I Am Healthy

It is amazing to be able to say that! I will say it again, "I am a whole, happy, healthy, loving woman." I was sick for the first 40 years of my life. Like millions of other human beings I grew up immersed in the family disease of alcoholism. For generations it has plagued my family. The unbalanced life I led is so common in our society; I didn't know anything was wrong. I was a participant in the chaos, confusion, neuroses, pain and suffering which is present in dysfunctional families. I call it The Dance of Death.

I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri in the community of Clayton. The only memories I have of my father are when he would beat my brother and me with his belt so severely my clothes would cling to the bloody strap marks on my legs. He would make us wait for our "punishment" in our room before he dealt the ugly blows. My mother closed her eyes to what was happening. Both of them partied on weekends where I would find empty highball glasses scattered all over the living room. I had holes in the soles of my shoes while my mother would model a new diamond cocktail ring, winnings from a weekly poker game. My dad was also a compulsive gambler. He died at the age of 45 when I was nine years old.

My mother attracted another alcoholic to her life soon after my father's death. They had a symbiotic, codependent and alcoholic relationship. Every ten days they would consume a case of scotch which was delivered to our apartment from the local liquor store. My mother never appeared drunk but she was distant, selfish and narcissistic. My step father's disease had progressed to the point he was visibly drunk most evenings. His attitude was condescending, nasty and self righteous. He was verbally abusive and drove his car while intoxicated on many occasions. When I think back to that period of my history I remember keeping my personal life secret!!! I was ashamed of their behavior. I pretended all was well and I began developing neurotic habits for self preservation.

In my teens I danced several days after school, participated in theater groups, worked in a department store and had creative life in my head. I imagined the way I wanted my world to be and was in denial as to the truth in front of me. I became obsessive, compulsive and an over achiever. Because I worked so hard I accomplished a lot for a young girl but the reality was it was inspired by fear, insecurity and a need for control.

In college I devoted myself to art and earned a B.S. in Education and a M.A. in Painting and Ceramics from the University of Missouri. I was hired as a college instructor soon after graduate school. I felt "happy" for a time because I was away from home and involved in teaching. I took my job very seriously but the loneliness I felt when I was by myself was debilitating.

I longed for love... any kind. I didn't realize it at the time but I had never felt affection. I became preoccupied with thoughts of "men." I had guys on my mind constantly! I was popular and had many choices but I picked the ones who I thought needed me. Most often they were from dysfunctional families. I dated a lot of drunks during my 20's. It felt familiar. In spite of my success as an artist and a teacher, I had low self esteem and I knew something was wrong with me.

In l969 I began a new life in another city. Within a week of moving to Boston, Massachusetts, I was brutally raped and hospitalized. I never received help with this trauma and didn't properly grieve until years later. I pushed down the pain and was then, more than ever, resolved to create the perfect life for myself, (as if it were in my hands?)

This was made easy for me when Joey Haudel entered my life. He filled the position of my "Knight in Shining Armour," albeit, distorted. He was young, handsome, and alcoholic and had just been released from prison. We needed each other like ducks need water. We bonded in a codependent relationship that lasted 12 years.

Our experiences together were astounding. What I learned about myself was profound. Our journey is almost unbelievable. I have told this story in a dramatic narrative, I Survived: One Woman's Journey of Self Healing and Transformation on DVD. It is filled with the dark world of illness and moves to the light of wellness. I reached my bottom after years of suffering. I was contemplating suicide but was saved by the Grace of God and the dear voice of a telephone operator who kept me on the phone for over an hour.

I spent years in recovery; beginning with Al-Anon meetings in 1973, several series of Adult Children of Alcoholic Therapy Sessions, individual therapy with numerous therapists and devouring self help books. I had the courage to look within and face the demons. It wasn't easy and many times I wanted to quit. I often felt I was too crazy to get well. One step at a time I forged ahead and never looked back! I visualized a healthy prognosis. Today I am living that beautiful picture!

I am happily married to a man 19 years my junior. I am older than his mother. We just celebrated our 17th anniversary and continue to share the most fabulous life. We have one child, a precious daughter, who we adopted at birth 8 years ago. I was 54 at the time. I am grateful that I am able to be a good parent and relish every moment I spend with both of them as a family. Sometimes I almost gasp for air when I realize I am living a balanced life. Each day I thank God for the gifts I have been given.

Sadly, Joey wasn't as fortunate as I. He died at the age of 42. My dear friend Debra took her own life in 2002. She too was alcoholic. I feel their presence; they are the angels guiding me in my mission to inspire people to their own healing and recovery. Let's continue to get well. We are all loving souls on an enlightened path of a new way of being, HEALTHY.

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Older Woman Younger Man

My husband and I have been happily married for 17 years. What makes our relationship out of the ordinary is that Bryan was born in 1960 the year after I graduated high school. He is 19 years my junior; I am older than his mother. The secret of our success is a deeply committed love for one another. Ours is a passionate romance. Each of us is whole, happy and healthy. I wish what Bryan and I have could be bottled and sprinkled over the world like angel dust.

We met in 1985 during a rainy winter in San Francisco. We were neighbors on a tiny street near the historic Mission Dolores. The worst storm of the season was on its way and my roof was leaking profusely. I was in dire straits financially, having been newly divorced. I was preparing to fix it myself. Unfortunately my ladder wasn't tall enough. I needed help. None of the folks I knew were home that Saturday morning but I noticed an open door directly across from my house. I hurried upstairs to the second story flat in the azure painted duplex and walked down the long corridor to the living room. There on the sofa was a guy watching the football game on T.V. I introduced myself and then proceeded to ask for his assistance. He looked at me like I was crazy. The silence was deafening. How often does a stranger enter your apartment with a request for help with a major repair? I was flushed with embarrassment but was in too deep to recover. Fortunately he agreed to help me.

This uncommon beginning signaled the magic that lay before us. The sparks flew. We went on our first date within days of this meeting. Bryan's car was broken so we took the bus across the city to an authentic Moroccan restaurant where we sat on paisley cushions and ate with our fingers. I remember clearly how primitive this felt and how natural it was to be with him. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about my age. I, on the other hand, was more sensitive. I was healing from a codependent relationship of 12 years and had never experienced true intimacy. I wasn't sure it was the proper thing to do but I couldn't help myself; I was falling in love. I was scared because these feelings were coming so quickly.

Bryan moved in with me within weeks of our first meeting. I remember thinking if it didn't work out it would be easy to ask him to leave because all he owned was a T.V. For Valentine's Day he created a hanging wire mobile in the shape of intertwined hearts and presented it to me with flowers and chocolate. This type of thoughtful gesture is typical of Bryan. He has never missed a special occasion and has often surprised me with jewelry when he returns from a business trip.

One evening in the spring we were waiting to board a dinner train in Mendocino. A drunken man approached us and said, "How come you two are dressed up? Are you getting married?" Bryan looked at me and said, "Yes, we are aren't we?" That was his proposal. It was decided we would plan a wedding for later that year. But, first I needed to meet Bryan's mother.

Just the thought of it terrified me! Bryan and his mother, Sharon, have a truly special bond. He insisted he would not tell anyone about our engagement until she and I met. We drove to southern California where Sharon was visiting her sister, Bryan's aunt. I felt sick the entire trip. I knew in advance he was going to take his mother shopping the next morning alone to break the news to her. I couldn't sleep at all that night. What felt so "right" to Bryan and me was unusual, especially in the eyes of a parent. When they returned from their excursion Sharon looked like she had just come from a funeral. Fortunately, for me, Aunt Toby accepted the situation and eased the tension by giving me a white angel ornament. His mother is a wonderful woman. In spite of her disappointment, she welcomed me into their family. Over the years our relationship has evolved into a unique friendship, a cross between a peer and a sister.

December 7, 1986, dressed in an ivory colored Victorian gown, I was driven to our wedding in a horse drawn carriage. I remember the sensation well. As I heard the clip-pity clop of the hoofs hitting the pavement I felt it was the happiest day of my life. The ride was several miles long and I enjoyed cars honking loudly at every turn. When we arrived at the elegant Alamo Square Inn Bryan was waiting to escort me inside to the nuptials. It was a good thing he took my hand, for as I exited the carriage, my knees collapsed from shaking so hard. The day was spectacular marking a lifetime of love.

Both Bryan and I had always wanted kids. By the time we met my biological clock had run out. He told me he would rather marry a woman he loved deeply than to wait for someone to bear his children. For several years we were content to be a unit of two. After my dear Aunt Letha died in 1992 I longed for a child. I knew we would be good parents. Bryan agreed to adoption. It was an arduous experience requiring patience and resilience. We had several birthmothers who changed their minds for different reasons. This process took three years and a great deal of money. Ultimately we were blessed with a baby girl we named Mariah. Our daughter is now 8 years old and the light of our life.

Bryan continues to be my rock, strength and loving support. During our years together I have had many tragedies including: my brother John's suicide in 1988, my ex-husband Joey's death from alcoholism in 1989, and my girlfriend Debra's suicide in 2002. I was hospitalized with a potentially life threatening blood clot in my lungs in 1998. Bryan stood by me through all of these. I married a great guy! I am a fortunate woman to have found true love in the heart of a younger man.

Age is but a notch on the tree of life. Does it really matter that I have more than he. We are all on a spiritual path. We choose lovers, friends and family to mirror our soul's development. Partners of different ages can accelerate this growth. These diverse emotional experiences are opportunities of a lifetime. Let's enjoy them.

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The Art of Visualization

What is it in one's spirit that enables them to break the cycle of a dysfunctional pattern of living and choose to live a healthy life? Recently I was asked that question by a gentleman in my community. Each time I visited his vitamin store he insisted I talk about my healing.

"What is it within your psychology Kay that gave you the strength to stop your codependency and get well? I've lectured for many years on addictions and in my experience only a handful of people in an audience of several hundred were willing to see the truth, quit denying and begin recovery."

At first I gave him pat answers, "I was sick and tired of being sick and tired or I wanted a better life."

He would say, "No, go deeper. All those folks who were in my seminars wanted a better life but so few seemed to be able to change their unhealthy way of being. How did you do it?"

I've spent years working on myself in Al-Anon, therapy and A.C.A. groups. I have known for some time that my health is a gift from God and I have never taken it for granted. But truthfully I had never thought about exactly what inspired me to get well. I've lost many loved ones to death from alcoholism and drug abuse. Since I am the lone survivor of my immediate family, I pondered his question for weeks. Was I just lucky?

One quiet morning in my Oakland art studio I sat facing a blank canvas as I have done many times. As I began creating shapes and colors with my brush I glanced outside to the redwood trees and a story began forming in my head. It was if I were being guided to knowledge. I was being reminded of what I have done all my life beginning in my youth. I would visualize and imagine the beauty I wanted to surround myself with and how I wanted to live my life. It wasn't any different than painting a picture and building a sculpture except that the images stayed in my head and my heart instead of becoming alive on a painting or a drawing. As far back as I can remember I thought, assumed, and planned that I was going to be happy, have a wonderful family and a beautiful home.

I got up from the easel and took inventory of my surroundings. I have a fantastic husband, a precious daughter, a gorgeous home and best of all I am healthy! I practiced the art of visualization. No matter how ugly my home life was growing up, I never let go of my dreams of normalcy. Being an artist helped because I was able to let go and allow myself to create images that weren't there. I was able to do this in my everyday world, as crazy and sick as it was. I imagined and carried these thoughts with me always. These images were the positive in an otherwise negative world.

I was bursting because I knew I had found the answer to my friend's question. I hurried to the village to tell him what I had remembered.

"Really, if that is so;" he said, "then why did you become so sick with codependency? Didn't you say you were lost in a sea of despair for 20 years? What happened to your imaging?"

"I was brutally raped and hospitalized in 1969. This trauma sent me spiraling downward into the dark world of a codependent. I was already showing signs of illness before this brutal attack because I was born in the middle of a war, a war called alcoholism. But this incident was so devastating to my soul I quit visualizing and had absolutely no hope for the future. I was death walking. Once I stopped creating and imagining a better life for myself my world collapsed. I was powerless against the toxicity of codependency and focused all of my attention on my alcoholic partner. I have told this story, "I Survived: One Woman's Journey of Self-Healing and Transformation" on DVD.

All of us growing up in stressful environments, with alcoholism, drug abuse, or mental illness are candidates for addiction and codependency. This unbalanced way of living becomes as natural as breathing. It is possible to learn how to visualize and make it a part of our daily life. We can actually create our positive dreams. Of course this is accomplished by first opening your heart and having the belief that this is possible. This creative process is a form of miracle. I have taught meditation and visualization and I have seen it work, many, many times.

How to start? Don't panic when you think to yourself, "But I am not an artist." This important tool on the path of healing is a technique which can be taught. Yes, we all can do it and have fun while we are learning. Let's begin by making a Life Dream Plan.

Gather together as many different types of magazines as you can; what you might have around the house, from friends, or buy them at the store. Purchase a few pieces of poster board and have scissors and glue sticks handy. Start by cutting out pictures and words that appeal to you. You don't have to know why you like an image; just go with your feelings if you are drawn to it. Of course choose only images that are positive. You may also use photographs if you wish. When you have a stack of approximately 20, or more, proceed by gluing them on the board creating a unique collage. You may space them out or jam them together. Most people find this so pleasurable that they work until they are finished with a beautiful Life Dream Plan. This can take several hours to complete.

I have been making visualization collages for 25 years. You can never have too many. It is enjoyable to have Life Dream parties with a few friends. Sometimes you can share pictures. Because poster board is large and it might take over your apartment or house, a good idea is to have them reduced and laminated so that you can carry them with you or have them in surprise places like in your drawers. The most exciting thing about this endeavor is when situations start manifesting and you realize the ideas, pictures were on your poster. This method of creating your own reality is powerful.

Each day when I turn on my computer I see the magnificent stones of Stonehenge set against a light ultramarine sky. When I chose this picture I didn't know exactly where it was; I thought in Europe somewhere. I've been looking at this for over a year. When I travel with my family we use our time shares to trade for exotic places in the world. We tried to go to Italy this past summer but there were no resorts available. We were fortunate to exchange for England. On our journey between London and Cornwall was the ancient site of Stonehenge. We didn't have to go even one mile out of our way to see it. My subconscious mind was impressed with this amazing image day after day until it became a reality.

I'm off to work on a Life Dream Plan. What about you?

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I Survived

In 1984 I experienced an intense psychological transformation. At the time I was in an Adult Children of Alcoholics therapy group. I chose to be there after years of individual therapy and 12 step programs. I remember thinking when I began the weekly sessions that this was going to be a piece of cake. Surely after years of introspection, I knew myself well.

It started the first evening. There were two therapists, a man and a woman, with six clients seated in a healing circle. A story was told. We were then asked individually to comment on our feelings. Terror gripped me. One woman sat in silence while we watched and waited. Another cried continuously. When it was my turn, I babbled foolishly realizing I didn't have the foggiest idea of what it meant to feel, especially while being scrutinized and on display. For my entire life the balance was lopsided with my thoughts, not my feelings, tipping the scale.

The realization that I was unable to feel, that I had denied everything in my reality and that I had lied to myself most of my life was debilitating. I was sick and overcome with fear. Experience for me had always been dramatic. Being in-group was just what I needed to trigger the pain. That evening was the beginning of an 18-month ordeal, which changed my life forever.

During that time, my past sped before my eyes, as I lay in bed, immobile. The room was dark; light hurt my eyes. My body ached. One week I would vomit incessantly, another I would have diarrhea constantly. I was ill. But what was wrong with me? I didn't have anything that could be cured with medicine. All I knew, I was suffering and wanted to die.

A death was occurring but not that of my body. My ideas and beliefs were crumbling. The negativity that I had buried for years was erupting like a toxic volcano. I was forced to face the webs and shadows of competition, self-destruction and addiction. It was all I knew. I was scared!

Despair appeared to me as a symbol in the form of a black rock. It represented darkness, inflexibility and rigidity. That part of me that I know as my ego self, felt there was absolutely no hope; no possibility of light. There was heaviness beyond description. I couldn't even lift my limbs. This went on for a long time. One day in my mind's eye, I noticed a tiny grain of sand on the black rock. I began focusing on the tiny crystalline speck and watched it begin to grow. It became a glimmer of hope.

Pain was multifaceted. Its symbol was a jagged piece of broken metal, which had movement. I was feeling all the aspects; from physical pain in my body to emotional pain for the loss of my beliefs. After years of denial, I seemed to be experiencing the sensations all at once. The only relief I had was when my cats would visit me in bed. What beauty. I began to invite them more and more.

Loneliness crept up on me. A circle of dim light hovered over my being. It stayed for days. I seemed to be swimming in an abyss of nothingness. After months of the most profound desolation, I heard a voice say, "It doesn't have to be this way."

At that moment the light brightened. I realized that when you try to hold on to something that no longer supports your highest good, you feel pain, despair, loneliness and frustration. It was time to move on. I could no longer ignore this situation. I needed to actively participate in the changes which were necessary for my soul's growth.

I had forgotten my true purpose for being. My ego self had been misguided for centuries; off the track. The loneliness and pain was the separation from my higher self. I had lost "myself."

I began practicing techniques for well being. At first this was difficult and only lasted a few moments. For example, if I were feeling sad because of a personal loss, I would acknowledge it, feel the hurt and allow myself perhaps an hour a day to grieve. Then I would find one thing of beauty to enrich my life. I might take time to read a good book, take a long hot bath or take a walk in nature. If I were feeling despair, I would call a friend to talk or seek a therapist for professional help. For loneliness I would meditate to beautiful music or play a variety of guided meditation tapes. I actually made a list of survival techniques and used it when ideas didn't spring to mind.

I became more open to letting life flow. I visualized myself as a vessel allowing ideas, situations, attitudes, and feelings to pour through me and out of me, not penetrate my being. Eventually I noticed I was spending more time with joyful thoughts than with despairing ones. I was on the road to recovery. I was reconnecting with my soul, my spirit, the God within. I give thanks everyday for this process.

These experiences were the beginning of a spiritual awakening for me. I am so grateful to have survived my ordeal and I do all that I can to nurture my inner development. I find that what begins on a personal level radiates outward toward global transformation and today I am committed to helping others on their journey toward spiritual growth. What about you?

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Tapestry

I attended my first concert over 30 years ago. I was in the throes of a diseased, codependent relationship that lasted over 12 years. My alcoholic partner, Joey, and I were strolling on the Boston Common when we were approached by a guy who held out his hand and said, "How would you like two free tickets to a show that will change your life? The matinee is starting right now." We looked at each other and shrugged but had nothing better to do so we accepted his offer. We walked a mere two blocks through the flower laden park to the theater, took our seats in the balcony, and watched the lights dim. A svelte young woman, with wild curly hair, wearing hippy gear, walked to the piano. Through a thick haze of marijuana we were introduced to Carole King. With her first chord, the crowd went crazy. This amazing artist was just my age at the time, although I had never heard her music. I was enraptured as she belted out her lyrics.

Of the 2000 plus people in the audience, I was probably the only one not smoking a joint. I was terrified that the police were going to raid the auditorium and take us all to jail. I was definitely "Miss Priss," more concerned with what Joey was doing and thinking, than with the artistry on the stage. My stomach was in knots most of time, wondering what the next second would bring with my alcoholic partner. I spent every waking moment with thoughts of "him." I was so neurotic that I literally wrung my hands with worry. This special experience might have gone right by me, like everything else in my world, if it weren't for the fact that I was inhaling second hand smoke and was "stoned" myself. The "pot" allowed me to loosen up and chill out for a few hours.

Carole King performed her classic album, "Tapestry," which has sold over 11 million copies and was a 4x Grammy winner. She is a poet and a musician; her work is a gift to us. I purchased her record that day and I still have the original copy. I practically wore it out playing it. At the depth of my addiction her music soothed my soul. As I was getting well, her lyrics evoked pleasant memories or gave me a message that I needed to hear at just the right moment. Listening to her fascinating voice was therapeutic. I didn't have to work or analyze anything. I was just there, enjoying the pleasure of being and listening.

Recently I had the good fortune of seeing Carole King in concert in San Francisco on her "Love Makes the World" tour. As I sat down in the Masonic Auditorium, next to my wonderful husband Bryan, I noticed we occupied seats in the same area of the balcony that I had shared with Joey 33 years earlier. Carole sat at the piano facing the group just as she had done that spring day. The difference this time was her cozy "Living Room" arrangement on stage. It felt like de-ja-vu. Except, not. This time I was there as a healthy, clear-headed woman. All of us in the crowd were much older and there wasn't "dope" wafting in the air. For 2 1⁄2 hours we were transported to a magical world of melodious mystery. She did it again; captivated her audience and moved us to new heights. I was reminded of the beauty of music at all stages of growth.

Each of us creates our own life tapestry. The warp of our weaving represents our childhood, which often is dark and unbalanced. All of our experiences, both good and bad, color the art and give it strength. As we begin our journey of recovery the yarn becomes more brilliant, filling in the picture and making it whole. The richest threads are gold and silver. They symbolize the harmonious sounds of music, of all types, enriching our soul. The fabric of my life was altered that fateful day in Boston many years ago. I accept and experience the healing power of music. I am going to continue to let it carry me to a peaceful world. What about you?

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Love From the Inside Out

Marin County, California was a haven in the 1970's for every type of self-actualizing plan imaginable. There were many groups ready to help you honor your inner-child, face your demons and learn to build self-esteem. I was overwhelmed with choices but I was open to experimenting because of what one woman shared with me. It was a day of awakening.

Janet walked into my ceramic studio with an unpleasant look on her face. She had just come from a workshop for a psychology class required for nursing school. In a whispered tone she said, "Kay, you won't believe what I experienced today. I was with a group of 20 classmates sitting in a circle on the floor. We each wrote our deepest secret on a tiny piece of paper which we folded and dropped onto the middle of the rug. The pile of notes was mixed and then we each proceeded to read aloud another student's mystery."

I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't what I heard. My jaw dropped as Janet recalled the event. "One after another as we took our turn reading the secrets aloud, the group was stunned. On each folded sheet were written the words, I HATE MYSELF. Mine was the only statement that was positive."

She and I stood there staring at each other in disbelief. We had no idea that self-loathing was so widespread. She then asked me, "Kay, do you hate yourself?"

I choked on my answer. "No, I don't hate myself."

"Well, how do you feel?" Janet replied.

I remember wanting so much to be able to say the words, "I love myself" but I couldn't. What came out was, "I like myself." LIKE, that was the best I could do. I respected myself, but no, the love wasn't there.

It is easy to see how we have become this way. As souls living in a society which is riddled with alcoholism and drug abuse, we haven't had much of a chance to survive with loving attitudes towards ourselves and others. We have been continuously abused mentally, physically, emotionally, sexually and spiritually for many years. Almost every one of us has had a life filled with lies, chaos, and neglect. The simple act of being held as a child, or being listened to when we spoke, never happened. I doubt that you were ever kissed or hugged or told how special you were. Many of us were bloodily beaten and/or verbally criticized. These stamps of negative behavior formed what we believe to be the truth about ourselves. "We must be BAD to deserve this punishment." It is indeed a challenge to turn this around, but, one step at time we can return to LOVE. LOVE is our natural birthright.

Our Higher Power is guiding us to open to understanding the Laws of the Universe: LOVE is the purest form of energy; LOVE is truth; LOVE is unconditional; LOVE is all there is. When we learn to love ourselves we naturally will love others and they will love us, for we are all a part of each other... we are one. For centuries we have perpetuated a fear-based reality. It is time now to choose the highest feeling of love we can imagine. One by one, two by two, onward and upward, we shall create love in our lives beginning with ourselves.

How do we reprogram our beliefs? Here are a few ideas that helped me on my road to healing. Open yourself to the possibilities without judging what I am about to share. These are in addition to the work I did in Al-Anon, in self-help groups and with therapists. These constructive practices became a part of my daily life:

1. Find three photographs of yourself; one as a baby, one in your youth, and the third as an adult. Paste these on a pink board (the color of love.) The pictures are fine alone but it is okay to embellish the poster with hearts and/or other symbols which help you feel happy. Talk out loud, and/or mentally say the words, "I love you!" several times a day, while looking at the images. Even kiss the photos. Okay, I know some of you are croaking, LOL. Please, just trust and do it.

2. Fill a tub with water and throw in Epson Salts. Soak in this hot bath for as long as you can. At first you'll be quite uncomfortable and probably won't last longer than 5 minutes, but, eventually you'll be able to relax for a long time. This will help release toxins from your body as you spend time with yourself.

3. Repeat over and over, "I am whole, perfect, powerful, loving, strong, financially successful, harmonious, happy and healthy." This impresses your soul like a Tibetan prayer wheel.

4. With this one, I know you will think I am a certified Wacko, but here goes... Hug yourself; do it often, while saying the words, "I love you."

We are literally destroying ourselves, and consequently the world, with self-hatred. We spend most of our time searching for love. It escapes us, that we must love ourselves first. When we truly come from a place of self-love, our history will change. I can now say it, without reservation, "I love myself!" What about you?

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Suicide: In Memory

Debra was radiant in her scarlet dress wrapped tautly over her swollen belly. Proudly she gave each guest a tour of the nursery, decorated in yellows and greens with love and care, as she awaited the birth of her first child. I commented to her friend Carol, "What a perfect day for a shower. The weather is beautiful." Carol and I were hosting this special event for Debra on April 10, 1988. Her baby was due the middle of May. We knew, as well as all her family and friends, she longed to be a mother. She had been planning her family since high school. As I drove the half hour drive home, I reflected what a superb day this had been. Debra was healthy and her dreams were coming true. I felt extremely close to her and was grateful I could honor her with a party.

Around 10:00 p.m. that evening the telephone rang. I was startled. The phone ringing after 9:00 p.m. has always bothered me. I chose to let the answering machine pick it up and I screened the call. At this time of my life I was doing commercial voice-overs. My message was an upbeat rhythmical ditty which might have been construed by some as annoying and commercial. I heard my sister-in-law say in a somber tone of voice, "Kay, you must get rid of that message." I picked up. "John is dead. He did it. He shot himself." I was paralyzed with the weight of her words! I don't think I have ever felt worse emotional pain in all of my life. My brother, age 45, my only sibling, had killed himself.

I had already experienced death. My mother, father and step-father all had died from complications due to alcoholism. Although I do believe that drug abuse and alcoholism are a form of suicide, this was different! The depth of my grief was indescribable. I do the best I can with thoughts of John, but, to this day I can't dwell on him for too long because it still hurts so badly. He was my baby brother, a devoted father, and a good soul who grew up with major distortions in his home life. Because I understood the nature of his disease, I had empathy for him and his decision.

John was troubled, beginning in his youth. He was the child who "acted out" his frustrations with the imbalanced life we led. In grade school he tormented other children, not with violence, but with incessant teasing. He craved love and attention and went out of his way to concoct methods of getting it. There was an underlying loneliness which I could detect. In high school, my brother was sick and bed ridden for several weeks. He had epilepsy (which was under control with drugs) and thrombophlebitis (blood clots.) It was recommended by his physician that he quit playing football a sport he loved. During his illness he plotted his future. He wanted to be a millionaire. He thought the path to a successful life was money. As soon as he was able, he began studying and working at a variety of sales jobs to accomplish his goals. He had a gift for marketing and a charismatic personality which enabled him to influence sales, whatever the product, and also impress women. He became quite popular, was well dressed and handsome. From outward appearances it looked like John would succeed.

His businesses grew rapidly; he married and started a family. I truly believe he wanted to flourish in relationships as much as work. But, he was crippled. He didn't know how. He loved being a father and did the best he could for his two young girls. They remember him fondly. On his tombstone it reads, "Greatest Dad." They were 10 and 11 when he died.

Although John didn't drink because of his epilepsy, he was a compulsive gambler. This disease accelerated during the early 1980's. Before his death, he was heavily in debt. Although none of our family knew, he was also addicted to "the businessman's cocktail; cocaine," and had become a heavy user. It didn't take long for him to slide into deep depression. His world began to deteriorate and he was in trouble with the law for the first time in his life.

I lived away from John, in different states, for many years. I wasn't aware of the seriousness of his addiction. Actually, no one was because my brother was expert at keeping secrets. The culmination of his disease was with his arrest for selling cocaine. The fact that he would go to prison exacerbated his sadness. He felt he could not survive incarceration. The fear, shame, and humiliation consumed him. He tried an overdose of pills and was unsuccessful. I didn't find out about this until weeks after the attempt. I begged John to go to NA, Al-Anon, or any 12-step program. He wouldn't confront the truth and remained in denial. I used myself as an example because; after all, we shared the same family background; all this to no avail. He actually tried again a second time, but his efforts were thwarted by a friend. This put him in Intensive Care for several weeks. It was there that I spoke with him for the last time. He said, "I wish I had spent more time with you; I love you Kay." The day he left the hospital, he was determined not to fail, and chose a gun. A precious life was over.

We were different in many ways, John and I. He didn't believe in God. He did not feel the guidance of a Higher Power and he did not have faith in the divinity of Love. Several years before my brother's death, I, too, reached the level of psychological depression to want to end my life. This event is detailed in my DVD, "I Survived: One Woman's Journey of Self-Healing and Transformation." I thought about it, but instead of acting on it, I reached out to Suicide Prevention and was saved by a voice on the telephone. A gentle man listened to my crying and enveloped me with understanding. The day I reached bottom, I knew I was dying. But, I heard the voice of God, the Brain of the Universe. I didn't give up. My transformation is documented in the article, "I Survived."

Debra and her family were loving and supportive when John died. She tried to help me come to grips with my sorrow. I had no idea that she herself was beginning the throes of addiction. It wasn't obvious. Debra was consumed with being a new mother and she excelled at the role. She seemed to handle the myriad jobs of motherhood without flinching. What no one knew was her reliance on wine to combat stress. She hid it well. There was no reason to suspect codependency or compulsive drinking, because Debra's parents are not alcoholic or drug users. Although not as common as when one grows up in a dysfunctional family, she was steadily becoming a closet drinker. I spent time with Debra after her first child, a beautiful girl, was born. I was in awe of her parenting skills. She seemed to always be confident with her decisions. Intuitively she was a loving parent and she had a great sense of humor. She and I spent much time on the phone conversing playfully. During these conversations Debra always wanted to know what I thought and felt about codependency, alcoholism and recovery. She would approach these subjects with curiosity. Whenever I would try to go deeper and ask her what she felt about these issues, she couldn't seem to answer. She would get the glazed look that I have seen so many times in my life; denial. But I didn't get it, for the only time I saw her drink was socially and never to excess. Having spent the majority of my years in a sick, unhealthy environment, I didn't suspect that Debra was in that place at all.

By the time her second child arrived, three years after the death of my brother, we were like sisters. She invited me to come to the hospital to await the birth of her son. I expected to be in the waiting room for hours. Instead, the nurse invited me to go to the labor room. It wasn't long before we moved to the delivery room where I joined her husband to witness this miracle. The energy in the room was electrifying. Debra gave birth naturally, without drugs, courageously. This was one of the most elevated spiritual experiences I have ever had. I am grateful to have shared it with my good friend.

The 1990's proved to be quite challenging for Debra. Her husband was transferred several times with his job and she was called upon to relocate her family. This was painful for her and by the time of her last move to Washington State in the late 90's her alcoholism had progressed dramatically. Her husband and children were living with a different person. But, all the rest of us, her friends in California, had no idea that she was sick.

All I knew, she was seeing a counselor for depression and I was happy for her. What I didn't know, she wasn't being honest about her drinking and the therapist had prescribed anti-depressants. She always sounded groggy and "out of it" on the phone. I began to worry and wonder what was "real" when we spoke. I found out much later, she mixed alcohol and prescription drugs for months. She was on a down hill slide which ended with a DUI. Finally, she was forced to get help. She entered a Residential Treatment Program ordered by the court. It wasn't long after she was sober; she relapsed and once again returned to an In-House Recovery Program. After that stint she was clean. The Debra I talked with on the phone was my long lost friend. I thought if anyone could make it, she would be the one. I was wrong. On September 5, 2002, she took her own life.

What has helped me reconcile Debra's death is that she communicates often with me through my dreams. They are quite real. She answers questions that I have, and generally leaves me feeling empowered by her presence. For those of us left behind, the effects of suicide can be devastating. I strongly urge grief counseling; it is never too late.

We need to talk about our feelings of loss. If it isn't possible to see a therapist, open up to a friend who will listen. There is someone who cares.

If you are thinking about killing yourself, you will feel like you are going crazy. You will be numb to the world. When temptation is looming in front of you, turn your back! Reach out; ask for help! Let us know how much you are suffering. We don't want to lose you! I know it isn't easy being here, but when you cross over to the other side you will be continuing your soul's journey. What you haven't healed here, you will need to work on there. Life is a continuum. It never ends. What we learn while in the body accelerates our spiritual growth. Don't give up!

I believe we are all one, all a part of each other. This is why I feel such pain from the loss of my brother and Debra. We are each others accumulated sorrows as well as our cumulative joys. When someone commits suicide, there is an open sore in our collective psyche. It can be healed. Each time one of us breaks the cycle and recovers, we help the whole of humanity. Each day, in every way, I thank God for the gift of Life. What about you?

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Cat Lady

In Ancient Egypt cats were treated with great respect. One reason is religious: because the goddess Bast (a popular and revered God, and the protector of all cats) was worshipped in the form of a cat from 3200 BC and the second is secular: when the cat was domesticated around 2500 BC, they guarded royal granaries and kept them free from vermin that threatened the Egyptian's food supply. As far back as I can remember, I have had a love of felines. If you are a dog lover, half of us are, please don't stop reading. I have some cat tales I believe you will find interesting. If you are wondering, "How in the heck does this relate to recovery?" read on.

It all began with Ink Spot or Inky for short. I had begged my mother for years to let me have a cat. She always responded with, "We don't have enough room, our apartment is too small." I was determined I could care for a small animal on my own and continued to nag her until she gave in. My stepfather was actually on my side (one of the few times) because he, too, was fond of cats. They surprised me for my 10th birthday with a beautiful Persian cat, 16 weeks old. When he jumped out of the box and ran for cover he scared me because I had been imagining a small kitten. Inky was jet black and rather fluffy. This big, dark puff ball bolted under my bed and would not come out for hours. I was heart-sick because I couldn't believe I was finally allowed a pet and he didn't like me. I was so starved for love I think I expected an instantaneous bond. After awhile he came poking out from under the tattered white chenille spread, curious about his surroundings. That did it! He and I were inseparable. I would talk to him and share my problems. Whenever I was unfairly punished I would cry and he would literally lick my tears. He looked deep into my eyes as though he understood. Inky slept with me every night and would hide with me under the covers. He was by best friend. Just as the chaos intensified in our house my precious pet didn't come inside one evening. My dear Uncle Wally drove me all over town looking for him and after days of searching we found him dead at the side of the road. My pal was gone and I didn't even have a picture of him. It was many years before I would open my heart to another animal.

It was 1972, soon after Joey and I had moved to San Francisco and we both wanted a cat. At the time Joey was managing an apartment building and no pets were allowed. I was willing to wait until we began our new pottery business in Santa Rosa but Joey insisted. Out of fear, I would always do whatever he wanted even if it meant going against my better judgment. We searched the Want Ads and visited the local SPCA looking for a black cat. There was a small ad in the classified section that said, Kittens Free. We followed a woman's directions to a large abandoned tavern next to the defunct San Francisco Playland Amusement Park. It was strange and eerie. Although the bar was no longer functioning, it was set up and poised for anyone to have a drink. The woman who placed the ad, Bitsy, was no where to be found. We just sort of wandered about aimlessly and on occasion would go outside and check the address to make sure we had gotten it right. We began calling her name and soon a tiny, shriveled woman, made her entrance from a dim back room. I said, "Are you Bitsy? Do you have kittens?" She didn't answer me, just grunted and motioned for us to follow her. We actually had to lean down, and crawl through a space pushing open a low creaking door that would stick periodically. Shockingly at least 30 adult cats occupied this dusty supply closet. They were jumping and running everywhere, just narrowly missing our heads. It was scary! Just as I was about to leave Bitsy climbed up on a loft and yanked a tiny black kitten from its mother's nipples. I said, "Is she old enough to leave her mother?" Bitsy replied, "Oh sure!" I am convinced she had so many cats she didn't care if the kitten was too young. She was taking every opportunity she had to find homes for the litter. When Bitsy placed this little baby in my hands the kitten didn't even fill my palm.

Just like everything else up to that point in time, I didn't have the guts to say, "This kitten is too young to take home." We took her and left. For the next few weeks we were Eva's surrogate mother. Joey and I worked together to nurture this tiny creature and help her stabilize. We fed her from a doll's baby bottle and kept her warm with towels. After about one month of care, she began eating and drinking on her own. Since I hadn't had the chance to be a mother myself, this experience proved to be rewarding. I wanted another cat. Within days of my wish we acquired Ethyl, a calico Manx, a wonderful addition to our feline family.

Soon it was moving day to an old western tavern dating from the late 1800's in Santa Rosa where we planned to build a pottery. We found ourselves in an outrageous situation when we arrived to the building that was to double as our future business and home. The guts had been removed and the space was trashed. We lived there for 6 months without heat or hot water. I have documented this unbelievable story in I Survived: One Woman's Journey of Self-Healing and Transformation on DVD. The day we moved in and discovered this horror; we also were gifted with a special omen: a beautiful white bunny who had been abandoned and left on our doorstep. Ethyl and Eva became fast friends with this friendly rabbit. We named him Peter and found out a few years later he should have been named Peterina. This was told to us by a woman who came into our life in the most unusual way: After the Santa Rosa debacle, we moved to an apartment in Fairfax, western Marin County, CA. The two cats were allowed but not the bunny rabbit. We felt so responsible for the care and feeding of this beautiful guy Peter that we would drive to Santa Rosa, 1⁄2 hour each way, everyday to feed him. It was getting tiring. I happened to be in the bank and overheard a woman tell the banker that she wanted a bunny for her daughter. I am not kidding! And, it wasn't even close to Easter. I introduced myself and explained our situation. She said, "I would love Peter Rabbit for my little girl." She even drove there to pick him up. We kept in touch for several years and it was she who told me she purchased another male rabbit for companionship and "lo and behold," Peter had babies several times.

About the same time a girl, where I worked, heard me talking about Ethyl, the Manx. She brought a box to my house with a special little black Manx kitty rollicking inside. I couldn't resist him. Although I knew better, I just had to add to our family of cats. Now we had three babies. (See picture of Joey with Eva, Ethyl and Edgar.) I began learning the joys of sharing a life with such special pets. We had three young ones at the same time and we felt privileged to watch their antics when we were at home in the evenings.

One morning when Joey and I were off to Clay in Mind, our ceramic studio, we found a silky ebony cat asleep in the back seat of our Ford Pinto. He was adorable when we awakened him. He yawned, stretched, and it seemed like he was talking to us: Hey you guys, well your window was open and I needed a warm cozy spot to sleep so I helped myself. I hope you don't mind. I didn't make a mess. I hated to have to put him out of the car to leave, he looked so comfortable.

As we drove away I watched him find a cool spot on the concrete in the corner of the car port. I thought about him all day. When we returned that night he was still there. I couldn't bear to see him hanging out like that. Although we were way over our limit as to pets, Joey and I agreed we would at least feed him, but not bring him in with the other three. We lived in a third floor walk-up and the stairwell was open all the way to our apartment. He followed us upstairs without hesitation. I fed him outside our door and then he left. For the next few weeks he would show up early in the morning and scratch loudly, or cry, until he got his food. He repeated this in the evening, no matter how late we returned.

I decided to try and locate his owner, if he had one. I scoured the neighborhood asking questions and was led to a residence down the street. The stray cat was right at my heels when I approached this mysterious looking building. He hung near me as if he knew something was coming. I rang the bell several times and finally a guy in his underpants answered the door. Just as he was about to speak, a hefty black dog came charging and barking out of the house. The little cat went flying up my long shirt. Ouch! We two adults and two animals were screeching in horror, with the dog's leash flailing in circles. What a sight! Finally, the owner of the dog managed to yank him inside. The cat jumped down from my waist and took off like lightning. Now I knew where he lived. The guy in skivvies said, "Oh, so that is where Skip has been? Yeah, I got this dog and the cat never came home again. I wondered what happened. Do you want him?"

"Do I want him, do I want him! Well, I certainly know he isn't going to stay with you," I thought.

"I already have three cats, but I will feed him and see what I can do to find him a good home."

We continued our same feeding ritual for months. It was when Joey and I were going to San Diego for a week, it all changed. The woman who was going to cat-sit for us came by to meet our feline family. I told her the situation with Tasha (we had named him by now) and she said, "Oh, there is no way this cat is going to come up three flights of stairs exactly when I come once a day. We'll just have to leave him inside."

"Yee Gods," I said. "Won't they all fight and kill each other? Our apartment is so small."

"Nope, leave it to me. I am the original cat lady. They will be fine!" We did just as she said and the cats survived without a problem. We now had a furry family of four! They accepted each other as brothers and sisters. It was I who had the fear of assimilation. We spent many happy years with Eva, Ethyl, Edgar and Tasha.

In 1979 Joey and I moved to a historic street in San Francisco. The home we purchased was one of the only single family dwellings on the block. There were several brownstones and apartment buildings. I wasn't aware how often people moved out and just left their pets, especially cats. The day we arrived with our furniture we were greeted by three stray cats crying at our back door. I was a "sucker" for unwanted animals. It broke my heart. I thought, "What do we do now?" At first we didn't do anything and just tried to ignore them while our brood of four would sit at the backdoor for hours hissing at the strangers outside. Our cats had lived inside since we had first gotten them. I started noticing that one of the neighbors in the building next door would put out a can of wet food about once a week! Once a week wasn't going to "cut it" for these poor creatures. I decided I would feed the strays downstairs twice a day just as I did our cats. So, up and down I went to the basement with wet food, dry food and bowls of water. We officially had two separate cat families.

One day I was outside and I spoke with the neighbor and asked her if she knew who had owned the cats. Her reply was, "Yes, there was a woman who lived in your house for many years and she loved her cat Penny, the one that resembles a raccoon."

"What happened to her," I said.

"The old lady went to a nursing home and when her attorney came to get her cat I hid her because I didn't want them to take her to a shelter."

I was speechless, because in my opinion it would have been better to let a shelter find a nice home for a cat then to have her starve outside for days or weeks. I learned right then that when you live in a crowded city you will meet a variety of people with differing views about the care and feeding of animals.

She told me that the other two abandoned cats had recently joined Penny in her crusade to get back inside the house where she had lived for so many years. We decided that since we had taken the responsibility for the outdoor crew we would name Penny's cohorts Thelma and Spotty. These guys spent their time lounging on the deck in the sun while our four would sit at the backdoor watching them in envy. It was a pitiful sight. It wasn't long before Joey and I decided we would let our indoor cats out for at least a few hours a day. I was panicked because I had seen Spotty wandering the streets of San Francisco many times and I didn't want him teaching our pampered ones his tricks. But, when I saw how happy they all were together, I caved. I learned if you just give the animals time to get to know each other, they will do fine.

During these years I was a dreadfully sick woman. I was in denial as to the depth of Joey's and my illness. I was struggling to make a living as an actress and an artist. I learned to put on a good show and I kept my pain hidden from most of my peers. www.ISurvivedDocumentary.com. Because I couldn't bare the life I was leading, cats became the focus of my attention. They are pure love. I truly believe that animals are gifts to us from God. They would sleep with us, curl up on the sofa purring constantly, and all of them seemed to look into my eyes with a depth of understanding that was reassuring. I enjoyed nurturing them and received great comfort in their presence. Without knowing what I was doing, I continued to add this form of love to my life.

The deck on the back of our house was butted up against the next door neighbor's property; I could practically see into their living room. One day I sauntered outside and a magnificent white Persian cat was staring at me. She started crying and I knew she wanted attention. There was a fence creating the boundary between our two residences. I couldn't get to her and it didn't matter anyway because she obviously belonged to the guy who lived next door. I thought she was beautiful and I wished I could pet her. Unfortunately her crying and hanging outside her door went on all day, everyday.

One night I introduced myself to the young man I thought owned the white Persian. I told him how she was lonely, had no other cats to play with, and I invited her to join the troops at my house. He said, "Oh that would be great. I am a student and between school and work I am gone a lot. Her name is Lady Buffington, Buffy for short. She is 14 years old and I have had her since she was a kitten. I brought her from New Orleans when I moved to San Francisco. We weren't here even a week when she escaped, climbed up to the roof and fell down two stories to the ground breaking her jaw. Oh my gosh, she has been through so much during her lifetime. She has had several operations and serious illnesses. That would be so kind of you if you don't mind." We carved a hole in the fence and Buffy lunged through immediately.

Only, Buffy wasn't happy being outside with the rest of the gang. No, she wanted to be with me. She followed me everywhere and wanted my attention all the time. I adored her so I didn't care. I felt we had a special bond. I found some beautiful stationery and wrote a letter from my heart asking if there was any chance this young man would let me have Buffy for the rest of her life. I was nervous about delivering the note because I thought it was presumptuous of me, but I felt compelled. Much to my surprise this is what he said, "I was hoping you would ask. I love her but I have seen how she relates to you. But I would like something in return. I am fond of your outdoor cat Thelma. What if we trade?" It was just that simple; we did it. Buffy loved it at our house and Thelma was a queen next door.

It was late spring when Eva, our first, was 9 years old and her time to go. I hadn't lost a cat since my childhood when Inky died. Just a few hours after I had her euthanatized I was standing at the back door thinking of her with great sadness. I was looking at our overgrown garden filled with rich emerald ferns when I heard a little peep/squeak. I thought I was hearing things, but it sounded like a baby kitten. I called Joey and asked him to listen with me. Oh yeah, the chirping continued. We ventured outside and plowed through the dense foliage to find a small, thin black cat that had just given birth to a baby black cat. It was uncanny, on the day of Eva's death.

As we approached the duo the feral mother cat ran away. She was so tiny she looked like a kitten herself. Her baby was left on the ground. We had already been through this once before with Eva; we weren't about to raise another kitten. But, what were we to do? We decided to bring food out to the very spot where she had given birth in the ferns. We made chicken soup, yes, I know it sounds crazy, but soup it was indeed. The little mother came back and devoured anything we brought her and continued to nurse her newborn kitten. She was too frightened to let us near her and would run away as we approached with the food. But, then shortly thereafter, she would return and gobble her meals. We knew we needed to find a home for the baby at about eight weeks old if she were ever to have a chance. We weren't quite sure what was going to happen to Little Mother.

My girlfriend agreed to adopt the black kitten who looked just like Eva. The most horrible thing happened after my friend left. Little Mother grieved deeply; she cried a long, low, desperate shrill for days. I tried several times to corral her with no luck. When I finally thought I had her, she took off and scurried up a hole in the neighbor's house and became lodged between the walls. It kept going from bad to worse. After days of hiding she climbed out to eat. I slowly began moving the food closer to the basement where I fed the downstairs crew. This took weeks of work and much patience. But, it worked! Little Mother was now a part of a family.

I could never hold her therefore I was unable to have her spayed. One year later she gave birth again to one black kitten. This time she allowed me to make a special spot for her in the basement and she seemed grateful to use it for birthing and then to raise her baby. I knew it was time to try and find her a home. I put an ad in the local paper, prayed that a miracle would happen and someone would take an undomesticated cat and her kitten. My friends said I was crazy and that no one would want any part of that package. Never say never; a woman and her son read my truthful ad and agreed to take them both. Getting them to their home was a chore! They almost brought them back when Little Mother became wild, jumping and scratching, all over an enclosed bathroom. But, for some reason, the nice family hung in there and put Little Mother in their garage, much like our basement, where she lived for many years. Amazingly, she gave birth EACH spring to one black kitten.

A Cat Lady has cat stories. The ones that I will share next time I find truly incredible. The most astonishing are when I am on the path to recovery and have a family with Bryan and Mariah. To be continued...

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Denial is the Disease

As far back as I can remember alcohol permeated my life. Although I didn't know it at the time, it was the more important than family. My earliest memories were of this strange smelling substance that my family drank, talked about, and couldn't seem to live without. I can picture myself as a toddler stumbling out to the unkempt living room early in the morning on weekends. With chubby little fingers I would lift the highball glasses strewn about the room to my lips. I would drink any sauce left from the night before. I thought the liquid tasted like medicine and found the pungent flavor alternately disgusting and exciting. After all, this is what my parents drank when they partied on Friday and Saturday evenings. I wasn't allowed in the room, was put to bed quite early, but I could hear the whooping and hollering mixed with sounds from the record player. I always felt I was missing out on the fun and was trapped in my room for hours. Of course nothing was cleaned up or put away after a night of drinking so my brother and I had a blast playing games with melted ice and the heaps of cigarette butts left in the ashtrays. The bottles were usually empty but we managed to tilt them far enough over to taste the drippings. We thought this was entertaining. When it was pointed out to my mother by one of her friends that drinking the residue of mixed alcoholic cocktails might not be a good idea for her young children she replied, "There is nothing left in those glasses. It won't hurt them." DENIAL

After my father's death my mother was in a fog most of the time. Although I was only 9 years old I made excuses for her behavior and covered for her when any of my friend's parents would inquire about her well being. She welcomed the advances of the new man in her life who eventually became my stepfather. Together they would drink a case of scotch every week to ten days. Their libations would be delivered to them personally by the local liquor store owner, even in a snow storm. He would trudge up the three flights of stairs to our apartment to make sure his best customers were satisfied. Although my mother never appeared drunk, (she had the constitution to maintain well,) my stepfather was on the floor often. Since he was a huge man, and couldn't be picked up, we would just step over him. He would drive while under the influence and the two of them would force me to ride in the car to help with the directions. I protested, "I don't want to drive with a drunk and be killed." My mother's answer was, "Get in. Don't be so dramatic!" It was only when he ran over the maintenance man's foot that my mother quit defending him vocally. DENIAL

It was quite warm one summer night in Missouri where I grew up. It was the year of my 13th birthday. I was taking a cool bath while my mother and stepfather were sequestered in their bedroom. I remember I was singing in the tub which was unusual for me because I did not have a pleasing voice. I must have been in a good mood. The window was open wide and the curtains were blowing slightly from a breeze which was welcomed in the heat. I stood up in the tub to dry myself when I noticed a man's arm coming through the bathroom window. I began screaming and dropped to the floor. I was petrified! I wrapped the towel around me and crawled to the door. With shaky hands I unlocked the lock and ran to my mother's room. Banging on the door I yelled, "Someone is trying to break in our house. Help mother, help!" At first they didn't answer. When I hysterically kept repeating myself she finally opened the door. I told her exactly what had happened and what I saw, over and over again, only to get blank stares from both of them. They didn't believe me. They told me I was overreacting and needed to go to my room. I dejectedly hid under the covers in bed the rest of the night. The following morning the maintenance man knocked on our door and said that the screen from the bathroom window was found under the steps with a hole cut over the hook that held the screen in place. My mother hadn't even noticed that the screen was missing. She never acknowledged that my fear was real. DENIAL

It was the fall of 1970 when I first met Joey. I had only known him a few weeks when he paid a surprise visit to my classroom where I was teaching art in Lexington, Massachusetts. It was toward the end of the school day when I looked up at the door and saw a belligerent young man accompanied by his buddy, an older gentleman, who was three sheets to the wind. I panicked! What was I to do? This was a conservative community and I took my job quite seriously. The two of them sauntered into the room as if they were headed for a party. I walked over to them and as quickly as possible ushered them out into the hall. All the students were staring and watching the drama. It wasn't easy. On the way out Joey slurred, "Hey, Ms. Kopit, we came to pick you up." It had been snowing all day and when I looked outside it seemed as though my car was almost buried. I told the duo to go wait in Joey's car until the last class was over. I saw the principal eyeing them suspiciously as they disappeared down the hall. The bell rang just as I returned to the classroom. No one was saying a word. The silence was deafening. All the students marched out quietly except one girl who lingered by my desk. "Is that your boyfriend Ms. Kopit?" She then added, "He is drunk." "No he isn't, "I said. "But, his friend is." DENIAL

The snowstorm outside was more like a blizzard. When I reached Joey's car with the top down, (which I later found out was a stolen Triumph,) the two wacko's were oblivious to the mound of snow covering their heads. I said, "You can't go home in this convertible; you can drive with me in my VW Bug." They peeled themselves from the open, snow covered, sports car and both got into my vehicle, with Joey diving for the driver's seat. I asked him repeatedly to move. "Get out Joey, I will drive!" No matter how much I pleaded he wasn't about to move. Finally I climbed in the back seat and prayed we would get to Boston from the burbs safely. That ride was one of the scariest of my life! I remember screaming no less than three times when Joey almost side-swiped a car, narrowly missed a center divider (I actually took the wheel and steered us to safety,) and I freaked as he skidded across the pavement when he was trying to land in Somerville, several miles from our destination. Instead of Boston, where I lived, we stopped at the Triangle, a corner that housed three separate taverns where the locals would play "Musical Bars" until closing. I was so glad to be alive I didn't care where we were. The two of them vanished into one of the three saloons. I waited and waited, frozen to the bone. Instead of driving myself home, I went looking for the pair. They were happy to see me when I entered the smoke-filled space because they had run out of money. For the rest of the evening rounds of booze continued to be served and I was the one paying the tab. I didn't even question it. I just did it! DENIAL

In 1980, after my thoughts of suicide, see "Opportunity," I was still hanging on to my unbalanced beliefs. Joey was gone most of the time and I spent several hours a day pacing in front of the large picture window in the front room of our house in San Francisco. I was waiting for him to come home. It was pathetic. I would count the cars that past and would jump up whenever I heard an approaching vehicle. One night I heard him walk slowly up the stairs and he entered in a daze. "I just totaled the Pinto," he said. "What ...where...how?" I was in shock. Rambling he stated, "I was driving down Delores Street and I hit a tree head-on." I pleaded for more of an explanation. "Did you hit another car, or hurt anyone." "No, and no one saw the accident." I said, "No one saw the accident. Are you crazy? Delores Street is one of the biggest streets in the city. Where is the car now?" He hung his head and answered, "I managed to drive it a few blocks away where it died." DENIAL

It was this incident that drove me to the next insane act. After 10 years of marriage I tried to commit Joey to a hospital. I actually visited three emergency rooms that evening, hoping and praying someone could help me, help him. I'll never forget one of the nurses dressed in starchy white. She told me that the hospital would only keep him for 72 hours and then he would be released. Actually, they all told me that but I didn't believe them until I spoke with this nurse. I wanted some relief from the insanity I was living with him and I wanted it to be permanent, not for just three days. I remember I began spewing everything crazy he had done in a list that would have frightened the devil. I couldn't stop; it was as if I had gone mad. The nurse turned to me and said, "Are you all right?" "Am I all right, am I all right? I am not the one getting drunk everyday, stealing, and crashing cars. What do you mean am I all right?" I was so angry with her! I had tried in every way to be a good person and a good wife and she was asking me, was I okay? DENIAL

My dear friend and publicist, Rhonda Boudreaux, has her tale of denial. In her words here it is:

When you think of it we are all in some sort of denial, either protecting a loved one or protecting ourselves from ourselves. My denial started at a very young age and went on for many years. I grew up with alcoholics: my father, grandfather, grandmother and just about every uncle and aunt on my mother's side of the family. There was no family gathering that didn't involve alcohol. The pattern was set early on for me. My father was a binge drinker; he would go for years without drinking and then some event, such as a divorce (he was married 9 times) or a big gambling lose would trigger a six month drunk. My father and mother were divorced when I was 18 months old. I didn't see him as much as I wanted to, so it didn't matter that my father was drunk more than not when I finally would see him. I felt sorry for him because he would cry a hurtful cry. In my mind I made excuses for his drinking. I was in denial before I was old enough to go to school.

I started "real" drinking at age 17 after the birth of my first son. My then husband was in a band and I was allowed to go in the bars with him. I was actually drunk every weekend for about 5 years. Because I was a binge and weekend drinker, I was in total denial and truly believed my excuse to drink was validated by the abuse of my then husband. When my youngest son was born with a birth defect I hit autopilot and quit drinking for 6 years. During my divorce, after 18 years of abuse and 6 years of sobriety, I felt free again and hit the bars. Why not, my father drank to ease the pain? I didn't have a problem with alcohol and could stop any time I wanted, I just didn't want to, yet.

When I was confronted about my drinking by loved ones and close friends, I was destroyed, not at the thought of being an alcoholic, but by their accusations. I really believed there wasn't a problem. My reaction was shock, denial and indignation. I would have passed a lie detector test if I were asked if there was a drinking problem in my life. I honestly believed that it wasn't true, and that I was being totally misunderstood.

My mother told me I acted like my Aunt Barbara June, another alcoholic in my family. I think that was when it hit me. You would have to know my aunt but her alcoholic actions and the fact that no one could be around her because she was drunk all the time, opened not only my eyes but also my heart. I have not had a drink for many years but I miss the buzz from a couple of glasses of good wine. I still, to this day, tell myself that I can have just one glass; denial is always there in a smaller way. I know I can't have just one glass of any alcohol. Admitting my denial is the hardest part of getting well.

DENIAL IS THE DISEASE

We, as a nation, are in denial about almost everything, not just about drugs and alcohol. When the truth is right in front of our face, we don't believe it, we deny it. I believe it is a toxicity that affects the core of our universal mind. We are destroying ourselves and our planet because it has been too painful to accept what our souls know to be right. It is time now to stand up and be STRONG. We need to have the courage to accept the truth and the reality of what we are doing to ourselves and our mother earth.

The United States has the highest growth rates of any industrialized country in the world. The U.S. population is growing by 3.2 million people each year. Since 1980, the U.S. has converted more than 10 million acres of forest to suburb, an area twice as large as Yellowstone, Everglades, Shenandoah, and Yosemite National Parks combined. Growing populations demand more food, goods, services and space. Our advertising industry with their glitzy and false ads, encourage us to acquire products we don't need. The underlying message is that getting more, having more, and using more will produce happiness. The pressure is on to accumulate things no matter what the cost. And, the cost has been astronomical!

Our natural resources are rapidly shrinking. The oil and gas we depend on is running out. At the same time our demand for energy has skyrocketed. On April 18, 1977, President Jimmy Carter gave an insightful televised speech to our country ("Jimmy Carter, The American Experience") urging us to face the truth that, "Ours is the most wasteful nation on earth. We waste more energy than we import." He began his speech by saying, "Tonight I want to have an unpleasant talk with you about a problem unprecedented in our history. With the exception of preventing war, this is the greatest challenge our country will face during our lifetimes. The energy crisis has not yet overwhelmed us, but it will if we do not act quickly. It is a problem we will not solve in the next few years, and it is likely to get progressively worse through the rest of this century. We must not be selfish or timid if we hope to have a decent world for our children and grandchildren. We simply must balance our demand for energy with our rapidly shrinking resources."

President Carter presented his energy plan to Congress. His communication drew a strong reaction from special interest groups, the Saudis and the oil industry, suggesting that there was no energy problem at all. He said, "We can be sure that all the special interest groups in the country will attack the part of the plan that affects them directly. They will say that sacrifice is fine, as long as other people do it, but that their sacrifice is unreasonable, or unfair, or harmful to the country. If they succeed, then the burden on the ordinary citizen, who is not organized into an interest group, would be crushing." Today, 28 years later, we are living his predictions. We are in a mess. We have DENIED the truth.

I urge each of you to read the brilliant work of Thom Hartmann, "Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight." www.thomhartmann.com. I was so moved by this book that I purchased 10 of them and passed them on to my friends asking that they in turn pass the book on. Thom Hartmann is an author and an educator who comes from a place of love and peace while at the same time offers facts and figures we cannot DENY.

Let's start with ourselves. I am going to take off my rose colored glasses today. What about you?

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Magic of Believing

At Christmas time all my friends seemed happy, friendly and excited for the big day when Santa Claus would deliver presents to their house.  My father was Jewish and my mother gentile which was why when I was growing up Christmas was more of a celebration of family getting together, eating, drinking, and exchanging presents, than a religious holiday.  As a child I didn"t know the difference, I just knew I loved that time of year, near the end of December.   My father was ill for years with heart failure, (he had several heart attacks) and my mother worked as a hairdresser to support us.  We did not have much money and even necessities were given to us by our Aunt Letha and Uncle Wally.  Life was a struggle and alcohol didn"t make it easier, but once a year, we were allowed the pleasure of dreaming of what Santa might bring.  We could visualize without being put down for our desires.  Of course it was understood that you had to be good, for if you were bad Santa wouldn"t stop at your address.  I worked hard at being good!

 Decorating the artificial tree was fun because it was the only activity I ever did with my mother.  It was wonderful to be able to help her un-wrap the brilliant bulbs and the colorful bubbly amber lights shaped like candles.  Each bauble was surrounded with tissue paper which was used over and over, year after year.  I actually enjoyed the slightly moldy smelling tissue.  We carefully would place each piece of tinsel over a limb one at a time.  When my brother would throw big gobs of tinsel all at once it was sure to cause a fight.  I was tightly wired and if I couldn"t control the flow of the decorating I went berserk.  Fortunately, John didn"t like to put the ornaments on the tree; he thought it was too much work.  We would spread a thin cotton skirt at the base when we were finished.  I loved looking at the flickering candle lights bouncing off the dazzling colored balls.  This is when I would dream of what I wanted for Christmas.

 My eighth year, 1949, I was dreaming BIG TIME!  I wanted a Madame Alexander doll.  This composition doll with painted features and sleep eyes was my vision for a companion in lieu of an invisible friend.  I longed to have a doll to play with and I prayed with all my might that Santa would answer my prayers.  That year several presents, without any tags, were placed under the tree a week before December 25th. I took every opportunity to pick up the packages and rattle them to see if I could figure out what was inside.  I did see a box large enough to hold a doll and I was fixated on that rectangular gift.  It was way in the back partially covered by the cotton cloth.  I would close my eyes and almost go into a trance imagining a beautiful Madame Alexander with a thick stock of curly hair.

 We were told to go to bed early on Christmas eve and sleep fast so that Santa wouldn"t see us.  My mother said, "If you see Santa Claus and look him in the eye, he won"t leave presents."  I believed her.  She added, "The quicker you go to bed the sooner Christmas Day will be here."  We always did two things before we went to our room:  we hung our stockings on a coat hook, (we didn"t have a fireplace) and we left cookies and milk for Santa.  I took cat naps all night long for I was busy listening to any sounds the wind made and was sure I heard Santa in our house.  I always wondered how he made it inside.  But, I really didn"t care because I knew he was magical and had the same power as fairies, angels and maybe even God.

 John and I would be ready to get up around 5:00 am but we needed to wait for Aunt Letha and Uncle Wally to come over, for they loved being with us when we opened gifts.  I heard my mother say, "You had better get here quick.  I hear the kids pacing in their room."  As soon as the front door opened we bolted to the living room and saw layers of packages all around the tree.  Santa had been quite generous and also had filled our felt stockings with fruit and candy.

 It was a tradition for one person to "play" Santa and hand out one gift at a time to each person in the room.  This delayed the pleasure and also allowed us to appreciate everyone else"s presents.  One by one we would tear into the paper.  I received socks, underwear, pajamas inscribed with polar bears, and a wonderful multi-colored knit scarf.  My mother and aunt always gave each other a Vanity Fair robe.  To me it always seemed that items for girls and women were more vibrant.  I can"t remember what my brother, dad or uncle received.  As the torn wrapping paper and ribbons filled the room I almost forgot about that large rectangular box.  When my aunt began cleaning up all the empty boxes and paper I heard my mother say, "There is one gift left.  Let"s see whose name is on it?  Kay."  There it was the box I had been studying for two weeks, with my name on it.  "This is from all of us Kay, Merry Christmas."  My hands were shaking as I un-wrapped the package.  I lifted the lid, turned back the tissue, and there she was Madame Alexander dressed in a red velvet cape with a matching beret!  I thought I had died and gone to heaven.  Aunt Letha then handed me a burgundy velvet drawstring bag.  Inside there were incredible hand made clothes my mother had sewn for the Madame.  Keep in mind, Barbie Dolls had not been created yet.  Dolls, even the caliber of Madame Alexander didn"t come with a wardrobe.  My mother had lovingly designed bras, panties, slips, blouses, skirts, and even an evening gown all for this tiny doll.  Wow, I had never experienced anything quite as special in my life.  It was one of the few times I felt genuine love and caring from my mom.   

It is extremely sad to me that alcohol stole my mother and father and drugs robbed me of my brother.  What potential there was for us to have had a happy family without addiction?  I treasured that special doll for years and even took it to college with me.  Unfortunately it was in a box of sweaters that was stolen from my dorm when I was moving at the end of my freshman year.  I put the image of the doll out of my mind and didn"t think about it for many years.

rd-.  I usually would arrive home around midnight.  That evening it was closer to 1:00 am because several businesses had parties and there was more work involved.  As I walked down busy Pine St. I enjoyed looking at lights strung everywhere.  It was lovely.  I did notice that night it seemed more quiet than usual.  I couldn"t wait to get to our apartment because I was tired and wanted to get to bed.  I was looking forward to my first Christmas in California.

When I opened the heavy glass floor to ceiling double doors I noticed that the limestone floor was wet.  In fact, it was so drenched I almost slipped.  My mind was racing.  Why hadn"t Joey cleaned this up?  How did it get there?  What on earth had happened?  As with so many other events, something always seemed to go awry.  I tiptoed over the flooded floor and opened the first door to my right which was our apartment.  Joey was passed out on the floor and the rooms were filled with smoke.  I ran to the small kitchenette and found all four gas burners flaming several inches high.  I was angry and also scared!  The apartment could have easily caught on fire.  (In our years together the fire department had to come many times when Joey would try to light his cigarette with the burners from the stove.  He actually never caused a fire but came extremely close.)  I forced him to get up.  "What happened?"  I demanded to know.

"I vomited coming in the front door and I tried to clean it up," he said with great remorse.

I had kept his drinking such a secret from everyone and I wasn"t about to let it out now.  I took a bucket and a mop and cleaned up the mess.  As I was working an elegant gentleman who lived upstairs came through the entry and asked me what was wrong.  I lied and said someone in the building was sick after a party.  He said, "Too bad."

The next day Joey and I barely spoke.  The reality of his drinking and our exhausting life together hit me hard.  He tried to pretend like nothing had happened but we both knew we were in trouble.  This was like so many holidays of my youth.  He asked me to pose for a picture in front of the tree with our ornaments.  I did so with disappointment. He handed me a beautifully wrapped package and said, "Merry Christmas." 

"I thought we weren"t exchanging gifts?  What is it Joey?" 

"Open it and see."

First I untied the lace ribbon.  Then I slowly opened the rectangular box trying not to tear the paper because it was stunning.  As I lifted the tissue paper I gasped.  Inside was a Madame Alexander doll dressed in a red velvet gown.  I cried because of this enchanting sentiment.  Of course I thanked him profusely but all the while I was confused in my heart because of the incident the night before.  This was reminiscent of my past.  Alcohol had come between a loved one and me, had cheated us both of happiness, although at the time I didn"t understand what was happening.  I tried to give Joey a hug but he wasn"t able to respond.  The next thing I knew, he got up, left the house and didn"t come home for days.  I spent Christmas alone that year.  It wasn"t the first or the last time he walked out when confronted with embarrassment. 

Today, I am living the dream I always kept in my heart for Santa, (see I AM HEALTHY.)  My Alexander doll is a beautiful girl named Mariah.  Our daughter is ten years old now and she feels she is one of the only people in the world to see the "real" Santa Claus.  Just the other day she said to me, "You know Mommy I will always believe in Santa, even when I grow up because I SAW HIM!  Some of my friends don"t believe but they have only seen all the helpers of Santa dressed like him at the malls." 

When Mariah was six we spent the holidays near the Chicago area where Bryan"s mother and sisters live.  Traveling to see our family where we have seven nieces and nephews all close to Mariah"s age is thrilling in the winter especially when it snows.  That year Grandpa Joe and Grandma Sharon had transformed their basement (a suburban walk-up) to a magnificent family room with a wall of glass bordering Grandma"s charming garden.  It had snowed heavily before we arrived which created breathtaking visuals of the trees and shrubbery outside.  It was bitterly cold forming icicles dangling from the roof. Several stockings were hanging on the mantel and a roaring fire was in the fireplace.  The children were playing games and several of the aunts and uncles were conversing. A garland of lights flickered outside illuminating the magnificent Christmas Eve scene.  All of a sudden Grandma shrieked, "Look outside!"  There must have been 15 heads that turned in unison and also screamed.  One of the kids said, "It is Santa, it is Santa."  Santa Claus paused for a moment and looked right into the cozy warm room.  As he turned the corner and went around a large bush, a wiggly brown tail was spotted.  We all were sure it was a reindeer.  One of the children yelled, "Uh oh!  We have to get to bed.  If Santa sees us he may not come to our house."  All the cousins who were staying at Grandma"s that night raced up the stairs so fast it seemed like a flash.  The oldest boy had the covers over his head and didn"t want to get up to brush his teeth.  What an exciting experience for all of us to have seen the real Santa Claus!  We were in awe.

One of the reasons I feel like I survived the family disease of alcoholism-codependency is because I BELIEVE.  I believe in Santa Claus, fairies, angels, miracles, and the innate goodness of human beings.  I have confidence in the truth.  I believe in Magic.  What about you?

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Forgiveness

            Many of us have had the opportunity to examine the meaning of forgiveness.  If we have the wisdom and the grace to forgive, honoring the process within our hearts, we will be set free.  Intellectually we know this but to emotionally release resentment can be difficult if not impossible.  "Forgiveness is not an occasional act.  It is a permanent attitude."  These words were spoken by Dr. Martin Luther King.  I have a dear friend who has that outlook on life.  She has been blessed with the spirit of understanding.  Here is her story.

            I had just moved to Boston, Massachusetts in 1969 when I met my upstairs neighbor Melissa in the deserted back stairwell of our eight story apartment building. Both of us were on our way to the laundry-room.  I learned she was 20 years of age, from Maryland, had left an alcoholic family (her mother and father both drank heavily until her dad's death at 48,) and a situation where all her peers were drug addicts.  She had no financial support, had made the move on her own, and was searching for normalcy, as was I.  I was impressed with her courage to relocate to another city to try and forge a better life.  Because of our common background we bonded easily in friendship, one that has lasted almost 37 years.

            I was in the throes of a codependent relationship with Joey Haudel and although I wasn't aware of it at the time, my life was chaotic and I was out of control.  Joey had moved in with me in the studio apartment right beneath Melissa's.  When things would get rough, she and I would meet in the stairwell for tea.  At this point Melissa was working three jobs to pay her bills and wasn't involved in a romantic relationship but she was supportive when I would vent my problems that seemed to escalate daily.  It was the "blind leading the blind", but nonetheless a valuable comradeship.  I saw early on Melissa had a deeper acceptance of human foibles than I.

            Melissa became involved with a successful professional guy, just about the time I was leaving with Joey to move to California in 1971.  Bobby was handsome, intelligent, and a champion body-builder.  He earned big bucks and was in demand for his talent and expertise as a financial analyst.  The life style he led was intoxicating to my friend and within a few months of meeting him they moved in together, just as I had done with Joey.   I met Bobby a few times before we left for the west coast and thought, "What a great catch."  Little did I know he too was alcoholic?

            From the beginning Melissa tolerated unrealizable behavior because that is all she had ever known and also she had no one to turn to for help; she had no where else to go.  Bobby's conduct was erratic when he drank revealing a violent temper.  Early in their relationship when he returned home from work one evening, discovering the meal Melissa had fixed for dinner, he picked up the enameled pot of beef stew and threw it against the wall. As the vegetables dribbled slowly to the floor, he dramatically exclaimed, "This isn't a dinner, this is a lunch!"  This incident was extremely alarming but she didn't relate it to drinking or alcoholism because Bobby wasn't drunk.    

Melissa was troubled by his actions and found the behavior puzzling but she made excuses for him because she never saw him smashed the same way she was used to seeing her father.  When her dad was intoxicated he was a playful drunk. He would go outside and cuff the leaves of the trees as a punching bag until he eventually passed out but wouldn't force his vengeance on anyone but himself.  He couldn't hold a job, although he was a skilled electrician, and died at the age of 48.   Before his death he would always say to Bobby, "You're the man, you're the man!"  Melissa felt they had some kind of connection but she wasn't ready to believe they were two of a kind.  She chose to see that Bobby was an intelligent, respected businessman with advanced degrees, but a man with a bad temper.

Bobby had won the title of Mr. Laguna Beach for bodybuilding.  His appearance was intimidating, the bulges in the sleeves of his hand-made suits made it clear that he was a guy dedicated to developing strong muscles.  One evening in Copley Plaza he and Melissa met at a lovely hotel restaurant for a business banquet.  After dinner they moved to the adjoining tavern which was an architectural dream.  The walls were paneled with deeply recessed red mahogany squares, and lovely Tiffany lamps adorned the entire length of the bar.  They were sturdily designed to take a lot of wear and tear.  Each metal lamp, with its decorative glass shade, was built into the surface of the heavily glazed wooden counter.  There were no cords or connections that were visible.  Bobby was considered to be the "laugh a minute guy" and apparently knew several of the bar patrons.  He generously bought rounds for everyone several times.  As the evening progressed he became louder and more boisterous.  As Melissa tells it, "Everyone began chanting, "Take it out, take it out."  They were taking bets on his ability to pull out one of the embedded Tiffany lamps.  Several guys were pounding their fists in rhythm to the slogan. I was horrified and immobile as the spectacle intensified."  Sure enough, Bobby sensationally managed to uproot one of the exquisite lamps, raise it above his head in triumph and Melissa was asked by the hotel manager to pay the bill.

The couple planned a trip to Nassau for much needed rest and relaxation.  Melissa, not having traveled that much in her young life, was thrilled about this vacation.  She packed several pieces of luggage for both of them.  She observed that on the way to the airport Bobby was anxious, fidgety and non-communicative.  When they arrived at Boston Logan Airport, while the taxi driver was graciously unloading the trunk of the vehicle, Bobby pushed him aside.  He began shouting that his luggage had been damaged and without warning picked up the tire-iron and was ready to hit the man.  Melissa was again appalled.  A pattern of behavior was immerging; Bobby picked fights.

When they arrived at their hotel in Nassau Bobby went straight to the bar and began his loud, obnoxious conduct.  Embarrassed and exhausted from the flight, Melissa left for their room and went straight to bed.  Shortly, Bobby came upstairs and asked her to marry him.  She said, "I can't marry a man who is so unpredictable." With that he jumped on the batik spread and began choking her around the neck!  With all the force she could muster, Melissa fought him off her body.  She was petrified!  Turning on a dime, Bobby began pleading for her mercy.  He began begging her to marry him, stating he couldn't live without her and that his behavior would change; he promised.  He left the room as quickly as he had entered leaving Melissa limp and spent.  Within the hour Bobby returned to present her with a diamond engagement ring.  He was apologetic and remorseful.  She weighed her options: Continue to work three jobs or marry a guy who could take care of her and her mother.  Against her "better judgment," she chose the latter.

For the next several years the couple continued on the "Fast-Track."  Bobby was a workaholic, climbing his way up the ladder, and rarely home.  Melissa happily took over the job as stepmother to his three children, ages, 9, 12 and 14, as their mother was deeply troubled.  She enjoyed parenting the kids and was instrumental in creating a balance where it had been severely lacking.  Putting her energy into the family was satisfying and fulfilling; it also pushed her further into denial of the truth of her codependency and Bobby's alcoholism.

After about five years of marriage, a respected investment firm in New York City offered Bobby a lucrative position with their company.  He agreed to take this prestigious job but before they left Boston he purchased a country home in Vermont to assure a place for holidays, weekends and summer vacations in New England.  Melissa spent quite a bit of time there decorating her first house.  (She and Billy had lived in an apartment-condominium.)   She was eager to entertain her mother and sister's family in a place she could call home; she invited them for a long weekend when her sister's daughter was about 3 years old.  They gladly accepted, flew to Boston and from there drove 3 hours to Vermont.  This was going to be a wonderful family reunion.  The night of their arrival they all had a great time.

The next day Bobby called on customers and was gone all day.  He was invited to an executive luncheon with prospective clients where liquor flowed.  The three women stayed home, talking, hanging out together and playing with the toddler.  The time just flew by as they were having so much fun.  At dusk they were still busy socializing and didn't bother to turn on the outside lights.  Inside it wasn't that bright because they had been enjoying the sunset, and hadn't noticed the lights weren't turned on.  All of a sudden Bobby came rushing inside, in a "pissy mood" screaming and flailing his arms in the air, "There are no lights outside!  I couldn't find the house and have been driving for hours!  Why aren't the lights on?  Tell me, why aren't they! And, why is it so dark in here?  Where is dinner?  What did you fix?"  With that he picked up a Waterford vase, threw it against the wall hitting a framed lithograph, scattering glass shards all over the room.

Wow, time seemed to stand still, no one said anything.  Bobby went into another room and passed out.  Melissa's mother said, "You have to leave this man, he is crazy!"  In the middle of the night her family awakened her and said they were leaving.  In spite of the cold, darkness, and not being in familiar territory, they chose to drive themselves to the nearest train station and sit outside until the doors opened in the morning.  They went back to Maryland.  This was the beginning of the end for Melissa.

It wasn't long after that incident the two of them were having breakfast one morning in their New York apartment.  Melissa commented about something on a page of the newspaper.  Bobby said curtly, "Can't we just sit here in silence without reading?"   She retorted, "I am 32 and I am not going to live my life like this anymore!  I want a divorce!"  Bobby went crazy!  He ran to the 35th floor and threatened to jump.  It seemed to her that the whole New York Police Department was downstairs with a few deputies working diligently to bring him in safely.  This drama went on for hours and his son David finally talked him into coming down.  Melissa had such bottled up anger toward Bobby that she picked up a lamp and threw it at him.

Back in Boston, walking through Faneuil Hall, Melissa felt liberated.  Six years of marriage to such an extreme guy caused her to question her own sanity.  For many years she worked on herself mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  Her talents in business were exceptional, affording her a wonderful salary, property and travel opportunities.  She was fortunate to make countless friends who were like family to her, as well as, to travel to Maryland several times a year to visit her mother and sister.  She has studied codependency and used any opportunity she has had to check in with herself in regards to her mental health.  Melissa has become a healthy, happy, well-balanced woman.     

For the last 25 years she has stayed close to David, Bobby's middle child, spending many holidays with him.  Although Melissa didn't want to know, David insisted on keeping her abreast of the details about his father.  He told her Bobby had moved to Hawaii 15 years ago feeling he had done everything he could on Wall St.  He had given up cocaine but was still drinking and body-building.  He was a substitute professor and managed to work just enough to pay his bills. 

Two years ago David gave his father Melissa's e-mail address.  She was absolutely furious!  She wanted nothing to do with him, but to her surprise Bobby wrote her he was clean and sober.  He had spent all of his money on booze, women, and cocaine, hitting bottom at age 68.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he was beginning to heal.  They began an internet correspondence, not a romance, but a friendship.  When I heard this I was quite skeptical but it wasn't my business and knowing Melissa's good heart I chose to watch and wait.

Bobby is now 70.  Melissa told him she didn't want him to die in Hawaii alone, to come home and be with his children.  Last summer he did just that.  He lives meagerly on social security but is content to have his sobriety.  According to her he is so grateful for his sanity he doesn't complain at all about his financial struggles.  He has stayed as a guest in her home feeling somehow connected to Melissa.  She said he feels like family.

Melissa has been good to her mother; it is stressful to be away from her when she is ill.  She has moved her two times in Maryland searching for the most comfortable independent living situation.  It hasn't been easy but Melissa loves her dearly and wants her to be happy.  A few weeks ago her mother became depressed, dehydrated, and was on a downhill slide spending several days in the hospital.  Melissa called Bobby and asked if he would fly to Maryland and stay with her until she could return on the weekends.  He said he would gladly come there and take care of her.  He said, "I am indebted to you; I will do anything for you."  Melissa's mother has been treated well under Bobby's care.  He has bathed her, fed her special meals, poured her tea, made her laugh and tucked her in at night.  Melissa told me she didn't know what she would have done without him. 

"Kay, I forgive him.  I am fortunate to have the opportunity in this lifetime to see the power of forgiveness." What about you?

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Courage

At a steady lick I am racing toward the police station. I feel anxious; I need to concentrate. The focus will be on my feet; one step at a time I need to reach my target. Shakily I notice the tap shoe in my right hand. I must have picked up the first thing I saw as I was dashing out of the house in fear. With heart beats throbbing in my throat, it will be my weapon against any opposing forces. Familiar buildings stand tall in the distance. I don’t know the exact location but I am hoping it will be in the center of town, near the City Hall. The destination is near; I only have a few more blocks. I am 11 years old, not even a teenager. What am I going to say? What will they do? Help!

Just a few years earlier when I was nine, I faced the first tragedy of my young life; I remember the day well. As I stood crouching behind the hall closet, the door ajar, I felt profound sorrow watching my mother embrace her good friend. She was sobbing profusely. I heard her say, “Morris is dead.” At that moment the pain I experienced was for her. It was as though my feelings about my father dying didn’t matter. That is when I began pushing down personal suffering, denying any terror I had about losing a parent. I saved all my grief for my mother, a young woman of 35.

I thought, “How is she going to make it? Daddy’s hospital bills are in the thousands, he has been sick for five years.” I longed to comfort her. It was odd, when family members began coming around, they didn’t offer to hug my brother or me, and they too saw only her unhappiness, not ours, her children. It appeared we didn’t count.

For the next week we stayed at the homes of school friends and were not allowed to go to our father’s funeral. It felt like we were in the ‘Twilight Zone.’ The parents of acquaintances were quite good to us and were generous buying us gifts. But, it was strange to be shipped out of our house and to never be able to talk about our dad. Everyone in our family acted like it didn’t happen. It took years for me to realize that I had a father at all. It seemed as though he disappeared.

My mother was a beautiful woman, actually a ‘knock-out’ by many men’s standards. She had bleached platinum blond hair, long legs and was unusually buxom. She was told many times that she resembled Jane Mansfield, the successful movie star. For these reasons she had many suitors after my father’s death. Her favorite date was ‘Cee’ a man who was tall, handsome, and alcoholic. He was financially able to ‘wine and dine” her every night after work. For many months we were shuffled between the homes of friends and my dear aunt and uncle to accommodate their evening schedule. We weren’t aware at the time that her new boyfriend didn’t want the competition with her children and that he wasn’t at all interested in meeting us. Although we had heard a great deal about him, it wasn’t until Easter weekend that we were introduced at a family dinner.

My mother and Aunt Letha were busy in the kitchen preparing the special holiday meal. If we could depend on anything, it was certainly my mother’s cooking. She had garnished the ham with pineapple circles pinned with cloves. Small bowls of lentil soup were chosen to be served before the entrée. A sweet aroma filled the apartment. All of us were anxious to devour the garlic mashed potatoes; she never had any lumps or dry spots. Yummy. Of course there would be a home-made cake; today a German Chocolate topped with small marzipan carrots. My contribution was to decorate the dining room by strategically placing Easter eggs on the mahogany table along with sugar chickens and chocolate bunnies from our baskets. There would be scrumptious food beautifully displayed. It appeared to be the perfect day to meet Mom’s new beau. We were all eager to impress him.

I brought out the celery and cream cheese hors d’oeuvres sprinkled with paprika. When I placed the appetizers on the coffee table my brother and uncle scooped up several for themselves. I offered Cee the plate and he declined saying, “I would rather not spoil my appetite but I will have another drink.” I went back to the kitchen and my mother gladly made him a highball. As I walked to the living room she commented to Cee that I was a good artist. My aunt chimed in and told me to show him my latest drawings. I felt strangely uncomfortable talking with Cee and the idea of using my art as filler was a good idea. I didn’t have to travel far to get the drawings. When I came around the corner I noticed him watching me with a peculiar gaze. It gave me the ‘willies.’

My Uncle Wally said, “Anyone for Gin Rummy?” My brother gathered the deck of cards and the two of them quickly became engrossed in playing. I used a small desk to spread out my art notebook. Cee sat down while I remained standing turning the pages one by one. To my consternation I felt his hand on the back of my right thigh. I moved away thinking I was imagining the touch. Conversation was minimal between us for I had a difficult time understanding his mumbling. I thought to myself, “I wish you would speak clearly.” Did he say, “You are beautiful just like your mother?”

I count my pencil drawings, out of sight of my uncle and brother, and return the sketchbook to the hall closet. I want to get back to the safety of the kitchen. It happens quickly! I am being pushed inside the large, dark, walk-in space. I feel Cee’s breath spray my face. With one fell swoop his hands are in my panties! Yee Gods! I am petrified! I am being suffocated with the weight of his body! I want to scream but the sound is trapped in my throat! I have to tell my mother! Let me out of here! The door flies open.

Breathlessly I hurried to the kitchen and was about to shout, “Your boyfriend fondled me!” when I found my mother and aunt laughing. Surprisingly I said, “I am going for a walk.” I couldn’t hurt her. It was the first time in years I had seen Mother smile. They both looked at me curiously but I bolted out the back door, down the porch steps, before they had a chance to speak.

It is a quiet day in the precinct. I walk straight to the officer sitting at his desk and say, I need help!

What can I do for you young lady?

My mother’s boyfriend touched me in private places.

Does your mother know?

No. I was afraid to tell her.

Would you like me to tell her for you?

Yes, could you do that?

Let me drive you home and I’ll see what I can do.

The officer walked me to the front door and rang the bell. My brother answered and was speechless. I don’t even know if he and my uncle knew I was gone. “Is your mother home?” asked the officer.

“Wait just a minute, I’ll get her.”

With the family and Cee in the living room; I grew cold with dread. The policeman said, “I would like to speak with Kay’s mother.” They left to have privacy in the kitchen. I couldn’t look at anyone and my stomach was killing me. I went to the bedroom and curled up on the bed with a heating pad.

The remainder of the Easter weekend was a blur. Just like my father’s funeral, the incident wasn’t mentioned but fortunately Cee never tried anything again. We rarely spoke for the next ten years.

I’ve always been introspective and analytical. I try and see the ‘lesson’ learned in any experience, positive or negative. When I reached ‘my bottom’ in the early 80’s I was able to remember myself as that young girl, one who was brave enough to stand up to what she believed was wrong. It took that same courage to face the truth about my codependency. I believe it is this way for all of us; to have the guts to say ‘No’ to what is Wrong and ‘Yes’ to what is Right. It isn’t easy and not always clear for Denial is powerful. But ultimately, whatever our addictions, it comes down to each of us, individually, to have the strength to stop the cycle and get well. I know, because I did it. What about you?

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From The Heart

The rough, russet carpet of the front room of our tiny apartment was threadbare. My brother John, age 7, and I, age 9, scooted and ran around this space, unaware that we lived below the poverty line. Our father had recently deceased and my mother was desperately trying to support the two of us by working long hours as a hairdresser. Her good intentions were seriously impaired by the onset of alcoholism. In order to survive in our family, which was experiencing great emotional pain and stress, we developed maladaptive, compulsive behavior. Both John and I were neurotic and did a variety of unbalanced acts to get our needs met. The saving grace of these desperate years of my youth was the amazing community in which we lived, Clayton, Missouri.

Clayton is an affluent suburb of St. Louis. To this day, the public schools are highly rated, some of the best in the state. Children, who are fortunate to attend, grow up prepared for college. Most citizens of Clayton are healthy, contributing, members of society. My family was on the fringe of this Mecca for professionals and connoisseurs. An act of kindness permitted us to enjoy this opportunity for a superb education. At the time my father died in 1950 his distant cousin owned our apartment building. He continued to rent to my mother at a substantial reduction. I was told many times that without this gift we would be close to living in the street. I never took that loving gesture for granted.

True giving comes from the heart without expectations. To have compassion for another and then act upon it is a deed of love. When this far-removed relative rented us a unit at a reduced price, he had no idea how his goodwill would alter my life. I had many friends and they welcomed me into their homes. I was able to share experiences with talented and well- balanced people. This gave me the chance for some sanity outside my own immediate dysfunctional environment. Although I didn't know it at the time, I was learning morals from these fine families. I was forging roots that would nourish me for many troubled years during my 20's and 30's.

Another gift to me was my mother's sister and her husband Aunt Letha and Uncle Wally. They were sweet, caring, and better balanced than any of the rest of our kin, but they were fairly naïve and didn't recognize the emotional abuse my brother and I were experiencing. My aunt would often rub the deep scowl line between my eyes and comment, "Why do you always frown, Kay? You must stop. This will become a permanent fixture on your face." She was unaware of the significant turmoil that we lived with each day. My aunt and uncle didn't have children. They deliberately gave John and me an abundance of love and attention, filling in the void in our lives.

I cherish several memories of beauty, which are ingrained in my soul. Famous-Barr, a large department store in St. Louis, housed a lovely tearoom. Several Saturdays a year my aunt would invite me to accompany her on the bus for the trip downtown to lunch. I remember we transferred several times passing unique neighborhoods along the way. We