Tag Archives: emotional healing

Surviving in a War Zone v.s. Calling Comcast/Xfinity

I recently came back from visiting my mother who just checked herself into a “home.” Overwhelmed by taking over all her financial responsibilities and seeing her short term memory fading, I tried to tackle a task beyond my abilities at the end of a 16 hour day of errands, and a day of facing the fact I would have to one day clear out the house of a – I want to say borderline, but I don’t think I really need to say borderline – hoarder. I called Comcast/Xfinity to move and change her service.

Maybe I had absorbed some of mom’s good old fashioned paranoia that everyone is trying to flim flam her, but at one point I thought I’d given her social security number to an identity theft ring, this after two hours and four customer service reps saying they had no record of my confirmation number. I spiraled quickly, as I do, into – why am I living? I really don’t want to be. (It turned out fine after a few more phone calls, just always ask for the “moving/transfers” department if you call. They won’t jack with you.)

This morning, I started listening to Trevor Noah’s autobiography, Born a Crime…, and thought, I need to marry someone like that, who’s had actual problems, like getting thrown out of a moving car at age 5 by his mom and with his mom and baby brother to avoid his mom getting brutally raped. Someone like that as a spouse might help me get some perspective on my life and the actual size of my problems.

Of course my therapist would say by feelings are justified. And she’s a smart cookie, so who knows.

Also listening to the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu on the flight to and from the visit, I have been trying to find a place for the information that children who have been cared for and protected have fewer survival skills and tend to be the first to die in concentration camps. Not great for the species, I understand, to be OK with death over suffering, but as a pampered white child that seems to be my go to response to discomfort. Take me now God, take me now. Not that He does.

I think of Trevor Noah’s mother driving sternly and commandingly through war zones to get to three churches on Sundays. That’s style. That’s some serious style. I wish I could find my style.

Wait – I, Me, Mine are words that make you more likely to have a heart attack. Scratch that last sentence. May we all find our style. Our serious style.

I think this would be mine.


What’s yours?


My life in a Creative Writing MFA program – T minus 10 weeks

Preston Sturges said that the night Isadora Duncan’s charms stopped working to seduce and beguile men was the night that the scarf took her. He said she let it take her.

Tonight I over heard a young man at a dance I was attending say of his dance partners “I had these two old biddies.” If there is a chink in my armor, I guess it’s that. Still shopping for men at 54 gets old. Yoga, seven minute workout, face creams and I can’t complain. Assume there’s 40 years ahead to complain. But still, we know how things used to be. It’s odd to be in a body that wasn’t designed to be maintained so long. Much less remain attractive to the opposite sex so long. Genetically speaking.

My mind travels to the MFA program I am starting in January. Is it a strong enough future to put back together my waning self-esteem? Sometimes. Maybe I’ll teach. Teachers get laid. Writing teachers are cool, and expected to be in their 50s and 60s and excentric. If it works out. I write well. Maybe I’ll get laid. Get loved. Is that why I’m doing it? To avoid the scarf?

scarf in the wind