What Shrinks Know

“Profound joy of the heart is like a magnet that indicates the path of life.”

 ~Mother Teresa

I am weary of winter—and I’m not alone! Thanks to polar vortexes, joy has been in short supply this season! Even those of us who normally enjoy the unique gifts of winter have had enough of snow and ice and wind and way below zero temperatures. How naïve, I think now, looking back to December 9, 2013—when I rewarded myself for shoveling with a snow angel!

Like most people in Chicago, I’ve spent the worst winter on record hunkered down indoors as much as possible. To venture out is to first spend an inordinate amount of time layering up to protect against the very real danger of frostbite! No long walks by the lake for me! My cross-country skis languish on the back porch because I’m far too thin-blooded to brave frigid temperatures for the joy of skiing. I’m locked in polar misery.

Saturday morning, it was a balmy 19 degrees when I drove to my Zumba class and joined a gathering of other die-hard Zumba-fanatics. In the midst of this crazy winter, those of us showing up for Suzy’s class enjoy an immediate sense of camaraderie. And Saturday, one of the women was celebrating her birthday, so Suzy had created a special playlist of her favorite songs. It felt like a party. And, moving my body to the music in the company of thirty other laughing, dancing, sweaty women—I felt joy.

December 14, 2013

Today is a year since Sandy Hook. Friday, December 14, 2012, my husband and I were at the Christkindlmarket located in Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago. The open air old-world German market is a holiday tradition for us. We feast on bratwurst and potato pancakes and drink hot mulled wine and hot chocolate while navigating crowds of tourists and office workers on break. The atmosphere is festive. An enormous Christmas tree towers above colorful booths where mostly German vendors sell toys and holiday ornaments. Everywhere are delicious aromas of food and roasted candied nuts. There is a menorah, a nativity scene, and a Santa house. Entertainment includes brass bands, dance troops, and Christmas choirs. Music fills the air—along with the sound of children’s voices and laughter.

On Dearborn Street, directly across the street from Daley Plaza, a jumbo television screen is mounted on the side of a building. Last year at this time, breaking news of the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut was playing out on the screen. The story unfolded slowly and there was a continuous video-loop of terrified parents arriving at the scene and crying children being led from the school.

“Understanding does not cure evil,

 but it is a definite help

inasmuch as one can cope with a comprehensible darkness.”

 ~Carl Jung

Joy has been interrupted once again.  The story about the young women held captive for ten years in Cleveland has been far too present on my mind to write about joy—or anything else.  Once details began unfolding, I couldn’t get the story out of my mind.  Like when you pick up a rotten tomato that explodes in your hand and no matter how much soap and hot water you use, you can still feel the slime and smell the stench.

“If only we’d stop trying to be happy,

we could have a pretty good time.”

 ~Edith Wharton

Last Thursday, it was warmish and sunny and the beach beckoned.  So, I pulled on my running shoes and headphones, turned Pandora to “country fitness,” and began a slow jog toward the beach.

It’s been months since I have visited my stone—and I’ve been living far too much in my head.  These are treacherous times, and I’m burdened with sadness and rage and responsibility.  My last few blog posts have been so deadly serious they have left me emotionally and physically depleted.  My Twitter and Facebook feeds are full of updates on violence and abuse, as are the newspapers and TVs.  Some of my patients are struggling, it is tax season, and Roger Ebert died.

Father… Mother…

Always you wrestle inside me.

Always you will.

~Tree of Life

It’s never ending—the long Chicago winter, the bleakness of March—the questions we have about our parents.  For me, this week was bookended with melancholy.  Monday March 11, would have been my mother’s 93rd birthday, and today, March 15, would have been my parents’ 70th anniversary.  (Beware the Ides of March!)  Every year, I have my own personal “March Madness” as I contemplate these powerful dates and the people and events they evoke.

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”

~ Anäis Nin

There is something about boots.  My daddy was a paratrooper in the Army, and when I was a little girl, people respected soldiers wearing big, black, paratrooper boots.  Those boots symbolized power and courage.  At age five, I decided I wanted to be a paratrooper when I grew up—or a cowgirl.

“When sleeping women wake, mountains move.”

~Chinese Proverb

I was fourteen and my brother Joe was eight, the summer we were shipped off to visit our grandmother in Macon, Georgia, and our aunt (Mom’s sister), uncle and two young male cousins in Fayetteville, North Carolina.  I never understood why, and there is nobody left to ask.  Well, maybe there is, but I’m not about to make that phone call.

When we were in Fayetteville, my aunt worked during the day, but my uncle was home. He wouldn’t leave me alone—always coming up behind me when I was washing dishes or making lunch for my brother and cousins—grabbing me, tickling me.  I wriggled away—uncomfortable, confused.  I was tall, skinny, and gawky, with braces on my teeth.

At night my brother slept with the boys, and I had a pillow and blanket on the sofa in the den.  When it was late and dark, my uncle emerged from their bedroom wearing a white T-shirt and boxers, turned on the television, and touched me.  I pretended to be asleep, or stared straight into nothingness.  My aunt never came out.

“He’ll be right in to do your piercing.”  It was January 19 in Cottonwood, Arizona, and those were words I never thought I’d hear.

I’ve secretly wanted a piercing for a very long time—a tiny diamond—just there on the left side of my nose.  I think they look exquisitely feminine—elegant and exotic—the tiny unexpected sparkle imparting a mysterious je ne sais quoi.

In my years of practice, I’ve seen many young women with piercings.  These are bright, talented women—undergraduates and graduate students—often going into serious professions.  A year ago, a patient in her forties got her nose pierced with a tiny diamond immediately after filing for divorce.  When I told her I’d always wanted one, she said, “Whenever you’re ready, Dr. Sheila, I’ll take you.”

Stranger,

Is this where individuality ceases,

or does it exist beyond?

~Texas tombstone

I just returned from visiting one of my three longest BFFs in Arizona.  Jan and I have known each other 46 years, since we were 18.  Four years ago, I wrote a personal essay about Jan (a female Sky King!) and I’ve been working on revisions before posting it on my website.  Last month in writing group, my friend Cathy asked a challenging question.

“What does Jan really mean to you?”

Although the answer seemed obvious, I was inarticulate in reply.  The question haunted me, and like most excellent questions, it forced me to dig deeper into the meaning behind this friendship and other relationships as well.