 Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash
Since relocating to Northern California, my previously hopeless mindset has shifted significantly. Having signed a new lease on life here, I finally gave myself permission to be happy. Also, I now buy large yams. I eat them skin and all. They are my favorite food (if we aren't counting the cookies and cupcakes I can no longer eat). When I pick one up at Mill Valley Market, I remember the restricted life of my poor mother who knew only small potatoes. I smile. No more small potatoes for this strong woman. For those of you who read this book and are guilty of small potatoes practices I say…RISE UP, throw those small potatoes away. Don't overwhelm yourself. Start with one large yam. Let it represent a new beginning and a new you. The only person standing between you and your freedom to choose the life you deserve (aka the big yam you really want) is not your mother, your enabler, your frenemy or your naysayer. It's you. Let you shine. POWER to you and your big yam too!
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 After being discharged to the street from the ER, I joined the ranks of the lost, the adrift, the unhoused. My fall from promising was nothing if not definitive. I had called the manager of the SLE from the ER. She was was unequivocal: I was not welcome to return. The lawyers had weighed in. I was a liability. Not alone anyway. I would need sober companions 24/7. My next call was to an AA friend who sprang into action. Within the hour, Jack and Dave, two dudes from AA central casting, pulled into the tree-lined circular drive of the toney hospital. They surely knew I was their gal when they marked me as pallid, empty-handed and sleep-deprived. As it turns out, drugged-induced unconsciousness doesn't replenish the soul. The risk of addicts, especially suicidal addicts, taking missteps or trying to self-harm after relapse, is acute. The first 30 days are crucial. I was no exception. Jack and Dave, it was explained to me, would be my sober bodyguards for the next month. I would be surveilled around the clock per protocol other than, thankfully, quick trips to the bathroom during which one of them would stand sentinel outside the door. One would think having zero time alone would have been a monumental imposition. Au contraire! I never had so much fun! Also bodyguards! I didn't get this kind of attention in LA—or ever. We went sightseeing, drove through the countryside and ate our way through Marin County. It was fun. I had forgotten fun. Dave was an ex-con who finally got sober and wanted to help others, especially himself. How much money can I make off these drunken slobs? was his motto. I adored him and his candor. He did the 13th step* of AA by getting somebody pregnant. He never married her and was always thinking of himself first and foremost. Jack's main love, though, was food. Morning noon and night—he never met a food he didn’t like. He must have weighed 500 pounds. I later tried to introduce him to Overeaters Anonymous, but he didn’t want anything to do with it. His other motto was food is my medicine. I couldn't argue with that. Dave was a little softer and kinder than Jack. He was a follower, a silent supporter and someone for whom I am eternally grateful. After my time at the SLE—and with Jack and Dave—came to an end (read: I needed a "higher level of care"), it was back to rehab again. For this stint, I ventured to Petaluma, California, "the egg basket of the world," where not just chickens but pigs, cows and horses reside. Those animals, it turns out, were much cleaner than my co-residents. Just before I was discharged from the SLE, I was informed I had a suspicious lump in my breast. I went in for a biopsy and awaited my results. The nurse shared the news on speaker phone in the car as Jack and Dave were driving me to Petaluma: Negative. They clapped and cheered as I exhaled. I was given yet another pass in life. A lucky break. Or so I thought, until the doors of that rehab center swung open and I walked in... . * The 13th step of AA refers to a (prohibited, unethical) situation where a person who is new to AA is targeted for a romantic or sexual relationship by a more experienced member. The term was coined because it occurs informally after the 12-step program and often leads to negative fallout for both would-be romantics.  Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
When the door to the rehab in Petaluma, California swung open, I knew it was not going to be a good fit. The residents were younger, for starters. Much younger. Also, a bit of a discrepency in hygiene standards became evident right away. Showers eluded my co-junkies. Many didn't bother to flush. God forbid they clean their hair out of the drain. I'm not a neat-freak, but being there sure pushed me in that direction. I missed my maid. There, I said it. If only Rosa were with me, everything would have been alright. As an elder, surely I deserved a perk here and there. I made an appointment with the director. "Thanks for taking the time," I tried to tread lightly. "While I appreciate everything you are doing here, I'm afraid I'm not suitable. I'm a tad high maintenance and unmoored without my support system." "There is always an adjustment period," she started, donning invisible kid gloves. "How about I schedule a meeting with your care-team therapist tomorrow to discuss your concerns?" I agreed but was dubious. To my pleasant surprise, the therapist was gentle and competent. A winner in a long line of losers. I wanted to please him, so I stayed. By the end of a grueling ten weeks, my blood pressure had shot up to 200/135. I was repeatedly carted to and from the ER. One day, a most unwelcome ER doc told me I was experiencing garden-variety anxiety and to please not return. I talked to the kind therapist about my dilemma; he agreed it was time for me to leave, emphasizing I was not to go back to LA. He knew of a place. Upon arrival to Full Circle SLE, I had a plan. I refused to make my bed, fold my clothes or vacuum. A committee agreed to meet with me. I explained Rosa's essential role and offered to pay double. They made an exception. She arrived the next day. I was on the road to paradise. Or so I thought.  Photo cred: Austin Chan on Unsplash
After two months at Bayside Rehab, I was released to an upscale sober living environment ("SLE") in the exclusive town of Tiburon, California. I had my own private room overlooking the bay, and I was sober. I was finally free, or so I thought. I ventured out to an AA meeting one night and met up with a guy from the Bayside cohort. We were having a nice evening until he turned and said: “If anyone relapses, it will be you.” I was devastated. Unmoored and pissed off, I stamped my frenemy's confrontational message onto my heart and carried it with me back to my room. The minute I was alone, I took a half bottle of pills and blacked out. I'd show him! Revenge-using? To hurt no one other than myself? No problem. Proving him right was yet another new nadir. In the morning, I was taken to the local hospital, with which I would become very familiar. When I woke up, I was strapped to a gurney gazing into the eyes of an RN. "You are okay, honey, and you are on suicide watch," she said. What? The words were not coming. I wanted to tell her I was frightened, but not crazy, and I wanted out of the restraints. Then it occurred to me, supine and strapped down, that maybe I was some kind of crazy. Surely, medical professionals thought so, which is why I was confined like a convict. Another nurse approached with a blood pressure cuff. I managed to turn my head to read the meter: 200/200. "You are high risk for having a stroke. I want you to breathe deeply with me," she said. I tried to breathe with her, but the vision in my head of her was that was a carny in front of a ride barking: Step right up, ladies and gentleman, and bring your popcorn! This woman is at risk of offing herself or stroking out! I lived through that part. I was floating outside and above, peering in and below. It seemed to be happening to someone else. This, my cadre of subsequent therapists would tell me, was disassociating, a coping mechanism. My sense of hearing on the gurney was intact. People were talking about me in the third person, like I wasn't present, prostrate before them, with my life in their hands. Should we send her to the ICU or the psych ward? Neither! I wanted to respond, but as in a dream, I had no words. While pondering my medical dilemma, a case manager sidled up to the gurney. She asked me myriad questions designed to ascertain whether I really was thinking about ending it all. "Nope, I'm good," I said, surprising myself (the naloxone injection, IV drip and assisted ventilation had worked apparently). After all my life was ostensibly perfect. I unspooled my uneven history for her, sharing that I had recently turned the corner, two months sober in rehab, after a three-year bout with opioids. This was a little setback because I was set off by some thoughtless, flippant "friend." "But me suicidal? Never." For some strange reason, she wasn’t buying my minimizing story. She stamped the very official forms and called for the weekend staffers to take me away. "To the psych ward." She didn't look over her shoulder as she strode out of the room. Away. “Look,” I implored, my desperate words coming fast now “no track marks on my arms: I'm just an ordinary pill popper.” And if you have access to any, I'm happy to take them. The two large men who spun the gurney one hundred and eighty degrees in a fraction of a second to wheel me, smooth sailing down the corridor, were well trained. They knew to avoid eye contact. Tears were streaming down my temples and into my hair when I heard: “KODIMER! YOU CAN GO HOME NOW!” To this day, I do not know how it happened. Maybe the nurse was trying to scare me—taking me right up the precipice. Perhaps a doctor read my history and decided I didn't meet 5150 criteria (or as we say in California, "short-term crazy"). I entered the hospital that night, assessed as a suicidal maniac. I walked out a run-of-the-mill drug addict. Free but alone. Again.  Everyone knows Oprah. Like Cher, Prince and Cleopatra, she just has the one name: Oprah. I have two names. Charlene and Kodimer. Yep, that’s two. How much more infamous can I be? Charlene Kodimer. I’ve never heard of me. I was invisible at birth. My mother was too busy preparing for her exit from the hospital. Her needs were eclipsed by those of her newborn first and only daughter. It was foreshadowing. She always took precedence over me. Fast forward 80 years later. I still have two names and I'm still not famous. The future is not bright, much less promising. I haven't given up, though. Short of legally deleting my last name (and disorienting everyone abruptly haha), I'm going to give reaching out to Oprah a shot. Why not? We all know Gayle (note well: no last name) is her best friend, but I was thinking maybe Oprah is lonely and she would like another friend. How gracious of me. I know I could use a friend. Why not Oprah? As I always say, start at the top! So Oprah, I’m reaching out to you and offering my friendship in case it's lonely up there in the stratosphere. I think we could have fun swapping stories, especially about people who live in LA. If you are too busy to answer this letter or have an abundance of friends (or if Gayle would have friendvy,* I will understand. Your new bestie, Charlene** *Friendvy = friend envy. Coinage my editor, Gina Raith. **If you've read this, O, I now just have the one name. And maybe you can aspire to just have the one letter? We can process over coffee.  Some people, myself included, just need a lift. When pills, puppies and Waterford Crystal stopped elevating my soul, I tried something new: giving. I started by trying to put a smile on the face of everyone I encountered. This was harder than it sounds, as some folks are determined to be sour and dour. I should know—I was one of them. I persisted nonetheless, taking it a step further. I worked on putting the needs of others above my own. This trick, it turns out, was not just effective in helping me forget my glum default. It also allowed me to make lasting, genuine connections with others. This was liberating and it filled my proverbial cup. People replaced things. Emotions replaced repression. Generosity of spirit supplanted petty wants and "needs." You first replaced me first. To this day, I try to lead with my giving lens, asking What can I do for others today? By doing for others, I truly found myself. I’ve come to believe, finally, that the person I have (finally) grown into is pretty damned good. Not because of my Prada shoes or Gucci purses but because I have a good heart that is filled with gratitude.  Photo by Marcus Loke on Unsplash
March 10,2025 I'm not a risk-taker, but I managed to get myself out of the greater Los Angeles area (Marina del Rey) late in life. Where I got the courage to do this, I don’t know. To walk around the block in LA, to me, was dangerous. Returning to my apartment there was no less anxiety-inducing, though, because I was profoundly lonely. Heading north over the Golden Gate Bridge into the hinterlands of Marin County, solo and ready to tackle a new environment as a septuagenarian, was probably the bravest thing I've ever done (if we aren’t counting the obvious: getting sober four times). I never looked back. As fate would have it, I remained lonely upon arrival but not alone in my plight. A January 2024 poll by the American Psychiatric Association found that 30% of adults in the United States experience feelings of loneliness at least once a week. For me, it was more like once a minute, sapping the life force out of me. I always yearned to be seen, loved, and hugged but was too shut down to go for it. The walls I had constructed around my heart were insurmountable. Something shifted in my new environment. I let someone in. Her name was Lisa. Sure, I had to pay her to be my sleep buddy (and here we’re just talking sleep; I have insomnia), but it was worth it. Over time, we became friends. This opening was an admittedly calculated risk for this non-risk-taker because I had little to lose. It led to more introductions, which led to more connections, which turned into a meaningful existence filled with fun, kind, funny friends. And those walls? I left them in LA.  Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash
As a kid, I wasn’t allowed to step foot in my mother's kitchen to make a sandwich. She thought I would do it—and everything else—wrong. She wasn't wrong. When I tried to stretch, try something new, she would intervene. It was more expedient for her to do everything herself. She didn't want to be disappointed in me, so she didn't give me the opportunity to disappoint her. Children learn to be competent, over time, by making mistakes. The more mistakes, the more opportunities to develop resilience. From the jump, I didn't have a realistic shot. Some would regard my mother as a "snowplow" parent, clearing my path of obstacles, ensuring I wouldn't screw up, as I navigated childhood and adolescence. But that would be inaccurate. She outsourced most typical parenting duties. I'm no expert, but in my experience being a semi-ignored and often-underestimated child turned me into an incompetent adult governed by the "F" word: fear. No wonder I failed epically as soon as I got out from under her roof, far away from that kitchen.  Photo by Joshua Tsu on Unsplash
I took me a while (okay decades) to figure it out, but I took my pain away by taking action. There are three steps to my abbreviated recipe for recovery: Step 1: Pray Step 2: Act. This is the most essential step. If you don't take action, nothing gets done. You don't grow. Or contribute. It feels exceedingly and increasingly good to grow and contribute. I had no idea! Step 3: Repeat. When enough was enough (and each of knows, in our heart of hearts, when enough is enough)... when I was exhausted and out of excuses... when I had one foot in the grave... I stepped away from the cliff's edge. I didn't figure it out alone. It took an AA village. I hope you don't have to get to that point.  Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
2018 I had to share a bathroom with my brother when I was growing up. To say we were unkind to one another would be an understatement. I would lock the door so he couldn't get into the bathroom, for example. I would use up all the hot water so he couldn't take a shower. I wasn't doing anything that he didn't do to me, but I was, to put a fine point on it, a bad sister. He reminded me of that at every turn...until recently. We've mended fences and I'm grateful. Now at age 73, with the benefit of life's rearview mirror, I know that the best revenge is living well. As women, we often forget that. We don't have to be a dumpster fire, drawn to drama, clinging to trauma. We've got this. I now have three bathrooms and get to drift from one to the other while gazing and reciting Louise Hay's positive affirmations. All this is to say Stuart Smalley has nothing on me. And yet, reports from those who know me (starting with me) are that I've struggled with the notion of sharing and still do. As a diabetic, I—no news flash here—have cravings. Sugar is my north star. I'm drawn to it. I can't look away and I want all of it. I've never said: I'll have a cookie, thank you. Or: Sure I'd love a slice of cake. Or: Just one scoop of ice cream for me, please. You get the gist. One was not and will never be enough for this diabetic diva. I want it all. I think it started with those damn Prell commercials. Christie Brinkley or some svelte, equally annoying perfectionist, was washing or swaying her voluminous, shiny mane in slow motion whilst I, with a stringy, dull mop atop my head, was trapped in comparison mode. Unfortunately, we didn't have a 12-step program for people with damaged hair, so I muddled through on my own, not sharing. I felt "less than," and therefore needed "more please." Something to fill the existential deficit—which is why it was hard for me to share. But I'm working on it. I now genuinely want my brother to be happy, whole and steeped in hot showers for the rest of his days. This, my people tell me, is progress. I also want him to know I care now and cared then, despite all sisterly-selfish behaviors to the contrary. |
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