 Photo by Vitaly Sacred on Unsplash
We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone. -- Orson Welles, When I was a young lass, all I wanted out of life was to be famous. Having children or a husband didn't interest me. I just wanted fame after my name. Seen. Noticed. Recognized. I was none of those things in my family of origin. It's not entirely unexpected, then, that I yearned for attention despite being invisible. As life would have it, I never married or had children. I never became famous either despite sleepwalking my way through an improv class in LA in my 20s. Now that I'm a newly-minted octogenarian without a mate with whom to grow old or grandchildren to love, my point of view matters. And so do I. That's always been true, but I definitely didn't know it. I wanted to be a famous journalist—that didn't happen. I tried to write sitcoms—that didn't happen. I pursued my goal of becoming a world-renowned therapist like Dr. Phil. No such luck. I didn't want to be known, much less remembered, for hitting two parked cars whilst in a blackout or being transported to the ER because I overdosed. I didn't want to be notorious for having to go to three rehabs to get (and stay) sober. Nor did I need to be the one at the meeting (accolades please!) who did not, miraculously, get a DUI. As I reflect on a life somehow lived through it all, I'm taking my place among the masses. I know, from this vantage, that my chance of becoming famous is right up there with winning the lottery. But I emailed Oprah today anyway. YOLO, am I right? I'm ordinary. Can an ordinary person claim her fame? Maybe not, but I swapped out a family in pursuit of same. If nothing else, I want my tombstone to read: Charlene Kodimer lies here. She is an ordinary person whose claim to fame is that she was never seen, and now her dreams have come to an end. But I'm not done. My plan, provided I have a few bucks when I go, is to hire 1000 extras to attend my funeral. They will line up to say great things about me. Sure, I'll be dead and the extras will be paid, but I'm not going down without a fight! #notdeadyet #nonamefame
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 My mother gifted me, genetically, with a sense of style and...actually, that's about it. Oh wait, she also gave me the fear gene. She was governed by—a slave to—fear. We had that in common. Since the day I shot out of her chute (that's what she called it, unfortunately, like a guide at Six Flags Magic Mountain), fear has been my lodestar and the albatross around my neck.
From my father, Paul, I inherited thin hair, blue eyes and a love of potato chips, the latter of which led in part to diabetes. He had it, I have it, we shared that burden. I now get to fight it every day of my life. He also ran the full-on family show. He was at the helm of our lives, day-in, day-out, for decades. He was some strain of tyrant; the kind that kicks a child in the ribs for not doing the dishes. (THAT day, I remember.) If we were writing the screenplay, my father (aka The Controller), would have cast the ensemble. My feeding-tube-thin mother would be our protagonist, stifled by her burdensome children, a boy (perfect) and girl (imperfect). The boy would go on to crush college; the girl would go on to do drugs (not street drugs, mind, you, but the equally debilitating kind—benzos). The boy's crowning achievement would be a PhD. The girl's high-water mark would be beating David Grossman in the sixth-grade spelling bee. The girl would arrive to the set late, likely high on said opioids in a Neiman Marcus cashmere sweater. She would have recently shoveled Famous Amos cookies down her throat, which gave her high-octane gas, heartburn and acid-reflux which she combatted with GasX, Nexium and Tums. And that's when the show would end before it began. Despite this family drama debacle and my fear default, I've always loved a stage. Which is why I once took an improv class with aspirations to be famous. But that's another post...stay tuned.  Everything in my mother, Dorothy's, life was measured: emotions, status, her food, the dog's food, my food, her pills. For her, breakfast was Melba toast, black coffee and a pill for high cholesterol. The pill was blue which probably soothed her since it matched her blue velvet furniture in her blue-themed, tony condo.
She ate ten carrots for lunch. Never nine or eleven. The dinner hour commenced with a martini to calm her down after a busy day of beauty appointments (nails don't maintain themselves, people), cutting camellias and counting the kibble for her compliant poodle. Everyone in Dorothy's life, come to think of it, was compliant. Mary the maid, Andy the poodle and Charles the son. For if someone was not compliant, they would be kept at arm's length before being excommunicated over time. She would not tolerate mess. And they were the lucky ones.  August 25, 2017
I recently spent time with my inner child. She's not always good company. Fear is her modus operandi. When she gets scared, she taps into her pain so she can either (1) do nothing and/or (2) get drugs. Her role, in her family of origin, was Victim. Conscripted Victim to be more accurate. Consigned to complaining, wanting and being uncomfortable overall. She was clearly the identifiable patient (the others masked their mental illness and neuroses like champs). When I pull focus to my 72-year-old Self, I'm less inclined to wallow in misery or fear. I'm more inclined to regard my inner child as vulnerable and sans fault. She was a child for f#ck's sake. Her mother didn't hold her (see photo above, for example) or her hand, ever, because her mother was too busy applying makeup. Does this ruin a child? No, but it didn't help. Neither did having to pick up my father's tranquilizers in my teen years. If they worked for him, why wouldn't they work for young Char Char? Who could blame me for modeling what I grew to know: that pain could be blunted and possibly avoided altogether, most effectively with pills. I now regard the young me as a sentient, imperfect being who wanted to be held, loved and supported. It's not too late to re-mother myself, I'm told by my therapist, so that's what I will do. I will throw my inner child a buoy. She will take it, knowing she never has to be afraid or alone again. I will also remind her, when pain and fear are her defaults, to remind herself that she has CHOICES. She can choose adventure over nightmare, new over stale, excitement over fear, making mistakes and learning from them over staying small, invisible, cowering. In a word, living. For my remaining years, I will remember this—we are all perfectly imperfect and worth it. Why not stay out of our own way, sideline the ghosts of our past and embrace the day? --  Photo by Alex Shute on Unsplash
On the verge of my Valentine's Day 80th birthday, this is what I know: The grass is not always greener on most days, especially hard days. But remember, there are so MANY shades of green. Embrace your moss, kelly, opal, citroen, mint, hunter, chartreuse. Embrace all weathers, all shades of you. Money does not make you happy, but you can use it to wipe away the tears. Addiction in any form ruins your life. Whomever said friends weren’t important didn’t have any. It’s not easy to let go of the past, but it’s harder to hold on to it. Always play hard to get; it’s more attractive. If someone hurts your feelings, don’t take it personally—it’s all about them. Sharing is caring, except when it’s a bribe. You don’t choose your family. After that it’s up to you. When you’re depressed, take a pill. When you’re not depressed, take a pill. Oops: I forgot I’m in AA. Separation anxiety is a real thing. Cutting the apron strings can be a bitch. Ken and Barbie are not real. The opposite of FEAR is FAITH—unless you’re a coward, then have a Twinkie. Always follow your dreams. It’s never too late. I don’t—and you should not—quit before the miracle. Your parents are never as bad as you think they are—unless they are. Blondes do have more fun. Redheads, however, have the most fun. I tried it (whatever the "it" of the moment was), and it didn't help. Plastic surgery can improve your self esteem, but it really depends on the surgeon. Straight A’s don’t count in hospice. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Check out the divorce rate. I should have married my seventh-grade boyfriend, Marty Cohen. At age twelve, he was kind, attentive and funny. He went on to become a doctor. Even my parents would have approved. Hold on to the keepers. Loneliness kills. Honesty is the best policy, except when you’re in government. Don’t cry over spilled milk, unless it’s chocolate.  Photo by Stephen Wheeler on Unsplash
After eight decades on the planet, this much I know: Ross, California saved my life. Thank God for Ross. When I landed her, not only had I relapsed after 30 years of sobriety, but I had spent a lifetime wasting away, slowly dying, in Marina Del Ray. Just as I was born into the wrong family, I "lived" (if we want to call it that) in the wrong city. Los Angeles fit my parents to a tee. All their perfect, polished square pegs fit into the perfect, polished square holes, but Los Angeles provided no such fit for me. As much as I tried, I didn’t belong. I was a misfit. I tried every size, every iteration—grad student, journalist, TV sitcom writer—and nothing fit. The schools weren’t right, the jobs weren’t right and the men weren’t right. (Here's looking at you Gary, Jeff, Alan, Michael, Ken.) Yet I had stayed. I was stuck in a city and a miserable, lonely, addicted life until I was 70 years old, never once questioning whether I should leave. And I'm not even to the bad news yet! Just kidding. Sometimes a split-second decision brings us into the light. My late-in-life relapse was another rock bottom until a psychiatrist I barely knew told me to go to Bayside in San Rafael. I had no other options, which turned out to be a blessing and a God shot. Remember now, I didn’t belong. But as I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge, my pegs found their holes. I fit! I belonged for the first time in 70 years. I was finally Home. I knew, in my heart of hearts that I wanted to live here. I never, for one moment, doubted myself, and I never returned to Los Angeles except to sell my house and transport my designer shoes and purses to the Bay Area. After all, a girl has to keep her priorities straight! To all of you who are here tonight, let me tell you what transplanting myself to Marin has meant. I found a home where I belong. I found a community of loving souls. This place, and you friends, have allowed me to start becoming the person I was meant to be. Since coming here seven years ago, I have worn many hats. I am The Coloring Diva, The Doughnut Queen and The Snack Lady. All forms of extending myself to others. It's still a journey and I believe the best is yet to come. For those of you who know me, I’m not happy all of the time..but now I have a glass that is half full. Well, maybe not every day, but at least I have a glass. I had no glass in Los Angeles—just a hell of a lot of heavy baggage. Most important, I am not lonely anymore, thanks to all of you. Thank you all for coming to my 80th birthday party. You have filled up my life in ways that have transformed me. Thank you for sharing this day, this party, this life with me—and for being my friends. I am deeply grateful. Who knew that when I drove myself over the Golden Gate Bridge to rehab, I would one day get to spend my 80th birthday with you fabulous people and this rocking band! This is truly a celebration! Tonight, my glass overflows with love, and I thank you all! Let's dance!  I always wanted an older brother but never had one—until now. It took 80 years, but it was worth the wait. Let me explain. I have a brother, in the flesh. He’s a couple years older than me. My earliest recollection of him was one of longing—I yearned for a sibling to love, do things with and take me under his wing. By the age of three, I knew I would have none of that. He kept me at arms length, even as a toddler. He was modeling my parents; he wanted nothing to do with me. I had nowhere to go for love, protection or understanding. So, naturally I did the only thing I knew how to do: broke all of his toys. This served as sweet revenge for him not giving me the attention I so deeply deserved. On one occasion, I snuck into his room and smashed all of his precious crayons. No more coloring for him. I was, of course, punished. I didn’t care. It was worth it. Despite my transgression, he agreed to let me play gas station with him. He turned his bicycle upside down, and I put my finger in the chain. He turned the wheel. Voila, no finger. To this day, my brother claims he was more distraught than me. He was emotionally scarred, but I was without a finger. My mother (uncharacteristically) spent hours at the doctor's office with me, ensuring that I would go through life with all my digits. No child of hers could be less than perfect—she would see to that. Years later, my brother and I (having repaired), ran away from home. We charted a course to my Aunt Reba's house in stylish Beverly Hills, a step up from our relatively modest suburban enclave. She even had a pool. For our surreptitious escape, my brother rode his Schwinn bicycle, now with the chain in working order. I followed behind him, peddling my red, sparkly tricycle with steely (at least at first) determination. We got as far as the railroad tracks before I broke down in tears. I missed my mommy. I wanted to go home. My brother wanted to forge ahead. My tears won out. I returned home to my mother’s arms which, to my dismay, stayed glued to her sides. She offered no comfort, and my brother was pissed. The fiasco gave him another reason to refuse to bond with me. There would be no swimming that day. My heart was broken. I had let down the person I most wanted to please. After the finger incident and failed attempt to break free from our lives, I still held out hope that my big brother would love and protect me. It was not to be. I eventually redirected my attention to four-legged friends. Dogs didn't push me away. They listened with rapt attention and didn't hurt my feelings. By the time I was twelve, I was withdrawn, depressed and alone in my own little world. This retreat-to-isolation default would persist for many years. When that pattern didn't pummel the pain of anxiety and depression, I did what a lot of good girls do: I used drugs and became an addict. Where was my brother in all of this? AWOL. He was getting on with his life. He preferred no mess, emotional or otherwise. He never once offered to help. My brother had his own axe to grind with our family. He was disowned by my parents for marrying an Asian woman. But he didn’t skip a beat. Unlike me, he knew how to take care of himself. He went back to school, got a PhD and became a successful neuropsychologist. If my revenge was breaking things, my brother’s was becoming a man. As family lore goes, my brother’s life was one of achievement and mine was one of destruction. His happy ending included a wife and child; mine (which came much later) included a pet and a rose garden. Before that though, my brother’s life was solid if not somewhat rigid. Between work, golf and vacations, there was scant time for his lonely, adrift sister. Sure, one could say I needed to get my life together—after all, I was plagued by mental illness, drug addiction and too many brownies. I tried, on occasion, to reach out to my brother for support or a favor. He was predictably unavailable. Every. Time. He never put himself out for me. He was a brother in name only. I resented him for this, but mostly I was hurt and there were no more toys to break. Seven years ago, when I finally got sober and moved to Marin, I established a program called The Coloring Diva where I put together coloring kits for disadvantaged populations. I wanted to give back. Through my acts of service, I shine and am the person I've always wanted to be. I finally found me. I aspire to be known for helping others. I feel like I’m enough. I'm here to report that being enough, whole and complete is a big relief. Granted, I wanted full-on fame at some point (which is an essential phase or fantasy if you grow up in LA) to match my Prada shoes and Gucci purse, but I feel worthwhile, having carved out my intentional corner of the world filled with roses, friends, art, words, healthy (if not boring) food and my ever-loving dog, Lucky. Isn't this the life I’ve been searching for all these years? Note well that the prior sentence did not list my brother as an essential set piece in my life. I've positioned him as an antagonist in my childhood and an absentee sibling in our adult lives. We now live miles apart, me in Marin and him in Temecula. We do talk on the phone, almost regularly. I recently asked him to come to my 80th birthday party. He quickly and expectedly declined. I wasn’t disappointed. He did say something that practically knocked my socks off, though: We have a great and meaningful relationship, even if it is only over the phone. I knew then what I know now. He was always there for me, just not in the way I needed him to be. For him, a phone relationship is all he can manage, and I have to understand and respect that. I’m a different being. I'll take a hug over a text any day of the week. I want someone to be there for me, in person. My reality now includes many people who are there for me in the flesh. My brother just isn't one of them. And that's okay. We don’t always get what we want or need, but we have to accept people for who they are. Even though I've been put in the "phone zone" (compare: "friend zone" or "sister zone" or "love-you-till-the-bitter-end zone"), I have a buddy and that has to be good enough. As our call drew to a close, I went for it: I love you, I said. I love you too, he said back. That was a first—and the best birthday gift I’ve ever received, even if it did take 80 years! Thank you, Bro!!! |
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