That Lovely Ring of Truth

While shaving my head a few minutes ago (when's the last time you heard a woman say that?), I thought about my old therapist, for some reason. A couple of months ago, her daughter had called to tell me that she'd finally passed away of Alzheimer's.

I was a patient of this woman for about 18 years, right up until I could see that something was terribly amiss in her behavior about 10 years ago. I believe I've told my story about her here (I can't even remember my own posts anymore), but it isn't important in terms of my thoughts about her this morning.

It was her courage and fearlessness that popped into my mind, and how she taught me over the years to never really fear what was in my heart, no matter how dark it felt at any given moment.

No matter how distraught I could get over things in my life--past, present or future--MH always helped me face my fears head-on, particularly the ones I could have about my own sanity.

She seemed to embody a fundamental truth about life, which is that in the realm of emotions, there is nothing so dark that can't be faced, as when a truth is spoken, you truly are set free.

In that moment, one realizes that the agonizing torment of a particular situation doesn't really need a resolution at all, as when that spark of enlightenment, of insight, occurs, all things really do feel right again. For me, faith wasn't just restored; it was perhaps born for the first time--faith in the therapeutic process, faith in a power greater than myself, and faith--true faith--in another human being.

This was the wondrous feeling I'd so often get while driving home after a session. Never would I feel so relaxed, so at home in the world, as when I'd leave her office after an incredibly intense and satisfying therapeutic exchange. It was such a comfort, and so empowering, to feel that I no longer needed to cower, to appease, to ruminate, or to obsess in order to feel safe in a dangerous world. As time went by and my true self began to emerge (I actually began playing guitar and writing songs at age 35), it was as though an inner garden had sprung to life, and I was embarking at last on the journey of my becoming.

But then I was stricken with such pain and illness in '99 (at age 40). Everything I thought I knew shattered into a million pieces, and shattered even more in '05, when the pain took up round-the-clock surveillance of my soul, seeing just how much pressure it could exert before I cracked. It didn't take long.

So now I'm left wondering: All those strides I'd made with MH, all the new beliefs I'd developed, all the faith that lit my spirit, all the magic I'd feel from those mysterious "helping hands" that seemed to bring me exactly what I needed when I needed it...where did it all go?

Did these things just happen in my imagination? Did I really learn any fundamental truths at all? Yes, dark demons did get chased away by my courage and by my newfound faith in MH's therapeutic process and in a larger force at work in my life. But as I looked in the mirror at my new closely clipped head this morning, I wondered: Why can't I get rid of the demons now?

I suppose the world feels far more random to me these days, and far more unfair than I ever could have imagined. Still, if all things really are relative (another leap of faith), then surely there must be something I could apply to my physical state right now from the lessons I learned so many years ago about what restores health in the emotional realm.

OK, so when I stared down a fear, when I spoke the truth--no matter how painful that uttering might have been--something would give way, and a little bit of health would return effortlessly. Restoring my sanity didn't happen overnight, of course, but each step was built on a solid foundation, which provided sturdy and steady ground for what was to come next.

If indeed I'm on the right track with this line of thinking, what "physical" truth am I not facing right now? Well, for one thing, I suppose I've given up on taking care of myself. As the constant pain has worn my sense of hope down to a tiny nub, lighting that next cigarette, drinking that next cup of coffee (loaded with sugar, 'natch), or sipping that little bit of wine (not to mention popping the painkillers) has begun to feel like the only way I can feel just a tiny bit good again, if only for a minute.

But these things are bad for me (no matter how "moderate" I may or may not be), just like the lies I believed about myself so long ago. I can see now how much foul food was fed to my soul, so to speak, during my childhood, and when I purged it, my mental health seemed to take care of itself.

So I'm going to do an experiment. Tomorrow I'll be having a colonoscopy, which requires a liquid diet of me today. I have to go to the store to stock up anyway on juice and broth, so while I'm there, I'm going to pick up tons of fresh fruits and veggies...as many as I can carry...and practice a modified vegetarian/vegan diet for the next five days.

Not only will I remove caffeine, nicotine, alcohol and processed sugars from my plate, but I will add in things I don't usually eat, like fruit smoothies in the morning (with a scoop of whey protein).

If I say I'll do it for a week, I'll freak out, so let's keep it to five days.

I read an old acronym recently, using the word CARE, meaning circulation, assimilation, recreation and elimination...the four things we need to pay attention to in order to be healthy.

If I'm not giving my body the fundamental "truths" it needs to heal itself in these four areas, then how can I expect to ever get out of pain?

Of course, no amount of nutrition is going to cure my bone marrow disease or bring down my high platelet count (I don't think so, but who knows?), but I have to believe that I can at least purge a resistant infection, or cool down the wiring of wayward nerves with proper nutritional attention.

As my pal Tom mentioned this morning, "Action is always the answer," which had that lovely ring of truth. I could ruminate to death on the "meaning" of all this crap, inherent or otherwise, but at the end of the day, if it's to happen at all, it's action that will get me out of pain...something that will happen as a result of something I DO.

I will start this new eating plan tomorrow. I'll post results as they develop.


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Note: Pictures are random selections from my illustrated journal. They have nothing whatsoever to do with this essay. :)


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My Father, My Car and Michael Jackson

It's been over a month since my last post. During this time, my dad had a heart attack, which required a week in the hospital, then quadruple bypass surgery, which required another week, and now rehab, where he's been for seven days and will be there for seven more.

To call this a stressful period for both me and my family is an understatement. Of course, the stress caused by a parent suffering through a major health issue is a given for any adult child, but what I didn't expect was the resurfacing of major issues from my childhood, which, oddly enough, has given me great insight into the death of Michael Jackson, which also happened during this time.

In a sense, I wasn't at all surprised that my dad had the heart attack, as the week before, while visiting my parents for four days, my dad was raging. Even though I talk with my mom every day, I hadn't visited them much during the spring as I was without a car, and as I have a 17-pound cat, transport to and from the Jersey shore on mass transit was just too problematic, so I wasn't aware of how bad the rages had become.

As I was struggling one week looking through the classifieds to find a used car I could afford, my dad made the extraordinary offer of buying me a completely new car, so I purchased a $13K Hyundai Accent, which was thrilling, as this was the first time in my life to own a brand new vehicle.

Over the course of my life, the way my father has so often showed his love for me has been via my cars. Before my parents sold their suburban home and moved to a garden apartment at the beach, whenever I'd visit, my dad would lavish my vehicles with the type of attention and interest that he found too difficult to express to me personally. My visits to their home often resulted in my car getting washed and waxed, a new oil change, and a full tank of gas.

Even though conversations could be difficult, as his moods were always so unpredictable, I could frequently be assured that my car would leave the drive in fine shape, and as I got older, I realized that this was an act of love on his part, and I recognized it as such.

His behavior was often bittersweet in so many ways, as I'd always known that the guy would have taken a bullet for me, yet when it came to day to day matters during my formative years, he seemed to have a pathological need to criticize me, and it was beyond him simply wanting to live through his child, as many overly critical parents are wont to do. His criticisms often had a sadistic edge, where there was clearly a perverse type of pleasure in making me self-conscious or embarrassed concerning things I could do nothing about, like certain physical characteristics.

He would also often fly into rages over absolutely nothing at all, like me having "looked at him funny," which could mean the silent treatment for weeks at a time, or saying words that were just so hurtful that it was actually better for him to say nothing at all.

To detail all of the infractions would be just too painful to relive in this essay, and perhaps isn't even necessary, as the point is that no matter what our parents say to us while we're growing up, either good or bad, we're irrevocably shaped by these words, and if they're harsh, we can spend nearly all of our adult lives trying to unlearn the falsehoods we were taught about ourselves as kids.

This has certainly been the case for me, yet during the past ten years or so, my father had calmed down considerably due in large part to the onset of hydrocephalus, a condition whereby fluid accumulates in the brain and makes the patient very tired, forgetful and quiet. While this illness made me miss the part of my dad that could be so charming and funny (at least with others), I certainly didn't miss the verbal abuse, which could still rear its ugly head now and then, but not to the extent it once had. In a a weird way, this was a blessing, particularly for my mother, who cares for him solely.

Yet for some reason, in recent months, the rage seemed to resurface, and it was worse than ever. My mom attributes it to the election of Obama, who he hates, and his constant viewing of Fox News, which fans the flames of bigotry and hatred no matter how "fair and balanced" they say they are.

The week before his heart attack, I experienced this rage firsthand when I went to the shore to show my parents my new car. What should have been a joyous gathering to celebrate my swanky, new vehicle instead turned into a four-day diatribe against me, the likes of which I hadn't experienced since I was a girl. And just like what happened in my most innocent days, I was caught completely off guard, and felt devastated by the contempt and loathing directed at me for no reason at all.

The first day I was there was innocuous enough, but on the second, while watching television together, I asked him to hit the "info" button on the remote, and he screamed that he wasn't going to "hit every goddamn button just so that you can see the year the film was made!" He then threw the remote at me before storming off to his room for a few hours.

On day three, while Obama was making a speech, he began ranting about what a liar he was, a familiar tactic to bait me into a political conversation so that he could rail against liberals and minorities. (I now just walk away from these useless discussions, as he loathes liberals, of which I'm one.) And on day four, while my mother was visiting a sick friend in the complex and I was doing the dishes, he asked, "Why are you still here?" in the angriest of tones. The list could go on, but you get the idea.

By the time I left, I couldn't get out of there fast enough, so when I got a call from my mom the following weekend that he was in the ER with a heart attack, my knees buckled a bit (despite the abuse, I never want to hear that either of my parents is suffering), but I wasn't surprised at the news. None of us was.

As we began visiting him over the next few weeks, the old dynamic took root, and I could feel that old familiar depression set in, as he was so charming, sweet and funny with all the doctors and nurses, but absolutely vile to me and my mom. (He's somewhat calmer with my sister, my only sibling who's 16 years younger than me--the "surprise" baby of the family; he's always been closer to her as he had a much larger hand in her rearing. Still, she, too, has suffered at his hands, and bears similar scars as a result.)

The unkindest cut of all came on the day he was transferred from the hospital to rehab. After my mom and I spent four and a half hours with him this one particular morning, I suggested that she and I go home for awhile, then come back a few hours later.

In a sneer, he uttered, "Don't you want to be here?" I said, "Dad, we're just going to go home for a bit. We'll be back. Please don't be offended."

And with that, his face blew up into a tomato-red balloon, he showed his teeth, then raised both fists to my face. I don't even want to recount what he said next, but it's something no daughter should ever hear from her father. I was absolutely stunned, and on the way home with my mother, I said things I couldn't believe would ever come out of my mouth. My basic premise was that it would have been easier if he'd just died.

Not surprisingly, we didn't go back that day, and for the rest of the week, I didn't go visit him. My mom did, as did my sister, and both repeatedly said he owed me an apology. At first he growled, "I don't owe her a damn thing," and when my mom said at one point that I was still very hurt, he said, "Let her stew in it."

But as the days passed, I suppose he began to think about what he had said and done, and he begrudingly agreed that he owed me an apology. So I relented and went to visit him yesterday, and upon leaving, he said, "I'm sorry we had an argument." I had to laugh somewhat, as he didn't take responsibility at all for what he had done, but I knew that was the best I was going to get. I kissed him goodbye and said, "I just want to be friends, Dad. All I've ever wanted was a loving relationship with my father."

I could see he was uncomfortable with my comment, as his eyes darted around, and he mumbled something like, "Okay," but that was that, and I came home to my apartment, where I'm tending to my own life before I head back to the shore again in a few days.

What I'm left with now, of course, is keen insight into how I've been shaped by my father's behavior towards me all these years, and despite the decades of psychotherapy, I'm realizing that while my happiness is entirely my responsibility, the scars left from the psychological dismantling of my identity and self-esteem in childhood might never fully heal, and maybe that's okay, in a weird way. It all has made me a more compassionate, tolerant and open-minded person, and for this, I'm thankful, although I'd like to think I would have been this way anyway, without all the misery.

After Michael Jackson's death, so much information came out about his own father's treatment of him, which wasn't exactly news, of course, but the revelation of the depth of Jackson's torment was something I fully understood in a way I hadn't before. And to hear that he'd become such a pill addict was another uncomfortable identification with him, as these painkillers are still a monkey on my back, but I've developed a strange comfort with this creature, as sick a relationship as it may be.

After my surgery, I did begin to experience some pain-free days (even without the hyperbaric treatment, which Medicare declined anyway), but with all the emotion stirred by this recent debacle (and the descent back into bad habits, like smoking), I've been holding onto the pills tighter than I perhaps ever have.

The emotional trauma set the pain off again to a searing level, and during the 48 hours after my father's outburst, I literally could not stop shaking or crying. I was in such a rage myself that I swore I'd never speak to him again, but I soon realized the destructive power of holding onto anger, and upon the advice of my friend Paul, I began to pray for my dad, and slowly, the rage did begin to lift.

Instead, I began to feel compassion for him, wondering what in the world had happened to him in his own childhood that created this Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde personality. In talking with my cousin, who is close to my dad's age, family stories have begun to surface that are dark and cold, and it's clear that the cycle of abuse is a mysterious beast indeed.

Last night, after I came home from the shore, I had dinner with my dear friend Lynda, and after catching up on news about our own lives, we began to discuss the tragedy of Michael Jackson, particularly about the connection between his father, his plastic surgery and his pill addiction.

At one point, Lynda told me that upon hearing of Jackson's demise, she couldn't help but worry about me and my own painkiller abuse, as there were such parallels between Jackson's story and my own, albeit without the plastic surgery (not that I haven't considered it over the years, but I've never been able to afford it; plus, I knew there was much more to learn by not doing it).

When she said this, there was that pregnant pause between friends when an uncomfortable truth is uttered, and I did indeed feel a chill. As I've pondered Jackson's death these past weeks, I keep thinking, "Why didn't you get help? Why did you use the pills to squash your sadness and anger, and why couldn't you get off them? Why did you let your father's words destroy you?"

It's easy to ask these questions of another person, but not so easy to ask them of ourselves. I do ask them, of course, but that doesn't stop the next pill, the next cigarette, the next glass of wine or the relentless pain in my face and jaw. It's all a recipe for disaster and death, made all the more real by Jackson's untimely self-induced passing, and by the memory of my dad's fists in my face, and the outburst of words that can never be taken back.

I can't let him destroy me.


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Soul Paralysis

Timing is surely a perplexing thing. Yesterday, I decided to clear off some outdated papers hanging on my fridge, and one was an old schedule of my flamenco teacher, Victorio, who's now teaching in a new location.

What was under it was a message I received almost two years ago from self-help author Gay Hendricks of The Hendricks Institute in reply to a question I'd sent about the spiritual nature of chronic physical pain to hear what he had to say about it.

I was in a very challenging state of mind at the time, angry at God and at a world that no longer made sense to me, for absolutely nothing I was reading was providing any solace at all for my wounded soul and for the spiritual debacle of my aching jaw and face, which back then was scoring an 11 on a 10-point pain scale.

As I was on the institute's email list (and still am), I decided to put Gay in the hotseat in response to the its current newsletter at the time, as he and his wife, Kathlyn, always seem to have such a clear point of view on all matters of the heart and soul. I thought for sure he'd have nothing to say to me (why should he when no one else did?), and I'm quite certain there must have been an angry tone to my question (which unfortunately I can't precisely recall).

In reading his words yesterday and this evening, they make far more sense to me now then they did back then, when I wrote him off as just another nut who was out to blame the victim, for right from the start, he shared a life challenge of his own (weight issues in his youth), noting that his healing began when he realized "I was the source of my reality."

At first it was difficult to equate a weight problem and chronic pain, for the former seemed controllable to me (you can decide what you put in your mouth, which sounds unfairly simple, I'm aware) while the latter was out of the patient's hands. (How does one take personal responsibility for a bone marrow disease?)

But in reading his words again more carefully, something is resonating for me this time around.

He told me a short story of how he'd been obese since birth, and that his weight problem seemed to be genetic in origin, so he could have easily disowned it. But he had an insight in his 20s (when he was 100 pounds overweight), which was that he chose at that moment to be the source of the problem, and once that occurred, he began to lose the weight and has stayed slim ever since.

"It's the act of choosing to claim the source of the issue that liberates the healing energy," he said. "It's when you align your consciousness with it and say, 'This is me. This is happening in me. I'm obviously making it up because where else would it be coming from?' That's when the magic begins to happen."

At the time, these words just sounded kooky, hollow and abstract, for what did he mean by "source"? It rang of self-help jargon, for surely there was no question that the pain was IN me, but how was I "making it up"? Still, I kept a print-out of his words, where they became buried on the fridge until now.

And so I've been thinking about it. In a recent post ("The Wait Is Over"), I talked about embracing the pain as a part of me--not something to be waited out or wished away, but rather recognizing it as an essential part of the journey that has made me all I am today...a person I've come to like, actually. A lot.

And then I began to think about the "source" of this pain--of all pain in my life, not just the physical--and I could see how much I've absorbed the strengths and weaknesses of my relatives, for good or bad, and how I've embodied, in particular, the awful truths they've believed about themselves.

When you're a kid, your parents are who they perceive themselves to be because of their own upbringing, and you accept them as that, just as you accept the perceptions they have of you as absolute truth. And it dawned on me that, despite years of therapy, the scars I carry from the harrowing, constant criticisms are actually still open wounds to a degree.

When I was a child, any time I bravely expressed any individuality, there was some dark force that seemed to be lying in wait for me to take that chance so that it could seize the opportunity, almost ravenously, to denigrate, mock and ridicule. It hurts me to even remember this, because I can feel a twinge of fear that all those comments about me were actually true (words I find hard to repeat here, as they still hurt so much).

I've had to learn to detach myself from them and realize that my loved ones were so insecure themselves, and that it must have given them (my dad in particular) a sense of great and much-needed power to hurt and manipulate a defenseless child.

I could sit here and plague myself with questions as to why he did this--why anyone would feel a need to destroy instead of build up the foundation of my personality--but they can never be answered, really.

The only thing I can do is tend to the scars, and claim my fears now as strictly my own, not coming from any outside source. They're within me, and it's up to me to own them, and to realize it's me who's choosing to not let them go.

Why? Well, again it's just history repeating in a brain loop that I must somehow learn to interrupt.

I'm not on any pain medication today, so I've been asking myself why I haven't gone down to my studio to work on the new paintings I'm so thrilled about, and the answer is clear. I want to forge ahead with this thrilling work, much like I did as a child, when I joyously wanted to venture into a world of discovery and chance.

Back then, though, these forays were met with sadistic criticism, and my disappointment was profound, even crushing. I suppose it's not big leap to see my fear that any stabs I make at individuality, fulfillment and success will be met with terrible disappointment, and so I freeze in a temporary state of soul paralysis where I simply don't move, literally.

Yet I'm aware that if I don't start taking some real chances here, healing on any level won't happen for sure.

I'm afraid that a pain-free, pill-free world will be stark, scary, disappointing, and perhaps worst of all, boring. That might surprise some people, as I seem to be all about adventure and creativity and putting myself out there. But have I really?

Today is a clear-headed day, and the pain is low to moderate. Will I be so open to these thoughts when caught again in the vice of crushing pain? I'm always optimistic that the most recent attack will be my last, but realistically, I'll be confronted with the beast again, I know. Will Gay's words resonate then?

I can't think about this anymore. Where's the remote?


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The Pendulum Of Consciousness

Some interesting developments with my hematologist. He attended a conference a week or two ago about a very rare and very underdiagnosed genetic mutation that he thinks I might have. It's hard to fathom that anything could be rarer than my current diagnosis (essential thrombocythemia), but apparently one exists, and I might be a likely candidate.

Mind you, in all of Europe and North America, there's only about 7,000 diagnosed cases, so my chances of being one of them is akin to winning the TriState Lotto, but if anyone is going to have this thing, it could well be me, as "rare" is my CB handle all things health-related.

Not only do I have a rare blood disorder, but I've had even rarer complications, which has led many a practitioner to say there's "something else going on" with me, as nearly everything I've suffered with has been something a doctor only reads about in medical textbooks. As my GP has often said, "no one actually gets these things," and both he and my hematologist have never seen a patient like me in their combined 60 years of practice.

Called Paroxysmal Noctornal Hemoglobinuria (I still don't have it memorized), it's a condition that causes the exact types of clots I've endured, even down to their location, and explains a patient's inability to heal from infection (hence the trouble in my jawbone), among other things.

My doc has told me not to get too excited that this could be me, but I told him that as disappointment hasn't killed me in the past, why stop the optimism now? We're going to do the test the Monday after Thanksgiving, and odds alone would suggest slim chances for diagnosis, but hey--it's nice to live in hope for once.

In fact, this feeling of hope truly has buoyancy. Even though these posts often sound so glum (because, well, I often am), I tend to have a curiously buoyant spirit, even in the worst of times. People who don't read my blog would most likely be surprised to know of what I endure on a daily basis, as my interest in life, and especially my work, can sometimes eclipse anything else I'm feeling in that moment, even pain (although to be honest, that's rare).

This was noted to me by my life coach, Nancy Colasurdo, this week, who's one person in particular who witnesses these extremes. In the evening, she'll read about a particularly bad day I'm having, yet upon meeting the next day about my goals, I'll get so fired up about my dreams and visions that it's hard for her to reconcile these two seemingly disparate states.

Mind you, no matter what I'm feeling, I still dress up in some swanky or nutty outfit almost every day, the impression of which must surely be a curious one. Lately, not only have I been sporting a shaved head, but also a fabulous Marc Jacobs coat that I got for a steal on eBay, along with an aviator's cap that Nancy applauded as yet another stunt I'm "getting away with."

I must admit that I, too, can be baffled not just by my overly harsh life experience, but also by the joy I can still feel in spite of it. As Nancy recently mentioned, she can only imagine what I'd be like without all the pain and pills. If I can get as much done as I do in this painful, drugged state, just think of what I could do pain-free and alert.

Of course, there's a good chance that I'd just watch more television, but with this looming possibility of a better diagnosis and a new cutting-edge treatment, I actually feel a twinge of fear and excitement at the thought of a ball-and-chain-free life. This pain and fatigue weighs me down so much that in the same way one's arm seems to float after intense downward pressure is lifted, I fear I'd instantly launch into a full-body orbit once these pressures were removed.

Occasionally, I do have a spectacular day, when I awake feeling healthy and pain-free, and I suddenly remember what it feels like to be 15 years old again. I'm looking through the eyes of someone who doesn't even think about her body, and I can assure you, it's heavenly.

If I am diagnosed with PNH (let's just go with the short version), my doctor told me that the treatment will cost...drum roll...$365,000 per year! Upon seeing my face after telling me this, he quickly followed up with an even more staggering fact; that the government will actually pay for it. I'm not sure which part of that equation is nuttier--the cost of the medication itself or the government's willingness to value the life of one citizen that much. I suspect it's all part of this new research, but whatever the reason, I'm grateful.

Of course, I'm not even diagnosed yet, but it's so like me to get so far ahead of myself, which is why I hired Nancy in the first place.

I do need to stop thinking about it, though, as it all seems too good to be true. To anyone reading this, please say a prayer for me that when they do the test, whatever result they get will be the correct one, and that whatever that result is, I'll be able to handle it, for either answer will swing the pendulum of my consciousness to the extreme.

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Life In The Penumbra

Today is Sunday, and I woke up feeling somewhat better. I took some Xanax yesterday, which scares me as benzodiazapenes have the potential of permanently scarring the brain, but drugs in the Valium family are known for their pain-relieving properties for facial pain. I don't have the same addiction issues with Xanax as I do with opiates--for some odd reason, addiction to that drug has never set in. I use it sparingly as I'm so leery of it, but what relief it can bring, even a small dose.

I tend to flog myself when I resort to any type of pain meds, thinking that I should be stronger in character to overcome things through mental means, but that's just as nuts as taking too much of something. The cliche "happy medium" comes to mind here--a concept I should perhaps consider more, if that's even possible for an addict.

I got up around nine, and after making my morning coffee, I popped on the TV, and there was that History Channel show again about the plague in Europe in the 1350s. As it has before, this show gives me great comfort, because it's a story about human suffering on an unimaginable scale--a story that was recorded with the written word (as opposed to similar human die-offs like the peoples of Central America who succumbed to European diseases in the 1500s).

It reinforced the notion that the scale of human suffering can vary wildly. Some go through life with the ordinary trials and tribulations of the human condition, while others suffer in such grotesque ways that we avert our eyes, as such unfairness is unthinkable.

Perhaps this is the reason for the current popularity of the philosophical/spiritual concept of the Law of Attraction, which seems to be taking root everywhere. While this idea has been around for ages, current books like "The Secret" have become red-hot bestsellers as they offer people a greater sense of control over what happens to them if they can just "vibrate" and visualize differently in their thoughts and actions. They have faith that if they expect more of life, they will get it, and surely there is some wisdom in this.

When one stops and thinks about it, it really should come as no surprise that this "law" contains such truth, as the evidence for it is all around us. We all know someone who had an ideal upbringing and marches into their adulthood having a natural love of themselves and others. They often find love and success early in life, and clearly it's because they're unencumbered by the baggage that plagues the person who suffered horrendous abuse in childhood, be it emotional, physical or sexual.

When survivors of these diabolical ravages begin to come of age, their view of the world and of themselves is grossly distorted, and much of their energies, if not all of it at times, is spent trying to repair the damage that never should have occurred in the first place. Yet at the same time, they must also embark on developing the survival skills that any human needs so that take can care of themselves and their families (provided they have the emotional stability to even have a family), and to lead an independent life.

For these folks (myself being one), the Law of Attraction provides a new hope and a clear map towards a better existence, whereby we can consciously tap into the power of expectation, which seems to come so easily to the products of happy childhoods.

Yet there is also a grave danger in thinking this law so absolute, for when bad things happen to good people, we can easily slip into the "blame the victim" mentality. If a child is kidnapped and killed, parents can wonder where their thinking went wrong that allowed this to happen. If we are felled by a disease that causes lifelong crippling, we can blame ourselves that we didn't visualize hard enough to prevent this terrible event.

I suppose my point is that there are limits to everything, and that there are no absolute truths in life, for if there were, we would indeed have complete control over everything that happens to both us and the ones we love just by creating a pretty picture in our heads.

A few years ago, I had a lovely friendship with a woman, Elle, who actually started out as a fan of my music. We had a long discussion over dinner one evening about my work and about art in general, and I attempted to explain what art was for me, and that I knew it when I created it.

I said that the click happened when my song was somehow able to encompass a broader statement about life than what was there on the surface. If it was a happy tune, there was also an aching sadness just below the surface, and if it was a sad song, there was a foundation of hope somewhere deep inside it.

Elle (who has a massive IQ) explained it much better. She said that art and music like this exists in the "penumbra" (which Webster's defines as "a space of partial illumination between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light") and that this is the area in which the Supreme Court grapples with its decisions in order to find truth. It's never precisely in one location, but rather in the grey area between light and shadow.

I never forgot her explanation, as I'd discovered this heady concept all on my own in my dogged attempts to write something so seemingly simple as a pop song. It's wonderful when humans from such varied backgrounds can come to such similar conclusions via completely different routes.

I don't see Elle as much these days, as she's suffering greatly herself, only her trial is full-blown multiple sclerosis, and she's attempting, quite valiantly, to find her own comfortable place in the penumbra.

For both of us, the shadows in our lives are quite dark indeed. But I like to believe that it's in such a state of darkness that any light is best seen, provided we choose to open our eyes.

In a world where there seems to be no absolute truths right now, I suppose that's one truth I can count on.

Hope springs eternal.


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Popping Mad

Oh, man. Today is really bad. There's just something about this pain that is so debilitating, so crushing to the soul. I tell people it's like someone injected acid into my face and jaw, and lemme tell ya, it's hard to imagine at the moment what could be worse in this life.

Perhaps there are equivalents, like losing a child or being unjustly imprisoned for years, but as far as I know, this particular type of jaw/face pain (also known as atypical trigeminal neuralgia) is the only condition on Wikipedia called "the suicide disease," as sufferers find it so unbearable, and ultimately become despondent and suicidal because it's so untreatable.

In fact, that Wikipedia entry is truly the best description I've read so far of what I suffer through, and believe me, I've read plenty.

I know there are unconventional things I've yet to try to find relief, but frankly, I'm exhausted. Plus, life goes on; I need to earn money to stay afloat (disability doesn't cover my expenses), bills need to be paid, obligations must be met. And there are those days or weeks when the pain just isn't so bad, and I enjoy simply living my life. The last thing I want to do during these periods is make an appointment at that swanky pain clinic. I want to paint, or hang with friends, or buy shoes, or visit my nieces!

When things are bad, though, after so many years of this ordeal the idea of making even more appointments and telling the whole story all over again--with full knowledge that absolutely all of my previous efforts have been in vain--is just torturous. It's certainly easier to just pop pills and forget about it all for awhile--to drift off into a temporary Utopia where the darkness isn't quite so black.

I don't have any pills right now, though. Damn! I want to just check out; go watch "House" reruns and pop pills whenever House does. I want that smooth feeling to come over me that everything is going to be okay, or better, that everything is okay. I want the pain to lift just a bit (it never goes away completely), so that I can sigh and maybe take a nap.

Instead, I sit here wrapped as tight as a drum, wondering how any creator could have screwed things up so completely to have this condition even exist.

Sometimes people say to me, "Everything happens for a reason."

"Oh, really?" I respond (just in my mind, of course). "Let's hear you say that while I slice your skull with this machete."

I don't even know what I mean by that other than I'm obviously pissed and upset and sick to death of that irritating concept called "spirituality."

I suppose if I had a boyfriend or husband, my workload in finding a cure would be divided. But every responsibility of my life is on my shoulders and my shoulders alone. Normally, I actually enjoy this and rarely even think about it. But when I really need help of the more dire sort, I'm acutely aware that I'm in this by myself, and it's up to me to do it all--to seek out the treatments, make the appointments, find transportation, then follow whatever program is laid before me.

For years now, it's all been paid for with credit. Yes, money is another issue.

My friends in recovery encourage me to call someone when I'm suffering, but sometimes calling friends or family is worse because no one knows how to advise. No one has dealt with anything even close to this, and I actually feel bad for them that I can sometimes be so inconsolable. It gets frustrating for us both when every suggestion they make is something I've tried, and while this often makes me sound negative, I'm basically just reporting the facts.

Ultimately, I end up doing a faked cheerfulness before I get off the phone, just so that they don't feel so bad.

It's just way easier sometimes to sit back and start popping. Sometimes friends say, "But you could die from those pills!" Trust me--I'm not clinically depressed when I say, "Yeah? And?" The only reason I don't check out is that there's so much of the good life I've yet to live. I know it exists--I've seen it in movies.

I dunno. I gotta find some pills. This is just awful.

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