The Eighteenth of May 

15 years ago today I had the very last conversation I would ever have with my late husband. It was intense. There were things that were said that I wish I could take back (and I’m pretty sure he’d say the same). But it also ended with both of us telling each other we loved each other. But it’s a conversation that haunts me still. Even 15 years later. It’s the voice inside my head so much of the time. Reminding me to not let words said in anger and frustration linger.
At the time, I had no idea or even inkling that my husband was planning his death. But he clearly had been. It was evidenced in the money he compiled, the letters he wrote, the post its he left in certain places reminding me of things. Evident in the careful steps he took to duct tape vents in our townhouse. Evident in the trunk he carried down to the garage so he could be surrounded by all our most important items in our treasure box. It still pains me to think about that.

So every year I wake up on May 18, or more accurately, I go to bed at about 1:30 am May 18th and wake up at 6:30 the same day and all these thoughts flood my morning. Sure, this morning my brain was also filled with packing snacks and lunches and getting the kids to school. Making sure I didn’t forget anything that was needed for Open House later tonight. Last minute lecture prep for my class at UCLA.

I’m no longer paralyzed by May 18th. But it does still stop me in my tracks. That last conversation does still replay in my brain.
It’s an odd few days as well. While my last call with my late husband was May 18th, I didn’t receive the call he was dead until May 20th. This was after I asked a dear friend to please check on him since I was in California. I feel a lot of responsibility for sending our friend into that. Finding him. Having to make the initial calls to law enforcement and me.

So, in a way, it’s like this death occurred over several days. And every year, my body tells me when those days are coming. Cellular memory is powerful.
One thing my late husband and I shared was a love of music. And we both had very eclectic taste. Anything and everything. So much of that music brought comfort in the days following his death. Much of it brought deeper insight and knowledge into some of the burdens he carried.

The album Euphoria Morning by Chris Cornell was a favorite in the last years of his life. “When I’m Down” was often played. While I always thought it was a beautiful song, I didn’t really pay attention to the lyrics until I was left alone to really hear them.

When I was going to bed last night, news of Chris Cornell’s untimely death was breaking. And I just couldn’t face it or process it so I didn’t. I went to bed knowing I would have to face it today.

The lyrics have been running in my head on a loop. Again, new meanings I didn’t hear before. And all I can say to those of you who have never heard it, look it up. It’s beautiful. One of his very best.

May is a shitty month. I’ve said it before. I’ve written about it. It hurts in ways other months don’t. So much loss. So much grief.

But, in the same moments of remembering pain, I was reminded of two birthdays that also happen to be on May 18th.

A dear friend from childhood who has become even closer as we navigate having twin boys and health issues and work and life together. She is worth celebrating.

And, today, the child of a client from my very first days as a reproductive law attorney turns Sweet 16.  She started out life being born way too early and weighed barely a pound. She was born to a gestational carrier in California, thousands of miles away from where her parents, and later she, would call home.  Her mother lived at the hospital for months. I started to stop at the hospital on my way home from work to support this warrior mama and her little one, who was covered in tubes and leads and fit in the palm of my hand. She and her mama were my very most important clients. They gave me purpose at a time that was a little wonky with wedding planning and an impending move and not knowing if the field of reproductive law was for me.
A friendship grew in those months of hospital visits and bad cafeteria dinners, and we have kept in touch all these years since. They have watched my life fall apart and watched me put it back together again. I have watched a tiny preemie baby grow into a beautiful, smart, talented young woman. A fighter, indeed. She didn’t give two shits about her odds and neither did her parents. They knew after all they had been through to even get to that point, she would not just survive, but thrive.

So amidst the pain, I’m remembering the love and life in my life. The people who are so worth celebrating on this day that also brings tears.

Without sadness, there can be no joy.

May 18th taught me that.

***********

If you or someone you know is in crisis and needs assistance/ help, PLEASE call the toll-free, 24-hour hotline of the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) to be connected to a trained counselor.

Or, text HOME to 741741 for text support 24/7. 
You are NOT alone. This world needs you. Your story matters and it is not finished.  

43

It was a few months ago when it first crossed my mind.  I was co facilitating a Survivors After Suicide Loss Support Group and we were talking about significant dates – birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, the day our loved ones died, and it was just a flash thought in my head.  I remember sort of catching the thought in my brain and my throat, but I didn’t say anything to the group about what caused me to pause mid-sentence.

It’s something that has been in the back of my mind in the months since, and in the last several weeks it’s become like a shadow following me around daily.  It surprised me, really, how it started to affect me.

I don’t really get surprised anymore, when May rolls around and my emotions become a little more unpredictable.  The tears come a little more frequently.  Moods become a little more up and down.  I’m laughing one minute and crying the next.  But this was different.  This May seemed just a little heavier, and it surprised me since it’s coming up on 15 years since I lost my first husband to suicide.  It’s not that new anymore.  But it was oddly heavier.  And I know exactly why.  It’s my birthday.  I am turning 43.  The age my late husband will always be because he died at 43.  43.  Not just a number.

I was 28 when I became a widow.  Obviously, my late husband was several years older than me – 15 years to be exact.  To some that was an issue.  To us, it meant nothing.  When we met in 1994, after my sister’s wedding reception wrapped up and the wedding party and a dozen guests headed to a local bar to continue the festivities (I had a fake ID), I thought he was one of my new brother in law’s friends.  I thought he was maybe 27 or 28. He thought I was 24 or 25. In our heads, there wasn’t that much of age difference.  In reality, I was 19 and he was 34.

I was still in college; he owned his own tech company.  We were definitely experiencing different chapters of life, but our connection was immediate and it would carry us through the next 8 years – all the ups and all the downs and the magic and all the harsh reality of life.  It was not all sunshine and roses.  There was also a lot of uncertainty and a lot of pain in those 8 years.  Those were life issues, not age issues. To me, our ages truly were just numbers.

Just numbers. Until this year.  This year, 43 became this haunting,  taunting shadow that seemed to represent any and all unresolved feelings I have had about anything. Including my late husband’s death.

The first time I experienced this roller coaster of emotions was in 2010 – the year that what I call the reverse time clock started.  The year that signified my husband had been dead longer than we had been together.  You don’t think of these things in the throes of grief.  Then, the day hits you like a ton of bricks and you wonder HOW you didn’t think of this before.  It’s the same with 43.  When he died in 2002, I never thought “someday I will be 43.  I wonder how that will feel.”

So, here I am.  Basking in the myriad emotions that come with what has always just been a number.  Feeling so many feelings and trying to make sense of as many of them as I can.

As I have written about previously, my life is currently in transition.  I am transitioning out of the practice of law and winding down the solo practice I have managed since 2002.   As much as I know it was the right decision for me, it’s created a crazy amount of anxiety.  Financially, the impact is stressful.  I’ve gone from having a relatively steady income to income that is completely unpredictable. I’m totally dependent on my husband.  That’s a first. It’s foreign.  It’s stressful.  In fact, it’s about as stressful as the days and months and the first year after the suicide, when I was a new widow staring at a mountain of financial calamity like nothing I had ever experienced.

I have never wanted to base any decision on just finances.  I know plenty of people who make money hand over fist and are completely miserable.  I know people who have dedicated their lives to doing what they love – even if it means the paychecks are few and far between and never stretch far enough – and who are the happiest people I have ever met.  So, I took a leap of faith.

Point being, I know that my professional transition is contributing to this heaviness of 43.  I know that when my late husband  ended his life, the financial stress was a huge contributing factor.  I think at 43 I understand this far better than I did at 28.

But even the financial aspect doesn’t completely explain this heavy, sometimes anxious feeling I have in turning 43.

I think that some of it can be explained by the fact that for so long, my late husband was always older than me.  Years older.  He had experienced more personally and professionally than I ever had.  He had wisdom that he would impart when I needed it.  He’d experienced much of what I was experiencing at the time – new kid on the job, new kid in a new city.  Life lessons.  He had experienced them.  He helped me through them.  He always won the years and experience race.  When he died, I lost my compass.  For so many years, all things had always pointed to him.

And, even though 43 is far too young to die, at 28 it still seemed a ways off.  Far enough away that I didn’t need to worry about it. Until it wasn’t.

I’ve thought a lot about all the pressures he was feeling in the final months of his life.  We were newly married.  He was dealing with chronic physical pain that affected even his ability to walk long distances.  He was trying to manage his pain without the use of heavy prescription meds, after becoming dependent on them and relapsing after a period of sobriety. He’d been diagnosed with bipolar disorder which explained so much but was so hard for him to accept. His professional life was in a huge slump after massive success just years prior.  There were legal issues tied to all of it.

I understand that pressure much more now that I am re-married and have children that depend on me and their father/my husband.  I know how much of a toll the lawsuit I was named in several years ago took on me and my family.  Having also suffered from post partum depression after my twin sons were born, I also understand that feeling of thinking nothing will ever get better.

But now, I am 43.  The same age as my late husband.  And I just can’t even put into words how it feels.  I’ve tried with this entire essay.  I’ve written and deleted and re-written and it still isn’t coming out the way I want it to.

What I feel, more than anything, is a deeper connection to him.  And I didn’t think that was possible.  I feel like I have a better understanding of what he was facing, on all levels, in the final months of his life.

He’s been gone longer than we were together.  I’m now the age he will be forever.

So, my pledge to myself is to make 43 as life affirming as I can.  Take better care of myself.  Lose the weight.  Exercise. Wash my face before bed. Take the time to listen. Be more present.  For myself.  For my husband and children. Bask in joy, not sorrow.  Share myself in ways that bring me closer to what I feel is my true purpose – helping others.

With that, I think it can be a Happy 43.  We both deserve that.

Finding Me Again

 

It has been a long time coming.   From next year, to next month, to next week, to tomorrow.  It has been lingering in the back of my head and heart for years.  It came to a head about 6 days ago, where I just found myself sobbing at my dining room table while typing on my laptop.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.  I was spinning a lot of plates, but I didn’t know anymore where I was in any of it.  Mom.  Wife.  Attorney.  Writer.  Mental Health Advocate.  Visiting Professor.   Where was I in all of this?  My few years on the audition circuit for theater and TV gave me excellent training in looking like everything was ok.  But there were cracks.  People saw them.  I felt them deepening.

What I did know is that I didn’t wake up with the zest for the day I used to.  What I knew is that I didn’t have nearly the patience I usually had.  What I knew is that simple tasks were REALLY really difficult.  Was I a little bit (maybe even a lot) depressed?   You bet.  Did anxiety sometimes paralyze me to the point where I could sit and have 20 minutes pass and not know it?   Indeed.

Since giving birth to our twin boys almost 6 years ago, my work has been an ongoing conversation.  I have been a sole practitioner in the area of Assisted Reproductive Law since 2002.  It’s a unique and exciting and when things go right, fulfilling area of the law.  I help people become parents – what isn’t to love about that?  It’s a field full of compassionate, intelligent and beautiful (inside and out) people.  At my very worst, as a new widow, this field picked me up and gave me back my life.  I worked for it sure.  I gave it everything I had, and sometimes that was 24/7 for weeks on end, and sometimes it wasn’t so much, but my colleagues supported me in ways I will always be so grateful for.  Tears form in my eyes even typing those words.

As a soon to be mom, I couldn’t imagine a better job.  After having an office and realizing that most of the time I was in that office by myself because the vast majority of my clientele didn’t live near me, I adopted a home office approach.  It was the perfect scenario as a soon to be new mom.   I would take a couple months off when they were born, and then have a nanny to help  – and an amazing nanny we had until the boys were about 9 months old.  Then we were beyond lucky to find another amazing nanny to take over.  Mary Poppins came to save the day – and mommy – in so many ways.

What I hadn’t told many people is that I was served notice of a lawsuit two weeks before the boys were born.  Against me.  For millions of dollars.  What should have been the most amazing time of our lives was marred by this ridiculous turn of events.  And even though everyone told me I had nothing to worry about, and I knew that I did nothing wrong, it hung over me and us like a dark cloud for the first two years of the boys’ lives.  It was always there.  I worried about it all the time.  Even on the days it was just supposed to be “Mommy and Dudes Day” I found myself checking my phone constantly for updates.  As dates for motions and trial prep came closer, the anxiety and mood shifts I experienced were palpable.  It wasn’t fair.  It was heartbreaking.  I still ache for those years.

I prevailed.  The claims against me were dismissed.  But the damage was done.  As hard as I tried to dive back into my work, I couldn’t at the level I had before.  Before, I always, always saw the good in everyone.  Always gave them the benefit of the doubt.  The lawsuit against me changed that.

Several weeks after the lawsuit was dismissed we lost a dear friend to suicide.  The hole in my heart grew bigger.  Then, 7 weeks later, my father in law died suddenly.  And my heart shattered more.  The hits, they just kept coming. And, they continued.

I share all of this because it’s not surprising that it all finally came to a head (almost 4 years later) in the last few months.  Came to a head 6 days ago with me sitting at the dining room table and sobbing because I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted professionally anymore, or if I even WANTED to be a professional anymore.  What I wanted was those years back.  But life doesn’t work that way.  So I had to come up with the next best thing.

So after several heart to heart talks with my husband, we made the decision that I would close up shop.  I would stop practicing law and take some time to teach and write and find myself again.  As so many of us do, without even realizing it, I have ignored myself in a lot of this along the way.  I’m horrible at self-care, and I am now realizing what that has done to me over the last few years. Physically.  Emotionally.  Spiritually.

It was such a hard decision.  There has been a lot of self-doubt.  Delays.  Thinking that something else might work.  But the reality is that I need to take a step back.  Instead of looking at this decision as something that will limit me, I am choosing to look at it as something that will actually fully open me up.

There is a famous saying by John Burroughs: “Leap, and the Net Will Appear.”

Here is to leaping, full force, open armed and open hearted, ready to see where the net meets me.

23 Years Later …..

23 years ago. 23 years ago my life changed simply by grabbing someone’s arm in a line, waiting to get into a bar.  
Since today is my sister and brother in law’s wedding anniversary, it’s a day that’s always on the calendar. But my heart and my soul bring me back to it each year for different reasons.  

At 19 years old I could not imagine how this man would change my life. At almost 43, I am just so grateful for all of it. Life is a Festival of Disruptions (to borrow the words from David Lynch and his artist festival each year). Some take you higher you could have imagined.  Some so fiercely knock the wind out of you that you wonder if you will ever breathe again.  
When you are breathing again, you realize all of it is beautiful.  
Here is something I first wrote a few years back, as a Facebook post, updated for today: 
23 years ago today, I met my first husband, Greg, for the first time. The Cannery Restaurant, in my hometown. I was tipsy, having just come from my sister’s wedding and still in my bridesmaid’s dress which was also semi covered in groom’s cake (a giant chocolate mousse golf ball that I made). Greg was in a suit, and standing behind the wedding party and chatting a bit with some of the guys. When the bouncer told us we could jump the line, I grabbed Greg’s arm and pulled him in with us. When we were inside and ordering drinks at the bar I asked him if he had gone to college with my now brother-in-law. He said “I have to admit something. I am not part of your party. I don’t know any of you.” My response? “Well, you do now. Let’s dance.” And we did. To a cover of Don McLean’s American Pie.  
After that, we were together. From Feb 1994 until his death in May 2002, there was not a day where we did not speak or email (once email became available!) or communicate in some way. Even when we were mad and even when we were both taking some time and space to figure things out. Despite our age difference, despite being in completely different places in our lives, despite the fact I still lived at home with my parents for part of it, despite his soon to be apparent drinking problem and mental health issues, we were together. We were in love. There was nothing easier and nothing harder than loving my Greg.  
Not everyone understood it. Not everyone supported it. And I totally understand that. Some of it could only be explained by the two of us. We met plenty of obstacles and roadblocks and challenges along the way. But, at the end of every day what I wanted more than anything was for Greg to be healthy and happy. And, I believe if you asked Greg the same question he would say the same thing. For both of us.  
The last 11 years of processing his death and his place in my life have been a journey I would never wish on anyone. But, it has been extremely profound for me. It has altered my thinking, my tolerance, my priorities. It has taken away a lot of my fear. People wonder why I still write about Greg; why he still holds this place in my life. My answer? I grew up with him. It was wonderful and messy and fantastic and painful. He was a part of me. When someone loses a limb to disease or accident or war, they often speak of the “phantom limb” – knowing the leg is gone but still feeling it there. I understand that fully.  
When he died, he left me beautiful letters. A treasure trove of memories. A heart full of love and longing. Grief. Painful, life altering grief. And that, ironically, may have been his greatest gift. For as we know, grief is the price we pay for love. And I would never change loving Greg.   
He also left me a Sonnet by Pablo Neruda. I read it at his memorial service in CO and had our dear friend, Ellen, read it at his service in CA. I continue to hold Greg dear, and I continue to write about him because his song is important. And because he taught me so much of what I know about love. I can love because of him. I can be a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, because of him. 
Pablo Neruda, Sonnet LXXXIX
When I die I want your hands on my eyes:

I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands

to pass their freshness over me once more 

I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny. 
I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep,

I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you 

to sniff the sea’s aroma that we loved together, 

to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.

I want what I love to continue to live, 
and you whom I love and sang above everything else 

to continue to flourish, full flowered:
so that you can reach everything my love directs to you, 

so that my shadow can travel along in your hair, 

so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

Thoughts After the Election –

I am currently teaching a graduate level Child Welfare Policy class. My students are a diverse and extremely intelligent and compassionate bunch – and in the spring they will gradate with a Masters in Social Work (MSW) or Masters in Public Policy (MPP). If we were going to run a census on my class, we would find they are Black, Latino/Latina, White, Native American, Asian, Armenian, Christian, Catholic, Buddhist, Muslim, LGBTQ, Students with Disabilities and that is still an incomplete list.  Did I mention they are a diverse group?  And then there is me.  A straight, white, Episcopal raised, question everything, lawyer teaching a policy course.  

We meet twice a week and our focus is Child Welfare Policy.  These are students interning and working in the community with high risk populations and children in need.  In need of stability, of family, of love, of understanding.  Like me, my students feel.  All the feelings.  It takes a special person to want to go into this type of work.  It’s high stress, but not high pay.  Of course it’s rewarding when things go right.  It’s heartbreaking when things go wrong.

I’m not gonna lie, when I started the course, I was pretty sure it was going to be my roughest teaching experience yet.  I’m not teaching my area of expertise – experience, sure, but not what I feel most confident teaching.  And, I am a lawyer.  Teaching soon to be counselors and social workers.  Believe me, I get that dynamic after years in Children’s Court.  For the first few weeks I was pretty convinced I was failing them in every possible way.   I contemplated quitting.  But I am not a quitter, and I knew that I was chosen to teach this class for a reason, even though I wasn’t sure what it was.  Now, I’m pretty sure I was put in this class, with these students, because I needed to learn a few things too.  If I am totally honest, I think they have taught me far more than I have taught them.

We met the day of the election, November 8, and there was definitely a different vibe in the room.  This election cycle was a circus, and I don’t think anyone can deny that.  And there was plenty of criticism to go around both sides.  We all recognized that.  We left class knowing that when we met again on November 10, the world would be a different place, no matter who won.

On November 10, the air was thick with feelings I still can’t quite describe.  And, so, I decided to do the only thing I really know how to do when things are stressful or scary or causing anxiety or uncertain – I talk.  About feelings.  And where we are.  What we can do.  Where we go from here.  I sort of went into Survivor After Suicide Loss co- facilitator support group mode.  I told my students I knew a lot of them were upset.  Scared.  Not knowing what it all meant.  So I asked them to write down what they did think, feel, wonder about the results we were facing.  And we spent an hour talking about them.

Frankly, since I am teaching a policy course, I couldn’t think of a better use of our time than to discuss how policy COULD change over the next four years, for better or for worse, and how we feel about all of it.

There has been a lot of “get over it” lobbed across the aisles this week.  And I guess in sharing this, what I want to make clear is this is not about not accepting a loss.  It’s not about arguing the validity or non validity of the election or results.  It’s about people having legitimate reactions to how this new administration could impact their lives and the lives of their children and their families.

So, if you have come this far, I ask that you continue to read knowing these are people I share space with every single week.  These are real people, with real thoughts and fears and feelings about everything that is happening right now, in this country.  And it’s not about red or blue.  It’s about respecting each other and knowing that even when we have a difference of opinion, we can still treat each other with respect and kindness.

This isn’t posted to argue or to debate, but to simply try to put yourself in another’s shoes.  To understand.  I am thankful to my students for allowing me to share this here.

Thoughts on the Election – November 10, 2016

 

  • I’m so scared for LGBTQ people – especially children

 

  • I am most concerned with the uncertainty we face. The words that were spoken during this campaign can’t be unsaid and I worry that radical policies will come out of this administration. And, even if they don’t, we are still broken.

 

  • I’m really worried about this Presidency traumatizing people.

 

  • Should I bother having children? Everything is shit.  Why bring in a new life?

 

  • I am afraid for my safety as a woman of color. Also, I am afraid for all marginalized communities (LGBTQ, immigrants, Muslims, etc).

 

  • Everyone will have different reactions to the election result – Quiet, Angry, Sad  and I’m not really sure how I feel. Kind of numb.  Haven’t reacted yet.  I don’t know

 

  • I feel like I truly don’t know anyone anymore. I am afraid to interact with my peers, because it hangs in the air that we may have very different core beliefs and opinions.

 

  • I fear people may make assumptions about me and think I support Trump and hold me as an enemy because I am a white woman.

 

  • I am anxious about having to live in constant fear to see how it all plays out each day over the next four years and beyond.

 

  • I am lost because my church has promoted a view different than I hold.

 

  • I am very angry because those I held as friends are indifferent and I don’t know how to not hold that against them.

 

  • My mom voted for Trump and I really resent that.

 

  • I am as concerned, if not more concerned that conservatives control the House, Senate and Presidency, as I am that more than 50 million people voted for someone who has said such hurtful things.

 

  • Fearing for the mental well being of my cohort and our ability to work towards change while living in fear.

 

  • I worry about deportation of family members

 

  • What political power does he have as an individual to make changes?

 

  • He has no experience – what does this mean when it comes to such BIG decisions?

 

  • Hatred, discrimination, racism, sexism, ageism, etc. How much worse can it get?

 

  • Where does this election result leave us as social workers?

 

  • White privilege has proved to be paramount to misogyny

 

  • Concern that the most vulnerable groups will be negatively affected through erosion of the social safety net.

 

  • Having to re-evaluate the company I keep now.

 

  • Fear of increased racism due to Donald Trump normalizing it and the openness of hate groups supporting him.

 

  • I’m thinking about my undocumented relatives and friends. I can see/feel what they are going through, but I can’t do anything.

 

  • I am afraid for my family and many others that can be torn apart.

 

  • I can’t believe there is so much hate in this country. I don’t understand how people can support someone like Trump.

 

  • I am afraid for my family and my community.

 

  • I am afraid my family will be torn apart.

 

  • Do we sever relationships with those who voted for Trump? Am I supposed to believe they endorse his beliefs? Am I supposed to believe they are showing their true colors/beliefs by voting for him?

 

  • I’m scared to be in an interracial relationship for BOTH of our safety.

 

  • I fear this country will not be stable for the upcoming years (eg, riots, safety, living in constant fear).

 

  • Fear for undocumented immigrants who now live with a great sense of uncertainty/instability in their future.

 

  • Fear. Disbelief. I feel like I have been sheltered by living in CA and feeling the full force of hatred, racism, sexism and more now.

 

  • Fear of Affordable Healthcare being taken away from family and the lower socio economic status communities

 

  • I’m scared for many things with Trump being President. As a woman, I fear that rape culture will continue and that Planned Parenthood will lose funding and women will lose their rights to reproductive health, and all the repercussions that come with that.

 

  • Scared that we have lost all ability to see each other as people – as friends and family and colleagues who might have a difference in opinion, but that doesn’t make either of us inherently bad.

 

  • I just don’t understand how people don’t understand why I am upset and why I am not allowed to be upset. This isn’t about “my” candidate not winning, it’s about what this all says about humanity.

 

  • Scared for the environment – what this means for our protected lands and water and air. Even if you don’t believe in big government, it seems like having clean air and water and regulations and policies to ensure that would be welcome.

 

  • As a mixed immigration status family, I fear for my undocumented parents, my sister and brother who have DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) , aunts and uncles who are undocumented. I fear that my family will be separated by a border.

 

When Words Do Matter 

I am not a prude. Anyone who knows me well knows that swear words and nudity and sex aren’t things I rail against. Frankly, I think we’d be doing a lot better society wise if we loosened up around sex and tightened up around violence.
So, it surprised many of my friends, and, to be honest, even surprised me, when on Friday the hot mic tape of Donald Trump made me feel physically sick. It actually made me cry. And then it made me angry. More angry than any of the other idiotic things he’s said or done over the last year plus (seriously, doesn’t this feel like the longest circus ever?).
Some questioned why I, one who rarely gets offended by anything, was so offended by this. After all, it was just boys being boys. It was just locker room banter – all the guys talk like that when they get together. Right?
So I wrote about it. All of it. And just as I was about to hit “post” the entire thing disappeared. Literally, poof and away into the ether. Gone. I don’t know what I did, or what I hit on my phone, but lesson learned – when writing a really personal post for Facebook, draft it in a program and copy and paste it when you are ready to post. Because losing it all is beyond frustrating. But losing all the words also made me wonder if the universe was telling me to be quiet. To let it be. Just stay silent. No good will come out of telling this story.
So, I had to really think about it. Did I want this story, this slice of my life, to be out there for my friends and family and potentially a lot of other people to see? Once you post on social media, you can’t go back. Is that what I wanted?
Tonight I decided it did need to be out there. For a lot of different reasons. But mainly because I do believe we stay as sick as our secrets. And secrets never help anyone. And secrets make you tired. And they have a way of catching up with you, at the least opportune times, just when you think you don’t have to visit them anymore.
I want my blog and my Facebook page to be as authentic as can be. So, I’m putting it out there. And bracing for the commentary.

 

Below you will find my best re-writing of what I wrote on Saturday, October 8, 2016, for my blog page, https://www.facebook.com/mamalawmadingdong/.
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I try my best not to get political on this page. Politics seem to create such divisiveness today, and I really want to promote love here. But I also want this page to be an authentic representation of me and my experiences. So, I decided that this was something I needed to share. Because words do matter. In myriad ways. And that is something that Trump and countless others need to learn.

When I was 19, I was accepted into a writing program at UC Berkeley. At the time it was a program you had to apply to, and when I received my acceptance letter, I was beyond thrilled. All I wanted to do was write. And travel to where the news was happening and write about what I saw from a human perspective. I wanted to cover it all. War, famine, political revolution. I wanted in.
When I made my plans to travel up to Berkeley to meet with the admissions and program counselors, as well as professors and to tour the campus, I didn’t think twice, nor did my parents, about staying with a family friend we had known for years in his condo in the area near Berkeley. He had always been the big brother I never had, had always been so protective of me, and I’d always felt safe in his presence.
After meeting with the heads of the program and touring the campus and learning more about the program and my place in it, I could not have been more excited. I was going to spend the next two years surrounded by some of the most brilliant minds and writers around. It was all perfect. I remember thinking “this is where my life really begins. Where I am going to start to do amazing things and make a difference.”

My friend insisted we celebrate with a nice dinner downtown and since I wasn’t yet of legal age to drink and didn’t have my fake ID (it had been confiscated earlier at a local bar in my hometown), I ordered my standard Arnold Palmer and he ordered a 1/2 a bottle of wine and told me I could steal a few sips as we toasted to my future. After the drinks were ordered I got up to wash my hands and when I came back my drink was on the table and his wine was poured.

And, that is all I remember.

I woke up the next morning, naked, in his bed, with a raging headache and knowing he’d had sex with me. And see that? Even now I can’t call it rape. I could barely type the word right there.
My dress was thrown on the floor and it was ripped. It took me several minutes to get my bearings and to stand up. When I did, this “friend” – this person I looked up to like a brother – looked at me and said “I had such a great time last night. I’m hoping you did too – but you were passed out for most of it.”

And I barely made it to the bathroom before I vomited.
I was supposed to be there another two days, and I could not get out fast enough. I know I was screaming and crying and he was telling me to calm down and lighten up. And when I said “you had sex with me (see, again, couldn’t even say rape then either) while I was passed out – and I don’t even know how or why I was passed out” he looked at me, in the coldest tone ever, and said “Katie, you spent the entire day with me. You came TO STAY with me. You willingly came to my house. Who’s going to believe you?”
I believed him. Who would believe me? That was the first time I knew that terrible things could happen and you could swallow them up and hide them – simply out of fear of being put on trial yourself.
So I left. I called a friend in San Francisco and took a cab to her place. She knew something was totally amiss, but I just kept saying I was fine. Just tired. Needed a change of scenery. Another shower to get the feeling of filth and violation off of me.
Two weeks later I’d find out he infected me with an STD. I dealt with it alone, too embarrassed and ashamed to let anyone know. I cried all the time.
What happened that night (and I still don’t know what fully happened, and that’s the absolute worst part of all), changed everything for me. It stole my dreams and my goals and my hopes. HE stole my dreams and my goals and my hopes. Soon I was making excuses to my parents and friends about why I decided to pursue a degree at UCLA and not enroll in the very program that just a few weeks earlier I could not stop talking about. I studied acting for a bit in high school and college, and that training allowed me to be a mess in private and together in public. People questioned why the sudden change in trajectory. I had an answer for everything. An answer. But not the truth.

That night changed the entire trajectory of my life.

 

So when I listened to the so called “locker room” hot mic tape, it made me sick. Not because he said tits or pussy. Please. It’s not the words on their own.
It’s because he thinks that because of who he is, he’s entitled to something that doesn’t belong to him. Whenever he wants.

 

Trump: Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything.

“You can do anything.”

How many women did he grab, simply because he thought he could. He wanted to, so he did.

That sick mentality changed my life, forever, in 1994. That night changed everything. It changed me. I went from someone on the verge of realizing her passion and pursuing her dream career to someone totally unsure of herself.  I questioned everyone and everything.  Mostly I questioned myself.  All the damn time.

It’s taken me years to get back to my passion of writing. Where I once believed in people and trusted and was open with my heart, I became cynical and shut down. I was afraid. All the time.
Even sharing this now makes me nauseous. My parents don’t know about this. Most of my friends don’t know.   A handful of girlfriends from UCLA do, simply because I once had a panic attack during a fundraiser for a local rape crisis center. I had to explain why I was such a wreck.

My sons’ godmother, my sister from another mother, texted me after I sent her a draft of this, and she simply said “How, Kate, HOW DID I NOT KNOW?”  Shame.  A semi truck full of shame.  And then some.

 

I met the man who would become my first husband just a few weeks after this happened.  We spent a lot of time working through it and shed a lot of tears because of it.

What Trump said can’t be defended. It’s more than locker room banter. Especially at 59 years old.  This wasn’t some 8th grade hormone case trying to figure out when the envelope actually gets pushed.  It’s more than bragging about the “hot chick” you had consensual, both had a great time, sex with. This isn’t sharing some hot sex story with your friend (and let’s be honest – all men and women have done that a time or two. Had a great time with someone and spilled the beans to a friend the next day).
I’ll even go on record to say that most women would be even be a little bit happy to be referred to as “hot” or “beautiful” or “smokin.'”
That’s not what this is. Trump doesn’t see a woman. A name. A person with intelligence and talents and accomplishments.  He sees the one thing he wants to take. To kiss. To grab. And that’s the problem to me.  Assault.  That’s what it is whether anyone wants to admit it or not.

I was speaking with a dear friend about all of this when it broke. He, like me, questioned how anyone with children could even attempt to defend this. Defend him. I’m raising two sons. I take all of this very seriously.
Imagine, he said, the following conversation and think about how ridiculous it really is:
Dad: ” Don’t treat women with disrespect.”
Son: “But dad, you voted for Trump.”
Dad: ” Yeah, but he’s only the most powerful person in the world. So that’s ok.”

I’ll leave it at that.

Reflections in the Mirror 

I have a mirror in my house that I pass by all the time, every day. I don’t even really recall the last time I used it for its actual purpose – to look at myself.  
But today, for a thousand different reasons, when I walked by, I stopped and actually stared at myself. Really stared. Not in a “look at those dark circles” or “wow my roots need touch up” or “really, a chin hair?!” kind of a way. Not anything like that.  
It was more of a staring in the mirror, who have you become and where is the person I used to know kind of way. Sad. Scary. Needed. Overdue.  

For a solid 5 minutes. Staring. At myself.  

It got me thinking about how this mirror even came to be. In 2006, I was 4 years into widowhood and had met the man who is now my husband. We had moved in together, but had no plans to marry. And this how I wanted it. My life was amazing.  

(As a funny aside, when I made the decision to move in with this man, I knew I had to take my deeply religious father out to breakfast and give him the news that his baby (at 32 years old) would be living in sin with a man she’d only known for 3 months and didn’t really know if she would ever marry. I was SO nervous to tell him this news. I mean, sure I was 32 and adulting pretty well, but he is my FATHER. There were strict boy rules in our house. So over omelettes at our favorite hometown breakfast joint, when he looked at me and said “You’ve been married. You’ve been widowed. You’ve gone to hell and back. Shacking up is the least of my concerns. I’m more worried about you living in Venice,” I knew it was going to be ok.) 

Back to the mirror. We had a long hallway in our apartment, and it lacked the “something” that I felt it needed. My sister had invited me to my niece’s annual Charity League Fashion Show and Silent Auction. As a debutante alum myself, I thought it would be a great way to spend an afternoon in a beautiful location with my sister and nieces.  

When I started touring the auction tables, a mirror, THE mirror, caught my eye. It was the perfect size for our place, and it was a great bamboo design and fit our beachy, seaside decor perfectly. It was valued at $200.  

Since my late husband’s death in 2002, I had been working and hustling and hustling and working to pay off debt he left behind and to get back on my feet. To save for my own place. To be able to pay my student loans. To go out with friends. Take vacations. 

At this auction, I was doing pretty well. $200 was doable. So I set my eyes on the mirror. I placed a first bid. $50. Increments of $50 from there.  

Again, just to set the stage, we are at a Charity League event in Newport Beach, California. Held at the Balboa Bay Club. That’s just to say, if we are being REALLY honest, the snoot factor can be palpable. It was present that day. It was very present. And, it didn’t bother me. Until it did.  

As I was standing near the mirror, checking out some other items, I heard another woman say that she was interested in the mirror. Then, her friend asked if anyone else was bidding on it, and she said this: 
“Yes. There’s a young woman bidding on it, but I’m not worried because I don’t really think she can afford it. She’s here as a guest, not a member.”  

I’ll let that sink in for a minute. 

 I don’t know how she came to this conclusion. Maybe because I didn’t wear a wedding ring? I wasn’t carrying a Gucci bag? I don’t really know. What I DO know is that with that statement, the starting gun went off. That lady had no idea who she was dealing with.  
GAME ON. That mirror? It’s MINE. 

I placed a bid. And just to really show her, I upped it by $100, instead of $50.  

She came back. I countered. It went on like this for what seemed like forever.  

Let’s recall the mirror was valued at $200.  

I wasn’t thinking clearly (I rarely do when I am so mad), and we just kept bidding instead of running the clock, which would have kept the price low, especially because we were the only two people bidding on this mirror.  (That tidbit has been filed in my brain for future auctions.)

Suddenly the alarm that signaled only a minute left for bidding was sounded. At this point, a few of my sister’s friends had seen this all go down and they were rooting for me. With 10 seconds left, I nabbed the pen and took my time writing my final, winning bid.  

One thousand, one hundred dollars. $1,100.00. Eleven hundred dollars.   For a mirror valued at $200. But it was mine. And for once in my life, I was able to write a check. I could afford it. I’d been to hell and back to afford it. And, it was for charity. 😂

Since that day there has been a running joke about the $1000 mirror. I couldn’t even tell my then shacking up with boyfriend, now husband, that I paid that much in a pissing contest over my pride. For a solid year he thought I paid $500 and he thought that was crazy. Then I accidentally spilled the beans re-telling the story. I’ll never forget the look on his face.   

The good news? The mirror looked perfect in the hallway. And in the home we moved to when I was pregnant. It looks fantastic in the new home we just moved to a few months ago. But it will always be the “Don’t Mess with Katie, $1100 Mirror.” 

So when I stopped to stare at myself in it today, I was struck by the reflection. I didn’t see that girl who wouldn’t let anyone assume anything about her. I didn’t see the girl who could and would tell anybody exactly what she thought of them or any other subject on this great green Earth.   I didn’t see a woman who was hustling and truly happy. A woman who was excited about what she was creating in her life. I saw a woman who was doing  her very damn best to put a smile on her face for everyone else – especially her kids – but was quietly dying inside and losing her spark. Not an easy thing to write. Not an easy thing to face.  

I’ve joked a lot with friends the last couple weeks about feeling like I am having a midlife crisis. Professionally speaking, I’ve never been so discontent. So out of place. Feeling like the bus left me at the station because our destinations didn’t match. I’m taking steps to change it up, but it’s scary. It’s terrifying, really. Because it’s not just me now, when I get to these places of discontent. I have a husband and two kids to think about. They are the dependable and on time source of joy for me, and my discontent with other aspects of life affects them. Sometimes, way too much.  

What I know is I want that girl back. The one who didn’t back down. The one who made things happen. The one who had the self confidence TO make things happen. I don’t know where she went the last few years. Life has a way of stealing time without you even really realizing it. Five minutes of reflection opened up a Pandora’s Box of I’ve got to get it together. 

What I know is that mirrors don’t lie. Especially the eleven hundred dollar ones.