Category Archives: Therapy

The Road Taken: Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

Posted on by

31

When I was young I wanted to be a cowgirl. I wanted to live on a farm and ride horses all day long, milk the cows and chase after the piglets. Of course, later, I realized I was allergic to hay and grass, and just about everything in between. Besides, as a Latina from Queens, what did I know about living the farm life?

As Pam drove down the freeway, passing the exit for the SeaTac Airport, I thought about my other dream. That of flying away. I loved flying, and had been doing so since birth. Getting on a plane was second nature to me.

I fantasized sometimes about embarking on a journey, with no care or concern as to where I was going. It felt thrilling to imagine taking off without telling a soul I was leaving, let alone whether I’d be back. I could be somewhere else, relaxing in Paris, along the Seine, with Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Expatriates, we’d be, clinking our glasses, brimming with champagne, and laughingly toasting to our good health. We’d be joined, by Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, for a scintillating conversation about whatever novels we were working on. Then, Zelda would ask me to read one of my poems aloud.

These were the dreams that excited me. In each, I was doing something, making my mark, for I was sure there had to be more to me than this: being a married lady with a husband that was gone all the time.

But so far, I hadn’t figured it out. All I knew was that my entire life had led me to this point. Marriage. It was supposed to be the end all, starting with my Barbie and Ken dolls, and all the wedding scenarios I concocted for them. It continued through the Doris Day movies and Donna Reed shows on TV. Marriage, marriage, marriage.

The problem with marriage was the focus on the happily ever after part. It didn’t tell you what was supposed to happen after the vows. The road to marriage was like this big, amazing ride that builds and builds to this incredible crescendo and then you reach the other side and nothing. There is no manual on what to do. Just an abyss, and suddenly there you are, having to create your own rules, your own version of how it’s supposed to be. Only I was flailing.

Back to reality, I flipped through the latest copy of the Ladies Home Journal, one of the magazines I’d brought along for the drive. I had started buying it as soon as we tied the knot. Perhaps, I was expecting it to be my marriage road map, as all the articles seemed focused on helping young wives deal with their relationships.  So far, it wasn’t working.

The best part of the magazine was the monthly feature, titled, “Can This Marriage Be Saved?”  I immediately opened to it, and offered to read it aloud to Pam. We both loved reading these seemingly hopeless stories of marital discord. The more futile the better and the editors of LHJ seemed to know that, too, because each story always seemed bleaker than the previous one. And yet, no matter what, the marriage could always be saved.

In this particular issue, the husband kept telling his wife he had to work late, but really he was having an affair with his secretary. And when the wife found out, she cried, but in the end she forgave him. The marriage counselor gave the wife instructions on how to revive her marriage and keep him close, and recommended to the husband that he avoid being at the office late at night with the secretary. The counselor, having put the burden of keeping the marriage together on the wife, now concluded that everything would be fine, as long as the couple followed his advice.

Pam laughed, “That guy’s a total jerk and the wife should leave him and leave him now.” Looking at me askance, she added, “I’m sure she’ll be happier and better off.”

Better off? I pondered this for a moment. I thought about G and my momentary lapse with Rick. A heavy dose of guilt pored through my veins, making me feel sheepish. I wasn’t sure which of us, if any, would be better off.

Looking outside my window, I noticed the skies were turning. Clouds were beginning to form to the south the direction in which we were headed.  It would start raining soon. As we approached the Washington State border, Pam got off the freeway.

“Let’s stop and get a bite to eat.” I nodded.

We pulled up to what Pam would refer to as a cheesy restaurant. The kind that had a flashing sign that read, “Cheap Eats,” only some bulbs were missing, so it only said, “Cheap.” Pam turned off the ignition, but I made no attempt to get out of the car. She seemed a bit agitated by my lack of movement. Raising one eyebrow, she looked at me skeptically, she said in a raised voice,

“Well? Are you going to snap out of it or what?”

Leave it to Pam to give me an ultimatum. She knew it was always the “or what” that stymied me. I knew I needed to pull myself together and make a decision about what I wanted, but the idea of taking any action was outside my comfort zone and made me numb. There was safety in staying the course. And then it hit me. Without realizing it, I had settled for the tried and true, and that was G.

I could no more get on a plane and fly to parts unfamiliar, than I could become a cowgirl and live on a farm. I was me, 26 and tethered to the path I’d chosen with G, whether here because of succumbing to societal pressures of marriage or because of decisions I’d made by my own, damned self.

How I wished I had one iota of Pam’s grit, and her tenacity to stand up for herself. But these weren’t mine for the taking. Sigh. Who needed dreams, anyway?

I opened the door and got out of the car, feeling a flicker of light extinguish inside me.  You know what they say, even cowgirls get the blues.

Read past installments, by visiting the page, The Road Taken.

Songs in the Key of Divorce

Posted on by

22

When I was a kid I’d imagine a soundtrack to my life, just like the people in the movies. When Audrey Hepburn goes traipsing through the streets of New York, Henry Mancini‘s haunting melody, Moon River, follows her all the way to Tiffany’s. It’s the same for John Voight and Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy, only this time it’s Harry Nilsson’s Everybody’s Talkin’.

So why not a soundtrack for me as I jauntily made my way through the streets of Flushing, New York? No such luck.  Henry Mancini wouldn’t give me the time of day. Ditto for Harry Nilsson. And forget John Williams. My Star Wars theme song just wasn’t in the cards.

But then something happened when my divorce was larger than life—consuming every waking moment—and haunting my dead-of-night dreams. Hands down, this was one of the most agonizing, unforgiving chapters of my life.

And so I invented my own soundtrack.  One created out of necessity, to help me cope and find sanity—and a bit of comfort, too. There are many stages in divorce and, lucky me, I didn’t miss a single one. So herewith are the songs that accompanied me during each of these phases:

Phase One: Shock, Denial  – Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You

Whitney Houston’s songs in The Bodyguard soundtrack got me through this stage. I was still having strong feelings for my ex, despite his shameless ways. I was still in denial that my marriage was over and my damn heart wasn’t ready to believe the worst, let alone move on. Perhaps, I needed Cher to yell at me to “SNAP OUT OF IT!” Sans that, Whitney voiced my emotions best.

Phase Two: Mourning – Carly Simon’s Coming Around Again

This was the period when Carly Simon’s songs from the film, Heartburn, became my constant companion. In Heartburn, Meryl’s character is pregnant and married to Jack Nicholson, a louse who cheats on her. Boy, could I relate! I wasn’t pregnant but, at the time, my youngest was still in diapers. A lot of the songs on this album are empowering, including my favorite, The Itsy Bitsy Spider, which is a twist on the childhood ditty. Coming Around Again gave me the kind of hope that springs eternal, representing my “I’m-a-survivor-like-Meryl-Street-in-Heartburn” period. It also showed me that the only solution to my divorce hell was the one that involved leaving my marriage behind, and moving on.

Phase Three: Rebuilding and S-l-o-w-l-y Moving On – Sting’s album, Ten Summoner’s Tales.

Can you believe I never listened to Sting before my divorce? Sure, I was familiar with The Police, but  Sting was already on his own and my marriage was unraveling around the time that this album came out. These songs put me in a different state of mind, making me feel like I was worth something. Sting’s music helped me rebuild my shattered self-esteem. Songs like, She’s Too Good for Me and Fields of Gold.

Phase Four: On My Own – U-2’s Joshua Tree

Pre-divorce, the only Bono I knew of was Sonny. But Bono of U-2 fame became my latest obsession after hearing a duet he sang with Frank Sinatra on, I’ve Got You Under My Skin. And boy, did Bono get under my skin, with his ultra sexy, bedroom voice.  I couldn’t get enough of this guy and then my friend Hellen, told me about U-2 and gave me the Joshua Tree CD. One play and I was smitten. Three songs made all the difference for me:  Where the Streets Have No Name, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, and With or Without You.

Phase Five: The Single Life—or to Hell with Being Married! – Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell II

Some may find this hard to believe, but during this time, I became a Meat Loaf junkie. Bat Out of Hell became my anthem.  Thanks to a gym I belonged to, where they’d play Meat Loaf constantly during some intense step classes, I became a dancing queen, finding new joy in my singleton life.  Best songs on this album include: I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That), Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire, and Good Girls Go to Heaven (Bad Girls Go Everywhere).

The songs I chose to listen to became a part of my therapy and ultimately contributed to my healing.  So for all of you currently going through your divorces, or just thinking about it, now you have my “Divorce is Hell” playlist to add to your iTunes library.  Consider it my gift to you. Trust me, you’ll feel better.  And, you’ll also owe me one. So, you’re welcome.

The Clown Menace

Posted on by

4

Get me to a therapist! I have had an epiphany!  While rummaging through a box of old photos, I came across a frightening little gem, which I am certain is the reason for my irrational fear of clowns.  It’s simple, it’s cunning and it’s scary. Reader, be warned, what I’m about to show you is not for the faint of heart.  Small children should leave the room, lest they be scarred for life like me.

The year is 1961. My sixth birthday and my mother throws a party for me.  Among the invitees is Anita, my dear, childhood friend—or so I thought.  She is also my next door neighbor.  Anita brings me a gift (long since forgotten) and a birthday card that is sure to make any child’s hair stand on end. Not just any card, mind you, but a Hallmark card. You know the one that has the slogan,  “When you care enough to send the very best.”  Well, very best, indeed, if your goal is to terrify the birthday girl.

And yet I can’t help but wonder how this card, featuring clowns with maniacal grins, slipped through the Hallmark channels of approval to be green lighted as a suitable card for unsuspecting six year olds.  Ok, Reader, this is absolutely your last chance to divert the eyes!  Still there? Don’t say I didn’t warn you! Here it is:

I am sure that this card was the beginning of the end for me.  No doubt leading me down a path that was anti anything clowns.  No longer would I be able to laugh at a Volkswagen Bug overstuffed with clowns.  Clowns slipping on banana peels would henceforth be lost on me.  Ditto for Red Skelton’s clown persona. And getting anywhere within a five-mile radius of a circus would be simply out of the question, thanks to Hallmark and my so-called friend, Anita.

I am not one to mince words so here it is, this clown menace must stop once and for all!  Wake up, America and cease subjecting your children to clowns. These creatures are neither entertaining nor enlightening.  And, contrary to the sentiment on this particular birthday card, I refuse to “act like a clown, laugh and have fun!”  I will not send in the clowns and I will not fall for their mind games and become one of them.

Learn from the mistake of my friend, Anita.  Unbeknownst to her, she became an innocent pawn in a world that prizes clowns as good, safe fun.  Clowns are good for one thing only, to torment and scare the living daylights out of small kids.  I am living proof and if I ever see Anita again, I will let her know.

In the meantime, know this:  I long ago put clowns on notice, but after coming across this nightmare of a birthday card, I know that just putting these red-nosed harlequins on notice is not enough!  As such, clowns are now dead to me.  The buck stops here, my friends.  So, find another victim to menace. I’m through with clowns!

Related Articles

Strangers = Cheap Therapy

Posted on by

5

People who didn’t know me when I was in the throes of my divorce often ask, how did you do it? How did you get over your divorce? People who did know me then never ask. They already know. I talked. Then I talked some more. I became very talkative, letting it all out. A regular Chatty Cathy, sharing with whomever, whenever.

And that’s my number one secret to surviving divorce. Spill your guts out. You’ll feel better for it. So go ahead and talk. While you’re at it, don’t eat because chewing affects your ability to talk. Talk to friends, talk to family. Mostly, though, you should do what I did: talk to strangers.

It’s easy and gratifying and makes for cheap therapy. Besides, when you’re new in town, there aren’t a whole lot of people that you know. Everyone’s a stranger! So talk! After all, you will want to hash and re-hash all that went wrong in your marriage, the missed cues, and the hidden messages that were staring you in the face, only you didn’t notice. You will want to analyze every nuance and explore ad nauseam every single conversation you ever had with your spouse.

And what better sounding board than a stranger? Any stranger will do. It’s such a release to talk to people who don’t know you. They don’t judge you. And because they don’t know you, they’re too polite to walk away or yell,

“ENOUGH ALREADY!” or “GET OVER IT!”

Trust me, when you hear these words shouted at you, it’s usually a signal that you’ve somehow managed to bring your friends or family to the end of their rope, and they’re ready to strangle you if you don’t shut up right this very second, thank you very much.

Strangers, however, are nice and nod their heads as you talk, taking in everything you have to say. They recognize that when you finally take a breath, they can politely excuse themselves, knowing fully well that they’ll never have to see or listen to your whiny voice again. It’s a win-win!

So, it’s only fair and right that I take this opportunity to recognize all the strangers I met during this mind-numbing, walking-in-a stupor period of my life and thank them for helping me to get over it. They all became a part of my desperately needed therapy.

To the cashier at the Ralph’s: Thank you for being so patient with me when I held up the line because I was talking and sobbing so hard I couldn’t find my coupons no matter how many times I rifled through my purse.

To the usher at the movie theater who took my ticket: Thank you for listening and for not making fun of me for going to the movies by myself every week and getting all teary-eyed—yet empowered—seeing “Groundhog Day” over and over.

To the cab driver who drove me home from the airport—I’m not thanking you. It’s your job to listen. If you ever watched “Taxicab Confessions,” which I myself have never seen, but I imagine the cabbies in it are good listeners, then you’d know that. Now you also know why I refused to tip you. And was it really necessary to tell me that you could have predicted the demise of my marriage?

To the locksmith who drove out to my house to change the locks late one night: Thank you for suggesting I super glue my ex’s you know what. Though tempting as it was, I couldn’t. But it’s the thought that counts.

To the plumber who had to come to my house because I threw all his old letters in the toilet: Honestly, I thought they’d dissolve when flushed. I guess I didn’t notice the paper clips and staples too. Oh, and thank you for looking through my wedding album with me. Your insight was invaluable.

To the psychic at the Del Mar Fair: Thank you, but you were wrong. We didn’t get back together but you probably knew it all along and were just trying to protect my already frazzled emotions.

To the lady inside the church I wandered into: Thank you for holding my hand while I poured out my side of the story, and for letting me keep your kerchief. I will wash it one of these days.

Finally, to the bartender at the Belly Up Tavern: Thank you for carding me in order to make sure I was over 21. Clearly, I was pushing 40, but it was just what I needed at that moment.