Thoughts on the Do vs. Be Dichotomy

Circa 2002-2003: I wrote this while I going through my divorce. Though it's dated and in need of substantial revision, I was pleased to rediscover it and to find that something coherent came out of my pain during that time. Others have more eloquently and more substantially discussed these themes--but it was meaningful to me to write it and helped me make sense of a tremendous loss. 

I was thinking about Oprah on the way home and how she doesn’t have time to do a lot of things like answer all of her mail and shop for groceries and clean her refrigerator. I was thinking how in order for her to do the work she does she must hire people to help her do these other things. And I was thinking that it’s OK because other people can clean the toilets and do a great job, but not everyone can be Oprah Winfrey and do the things she does for people. She has special gifts to give the world.

Then I was thinking about my own life. And about the Do vs. Be gender dichotomy.  Men Do and women Be. Supposedly. I think one of the things that led to my divorce is that somewhere down the road my ex-husband thought I was the only one who needed to clean the toilets so he could do things to help other people. That’s a woman’s job, right? They’re there to take care of the mundane things so the man can focus on worldly things. Men can’t give the world the gifts they have unless someone frees up their time by cleaning for them and raising their kids for them and doing their laundry for them and cooking for them and everything for them. It is a waste of the man's time and energy and gifts to do that kind of work. And, it should be added, it does nothing for his self esteem.

To some extent it seems this kind of hierarchy is necessary. It reminds me of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. These levels of development work on a societal level, not just on an individual level. But the problem is that many marriages don't allow both spouses the opportunity to reach higher levels of development. There is no sense of self-esteem when what the men do is valued and what the women do is devalued. After all, anyone can clean a toilet, right?

The reality is that the mundane stuff never goes away. But it serves a purpose. It must be taken care of first before the other work can get done. It seems our values are mixed up. Yes, we should value the people who have special gifts. But we should also value the people who make it possible for these people to develop and share their gifts. And we should also create opportunities for all people to develop and share their gifts.

The wives who do the mundane work so their husbands can do the more valued work also have gifts to offer the world. But if they are told that the husband’s gifts are always more important, then the world lacks the gifts the wife has to offer. If wives and husbands shared the responsibility for the mundane work, then both would have time to pursue other work.

There is another problem with the Do vs. Be dichotomy: It seems that it is not true that women Be and men Do. We say that, but there is a discrepancy between what we say and how things are. We say one thing but do another. I’m thinking of a book, Why Women Get Sick, that I read recently. In it the author points out how women are told they are weak, but in reality the women are frequently the ones holding everything together. They are responsible not only for physically holding the family together, but holding them together emotionally, spiritually, and even financially in many cases. I think it is incorrect to say that women just have to Be. We tell ourselves that, but it seems that women Do a lot so that men can Be. Women buy into the myth that they are dependent on men, but in reality, the men are dependent on the women. Just as slaveholders were dependent on slaves. The slaves did all the hard work so the slave owners could be wealthy and powerful. They tried to convince the slave that s/he was inferior and incapable and it was his/her place to serve and submit. They wanted control without responsibility. That is tyranny.

Examples from popular culture illustrate how families and roles have changed. Shows like Everybody Loves Raymond and Life According to Jim are examples, I believe, of the traditional family in transition. Yes, it's great the women's movement has helped empower women, but it has not done enough to empower men and help them adjust to the changes. Many men are unsure of their role, and more importantly, they are unsure of the power they have in that role. They are feeling vulnerable.

Another characteristic of this of this transition time is that there is no authenticity. What we say is not what we live. Our performance has not caught up with our competence. Men know all the right things to say. And women know all of the right things they would like to hear. Men know how to tell women they are equal. And women and men think the women are being treated as equal if the man offers to do dishes and vacuum and watch the kids and change diapers. The problem is that the men aren't doing these things for the reasons they say. They don't do them because they think they are responsible for them: they do them as a favor. They feel like they are doing something above and beyond the call of duty. They do it because they want to, because it feeds their ego, not because they feel like they have to. 

So what happens when they have to? Some of the men I know feel resentful and unappreciated. They really haven't gotten it that it's their responsibility to take care of themselves, let alone the wife and kids in times of need. That is above and beyond the call of duty, remember. Because men have never been taught that it's their responsibility—they have never been taught how to effectively respond—they feel out of control and overwhelmed. They are used to being taken care of, and when the wife can't take care of things like she used to, the men have a lot of anxiety. And they often look for someone else to take care of them.

Many men simply repeat with their wives what they have learned at work, which is often another example of the master/slave relationship. Bosses abuse their power to keep their employees under control. If the boss lets the employees know how talented they are or that have the means, they might start their own business and compete with him. That can't be allowed to happen. It's the employees’ job to make the boss successful. They are paid to only need what the boss needs and wants. They can't do side work because it's disloyal. All their time and energy must go toward making the boss rich and powerful and happy and successful. That is their God-given duty. It's not the boss's job to make the employees rich and powerful. It should make the employees feel happy and successful when the boss is happy and successful. That is what they were created for.  And how dare they not appreciate all the boss does for them. Don't they realize they would be nothing without the boss?

Many traditional religious structures illustrate this hierarchy as well. Many of us have been taught that the hierarchy is God, then man, then woman, then children. In this system, women and children never have direct access to God. The man always serves as mediator. Just as the boss serves as mediator between wealth (and success and power) and employees.

We see how this kind of rigid traditional system can be harmful to women, but what about the damage it does to men? The women may have all of the responsibility but they also have the tools they need to thrive and be independent if the system collapses. But by assuming all of the responsibility they deny men the ability to be independent.

Men are just as much a "victim" of the current system as women. The way the system has worked has been that the man's needs always come first. Always. That's the hierarchy. And the woman is supposed to meet all of his needs. Had we taught men and women that they were responsible for and capable of meeting their own needs themselves, and had we taught them how to meet them in healthy ways, perhaps they wouldn't do it in unhealthy ways.

Women have been fighting to dismantle this system, but some have tried to invert it rather than create something egalitarian. Some people feel that taking responsibility means blaming someone else. And many women are resentful for having been oppressed in the old system. No wonder the men feel threatened. They are now in a position where they feel dependent and they fear that women will try to control them. They are anxious about their new responsibilities and feel afraid and ashamed when they can't do things as well as women because they haven't had practice. They also feel resentful and defensive. In the old system men were used to being better than. In the new system, equality feels like a step down.

Another problem we face is that our definition of respect is changing and that has left both men and women confused. The old definition of respect was to treat people as you think they should be treated. It was easy to respect women because the men were the ones determining how the women should be treated. The women had no say in it. If the man said it was respectful for him to open the door for the woman, then the woman couldn't complain he was being disrespectful so long as he was doing the things he deemed respectful. Never mind if the woman didn't care if he opened the door. Never mind if what she really wanted was for him to do the dishes.

Another definition of respect is to treat people as they would like to be treated. But that is difficult for some men. They don't have a lot of practice at letting wives decide how they want to be treated. They have more practice at telling them how they should want to be treated. Allowing others to decide how they want to be treated means acknowledging that they have needs and desires that are different from your own. And it means allowing them control of themselves. Men are afraid that women will try to control them. And they are afraid to feel vulnerable in other ways. What if the woman wants something the man can't provide? What does that do to his sense of identity, self esteem, and personal control? Or what if the woman wants something the man wants for himself? Who comes first? For many men, compromise means capitulation.

Is a struggle for power inevitable? How do we empower the men who don't want to be empowered, who don't or won't see the need for change, or who are afraid to change? What is an appropriate role for women in all of this? 

In many ways, men are at a temporary disadvantage because in the old system men didn’t think they would have to work so much themselves to feel successful. After all, if I “had been a good wife,” my ex told me once, then he would be successful. If he was ever unhappy, unfulfilled, or unsuccessful then it must be my fault. 

I don’t think my first marriage was really that atypical. Gender roles have changed and it seems like a lot of men are confused now about their identity and their desires. The old system didn’t allow women to get their needs met, but we don’t seem to have a new system in place so that both men and women get their needs met. Again, it seems like we’re in a transition phase: our performance has not caught up with our competence. Many men say they feel women are equal. And they do all the right things: they help cook, they help clean, they change diapers. But they are secretly still buying into the old system. The actions have changed, but the values have not.

And in some families when the secret comes out there is an all out war. Especially when it comes to whose values, whose definition of respect, which power structure will be passed down to the children. One of my lit professors, Greg Garvey, posited that the central issue in Shakespeare’s The Tempest is over who gets to reproduce with Miranda. In other words, whose values get passed on in the new world—i.e. whose values get passed on to the kids? There were times in my marriage where I was literally not allowed to speak. I had to hide books that I was reading for fear my ex would think I was corrupting his children. The kids and I were not allowed to have our own identities.

I have wondered if this was a typical battle between male and female values, between reproduction and transformation: do men have children out of a desire to reproduce themselves, and women out of a desire to transform themselves?

I think if men didn't fear that the new system would be as oppressive to them as the old system is to women that they would be more willing to work with women to change it. What many men fail to realize is that they are also oppressed in the traditional system. The king in the traditional system isn't the man, or even God, it's Fear.

I am reminded of the classic transcendentalist debate over how to reform society: Do you change individuals or institutions?

Individuals must change themselves. You can't change them. But when institutions change, that forces/facilitates change in individuals. The way to change individuals, then, is to give them the opportunity to change themselves.

A metaphor I came up with while having to contemplate divorce:

I feel like a slave who thinks the only way to truly be free is to reform the system, which means to create conditions so that each person may free him or herself.

I changed when I went to college, and as a result I changed the structure of my marriage which put pressure on my ex-husband to change. Like many men, he feared and resisted that change and we ended up with a war.

My ex wanted things to stay the same. And he keeps trying to relive the past. He believes that the old system is the best for him; therefore, it should be best for everyone. He was accurate to perceive my trying to change things as a threat to his values. He may continue to feel that he needs a wife to serve him so he can achieve success. He may continue to define success as having others be dependent on him. He may prefer tyranny.

I don't think that's where we're headed though. Change is inevitable. So how do we change the institutions of marriage and family in our society in order to help facilitate the highest level of development for everyone? Who cleans the toilets? How do they do it and not be resentful or wither up?

What I have discovered is that sometimes the only way to change an institution is to refuse to participate in it. I kept trying to create conditions so my ex could free himself, when really I simply needed to free myself.

Freedom is responsibility.

Margaret Fuller believed that if we could make marriage egalitarian, we could change the world. Maybe the work I'm doing is enough for now. Maybe it feels like I'm trying to change the world because in my own small way I am.

No wonder my ex felt threatened. It is a shame, though, that he was too afraid to see that what I wanted was for us to change our world together.

Pot Roast

Circa 1999. Pre-divorce, pre-don't eat much red meat any more era. It's been several years since I've cooked a pot roast.  

            “Mmm. . . something smells good!” my husband will say as he comes in the door tonight, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, drawing in the warm, distinct odor of mushroom and onion soup mix. “Mmm . . . pot roast?” he’ll ask, putting his arms around me, drawing me in with another deep breath, as if the aroma were coming from me.

            “Pot roast,” I’ll smile and answer, although it won’t be necessary.

            I’m not sure why I call it “pot roast.” I don’t cook it in a pot. I cook it in a Reynolds Oven Bag. That way there’s no messy pot to clean up after. A better way to cook pot roast is in a pressure cooker. The meat comes out so tender and juicy that you have to serve it with a spatula and scoop it into your mouth with a fork to eat it. Otherwise you’d never get more than a few pink threads to your mouth at a time.

            I know this because my mom has a pressure cooker. Though I don’t remember her making pot roast very often when I lived home. Probably because she stopped making family dinners when I was thirteen. I suppose she would have made me something if I had asked, but I didn’t like to ask. And I didn’t like any of the foods she bought and prepared for my stepfather anyway. I missed the pork chops and applesauce, the asparagus omelets, and the Sunday crepes we used to have. I was hungry for food I liked, food that I was used to. But my mom had her own unfed hungers, so I didn’t ask.

            No one has to ask my mother-in-law for food. She doesn’t give you the chance. From the moment you walk in her house until the moment you leave, she tries to stuff you. In fact, she even sends food home with you so she can stuff you long-distance. She doesn’t cook pot roasts, though. She cooks eye-round roasts. And instead of a pressure cooker, she uses a heavy old iron pot that cooks the meat perfectly, no matter how hard she tries to overcook it. My mother-in-law believes every hunger can be fed, and fed, and fed . . .

            I’ve decided that for now, I’m going to stick with the Reynolds Oven Bags, even if the meat isn’t quite as tender as the pressure cooker or the iron pot. Besides, pot roast isn’t something I make for company. I make it only for my husband and my kids. They can eat it and relax and not be self-conscious. My eldest child can eat with their fingers and lick the plate clean when they're done. “I have to get the last drop of gravy,” they always tell me.

            Eldest kiddo likes gravy on their potatoes, just like their dad does. They both make volcanoes out of their potatoes and gravy. My husband sacrifices his vegetables to the volcano, but my eldest kiddo prefers to eat theirs separately, with their fingers, like the meat. Fortunately, my husband doesn’t use his fingers or lick his plate. No, he simply likes to eat and eat until he has to unbutton his jeans and he’s feeling soporific. You know, like Peter Rabbit and all those heads of lettuce from Farmer MacGregor’s garden. He’ll eat until he feels like he needs a nap.

            My youngest child, on the other hand, eats nothing like his father or his sibling. Basically, he eats nothing. He lives mostly on bread and fruit. He says pot roast is “yucky” and squishes his nose at it. He won’t eat beef unless it’s processed leftover lips, livers, and assorted other parts pressed into a neat little log and served on a bun. No catsup. No condiments. Of course, I don’t tell youngest kiddo how his cherished hot dogs are made. I just serve them up with some plums, some chocolate milk, and a Flintstone’s vitamin. I’m just glad that he eats.

 I’m glad that they all eat, no matter how or what they eat. And as for me? Well, I guess I really haven’t said much about how I eat pot roast. To tell the truth, it’s not one of my favorite foods to eat. But it is one of my favorites to prepare and serve. Even if it’s not as tender as I would like it to be. Or even if I can never seem to get it to the table steaming hot. My family still enjoys it. It warms them.

***

            “Mmm. . . something smells good!” my husband will say as he comes in the door tonight, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, drawing in the warm, distinct odor of mushroom and onion soup mix. “Mmm . . . pot roast?” he’ll ask, putting his arms around me, drawing me in with another deep breath, as if the aroma were coming from me.

            “Pot roast,” I’ll smile and answer, knowing that by the time grace is said and the plates are full, I will have already feasted.

A Mother's Talisman

Circa 1999. Written for a creative writing class I was taking at SUNY Brockport.

            He never cried. Six years old with a broken arm and he never cried, not even when he saw us. “I’m pretty sure your son’s arm is fractured, Mrs. McKay,” the school nurse informed me on the phone. Fortunately, my then husband, Doug, was home for lunch and we rushed to the school. There we found our son Brad hunched slightly forward in a chair, wearing a crisp white sling that hid his entire right arm. He was so small in that big chair, in that big sling, but he wasn’t scared. A little pale, yes, but afraid, no.

            Doug and I were afraid. We were mostly afraid that Brad was in a lot of pain. But he didn’t seem to be. In fact, he was pretty talkative and eager to explain all about his accident. As soon as he saw us, he took a deep breath and proceeded to describe what had happened:

“See, it was recess, and we were runnin’ on the tennis court, playing tag, and this boy, I don’t know his name, this boy he tagged me, but he pushed kinda, and I fell, and I did like a somersault, and my arm was over my head, and I rolled over it, and I just knew it was broke, so I walked right up to Mrs. Galofaro and told her, ‘Mrs. Galofaro, I think I broke my arm,’ and then she sent me here to the nurse, and now you’re here, and do ya think I’m gonna have to get a cast now?”

            “I think you probably will, honey,” I told him. “Let’s go to the hospital and find out.”

             When the doctor removed the sling I thought I would throw up. No, not exactly. I felt like I had just plummeted over the hill on the Log Flume ride at Seabreeze and my stomach had dropped into my socks. I wasn’t afraid Doug would throw up as much as I was afraid that he would go back to the school and slap the nurse. “She was pretty sure his arm was fractured?!” Doug said. “Pretty sure?!” He didn’t want to state the obvious: that instead of being anywhere close to ruler-straight like a normal arm, Brad’s forearm was shaped like a “V.” It looked like a branch that had been cracked over someone’s knee. It was a miracle the bones weren’t poking out: the long blue sleeve of the pocket tee shirt that he wore that day appeared to be the only thing holding his arm together.

            Brad had already seen his deformed arm, so he wasn’t really shocked, and his sibling, Tuesday, had been smart enough to turn their head. Brad asked the doctor if he could have a green cast like his friend Jackson’s and informed his sibling, Tuesday, that they could be the first to sign it. The doctor explained that Brad would have to wait and ask the bone doctor about his cast, and that only one of us would be allowed to stay with Brad. Deciding who would stay was simple. It didn’t even require any discussion. My ex-husband has a difficult time staying calm in a crisis: his worry consumes him. I, however, usually stay calm in these kinds of situations, so Doug and Tuesday waited out in the hospital lobby while I stayed with Brad.

             Naturally there were X-rays and consultations, and luckily, Brad did not end up needing surgery, so I was allowed to stay in the room with him while they unbent his arm. While we were waiting for the doctors, Brad finally started to complain that his arm hurt, that it felt like there was a lot of pressure on it. I told him it was probably because he’d had to move it around during the x-rays, and I carefully pulled him up on my lap. I didn’t want him to hurt. I wanted to take the pain from him. I combed his thick, bark-brown hair with my fingers, just like I used to when he was a baby. It still had the same effect: his bushy little caterpillar eyebrows unfurrowed, his eyelids grew heavy, and his eyes became glossy and rolled around in their sockets like shiny marbles. Within a minute he was asleep.

            He seemed so small. At first. As he slept he grew heavier and warmer. He wasn’t a part of me anymore like when he was a baby. He was his own little person, his own growing person, learning to take his own risks and follow his own desires. I couldn’t carry him around inside me to nurture and protect him anymore. Eventually he would be grown enough to carry me around, yet I still felt as though he would somehow always be a part of me. Yes, the umbilical cord had been cut long ago, but some tie would never be severed.

            By the time the nurse and the two doctors arrived, Brad and I were both pink and sticky with sweat. Brad woke up as we were introduced to Dr. Taylor, who was going to set Brad’s arm, and Patty, the nurse who would be assisting Dr. Taylor. The other doctor, Dr. West, was going to administer the anesthetic and then watch Brad during the entire procedure. That was his job: to literally watch my son and make sure nothing bad happened, like some kind of guardian angel.

            I felt reassured at first, but then I was worried about why Brad had to be watched so closely. “What could go wrong?” I thought. “It’s just a broken arm.” A smart teacher once told me that worry cannot protect, but I couldn’t help but worry. Here he was, my son, so small in that bed, all by himself. I sat in a chair next to the bed, out of the way, and put my hand on his shin so he would know I was still there. As he injected the medication, the doctor explained that it was not an analgesic: “He’ll still be able to feel pain, but he won’t be able to remember it. Not two seconds later, two days later, or two years later. He’ll forget it all. He’ll just feel drowsy and drift in and out of consciousness.”

            I watched my son. Dr. West watched my son. We both watched Brad’s eyelids grow heavy. We watched the marbles roll around. But something seemed different this time. I started to rub Brad’s shin to remind him that I was there. He gave me a quick, diluted smile and his eyes closed.  I kept rubbing his leg, calmly, rhythmically. I was trying to calm myself. Brad didn’t look like he had earlier when he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t look like the medicine was making him sleepy; he looked like it was putting him to sleep, like when animals are put to sleep.

            I watched the doctor watch my son. We were obviously looking for different things, seeing different things. I saw that my son’s consciousness was being taken away. To the doctor, this appeared normal. To me, it was terrifying. I knew they were helping him, that his unconsciousness was protecting him from pain, but I felt like I was watching him die and that I was helpless to do anything but sit and rub his leg.

            That’s when I cried. (And I am crying now.) “I love you, “I smiled and whispered to Brad as he drifted away.  “I love you,” I repeated, rubbing his leg, as if that would protect him. “I love you,” again, hoping he would take that with him, hoping he would always remember. “I love you.”

             Oddly, it didn’t bother me to watch Dr. Taylor set Brad’s arm. I was able to endure the crunch and crack and even the faint “ow” that Brad murmured, letting me know he was still in there. “I love you,” I responded, but he faded again; his consciousness faded. And I cried again, feeling ashamed because I finally had to turn my head. I didn’t want Brad to suffer, but I couldn’t endure his drifting away. What if he didn’t come back?

            In the recovery room, I continued to rub Brad’s leg and tell him I loved him. I imagined how warm the fresh plaster cast must have felt on his arm, and I wanted that warmth to radiate throughout his body. I wanted so much to protect him; I will always want to protect him.

Brad drifted in and out of consciousness for about forty minutes. Once, shortly before he was fully awake, he opened his eyes and flashed me another diluted smile.

“I love you, too, Mom,” he whispered before closing his eyes again.

And I always carry it with me.          

           

           

            

Enduring Burning

Circa 2004 or 2005. Written during the post-divorce, pre-Eric era. I've lost track of how many bookshelves and books I've added since then...

"What is to give light must endure burning." -Viktor Frankl

Aberdeen Shade. Fleur de lis. Black Coal. These are the colors I used to redecorate my bedroom after my divorce. Redecorate isn't quite the right word though: Renovate, perhaps? Resuscitate? Redeem? Resurrect? Restore?

            The divorce wasn't so much a process of soul loss as soul retrieval. My soul had been lost years before the actual physical separation from my ex- husband. After removing the last of his pocket T-shirts and the last traces of Brut cologne from what used to be our bedroom, I laid down crucifix style on the middle of my bed and half sobbed, half whisper-screamed, “Take it back . . .Take it all back . . .” Whichever parts of his soul I was still carrying with me, I wanted to purge. 

            Once the physical liberation was complete, I dug out a musty-smelling copy of Zen Flesh, Zen Bones I had stashed in my basement where my ex-husband wouldn't see, and wouldn't bother searching. (There were so many places that he never took the time to explore.) At first I hid the contraband book under the mattress (next to the one anthology I had at the time of women's erotica). Two years and 300 mostly used and discount books later (and several more erotica anthologies), it seems almost silly that I felt I had to hide that book. But at the time I was afraid. 

             My ex was a Christian of sorts. And during our marriage I had agreed to express my faith through Christianity and to teach our children to do so as well. That pact was made when I was sixteen years old.  For the next sixteen years I taught Sunday school, read the Bible, and obeyed my husband. For the next sixteen years I tried to be the perfect wife and mother. And for the next sixteen years I worried I was going to hell.       

             Before my ex-husband and I were married, I could share with him my desires and my fears. I could share my imagination and experiences. I could share my beliefs and my doubts. Before we were married, I shared my interest in tarot cards with him and he bought me a Rider Waite deck. After we were married, he was afraid that the tarot cards were evil, so I sacrificed them along with my own value system, my own sense of right and wrong, and my self-respect. “It’s ok,” my ex told me whenever I doubted my faith. “You don’t need God. I have enough faith for both of us.”

Graduating from college cinched my place in hell. At first I could share with my ex what I'd learned by reading A Doll's House and Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass.  But by the time I read The Marriage of Heaven and Hell and completed an independent study on language and consciousness, my ex blamed my education for the failure of our marriage. It was bad enough that I doubted my own faith, but college had taught me to doubt his, too. It had taught me to challenge his value system, his sense of right and wrong, his authority, and his sense of superiority. He was afraid something was wrong with me. He was afraid something was wrong with him. He was afraid that nothing would be the same. He was afraid I would break the pact. He was afraid I would “corrupt his children.” He was afraid I had become “everything he had ever hated.” He was afraid. He was afraid. He was afraid.

And after a while, I became afraid as well. I became afraid that perhaps he was right: perhaps there really was something wrong with me. After all, it was true: my education had changed me. And it had changed our marriage. Perhaps I had succumbed to evil, and he was only trying to protect me, like he had always tried to protect me. Perhaps it was all my fault the foundation of our marriage had crumbled.

Or perhaps I was more afraid that it really wasn't entirely my fault. That he was no longer my protector. If that were true, then it meant the battle lines between good and evil were no longer drawn around us, but between us. It meant I had to protect myself from him. It meant war.

             I was petrified that a war would hurt him and me and our children. So scared that for a while I stopped desiring, stopped doubting, stopped imagining, stopped believing. I stopped reading.  I stopped being afraid of going to hell and started living in it.

After digging out Zen Flesh, Zen Bones I started making solo trips to the bargain books section of Barnes and Noble and allowing myself to purchase self-help books. Traditional titles at first: Letting Go of Anger; When Someone You Love is Depressed; Successful Women, Angry Men; Healing the Shame that Binds You. Before the divorce was final, I bought doubles of some books to give my ex. It hurt that he wouldn't accept them. I kept trying to figure him out and help him. With the help of a therapist, I learned the best way to help him and my kids was to stop trying to take care of him and take good care of me. To do that I had to let go of who I had become and figure out who I was becoming.

Who I had become was a recluse. I had isolated myself, out of a fear that the evil lurking within me would infect others. Out of a fear I would be seized by evil in places I had never gone before. But as the inner terrain became less threatening, the outer terrain became less threatening as well. Within a year, I was able to expand my horizons and began exploring library book sales and used bookstores. From the library book sales I acquired treasures such as Edges of Reality; Beyond Good and Evil; What Makes Women Sick; The Will to Meaning.  From the used book stores I self-consciously snuck home more esoteric titles: Working with Your Chakras; The Ecstatic Journey; Sacred Contracts; Don Juan, Mescalito, and Modern Magic. Occasionally I would even splurge on new books, gems I could not find elsewhere: Understanding the Enneagram; The Wisdom of the Serpent; A Woman's Journey to God; All About Love: New Visions.

I even bought myself a deck of tarot cards. It felt a bit rebellious. And at the same time, I still doubted myself. I wondered if maybe I was evil for desiring them. I wondered if I was even more evil for exposing my children to them. When I finally realized that I had acted just like Eve, and my ex just like Adam, I sat in the middle of my bed and started laughing uncontrollably. I had thought at first the war was with my ex. Eventually I learned that the battle between good and evil had begun long before the divorce, long before the tarot cards. It had begun long before me.

By the second year after separating, I had so many piles of books in my room that a friend of mine with OCD took pity on me and donated a bookcase. I resisted the bookcase at first. I enjoyed the chaos in my room. Plus, the scattered masses added weight to the room. They made it feel more solid. They added color. They added depth. They added protection. And they were like a giant mirror: they reflected me.

Other than moving my ex's stuff out, I had done nothing to the room but add books. And sort the stacks every so often. Sometimes I would sort by genre. Sometimes by author. Sometimes by subject. Sometimes by color. Sometimes by cover material. Sometimes by size. But then the boundaries would get blurred, and I would have to arrange the books all over again. I would have to decide which spines would be visible by passersby, which would peek out, ambivalent about being seen, and which would stay hidden.

In addition to the erotica anthologies, one book remained hidden for a long time: Flowers from Hell: A Satanic Reader. It is an anthology of works by authors such as Milton, Marlowe, and Poe, authors who equated Satan with Imagination.

Finally I got overwhelmed by the chaos and decided it was time to put up the bookshelf. I also decided that in order to put up the bookshelf, I would have to paint it, along with the rest of the room. The chakra book came to mind when I selected the paint. Fleur de lis I chose for the wall opposite my bed. The color of dark wine. Of dark, oxygen-rich blood. The color of life. Perhaps the deep red color reflected a need to work on a particular energy center. Perhaps I was trying to get back to the root, to my roots. For the wall behind my bed I chose Black Coal. The color of death, perhaps. But coal is also a source of fuel. A source of heat. Heat is a means of transformation.

Aberdeen Shade I chose to adorn the other pair of opposing walls. A light to punctuate the darkness.  It is the color of sand and reminds me of walking barefoot at the beach, one of my favorite places. I also used Aberdeen Shade to sponge-paint the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Paradoxically, the sand color appears dark against the stark white of the tiles. I can look up at the ceiling and see patterns and shapes in the paint like I used to look up and see patterns and shapes in the clouds before I became afraid and stopped imagining.

          Once the decision was made to redecorate the room, I immersed myself in the process, determined to finish it all in one day. No scraping, no taping, no tarps to protect the carpet. A six-pack of Coca-Cola and songs from the 60s and 70s fueled my determination. I rolled paint on the walls as I danced and sang to “Shambala.”

         Three Dog Night. The last time I’d listened to them was when I was ten and lived in the apartment on Holley Street in Phoenix. I remember that apartment the most even though we lived several other places and spent the least amount of time there. I think I remember it the most because it was the apartment my brother and mother and I lived in after my parents' divorce.  And because it was one of the few places in which I had my own room. There were only two bedrooms. My mom had her own twin bed in my brother's room, but mostly she slept on the pull-out couch. I slept like a princess in the new canopy bed with the yellow and white gingham Holly Hobby comforter set I got to pick from the JC Penney catalog. My room may have been the nicest room in that apartment.

After fourteen hours of painting, the bedroom I was restoring was starting to look like the nicest room in my house. And I was starting to feel guilty about the past. I felt guilty that after the divorce I got a new canopy bed but that my brother didn't get a fancy new bed. I felt guilty that my mom didn’t have her own room. I remember waking up very early one morning to see my mom’s boyfriend leaving. Apparently he had spent the night, and my mom didn't want us to know. I wonder if she craved more privacy in that small apartment the way I crave more privacy now. The way I craved more privacy the first night I let the first boyfriend after the divorce spend the night. I wonder where my mom hid her books, her letters, and the equivalent of her tarot cards. I wonder where she purged her guilt.

And I wonder, what would have happened if I had been able to keep that room on Holly Street, or if my mom had married that boyfriend? What would have happened if we hadn't moved to New York, or if my mom hadn't left me and my brother at my grandparents' house where I shared a room with my aunt for a year before I was allowed to move in with my mom and the man who would eventually become my stepfather?           

What would have happened if I hadn't I slept on a bed behind the couch in the living room after I finally did move back in with my mom, or if I hadn’t had to share another room with  my brother  until I was twelve? What if I hadn’t needed to put a lock on the door of that room to protect myself from my stepbrothers when my brother moved out? And what would have happened if I hadn't gotten married at sixteen and shared a room with my ex-husband for seventeen years?

The bookcase was painted last: Black Coal. I placed it against the wall opposite my bed and left it empty for a while so it could dry. I wanted to be empty, too. Instead I felt full of guilt that my ex was unable to get his needs met in the relationship. Full of guilt for not being able to quell his fears. Full of guilt for every mistake I ever made that fed his fears, his shame. Full of guilt for all of the unkind thoughts and words I had hurled at him when he abandoned us. Leaving, it turned out, was the best thing he could have done for all of us. Destruction was the only thing that would allow new growth.

Finally I began to let go of my anger, my guilt, my fear, my expectations. “The fairytale is over, Mom," my eldest child informed me one day. I was discovering that somewhere down the road I had done all of us an injustice by trying to become an idealized version of who I thought my ex wanted me to be instead of the real person I was, warts and all.

The bookcase was finally dry. I curled up in the middle of the bed and apologized by proxy to the teddy bear who had become my new bed companion, “Forgive me . . . I take it all back . . . I take it all back . . .”

***

The bookcase has long since been filled. And organized. And reorganized. The Holy Bible currently rests comfortably next to The Varieties of Religious Experience; The Essential Tao; The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. And, unashamedly, the stacks on my dresser have grown taller than ever. I've bought a few recommended books: A Symphony in the Brain; Colors: The Story of Dyes and Pigments. Several gifts have made their way in: Think on These Things; Wonder Women; Altered Art; Thresholds of the Mind. A separate stack has been reserved for books authored by friends and former teachers: Breaking Open the Alabaster Jar; Sisters of the Thirteen Moons; The Emerson Dilemma; Wild Ride to Heaven. And the most recent additions to what feels more like an alchemical laboratory than a bedroom sit on my nightstand, next to a small lamp: Traveling Between the Worlds; Transformed by the Light; Why God Won't Go Away: Brain Science and the Biology of Belief.

             It occurs to me that I have now spent nearly three years alone in this room, which is as much time as I have ever spent alone in any room.  It also occurs to me that I should probably put up another bookcase. But that would mean dismantling all of those ever-changing but ever-present stacks. I can’t say that my battle between good and evil has been won yet. That I never have moments when I fear I've somehow lost a part of my soul. But when I look around my room, I am reminded that there is always a place to go where it can be restored. Where I can be restored. Where I can wash away my sorrow and my pain. Where the light shines.

“I suspect many of us might never sign up to experience the light if we knew how much darkness we would have to face first,” I said to a friend recently. “But in the end, it is worth it.”

Green, Go

Circa 2000. Published in 2008:  http://www.flashquake.org/archive/vol7iss4/editorial/green-go.html 
I still get migraines, but medication and better self care have reduced the suffering they cause me considerably.

I think she’s coming back. I’ve got that familiar pressure in my head, that familiar warning. Maybe if I take a Zomig it’ll stop her in her tracks, or at least postpone her visit. I don’t know why I call it a visit. It’s more like possession. Like I have a split personality or a demon or something. Something bad. Something painful. There: I took the Zomig. It’ll work this time. It has to. I’ve got a class this morning.

Shit. She’s here. Twenty minutes into class, and Migraine is definitely here. The Zomig didn’t work this time. I’m trying to concentrate, to ignore her, but Migraine is determined to take over.

Why do you have to come now? Go away. I have to get through class. I have to go home and finish grading… finish making dinner…  finish the laundry…  play Scrabble with the kids… You can’t do those things as well as I can. Please, go away.

Her visit is getting worse. Twenty years I’ve been hosting her; you’d think I’d be used to this. But no. My head is throbbing, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Why won’t you leave me alone? I ate breakfast. I slept seven hours, same as usual. I didn’t smell any strong perfumes or odors. I know you punish me for that. But I was good today. I didn’t invite you. I know: you don’t need an invitation. You come whenever you want. But, just like you, I hate losing control. And I can’t give in right now. I must keep going.

My head hurts so much.

Please don’t do this to me again. You still have time to turn around. Take the Zomig. Come back another time. Just not tonight. I promised my daughter I would take her to the movies tonight. I promised. Don’t make me break another promise.

I hope my students can’t tell that Migraine is taking over. I’m trying to act normal, but she’s so strong. I wonder if they see Migraine stabbing the dagger into the top of my skull and out through my eyeball, like a magician performing an optical illusion.

No, they can’t see it. Migraine would like them to appreciate the art of it, but they can’t. They only see how bloodshot and watery my eye is. But the dagger is there. I feel it, hard and piercing.  It’s my left eye today. Sometimes it’s my right. Migraine gets bored so she switches her trick to the other side. I hope the students don’t notice. If it gets worse, I’ll have to confess, so they’ll know why I’m getting so quiet. Why I’m moving so slowly. Why I look like I’m going to cry. Or throw up. Or both.

My ex-husband used to be able to tell from twenty feet away that Migraine was taking over. “Janice just needs a rest,” he used to say. But this is not rest. It’s surrender. I surrender. Again.

I hate to surrender.

Dear God, please let the light turn green so I can make it home and throw up in the bathroom instead of my car. Please. Just let me get home and die. But I won’t die. And I don’t really want to; I just want the pain to stop. Green, go. Two more lights. Is there a bag anywhere? I can make it. Green, go.

Finally. Home. Walking slowly up the stairs. Must stop and breathe after each step. In and out. Each step.

Made it to my room. Closing blinds. Breathing. Out of breath. Under covers. Breathing. Heart pounding. Head pounding. Can’t cry. Hurts more. Wish someone could bring me a hot cloth. Hate feeling helpless. Hate asking for help. Hate Migraine.

My ex used to be so kind to her. Used to feed her. Starve me.

Why didn’t you pull a disappearing act like he did? He wanted you, not me. Why do you come back?

Crying. Hurting. Too many words. Breathing. In and out.

Need to escape. To stop talking. To be unconscious. Not conscious of pain. Closing my eyes. Picturing the beach. Feeling the hot sun on my skin. No! Too warm. Suffocating. Not enough air. Head pounding. Throbbing. I hurt. Don’t cry. Please…

Imagining a breeze. Breathing. In . Out. Walking. Throbbing… fading… footsteps… bare feet… warm sand rubbing feet… cool breeze caressing shoulders… walking… in…  out…pain… no pain… drifting… in… out…

Green, go…