 Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash
1.20.25 I always wanted to be a baby boomer. I missed being a boomer by about one year. My whole life is a series of misses. But to be a baby boomer…that could have solved all of my problems. Boomers are broadly accepted as the post-WW II behemoth generation of achievers with (quoting AI here): a strong work ethic, optimism, focus on personal achievement, and involvement in social movements. Instead, I was born into a silenced cohort of one. For many years, I thought my name was Shut Up. It was shut up this and shut up that all day, every day. When I asked my driven father a question, his harsh retort was invariably: “Shut up." A typical exchange on a Saturday morning: Me (age 7): Daddy, can we go to the park? Father (looking at a document on his desk): Shut up. Or me at a public event: Daddy, can I have ice cream? Father (turns for one tenth of a second in my direction whilst in conversation with someone important): Shut up and go find your brother. I was an inconvenience to him, an interrupter. If I popped up into his line of vision, he would say: Oh, it’s you again, what do you want? Nothing, I would respond, eyes downcast, swallowing my words, wants, dreams. I stayed that way most of my life. Silent Char. Only our dog Freckles, the Springer spaniel with his bloodshot eyes, listened. Those eyes said everything. They said, I love you no matter what, Silent Char. When Freckles wasn't running away to impregnate one of the neighbors' dogs, he was snuggling with me on the kitchen floor (linoleum, cold), with my arms wrapped around his tummy, We inhaled and exhaled together, Freckles having conquered the world (or at least the dogs on the block), me having remained silent and stuck. Fear and anxiety pinned me in place. My only saving grace came in adolescence. When my peers were breaking out from head to toe with pimples, my skin was flawless. No acne whatsoever. My scars were on the inside. In all the years that my father was in my life, he never called, sent a card or gave me a gift. On Sundays, his one day off a week, he had a standard (some would say rigid) routine. He got up early, watered the garden, the sidewalk, the outdoor furniture. He then made himself lunch, washed the dishes and locked himself in his study for the rest of the day. He emerged for dinner, ate without engaging us in conversation, then returned to his study. He did not need a Do Not Disturb sign on his door, His demeanor said it all: Do not disturb me, you are a hindrance. I do not want you. You are a mistake. Try not to be seen and never heard. I took that ball and ran with it—straight into isolation, drugs, addiction, and more silence—a generation of one (but not done).
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 Through decades of therapy, I've come to understand that my mother never grew up. She related to her children, then, as a child. We were her dolls, Charles and Charlene (a la Ken and Barbie), raised in a doll house with her doll dogs. Our inconvenient emotions were not welcome in the facade that was our home. Anger would not have matched the fabric.
So it still animates my words on the page; it still occupies my dark heart. A heart that knows the truth but can't reconcile it all to set myself free. Free from her limitations, her failures, her cascade of daily judgments and microagressions that left indelible marks on my psyche. She was a child, after all, as I remind myself daily, paving a path to forgiveness. I've done my work. I often wonder how it would have all turned out had she done hers.  Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
September 22, 2017 I am 72 years old and I can't wait to live. I'm excited about life. This is novel! I feel undeserving which is hard to admit. I've never been able to to enjoy life because I was stuck, physically and emotionally. Now that I'm healing, courtesy of my higher power and support team, I'm allowing myself this moment of contentment. Surveying the situation, sated. This is finally MY LIFE, curated by ME. Suffice it to say, it took awhile. It feels grand, my kind of grand, that fills the empty hole inside. The hole that aches after decades of not being nurtured. The kind of grand money can't buy. For, you see, my empty hole is beginning to be filled up—not with candy, doughnuts or jewelry—but with a beautiful, ineffable "something" I've been searching for my whole life. The ticket, I think, is simply to look around and notice the people, the positive, the goodness. And to receive all of the above because we're worthy of being loved. Each and every one of us, even me.  Photo by Sheila Swayze on Unsplash
One of my earliest memories is that of the wallpaper in my bedroom. It was filled with horses. Horses running—gorgeous legs extended, manes windswept, eyes wild and free. It was our first, "starter" home as a family, and any three-year-old girl in her right mind would have counted herself lucky to have that equine wallpaper. It was all good until my parents turned off my light. "Nighty, night," one of them would whisper, tiptoeing backwards, leaving my door one-inch ajar, as if the sliver of light from the hallway could fend off what was to come. Tried as I might, each and every night, those damn horses didn't stay in place for long. As soon as I drifted off in my twin bed, I would startle awake, sitting bolt upright, head on a swivel. Without fail, the horses woke me up, leaping off the wall straight at me. I managed to stay ahead of them by the skin of my teeth, jumping off the bed in a full sprint, down the hall, into my parents' room. I would launch myself, a human torpedo, smack dab into the middle of their king-sized bed. Come to think of it, there was plenty of room between them, in bed and in life. I would snuggle in, some nondescript deli meat to their sandwich bread. The warmth of their skin and the softness of their nightwear enveloped me. Despite the repetitive stress and momentary, nocturnal terror, I didn't want the sweet, rescue respites to end. In those moments, I felt loved. Like all good things, it was not meant to last. Two years later we moved, leaving the horses—and the welcome snuggles—behind forever. It would be a very long time before I could recapture that sense of being safely held.  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.  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.  2019
Here's a couple fun facts about aging as a woman: Your vaginal walls will thin. You will lose your hearing and eyesight (likely simultaneously), such that when you have to insert a pill into your vagina (to "strengthen the wall," combat the irreversible deficit of estrogen), you won't be able to see what you're doing. It may very well be the closest you've come to masturbating in years. As easy as it sounds, there's a 60 percent chance the pill will fall to the floor when you stand up. You will, sacrificing your last shred of dignity, wash it off and insert it again. When it stays in on the third try, at age 75, this will be your biggest victory that weekend. And yet, you will be a bit smug about it. You will take your wins—because tomorrow will be another round of not remembering if you brushed your teeth, took your insulin or properly counted your pills, all the while leaning into acceptance and world-weary knowledge that your halcyon "Golden Years" are proving to be tarnished, equal parts comedy and tragedy. And you will be okay with that as you soldier onward into the indistinct, uncomfortable unknown.  Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash
2019 My night sweats, which I could once attribute to menopause, are now of inexplicable origin and unbearable duration. I'm supposed to be past this particular indignity. At 75, in fact, I'm supposed to be past just about everything. The new normal, however, is there is no getting past anything because everything changes underfoot and overhead and not for the better. My formerly adorable freckles, for example, turned into age spots overnight without warning, which seems patently unfair. The apotheosis, the moment I crossed over—from older to just plain old—naturally took place when I was getting a pedicure. My manicurist rolled up my pants leg to reveal a shrunken limb—hardly resembling my supple calf of yore—covered with a loose, crepe-like sheath punctuated by a big DOT equidistant from my knee and ankle. All eyes (to my mind) drifted to it in tandem. Undeniably copper (like my hair), this mark did not disappear despite my manic scrubbing in that moment. "Ah, age spot!" shrieked my manicurist, as if we had something to celebrate! It would turn out to be a precursor of my future constellation of "starburst sun spots," as euphemistically described a few months later by a seemingly prepubescent physician's assistant. What would this toddler with a headlamp and magnifying glass know about the age spots that had inconveniently multiplied and occupied my legs, arms and hands? Thankfully, she had a magic salve to reverse the aging process. Sure, it was expensive but what price would you pay to have the dewy, porcelain skin of a newborn? The stinging sensation I endured when she slathered it liberally all over me surely meant it was burning the spots into oblivion. Four appointments later, as with all other Western remedies too good to be true, the only thing that disappeared was the green stuff from my wallet. "Stubborn," the PA shrugged before reminding me there were "no guarantees." I should have read the fine print, only I couldn't read the fine print on account of my severe astigmatism and unrelated cataracts. Before I could spend more money and mental energy willing my spots to disappear, they were soon accompanied by mysterious red, purple and blue bruises. If I made contact with the corner of my kitchen counter, a hematoma the size of Texas would cover my hip; if I reached into my purse, the hand I withdrew emerged as a painter's palette—blood-filled bruises, between spots, over wrinkles. When it all became less surprising than expected, I knew the battle to remain ageless was lost. Rather than surrender, though, I would proffer the "Age This!" challenge to the Gods, putting one (formerly dainty, now gnarled) foot in front of the other. As in ... go ahead: hit me with your best spot. |
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