You guys, sometimes I feel like I’m losing my goddamned mind. Has anyone ever gone crazy trying not to go crazy? I cannot be the only one. Remember my story about whether I should float in the ocean or go back to shallow water? Remember how I said that I’d have it figured out by this week? I haven’t decided if I can float yet. Maybe next week.

For the past few years, I have had a sneaky suspicion that I missed a crucial step in my development. Perhaps a life lesson that I never learned and all of the other forty-something-year-olds know. Seems like I fumbled up my map along the way, and ended up  getting pretty lost, for years.

This particularly exciting phase of my life has left me with an astounding and surprising 65 pound weight gain (thank you cortisol) and a mild- to moderately-concerning drinking habit (thank you stress). I have wound myself up so tight from the fretting and the doubting, that my body has revolted. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I must be in the In Between where my outsides don’t match my insides. I cannot be the only one.

Have you heard of a book called “The Body Keeps The Score?” If you’re looking for a book to read on the beach with a glass of chardonnay, choose a different book or better yet, pour some whiskey instead. It takes me about a week to absorb a single page. But John keeps reminding me of its validity in my life. (“Super! Thanks so much babe.”) The general premise of the book is that fear, trauma and worry are held deep in the body’s cells. Especially if the turmoil occurred in childhood. It is similar to the concept of fight, flight or freeze: your body is a biological machine, trained to survive.

Um. Also. Is it a coincidence that the author of the book is named Bessel VanDer Kolk? I think not. My mother’s maiden name is Kolk. This is what I call a Cosmic Clue. More on those later.

First, let me explain The Tank and then I’ll tell you a fun little story about a bunch of things that broke in 2016.

Ok. Speaking of biological machines…The Tank. I’ll make the pleasantries short. World? I’d like you to meet The Tank. Bear with me if you think this is a little trippy, but The Tank is me.

Here’s how that happened. As a result of my mother’s personality disorder and severe depression, and as a result of being the first-born of four children, and as a result of being extremely unlike my mother in mostly every single possible way on earth, let’s just say that Little-Gretchen sustained some significant attachment wounds. Listen. I know! I know. I used to think all that was bullshit, too. But then life happens. Doesn’t everyone have to unpack their baggage at some point? I can’t be the only one.

Turns out, I became The Tank in order to survive a childhood with an inconsistent and sad mother who, as a result of her mental illness, subconsciously deduced that because of my strong, exuberant and boisterous personality, I was not in need of mothering. I’m not sure what came first. Did she not know what to do with me? Did Little-Gretchen’s vibes exude, “I don’t fucking need you, lady!”? That’s all for Bessel VanDer Kolk and my therapist to figure out, and really, at this point, does it even matter?

Then my little sister, Anna, came along and was much more like my mother. Sweet, emotional, sensitive, quiet and I think my mother was like, “Ohhhhh! I know what to do with this new baby! That other baby is so bizarrely happy and strangely independent.” Or did I have to be? Again, regardless, I became The Tank and powerfully crushed any pain or hurt or neediness that I felt, while I watched my mother attend to the considerable demands of my baby sister. The Tank knows that any emotion other than happiness, confidence and self-assuredness, like, say, for example, sadness, loneliness or fear, is not seen by the mother.

Listen people. I love my mother. I do not blame her. I am not angry with her. We’ve discussed all of this and how Little-Gretchen interpreted these dynamics. (I literally talked to her for an hour and nine minutes on the phone today.) But, my mother has struggled with mental illness her entire life. It isn’t her fault, it’s a tragedy. But. It is still True. And it affects me profoundly. Working through all of this hasn’t been my cup of tea. I’d rather just be “normal,” but like her, I have no choice.

Here’s my Truth: I have no Trust Muscle and I have no ability to connect with my emotional self. Vulnerability is certain death in my world. And I really need to fix this before I gain another 65 pounds and my drinking habit become a 12-step issue. I gotta figure out how to retire The Tank and learn how to float.

Ok, now for the story of broken things.

I turned 44 the year our house fell. Another instance where had I been given the option, I’d have said, “Yeah, no thank you.” It was a year where the bones and foundation of my life were literally and figuratively shattered. Today, the bones are healing and the foundation is rebuilt, but I’ve been stuck.

In July of 2014, we stumbled upon our dream home in the historic neighborhood of downtown Stillwater, Minnesota. It was not necessary for us to buy this house, except that we had to buy this house. Here’s one reason why: it spoke to us. You go ahead and laugh, but we have witnesses.

On our first visit to the house, we were touring the main floor and there was gentle music playing in the background. I didn’t really notice it, but Annika did. She was 6 years old at the time and said, “Mom, this is the song Lydia played at her piano recital.” And it was. (weird.) About a half-hour later, we found ourselves in the same room after we inspected the entire house. Annika said, “Mom, this is the music David played for his cello recital.” And it was. (super. weird.) The hairs on the back of my neck tickled me.

By October, we had sold our house and moved to Stillwater. All three of our previous homes were new and clean and shiny and as you may already know, we name things, like houses. “BayFarm,” “The Ridge” and “The Keep.” Even the house we rented for 7 months got a name, “Tempo.” This house in Stillwater was built in the 1870s and every single set of stairs (3 inside and 6 outside) is treacherous. So we named this house, “Steep Stair.”

Steep Stair has noises, smells, ghosts, trap-doors, creaks and more character than any house I’ve ever lived in. Everything has a tale to tell, the beat-up floors, the wavy windows, the bumpy walls, the rickety door knobs and everything is absolutely beautiful. There are bright, happy and comforting emotions in this house. It was our home before we even moved in. Whoever built this house, way back when Ulysses S. Grant was President, built it with The Becks in mind.

Fast forward to a hot summer night in June of 2016. Exactly two years ago from right now. A thunderstorm came pounding through and we got several thousand inches of rain. On the left side of our house, next to the driveway, stood an old, leaning retaining wall. We knew we’d have to get it repaired at some point, but it didn’t seem to be a big deal. At about 4:00 in the morning, I heard a sickening sound from outside and I never want to hear it again. Between the downpour and the lightning was a deep, low, thick rumble-crumble-boom. I knew it had to be the wall. We looked out the window and as the lightning lit the sky, we saw the mess. What a disaster.

Even though we had been assured that the retaining wall was not structural before we bought the house, its falling down uncovered problems that no one knew existed. Unavoidable. Complicated. Scary. Infuriating. And oh yeah, not covered by insurance. What followed was months and months of shaking our heads and writing gigantic checks. Who knew you could lift a brick house?! Yup, you totally can, although, it’s a bit more like dropping it a teensy-tiny bit onto a monstrous steel beam, cradled by a dozen other smaller steel beams. It’s all a bunch of engineering ridiculousness.

Anyway, in the midst of jackhammers, no water, no electricity, delayed permits, a looming Minnesota winter and a lot of sleepless nights, Annika was playing at a park on Labor Day and fell off the monkey bars. No big deal, right? She’s a kid! She jumped off the ledge to grab them, missed and landed with a thud, flat on her back. I’m not a mean mom, but I legit said, “You’re fine, you just got the wind knocked out of you.”

But. She didn’t calm down. She was delirious with pain, so off to the ER we went. Also? I swear, John always seems to be away on travel when we get to go on an adventure to the ER. Sheesh. I can’t be the only one.

Labor Day was the beginning of months and months of medical adventures with Annika. “Multiple vertebral compression fractures.” “Unknown, varying origins.” “Highly Unusual.” “Mutation of a collagen gene.” “Incurable.” “Degenerative.” “Spine of a 90-year-old woman.” But she had just turned nine years old.

Hospital after hospital, test after test, referral after referral, expert after expert, we were just trying to determine her exact diagnosis (Idiopathic Juvenile Osteoporosis with a side of Hypermobility and Hyperhydrosis) and treatment (Zoledronic Acid infusions every six months with a side of hydro and physical therapy for a year).

Being from Boston, we used to roll our eyes at everyone here in Minnesota always raving about the Mayo Clinic. But guess what. We sing their praises now, too. No one could figure Annika out until we got to the Mayo. Our poor baby girl. Oh my heart, I can hardly write about this. Maybe someday I’ll write more, but not today.

Not only was our house falling apart, our daughter’s bones were falling apart. Enter The Tank, right? Actually? Not so much this time.

I used to love it when it rained at night in the summer. I used to love it that my daughter was overactive and adventurous. But my perspective has changed. Steep Stair is now fixed and is structurally sound. Annika is being treated for her disease and is getting stronger. But, I haven’t caught up. I’m still stuck. To float or not to float?

Perhaps it’s because the year of broken things ended up reflecting what has been rumbling inside of me for decades. Itching me and nagging me. I used to say I had a wonderful and happy childhood. But guess what I’ve refused to face? My childhood was traumatic and I needed The Tank to get me through.

But The Tank wasn’t able to protect me this time.

I’ve been fighting this for decades and it’s catching up to me, breathing down my neck. All I have done for my whole life is just barrel through crisis after crisis, hurt after hurt, loss after loss, thinking I’m tougher/better than most, because “Hey look mom, I’m still smiling!”

Except.

It’s too many crises, hurts and losses. It’s dragging me down. My insides are suffering under the pressure of holding it all together. So, I’m gathering the courage to peek out of The Tank. It originally protected me and made me powerful and I’m so grateful. But I’m claustrophobic and The Tank is strangling me. And yet, leaving the comfort of The Tank feels like a life-and-death proposition. But the weight of the armor is crushing me, so it is a matter of life and death either way.

Is it a Cosmic Clue that Steep Stair spoke to us through music? Is it a Cosmic Clue that all this shit broke in one year? Is it a Cosmic Clue that my body is physically reacting under the stress? Is it a Cosmic Clue that the author of the book about healing of trauma basically has the same last name as my mother? Is it a Cosmic Clue that much like my house broke and my kid broke a couple of years ago, that I’m realizing that I broke as well? And like them, I need some re-engineering and treatment, too?

I think I need to follow these Cosmic Clues, because trust me, The Tank cannot float.

 

Imagine if you will…you are on the beach at sunset. The sky is a hundred shades of purple and pink, the sun has already passed below the horizon. There are no waves on the ocean tonight, just calm moving water and you decide to wade out into the sea. The sand melts between your toes and the water is clear and warm. Your arms gently swing in the water and you slowly continue until the point where if you take one more step, you will not be able to feel the sand beneath your feet. You’ll have to swim. Decision time. Keep going and let your toes lift off from what feels solid and secure? Or turn back to shallow water. Let the mystery pull you away from the safety of the shore in the spirit of exploration? Or decline the invitation and deny yourself the chance to discover what you’re made of, who you truly are.

And this is where I am. Stuck, trying to make that decision. My toes are just desperately stretching to scrape the sand at the bottom. Throat clenched. Eyes sharp. Chest tight. I’m barely able to get a full breath. There is just no way I can let myself float. And yet, it is impossible to go backwards. This is where I am. And it isn’t a blast.

On the outside, I don’t think I look like someone who likes control. I don’t like precision and I don’t like rules. I have dreadlocks because I love how naturally messy they look and plus, I don’t have to do my hair. My house is “eclectic” and I’m a little “curvy.” You can also tell by looking at my filthy Suburban and wild weedy garden that my life is not orderly.

However….I can’t seem to truly float in the mystery.

It is the middle of June, my favorite month and my favorite season. My birthday is June 1 and each year, I feel like it is the beginning of all good things. The best birthday present is getting my kids back to myself after the May-Mayhem of finals and field days, concerts and carnivals, graduations, recitals, parties and AP tests. Summer Break!

The kids and I usually start our summer planning with color-coded charts of project-to-do’s, day-trip-to-do’s, chill-out-to-do’s, cooking-to-do’s, wish-to-do’s and big-to-do’s for the three short and precious months that we get together.

David usually includes golf, biking and camping. Lydia always wants to be at the barn as much as possible and sweet Annika would just love it if someone, anyone would play with her. We schedule in their instrument practicing and lessons. They fit in their daily laps at the pool and if someone wants to throw in tennis camp or pottery classes, we’ll figure it out! Our big family vacation is planned and we all add our leftover money to the “Vacation Jar” to see how much we can save. (Last year it was about $37.)

Down-time is mixed in and usually consists of taking the dog to the Bark Park or packing up a picnic or having a movie-marathon on a rainy day. We discuss whether we should have an entire day of chores once a week or if we should just do one chore a day, every day. Some years I even made cute little coupons for extra screen time for positive attitudes or ice cream vouchers for a day without bickering.

You get the idea. It’s basically the best summer, every summer, at the Beck’s house. Clearly, this is a result of my expert planning and genius ideas. And, oh, you guys, I impress myself with my creativity and yes, I’ve saved all of their summer lists, year after year. They’re. So. Flipping. Adorable.

Hi. My name is Gretchen and I’m a pathetic mom.

Welcome to 2018. David has his own car and spends $37 a day in gas. Lydia is part of the town skater group, excuse me: “sk8r group.” And Annika has talked me into hiring her friend’s nanny so that she could go hang out with them. Instead of me.

They refused to make their color-coded lists this year. yup! RE. FUSED.

Did you hear my heart break? Well, it did. It cracked in two. Because, now what!? Why didn’t anyone warn me that this would happen?! Why don’t people talk about shit like this?! “Well, one day Gretchen, you’ll be delighted to find that you’ve raised strong and independent children and your hard work will pay off and you’ll have more freedom and what a welcome blessing after being an at-home mom for 16 years, you’ll finally have your life back!”

um.

and.

yeah.

so….

I’ll be honest. I think I’ve felt this coming. It’s been brewing. I’ve just escaped it somehow, over and over. Because, well, because this hurts, a lot.

And let’s just call it what it is, why don’t we? I have a legitimate control problem. It’s pretty distressing and comes as quite a shock. But it is hard to ignore. Between our kids getting older, us getting older and John taking a surprise left-turn in his career, nothing feels normal this summer.

Who am I if I’m not John’s primary support sustaining his demanding career? Who am I if I’m not making color-coded-summer-charts? Who am I if my kids don’t need me the way they have for their whole lives? Who am I if I’m waving goodbye with my chubby little arm on the back porch as they all leave, rolling their eyes at me? Who am I if I have to hang out with myself all day?

What is all this “letting go” about anyway? I don’t get it. Is there a class I can take? It’s like I’m in a holding pattern, literally waiting for things to go back to normal. And really folks? On top of all of this, don’t forget there’s the whole “we have no paycheck coming in” situation.

And what do I hear out here in the world? Crickets. And they’re chirping, “nothing is for certain.”

Then I had a thought.

What if the ocean holds me? What if it’s comforting, enjoyable even? What if I feel free instead of fear? What if while floating uninhibited, I discover vast possibilities for this new stage of my life? I mean, I could also drown. Or get eaten by a shark. Obviously.

This is the whole “letting go” thing I guess. And the truth is, I want to let go and swim in the ocean. It’s just that I’d also like some help and maybe a guarantee. What’s out there for me, an at-home mom whose kids are getting so big. But I’ve lived small before, sitting on the shore and my dad still died and my mom is still sick and I still suffered through four miscarriages and John still walked away from his career.

Apparently there is no immunity for life happening the way life is supposed to happen, regardless of how strong your Control Muscle is. Can you Be Here with me as I learn how to flex my Trust Muscle?

A few notes about this week’s post. First: the ocean visualization comes from a guided meditation from Sarah Blondin on Insight Timer. I use that app every single freaking day. Second: I realize I might sound a tiny bit whiny, but I promise that I am not complaining and that I practice my AttitudeOfGratitude (gag)…but still, I’m incredibly annoyed. Third: this whole admission of my control issues is really new for me, expect to hear more about my realizations soon…it’s super fascinating. Lastly: by next week’s post I expect to be floating in the ocean, I’m gonna figure this out. 

 

Little did I know. He was basically teaching me how to live. I thought he was just showing me how to make soup. Bone broth is all the rage now, but it sure wasn’t that big of a deal back in the 70s and 80s. It was just how my dad made his homemade stock.

“Just save everything, Gretchen, all the onion butts, chicken skin, celery tops and any bones left over from ham, steak, chicken…” and he’d pull out the mangiest ziploc of food parts from the freezer and over the weekend he would transform it into a masterpiece.

I have been making soup this way for more than 25 years. Now I’m teaching my kids how to save kitchen scraps until you’re ready for some bone broth. There’s some on the stove right now. I had no idea it was a traditional, healthy and ancient practice. I just thought my dad was brilliant and I wanted to be Just Like Him. Especially in the kitchen.

The truth is, Dad saved everything. Naked chicken bones, toothbrushes with smashed bristles, scrap paper of all sizes, orphaned socks, bags (before it was cool to save bags), spice jars for storing little things that he’d forget about, random pieces of seemingly worthless wood just in case he needed one exactly that size, used envelopes for seed packets in his garden, metal bits, rope bits, twine bits, wire bits and crooked nails. He would never know when the need would arise for some deformed 2x4s and wire mesh. And just like that, he would mickey-mouse a soil sifter with bad wood, bent screws and crinkly tin. He’d smirk and raise his eyebrows, impressed with himself for not spending a dime. Yes, he’d gouge himself every time he used it and yes, he would get so mad when it didn’t work. But that was all part of the fun he’d have and as a result, he had a more amusing story to tell.

And belts.

There was a rickety old stool that my mother liked to Rest on in the bathroom. Instead of having a proper makeup table, she used this stool when she fluffed and primped. Over the years it became less stable because it constantly got moved out of the way and she’d lean on it all morning and it would topple when the hair dryer cord caught it wrong. It took a beating, but my mother was Particular about almost everything and it was the Perfect Height for her. So, Dad reinforced this stool with belts. It was a bizarre, yet innovative way to secure those legs around the frame without using wood glue, clamps or any tool whatsoever. I can imagine my mother’s complaint, and I can imagine my dad poring over his options in the garage. Old belts were an abundant (and free) commodity in a household with four growing children. He could use any color or material or length and he’d be able to produce a custom cinch. And my mother would be pleased, perched on her high chair, curling her hair.

In early August 2002, the week after my dad died, my three younger siblings and I were back at 86 (the name of our family home), filling a dumpster with all the things he saved and all the things our mother wanted Gone. Worn-out furniture, mismatched tupperware, stacks of yellowed papers, random dishes, musty books, cracked bottles, rancid spices, expired medicine, threadbare sweaters, broken frames, bargain-bin-ugly mugs and basically all of my dad’s Goodwill treasures. Did I mention that he saved everything?

Eighty-six was nestled in the woods of Central Massachusetts. With cathedral ceilings and giant windows, it felt reminiscent of an airy tree house. The open living area of the house was set above the garages. Two sliding glass doors flanked the massive great room fireplace and opened onto a large deck that sat right above the entrances to the garages. Needless to say, the elevation was excellent for hurling things, both big and small, off the deck, into the dumpster below. Not only could you enjoy the sound of the destruction, often the visual was even more satisfying.

“Is anyone ever going to use this hideous gravy boat?!” and we’d literally answer “NO” without even bothering to look at it, because we would rather hear it explode. It was cathartic when something would shatter to pieces in the cavernous dumpster. Man, that really felt good. As much fun as it was, we swore to each other that we’d never keep crap that just needed to be thrown away.

We were at least four hours into the garage-phase of the purge, when my brother Nick came across a white, stained, dented 5-gallon bucket. It had the faded remnants of some sort of brand name on the side of it, in scratched-up red. Even the plastic shield on the wire handle was missing.

While we worked, we would often casually mention an interesting discovery to a sibling, but this time Nick stopped all of us. “You guys. You’ll never guess what’s in this bucket….hey guys, stop,” he was almost smiling, looking curiously into this bucket.

My sister, Anna, my other brother, JohnDavid and I, waded through decades of my dad’s piles, over to Nick, happy for a distraction that would bring us a little break. His eyes begged us to guess, his face mischievous. He tilted the bucket for us to see. It looked like a bucket of snakes. Dozens and dozens of them. Dead snakes? Ropes? Discarded fabric pieces? Some crazy sex contraption? Do I even want to know what this is? We stuck our hands in there to unravel the mess and the mystery. Then, I spotted a neon-green, plastic buckle the shape of a lightning bolt, circa 1983.

Belts.

We howled with laughter as we untangled the misfit belts. This was by far the oddest collection of things our dad saved. None of us had any idea that there were more than just those few belts that held our mother’s makeup stool together.

“He was crazy…who secretly saves all these belts in a bucket?!” Anna said shaking her head. “Who does this?” she wondered aloud.

“He’s totally laughing his ass off right now watching us…nice for him, he never had to clean all this shit up,” JohnDavid said sarcastically.

I remember not knowing how I felt right then. Was I annoyed? In awe? Grief stricken? Frustrated and impressed all at the same time? “There are so many! How many do you think are in here?” I asked while trying to make sense of it all.

“I wonder how long they would stretch end-to-end,” JohnDavid wanted to know.

Nick had been quiet since his morbid, yet amusing discovery. “I bet they would wrap around the whole house…”

Before he even finished his thought, we were stumbling over each other and all the boxes to get outside. It was one of those classic sibling moments where everyone was talking and no one was listening, but it didn’t matter because we were all thinking the same exact thing: let’s get to work buckling these babies up!

It was unnecessary. It was frivolous. It took forever. It was embarrassing when people drove by the house. It was pretty uncomfortable when neighbors stopped by to offer their condolences and we were just hysterically laughing over a 5-gallon bucket. The four of us, adults between 23 and 30 years old, should have been working on something more productive. But nothing could stop us. It was early August, beautiful outside, a lovely day in the woods, at 86. And there we were…buckling decades of belts together, around shrubs and through deck posts and under awnings. We made wagers if we could do it. We yelled at each other if a belt broke. We circumvented damaged belts by tying them together while losing as little length as possible.

And we did it…just barely.

Beaming with peculiar pride and clinking cold beer bottles in an unconventional celebration, we walked around 86. We were in no hurry. We stopped at nearly every belt to tell a story. Who’s belt was that? Did anyone ever wear that thing? Was that for his birthday? I hated that belt! Was that from a Halloween costume? Or prom? I can’t believe he saved these. How old were you? Why did everything have to be personalized? These are so old!

We bent over holding our stomachs in hysterics. We hugged each other when the hot tears came. We were reverent and irreverent at the same time. We lingered and immersed ourselves in our childhood. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so profoundly connected to my sister and brothers.

Bizarre moments get seared into our minds, especially the rich collective experience of a family. The four of us siblings were fastening belts together around 86, where, just days before, our father had breathed his last breath. This family home, where my dad taught me the art of making bone broth while he was alive, was now literally wrapped up, warmly and sweetly, by memories.

Slow.

Stay.

Sip.

Savor.

Little did I know. He was teaching me a lesson in raw humanity…from the discarded, the broken, the unwanted and the stained, can flow never-ending nourishment, comfort and a father’s deep love.

 

 

My dreadlock fantasy started over three years ago. It was an Inner Itch Of The Soul type of thing, a deep longing inside to find what the real me looks like. Plus, my hair was starting to really piss me off. All my life, people have admired my long blonde hair. The good-hair-gene landed on my head instead of my sister’s head. She and my mother have never hesitated to express their jealousy. In fact, my hair was the first thing my husband, John, noticed about me about 30 years ago, as he made eyes at me across the room.

Three years ago though, my kids were getting older and more active, my opinions, values and body were all changing and it became exceedingly difficult to muster the energy to deal with my mop of hair. The effort. The products. The time. The money. It started to dawn on me that my hair was a burden and not necessarily a true representation of who I was growing into…hopefully a more laid back, authentic and fuck-off-if-you-don’t-like-me kind of person.

Admitting that my signature mane was actually a pain in the ass took some time. I fought it. But this past winter I was whining about yet another impossible rat’s nest in my hair and John had to get the scissors and cut the snarl out. I had never mentioned my secret dreadlock fantasy to anyone, but found myself blurting, “That is IT, I swear to God, THIS is why I want dreadlocks!”

“That would be so cool, you should totally do it!” my endlessly supportive husband said. I’m not at all certain he realized how serious I was.

Fast forward six months and I decided to request dreadlocks for my birthday. I was turning 46 and was ready to commit to knotting up my hair. “It’s either this or I shave my head,” I said to my wide-eyed friends. “And if I hate the dreads or I look completely ridiculous, that’s what I’ll end up doing and I’ll have the world’s most expensive crew cut.”

In order to get my dreads, I had to schedule a consultation, wait two months, give up nine hours of my life and spend about $800. It’s a significant investment of time and money. And I was nervous. Steadfast? yes. Concerned? also yes. It was a risky move. But on the other hand, I couldn’t NOT try it.

So this week, on Tuesday, I was sitting in the salon chair while my stylist pulled my hair into locks and I got a notification from the New York Times that Kate Spade had been found dead from an apparent suicide. You’d think that we’d be desensitized to bat-shit-crazy headlines, but still, they can shock me. As the news spread, I found out she had a 13-year-old daughter.

I have a 13-year-old daughter.

A long time ago, I was a 13-year-old daughter and my mother was hospitalized for an attempted suicide. While I know nothing about the circumstances surrounding the Spade  family, the parallels shook me and took me, back in time.

It was an October afternoon in 1985. Our school bus dropped us off about a quarter of a mile away because we lived on a remote street. Being the oldest, I was in charge of my three younger siblings. My parents would warn me all the time, especially about my youngest brother, Nick (age six at the time, who tended to take off running), that sometimes idiot drivers just take the corner too fast. “Keep an eye on him!” they’d say. They never met us at the bus stop to help us get home safely. And fortunately for them, I was responsible and Nick never got run over.

The four of us trudged towards our house in the woods, probably kicking leaves and chattering about nothing much. One of us was surely claiming the downstairs bathroom or the last of the ice cream. It was cloudy and brisk, a typical autumn afternoon in New England. Most of the leaves were on the ground so I could see easily through the trees. I saw that Dad’s big brown Buick was parked at an odd angle in the driveway.

Why was the car like that? Why was one of the back doors open? Why was there a green suitcase on the driveway next to the car? Wait. Why is my mother being led by my dad to the car? Why is she in her bathrobe? Why is she crying?

As we approached the car, my dad told me to get the kids inside while he buckled my mother into the front seat. He threw the suitcase in the back and then followed me into the house.

“I have to take your mother to the hospital,” he whispered.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“She’s sick,” is all that he said, but he was the one that looked sick. Ashen face. Wild look in his eyes. Shaky. “Can you make dinner and watch them tonight, until I get back?”

I assured him, “Yeah Dad, it’s fine, I can make mac ‘n cheese for them.”

Dad hugged me and left.

That night the four of us kids huddled together, sitting where we were never allowed to sit (up on the half-wall). We ate dinner, skipped our homework and practicing and watched TV until Dad got home.

The next time I saw my mother was weeks later when we were able to visit her in the hospital. My younger sister, Anna, and I looked at each other when we saw the stark black and white metal sign above the double doors: “Psychiatric Ward.” The doors were closed. Anna and I knew what that sign meant because we were 13 and 11 and we read books and we watched movies. She and I held hands as we walked under that sign, through the doors and down the long hallway. It was silent. Some words are unspoken for a reason.

It’s funny that I can vividly remember our school pictures from that particular year. They look much different from all of the other years. Odd outfits. Hair not quite right. Bigger earrings than my mother would have allowed. And maybe just a titch of crazy in our eyes.

How is Kate Spade’s daughter doing, I wonder? My heart breaks for her, and for any 13-year-old daughter, including me, who is faced with the raw, unforgiving reality of their mother’s struggles and fragility. For me, decades later, even just simple mac ‘n cheese is rife with trauma. No one is immune from the tragedies of life. And this includes my 13-year-old. My profound hope is that I can hold her safe from this fact until she is past this tenuous and sensitive age.

All of it is so tricky though. Because later on in life, we get to this absurd point when we realize our insides don’t match our outsides. Perhaps life becomes less recognizable when our kids grow more independent and our bodies begin misbehaving. Maybe it has something to do with having 13-year-old daughters, or what happened to us when we were 13-year-old daughters. Who knows?

I think the truth is that while life transitions are unnerving, they can be downright terrifying if the family is affected by mental illness. And this could be exactly why I want to Be Here with you right now…so that we can navigate these significant and sacred days together.

And also? I do love my new dreadlocks.

 

 

 

 

Oh my God, I hate surprises.

I would love to say I’m not a control freak, but changes in plans, unexpected events and abrupt news can send me into a PTSD-like mode. I can’t think straight, my chest gets tight and it feels like a catastrophe. Which is weird, because I do have a moderately-high risk tolerance and like the occasional adventure. Apparently though? I only like it when I’m aware that we are going into unpredictable territory. Like moving halfway across the country to a house I bought without John ever seeing it. It’s a super fun adventure when I’m literally in the driver’s seat.

I would love to say that with age, I’m becoming more resilient when the sand shifts under my feet, relying on 46 years of things basically turning out alright. Like when we suffered through four miscarriages, not knowing that in the following years, we’d have three beautiful children (that would make me want to pull out my hair and wring their lovely little necks).

I would love to say that deep down, I believe that life is about not about the Destination, but rather about the Journey. But seriously, shit like that makes me insane. Guys, the Destination does matter…especially when the Journey is full of these insufferable surprises. “Like, where are we even going?!” I want to scream!

And, on top of the shock I experience as a result of said surprise, I also am super judgy of myself. Asking, “why am I like this?” or “what is wrong with you Gretchen?” or “can’t you handle a little excitement now and then?” The self-judging is a double-whammy. It might just be healthier to say, “Oh my God, I hate surprises,” and move on with my life.

Sooooo, speaking of surprises…. John resigned from his 23-year career with IBM last Monday.

Without telling me.

Without a new job.

Without a cozy, thick and warm financial security blanket.

Resigned. After over two decades. Without a plan.

And. I’m getting dreadlocks next week, rendering me basically (and blissfully) unemployable.

Also, I’d like to say, just once more, in case you missed it the first time, that John didn’t tell me until after his conversation with his boss. As in, I was really, REALLY surprised.

That Monday, I was sitting in the kitchen with the kids after school. It was about 3:30 on a warm afternoon and the three of them were getting snacks, bickering with each other, reporting on their days and planning dinner around their swim practices and homework. As per usual with a “work from home” husband, John walked through the kitchen, towards the back door, with his ear buds in. I overheard him say, with a sharp edge to his voice, “What exactly do you expect me to do?” just before he walked out of the house.

Well, his aggressive tone certainly caught my attention, activating my monkey mind. Who could he be talking to? My first thought was this obnoxious $1000 medical bill that we’re arguing about with health insurance folks. Then I wondered if perhaps he was talking to his dad, about his brother, who recently got his girlfriend, who sadly struggles with addiction, pregnant. With twins. Who else could it be? Who else would upset him like that, besides our 16-year old son, David who was innocently sitting in the kitchen with me.

A few minutes passed and I decided that it was urgent that I take out the garbage. John hadn’t come back inside and I just had a funny feeling rumbling around inside of me…something was up, and it felt weighty already. I knew he couldn’t leave in his car, because David had parked right behind him, blocking the driveway, so he had to be close by. I spotted him down at the end of our driveway, pacing. He turned, ripped out his earbuds with a yank and walked towards me.

“Who was that on the phone?” I asked him as he methodically coiled up his phone cable.

“That was Michael, I just gave him my resignation,” he said as he walked by me and through the back gate.

Both hands went over my mouth and I followed him slowly into the back garden. Speechless, I just looked at him like that, standing on our brick walkway, in the dazzling sunshine of a spring afternoon. We just stood there. Looking at each other. Birds chirping, air conditioners whirring, dogs barking down the block.

“It’s good, Gretchen, this is going to be really good. I am already walking taller and I know this is just what I have to do right now. This is going to be good, very good, exactly what we need.”

I sat down, hard, on the adirondack. He had his hands in his pockets, mini-pacing now. Hands still on my mouth, I just sat there. Over across the lawn, I spied the brown yard waste bag I had been filling with weeds earlier in the day, figuring I’d have to go puke in there. Going back into the house was not an option at the moment. Better not alarm the kids until I understood what was going on. “I’m going to have to vomit out here,” I thought.

John continued trying to explain what ghastly problem warranted giving his resignation. “Michael told me they cancelled my next 8-week project and I wasn’t happy with their plan, again, which was basically nothing, again, citing budget cuts, again, underutilizing me, again…”

“But, money,” I squeaked out. “But. Money.”

“We’ll be fine, babe.”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?!”

“Yes…..and well, no.”

He finally sat down next to me in the other adirondack and exhaled. I let him talk. Over the next few hours, my nausea lifted as my anger softened. At some point later that evening, we were walking together on the high school track, waiting for our youngest to finish swim practice.

“Babe,” I said, in a bizarre moment of generosity and compassion, “So. I’m a good wife and I want to be an even better wife to you right now. What can I do for you honey? How can I best support you?” Clearly, I thought he’d just say “extra blow jobs?” or something along those lines.

But instead, he stopped and said, “Gretchen, just, please, please, don’t freak out.”

I shot him my classic wide-eyed-have-you-lost-your-mind look and he continued, “Well, I guess you can freak out, but promise me you won’t stay freaked out.”

That was almost two weeks ago and I think that his one request was Pure Genius. As soon as my “oh my God, I hate surprises” brain takes over and rattles with words like: terrified, unsafe, fury, distrust, discount shopping, budget wine and bankruptcy…I remember what he said, “Babe, just promise me you won’t freak out.”

My not freaking out is about the only thing I can control at the moment. I bet “resilience” will become my new favorite word and I’m already rolling my eyes at myself when I think, “maybe the Journey is all there is, because honestly, our current Destination is a bit hazy.” gag.

Do you guys struggle with surprises too? Is it only the big life surprises that you hate, or do even little daily hiccups throw you off course? How do you not freak out? Oh, and also, I’m gonna need some of your favorite cheap wine suggestions.