Clearing the Sill of the World

1983

Mama is at the wheel and I nervously

sit in the passenger seat,

full of dread.

At each red light I imagine

opening the door and fleeing.

Mouth full of cavities thanks to

Pepsi and an ancestral propensity

from one branch of the family tree

or another.

My legs wobble as we walk

into the dentist’s office,

and I realize there is nothing to

stop this from happening

and that Mama cannot save me

from the shot of novacaine,

nor can she truly comfort me

in this moment.

It is one of the very first times

I know what it is like to experience Life

all by myself.

Then, the sweet relief of the ride home

and I can scarcely remember my red light

escape plan as I bask in the comfort

of our Buick, our love, our us.

2012

 My precious one has inherited

the cavity-prone teeth of her mother.

I try to be nonchalant as I explain the

laughing gas mask, in an effort to

prepare her.

Trusting and obedient,

she gives herself over to the dentist.

Deep breaths, deep breaths,

as I try not to notice the sound of the drill,

the small movements of her hands and feet,

the blotch of blood on the roof of her mouth,

and my own light-headedness.

She comes through it seemingly unscathed

and I cannot imagine her hatching an escape

plan from the car or having her stomach

tied in knots of anxiety.

But there are some things I may never know,

her very own private experiences of Life

all by herself.

My contribution

untouched and I question my

very womanhood.

When I was 23, I had a a very tough year. After graduating from college, I had spent a year abroad.  Upon my return, I’d decided to live in an idyllic college town a few hours from my parents, because most of my friends lived there.  It would be just like old times.  I didn’t plan on failing as a teacher.  Or quitting my first real job. After only six weeks.  I didn’t plan on feeling utterly alone while I figured out the next steps.  I didn’t plan on feeling useless for the first time in my life.  I didn’t plan on feeling left behind by all my friends who were already on their chosen paths and had no energy, time, or interest in my existential angst.  It must have been the very first time I slipped into the Pit.  I felt desperate to matter to someone, to matter in the world. 

That January, I found work as an administrative assistant on campus.  The workaday routine saved me, along with a supervisor who graciously took me under her wing.  During those six months, I clung to whatever meaning I could wrench from my work, whether it was interacting with a student or just making a co-worker laugh.  Eventually, with the encouragement of my supervisor, I undertook a job search which resulted in a job in my home state. 

When I think back on that year now, I can make light of it to some extent…the 20-something lost soul, searching for meaning.  But, there is a part of me that vividly remembers the stinging pain of feeling so alone, and not knowing what to do next.  There were times when I felt my parents were the only people in the world who cared about me (wasn’t true, but that’s how it felt), and when Fridays rolled around, I would quickly pack a bag and make the long drive to my childhood home, just to be with them and soak up their love and caring.  The memory of their arms wrapped around me would get me through the following week.

Last night, DH and I were sitting down to dinner at the annual school auction.  As we settled into our seats, another woman at the table announced, “I just got an AP alert…Whitney Houston died.”  The reaction at the table was subdued and unsurprised.  The conversation swiftly turned to other topics.  But I couldn’t get the news off my mind.  I know she was an addict, but I felt shocked.  It couldn’t be possible. 

For years, I’d had her double CD set, with remixed versions of some of her greatest hits.  Over time, the CDs were damaged and scratched, and I’d really been missing a few of those songs.  A couple of weeks ago, I downloaded music onto my phone for the very first time, and ”Whitney – The Greatest Hits” was the only full album I purchased.  I realized a couple of the songs had special meaning for me, but I wasn’t fully prepared for the force with which they hit…

During those long drives to and from my parents’ house, I played two songs repeatedly:  “Step by Step” and “Love Will Save the Day.”  In fact, I played those songs nearly every day of that long, painful year.  Those songs gave me hope.  Whitney’s voice was infused with a conviction I wish I had…somehow, by listening to her and belting along, a part of me felt convinced that things would get better.  And they did.  So, it feels a little silly to be writing this with tears in my eyes, but music is powerful.  And those two songs helped me get through that Pit.  Indeed, they helped me get through a little hump the other day.  It only seems fitting to include those songs in this post.  Rest in peace…

I’ve always been the type of person who gravitates towards having one or two close friends, rather than a wide circle.  As an only child, I felt the most secure being with just one friend, and was ill at ease in groups.  In a group, it felt the tide could turn at any moment, and I would be cast aside. 

Growing up, I had the habit of attaching to one person, designating her my Best Friend, and holding on for dear life.  Sometimes, this worked out, but often it made things difficult.  Inevitably, girls’ friendships morph into triangular torture chambers, with one girl always being left out, depending on the whims of the other two.  Over time, I experienced both sides…one year, I relished being the Queen Bee, cruelly taunting another girl who would later become my Best Friend; the very next year, I withered under an onslaught of bullying that lasted for months and impacted me for years to follow.

In high school, I had a couple of close friends and was friendly with most everyone, but did not consider myself popular by any stretch of the imagination.  Part of me wished I could get invited to parties, be cool, be known, be part of the in-crowd.  But, I had carved out my place in our small school, and there was no budging for four years.  For the most part, I was content living in the subculture of inside jokes my Best Friend and I were constantly creating, tumbling through our days in fits of giggles.

My college years were Friendship Nirvana.  For the first time, I had an actual group of friends, and the six of us were inseparable for four years.  We became family.  My identity in college was built almost entirely upon this group of girls, which was wonderful in a way. but also a dynamic which made for an upsetting reality check after graduation.  I spent most of my 20s missing the closeness of those day-to-day interactions, those times when we knew each other so well we could finish one another’s sentences, take one look at a facial expression and know exactly what the other person was thinking, or just hang out in a dorm room and appreciate the comforting presence of each other.  For years, I was the glue that held our group together, trying to make sure everyone felt connected, even though we were scattered all over the country.  As we’re reaching our mid-30s, distance, careers, families, and grad school have all taken up their rightful spaces in our lives.  In fact, in a bittersweet way, it is becoming difficult to remember those girls we were. 

So, what does friendship look like now?  As FB might put it…it’s complicated.  At this point, my friendship net has been cast further than ever before, and I feel I know more women than I ever have in my life.  However, the depth of my friendships does not equal the breadth, and I’m not sure what to make of that.  There is a part of me that still yearns for a Best Friend, even at this stage.  But, what would that look like, amidst all the chaos of family life and work?  Usually, I find the notion exhausting and am afraid I just wouldn’t be able to commit to the intensity of such a relationship, a la college days. 

The handful of friendships I currently have which seem to go a bit deeper have several things in common:  making time to see each other one-on-one (doesn’t even have to be regularly scheduled, though that might help increase feelings of closeness and trust); being transparent with each other about the struggles of being a mom; and, perhaps most importantly, remembering to connect around topics other than our kids, i.e. remembering that we are individual souls, women, not just wives and mothers. 

During this stage of my life, I feel acutely aware that my friendships are fragile, beautiful dances, each one unique.  We’re each trying to figure out the steps…how to feel the beat?  What do we do with our arms?  How do we move our feet?  Something that used to come so naturally, something that used to bloom by being with each other every day, laughing in hallways, cruising in cars on Friday nights, eating pizza in dorm rooms…now has to be constructed from scratch.  I wish I knew the recipe.

Dear readers, several of you have urged me to write a book.  To say I’m flattered would be an understatement.  Writing has always been one of my primary passions in life and to have it be so well-received through this blog has been an absolute joy.  The first time someone suggested I write a book, I think I was all, “Maaammaaa!!” because, um, it was my mom.  And I’m sure she’s totally unbiased (I love you, Mama!).  I couldn’t quite believe in myself, the way she believed in me.  Still, the seed was planted.  The second time someone suggested it, I started to believe it could actually be a possibility.  The third time, I thought this might not be a joke.  People really want to read my writing.  The fourth time, a few weeks ago, I decided to take action.

That’s not a bad thing.  Except it was late at night, and I was feeling impulsive.  And I didn’t know the first thing about how to start.  I did a quick search of local literary agents and chose one that did not have a website.  I figured the smaller the agent, the better chance I’d have of being taken.

Dear readers, there is a certain Process one should follow.  One does not simply call up an agent and say, “Hey, I have this blog and can I come meet with you sometime because I think you might like me and can you go steady with me check yes or no, kthxbai.”  Surprisingly, it does not work that way.

 There is a Non-Fiction Proposal to be labored and stressed over for months before submitting it.  There is a query letter to be written.  There is a world of etiquette and norms unto the literary world, and I skipped over all of them.  Remember the scene in “Jerry Maguire” where the guy keeps calling the girl and leaving a message, then calling and correcting that message, calling again, etc?  Here is my version.  Ahem…(not verbatim, but you’ll still feel the pain):

Me:  “Hi, my name is ____.  I’m a mom and psychotherapist and I have a blog that people seem to like and I was wondering if I could come in and meet with you about non-fiction book ideas.  I’m calling instead of e-mailing, as I didn’t see a website for you all, so I have some basic questions about how you approach your work.  My number is _____.  I look forward to hearing from you.  Thanks for your time.”

After hanging up, I did another quick search of the agency and…not only did I find their website, but I found their totally crisp, professional, kick-ass website.  And it was clearly stated that they were not accepting unsolicited submissions.

Me:  “Hi, this is _________ again.  I just noticed that you do have a website, actually a really, really nice website.  Somehow I missed that during my online search and perhaps it has something to do with the fact our five year old has come into our room with nightmares the past four nights in a row and has been sleeping on our floor so I am losing major brain cells.  Anyway, I noticed you’re not currently taking unsolicited submissions.  Thanks.”

I am not kidding.  I actually left this woman two messages.  And, I actually said the thing about having a five-year-old and losing brain cells (said executive mentioned her life as a mom in her biographical info, so I was making a feeble attempt to connect).  Dear readers, I never got a call back, of course.  And this agency looked like a really great fit, as they specialize in non-fiction, and nurturing the writer from the very start of an idea.

Now, I’m facing writing a Non-Fiction Proposal.  I know I can do that, but it is a daunting endeavor.  I don’t even know what I want to focus on; perhaps I could start by culling my favorite posts from this blog, and brainstorming potential chapters.  

The elephant in the room is my profession.  As a writer, one of my dreams has always been to be published.  I’ve never said that out loud.  It’s strange to see it in black and white.  But, I realize it is the truth.  If it ever did come to fruition (a huge if!), I wonder about the impact on my work as a psychotherapist.  What would it be like for clients to know me through my writing?  How might that knowledge enter the therapeutic space?  Big questions.

As I write this, I recognize a growing hunger within myself…a hunger to achieve this life-long goal.  It is okay to be ambitious.  It is okay to want to share my work with others.  It is okay to want to be admired and appreciated for my talents.  It is even okay to be envious of bloggers on the national scene whose blog posts go viral even though I think the content is full of platitudes.  Gasp!  Did I just write that?  All too human over here.  All too human.  The truth is that there is space for all of us.  Write on!

I wrote this poem a year ago.  I was sitting in a quaint little cafe in a nearby neighborhood, blithely having coffee and writing.  As this scene unfolded before my eyes, I felt very uncomfortable.  Without warning, the illusion of my world was being shaken, just enough to feel guilty about my coziness and security.  The geographical area I live in is privileged in countless ways.  Sometimes, it feels as if there is no significant diversity, in any sense of the word.  The parents are high fliers.  The kids are high fliers.  The jobs are Important, whatever that means.  The mortgages are sky-high.  All of this can create anxiety, while also creating a strange sense of security, a comfort with the Known. 

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I see something like this.  I just know it was jarring, and the contrast to the daily happenings in the surrounding neighborhood was stark.  There is no way I can separate my experience of this moment from the fact that I am in, and of, one world, while these two men were in another. I’m not sure what incident had preceded this moment, and I leave that purposefully mysterious…in any case, it is a sad scene.  It was a moment when I felt there was nothing tender, because of the terrible contrast between my feeling of security and the feeling of helplessness I imagined in the older man.

There is nothing tender here,

in this wealthy enclave.

Does anyone else see the

two men shuffling outside

on the sidewalk?

Well, there they are.

Could it be that the older one

is wearing shorts in this frigid chill?

Could it be that his shorts

are shit-stained and

falling from his narrow hips,

revealing a pale and sallow ass?

The other man gives a few awkward pats

on the shoulder,

and as they walk to the car,

the old man clutches at his shorts,

so to prevent his dignity from slipping away entirely.

There is nothing tender here.

The dosage of my first medication was several pills per night.  I really struggled with the physical act of taking those pills, charged with all their hateful meaning…mostly, that I was a failure at life.  In addition, I’m the type of person who rarely takes medication.  I was in my late 20s before I recognized how useful Excedrin could be for a headache.  So, the notion of taking a prescription medication on a regular basis was a completely foreign concept.  I wrote the following poem in November 2010 (note: the first pill in this poem is the ubiquitous Pill):

Taking Pills and Looking in the Bathroom Mirror

First pill:

to prevent human life from taking hold.

 Second pill, third pill, fourth pill:

to prevent the tentacles from wrapping around me.

 Fifth pill, sixth pill, seventh pill, maybe more:

to be added until therapeutic dose is reached.

 What is a therapeutic dose?

Usually between four and eight pills.

 But it may not work at all.

 Then it would just be me;

 just back to being me with my regular old

 messed-up brain.

 What if it does work?

What if it does?

My regular old messed-up brain.

 Set right.

 Like an old clock whose gears were stuck,

 suddenly set in motion.

Smooth and steady.

 Still a beautiful, exquisite masterpiece.