination to survive.
Augusten Burroughs is one of my favorite authors. I love him for his
outrageous humor and for his willingness to tell the truth regardless of
how shocking it may be. However, his latest book, A Wolf at the Table: A
Memoir of my Father, is purely Burroughs the serious writer, devoid of the
humor in his other collections. Being a person who handled my childhood
abuse by becoming invisible and turning against myself, I am always awed
by those people who had something in them as a child that fought for
survival.
After Burroughs’s father found him kneeling beside his bed, secretly
praying for God to take his father away, Burroughs left the confrontation
with a new outlook:
I didn’t know if it was because of what he said or just that I
was getting older, but I soon stopped feeling God standing
right beside me everywhere I went. . . . I stopped asking God to
protect me.
I came to think that maybe God was what you believed in
because you needed to feel you weren’t alone. Maybe God was
20
simply that part of yourself that was always there and always
strong, even when you were not. (163)
A similar passage stood out in Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of
Bees. August says to Lily, “You have to find a mother inside yourself. We all
do. Even if we already have a mother, we still have to find this part of
ourselves inside” (288).
Do I have this part of myself? Yes. This is the dance. When faced
with the most difficult of confrontations, having to stand up for myself, the
child inside me runs. How do I access the part of me that is always there
and always strong? I start with baby steps, with practice, by stepping
forward into my deepest fears. To look at my life partner and tell her how I
feel; to show her the real me, open wide and vulnerable; to show my truest
emotions even when she may or may not understand them, even when she
may not even want to hear them, I must find this part of myself and let it
be stronger than the frightened child. This is my ongoing dance, my daily
struggle to be true to myself.
Next, I began to notice the different voices of the authors I was
reading. Even in the realm of nonfiction, sometimes describing the most
awful of circumstances, authors can express themselves in heart-
wrenching beauty.
Lucy Grealy, in Autobiography of a Face, recounts enduring weekly
chemotherapy injections for two and a half years as a young girl. Here she
21
writes about using the public bathroom while waiting to see her doctor,
facing one of the two stall doors she has selected:
Some weeks I stared at it dumbly, thinking only of what was
happening back in the waiting room with my mother, how
many more rows of knitting she’d finished. Some weeks I
thought of the impending injection, or I simply continued with
my fantasy life: the pony express rider seeks relief in the
town’s saloon, the alien ponders the wonders of waste
disposal. Some weeks, especially when it was hot, I thought of
nothing and only listened to my urine hiss into the water
below my legs as I leaned forward, pressing the coolness of the
inscribed metal against my forehead, and wept. (17)
Grealy’s ability to write from the voice of the vulnerable child broke my
heart again and again, and I knew instinctively that it was important.
Grealy combined the personal story of memoir with the beauty of written
language to create images that sink to the core of the reader. This was a
voice I admired and aspired to.
I listened to the powerful, poetic prose of Maya Angelou in Letter to
my Daughter as she remembers when she first allowed herself to believe in
the idea that God loved her:
That knowledge humbles me today, melts my bones, closes my
ears, and makes my teeth rock loosely in my gums. And it also
liberates me. I am a big bird winging over high mountains,
22
down into serene valleys. I am ripples of waves on silver seas.
I’m a spring leaf trembling in anticipation of full growth. (162)
Angelou’s passion for words always inspires me. Each time I read this
piece, I was transformed into the images—melting, rocking, soaring, and
swimming. One short passage can provide so much!
Having read the beauty and heartbreak of other nonfiction writers,
having seen the threads of survival among so many sad stories, it was time
for my wake up call. Reading and pontificating won’t get a paper written.
Noticing yourself in other stories and sharing your angst with your
therapist doesn’t make you a better writer unless you use the knowledge
by actually writing.
I Must Heal
Writing about my daily experiences and my responses to them is a
healing tool for me. In turn, as I heal I have more to write, and I believe
that to share this writing is passing along this healing to others. For the
first time in my life I am creating a positive spiral as opposed to the
negative mental spiral I have spent most of my life fighting against.
I experienced my first complete breakdown during my third year of
college. It was the culmination of twenty-one years of living under the
secret tyranny of a mentally ill mother, combined with the experience of
my first romantic relationship. The result was a spotlight into the
emptiness of my being. I had absolutely no self-esteem, no sense of self
23
beyond what my mother had created. I consider that hospitalization the
turning point from the end of my abusive childhood toward the beginning
of my recovery as an adult.
This year marks the twentieth anniversary of that point. I have lived
nearly as many years in recovery as I did in the midst of the confusion and
abuse of my childhood. This year also marks another milestone. I am
completing the Bachelor’s degree that was put on hold when I was
hospitalized.
Of all the books I’ve read during this study, McBride’s Will I Ever Be
Good Enough? stood out like no other. It gave me the validation I craved,
the information I desired, and the tough talk I needed. I no longer have any
doubt that I am the daughter of a narcissistic mother. I did not grow up
with a sense of being loved for simply who I am. I was an extension of my
mother, to be defined and shaped by her needs, not mine.
Having never had my own needs met in childhood, I have spent a
lifetime consciously and subconsciously trying to have them met by
everyone in my adult life—indeed, feeling entitled to have these needs met
by others. So, I felt my world shift when I read the following:
When you have successfully completed the acceptance part of
recovery, you realize that no one can really meet your
childhood needs. . . . The part of life when you were entitled to
that kind of maternal nurturing is gone. You are willing to
grieve the loss but fully understand that you can’t go back and
24
get it and you can’t make it happen now with someone else.
Remember, as an adult, you are not entitled to this. You are
responsible for yourself, now willing to accept this
accountability for your own needs and to find a way to meet
them. (143)
My chest tightens every time I read this passage. I want to scream,
“WHAT?!? What are you talking about? Of course, I am entitled! My
partner is my partner for exactly that reason, to love me and nurture me
and protect me! That’s the way it works, right? What happens to me if I
truly can’t go back, and I can’t make it happen now with someone else? Are
you saying I’ll feel empty and miserable my entire life?!” See, the last
sentence of that passage, the one that begins “You are responsible for
yourself. . .” is addressed to the adult me, but my inner child reacts so
strongly and immediately to the earlier sentences that I have a hard time
taking in the end.
Here. I’ll practice. I am responsible for myself. I am now willing to
accept accountability for my own needs and to find a way to meet them. I
am responsible for myself. I am accountable for my own needs. Responsible
for myself. Accountable for my own needs. Responsible. Accountable.
I don’t know how this makes others feel to hear this, but for me, this
is mind-blowing stuff! Not that I haven’t been told this before. I just wasn’t
willing to hear it. I can continue to process the sadness and disappointment
over not having a mother who can relate to me or see me or understand
25
me, but beyond that I have to now become the mother I need for myself! I
have to be able to account for my own emotions. I have to be able to
respond to my own needs. Suddenly, I see all my interactions in a new
light.
Then I find myself sitting on the foot of my bed after a long and tiring
week, watching an episode of “Countdown with Keith Olbermann” on
MSNBC and listening to his Special Comment. He is looking right into the
camera, directing his speech to President Obama, but looking into my eyes.
I am spellbound. He praises our President for releasing the Bush
Administration torture memos, but in response to the President saying
there will be nothing gained by laying blame for the past, he says, “Mr.
President, you are wrong.” I actually stop breathing.
I am wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Olbermann continues to explain
in historical context why those who tortured, those who gave permission
to torture, those who created the environment in which laws against
torture could be surpassed, must be prosecuted. He finishes his special
comment by saying:
Mr. President, you have now been handed the beginning of
that future. Use it to protect our children and our distant
descendants from anything like this ever happening again—by
showing them that those who did this were neither unfairly
scapegoated nor absolved. It is good to say ‘we won't do it
again.’ It is not, however...enough.
26
I sit there, stunned.
He is asking the leader of our country to respond appropriately, to
hold others accountable for their actions. Responsible. Accountable. I
cannot separate myself from this; I am part of this whole. We are
interconnected. If I learn how to be responsible for myself and accountable
for my own needs, will I be contributing to the health of my nation? Is that
what Olbermann is trying to do?
I do not pretend to understand politics or the inner workings of my
government. I do, however, believe in the holistic nature of the universe.
This is no accident. I can feel it in my heart. Olbermann might have been
responding to our nation’s leader, but he was also speaking to me. He
reaffirmed the path I am on. He provided for me the image of a calm,
thoughtful, and assertive response to an intolerable situation (for him,
anyway), and I am grateful.
This is a year of anniversaries and turning points. I have more of a
sense of self than at any other time in my life. I believe that as I am guided
and supported, my life, in turn, is connected to the whole. I must believe
that as I heal, so do we all.
I once had a therapist say I am tenacious about my own recovery.
While I have fought chronic depression my entire adult life, I have always
found a way to avoid losing the battle. Today it is a matter of constantly
observing myself and using my automatic defenses, my instinctive
27
responses, as material for writing. Writing is now integral to my own
healing. This interconnectedness is undeniable.
Much of my time is spent observing, both my surroundings and my
responses to them. This initiates a multitude of essays in my mind. My
mind is always writing. I see a tree with new spring leaves budding and
notice a dead leaf unyielding to the cycle of nature. I see myself in this dead
leaf, and a new essay is born.
I believe the healing nature of the statement “neither unfairly
scapegoated nor absolved.” It has become a mature and supportive push
behind my writing. I do not claim that my mother is the cause of all my
pain or problems in my life, nor do I absolve her from the immense
influence she has had on my psyche. Therefore, as I put my memories into
written format, I am giving substance to my healing process as well as my
creative one. I am shedding light on dark memories, I am revealing the
depths of one child’s confusion and pain, and I am offering the opportunity
for growth for myself and for those who feel a connection to my story.
I reject the notion that I have the power to annihilate. I abandon the
belief that I am responsible for my mother’s—or anyone’s—feelings. If
hearing my truth causes her pain, then it is hers to deal with. She is
accountable for her own actions, just as I am accountable for my own. I
refuse to continue to minimize my experiences, my talents, my ability to
succeed, in order to give credence to the idea that what I gain, she loses.
Instead, I am trying to live my life within a system of interconnectedness. I
28
am attempting to stand up for myself, to speak my truth, to say who I am
regardless of whether I find acceptance, rejection, or worse: no reaction at
all.
Conclusion
In closing, I return to Bernice Mennis’s Breaking Out of Prison. She
says, “We are all deep wells covered over with heavy stones” (27). I agree.
This final study has been an exhausting one of working to move my heavy
stone and plumb the depths of my well of talents. My mantra has become
the word “and.” My life will no longer be “her versus me” or this choice
over that choice. I am learning to soften my edges and not view my world
in either/or relationships. I can say I write essays and memoirs. I write
privately and publicly.
Some faculty members in this program have told me that they often
have a difficult time coaxing their students to write about themselves
within the context of their academic study. I seem to have a hard time not
doing it! Taking a step back and writing about what I have learned is one of
the hardest things for me to do. When I first tried to conclude this essay, I
wrote the following poem, inspired by Rumi’s poem, The Guest House:
29
The Journey
May I remember to be grateful
for all the guides in my life.
May I find a way
to welcome them all.
If I feel like dying, then I am still alive.
And what more is there?
How much time
does any one of us have?
I must remember
any time
I spend
shrinking in fear,
limiting the fullness of my being,
is one moment
lost.
I am here for a purpose,
to be fully who I am,
to dance through the darkest of nights,
to stand tall in the light of day,
to enjoy
the journey.
30
From the context of my goals for this study, I have learned much. I
am neither intimidated nor self-conscious about classic works of literature.
I have found the confidence to submit my own writing for public viewing.
And, perhaps most valuable, I no longer need to categorize myself. I am a
writer, and the form my writing takes may wander, as does the path of my
life’s journey. I am eager to see where each will take me.
31
Child
32
Gymnastics
If you asked my mother today, she would probably tell you that,
when I was young, she thought I was going to be the next Nadia Comaneci.
She’s been telling people this story my entire life. If you tell her that Nadia
started at age six, she will reply that I started classes at five. She saw my
talent and started me as young as possible.
I remember some of the classes. I remember being so much smaller
than all the other students. I didn’t even fit between the uneven parallel
bars and had to sit out during that portion of class. During vault practice, I
ran with all my might toward the springboard, but I didn’t weigh enough to
make it spring. It was hopeless trying to get over the vault, but the coaches
encouraged me to keep trying. So, I kept running, jumping, and smashing
into it like a brick wall. It was humiliating. I think about it now and I
envision Goldie Hawn, in the movie “Private Benjamin,” repeatedly trying
to climb the wall in basic training, crying in the rain and being yelled at by
her commanding officer.
When we trained on the balance beam, I was assigned to the practice
beam, the one just a couple inches off the floor. Balance beam was my
favorite. It was the only apparatus that matched how I felt. Even in floor
exercises I felt like the mat was so huge and overwhelming, and I hated the
feeling of everyone watching me. During balance beam, we all practiced at
the same time, and I got to step-dip-step-dip my way across the lowest
33
beam and turn at the end with a flourish. I used to practice at home in our
garage between two strips of masking tape on the cement floor.
Unfortunately, I think my mom said something to my coaches one
day, and when it came time to assign students to the various beams, I was
told to work on the mid-height beam, the one several feet off the floor. I was
terrified. We were asked to hop along on one foot, and I was scared I was
going to miss the beam and fall. In fact, I did. I scraped the side of my shin
on the wooden beam on my way down and was taken to the clinic for ice. I
don’t remember what happened when my mom picked me up that day.
I do remember what happened when I came home after a different
practice. I think it was earlier in my career, because I remember being
among other girls my age. We were practicing handstands all at the same
time, and our teacher would count out loud to see who could stay up the
longest. One day I found that perfect spot. It’s a physical memory for me
still, a sense of perfect equilibrium. Somehow, on that one day, I found it,
and I knew I could have stayed up there as long as I wanted. The goal in
class was to make it to a count of ten. If you made it to that nearly elusive
goal, you got a special construction-paper award from the teacher. This
was my first (and only) one! I remember running through the front door so
excited to show my mother. I stood with anticipation as she read the little
colored-circle award with its magic marker explanation of what I had
accomplished. I waited eagerly for her praise, but instead she lifted her
34
eyes to me with a stone cold face, pointed to the floor beside me, and said,
“Do one for me.”
I shrunk inside. I knew it was a fluke and I would not be able to
repeat it. I also knew I had no choice but to take off my coat and try: futility
in its most basic form, the earlier accomplishment lost. I did not
understand then, but my achievements would never be good enough unless
my mom could take credit for them. She made me practice for hours every
day at home while she yelled corrections at me. “Straight as a board,
Robin! Your legs should be straight as a board!” I would work to
exhaustion because she wouldn’t let me stop until I performed a particular
exercise perfectly, and then again and again and again.
The good news is that by the time we moved back to the Washington,
D.C. area, I was no longer in gymnastics. I don’t know how I manipulated
my way out of it unscathed, but my gymnastics memories are inextricably
connected to the time we lived in Seattle. Since I remember things not by
my age but by school years, that time was from pre-school though second
grade.
Now, here’s the interesting part. I did some Internet research: in the
summer of 1976, when Nadia stunned the Olympic gymnastics world by
scoring a perfect ten in seven separate routines, I was eight years old. That
was the summer between second and third grade. No matter how I look at
this, my mother could not have known who Nadia Comaneci even was until
after I had quit taking gymnastics. This life-long story that I have been
35
repeating is all part of her fantasy life, her rewritten history based on her
unquenchable desire to be important. Sharing this now is part of rewriting
my history, my rebirth, using the facts as I remember and learning from
them.
36
Homemade Clothes
Until the time I was around eight years old, my mother used to make
my clothes or alter purchased clothes creatively so that I could wear them
longer than usual. We weren’t poor as far as I knew. We lived in a huge
modern house that backed to a canal that led out to Lake Washington. We
had a boat! We weren’t exactly living on Spaghetti O’s.
Anyway, I wore a lot of thick polyester pants with elastic waistbands
and jeans covered in multi-colored patches with three-inch orange fringe at
the bottom to make up for how short they were on me. (This was the early
70s. Orange fringe wasn’t that unusual.) When I was really young, my mom
used to select and arrange my outfit each day. I don’t ever remember
questioning this or even thinking about protesting a particular selection. I
simply did what I was instructed to do.
However, early one morning as I stepped from my bedroom into the
kitchen, my mother looked at me horrified. She pointed to my lime green
polyester pants and said with all the emotion normally reserved for a
natural disaster, “You have those on backwards!” I stood frozen in fear,
looked wide-eyed down at my pants and back up to her thinking, “I do?”
She demanded that I return to my room and put them back on correctly
with the instructions that “The seams go in the front!”
Mind you, I was probably only five or six at this time. I padded back
into my room, took off my pants, and examined them. They had the
37
aforementioned elastic waistband, no button or zipper or tag to determine
front from back. They were perfectly pressed so that if I lay them on my
bed they fell easily onto one side, legs aligned one atop the other. I held
them up, turned them around a couple times, and guessed which was the
front. Dressed again, I gingerly stepped back into the kitchen hoping for
breakfast, but that was not going to happen yet.
“What is wrong with you?” my mother began. “Why won’t you listen
to me? I told you ‘Seams in the front!’” I obviously had guessed wrong, but
now I was really scared. Her raw, bony hands were shaking by her sides. I
wanted to do this right, but I was too timid to ask her what she meant. I
retreated back to my room before she could continue, determined to figure
this out.
I took off my pants again and scrutinized them. Lying neatly on their
side, each pant leg had one edge that was folded fabric pressed into a tight
crease. The other edge was slightly fuzzy where she had cut the fabric and
sewn the pants together on the outside. The problem was I didn’t know the
difference between a crease and a seam. I thought the fuzzy side looked
worse, so I put the pants back on with that side to the back.
This time I tiptoed into the kitchen with my hands clenching each
other behind my back. She was clearly in a rage now. She stormed toward
me and slapped me full force across the face. My hands came undone so I
could catch myself against the side of the kitchen cabinets, but I said
nothing. Even at that age I knew not to say anything during those
38
moments. She stood over me screaming, “You ungrateful bitch! Say it with
me! ‘Seams in the front! . . . Seams in the front! . . . Seams in the front!’” I
repeated back obediently, tears in my eyes, waiting for permission to leave.
“Now get back in there and don’t come back out until you have them on
properly!”
I don’t have any memory of my next visit to my room, but angels
must have been helping me because I did finally return with the fuzzy
edges in the front. I still didn’t know what a seam was, but I was finally
allowed to eat my breakfast in the stone cold silence of our kitchen.
Another disaster averted.
39
Did You Wash Your Hair?
Being an only child, I always had my own bedroom and my own
bathroom. One might think that gave me the luxury of a lot of privacy, but
one would be wrong. My mother was the master of turning the doorknob
first, then knocking on the door as she swung the door open. This was a
natural action for her, harboring no concept of invasion or intrusion. In her
mind, there was nowhere she was not allowed to be.
During the time I was about eight to ten years old, we lived in a
townhouse in Springfield, Virginia. My bathroom was at the top of the
stairs between the door to my room and the door to the master bedroom.
Once, as I was stepping from the shower, my mother threw open the door
and scowled at me. I stood there dripping on the bathmat gathering my
towel together around me. “What?” I asked shyly. Her words roared in the
small room, “Did you wash your hair?”
I was stunned into silence by the absurdity of her question. Of course
I had washed my hair. She took a large aggressive step forward, her voice
filling with menace, “I said, ‘Did you wash your hair?’”
“Yes,” I replied as I, ever so slightly, leaned back away from her.
“Don’t lie to me!” she bellowed.
I was terrified. How could I prove to her that I had washed my hair?
It hung in dark, wet clumps around my shoulders. I vainly pointed to the
matching bottles of Fabergé Organics shampoo and conditioner. How could
40
she know that I measured each one carefully with every use so I wouldn’t
run out of one before the other? “Look,” I said hopefully. “The tops are even
still open.”
“Anyone could open the bottles. That doesn’t mean you actually
washed your hair. Look at you!” She clamped her iron hands onto each
side of my head and wrenched my face toward the mirror. “Your hair is
still in a part!”
I had no answer. There was no answer. My hair was always in a part.
I had heavy, dark hair that always fell into a natural part, hair I must have
received from my father’s Jewish family. My mother, on the other hand,
was of fair-haired German and Scandinavian descent. She would spend
hours each day trying to make her dull, fine hair look full and alluring.
Our eyes met in the mirror, the truth passing silently between us,
but I was a child and did not understand what that truth meant to her.
“You’re a liar!” she screamed. “You’re a filthy, dirty liar. What do I have to
do? Do I have to wash you like a baby? That’s exactly what I’ll do!” She
released my face, sunk one hand deep into my hair, then dragged me out of
my bathroom, through her bedroom, into her bathroom, and tossed me into
her tub.
She turned on the tap full-force, and I sat there watching the cold
water rise around my legs as she continued her litany. “I can’t believe I
have to do this. Look how big you are, and I still have to wash you like a
baby. I’ll show you what washed hair looks like. Washed hair doesn’t have a
41
part, you lying little baby!” The shampoo suds ran down my face as she
punctuated her words by digging her fingers into my scalp. She scoured my
head with her fingernails, and I sat there as motionless as I could, my
skinny, preteen body being pushed and pulled by her angry hands.
When she felt she had finished, she dragged me, naked and dripping,
in front of her vanity mirror. I cowered as she stood behind me, yelling into
my ears, “Does your hair have a part now?”
I could feel my hair in the same wet clumps around my shoulders. I
slowly raised my head. Her face was just above mine in the mirror. “Well?”
she screamed as our eyes met again in the mirror. I looked at my hair and
saw my usual part. My heart leapt! She would have to admit that I was
right. Right? But my mother continued to glare at me.
I leaned toward the mirror, my hair framing my face, and I
examined the part. Suddenly I saw it, one small clump toward the back of
my head looked like it had fallen to the wrong side. I reached for it under
the scrutiny of my mother’s eyes. I’ll just correct this small piece, I
thought, and she’ll have to apologize. But it wasn’t just hair that had fallen
the wrong way. It was traitor hair. This small section withheld loyalty from
both sides of my head, a tiny blockade in the pathway of my part. As I stood
there holding this long, thin section of hair over my head, I realized there
would be no apology. I let it drop along with my arms and my head and
answered with resignation, “No.”
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Here was one of my first lessons in the varieties of truth and reality.
I had washed my hair and I had told the truth, but my mother found a way
to alter my version to match hers. By agreeing with her that my hair did
not have a part, I was resigning myself to being a liar in her world. Her
truth was the only one I could survive in, so I began to distrust my own.
Maybe I hadn’t washed my hair?
While I considered that clump of hair as abandoning me in the
moment, I can see now that it was a small, saving grace. It allowed me to
hold on to a small strand of my own reality and tell her with honesty that
my hair was not parted, even as the two of us were staring at the pale
white line down the middle of my head.
43
Child / Adult
44
She Arrives
She arrives, five-foot-two, swimming in a man’s-sized button-down
shirt over a skin-tight sweater, with a cigarette burned almost down to the
filter in her right hand. I lean back as she approaches the group, twirling,
arms wide to greet everyone, hugs for those known and unknown, unaware
of the burning embers between her fingers. She has no concept of how
others are feeling. She smiles, hugs, laughs. She tries to be silly, tries to be
witty. She seats herself in the center of the group as we all attempt to
return to what we were saying earlier. I watch her through sidelong
glances, careful not to catch her eye and engage her attention. She grins
awkwardly as others laugh together. Her hair is unnaturally blond and
hangs stiffly, coarse from too much processing; her breasts are
unnaturally large on her small frame; her teeth are, simply, not real.
Mothers are mirrors to their young daughters, and I have lived a lifetime
being terrified of this reflected image.
Let this not be me!
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Adult
46
Biological Side Effects
Let it be known that I firmly believe there is a direct correlation
between the increase in hormones coursing through my body once a month
and the increased number of times I bounce off walls, trip up the stairs, or
stumble over seen or unseen objects. Forget the stereotypical menstrual
side effects of irritability, mood swings, or bloating. Quite simply, I am a
danger to myself (and others).
This phenomenon can typically be tracked by a trail of purple
bruises down my arms, around my hips and along my knees. I misjudge the
distance and size of desks, tables, bedframes, couches, countertops, and
walls in general. Perhaps the hormones change my eyesight or somehow
make hallways and doorframes narrower than usual. I'm not sure of the
precise cause. All I know is I have lived in the same house for five years,
and for about one week each month I can be seen on any otherwise
ordinary morning careening off my bedroom threshold and barely catching
myself with the side of my face pressed against the hallway wall.
So, I beg you, please do not toss me your keys, a remote control, or a
stuffed dog toy, for it will surely bounce off my fingertips at least once as I
fumble to catch it, resulting in me losing my balance and crashing into the
nearest corner or entirely to the floor. Do not invite me to try yoga or a
new exercise stretch, because I will not just fall but I will take down anyone
else around me. Yes, we own a Wii Nintendo gaming system, and this
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month I have the bruises on my shins to prove my grace in video bowling.
Did you know it was possible to bruise your shins on a hardwood floor?
And, really, don’t bother hiding the scissors from me. I am more worried
about envelopes, baby gates, and the ever-dreaded doorstops. I simply
cannot be held responsible for the inevitable results of their being in my
vicinity. Of course, the upside is that if you are a sucker for slapstick, I am
quite entertaining.
But while I’m on the topic of biological side effects, I would also like
to discuss my theory about depression and hair. If you are one of those
people with a propensity toward depressive episodes, here is my advice to
you: shave! Shave as much as you can. Take it all off! I understand that
many people complain of hair loss due to depression, but I’m talking about
something else. I don’t know if anyone has done any official studies on this,
but I am convinced that my depression is stored in my strands of hair. The
more hair I have, the more depressed I am likely to be.
I used to wear my hair long, and the longer (and bigger) it got, the
worse I felt about myself. Now, I can hear what you might be saying,
“Maybe you don’t look good with long hair?” Okay, that’s a valid point, but I
think there is more to it than that. Why do we immediately relate to a
friend having a “bad hair day?” Why do we usually feel better after a
haircut? And why do I feel lighter after shaving my legs?
If I could afford it, I would have one of those hair removal places take
everything off. Leave me my eyelashes, eyebrows, and anything attached
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to my scalp. You can have my chin hairs, my mustache, and the stray hairs
on my collarbones. Basically, take everything from my nose down. And
don’t forget the few on the tops of my feet and my big toes, too. Is this too
much information? I’m sorry, but we’re talking about my mental health
here!
Does anyone agree with me? Seriously, I have respect for all you
“natural” women out there, but if I don’t shave for a week, it’s not my
appearance I’m worried about. It’s like every strand of hair is weighing me
down, collecting all my negative thoughts, convincing me of my pure
ugliness, worthlessness, and how I’m better off staying in bed. But! When I
see all the tiny, dark bastards slide down the drain with the sudsy water,
my vision clears, the sun shines brighter, my clothes fit better. Well, maybe
not the clothes part, but it feels that way! It’s my own battle against the
Dark Side, and they are always sending reinforcements.
So, I say, take up your Daisy, your Venus, your Schick Quattro, and
get to work, ladies! This isn’t vanity we’re talking about. It’s a war against
the soul-stealing stubble. They’re evil, I tell you! They warp your mind.
Remember, I am with you. I will wield my razor as my own light saber
against the evil forces, . . . um, just as soon as I finish my period.
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Standing in the Hallway
Have you ever heard that saying, “God never closes one door without
opening another?” Or I’ve heard it said, “When one door closes, another
always opens.” I don’t know exactly how it goes, but a friend of mine and I
turned it into our own image. We picture ourselves having walked out of a
door, the door “God” has just closed behind us, and we find ourselves
standing in a long hallway full of closed, locked doors. We turn our heads
upward and gesture at the ceiling, yelling “Now what?!?” Our favorite
saying to each other when one of us is going through another of life’s
damned transitions is, “Standing in the hallway sucks!” Somehow that
makes us feel better. We know our friend understands our experience,
waiting for that next opportunity to open up. It does suck.
It tests our faith (if we had any to begin with). It makes us question
our self-worth. It causes an otherwise rational person to jump at the first
thing that appears, even when that thing is clearly a test of our resolve
because it’s so obviously wrong for us, but we have to because we just can’t
take another single solitary moment in that hallway!
And it truly is a solitary experience. Even if everyone we know is
going through the same thing, we all have our own hallways. Standing in
the hallway is a solely internal process. Mine includes a constant knot in
my stomach, tightening of my chest, and internal fistfight. One part of me
is whining, “How did I get here? What’s wrong with me? Why is this
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happening again?” Another side of me is smacking the first part upside the
head, “Quit your sniveling! This is for the best. You hated where you were.
You asked for this, remember? Something better always turns up, right?”
Then, the first part digs deeper and explains how miserable I am, and how
no one will ever want me, and can we just go to sleep now? Can you see
how this escalates? Being alone in my head is a scary experience, believe
me.
This time I am in the hallway of my professional life. I’m wearing a
suit, ready for an interview. This is my first hallway experience in this
arena of my life. I have not been unemployed since I left college. The weird
part is that I don’t wear the suit the entire time. No, I don’t stand there
naked! I keep changing my clothes, because I keep asking myself what I
really want to do next. Hence, the “don’t jump through the first door that
opens” warning applies here. Unfortunately, I seem to be spending too
much time in my pajamas lately.
My challenge is simply to keep smiling. Smile and say “Hello!” to
everyone. Be visible. Speak. Maybe someone will come walking down my
hallway, someone I wouldn’t ordinarily consider speaking to, and they will
invite me to join them as they walk through a door I hadn’t seen before. I
know I just messed up my solitary hallway image, and now, for those of you
who just imagined some grimy hotel that rents rooms by the hour—you
know who you are—I am not trying to pimp myself out either. (Even if my
image isn’t consistent, I would like to keep my analogy clean, thank you
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very much.) I’m trying to stay open to new opportunities. Standing in the
hallway is nothing but opportunities.
I have now been through the extensive interviewing process for two
separate positions, months of waiting and multiple interviewing visits.
Both organizations called my references. The first one, after I interviewed
with six separate people over three months, announced their new hire in
their newsletter, but never followed up with me in any way. The second
one, who invited me to interview for a newly formed position before they
even announced the job publicly, mailed me a poorly written,
grammatically challenged form letter saying that they had selected
another candidate. No phone call. So, I am imagining the doors in front of
me being opened, just halfway, and people greeting me with smiles and
compliments, and as I step forward—slam! I wait stunned, and then look
down to see an envelope being slid under the door at me. Okay, still in the
hallway.
So, the truth is I don’t even like wearing suits. I don’t have to be in
sweats or pajamas all the time, but I prefer to be comfortable when I work.
I like having the flexibility to set my own hours. I am happy when I am
helping others do their jobs better. So, I may not be looking for a job
anymore. I think it’s time to leave this hallway. There is a big, bright
window at the end, with the sun shining brightly on the other side, and I’m
climbing through it. I’ll probably get my foot caught in the windowsill and
52
fall into a bush on the other side, but I have decided to stop asking for a job
and start creating one.
I have worked in small business offices since I was fourteen years
old. I am a master of organization and efficiency. I enjoy doing the parts of
business that most people try desperately to ignore. I can design an
intelligent timesheet spreadsheet that automatically shades out weekends
as you change the monthly date. Isn’t it the small things in life that make
us the happiest?
I excel at making tedious tasks easier. I have something to give
people! Now there has to be a market of businesses that would be willing to
invest a relatively small portion of their consulting budgets to bring me in
and make their offices more efficient. My fees will pay themselves back
when the organizations need less time from other consultants and their
own staff can spend more time on programs instead of administrative
action items. It’s win-win all the way. I am the clutter-clearer for office
closets! How's that for a tagline?
And then I wonder if I’ve been standing in the hallway too long and
maybe they’ve painted recently and the fumes are getting to me. Is this all
a fantasy to distract me from the discomfort of rejection? Rejection from
being let go, and rejection from not being selected. Well, stop sniveling! If
you want to be a consultant, you better get used to rejection! Right?
Truthfully, I do believe that we are always taken care of, whatever
the situation. Waiting is painful and sometimes ugly, but new growth
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begins in the dark and dirty earth. We are experiencing the change from
winter to spring. The ground is still hard and cold, but underneath it, seeds
are germinating. Oh, how we want the winter to end! We have had enough
of the frigid winds and ice scrapers. We want to trade our awkward, clunky
boots for flip-flops. Yet, I believe in the solidity and fluidity of nature. I am
part of nature. My season will change, eventually. If I am patient and
vigilant, soon there will be no more hallway, no walls. The door that just
closed behind me has placed me before an open field of endless possibilities,
fresh, green, and growing in the sweet, spring sunshine. To hell with the
hallway!
54
Out of the Hallway
Mixing metaphors is an annoying habit of mine. However, since I
said in my last post that I was going to stop asking for a job and start
creating one, I have decided that I need to start challenging myself. First
challenge: write a post every day for one week. Considering the fact that
the next seven days will include travel to Las Vegas and a family wedding,
this should be fun.
Today, I received my first rejection email. I submitted "Biological
Side Effects" to a women's magazine, but they didn't take it. Humph. The
message simply said "Thanks so much, but we don’t have a spot for this in
an upcoming issue." Rejection? Yes. Annihilation? No.
Here is my chance to practice my new behavior! I could take this
message and run the old direction. They hated it. My writing sucks. I suck.
Why was I so stupid to even submit it in the first place? I do everything
wrong. Give me a shovel, so I can dig a hole to die in. Right. Now, that's
what I could have done.
But this is the new me. This is the woman who is tired of waiting
around. Tired of standing in the corner, the hallway, the lobby. I am the
woman who knows her worth. My essay was funny! She didn't say she
didn't like it, she just said they don't have a spot for it. They want their
essays to fit one of their monthly themes. In my fantasy world, they would
have read my essay and, while wiping away their tears of laughter, said
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"We have got to find a place for this one!" Enter reality. It doesn't work that
way.
Okay. It was a lark. It was exciting to do. It was my first submission
ever! I have other work to be doing, you know. Let's not take this too
seriously. There is a place in this world for my essays. This place and I just
haven't found each other yet. I know I have an audience (beyond family
and friends) who are seeking me. When I am ready with my work, they will
find me. Right now, we are all walking around blindfolded, waving our
arms in wide circles around ourselves. Is this right? Should I go this way?
Are you my mommy?
So, I bought myself a rough, black coffee mug that has the following
quote on it. "Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is
unfolding as it should. . ." (Max Ehrmann) Go ahead. Read it again. It's
worth it. My favorite part of that quote: no doubt. No doubt! Do I know how
I will financially support myself this year? No. Do I know what my final
project will look like before I graduate this summer? No. Is everything
clear to me? Clear as mud! Is everything unfolding as it should? No doubt!
I believe this deep in my core. Not to say that I am not crabby,
bitchy, grumpy, and sad. Not to say that I don't pick, push, poke, and
generally test the patience of my partner daily. This process makes my
skin crawl, but I believe in it. Hopefully, I will learn to sit with it more
gracefully as I go along.
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Yes, I am still metaphorically in some kind of hallway. Doors have
certainly been closed behind me, in front of me, and all around me, but the
lesson is to practice new ways of responding. I am still envisioning a
verdant green, flowering pasture, instead. I will not let this take me down. I
will own my value, speak my truth, and try really hard not to let people
negotiate my consulting fees down to unreasonable levels.
Day one down. Six more to go. . . .
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I’ve Lost my Earmuffs
Last Friday the temperature was rumored to have reached the 60s.
This past weekend we received at least a half a foot of snow. Isn't Spring
fun? I had a consulting job downtown today, which meant leaving the
warm security of my home and walking to the Metro station and then from
the train station to the office. It was thirty-two degrees and "breezy," and I
had no earmuffs!
The result of this tragedy is that I had to wrap my fleece scarf up
around my ears and pull my hood up over my head. With my full-length
black wool coat, this makes me look like a caped Hobbit, especially with my
fuzzy trimmed snow boots that are a size too big for me.
How does the saying go? "In like a lion, out like a lamb?" In grade
school I always thought it should be the other way around, "In like a lamb,
out like a lion." I thought the lamb represented the fluffy, white snow, and
the lion represented the warm, yellow rays of sunshine. Considering the
current environmental concerns and my tenuous, transitional stage of life,
I feel like this weather is both lion and lamb—and so am I.
While I have a tendency to view things in extremes, I am feeling an
affinity with this quandary. Is there anything wrong with being both the
lion and the lamb? I've found I can write deeply personal and powerful
vignettes about my childhood experiences with my mother, and I can also
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write moving and amusing personal essays about my current life
experiences. Can I accept both the lion and the lamb?
Maybe it is time to stop judging the differences, the changes, the
broad ranges of emotion. Perhaps they are all valuable, they all serve a
purpose. Again, this is practicing new behavior. I could be hating the cold
and lamenting my lost earmuffs. I could be wallowing in being a victim or
abandoning myself to negative self-talk and the resulting downward spiral
(no guarantee that won't still happen either). Yet, today, at this moment
anyway, I choose to see the possibilities.
March is a month of great changes: physical, environment,
energetic. My personal history is replete with major life events in March. I
used to dread this time of year, but I am seeing it differently now. This is a
period of growth and transformation, sometimes messy, sometimes
painful, sometimes with freezing cold ears. The upside is that March
eventually becomes April, and April eventually becomes May. Spring
flowers are on their way.
The happy ending to this story is that my lovely partner picked me
up at the Metro station after work so I wouldn't have to walk home. All I
ask is that you remind me of the upcoming flowers the next time I'm
shuffling the city streets in a frigid wind without my earmuffs.
59
Strange Pains
Do you believe that our life experiences are held in our bodies? I
believe there really aren’t a mind and a body, but one whole mind-body.
Don't worry. I won't get too woo-woo here. It's too late in the day for that
right now. I just want to mention an odd experience I had today.
First, you need a little background. As an infant I developed (among
other things) pyloric stenosis, which basically means the valve that lets
food pass out of my stomach grew shut. In other words, I vomited a lot.
Whatever I was fed came right back up. I can only imagine how scary this
must have been for my first-time mother. To correct the situation, I
underwent surgery. They apparently have cool, new ways to do this now
that minimize the scarring, but this was back in 1968. The result is a
horizontal scar about two inches long just under my rib cage on my right
side.
I have many other stories that involve my childhood, mostly sad and
painful stories, and I believe they are all related to this first one. The fact is
that this tiny scar is adhered to my rib cage. As I've gained weight over the
years, this little slice stays stuck. If I press it with my fingers or try to
massage the area, I actually feel mild pain, like a pulling of skin but on the
inside. Who knows how much scar tissue is actually in there and what else
is caught up in it?
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So, the reason I bring this up is that I had an odd sensation today. I
was leaving my part-time consulting job and reading an email on my
phone. I was delighted to hear that another prospect was asking to hire me,
and as I was walking, I started to feel a strange pain in my midsection. I
continued a brief email exchange and set a time to consult over the phone,
and I started feeling a pulling, burning sensation, just like my infant scar,
but on my left side. It was as if the scar tissue was trying to tear away.
My first thought was—and here's the progress—that I am separating
from the poor, victim child. I didn't immediately think I was having strange
female heart attack symptoms or that I had some heretofore unheard of
tumor. I actually associated the success of a new client with the painful
feeling of separation. The physical sensation was my body responding to an
emotional growth process.
I have long believed that this scar tissue harbors much more than
the remnants of my originally diagnosed disorder. I imagine a spider web
of scar tissue spread throughout my midsection, and the white spindles
contain the trapped emotional responses to my early childhood traumas.
Now that I am reaching a serious turning point in my life, I believe these
tendrils can no longer hold.
I am tearing away from the me I've been holding on to for so many,
many years. It is certainly not comfortable. It's actually physically painful.
It's a tearing of flesh. It's worse than ripping away a scab before your
wound is fully healed. No, wait. It's actually just like ripping away a scab
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too early, and you find that barely formed pink tissue underneath, the not
yet fully-formed skin, but the vulnerable soft underlying flesh. Hey! It's
like baby's skin!
I think this transformation period of my life is about releasing my
damaged infant self. Pulling, tearing, cutting her loose. I don't need to carry
her around anymore, the crying, the whining, and the vomiting
(metaphorically, of course). I believe the mind and body are irrevocably
connected. As we grow emotionally, our bodies must change as well.
I have no idea what the final form will look like. I don't have any idea
who the future me will be. Perhaps listening to my body more will assist
me. What I do know is that in the middle of this whitewater river ride, I feel
like things are going to be all right. It's time to accept nourishment in my
life. Truly accept it and digest it. It's time.
Online Comments:
ohwow said...
I discovered your blog from Write to Done. I love the way you describe the pain as
"It's actually just like ripping away a scab too early, and you find that barely formed pink
tissue underneath -- not yet fully formed protective skin, but the vulnerable soft
underlying flesh. Hey! It's like baby's skin!" and your discovering that the physical
change is linked to emotional pain from such a young age. Pain is really hard to describe
but I had a really clear idea of what you were writing about. You might really like a book
called "Awakening Intuition" by Mona Lisa Schulz. She writes a lot about the connection
of physical pain and emotional pain.
March 6, 2009 10:54 AM
Groffy said...
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How right you are! We certainly carry our life stories with us in both our body and
mind. It's important not to get bogged down in our past, but just as vital we understand
and embrace our formative stories.
Thanks so much for sharing one of your body-mind experiences. Keep listening to
your body and learning!
I have had similar infant surgery and experiences. Every time I hear certain words
spoken by others, an electric pulse runs down my scar and I feel myself going into "fight
or flight" mode: that's after 63 years! Don't imagine I can change that, but I'm still
enjoying my growing hold on my body's intricacies.
March 6, 2009 7:42 PM
RobinB said...
Thank you so much for your comments, suggestions, and sharing. I love the exchange.
March 7, 2009 1:28 AM
Heather said...
Robin, I just teared up at 6:30 am on Sunday morning reading this day. I too am trying
so hard to let go of the inner children in side of me. Notice the plural. I am learning to
acknowledge each one, have talks with them to understand and let them go quietly.
Believe me there is a lot of talking going on in my head:) Have fun in vegas. XO
March 8, 2009 9:58 AM
RobinB said...
Heather Dear -- I understand. It's a deep grieving process that takes a lot of practice
and a lot of time, but remember that to walk this path is to truly love yourself, inner
child(ren) and all. The further along this path we go, the stronger we are and the less
vulnerable we are to being hurt by others. It's worth every penny of therapy and every
ounce of effort. You're worth it!
March 8, 2009 3:50 PM
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Too Tired to Write
The alarm went off at 3:45 am Eastern DST, and by four o'clock my
partner and I were shuffling toward the bathroom, eyes half closed, hair
askew. We had a 6:50 am flight out of BWI airport, nonstop to Las Vegas.
Now, it is 10:33 pm Pacific DST (or 1:33 am body time). We have
been up this entire time, eaten lunch at a rooftop restaurant in the lovely
sunshine, gathered with family in a casino bar, ate a fine dinner, and
finally soaked in the whirlpool tub in our hotel room.
I am sore all over, tired to the bone, and having trouble making
complete, coherent sentences. Mind and body are exhausted.
Yet, the experiment continues! I made a commitment to myself, and
I am permitting myself this short entry as proof that I am serious about
writing. You may think this sounds simple enough, but I am usually the
first one to give up on myself. If it involves just me, then it usually isn't
worth the effort. Who cares? What's the point? Forget it.
That is exactly why I created this experiment. I am challenging
myself, the victim, the sniveling quitter. I can do this. I care about myself. I
care about my craft. I care about my future.
And this counts!
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Thoughts on my Experiment
I must always remember the goal is progress, not perfection.
Last Monday I decided to challenge myself to write a new blog entry
every day for one week. While my deeply ingrained, perfectionist ways
would have me focus on how I didn't actually write every day for seven
days in a row and how I "cheated" in places, I am going to choose to look at
this experiment on the whole. I am going to attempt to look at the
accomplishments I achieved, the progress I made, and the lessons I
learned.
First, from a Monday to the next Tuesday I have written (including
this post) seven blog entries. I did this while traveling for a long weekend
to a family wedding in Las Vegas! Seven out of nine days deserves a gold
star, if I do say so myself.
There. Now. . . . I am not so practiced at pointing out the positive.
This is not a natural act in my life. So, how about: I would like to point out
that I received two comments from people I don't know! I am still stunned
by this. I subscribe to a blog called Write to Done, and on March 3rd the
entry invited readers to post a comment about what they are writing and
how to give meaningful feedback to each other. On March 4th, I posted a
comment and included a link to Robin's Corner. Perhaps this act alone is
worthy of my attention. It was scary to put myself out there to strangers,
and I did it anyway!
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I found myself on some evenings not wanting to write. I was tired, up
way too late, and seriously jet lagged for part of it. During these times, my
loyal and supportive (and a royal PIMA) partner reminded me of my
commitment and that it was important to me. I learned that I am adaptive,
meaning I can easily alter my usual excuses to meet new situations. I didn't
go the typical route of saying that it wasn't worth it, or I didn't really care,
or nobody would notice since no one was actually reading my blog anyway.
Oh, no! I got creative in my resistance. I decided that to stay up a while
longer typing my blog entry would be disruptive for my partner when she
really needed to sleep. Ingenious! That way I could say I was failing, but it
was only out of respect for my partner. I'm telling you, I am really quite
talented at avoiding things that might lead to my personal success.
Luckily, my partner is just as smart and talented as I am. She will not let
me get away with these things. I stayed up and wrote my blogs.
I found that people can disagree with me and I don't die. Seriously,
this was a big one. Sometimes, when I am writing I go into a narrow zone of
thought and forget to look at how my opinions at that moment are limited.
I received the gift of rebuttal. Someone took the time to share their
experience with me, and it opened my eyes. The funny part is that I
completely agreed with them! In this respectful exchange I was able to see
that I was hiding what I really wanted to say underneath an easier topic. I
have more work to do on that. I need to explore what was underneath and
what was really on my mind.
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I learned that perfection is a fantasy. What "counts" is all in my own
head. Not only did I continue to write while vacationing in Las Vegas,
hanging out with family I rarely see (and I will stop here to note that this
fact alone is worth another kudo!), but when I was beyond too tired to
write, I wrote something anyway. A small entry is no worse than a long
one. Giving an effort, making progress, is absolutely worthy of praise. How
else do we get better at anything?
Without the small efforts during difficult times, we would never be
able to accomplish the overwhelming task of self-improvement. Sometimes
the simple act of brushing my teeth is a monumental act of self-love. That
may seem dramatic or outrageous, but it is the truth. I actually divvy up
what I am willing to do for myself. Things like putting lotion on my dried
out, itchy skin is something I rarely do. I often skip this step in my
morning routine because I think it is a waste of my time. I'll be fine. If I
were to examine it more closely, I would probably find I believe I wasn't
worth the lotion. Or if I absolutely have to use some lotion before I scream,
I will apply only a miniscule drop to the part of my body that is in greatest
need. No point in going overboard. Whatever is leftover on my hands can
be wiped off on my forearms for an added bonus, and I actually imagine my
arms sighing in ecstasy for the rare gift. Crazy, I know. That is exactly why
giving credit for the smallest act is so important. Each time I can show
myself some appreciation or pat myself on the back for the tiniest effort in
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new behavior, I am building up my reservoir of self-love. And, believe me, I
need the extra supply.
So, I think I have answered the question I've been pondering. Should
I continue? Well, is anyone reading this? Robin, does it matter? Kind of,
but not entirely. Did I do this to gather a long list of loyal fans? Only in my
fantasy world. You know that a famous publisher is going to stumble across
this and know immediately that I am the next world-renowned author,
right? Riiiiight! This was about pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.
This was about letting myself be seen and heard, sharing the thoughts in
my head, and allowing myself to successfully write on a regular basis,
whatever "regular" turns out to be. Of course this is worth continuing!
Result: Experiment deemed successful; further exploration
recommended.
Online Comments:
Heather said...
YOU M-U-S-T KEEP Writing:) Each day your entries are like my self affirmation
cards....just the insight and little boost that brightens my day. Love and big hug coming
your way....
March 11, 2009 10:30 AM
DayleShockley said...
I say continue on. Writing is a form of self-therapy for me--at least the writing that I do
in my personal journals. It's like a conversation with myself. I would write, even if
nobody read my work. In my opinion, the one who benefits most from writing about life's
experiences is the writer.
March 11, 2009 4:23 PM
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RobinB said...
I believe that writing is self-therapy, too. It always has been for me, especially with
personal journals. What a wonderful experience to realize that some of what I share is
meaningful to others as well! I am enjoying the me that is evolving from this new form of
writing and the dialogue it produces.
Thank you for your comments!
March 11, 2009 9:25 PM
K said...
I'm reading! I'm reading! (raises hand over the internet)
I just read through my RSS feed, so you don't always know....
You are a great writer, Robin!
March 12, 2009 9:56 PM
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Avoidance of Good
I am afraid today. My chest is a little tight. I'm finding new and
interesting things on the Web to distract me. I am avoiding.
Avoidance is my own version of backlash to recently experienced
good. I use "good" as a catch-all phrase. I like it. Good. Good girl. It embodies
anything I experience as positive or uplifting or successful, all of which are
usually followed by a period of avoidance.
Thank you to those of you who have commented or sent me
messages that you are reading and want me to continue. I was so excited to
hear from you. I spent a few days thinking positively about my life, my
future, my prospects. I went to therapy and talked about all the good
things happening and my hopeful attitude toward my consulting business.
And then she said, "What are you feeling?"
Feeling? Huh? What do you mean? I just told you all these wonderful
things. "Yes, and you also told me you are waking up at night with [acid
reflux] pain and you're having belly and digestion problems. What feelings
are attached to that?" . . . Blank stare. . . . I'm not feeling anything. I'm
avoiding.
Accepting good things into my life is a constant internal battle. My
partner can tell you. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I
push her and poke her and test her still after almost five years together. I
still resist the fact that she cares about me and is always concerned about
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my welfare. Even as I write this, my body-mind is saying "Yeah, right. Don't
put much stock in that." Of course, this infuriates her.
These deeply seated responses are hard to overcome, even when our
intellectual mind knows it to be ridiculous. Writing is good for me. Good for
me. Plus, other people are reading it. Uh, oh. That means... it could go
away! If I avoid it, turn away from it, ignore it, find any other distraction
no matter how insignificant, I don't have to face the possibility of failing. Of
losing. Of being left. Of not being good enough!
Ooooo. Now my belly hurts. That one hits right in the gut. It has a
voice that comes from an adult towering over my five-year-old self, raging
at me to be perfect, screaming at me for my mistakes. It makes me want to
curl into a little ball and fall asleep. Sleep used to be my safe place. At forty-
one, it is only safe after some prescription enhancements, and even then
my body speaks louder than my brain.
So, here I am. Standing in the middle of the pain. Pain, I understand.
Feeling good and facing potential success. . . not so much. And yet, I am
tenacious, right? I will find a way to take baby steps through this. I must. It
is my nature to keep moving forward, even when that includes a period of
time curled in a ball. All who love me learn to trust that I will open up
again, pull myself back into a standing position, and find a way to face the
current demon.
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And the current demon is almost always me. It may have begun as
someone else, but they are parts of me now. I can't get away by avoiding. It
only lengthens the time before having to face it again.
So, here I am.
Online Comment:
FredV said...
Thank you Robin, for getting back to writing. Have you read Wendy P Williams' latest
blog? As it seems to me, similar pain issues, similar gratitude to her partner, similar
release by writing... And by writing you touch others and help them explore, and find
greater peace.
March 15, 2009 7:28 AM
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Persistence
Did you watch President Obama's press conference Tuesday night? I
did. I watched the whole thing. I don't think I've ever watched an entire
presidential news conference before. I admit I was bored by the middle of
it, but I am glad I waited until the end before turning off the television.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I want to hear what my
President has to say. I feel like he is truly paying attention and knows (or
at least is highly prepared for) what he is talking about. He may be part of
a "well-oiled machine" or an extremely good actor—I am not one to know—
but I feel like he is trying to be up front and honest and speak to the
general public, not just to Washington insiders or the media.
Okay, that is about as far as I go when it comes to political
commentary. I am the one who lives under a rock, remember? I do not
usually watch the news, I never read a newspaper, and I don't listen to the
radio (except XM Radio for music or comedy only). However, I have
recently become a huge Rachel Maddow fan, so I might be changing, ever
so slowly, in this arena.
Anyway, the reason I even began to ramble about this is to quote
part of the very end of Obama's press conference. Here is what I wish to
share from the transcript:
And what that tells me is that if you stick to it, if you are
persistent, then—then these problems can be dealt with.
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That whole philosophy of persistence, by the way, is one that
I’m going to be emphasizing again and again in the months
and years to come, as long as I am in this office. I’m a big
believer in persistence. . . .if we keep on working at it, if we
acknowledge that we make mistakes sometimes and that we
don’t always have the right answer. . .
(He never actually finished that sentence.)
This is what I was proud to hear. Forget the details of our budget,
changes to health care, education, etc., this is what matters to the way I
live my life. Persistence, tenacity, perseverance. . . ooh, here's a good one:
pertinacity! (I love thesauruses.)
We only heal when we are willing to persevere against our deeply
instilled defense mechanisms. This means we will make mistakes
sometimes, and we won't always have the right answer. Yet, we must try
new behavior and observe our reactions as gently as possible. That part
was important: as gently as possible. If I try new behavior and do not
succeed, I must be vigilant to avoid the negative backlash that tells me I
should never have tried at all. For it is only through persistent attempts
that I will eventually learn better, more healthy behavior. As the saying
goes, "Baby steps!"
So, I am proud that my President believes in persistence. I think it's
a healthy attitude toward our country's problems. Whether we are healing
personally or globally (and I also believe these are integrally related), it
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must be through the willingness to make some mistakes and learn from
them. I hope the general public will agree. I hope the majority of Americans
will allow this to happen. I hope we all gently heal both personally and
globally, even if it takes significant time to achieve this.
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Heartbreak Salve
Heartbreak is real. It's a fissure in our soul. When we open our heart
fully to someone and are rejected or abandoned, the pain goes deeper than
the current relationship. It sinks to our core.
And this real pain, this sudden fear for our very survival, is
important to acknowledge. It may only ease with the passage of time, but
some reminders may help us through the immediate injury.
First, only those who are able to fully open their hearts are also able
to feel heartbreak. This is a gift. Not everyone is willing to be vulnerable, to
risk that kind of pain. Those who do should be celebrated! Only when
enough of the population is willing to open their hearts and take big risks,
will our species—our planet—heal.
Second, we were born with open hearts. For most of us, something
happened, either a single traumatic event or an extended experience of
childhood abuse or neglect or simply the natural existence of imperfect
parents, and we learned to close and protect our hearts. This is why
heartbreak feels so intense. It returns us to the first time we felt rejected
or abandoned. To feel this as a young child is to feel the fear of death. If the
one who is supposed to care for me has abandoned me, how will I survive?
To feel this as an adult allows us the opportunity to heal the original
wound. We may be suffering, but we can be reminded that, at the same
time, at can be experiencing profound healing.
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Actually, the very fact that we allowed ourselves to be hurt in the
first place proves we are healing. We don't help ourselves by saying, "I
should have seen this coming. How did I mess this up? Will I ever be loved?
What's wrong with me?" To be open to love, to fully commit to a
relationship, knowing there are no guarantees for success, is an act of self-
love. We cannot do this honestly until we actually believe we deserve it!
Isn't that alone a step forward for many of us? And how can it ever be a
mistake to love ourselves? We help ourselves by continuing to love
ourselves, even when we are hurting.
Lastly, if we have the capacity to feel intense pain, then we have the
capacity for extreme joy! This is what makes us the remarkable human
beings that we are. Further, I believe we are spiritual beings having a
human experience, choosing to have a human experience. Every aspect of
our lives—dark and bright, painful and joyous—is our gift to ourselves. The
gift of feeling our lives! We aren't numb! If we are moving along this
journey of our lives, seeking to be more fulfilled, searching to heal our
deepest wounds which, in turn, allows us to contribute to the healing of us
all, and someone we love isn't willing or isn't ready or isn't capable of
joining us, then the best we can do is wish them the best and keep moving.
When we genuinely try to learn from our lives and seek out guidance
and assistance, we are always rewarded. Always. We may not be able to see
it or feel it when we are in the middle of heartbreak, but we are surrounded
by support. We are loved, and we have witnessed our willingness for self-
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love. We have already grown, and there are only better experiences
awaiting us on this journey.
Head held high, tissues in hand, we step forward.
78
Goodbye to March
In the story of my life you will find that March has been a
tumultuous time of year for me. I won't even focus on the five-week
hospitalization for Acute Depression in early adulthood (and not my only
hospitalization, either). I think it might be more helpful to point out my
more mundane responses to the shift from winter to spring.
While there are ample resources available to understand the
somewhat common depressive responses to the dark days of winter, I find
the resurgence of spring bears my darker responses.
Others may feel uplifted by the warming temperatures, the
twittering birds, the bright blossoms. I, on the other hand, hate guessing at
what to wear each day, want to scream at the noisy birds, and sneeze at
the new tree buds. While making noises like Felix Unger trying to scratch
the back of my throat with my tongue, I see young couples basking in a new
romance. As they walk along holding hands and gazing into each other's
eyes, my sniffling, snorting self wants to body slam them into the fresh
spring mud.
When the seeds bursting with new life are fighting toward the
surface of frozen earth, I feel their struggle. When the barren tree limbs
begin to show their pregnant bumps, I feel the internal pain of
contractions. My life is the poem by Anais Nin:
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Risk
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
However, I must celebrate this year, 2009. I made it through March
unscathed! No major depression in the face of employment uncertainty. No
fantasies of death as I compare my lack of progress to my fellow students'
as we approach graduation in July. I have, stunningly, been the calmer one
in the household. This is only a matter of degrees, mind you, but it is
progress!
In fact, I begin this April with two, perhaps three, clients. I may soon
have the truly honorable position of choosing which jobs to keep and which
to let go. Add this to my new resurgence of writing, my blogging
experiment, and I must admit this is no ordinary spring.
So, I not only say good-bye to March as the cherry blossoms blow in
the gusting winds of April, I say good-bye to my history of March. I am no
longer a victim of my emotions, being ruled by the ebb and flow of my
responses to my surroundings. I am a stronger stalk now. I can feel the
80
wind and withstand the storms. I am finally reaping some of the rewards of
many years of learning tools and trying new behavior and making
mistakes along the way. I am able to see things with the multitude of
options they afford, instead of the single reflection I was restricted to in the
past.
While the change of seasons is a constant, patterns can change. It is
always a gamble as to when our Nation's Capital will be in full bloom and
how closely Nature agrees to follow the preplanned schedule for festivities.
Some years the blossoms are long gone; some years the buds are not ready
to bloom; and some years the thousands of tourists and locals, alike, share
the radiance of a remarkable gift together. Who can stand along the Tidal
Basin during the peak of cherry blossom season and not be moved?
Yes, in all honesty, I want to push many of the tourists into the
water, but I still respect the beauty of the trees! Today's gusty winds cause
our large tree out front to scrape against our roof. It is a lovely metaphor.
I'm still growing, still scraping, and now able to see more than before. I'll
welcome March next year, knowing I am not trapped in a mental pattern of
negativity. Each year will be unique, and today I am choosing to look
forward.
81
My Body is Not a Temple
My body is not a temple. When I think of it—if I think of it—I see it as
more of an abandoned toxic wasteland. Or a boarded-up haunted house
that causes people to cross the street so as not to get too close when they
pass by. I often wish I were only a mind without a body, and my body treats
me with the same disdain.
I hate having to take care of myself. Eating is such a waste of time.
Remember the first RoboCop movie where he only had to suck down a little
tube of goo for all his necessary sustenance? I wish I could be like that. I
just can't stand making decisions about what to eat, and I prefer not to
have to spend more than five minutes (maximum!) preparing or planning
a meal. And for all this attitude, you would think I was still a petite, little
thing, huh? Nope! It's true what everyone told me: middle age and
metabolism got to me eventually. Now, the larger I become, the less I care.
What a rotten cycle to be in.
But I don't stop at eating. I resent having to brush my teeth, bathe,
and select clothing. Oh, how I hate that one! Couldn't we all just live like
those on Star Trek and wear the same uniforms every day? Just a one-
piece jumpsuit that makes everyone look silly. Of course, my belly would
stick out further than any other part of my body and I would look like a
Tellytubby. Great idea, Robin!
I just really don't like to have to think about my body at all.
82
My Body Screams
My head is fog.
My body screams.
The sound dissipates into the moisture of the haze.
Who am I yelling at?
My gut churns.
My throat constricts.
I fight off the mist rising in my eyes.
Who am I angry with?
My skin crawls.
My muscles are all nerves.
I say good morning with a smile.
How do I get through this day?
83
Morning Walk
I walk stiffly
through the cool April air.
Eyes wide,
soaking in the morning sunshine.
A robin steps into my path
and flits to the pavement beside me.
We make eye contact
as we travel a few paces together along my journey.
Spring can be healing, too.
84
Dead Leaf or Emerging Bud?
Another robin demanded my attention this morning. I take it as a
direct message. "See me!" Okay, it's up to me to pay attention. This is
merely the cost of my energy, and the investment can yield beautiful
results. This is something everyone has the ability to afford.
So, I look up while walking, instead of down. Ah! Many of my
neighborhood trees have already bloomed. The blossoms hang dead, but
now reveal the brown seeds within. A strong, spring breeze and they will
begin a potential new life. Next, I know, I will start to see the birth of fresh,
green leaves.
But here on this tree, I see a dead leaf, a stubborn leftover that has
survived the winter. I imagine its false pride for beating autumn. Does it
really believe it will now receive the sustenance it requires to become alive
again? It is probably clinging to a dead branch.
How many times have I clung to a fantasy of potential nurturing only
to find myself attached to a dead tree? It might look normal on the outside,
admired by others, standing tall among its peers, but it's a hollow tree.
There is only darkness and disease on the inside, yet I believe in the
transformational power of my dreams. "If I heal this tree, I will stay a
beautiful leaf." All the while, my colors are fading.
I try to catch myself from repeating that pattern. I believe that
Nature provides healthier cycles.
85
If I have the faith to let go during a fall storm, I can use the
hibernating winter months to go within and regenerate. I can learn from
both my previous behavior and the experience of the fall. There will always
be another spring. Nature hasn't let me down yet.
Slowly, sometimes painstakingly, with fits and starts, I will emerge.
This time as a single flower or a blade of grass or an emerging leaf on a
healthy tree, both of us providing for each other, living in the harmony of
interdependency.
Thank you, little spring robin, for reminding me to pay attention.
Lessons are living all around me. I want to leave the dead tree fantasy
behind me.
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WORKS CITED
Angelou, Maya. Letter to my Daughter. New York: Random House, 2008.
Burroughs, Augusten. A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of my Father. New
York: Picador, 2008.
Grealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face. 1994. Afterword by Ann Patchett.
New York: Perennial, 2003.
Kidd, Sue Monk. The Secret Life of Bees. New York: Penguin, 2002.
Layton, Deborah. Seductive Poison: A Jonestown Survivor’s Story of Life
and Death in the Peoples Temple. New York: Anchor-Random House,
1999.
Maugham, W. Somerset. Of Human Bondage. 1915. Afterword by Maeve
Binchy. New York: Signet Classics, 2007.
McBride, Karyl. Will I Ever Be Good Enough?: Healing the Daughters of
Narcissistic Mothers. New York: Free, 2008.
Mennis, Bernice. Breaking Out of Prison: A Guide to Consciousness,
Compassion, and Freedom. New York: iUniverse, 2008.
Niffenegger, Audrey. The Time Traveler’s Wife. New York: Harvest-
Harcourt, 2004.
Olbermann, Keith. “Special Comment: U.S. Future Depends on Torture
Accountability.” Countdown with Keith Olbermann. 16 Apr. 2009.
MSNBC. 19 Apr. 2009 <http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/30254776/>.
Obama, Barack. “President Obama’s News Conference.” The New York
Times 24 Mar. 2009. 25 Mar. 2009.
87
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/24/us/politics/24text-
obama.html?pagewanted=12&_r=2&sq=march%2024%20transcript
&st=Search&scp=2>.
Tomasulo, Daniel. Confessions of a Former Child: A Therapist’s Memoir.
Saint Paul: Graywolf, 2008.
88
ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY
Angelou, Maya. Letter to my Daughter. New York: Random House, 2008.
If I could bundle this book up into a beautiful, golden charm, I would
proudly wear it around my neck and let it hang over my heart.
Angelou—witty, wise, powerful, and nurturing—writes this book for
all women, “Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish-
speaking, Native American and Aleut. You are fat and thin and
pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I
am speaking to you all” (xii). She offers her advice and life lessons to
the daughter she never had. I am moved by her lyrical prose, her
magical storytelling, and her stunning poetry. I absorbed each word
as if she was speaking directly to me, and I loved the experience. I
cried with her and laughed with her and finished the book feeling as
if I had an earthly, fairy godmother looking out for me. Exactly what
I needed at this time.
Burroughs, Augusten. A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of my Father. New
York: Picador, 2008.
If you are a fan of Burroughs’ previous books, be warned. This one is
not written with his usual voice of shocking humor. This one is
shocking in its haunting detail, its genuine emotion, and its
terrifying topic. This is the voice of a young boy trying to make sense
of his earliest years in a home with a sociopathic, alcoholic father. I
have read Burrough’s previous two books, and I quickly became a
89
fan of his acerbic wit and his hysterical humility. I am now a fan of
his writing. What is the difference when reading a memoirist’s
work? Is there a distinction between voice, storytelling, and writing
skill? Does humor lessen my rating of a writer’s skill? I hope not,
because I don’t intellectually believe one style of writing is easier
than the other, perhaps the opposite! All I know is that with A Wolf
at the Table, Burroughs earned a deeper level of respect from me. He
does not protect the reader from the horrific or humiliating details.
He walked me through his childhood as if I were his best friend,
living the nightmare with him, and I genuinely feel for the adult man
who is also trying to make sense of it all. Bravo for this brave book.
Cafagña, Marcus. The Broken World: Poems (National Poetry Series).
Chicago: University of Illinois, 1996.
From the beginning of my study I knew I wanted to include some
poetry. This book was handed to me during an office move, and I felt
it must have crossed my path for a reason. I enjoyed listening to the
word choices Cafagña used throughout this collection, but I was not
always able to follow his imagery. I found these poems disturbing,
but couldn’t exactly tell you why. I did like his use of near-prose,
breaking up long sentences into poem form. It inspired me to take
my own writing, condense it, focus it, and see what evolved. I just
wish it had been easier to understand what his near-prose was
describing. I don’t fully enjoy what I don’t fully understand.
90
Edwards, Kim. The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. New York: Penguin, 2006.
Edwards writes a beautiful novel covering the broad canvas of love,
loss, guilt, and grief. The story starts in the mid-60s and continues
through the growth of twins born to a doctor and his wife, except as
the doctor delivers his own children he decides to give away the
daughter, born with Down syndrome, and tell his wife the little girl
died. I was moved by the theme of how all our decisions affect the
path our lives take. Secrets live. Loss takes up its own space and
energy. Can we ever make up for past mistakes? What defines a
mother? How do we define a successful life? The characters are
brilliant, each carrying their own burden. Bittersweet love is imbued
throughout. Well worth reading.
Ellroy, James. The Black Dahlia. 1987. Afterword by James Ellroy. New
York: Mysterious, 2006.
This book was republished when it was turned into a motion picture,
and the new afterword by the author is most revealing. A novel, it
pulls from both historical events of the 1940s and 50s and images
and feelings from the author’s experiences to create a story
surrounding the brutal murder of a young woman in Los Angeles in
1947. Ellroy writes with a cadence and rhythm that lends itself
easily to the movie screen, but his story is filled with so many details
I find it hard to believe it can be fully translated into visual art
without a lot being missed. I have long believed this must be true for
91
adaptations of good books. I enjoyed being immersed in the time
period, the mindset, and the culture that Ellroy describes so well.
However, I was not prepared for the extremely dark side of this
story, the grisly sexual images, and the relentless obsession.
Learning the author’s desire to pull the images of his mother into the
story makes the book fascinating on much deeper levels. Having
experienced the entire journey, I am not sure I would have chosen to
travel that path if I had known about it in advance.
Fisher, Carrie. Wishful Drinking. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2008.
I selected this book because I’ve read Fisher’s Postcards from the
Edge and I wanted to read an updated memoir of a daughter of a
narcissistic mother. Sadly, I think Fisher has simply assimilated her
mother’s narcissistic characteristics. Do you remember during our
awkward times of adolescence when you would see someone who
was trying too hard to be “cool” and it only made them seem less so?
If I could sum this book up into a single sentence, it would be Carrie
Fisher whining, “I’m not doing this because I’m famous. I’m not.
Really.” Well, that’s technically three sentences, but hopefully you
get the message. While Fisher seems to be defending herself
throughout this attempt at humorous memoir, I couldn’t help
thinking that this would never have been published if she weren’t
the child of Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher or the cultural icon of
Princess Leia from the movie Star Wars. Just as she’s lamenting
92
about these very facts, she is trying to write as if there is deeper
meaning in her experiences, but I never believed her. I was
disappointed in the simplicity of her writing and the lack of genuine
humility in what could have been great life lessons learned. Instead,
it felt like she was faking being a writer and trying too hard to sound
wise. It only made her seem less so in my eyes. This was an example
of how I do not want to write.
Frey, James. A Million Little Pieces. New York: Anchor, 2004.
This is a book worthy of a group discussion. Multiple discussions. On
varying topics. This is a book about a young man who entered a
rehabilitation center at the age of twenty-three and the six weeks
that followed. This is a book written without paragraphs, avoiding
the standard use of grammar. This is book that replicates the
endless thoughts of an addict, every movement, every waking
moment, every run-on sentence of repetitive thought. This is a
rebellious book, both in its format and its subject matter, its
protagonist rejecting the teachings of the rehabilitation center and
remaining sober against all odds. This is a book that was published
as a memoir, but later revealed to contain embellishments and
untrue facts, causing conflict and controversy. This is a book that
makes me think, and I loved it!
Grealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face. 1994. Afterword by Ann Patchett.
New York: Perennial, 2003.
93
Soon after I was born, I began to develop a hemangioma on the end of
my nose. Infant hemangioma is a rapidly growing, benign tumor,
filled with blood, that is actually part of the vascular system. This is
to say that I quickly grew a bulbous, purplish, clown-nose that
attracted the curiosity and blatant stares of strangers. While plastic
surgery before I was two years old finally eliminated the
disfigurement, I no longer doubt that this experience deeply affected
my infant psyche and my perception of self. In Autobiography of a
Face, Lucy Grealy bravely tells her story of being diagnosed with
cancer at age nine (eventually losing a third of her jaw), years of
intense chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and a lifetime of
various unsuccessful “corrective” surgeries. This is not only an
inspiring story; it is the creative work of a talented author and poet.
While maintaining her child’s viewpoint, Grealy infuses her prose
with wrenching honesty and pain, and ultimately her indomitable
spirit wins. Grealy passed away in 2002 at the age of thirty-nine,
and this edition of the book includes an afterword by her close friend
Ann Patchett. While the book certainly stands on its own, I especially
appreciated the input included by Patchett. She clearly states that
Grealy did not want to be famous or inspirational for her survival of
cancer but for her talent as a writer, and I believe she deserved both.
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Kidd, Sue Monk. The Secret Life of Bees. New York: Penguin, 2002.
Quite simply, this is a beautiful novel. I read this on pure instinct
alone, because I really didn’t understand intellectually how this
would fit my study. However, I relished the visions, the emotions,
and the sounds this book evokes. The heart of the story is about Lily,
a motherless daughter, and her coming of age in South Carolina in
1964. This is not a location or time period I thought I could relate to,
but Kidd’s gift of imagery is breathtaking. I felt like I was living this
story and learning about bees—and life—right along with Lily. In the
middle of my own reparenting experiment, I chose a book about
finding a nurturing mother within ourselves. I applaud Sue Monk
Kidd’s talent as a writer and my instincts for finding what I need at
the perfect moment.
Kostova, Elizabeth. The Historian. New York: Back Bay, 2006.
With all the pop culture existing around Vampires these days, this
novel is a refreshing story that is full of rich historical context,
descriptive world travel, and excellent storytelling. A unique father-
daughter relationship turns into an adventure to unlock the
mysteries surrounding the historical details of Vlad the Impaler, the
original Dracula persona, and to save their entire family from its
own demise. I thoroughly enjoyed Kostova’s plot twists and
character betrayals, and becoming familiar with parts of the world I
had known nothing about through her infusion of well-researched
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historical and geographical facts. It taught me how much work can
go into any story and how important realistic facts are to the
authenticity of an author’s writing.
Layton, Deborah. Seductive Poison: A Jonestown Survivor’s Story of Life
and Death in the Peoples Temple. New York: Anchor-Random House,
1999.
This is a heartfelt look into one woman’s experience of her life from
age sixteen, when she first met Reverend James Warren Jones, to
age twenty-five, when she escaped Jonestown, Guyana before the
infamous massacre in November 1978. Layton wrote this book in an
attempt to deeply understand her own past, to be able to answer her
daughter’s questions honestly about her family’s history, and to give
her reading audience the opportunity to see into the often
misunderstood lives of those people seduced into the tragic world of
Jim Jones. Her memoir reads like a novel, with emotion, suspense,
and carefully crafted characters. Interestingly, the day after I
finished this book, MSNBC replayed a special documentary, “Witness
to Jonestown.” This entire story and Layton’s bravery to delve into
her painful and often shame-filled past gives me courage to return to
stories of my own experiences of a lesser, but no less powerful,
degree of the effects of a growing up with a narcissistic, mentally ill
authority figure.
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Maugham, W. Somerset. Of Human Bondage. 1915. Afterword by Maeve
Binchy. New York: Signet Classics, 2007.
This classic is a 680-page autobiographical novel, set in the late
1800s, about a club-footed orphan’s coming of age. Maugham
changed the details of the main character’s life to be different from
his own while maintaining many of the true emotional aspects of
growing up without family and with a humiliating disability.
Maugham also wrote the early parts of this novel when he was
relatively young and then went back to finish the novel later in his
career. This gives both the youth’s and the adult’s perspective,
which imbues the novel with an authenticity of emotion that might
otherwise be difficult in such a long story. I found myself responding
with both empathy and annoyance to the main character. I enjoyed
Maugham’s strong descriptive style and the main character’s wildly
fantastic and dramatic internal world. However, I was ultimately
disappointed at the end. I felt like it ended abruptly and without
deeper meaning or resolution, but then again that is life, right?
There is always the next day and more to our story.
McBride, Karyl. Will I Ever Be Good Enough?: Healing the Daughters of
Narcissistic Mothers. New York: Free, 2008.
With a sound foundational understanding of Narcissistic Personality
Disorder, I dove into this book for its specific focus on daughters of
narcissistic mothers. While I underlined and notated previous books
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on this topic, I held this one with more reverence. McBride writes in
direct dialogue with you, the reader, as if you are experiencing a
personal therapy session with her throughout the book. She gives
you questionnaires, checklists, and benchmarks to help you gauge
your level of entanglement or individualization in relation to your
narcissistic mother. She explains the generational implications of
how narcissistic traits are passed down from mother to daughter.
She gives you space and permission to accept, grieve and, finally,
heal from this sometimes-devastating childhood experience.
Sometimes the value of a book may not lie in the beauty of the
writing, the skill of the editing, or the talents of the author.
Sometimes it might simply be timing, the right book about the right
topic for the right reader at the right time. At least it was for me.
Mennis, Bernice. Breaking Out of Prison: a guide to consciousness,
compassion, and freedom. New York: iUniverse, 2008.
For once, I must say, I am at a disadvantage writing an annotation
because I have yet to read this book multiple times. The depth of
insights and offerings shared by Mennis can only fully be harvested
after delving into her book many more times than once. Having had
the unique privilege of working with Mennis during two school
residencies, I can confidently say her personal voice is clear in her
writing, as is her passion and tenderness as a teacher. Her
overriding theme of internal and external prisons pulled my
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culminating study together in many ways: finding my voice, giving it
freedom, having compassion for my experiences, and allowing
myself to be all that I am able to be. I look forward to all my future
readings.
Niffenegger, Audrey. The Time Traveler’s Wife. New York: Harvest-
Harcourt, 2004.
The premise of this novel involves an imaginative genetic disorder
that makes one of the main characters involuntarily pop in and out
of the present time, experiencing different periods of his life
simultaneously with his own sequential experience of life.
Niffenegger goes into significant detail to “explain” this disorder, and
if the reader is willing to go along with the idea, there is a beautiful
story included that demonstrates the bonds and bounds of love. I
enjoy authors who play with the standard model of storytelling, and
Niffenegger’s ability to teach the reader how to follow the
nonsequential aspects of her story is quite a triumph. Not only did I
love the realistic aspects of a painful love story, I was also inspired
by the author’s creativity.
Payson, Eleanor. The Wizard of Oz and other Narcissists: Coping with the
One-Way Relationship in Work, Love, and Family. 2002. Royal Oak:
Julian Day, 2008.
March 2009 marks the twentieth anniversary of my first
hospitalization for acute depression. I consider that the starting
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point of my adult recovery. Having now spent as many years
recovering as I did growing up, I found a book that reflects back to
me exactly what I lived through as a child. Using the well-known
characters from the Wizard of Oz, Payson creates a well-ordered and
accessible book containing invaluable information. Through various
means, storytelling, medical definitions, and real world examples,
Payson paints a mural of all the ways narcissists may exist in our
lives and exactly how they affect us, both in childhood and
adulthood. I consider this a must-read for everyone because I do not
think enough people fully understand the realities of narcissism. It is
so often masked by other, more commonly discussed disorders of
addiction or hidden beneath our cultural admiration of power and
success. I will be forever grateful for having found this book.
Steinbeck, John. Of Mice and Men. 1937. New York: Penguin, 2002.
My immediate reaction is: wow! Reading this after finishing Woolf’s
To the Lighthouse will make your head spin. This was my first
introduction to Steinbeck, and I am eager to read more in the future.
He is shrewd in his choices of words, masterful in his use of dialogue.
While the story is short and the characters are vulgar, the sharp
images and theatrical descriptions of each scene will stay with me
for some time. Steinbeck showed me that, in some cases, less is
more.
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Stevenson, Robert Louis. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 1886. New York:
Bantam Classic, 2004.
This classic story was originally published in 1886, and yet, my only
experience of it had been the Warner Brothers cartoon version
complete with Bugs Bunny. I equated the title with the timeless
battle of good versus evil. However, I am grateful to have not only
experienced the original writing but the biographical sketch of
Stevenson, the author. More accurately, the true battle here is our
public image against our shadow self, the collective parts of our self
that we deny, stuff, and attempt to ignore. Those parts may or may
not be evil; they are simply kept in the dark. To learn that it is
hypothesized that Stevenson may have been a homosexual,
something he would have felt compelled to keep secret in Victorian
times, sheds a completely new light onto the Mr. Hyde character, an
angry, frustrated person who so desperately wanted to experience
life. I found here a tragic story that continues to have modern
implications.
Tomasulo, Daniel. Confessions of a Former Child: A Therapist’s Memoir. St.
Paul: Graywolf, 2008.
Joy! It was pure joy to return to the pages of a witty memoirist.
Tomasulo does an exceptional job of using flashbacks and multiple
angles to tie a single theme together in each chapter. He also does
not shy away from the difficult therapeutic topics he has dealt with
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in his own life. Being the son of both a narcissistic mother and
grandmother, Tomasulo writes humorously about painful stories. I
admire his way of weaving through the past and present and his
knack for painting the vivid details of a child’s experience. He gave
me the gift of humor and perspective at just the moment I needed
the lift.
Wharton, Edith. Ethan Frome. 1911. Introduction and notes by Elizabeth
Ammons. New York: Penguin Classics, 2005.
This was my first Edith Wharton book, and I was delighted by her
writing style. "He kept his eyes fixed on her, marveling at the way
her face changed with each turn of their talk, like a wheat-field
under a summer breeze" (35). While this was one of the rare positive
images in an otherwise dark and tragic story, I became immersed in
the stark, New England, rural winter that so encompasses the theme
of the book. I think it would be a fascinating exercise to write an
essay discussing and comparing the use of horses throughout the
story. Their color, use, and temperament mirror the energy and
unspoken emotions of the main characters. In our current world of
Hollywood happy endings, I enjoy the discussions wrought from a
rough and realistic story.
Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. 1927. Forward by Eudora Welty. New
York: Harvest-Harcourt, 1981
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I have long been a fan of Virginia Woolf, since being introduced to
her in a Women’s Literature class at a community college in 1990. I
not only respect her as a foundational figure in women’s literature,
but I genuinely love her long, lyrical voice. That is why it came as
quite a surprise to me that I had the hardest time finishing this
novel. Eudora Welty’s forward was a helpful introduction into
Woolf’s mastery of the novel, especially when I was more familiar
with Woolf’s shorter pieces, her pointed essays and vibrant
speeches. This story is told primarily through the internal voices
and thoughts of each of the characters of this book, and it is an
integral part of the novel. To the Lighthouse is written with Woolf’s
same beautiful use of language and is commonly heralded as one of
the finest novels of the twentieth century. This brings up the
question of the separation between the author and the characters in
a novel. While I understand that a part of Woolf must be speaking
through her characters, I found that I prefer to read her pieces
where she is speaking directly as herself.
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STUDY BIBLIOGRAPHY
Angelou, Maya. Letter to my Daughter. New York: Random House, 2008.
Burroughs, Augusten. A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of my Father. New
York: Picador, 2008.
Cafagña, Marcus. The Broken World: Poems (National Poetry Series).
Chicago: University of Illinois, 1996.
Edwards, Kim. The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. New York: Penguin, 2006.
Ellroy, James. The Black Dahlia. 1987. Afterword by James Ellroy. New
York: Mysterious, 2006.
Fisher, Carrie. Wishful Drinking. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2008.
Frey, James. A Million Little Pieces. New York: Anchor, 2004.
Grealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face. 1994. Afterword by Ann Patchett.
New York: Perennial, 2003.
Kidd, Sue Monk. The Secret Life of Bees. New York: Penguin, 2002.
Kostova, Elizabeth. The Historian. New York: Back Bay, 2006.
Layton, Deborah. Seductive Poison: A Jonestown Survivor’s Story of Life
and Death in the Peoples Temple. New York: Anchor-Random House,
1999.
Maugham, W. Somerset. Of Human Bondage. 1915. Afterword by Maeve
Binchy. New York: Signet Classics, 2007.
McBride, Karyl. Will I Ever Be Good Enough?: Healing the Daughters of
Narcissistic Mothers. New York: Free, 2008.
104
Mennis, Bernice. Breaking Out of Prison: a guide to consciousness,
compassion, and freedom. New York: iUniverse, 2008.
Niffenegger, Audrey. The Time Traveler’s Wife. New York: Harvest-
Harcourt, 2004.
Payson, Eleanor. The Wizard of Oz and other Narcissists: Coping with the
One-Way Relationship in Work, Love, and Family. 2002. Royal Oak:
Julian Day, 2008.
Steinbeck, John. Of Mice and Men. 1937. New York: Penguin, 2002.
Stevenson, Robert Louis. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 1886. New York:
Bantam Classic, 2004.
Tomasulo, Daniel. Confessions of a Former Child: A Therapist’s Memoir. St.
Paul: Graywolf, 2008.
Wharton, Edith. Ethan Frome. 1911. Introduction and notes by Elizabeth
Ammons. New York: Penguin Classics, 2005.
Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. 1927. Forward by Eudora Welty. New
York: Harvest-Harcourt, 1981
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APPENDIX
Eulogy for Eldora Johnson
Daughter, Sister, Cousin. Aunt, Mother, Friend. For each of us
assembled here, Eldora embodied a special relationship. For me, she was
Grandma. Just over a week ago during our final visit, I hugged her and told
her she was the best Grandma. Just four days before her passing, she
chuckled and replied with her usual cheekiness, “I’m your only Grandma!”
In a way, she was right. My father’s mother was much older when I
was young, and she left us early to the sad recesses of Alzheimer’s disease.
So, my Grandma Johnson was the only Grandma I truly knew well. The
relationship between a grandparent and a grandchild carries with it a
special set of rules. You get to skip over all the parenting baggage and get
right to the good stuff—the grand part.
I was her first grandchild. She was with my mother when I was born,
and when I was less than a week old and not able to keep food down, it was
Grandma who identified what was wrong. She’d seen it before: pyloric
stenosis. The valve that was supposed to let food pass out of my tiny
stomach had grown shut and surgery was required. I still carry the scar on
my midsection, and even as my midsection has grown considerably over
the years, I consider it my growing mark of love. It was due to her care and
attention that I survived.
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In Grandma’s eyes I always felt special, valued, adored. Much to my
chagrin as a child, I knew each of my visits would include showing me off to
her neighbors and friends. During my difficult early adulthood, she was my
rock. She respected that I had to find my own way; I made my own family
traditions. When my adult lifestyle didn’t adhere to her church teachings,
still, she found a way to accept me. She never wavered in her love for me.
Grandma was a master knitter. If you were to look at snapshots from
my early childhood, you would frequently see me wearing brightly colored
sweaters and vests that Grandma made for me. When I took ice skating
lessons as a child, I was always decked out in matching sweaters, knit caps,
and mittens made with devotion by Grandma. As an adult, I still have a
couple of cherished blankets that she made especially for me.
Grandma taught me that if you lose a tooth in North Dakota you
don’t put it under your pillow. Instead, you put it in a glass of water and
each night the Tooth Fairy puts coins into the glass. Every morning you
check to see if the tooth is gone, because only then can you count your loot.
She taught me that, in North Dakota, Santa doesn’t come on
Christmas Eve. He has entirely too much ground to cover in one night, so
instead he puts your presents under the tree while you are attending
church on Christmas morning.
Grandma taught me that the best brownies were made when she let
me mix the ingredients with my hands.
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But my favorite thing Grandma taught me is to play cards! Sharp to
the very end, she was able to keep up with the most complicated rules—
some of which I thought she made up as we went along because I could
never remember them all—and she never went easy on me. I will always
think of her whenever I play cards and remember her furrowed look of
deep concentration and her elated cry and chuckle whenever she won.
Over the past couple of years, we spoke frequently on the phone. She
kept up with my jobs, my relationship, my schooling. She shared with me
her frustrations, her fears, the realities of her fading health, and her
gratitude. I know she genuinely felt blessed with a long and well-lived life.
I believe her greatest gift to us was her last week of life. She could
have passed quickly and suddenly on October 24th, perhaps she even
wanted to, but that wasn’t yet her time. Instead, each of her children and I
had the opportunity to spend one night alone with her in the hospital. We
each had the time to say good-bye, to tell her how much we loved her, to
care for her, listen to her, and be present with her. Throughout that
difficult week and even after she went home, she kept her sense of humor
and her positive outlook on life. During my last visit I asked her, “As you
look over your life, what is the one thing that makes you happiest?” She
thought about it and said, “To see my friends happy!” Looking over all of us
here, I know we continue to bring her joy by remembering fondly all the
laughter and happiness she brought to us.
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Erik Erikson said, “Healthy children will not fear life if their elders
have integrity enough not to fear death.” My Grandma had this integrity. I
believe she did not fear death, and having her in my life—having her in
your life—gives each of us the freedom to live our lives without fear.