Tag Archives: Therapy

Escape to Canada


Crossing the border

Crossing the border

The thought has occurred to me more than once. Buy property in Canada, you know, if America gets a little nuts. Not that it hasn’t already. In fact, I probably should have left long ago. But here are a few links to some stunning homes– none of which I can afford– in Nova Scotia, just in case. So who’s with me? Who wants to chip in a buy one of these babies?

Dexter’s Tavern

Ocean Front, Rustic Charm

One of a Kind

Beautiful Family Home with Income


Hubbard’s Cove

Energy Efficient, Fireproof and Sound Proof

Sea King Point


How many times have I been through this? I book my flight, I pack my bags, I clean my house, I tie up loose ends, I pop a diazapam and I hop on a plane heading somewhere. No big deal, right?


The more I fly the more I seem addled with worry and anxiety. It’s like I’m a victim of the law of averages; the more I fly, the more I’ve increased the probability that I will, in fact, die by means of death by plane crash. And I can’t seem to get over this faulty thinking. Nor can I even play it cool in front of others when it comes to exposing my emotions. What is it about me that simply cannot enjoy travel, movement, adventure without it having some element of doom?

Oh, right, of course. Remnants of a childhood of chaos and instability.

But, come on.  I need to get over this. I need to just be done with my fear of death once and for all. So what if the plane crashes. So what if we all die. It was bound to happen anyway, right? I’m more apt to die in a car crash, right? Not as far as my brain is concerned.

A little over a year ago, when I was single and feeling abruptly alive I took a flight to Nassau to spend the day with my brother so as to do some work on our house. And while there was anxiety building up to the trip, there was an eerie sense of calm once I hopped on the plane alone- no hand to hold. I was fearless. Remember that one? If not, it’s here. And re-reading it almost leads me to believe that it’s D’s fault. When there’s no one in my life, I’m FINE. I don’t fear flying. But when I am dating, I am overblown with gut-wrenching fear.

OK….I don’t really believe it’s D’s fault. It’s my own. And just as some people have to get over their fear of waking up every morning, or applying for a job, or being a good mother, I have to get over my fear of flying.

But you see, it’s this script that plays and has played for many years, and it reads like this:

Beautiful, upper-middle class woman with two children, had it all, finally got her life together, the envy of friends and acquaintances (OK, I’m flattering myself) suddenly, by some stroke of predestined irony, a la every depressing French film you’ve ever seen, died today during a routine flight with her boyfriend and their kids to a cutesy little condo in Naples, Florida. What was meant to be a fun little family vacation, turned into a nightmare. Services will be held at blah, blah, blah to mourn her death and celebrate her life– cut so tragically short.

This is the script I must abandon. Otherwise, I forfeit my happiness and the happiness of others.

So…is there a moral to this story? Will she end it on a good note? How about this– The nurse practitioner just called and approved two diazapams for me. Two. So I firmly responded by saying, “That’ll get me to the airport. I actually need to get on the plane.”


I am stalling

I am not working on my teaching syllabus. I am not going to the gym. I am not sticking to my diet. I am not maintaining the cleanliness and organization of my house. I am stalling. I am obsessed with Morocco. And I am enviably free to do just this. Nothing. It’s the bleakness and the rain. This past month has left me feeling rather uninspired. And so, Morocco is really the only thing truly drawing me into a world of sunshine, dry earth and color. A place where there is never a cloud in the sky during the mirage-hot month of August and the only thing on my mind is scenery and where to find toilet paper in a bivouac. Anyway…I am posting old drawing I made somewhere back between 1992 and 1995. More proof of my procrastination and my continued life of leisure.


This was written back in October or November. I thought it was “cute” (awww…isn’t anger, sadness, misery and pain cute AFTER you’ve lived through it). And again, with all my writings, taken with a grain of salt. 


Misery does not love company. That’s for sure. She loves seclusion and a cleaning lady and a hot shower and wearing XXL flannel pajamas in the house all day. And a Big Mac. And fries with a sprite. And a new dress from Eugenia Leavitt. And someone to do a yard-clean up to get rid of all these goddamn leaves. Misery loves to write bullshit poems about ex-boyfriends with superiority complexes and watch dumb love movies that make for more misery. Misery can’t stand company. In fact, misery wants to hear nothing about your fucking happy life or how you got laid last night or even how you’re “suffering.” PLEASE. Spare me the “I so can relate” bullshit. You didn’t just get a letter in the mail from the IRS stating that you owe ninety-seven thousands fucking dollars that slipped the attention of your accountant for the past four years. All your bfs don’t leave you for crack and God. God, now that I think of it, how miserable is that? “This ain’t gonna work out baby. You’re perfect, but I need to get stoned and find God.” 

Misery doesn’t have to stop there. Misery could dredge up crazy shit from the past, segueing into a feel-sorry -for-me vent fest with stuff  like: I bet your dad never had a love-slave, robbed a bank, mingled with the mafia or spent X amount of nights in jail missing birthday parties and holidays. I bet you didn’t grow up on the run from loan sharks. Or marry an online-gaming addict who cheated on you four (that you know of) times and even left you for a wood elf at a point when you had no job, no dignity, a baby and another one the way. 

Misery is starting to wax suspicious of  terms like “has been.” “flop” and “washout.” Looks like misery internalized all this junk and made it her own. And now, it’s festering and growing like a cancer and the next thing you know, she’s on state-mandated fluoxetine for OCD and living in a homeless shelter. 

And don’t bother reminding me…her…that there are people out there with worse circumstances. Famine, death, sickness, war, poverty, destitution. Blah, blah, blah. The essence of misery is that it can’t see past its own suffering. It’s all relative. My misery is the Freudian, turn of the century, upper-middle class housewife variety. The kind of misery that suppurates over a lifetime of pleasure-seeking to avoid reality. La, la, la…I can’t hear you. I am going about my day without a care in the world, like the Three Little Pigs, not planning, not being careful. Building my house of straw. And then it hits me. The miserableness hits me.

My number is up. Fun’s over. That’s how it happens.

No. Misery does not love company. And she has no interests in looking “OK” today or “with it.” She’s not with it. No “welp, tomorrow will be a better day.” Fuck that shit. She’s feeling sorry for herself. Misery wants her distribution money back and a new job. She want to be that flower again, growing, blooming, popping with color. Showing off her happy fucking face and singing when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.


Tonight I watched THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY, the autobiographical story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, Editor-in-Chief of the French ELLE magazine who had a stroke at the age of 43 which paralyzed him. He was only able to communicate by blinking one eyelid and by doing so, dictated a book that was published a few days before his death in 1997. 

I cried throughout the entire film, fearing for my own life, my own sense of freedom and expression. What would I say if I knew I were about to go into a coma? If I were about to be paralyzed? Trapped in my own expressionless, motionless body. How would I feel human, alive, real? Would my children know I loved them? Would I be able to make peace with how far I have come, with how I have lived my life and what I have produced? The thought occurred to me that I can no longer take from the world. It is time to give back. It is time for my own voice. It is time to say something. To make a mark. To help. To heal. To work. It is time for my children to know, without a doubt that they are loved. It is time to produce something other than whiny, dramatic journal entries about my miserable life. 

It is no longer right of me to question my existence. It is no longer right of me to be unhappy or worse, ungrateful. To seek answers. There are no answers. That is the answer. Life is about giving. Caring. Loving. Sacrificing. 

I thought of being alive but unable to communicate. Unable to travel. Unable to love physically. Three things which are so important to me as a woman. Who would I be then? What might my existence mean? I would have hours for thinking. Wondering. Hating myself for all that I did not achieve. I would be faced with the realization that I was done. I didn’t have a second chance. I could not change anything anymore. I could no longer be a productive member of society. I could no longer hug my children. I could no longer tell them I loved them. I could no longer tie their shoes or pack their lunches or lie in bed and read with them. I could no longer scratch their heads or tickle their toes. Oh. I am miserably sad thinking like this. 

God! I do not want this to be my fate. 

I don’t normally suggest watching something so depressing. Believe me, this film is DEPRESSING. But it’s an amazingly beautiful film and worth watching if you are strong enough to sink for a while. 

Clair de Lune

I have been listening to Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune for three days straight. Over and over and over and over. There’s something about this song that brings me to a very sacred, dreamy place inside me. Back to Paris. To Karen. To Rue Rimbuteau. To the ghosts in my head that are still strolling up and down the rue Saint-Jacques on the way to the Violon Dingue.  To sitting in my tiny apartment in Les Halles, during the summer of ’89 dreaming up dreams of Africa and Les Sables-d’Olonne.

I am now certain that I will return to Paris this coming Spring or summer- an old lady. It will have been 20 years since I’ve been back. That’s a lifetime. I know it won’t be the same and that is what I dread. I dread going and erasing everything and everyone I’ve carried with me for all those years and turning them all into something dirty and profane.

Dirty and profane.

It’s like the memory of S. All those years you carry with you this wonderful, sacred feeling for someone and then one day, in a blink, it’s undone, and something else takes its place. And no matter how hard you to try to get it back, you realize that it’s lost forever…

To have and have not




I must have a partner who is bright and can share my understanding of the world as well as enjoy discussing important issues.

Emotionally Healthy…


I must have a partner who is emotionally healthy, and able to share a stable life with someone else. This includes a certain maturity level.



I must have someone who is willing to explore our sexual desires with passion and understanding.



I must have someone I can count on to always support me.



I must have someone who is good at talking and listening.

Emotionally Generous…


I must have a partner who enjoys people and is generous with his or her compassion, attention, sympathies and love.



I must have someone who is comfortable giving and receiving affection.

Conflict Resolver…


I must have a partner who will work to resolve rather than win arguments or conflicts within our relationship.

Strong Character…


I must have a partner who is honest and strong enough to do the right thing.



I must feel deeply in love with and attracted to my partner.




Fiscally Irresponsible…


I can’t stand someone who is incapable of managing his money or unable to support himself.



I can’t stand someone who can’t manage his anger, who yells, or bottles it up inside.



I can’t stand someone who lies to anyone-especially to me.



I can’t stand someone who is belittling, superior, impatient or hateful to people in any situation.

Extremely Shy…


I can’t stand someone who is so shy that they cannot open up and share with me.



I can’t stand someone who believes that any particular ethnic group to which they belong is superior to the rest of humanity.



I can’t stand someone who fails to come through and is unreliable.



I can’t stand someone whose main topic of conversation is himself.



I can’t stand someone bitter, who always sees the glass as half empty and generally despises humanity.



I can’t stand someone who is unable to accept blame or see fault in his own actions.



I can’t stand when someone has a dependency on drugs or alcohol 

This list was appropriated from Persephone’s Obedience and modified where necessary.