 August 2017
Every family has an identifiable patient ("IP"). I didn't choose the role of victim, but I did fully inhabit it for a very long time. When I was scared, which was more often than not, that fear either manifested as pain or I manufactured it. Pain became me. It was the only coping strategy I knew. Thankfully, my role as the alone, unsafe IP was time-limited. According to Internal Family Systems ("IFS") therapy, also known as "parts" work, every person has a Self, which is always present. The Self is calm, compassionate, curious, creative, etc. All good things. Every person also has "subpersonalities," including managers and firefighters, to help the Self cope. The subpersonalities have distinct roles, which can be effective, but they can also hijack us to protect our wounded (exiled) parts. IFS has helped me understand and accept that my exiled identifiable patient (in my case also known as my "inner child") part developed in childhood when I was repeatedly shamed, rejected and criticized by my family members. It's no wonder, then, that my protective part reached for the pills early and often by way of distraction and checking out so I would not have to address or confront intense emotions, like sadness and grief due to feeling unloved or under-loved. My addiction part, however, kept me stuck in the past for decades. I couldn't grow if my addiction part chose numbing over healing. How could my inner child thrive if she was not taken care of -- ever? My inner child, we'll call her Little Char, went underground when I was using drugs. She disappeared. Recently, though, she popped up. She was feisty, fiery and carefree. I'd been waiting for her my whole life. I knew it was time to take care of her. I would need to let her know she was safe. I would need to be her Good Mother. Now, my Good Mother part, heretofore unknown, was not sure I was ready for this. Job one would be to listen. Little Char let me know she was in pain, hurting because it was the only way she could get attention from a mother who cleaned out her drawers and applied makeup all day—a mother who made no time for Little Char. This reality was heard and received by my Good Mother part without judgment. My Good Mother part also knew this was not going to be easy, so job two was to make my Self and my parts comfortable. I ordered an adult blankie. Sure, it helps that it's cashmere but as stated, this parts work is not for the faint of heart. And Little Char deserved the blankie she never had. Job three would be to feel the feelings. Anger came up first. Little Char was sold out, ignored, her development stifled. I not surprisingly developed the habit of channeling my anger by furiously picking at my skin. It begs the question: Is this how under-loved people turn out? So pissed off that they refuse to grow up and take care of themselves. Do they need a battalion of caretakers surrounding them to get back at their families of origin? Even if their families of origin don't care what they do? The Good Mother helped me realize that although I spent much of my life hewing to this narrative, I was still able to recover what's left—and what lies ahead—for Little Char's sake. Recreating my family of origin, in therapy and life, is an essential work in progress. Moving to Marin County gave me a fresh start, a new house, and a better life. It also allowed me the space and time to tap into my determination to flourish and grow. In particular, my Good Mother part has decided to re-parent Little Char. Not only is Little Char not to blame, she's sweet, adorable and loves to dance. And so she will. To paraphrase Gene Kelly, Little Char will dance love, joy and dreams. The Good Mother, for her part, will bear witness and nurture her re-birth.
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 Photo by Mor Shani on Unsplash
Relocating to NorCal healed me on many levels. My seven years here have proven to be the best years of my life. I got sober, lost 40 pounds and created the aforementioned Coloring Diva, a project whereby disadvantaged people could color at no cost, to allay their anxiety and/or depression. A proven form of art therapy, it would be a good addiction. A tool in the angsty artist's toolbox. I distributed kits countywide through my network (mostly AA folks) and nonprofits. It felt good to give. Then along came Parkinson's, which stomped on my initiative around the Coloring Diva. While I focus on keeping the inexorable symptoms at bay, I'm giving myself a pass and permission to focus on me for now. I have faith that my little voice will provide further direction and insight when the time is right and until my final chapter. Disease or no disease, these are—and will continue to be—my best years. I try to remember that at every turn, every setback, every inevitable obstacle. After all, a brand new year promises new beginnings for everyone, even little old me.  Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash
I’m going to share this, and I know it’s heresy. Don't tell anyone. I don’t believe in God. Well, that’s not entirely true. I would define myself more as a tangible agnostic. If I can’t see God sitting across the breakfast table, he doesn't exist. Pass the butter Buster, or why don’t you just levitate it to me? At best, I'm conflicted about my belief in a higher power. Descartes once said, “I think, therefore I am.” I say, “I think, therefore I am confused.“ My higher power does not carry a staff or remotely resemble Santa Claus. He’s centered inside of me, near my heart. Periodically, during crucial times, he tells me what to do. He doesn’t yell, but rather whispers in a very understanding way, sotto voce. He is my protector. Or maybe he’s a she! It matters not. The unwavering voice tells me which path to take when I come to the fork in the road. It never steers me wrong. You doubt me? Well, I have proof. When I was born, I cried at the sight of my mother with her perfect makeup, polished nails and coiffed hair. The little voice said, “This is who I’m sending you to...this is your path.” I had the promise of my own bedroom situated next to my only sibling, a brother. My inner voice said, softly but resolutely, “Stay away from him, he wants nothing to do with you.” 80 years later, that voice is still correct on the topic of my brother. I recently invited him to come to my 80th birthday party. He declined, not politely. Like my parents, he is an empty well when it comes to emotions. My task is to not take it personally after a lifetime of taking it personally. I would have received more love from squeezing a turnip than I got from my family of origin. The turnip would not have hurt me, but my immediate family sure did (does, clearly). They transformed an adorable, happy, loving little girl into a depressed child-turned adolescent-turned addict. For years, I was lost without my little voice. Should I go right? Should I go left? Should I stay in Berkeley? Should I go to UCLA? Should I rush a sorority? Should I live with my parents? (The parents who converted my bedroom into their den within weeks of my departure for college—no welcome home for Char.) I never knew. I made wrong choices, including choosing to stay at UCLA. I was a lonely fish, swimming in a deep pool of peers who looked through or past me. I had no friends to speak of. No confidante, except the therapist I paid to listen to my bullshit. My then abusive beau certainly didn't qualify as a friend. He once, in a not-so-kind voice, insisted I walk ten feet behind him. It was a painful, lonely time and I coped by using drugs. I submerged myself beneath Valium and opiates for over 20 years, diluting, then silencing my little voice until the drugs, over time, killed it completely. There I was with bottles of pills and no internal rudder. I did everything wrong. Sure, I proved coachable, learning and internalizing my life lessons well, but I was slow on the uptake. I stayed in LA too long, until I nearly died. (Not an exaggeration.) When I was 35, I drove my car into not one—but two—parked cars in a blackout. I was ungovernable. I went to the hospital to treat myself with drugs for my bruises, scars and other injuries. Three years later, I finally heard my little voice again. It said, ”You've had enough.” I stopped using and decided to channel my creative skills onto the page. I took a writing class. The teacher, pinched and downright sadistic, said “You would be pretty if you lost some weight." I weighed 135 at the time. She suggested I go to an Overeaters Anonymous ("OA") meeting. It was 1983. She knew my plate (metaphor for life) was empty. I needed to fill it with something other than pasta and pills. At the first OA meeting they talked about abstinence, a concept I couldn't grasp. Thankfully, someone there mentioned they were headed to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I went along for the ride. Forty years later, I'm still in that (metaphorical, go with me here) car. It was in that meeting I felt at home and at ease for the first time. The speaker told my story! I fit in, exhaled, inhaled, connected. This was where I belonged—and still do. When I left that meeting, a woman followed me out. "Are you an alcoholic?" "No, but I am addicted to Valium. Does that count?" "It does,” she responded, "and so do you." Kind eyes, open heart. She whipped out a piece of paper from inside her purse and wrote down her phone number. “Call me.” I called her the next day. I suspected she would charge me for her services, but she didn’t. I couldn’t fathom that someone would help me without charging me money. This was a most welcome first. She helped me understand and accept that I couldn't go it alone. I tried to get into a rehab to no avail. You know the old saying: when the tough get going, the tough call their mother. After many years of being out of my parents' lives, I called my mother, with her unattainable coiffed hair, polished nails, perfect makeup. This time, she finally heard my pain, my desperation and my willingness to change. I told her I wanted to get sober and needed money for rehab knowing she didn’t know what rehab meant. “I’ll call your father,” she replied, matter-of-fact. She called me back moments later. "Your father said yes." I was admitted to the St. John’s Chemical Dependency Ward that very night. I took my little yellow buddies, better known as Valium, out of my pocket and flushed them down the toilet. Never again, I vowed. The doctors and nurses didn’t think I would stay sober. “Too far gone,” they wrote in the case notes. My little voice knew better. And so did I—for the next thirty years—until I relapsed on opiates. Where was my little voice then? Just when I was close to the end of my rope, driving the hills of San Rafael, the little voice finally came through, crystalline: You really want to live here. And I did. A whisper in my soul that turned my life around. Divine intervention.  Photo by Yannis Papanastasopoulos on Unsplash
2017 Reflections ... . I am a strong, powerful woman with a small potato. I remind myself of that because, in a land not so far away (SoCal) in another time, I was a small, weak woman with no potato (potato being a metaphor for life if you're playing along at home). Here's how my unraveling went: 1. I was ill, physically and mentally, and was prescribed an anti-psychotic drug. 2. That drug stopped working over time. 3. I became ill again—scary-ill, thorazine-ill, padded-room ill. 4. My classes became overwhelming. 5. I quit my internship. 6. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, so I followed the diagnosis, barely leaving the couch, always exhausted. The couch and I lived on, symbiotic-like, for many years. 7. My doctor prescribed codeine for my pain. 8. As an addict (with years of sobriety under my belt), I could not have been happier. 9. I was also relieved, albeit temporarily, from my chronically miserable life, courtesy of Big Pharma and Dr. Enabler. 10. Recognizing this setback for what it was, a reprieve, yes, but also a grave beginning of the end. I redefined rock bottom, again, as a living death. And yet, I would be revived to see another day. |
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