Down And Dirty Hairball

So, I go out for a friendly evening on the town. I see people I know, people I don't know and people I think I know because I’ve heard gossip about them! I enjoy being out. Then, I return to my quiet domicile.

By this time, my head is spinning like a weathervane. I mean, I’m into hairballs, but I’m not what you’d call catty. All night it was: "How was that woman able to have an affair right in the middle of town, destroying her marriage and her children's sanity? Or, is it that he was the mean one as they say?" How would we ever really know, huh? Is gossip the unnamed addiction of the masses?

On and on it goes! Do we need to talk behind each other’s backs because we don’t have the courage to talk to each other honestly? Or is it that we don’t want to face our own fears, so that’s why we bitch about other people?

And, the stories are so confusing because each corner of the plaza has it's own beehive with a slightly different buzz. I try to stay out of it, but sometimes, especially when I’m tired, I can't help but wonder what people are thinking, not just about those other people, but about me!

I mean, I don’t want what you think of me to matter, but on the other hand, its nice to at least feel a sense of belonging. I have a good friend who always tells me “Don’t live your life based on what other people think!” And, she’s right of course. But still, I feel sad tonight wondering about these estranged people, how they got where they are, and how they may be a bit like me! It’s weird to have complete strangers talking and thinking about your personal life. I feel like a voyeur and exposed all at once.

“They’re obviously in some pain,” I muse. “Why didn't they talk to each other in the first place and clear up this entire hairball before it got to the divorce court? What's up with that? Why can’t they, why can’t I, learn to communicate?”

Do people really live under the same roof, practically use the potty together, become close friends and somehow end up hating each other? Am I right? That’s just wrong!

Okay, you’re probably thinking (inquiring minds want to know): "bipolar disorder;" "shit happens; " or "stuff comes up.” But, my question is: "What the heck is a relationship anyway?" Are we so into the perfect Hollywood romance that we won’t take the risk of ever really knowing each other?"

We think we don't like someone; they're too this or too that. But have we done any laps in their high heels or Birkenstocks? Nuff said.

On Midlife Depression

Help, I Forgot to Save the World!

What’s up with midlife? I notice people telling jokes about death more often, snickering about going on Viagra, and everyone trying to hunker down, hold onto their jobs and real estate. It all makes me feel old! I have this impulse to throw off my coat and run naked through the streets shouting, “I just can't take it anymore!” I mean, what does make life worthwhile when you’re middle-aged?

Overall, my husband and I had a lovely time away this weekend. We took a hot tub, hiked and read. It’s good to see him happy again, after some difficult times. He is renewed these days and so attentive to me too: what a great combination! We had very few conflicts. Still, I’m moody tonight, with low energy.

I can’t sort through it: My life is so good! I went to my family doctor last week, and he said, "You have very low serotonin.” He gave me some pills, not Prozac, but Gaba or something. I know I’m also worried about money, but I think a good portion of it is that I turn sixty in December.

Getting out my hairball here on paper, I realize that I’ve centered my life on trying to get “dad’s” love in my relationships with men. I don’t feel I have enough interests of my own. My mate is coming into his prime while I’m sinking below the mark! As a woman in midlife, I have belief systems to wrestle with, and right now, I’m in the swamp. I criticize myself for still dealing with eating too much, being a workaholic, and wanting to take antidepressants and sleeping medications. I hate myself for it, even though I am working on it in therapy. I have to remember that the process is ongoing no matter what my age.

I also grieve my sex life: we had so much excitement in the beginning. I’m used to thriving on the attention of men, and now I can’t rely on that. I really don't want to give up my power that way, but it lost its luster. I miss the newness, the hunger—the lust! While I wrestle with long hairs growing out of my chin, he’s still got the “younger women market” going for him! My friends are all taking tantra workshops. What’s up with that? At $500 a pop, is a new orientation towards lovemaking only for the rich?

I used to think my resentments were influencing my desire level, but now I just don't know. I’m in new territory. All I know is, long-term relationships are a challenge. I notice my energy is flat and I hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head: she decided she was “less than” at fifty. She said things like, “Men keep their looks; women don't."

I guess I should be grateful I’m still alive. I can have orgasms, walk, read, laugh and go out for dinner often enough. But I have a dull gaze, like I’m looking past people for some reason. Still, I try to listen more lately because I’m bored with my own perspective on life.

Poking through my hairball diaries, I know that many of midlife’s changes are affecting me. I miss my best friend of thirty-five years, Mona, terribly, since she died of ovarian cancer. I do not know how to grieve her. There’s a hole in me since she left this earth. I was always good at letting my friends come and go, but this has been different. The world is less aglow now. I miss my other best friend, my brother, so much since his stroke, which reduced him to a vegetative state.

But more than anything else, I think my outstanding bluesy feeling comes from my sorrow about the state of the world. The truth is, in the 1960s, I really thought things would change. I am an idealist and these last few years have hit me hard.

The only time I’m really happy and chuckle a lot, is when my husband and I cuddle and he tells me I'm cute, or when I’m moving my body in nature, hiking with a friend. Or, I’m also content in groups of women when they tell the truth. I’m enormously comforted by this type of sharing: it relieves my self-doubt and leads to bubbling laughter just in the natural course of conversation. There’s something strangely jubilant about honesty in a culture that relies on empty comments like, “I’m fine, how are you?”

Being a sensitive person and reading the news is even hard. How can I find joy in the routine, everyday, bleak and frightening reality? I look in the mirror and wonder if jazzercise is worth it anymore; I watch people eating hamburgers unconsciously and hear more conversations about hernia operations and back problems. I just was not prepared for this part of life. Does moving past midlife have to be a downhill slide? Can I read more affirmations, meditate, accept reality, serve the planet and find solutions?

In the book I’m reading now, The Bitch, the Crone and the Harlot, Susan Schachterle talks about women’s power, self-esteem and dignity. Her writing makes me feel alive again and her use of the word “bitch” is respectful, not a put down. She says, “She’s an extraordinary woman, this Bitch. She’s the one who can be counted on to do what needs to be done, to make sure goals get reached on time and with excellence, and to be a role model for women who want to live exemplary and tremendously productive lives.” So there you have it—bring on the bitchy midlife women! Perhaps we have a special role to play after all.

Sick, Sick, Sick

Is Anybody Home?

Have you seen the new Michael Moore movie Sicko? I don't usually write about movies or even go see them (I love being outdoors these days and have plenty of TV and DVDs if I want them), but…

I’ve had dozens of conversations with friends in the last month, and the number of people who’ve said, "I can't see the Michael Moore movie because my life is already so stressed, I don’t need it” really shocks me! I’ve been surprised at the quality of intelligent and even liberal people who don’t want to see the film. What’s up with that?

Last night an acquaintance said, "Okay, you talked me into it. I'll see it." This reluctance scares me. I do understand, because I know I had to force myself to go on a lovely summer night, when I would rather have listened to the crickets! But, I walked out with a huge smile on my face! The man is brilliant and this movie is funny, inspiring, and just what the public needs to open our eyes. We have to admit the problems in our health care delivery, which fails to fulfill our basic needs. I mean, how many bake sales can we hold for friends who have overwhelming medical bills? Is that a health care system?

Okay, I know I learned from my cat to get my hairballs out for relief. And, yeah, Michael Moore gives some really good hairball himself. But hey, this movie proposes ways to DO something!

I guess if you’re all too busy, it worries me to death. And if my demise doesn't happen because of a staff infection that I got in the hospital, it'll probably be from of a voicemail system that led me down one too many primrose paths before I dropped on the rug. Or, you never know: maybe I'll stop being able to afford health care entirely! A friend last week told me he pays seventeen hundred dollars a month for his family’s medical insurance. Good Gawd!

Or, maybe I’ll stop drooling in defeat and help to create a system that works for all of us. I guess if nobody wants to even see this movie, that's the way the old health ball bounces. But hey, last call! Get off your booty and give yourself the gift of laughter and the insight you need to make a difference. Just do it—and then, insist on affordable health care for all.

All Bottled Up

On Addiction and the Dark Side of the Hairball

Recovery is "one day at a time" for a reason. It’s because it requires a realignment of psyche. We have to give up our own plans, ask for guidance from a higher power and be willing to do footwork. "Faith is in your feet," a good friend of mine always says.

I remember when I couldn’t stop eating. People who have never craved food compulsively can’t understand what it’s like to think about food all day and not be able to stop. Do you know what it’s like to get up at three a.m. on a cold winter night, throw on your coat over your pajamas, and run to the grocery store in the pouring rain for more food, when you’ve just eaten three pizzas? It’s the worst nightmare; the self-loathing is unthinkable. When I finally passed through this horror show after five years of intensive work on myself, I felt like I’d had an exorcism, that something had been removed from my very cells.

It’s easy to criticize overweight people if you’ve never been one. But, for fat people the put downs hurt double, because you’re already judging yourself harshly. So, what changed me? What transformation caused me to no longer overeat? What was removed? I finally understood there was a crying little girl inside me, like a baby who hadn’t gotten enough milk. That child was a good, innocent person who was starved, afraid she’d die from failure to thrive, from the desperate need to be fed, held and soothed.

Years of hard work later, after therapy, diets and exercise, I see myself still craving more money, more attention. I always want more of something, never feel filled. Wouldn’t I be happier with a man with more intellect or better communication skills? Gawd, the terrible disappointment when I get what I want but I’m still not satisfied! The same sorrow I had when I shed tears over chocolate cake, because I knew that as soon as I finished eating, it would no longer cheer me. There was no love in that flour and water—it was more like paste. Now, every choice I make is faced the same way: With the realization that no partner, no material thing, can ever be enough for this deprived kid.

Some single people live with this longing, that maybe the next person, just around the corner, will be the one; then they will be fulfilled. I know married people have it too, but they live with it secretly in their hearts or have affairs. This way of thinking is like shopping for a partner in a department store. I know, because love addiction followed me like a shadow after I kicked overeating. Addictions don’t disappear; they just take new forms.

Then, there’s this compulsion called codependency, which can drive you stark raving mad. Just when you think you’re helping someone, they stab you in the back or drain all your energies like a vampire. Where to find that line between generosity of spirit and unhealthy sacrifice? When do you give and when do you set limits? We want play victim, when we know we’re the ones letting them suck our blood! It’s a crucifixion of confusion, not knowing how much love to give and when to draw a line. Approach and avoidance do a vicious tango.

My mother never seemed content with my dad. Her longing is my legacy. Her yearning for more from her partner covered up her own emptiness, an infinitely deep, bottomless hole, from centuries of not being seen or respected as a woman, of being abused and put down by her father and not having a life of her own. In the end, Mom, a brilliant, talented woman, could not manifest her own creative self. With her self-expression blocked, she turned in on herself and died curled up in a ball, scared to go out into the world, sucking on cigarettes until she suffocated in her own smoke.

What happened? The little girl inside her never had enough validation, comfort or support. It’s true that she didn’t know how to give that to herself; and neither did my dad. She didn’t know where to get it; she only knew longing.

In this culture of attack mentality and self-flagellation, addictions of all kinds are easy to turn to. I don't think any of us are immune to workaholism, smoking, sex or love compulsions, isolation, shutting down, over or under-eating, drugs and alcohol—just to name a few!

How can we get the courage to dive down and find the real cure for our core issues? The only way to greater vitality is the truth. Finding our own balls is the task of a true hero. That’s why my book is called Hairball Diaries: The Courage to Speak Up. It’s time that we put intention on personal, political and spiritual change before it’s too late—whatever form that takes for each of us.

Write or talk about your troubles, find possible solutions and watch the bouncing ball. Do what you can to shift compulsive habits towards what is life giving. Take one tiny step towards change, be responsible, and remember: love is the real ballgame, the ball that’s in the air. A life of positive change means not dropping the ball, but keeping it in play. Recovery, personal and global, is work, comprised of small steps. Yeah, it’s work, but don’t forget to have fun—it’s the name of the game.

Hairball Helpers:

1. What are your primary addictions?
2. What are you running from?
3. What forward step might revitalize you?

The Bun Lady

About the Internal Critic

When someone we love or desire betrays us, we are submerged in an unwelcome torrent of change. It hurts to realize that someone has lied to us, broken an agreement or deserted us.
John Amodeo, Ph.D.

Being self-critical is tricky. Sometimes I don’t even know it’s happening to me. When I’m judging myself, depressed or pissed off, my stomach hurts. If I go deep enough under the turmoil, I find an inner violence. There’s a witch inside that’s fearful, enraged, self-critical and destructive; it endangers my life, deadens my creativity and makes me want to shrivel up like a round black prune.

What’s in this ball that pulls in my throat? A tyrant! And it’s inside and outside.

What would life be without self-criticism? Maybe I’d enjoy my garden without focusing on the weeds, or find happiness in my partner even when he’s forgetful. I’d slow down, feel grief, and much more joy. If my negative voice didn’t make me worry so much, I might actually get creative or take the day off and sit over the Sunday paper, knowing the “to do” list can wait. I’d have less lethargy, less guilt and more fun.

That critical bitch is buried as deeply in this culture as it is in my mind. Women, especially, are often dealing with a form of inner torture. Their anguish takes a thousand forms, but like a crown of self-doubt, afflicts their bodies with exhaustion and despair. Worst of all, it causes separation and shame: "I can't enjoy a donut; I shouldn't be too colorful; I’m too needy, too fat, too flat.” On and on it drones.

Men too, drive themselves with work, eating attacks, or affairs to prove they’re enough. Self-loathing in men makes them mean, abusive little terrorists. If we identified the inner tyrant as our real problem, we wouldn’t feel so enraged, hate each other and ourselves, or go to war. If we didn’t beat ourselves up, emptiness and loss would be easier to bear.

The other day, I wanted to go to the local art festival. But a voice inside said, “You’re having a bad hair day, you look tired, you’re pale, you don’t fit in. Anyway, who will know you’re there? You’ll look silly, all by yourself.” The critic makes me not care, not want to bother, see no hope. So, instead of going, I took a nap! But, the old witch wouldn’t let me sleep.

Now I understand the saying, “There’s no rest for the wicked.” I so easily condemn myself, with this bun lady inside, hair pinned back tight, threatening me: “No one likes you. You won’t be able to retire. It’s not okay if you don’t exercise for hours. That cellulite has to go. You have more to get done at your desk. Sit! Lay down! Heel!” The pushy energy is tricking me instead of treating me!

I insist on having my voice! Even though every time I speak I hear an echo saying, “You shouldn't have said that. Be quiet!” Why can’t I give myself the freedom to jump up and down, or carry a purse with huge sunflowers?

This dungeon enslaves humanity like a ball and chain and that’s the reason getting out the hairball is so important. Like a cat, we can release negativity that makes us sick, sluggish or keeps us sitting in a corner. Watch out for fatigue or apathy: the bun lady really likes to get you when you’re tired or down. It’s insidious. You won’t know when she hits you; you’ll just find yourself flat on the couch, covered with hairballs, a bag of potato chips your only friend.

So guess what happened? I wrestled the tyrant to the ground, donned my cowboy boots with my long dress with the gold daisies on it and headed for the fair. Then, I had a ball, no hairball at all.

Hairballs For You:

1. What would you like to tell your inner critic?