Friday, October 19, 2018

A Sex Object Manifesto

In the Fall of 2018, I enrolled in a modern art history class taught at my local community college. At the beginning of the semester, I noticed on the syllabus that we would be doing a reading response to Linda Nochlin's 1975 article, Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?

At the time, I was in the beginning of my midlife crisis, feeling defensive about all the efforts I had put toward various projects which I gave up near completion, and so I anticipated having a powerful response to the reading assignment, which I did.

It became my manifesto, which I shared with numerous friends. And so, I put it out to the Universe.


Amy Lewark
ART 207 - Art History 1900-Present
November 8, 2017
S. Newton

Reading Response to Linda Nochlin's Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?

I have been curious about this reading since the day we were given the syllabus. There is a
certain amount of frustration I feel from growing up being told I could “achieve anything I put my mind to” and then experiencing the reality of being a grown female in the world, with or without children. A little validation goes a long way for me, psychologically speaking, and Nochlin’s article provided just that. I spent enough time in academia and the working world to understand what that looks like from a female perspective, and now sixteen years as a stay at home mother to see the “other side” of it. So my thought, originally, was that I could write a dissertation on the subject, but I will spare you, as I would probably be “preaching to the choir” as they say, anyway.

The first important point Nochlin mentions is that feminism must deal with scholarship, not just
real problems with everyday life. Certainly, aspects of everyday life are greatly affected by being female, and I do think that understanding traditional gender roles can help explain why even if there are actually some unrecognized great female artists, why there are so many fewer great female than male artists. I spend a fair amount of time reading sociological commentary on gender roles, being the parent of a boy and a girl, and living in a fairly non-traditional household (we are all home most days of the week due to our choice to homeschool and the way in which we do it, and my husband works from home and has a lot of free time). There was an article going around from a few months ago which a friend shared with me addressing many of the frustrations of being a working woman (Calhoun). I found it to be a little long, and somewhat of a diatribe, but a thorough discussion of the problems women in our generation still face. Through reading it, and also pursuing a line of inquiry of gender roles and human sexuality, I decided to turn my own midlife crisis into a body of art work. I am coming up with ideas fairly regularly which try to address the existential realities of being a man or woman in this world, and how modern societal framework helps exacerbate the negative implications of gender roles. That is a subject for another time, but I wanted to mention it because it is directly related to this reading and also to what I have learned regarding great modern art in the western world. The interesting thing about the Calhoun article was that although it was directed mainly toward working women, I shared it with the other stay-at-home and semi-employed women (not career-seeking) I know, and they still connected with the article. There was a particular part of the article which stoked our ire, all of us being the children of the women of the second wave of feminism, taught to believe we could accomplish anything with persistence, and it was this: men still largely shirk care giving behaviors. Even when there are no children in the picture, a woman is more likely to end up caring for an aging in-law than her husband would be. He is more likely to throw money at the problem.

So it is my observation that this generation X that is in mid-life, which is the most evolved mid
life generation in human history, still suffers from the problem of previous generations not grooming  men to be caregivers, due to an economic system that rewards itself for generating tangible goods and money over care and culture. Yes, women are “incapable of greatness” in the sense that their time and mental energy available for the creation of great art is, on the whole, much less than what men have.

I particularly liked Nochlin’s discussion of how listing the “great female artists” ignores the
question which can help us get to the root of the problem. In this class, we learned about Bonheur, Morisot, Cassatt, Claudel, Delaunay, Kollwitz, Modersohn-Becker, Goncharova, Hoch, O’Keeffe, Colter, Brandt, Hepworth, Savage, Lange, Karr, Krasner, Kahlo, and do Amaral, but only a few of those were ever household names (Cassatt, O’Keefe and Kahlo) compared to the dozens of male artists who most living adults would recognize. I believe most of these women never had children, which certainly simplified their cognitive load. Another troubling pattern in the art world is the role that women end up playing to male artists, which helps those men to be great artists. Think about Morisot’s body of work compared to Manet, Claudelle’s to Rodin, Sonia’s to Robert Delaunay, Kahlo’s to Rivera, and Krasner’s to Pollock. The women had far fewer recognized works compared to their lovers or husbands, but were no less skilled.

The one exception to this rule is probably O’Keefe’s body of work to Stieglitz, but she broke from him to save herself and thereby saved her art. I learned of two more troubling examples on my trip to Eastern Europe: Alphonse Mucha, who I had assumed married a woman who was from outside the art world, but he married a model who was also an artist. I don’t know if she gave up on her art to support his work and their children, but there are no examples of her art in the Mucha Museum in Prague and none in the book produced by the Mucha Foundation. Maybe her work was mediocre, but I will never know.

When I was young, my mother had a book laying around the house called “Second Banana” by Dottie Lamm, wife of Colorado Governor Richard Lamm. I remember finding the title humorous and asking my mother what it meant, and she responded with the well-known phrase, “Behind every great man is a great woman.” It is actually a term used by comedians, another way of describing a “Double Act” where the comedic effort is uneven, but supported mainly through efforts of the “Second Banana.” A good example of this technique is the comic duo Penn and Teller. Teller has never uttered a word on stage, but without his supporting effort, Penn would certainly be a loudmouthed flop. Even Einstein was unable to do his work without a harsh agreement with his wife that she would not talk to him or otherwise get in the way of his thought. But he needed her to bring him food and otherwise take care of his needs so he could direct all his energies to his brilliant thought experiments. It is one thing to have a financial patron in order to pursue one’s passion, but yet another to have one taking care of all the human needs we have for food, clean clothes, someone to listen and provide validation and very importantly touch, and largely, throughout history, all these needs of the brilliant minds of our time have been met by women, because men have been unsuited to meet them, and generally do not meet them for women. The exception to this rule is in aristocratic life where it is possible to secure these services through servants. Again, men are able to throw money at the problem, whereas women must throw themselves at the problem. This is probably also why the great women artists that did exist were from families of some means, whereas great men artists come from diverse economic backgrounds.

The second example addresses a lot of the other concerns Nochlin raises in her article. Gabrielle Munter (1877-1962) has an enormous special exhibit at the Lenbachhaus in Munich which is home to many of the works of Der Blaue Reiter’s Wassily Kandinsky (a household name) and Franz Marc. I had not heard of her before, even after studying Der Blaue Reiter in our class. But it is my opinion that Der Blaue Reiter would not even exist without her. Did Stokstad even think to mention her? She received great amounts of private instruction from childhood onward, and dedicated herself to the pursuit of art. She traveled all over the world, spoke five languages, painted various subjects, met many famous artists, and kept on top of the avant garde trends in art. She was a prolific artist. The special exhibit at the Lenbachhaus makes a point to illustrate her diligent practice (she would paint the same scene many times) and intense curiosity about artistic experimentation. She never had children, and personally placed a priority on her art, probably rendering such “important” lifestyle tasks such as having clean dishes or freshly pressed or new clothes to the bottom of her task list. So, her mind was fully available to pursue her passion and develop her talent, and the relationships with other artists that would help inform her work, and theirs. She was the glue in her artistic community through her intense interest in and dedication to art. Not many women, even 100 years later, get to dedicate their lives to art in this way, either because they are married, or mothers, or because they are liberated and they now have the right to get paid as men do, so their “talent” is directed toward more lucrative professions (ultimately serving the patriarchy). Those who do pursue art or have a little free time to do it are either considered dilettantes, or consider themselves dilettantes on some level. (And, as Nochlin mentions, aristocrats don’t make particularly good artists, probably because their lives are not well-informed about the human condition.) This is part of the western white male narrative, which places value on money over cultural efforts to boot.

So why didn’t we learn about Munter in class? She is the entire reason Der Blaue Reiter
collection exists at the Lenbachhaus because she was a collector of her instructor Kandinsky’s works, as well as Marc’s. She carefully hid artworks in her house in Germany during World War II and they were never found, so that when she was much older she was able to give them to the city of Munich for display in the Lenbachhaus. Nochlin writes about the fundamental defect in Art History – that it is from the Western White Male perspective, and I think this is probably a big part of the problem with the lack of inclusion of Munter in Art History texts, valuing the same Western White Male qualities in artists. As Nochlin states, Art History accepts the “great artist as primary, and social and institutional structures within which he lived and worked as mere secondary ‘influences’ or ‘background.’” There had been rumors that perhaps Einstein’s first wife had participated in the writing of his 1905 Relativity Paper for which he won the Nobel Prize, and in fact their divorce agreement stated that she would receive half of the proceeds for the Prize, but even a female researcher, Galina Weinstein, who investigated the letters from both Einstein and his wife determined that because her letters did not contain references to relativity, she must have been no more than a “sounding board” (MIT Technology Review). Gabrielle Munter started out as a student of Kandinsky’s, and although Kandinsky was married, their teacher student relationship evolved into an extramarital affair. I propose that by being involved with Kandinsky sexually, the view of her by Art Historians may have been colored as to see her as part of Kandinsky’s support network, rather than as a great artist in her own right.

Women have long complained and known about being seen as sex objects, and I wonder how
many great artists who were peripheral to a male are discounted because of amorous relationships with male artists. How many of those women’s careers suffer due to the pitfalls of becoming Second Banana, and how many male artists, due to the emphasis society places on men being success objects, become energy vampires for the equally talented and hardworking female artists in their lives? I think that in order to break this pattern, not just for women, not just for artists, but for all people, parents need to be aware of these false dichotomies and raise all children, regardless of gender, to be self aware and generous human beings. If I am never known for being a Great Woman Artist, I hope at least to accomplish this with my own children, so that any relationships they have can be cooperative in nature and so that no one person is Second Banana in all realms of the partnership. If we can accomplish this goal on a societal level, it is my hope that men will have less pressure to be success objects, and that women can achieve greatness in whatever field they choose, but also that the larger effect will be to shift the economy to one that values caregiving and culture just as much as it does monetary and tangible ends. To this end, I hope to raise awareness of these patterns and their implications through my art, and I shall continue to eschew the status quo to which many women dedicate their lives in reinforcement (to the detriment of humankind, but the benefit of the monetary economy), in order to free myself to make art like my life depends upon it.

What I have learned so far in this class reinforces what Nochlin writes regarding the concept of a “mystique” surrounding great artists. The secret to great art is the diligent pursuit of the passion (eudaimonia) without regard to the question of success. Great art requires collaboration with like minded individuals. The belief that individuals are somehow imbued with a genius does a great disservice to society. Along these lines, there have been scientific studies showing that praising gifted children for their intelligence encourages laziness, and so I have always been careful to thank or recognize my children’s effort to encourage effort in general. Giving them time to pursue their interests has enabled them both to appear quite “talented” in their respective interests (computer programming for my son and art for my daughter) while also fostering their general intelligence.

It has been my observation that families in which the Puritanical (dare I say Patriarchal?) mindset of busy-ness for busy-ness’ sake reigns engender a general environment of anxiety, stress, a lack of self-reflection, a lack of “talent”, mindless behavior, and overall mediocrity. In the 18th century, Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville noted a different mentality in the US from that of Europe, where Americans had a higher degree of stress due to the relentless pursuit of (empty) status, because there was no ceiling for what one could theoretically obtain through diligent work. I believe this mindset has engulfed our society, made people unaware of how their status-seeking impairs not only their own happiness, but also success, and how all the “status” we seek comes at the cost of someone else’s life. The question of women’s role in art is but one good example. Ironically, it was Einstein who wrote a note to a bellboy in Germany in 1922, when he did not have money to tip the bellboy, about how to achieve happiness (this note recently sold for $1.5 million at auction): “A calm and modest life brings more happiness than the pursuit of success combined with constant restlessness.” As Generation X women, this is what our mothers failed to acknowledge. Our mothers recognized our need to self-actualize outside the home, but they did not recognize the qualities or repercussions of empty, passionless success through servitude to the patriarchy. The second wave of feminism brought birth control and the ability to work in any field we desire, but it came at the larger cost of lost societal genius, as well as the growth of sociopathic and selfish behavior. When Nochlin wrote her prescient musing, women were still not allowed to wear pants to work, even though they were allowed to hold jobs and control the results of their own sexuality. Developmental stages in a child come in fits and spurts, with advancements always bringing chaotic behaviors as the new skills are assimilated within the context of old, outdated behaviors. I believe this is the typical trajectory for any sort of evolution, from the level of the cell to the level of society, and right now society needs to recognize that relentless pursuit of status is at direct odds with happiness, and also greatness. There will be no truly great female artists until there is equity among the sexes in caregiving, and also not until women recognize the potential in their free time and use their cognitive surplus for more meaningful pursuits than are currently encouraged by society (the patriarchy). It will require an irreverent disregard for soccer games, bake sales, mowed lawns, clean dishes, thank you notes, or anything else not proving meditative for the woman performing that task. It will require the ability to not worry about things that don’t necessitate worry, and for more behavior that, from the outside, might look selfish, but that will encourage more independence from the traditionally “cared for” populations (husbands, children). It will require us to be there emotionally for husbands and children, so they can learn to do that for others, too. As I like to say, “What’s good for the mothership is good for the fleet” and my pursuit of happiness through art is good for my fleet, it is good for me, and I hope it will prove to be good for society, too.

[EDIT 4/12/2021]:  This is how I feel about "The Male Gaze."

And here's how I feel about art, capitalism, and the use of my body.

Finally, here's how I feel about having used my body to share my message on social media.

Works Cited

Calhoun, Adah. The New Midlife Crisis: Why and How It’s Hitting Gen X Women.

Jones, Josh.  Albert Einstein Imposes on His First Wife a Cruel List of Marital Demands.

MIT Technology Review. Did Einstein’s First Wife Secretly Coauthor His 1905 Relativity Paper?

Nochlin, Linda. Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists? Art and its Histories: A Reader – Section III, Gender and Art. 1975.

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

"Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter," she said. As a neurobiologist and a survivor of verbal, emotional, physical and sexual abuse, I knew exactly what she meant. As Christine Blasey Ford testified in front of the judiciary hearing, a flood of similar images washed through my own mind. My own personal hell, displacing joyful memories my family so easily remembers, on "repeat" in my mind.

Anything resembling these many memories triggered impromptu trips down memory lane hell.

Unexpected and unwanted touch.

Anything of a sexual nature.

Music I listened to regularly during times of intense trauma.


Calvin Klein's Obsession continues to make me feel faint, makes me want to vomit. Makes me shake uncontrollably.

I think I have an idea how to fix this.


Sexual problems are one of the most common reasons for couples to divorce.

My husband told me just last night that the only time he thought of leaving was during our 13th year of marriage, 2009.  At the time, he had just been laid off from his job, the lead-up to which was eight years of rockstar-like performance for various unappreciative companies which either used him as a scapegoat after his departure, or threw him out like a broken tool as they closed locations, divisions.

"You are being eaten by the machine," I told him.

A friend warned me that starting a business together can often spell divorce for married couples. I blew it off.


 I was quite young when I first found him - the little man in the boat.

Alone in my room in the partially-finished basement, I would listen for footsteps in the kitchen above to know if it was safe to play with him.

The floor in the old bungalow was fairly creaky and gave me ample warning so I could quickly pull my hands out from between my legs and adjust my underwear as if nothing had happened before my mother found me.

I didn't hear the old wives' tale about getting hairy palms until well after I had shared these experiences with a few of my young girl friends. We laughed at the idea while laying together, one on top of the other, imagining what it would be like with the boys we pictured in our heads.

"You be the boy this time."

"Okay, but it's your turn next time."


I had sold my soul at such a young age to play with my Nautical Friend, and girl friends, so joining the church seemed like the wrong thing to do. I was a sinner, and I was okay with it. When I told my poor mother that I wasn't joining, and she offered to buy me the new tennis racket I wanted (since I made varsity tennis as a freshman, thank you very much), I went ahead and sold my soul again. Church? Sign me up. Love-love.

It was 1992 and the Presbyterian Church of the USA was embroiled in a debate over the morality of gay and lesbian people in the ministry when I was the first youth member of our particular church's government. On the agenda of this particular meeting was a debate about whether or not to support a national resolution in favor of gay and lesbian clergy.

The congregation was split on the matter. We would have to decide it as the church leadership.

I was on session with adults who were parents and grandparents of my peers.

Our Presbytery Liaison came out as a Lesbian during the meeting. She was a paid member of the church staff and could lose her job if the resolution failed at the national level. She was a respected member of our ministry.

I wrote and gave a speech in favor of the resolution. I was the only person under 20-something, maybe 30-something years old, to speak out on the matter.

The resolution passed, but we lost half the congregation to more conservative churches in the area.

I never ever imagined that people in my very liberal Denver church, at that time home to Colorado NARAL, and the Denver Gay Men's Chorus, would be split so evenly on this particular matter.

The resolution failed at the national level, and such policy would not be enacted until 2011, nineteen years later.


Fields of Gold by Sting and Linger from the album Everyone Else Is Doing it, So Why Can't We by the Cranberries were our favorite CDs to listen to while we explored each other's bodies in college. My boyfriend's dormitory roommate had moved out when we came back from our first Christmas Break together, so I moved in.

I caught mononucleosis sometime in the later part of the Fall Semester 1993, so I scaled back my class load to 12 credit hours in the Spring of 1994, the least I could take without losing my scholarship. I took "easy" things like Cultural Anthropology, Drawing I, Deviant Behavior, and Flute. My classes were chosen to optimize the rest I needed to beat the virus. Nothing started before noon. The classes all fed my soul in some way.

Between classes, I laid in bed and read the necessary assignments. I read about sexual practices of the Hopi Indians and I read about United States kink. We had pushed the two twin beds together, so there weren't many other places to be in the small room.

We didn't kiss that whole semester, because I didn't want to give him mono, but it didn't keep us from intercourse.

College was stressful.

I was his medicine and he was mine. Why not take advantage of an early awakening? Got five minutes before you have to go to class? Sweet!! We don't have to leave for dinner for 20 minutes. If you know what I mean.

I have looked it up, and the frequency with which we enjoyed each other was certainly in the realm of addiction.

Not to brag, but we both graduated with honors. And I did it in three years.

The summer after graduation, we married.

I think the sex kept us motivated and happy.


I never understood people who put their children to sleep in another room. All I had to do was sleep topless in our giant bed, and just roll to one side when either of my young children stirred in the night.

I was the She-Wolf, nurturing her pups.

To get them to sleep, I read them several stories and then nursed whoever was youngest until we all fell into breathing synchrony. Often the love took me, too, and I would wake later than I hoped - 11 PM or later - to join my lover-husband downstairs. I carefully removed myself from between the children like a magician removing a tablecloth from a set table.

We were never interrupted by crying.

We learned to be creative in our love making.

Shower, unfinished basement, kitchen. Anywhere was fair game.

We connected in silence.


In an episode of Vox Explained that we watched two weeks ago, a memory of something extremely significant from my past was prompted. "K-o-m-i-s-a-r-u-k. Koh-mis-a-rook." I said. "Why do I remember that name?"

We were watching the episode on Female Orgasm, and a neuroscientist named Barry Komisaruk was interviewed extensively.

"Oh, crap." My eyes were like saucers.

"What?" my husband asked.

"Pause it."

We have a system now. We pause, no questions asked, knowing that we may get so caught up in some huge episode of armchair philosophy that we forget we were watching television at all. These interactions have been so amazingly healing for our relationship that we now view them as sacred.

"That's the lab I would have been in had I chose Rutgers instead of Ohio." I recalled, shocked.

"Holy shit." he said.

The onion was peeling itself again. Layers of fear peeling away at a rapid pace for the last two years led to this moment. Another significant realization.

I chose to research Alzheimer's Disease rather than Female Orgasm.

Despite my lifelong reverence for it.


By 2015, the fog of depression had finally made itself visible to me. I don't know how long I had been living under it, even though it was something I struggled with off and on for years.

I tried Saint John's Wort in graduate school and didn't like how on the first day I stubbed my toe hard enough to bruise the nail and shrugged it off. "That's not right." I thought. "I still want to be able to feel. I should still care."

When my son was young and I was pregnant with my daughter, an also pregnant friend told me she was dealing with some depression and wasn't sure what to do because she didn't want to take any prescription medication while pregnant.

I asked her what it was like to take antidepressants, and said she didn't really like them because they made her feel "vanilla."

"Ew," I groaned.

"Yeah," she replied.

It seemed like all of my friends were on antidepressants, and many of them weren't having sex, except one friend who was always chipper and who made sex with her husband an every other day event. They're probably the only couple I know who make "paperwork" a priority.


There was something electric in his energy. The eye contact drove me wild. Sometimes I didn't even hear what he said because all I could think about was grabbing his hand to sneak off somewhere like the restroom or the supply closet. There aren't very many hidden places at school. I don't know how people have affairs there.

I hadn't felt that way in so long. So very long.

Was I blushing? Probably.

"I can't help myself." I told my therapist later. "I'm touching my hair, licking my lips, my heart races..." I felt like I was a sex mechatron being operated by a demon. And I loved it.

What I didn't tell her is that it the anticipation was so incredible that I would start having that feeling as soon as my alarm rang in the morning. It continued in the shower as I passed the time waiting for my conditioning treatment. I needed a release or I was going to lose my mind. I could barely concentrate on my son's discussion with me in the car on the way to school, where I would see the object of my affection.

He was like a virus.


Female copulatory vocalizations, scientists believe, serve to increase sexual satisfaction in males and females.

Our house has three bedrooms upstairs, in close proximity to each other. Years and years of shushing my inner goddess had taken a toll on my soul. I associated my dear husband with arguments, agendas, compulsion. I had to pair our sexual activities in my mind with a new stimulus in order to heal. Luckily, when it comes to sex, he has an open mind.

"I'm moving my bed away from my neighbor's wall to the other bedroom," my crush said.

"Oh..." I thought. "Why the hell did he tell me that?"

And... another fantasy was born!

Unwittingly, in my creative and curious mind, he planted the seeds of fantasy.

Of revolution.

Without kids around, maybe I could have again what used to heal me?

Was it real?

Does it matter?


 I knew my depression was bad when I dreaded mornings.

"Aw, you know - it's like Green Day everyday," I would say to friends I hadn't seen in a while when they would ask me how things were going.

Giant piles of laundry were everywhere. I hadn't wiped the sink or cleaned the bathrooms or mopped the floors in forever. Anything that didn't stay done once I did it sucked the tiny bits of soul right out of my chest each time the tasks reappeared.

Were it not for the angry scolding my physician administered regarding my surreptitious use of thyroid hormone to treat my depression (yeah, I'm naughty like that), I was at the point where "vanilla" would have been welcome. But even thinking about my doctor gave me a panic attack, so I couldn't go ask him for psychoactive medication.

But one day, in the shower, I realized it had been forever since I had a date with the man in the boat. Like maybe since before the days of Sting and the Cranberries.

I wasn't really feeling it, but I made myself do it anyway.

And it was so. Fucking. Amazing. It was so amazing that I wrote myself a prescription for a daily date with the man in the boat.

The fog, of which I was at least now aware, was finally dissipating.


"These are like the best years we've have ever had," said my husband earlier this year.

"Really?" I said. We laid there, breathing heavily, hearts racing and hypersensitive.

"Why are you so happy?" he asked. "I think it's because you are doing art again."

"Wha? Oh yeah... maybe..." I said. Could it have been that? I was making art, again, and it was unlike any I had ever made. Everything I made felt like I was filling up another crack in my broken heart. I felt creative. Alive. In love.

And so horny.


If I am remembering correctly, there was not a sound from us as she kneeled, leaning back passionately with her jeans on, beautiful full head of curly blonde hair bouncing, moving her hands between her legs and moaning. At least a dozen of us were sitting on the floor in a circle around her, mesmerized by her writhing.

It was the cast party after the last night of our high school Drama Club's performance of Paint Your Wagon. I think she was Mormon, too, and we were playing Truth or Dare.

She was the dramatic sort, ever willing to put on a performance, and this one did not disappoint.

Mirror Touch can be a burden, sure, but it can also be a gift if I choose to use it that way.

I can "remember" with my whole body, just from sight.


"God dammit," I said to my husband one morning in July, "Why the hell would you pick that ringtone for your alarm? Are you trying to kill me? I am trying to forget him! You think I bought a whole different shampoo and conditioner when I still had plenty of the old stuff just because I like the new smell?"

I had to cure the "virus" in my mind. It was making me feel "bad crazy." (As opposed to "good crazy" which is pure bliss, "bad crazy" is the depths of sorrow).

My fantasies, I felt, had led to despair.

My therapist said that crushes were okay, unless they turned to obsession.

God dammit. That happened. I don't know when.

"Have a nice life." I texted him. It killed me that I did that.

(Anyone want to sign a petition to remove all of Selena Gomez' songs from the radio? Back to You. Bad Liar. Get them out of my head. Please! Fuck. Crushes when you are 43 are NOT the same as when you are a teenager.)


Dr. Barry Komisaruk's office was brand-spanking new in the winter of 1996 when a group of prospective graduate students and I interviewed at the Rutgers Newark campus. Dr. Komisaruk was kind, fascinating, and very clear that he wanted me to work in his lab.

For years, the story I told of why I didn't attend Rutgers involved getting gas in Newark near campus with a graduate student host, and seeing a man with a gun. A gun. A gas station. My mind was triggered back to the gas station near my house in Denver, and the man with the gun, standing over my car.

Newark was too full of trauma. Ultimately, I would go to the rural school and research Alzheimer's Disease under Dr. Robert Colvin whose wife was homeschooling their two boys. He was a gentle Christian man and I felt safe with him.

Also, I worried about what to say to people about my research. What should I have said? That I researched cumming? How was that going to go over when just a few years before, I saw a large urban church lose half its membership over the idea that their clergy might be anything but figureheads.

I wanted to do important research I could be proud to talk about.

Plus, I just didn't see the importance in Female Orgasm research, because it wasn't something I had a problem with.


This morning Google's news service alerted me to the idea that women may release DMT - dimethyltryptamine - also called "the spirit molecule," during orgasm.

La petite mort - another name for orgasm - is French for "the little death." According to Wikipedia, it refers to "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and as such is in effect a path to ego death. Think about it - in that moment of bliss, after orgasm, you have transcended yourself, punctured the layer of maya, or fear, that keeps you from enlightenment. You are at one with the Universe. You are Peace.

People take a lot of drugs to get a feeling like this.

I was taking my medicine daily in the shower.

My friends all commented on how I was radiating an alluring sexuality.

I was exuding bliss, and attracting all sorts of interesting experiences and people.


We conducted our experiment for a few weeks, stroking the backs of female C57/B6 mice, to see if they exhibited lordosis behavior (downward arching of the back as to upwardly present the vagina for copulation). My mentor in 1992 at Tulane was the incredible Dr. Arnold Gerall, who was involved in the discovery of sex differences in the brain. I consider him an original feminist. He empowered many female students to pursue behavioral neuroendocrinology. It was Dr. Gerall who recommended that I apply to Dr. Komisaruk's lab.

Mice, like humans, are spontaneous ovulators, and are most sexually receptive around ovulation. In mice, this happens every 4 days, and in humans, it happens every 28 or so days, which also happens to be the same length of the moon cycle.

Males are sexually available at all times.

And if they are blessed at all with the kind of libido I can have around ovulation, being in a household with a tired, cranky female has to be incredibly frustrating. Some sort of healing is needed after a long day in a thankless cubicle farm. Why else, evolutionarily-speaking, but in the modern era, would a man choose to be married to the same woman his whole life if not for the potential of regular release of the ego?

Being the sensitive and giving soul I am, that means that over the years, I, like many other housewives, have "taken many for the team."

"Wifely duties," indeed.

When there's too much duty, and not enough joy, extinguishing female desire completely is easy.


So. YES. I owe a huge hug to all the women who came out during #metoo. It is through this dialogue, and through Christine Blasey Ford's testimony that my husband now knows the struggle.

We're unwrapping that onion along with the world.

In the realm of Love Languages, his is definitely touch, and mine is listening. (Maybe I don't actually have a love language, because I have a busy mind an active imagination and can be a terrible listener). So, poor guy... he loves to sneak up on me when I'm at the sink or the coffee maker frothing milk, or folding laundry, or...

"FUCK!!! You scared me to death! Please stop touching me because it makes me feel like I am being chased by a bear," I said numerous times over the years.

Of course he was hurt. Who wants to think that their touch is so repulsive to their spouse as to elicit panic?

"Okay. It is not you. It is my PTSD. It gets triggered pretty much anytime I feel violated - like I don't have control over my own body. It gets triggered by feeling I don't have control over how I am touched, or where I am, or who I have to be with. I want to be with you. But I need you to ask to touch me, or at least don't surprise me with touch." I pleaded, calmly.

He finally got it. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I can finally breathe again.

I can finally enjoy his touch again.


It was time for my annual exam, and I had just a few concerns for my doctor (a wart on my palm, and a skin lesion from sun exposure). But I left feeling like a broken liability.

"I can't find your cervix." she said.

"Oh yeah, I have a retroverted uterus," I explained.

"Is sex ever painful?" she asked.

I knew where this discussion was going, as I had been researching whether there was a connection between retroverted pelvis and retroverted uterus, and had run across the connection to painful intercourse just weeks earlier.

When a woman is fully sexually receptive, after enough foreplay, the cervix shortens and moves out of the way. In women with retroverted uteri, the penis can bruise the cervix.

I usually feel better in a day or so, but the awareness has helped my husband and I be more mindful of foreplay.

Anybody have a spare $1200 laying around so I can get a mammogram? I'm kind of high maintenance that way.


"I was under the impression she was a Lesbian. Then she goes and marries some guy and has a baby." he complained.

"Yeah. Sorry." I responded.

But what I was really thinking about was how I was tired of my "Wifely Duties" and the resulting painful and exhausted sex, how I sometimes can be attracted to women, and how I think labels are stupid and confining - precisely because of what he said. Plus, two close friends of mine had identified as Lesbian in their 20s and had serious life partners for several years before eventually marrying men and having babies.

Lesbianism makes total sense to me. It gives a young woman the opportunity to know her body in new ways through shared experience with someone like her but not her, without the risk of pregnancy. That's my egotistical rationalization, but if I'm being honest, I find the female body so beautiful and captivating. We women really are this miraculous, healing, protective, life-giving, love-embodying safe space for humanity. Whether my attraction is reverence, or something more, I do not know.

I don't think it matters.

Labels are stupid.


"So?" was my response in 2000 when a male family member came out of the closet.

When I thought about it, I should have known. "He was able to hold conversation when Selma Hayek was on the television," I explained to my husband.

The amount of change that occurred in our family in response to our gay family member coming out was interesting. Because I firmly believed, from studying under Dr. Gerall, that sexual preferences were rooted in biology, it was just a non-issue for me. It was harder for others to understand. I think on some level I was worried about judgment from our family if I ever even hinted at being attracted to women, because even when it was becoming acceptable to be gay or lesbian, bisexual or even bicurous people faced even more stigma.

Yeah, Selma Hayek is a goddess. <swoon>


The way I see it, I was born with this amazing healing resource at my disposal - wherever I go. I don't need to see a doctor to know when to use it, I just listen to my intuition. Being attracted to men or women just means that my fantasy world is at least twice as active.

It opens up all sorts of possibilities for fighting the aging effect of impotence, and saving my marriage. It keeps things fresh.

An open approach to sexuality is totally doable if we choose to see our lovers as independent individuals, rather than possessions. All we really want as humans is intimacy and freedom. Each of us has to be mindful of that in all our interactions in order to change the world, because each of us has the power to provide both intimacy and freedom for others. It is the most loving thing we can do.

A healthy marriage is one where both partners are dedicated to each others' pursuit of bliss.

Welcome to my healthy marriage, deep in the onion, beyond ego, where love is unconditional, and we heal each other.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Necessary Evil

I have a special relationship with Darkness. Well, I don't really know if it is special, honestly. Maybe everyone has this relationship, and I am just late to the game, figuring it all out. When I was working or in school, I didn't notice this relationship; it was only after deciding to stay home that I noticed. During the summer, my life (and thus, the kids' lives) was extremely busy. We had visitors from out of town, we traveled, we hiked, we swam, we played at the park, we improved our homes, and I felt energy abundant enough for those tasks.

However, in the winter, we would become ill more easily, had less energy for activities, and generally, less tolerance for socialization. Perhaps being a mother exacerbates the minimum and maximum energies expended, but I think some of the delay in my realization relates to how one's perception of things change when one is inside vs. outside a system.

When I was growing up, we attended church regularly. When I say "regularly," I mean we were there All. The. Time. It was, and still is (as far as I know), an extremely liberal church, and low on the dogma scale. So, although I typically went to church twice a week or more, I ended up with a very open-minded view on religion and spirituality in general. After my confirmation class, I identified as Agnostic, recognizing the value of spirituality and a belief system, and later eschewing organized religion in general for its hypocrisy.

But back to my point - we lived at church. Of the four members of my family, three of us served as Elders on Session. My parents each served multiple terms.

The holidays were the busiest times, and that busyness reached an apex in early December. We all sang in the choirs, my sister and I were in youth group, and we attended multiple services a day during the holidays. This was all on top of work for my parents, school and extracurricular activitIES for my sister and I. I always had at least two or three extracurricular activities. And homework. And regular social events.

Really, it wasn't much different than what I hear many kids do these days.

Then, I went to college, switched majors twice, and still graduated in three years.

Then, I went to graduate schoo for three yearsl, and was 6-12 months from finishing a PhD in Neurobiology and Molecular Biology when I completed a Master's Degree.

What's funny is that I had more time to myself in graduate school than I had in any other part of my life. But I still didn't have enough time to notice any patterns in my mood.


For the last 16 years or so, my body has been in relatively good sync with the moon. There have been a few exciting exceptions (two in particular I can think of right off the top of my head), but generally, for half the year, I ovulate with the new moon, and for the other half of the year, I ovulate with the full moon. In January/February and July/August, I go through a transition, which can be either a short or a long anovulatory cycle. Typically, these transitions are preceded by a tremendous amount of activity, and typically stress.

January/February and July/August are the months when I am most likely to face serious anxiety and/or depression.

Besides being exactly 1 month after the winter holidays and equinox, February heralds my birthday.

Besides being exactly 1 month after the summer equinox, late July heralds two birthdays, and two anniversaries in one week.

These are the times when I'm most likely to want to pretend I'm in a psychogenic fugue, walk out the door, and never come back. And it's not because of my little family; it's because of social pressure, which makes it even harder for me to spend time with my family, because I'm physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted.


I kind of think everyone is on this schedule. Why do I think that? Because right as I'm having delusions of joining the circus because I am already fried, other people seem to be feeling stressed and typically enter our sphere looking for support.

And this is usually the thing that pushes me, head first, over the edge.

What's the edge?

The edge is when I think about disappearing myself, through whatever means.

Last month was really bad.

Through the Spring and Summer, I dealt with some very serious emotions related to things going on in the lives of several close friends who had approached me for help. Also, I lost a "friend" because she just couldn't hang with me through my midlife crisis. It's been a doozy. There was a lot of family stuff (including finding several lost family members through DNA testing). I had a few potentially serious health problems.

Any one of these things would have been difficult to handle, but they all came down on me at once. There were quite a few times when I wasn't sure what the point of it all was anymore, and last month was one of those times.

I knew I needed to be alone.


Five days before my period should start (and usually does), the Flo app notifies me. And again at three days. At three days, I usually look at it, say to myself, "No shit, Sherlock!" and dismiss it. I can tell, because my fuse is way shorter than usual.

After this past month, the Husband now has it on his phone, too.

I was diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD) back in 2005. That was the year that started my real personal health journey, because I was having severe visual migraines. That was also the year I discovered bioidentical progesterone, which eliminated them.

Later, I also supplemented vitamin B6 (as Pyridoxal-5-Phosphate) to help with my symptoms, because I learned there was concern about progesterone use masking a vitamin B6 deficiency.

Every cycle, I take Progest-E from days 12 to 26. The progesterone in the formulation is extracted from wild yams and delivered in a suspension of mixed tocopherols. I do a number of other things nutritionally to help with this disorder, and for most of the year, these approaches are enough to keep me adjusted. I will write about those other things some other time, in case they help someone. But the point of this post is something entirely different, and something that was missing from my holistic health perspective for all these years. It was something I suspected, but now I know for certain.


This August, I had hopes that my PMDD would be controllable. But as the day approached, I had this niggling feeling that things weren't okay. I had taken the meditation class, and earlier in the week had a particularly groundbreaking session, reaching a huge realization that made me feel, deep down, that I was done with people-pleasing for good.

It wasn't even a day later, the Universe decided to give several tests of my new resolve, including a huge fight with my daughter (we have only had one disagreement before, when she was six years old, and I still have tremendous guilt about it, even though she doesn't remember it), misunderstanding my therapist (leaving me wondering if I needed to go find a new therapist, or if I could even ever trust a therapist again), and also still processing the aforementioned stuff.

Then, the family came. Both sides. For one, I reluctantly accepted a self-invite, the other uninvited.

I think they got what they needed. I didn't.

Not for me, later, when I would again wonder why it is that I am so worthless that requests to be alone are constantly ignored. Maybe if I suffered from some physical symptoms, they would take me seriously? Instead of something I have "control over?" (I don't have control over it).

Why can't people understand? When it's dark, I need to go Dark.


The thing about being busy, for me, is that I do not have time to process my feelings about things. I am highly adept at smiling, nodding, and then processing pain later. I maintain the appearance of someone strong, and can be strong, through having enough time alone. The time alone, is, for me, a necessary evil.

For many years, I would go over and over conversations in my mind, worrying that I might have said something wrong. I worried a lot about inadvertently hurting other people, because I learned a long time ago that people can misinterpret my shyness as aloofness, and my intellectual passion as snobbery. So, I try to be really mindful of my interactions with people, so that I do not come off as critical.

I have a lot of guilt about stuff that other people probably don't even notice or care about.

When I am in a good place - 25 out of 27 days a month, not too busy, replete with sleep and food - I can allow myself to think that if a person were upset with me, they would say something.

When I am not in a good place, my mind believes I have hurt others.

And being someone who feels so deeply, the thought that I might have hurt someone else, hurts me terribly.


I read in Christiane Northrup's Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom a long time ago that it is normal for women to turn inward around the time of the menstrual cycle. In researching various spiritual modalities, I have found a wealth of information and support for accepting the natural emotional cycle that women experience during their fertile years.

On the Natural Shaman website, Cat Stone writes:

"The Autumn (Pre-Menstruation) is a time of harvest and withdrawal.  This energy can be really tough for some women.  During this phase, our focus begins to turn inwards in preparation for menstruation.  We can feel disconnected from life and our mind can become negative and critical.  We harvest and complete projects and tasks, ready to withdraw from the outside world all together, like the Autumn Equinox, we remember the past.  If the pressure is on to remain in the outside world, we can become even more confused and irritable.  This phase slows us down and brings our attention back to our own needs.  It is during this phase that women can feel out of control, and suffer from PMS or PMDD." - Cat Stone, The Magic of the Menstrual Cycle

It gets worse for Winter.

These are times when I MUST have time alone. I need time alone to think and process a lot of awful thoughts about myself. I need time to process the grief about who I thought I wanted to be and accept who I really am. I need time to process uncomfortable feelings like not wanting to be alive, so I can cry about it, and move through it. I have my own little Hero's or Fool's Journey every month! It's something that keeps me evolving.

Why can't people understand? When it's dark, I need to go Dark.


"Why do you avoid your emotions?" my therapist asked me earlier this Spring.

I had just read Jung's Undiscovered Self, and I knew that he believed that the cure for most neurosis was in bringing thoughts and emotions into alignment.

"Because if I didn't," I said, "My life would be a shit show."


A few years ago, I went on a feminist reading kick, first reading Gail Collins' When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women, and Betty Friedan's seminal work, The Feminine Mystique. I would learn from Friedan that I suffered from the "Woman Problem."

"Sometimes a woman would tell me that the feeling she gets is so strong she runs out of the house and walks through the streets. Or she stays inside her house and cries. Or her children tell her a joke, and she doesn't laugh because she doesn't hear it," says Friedan.

"I've tried everything women are supposed to do-hobbies, gardening, pickling, canning, being very social with my neighbors, joining committees, running PTA teas. I can do it all, and I like it, but it doesn't leave you anything to think about - any feeling of who you are. [...] There's no problem you can even put a name to. But I'm desperate. I begin to feel I have no personality. I'm a server of food and a putter-on of pants and a bedmaker, somebody who can be called on when you want something. But who am I?" says another mother in Friedan's book.

In the interest of curbing any arguments about my choice to homeschool, I want to be sure to say that having the kids at home was a great antidote to my "Woman Problem" for a number of years, for the most part, at least when we were at home together, because the kids are always changing and growing, and it is a delight to see them maturing. As they require less and less from me, however, my activities are more and more mundane. My contribution seems less and less "special."

The things that, over the years, contributed to that feeling of wanting to run away were the things that never stayed done. Dishes, laundry, paying bills, weeding, mowing, picking up pet poop, dusting, mopping, BUYING GROCERIES. The last one is my current bugaboo, with two teenagers. Sometimes I personally skip eating because I just don't want to have to go to the grocery store any sooner than necessary.

Again, we are almost out of groceries. We made it exactly one week on a $375 trip to the grocery warehouse. We ate at restaurants multiple times because everyone is sick and tired of cooking.

This is totally why fathers push their teenage boys out of the house. (Props to my kids who totally say, "Thank you for buying me food all the time!" and clean the kitchen without being asked - this isn't a rant about them, it's a rant about misogyny and the lack of a "Village" mentality).


My mother told me once that a psychologist friend of hers asked when I would go "Supernova." I wondered what the hell he meant, and my mom explained that I was such an overachiever, there is no way that amount of effort could be sustained very long. I was a senior in high school at the time.

It's true - I did go pretty "balls to the wall" on everything I did, getting very close to a PhD by the time I was 24. And although I went to school in New Orleans, and have several really hilarious stories to share about Bourbon Street related shenanigans, I think that was kind of the last young person variety fun I had for many, many years.

I was 21 when I got married, my husband 22. We lived in Ohio for the first 2 years, then California for 3, then we moved to the Colorado Springs area for 4 years before settling in Loveland 12 years ago. I learned that it takes a while to make friends when I'm new to an area (and that has made me fairly outgoing), and I have also learned that children help you make friends. But I have also learned that the nature of the friendships I had before and after children is wildly different. Painting the town red hasn't really been in my lexicon. But then, it's only been about 5 years since I have been able to have an uninterrupted conversation.

Babysitters and the funds for concert tickets were right out. And, once I passed the 40 year mark, hangovers were significantly less fun. Not that they were ever fun, but even less so with kids to feed in the morning.

These are the things they don't tell you when you hear your clock ticking at 24 years of age.

"It's not a clock," the male standup comic's girlfriend had said, when addressing his fear of commitment, "It's more like a fuse."


Do supernovas have fuses? I think my biological clock just broke permanently.


I would like here to sing the praises of women comics. Watching Jennifer Kirkman*, Lynne Koplitz, Amy Schumer, Iliza Schlessinger, Ali Wong and others on Netflix has been a balm for my soul. They are the antidote to the superego. They're like a Jungian Adjustment. I knew, through having mom friends, that some struggles women face are universal, but there are things even mom friends don't discuss with each other. Especially if there are kids within earshot.

But these amazing women are opening up that dialogue.

Through their raunchy monologues, they're helping me see that the Darkness inside of me that needs acceptance is normal.

In fact, I noticed some time ago that during my "mood swings" I am much more likely to recognize and come up with effective solutions to real problems. I'm more likely to write philanthropic letters to correct unfair situations at that time. I'm more likely to make art that captures an emotion. I'm more likely to deepen a relationship with a friend by being more vulnerable than usual. I'm more likely to undergo some sort of beneficial psychological transformation during this time. But these things are more likely to happen if I am afforded the very necessary time alone, and if I am allowed to slow down.

This is another place where I have felt like "less than a woman" due to the feminism of my mother's generation. Talking about emotions, sexuality, fluctuating energy levels - all of this was still taboo until very recently. It helps to be able to laugh as I look back at when I got my first period, almost exactly 31 years ago, at the Gove Middle School Halloween Social, while I was dressed as a bride. All in white. Yep. I had to wait until after my parents got home from choir practice, after the babysitter left, to ask my mother if I was going to die. I don't remember if I was relieved or disappointed when she told me it was my first period.

Lack of discussion about this topic, I feel, keeps women from full acceptance of themselves, and perpetuates the misguided notion that needing a little more sleep or some alone time for part of the month is some sort of pathological state. Or understanding the natural fluctuations in sexual appetite! Growing girls need to know about it so they can better care for themselves when they are menstruating. Growing boys need to know about it so they can be more sensitive to the needs of female family members and future partners.

Discussion of this topic is a necessary evil.


When I'm in this place, sometimes it is not solitude that I need. Sometimes I need radical acceptance. I think I'm just now finding the friendships where I feel like I can be myself, where I can share the Darkness inside of me without fear of criticism. The kind of friendship where I can laugh at raunchy jokes or dance to soul-shaking music, and want to do it again. The kind of friendship where we have secrets we would never share with others.

The kind of friendship which understands that there are necessary evils.

The kind of friendship that reminds me why it's good to be alive.


I refuse to apologize if this piece lacked in "flow." My mind is jumbled; I'm writing out of emotion. I was interrupted four times while writing this. In a few days, again, my thoughts will "flow" and then I'll be back to my usual happy, horny self. Don't you worry.

Where can a girl find a nice Red Tent these days?

*Jennifer Kirkman on Netflix. OMG. Watch both her specials, but especially the newer one, Just Keep Livin'?

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

I feel you

I have a condition called Mirror Touch Synesthesia (MTS). I don't know how long I have had it. I didn't know that I had it until I listened to the Invisibilia Podcast on NPR back in 2015.

All my life, my family members have complained that I am "too sensitive," but really, none of them knew exactly how sensitive I was.

In the Invisibilia episode, a woman named Amanda suffers from MTS. She becomes housebound due to her condition.

How could synesthesia make a person housebound, you ask?

MTS, scientists think, happens when there is confusion between the touch and visual systems. People with MTS can, simply by looking at a person, understand what that person is feeling with their body. For instance, I can look at a person using a fork and feel that fork in my hand.

What this also means is that I can look at a person's face, and feel their expression - feel what they are feeling.

It is a condition, psychologists claim, of extreme empathy.


Apparently, there is some comorbidity between having various types of synesthesia and being an artist and scientist, so much so that there is an organization for such individuals called The International Association of Synaesthetes, Artists and Scientists. I learned this fact after discovering founder Dr. Joel Salinas' book, Mirror Touch, at my local book store this Spring (2018).

Dr. Salinas is a Neurologist, which I found fascinating considering my own professional rabbit hole - neurobiology. Much of what he described in his book in his experiences from childhood onward were familiar to me, even down to what it feels like to watch someone die.

I'm thinking it must be pretty rare to  have had two near-death experiences and also have watched someone die, and have MTS. Dr. Salinas describes the feeling of watching someone die in the first chapter of the book - and since I had the same experience in February 2015, seeing my neighbor in cardiac arrest, I could feel it all over again. I can feel it now, just writing about it. During my working career, I had to sacrifice numerous animals for medical research, and the feeling was the same for me.

Last week I went to a concert with some friends at a local venue. During the opening act, around 9:30PM, six people carried another person toward the door. They put the young man on the ground, and he was unresponsive. I just stood there. I couldn't stop looking. I was having the feeling - the feeling of The End. A tightness in my chest that wouldn't go away.

I looked over at my friend. "It's ONLY 9:30." Was all she said.

"Huh? Yeah, it is only 9:30, but I have never seen that happen at a concert. Never." I was feeling old, as I haven't been to a concert in over two decades. But the last ones I went to were surely in New Orleans, and I don't recall seeing anyone near death back then.

"Oh, that happens all the time. But not usually this early." She replied.

"What the fuck." I shook my head. It was a Thursday night.

Another guy who was with us said he was certified in CPR and went to check on the victim. He came back and informed us that the guy had track lines and that it was probably a heroin overdose.

Not much later, an ambulance came. I was still standing there, eyes like saucers, unable to shake the feeling of death, until I saw a foot move. Only then did the odd squeezing feeling in my chest subside.


"Om namah shivaya" is my preferred mantra for meditation. It is a salutation to the Lord Shiva, god of yoga, meditation and the arts. According to Wikipedia, he is often depicted slaying demons.

I am a very highly accomplished navel gazer. That comes of necessity when one is feeling all the feels. Of all the peeps.

In an initial discussion with several people who know me well, when asked if they thought I might benefit from meditation, they said, "Yeah, most likely not. You don't suffer from lack of self-awareness." And such things. I decided that shelling out $1000 for a meditation course was not really a responsible use of my money, even though it has been shown to reduce blood pressure.

A few months later, however, I started going to contemplative yoga with my artist friend, due to a lot of stress and a shoulder injury. Many of the class participants are dealing with chronic pain. Part of the contemplative yoga are two guided body-awareness meditations, one at the beginning of a gentle yoga practice, and another at the end. The first time I went, I was amazed at the amount of time spent moving blankets around (seriously, there is a lot of blanket rearrangement), but afterward, I felt the most profound sense of calm I had felt in a very long time. I felt like I was in a Bubble of Peace.

When I went home from class, I had the presence of mind to tell everyone swarming me in the kitchen, "Um... so... I feel this amazing sense of peace, and I would like to hold on to it for a bit. I am going to go sit outside."

"Whatever you just did, you need to do it more," my husband and kids all said.


When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time happily playing alone. I wasn't particularly imaginative - or at least I haven't thought I was. My favorite games were "Librarian" where I organized all my books by the Dewey Decimal System and wrote call numbers on their spines, and "Elizabeth Stevens" where I was a grown woman named Elizabeth Stevens with her very own (homemade) checkbook, purse made out of notebook paper, and a job in an office! I don't remember feeling lonely, although I do remember feeling disgruntled about interruptions. Hmm... that hasn't changed... although now I have too many books to organize, Costco makes my checks, my purse is made of vinyl, and I have several jobs at home.

The thing nobody tells you about marriage or motherhood is how your primary function is to protect everyone else's head space, and that you almost never have any of your own. Well, that's not entirely true - you just don't have any control over when you get that head space, so when it randomly comes up, you fail to think "I really need head space, too! How can I make sure I get productive head space?"

"Head space?" You're asking. "What's that?"

Head space is what produces brilliant people, like Einstein, Sagan, and Hawking. In fact, Einstein was a notoriously bad husband because he had strict rules for when his wife could and could not interact with him. What a douche.

A brilliant douche.


I am surrounded by brilliant people. I can only attribute this to the values my father instilled in me - to protect the solitude of my loved ones. Anyone who knows my father will agree, he is one of those surprisingly brilliant individuals who accomplished such feats as graduating from high school at age 16 and winning a full-ride scholarship to any college he wanted to attend in New York State. He continued such successes through adulthood. Recently, I learned another interesting thing about him - he taught himself meditation and self-hypnosis early in life. And he fiercely defended his head space when I was a kid. In fact, I was pretty sure my parents didn't like each other, but now I see they did, and do, very much. They just protected each other's solitude, as the poets Gibran and Rilke both advised.

“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”- Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Dad shared some more of his wisdom with me, when I used to come home from high school with headaches from not eating enough. He would have me lay down on the sofa and he would do a guided body awareness meditation with me, while massaging my temples. It worked, every time. Because of that experience, I have always been reluctant to take any sort of headache medicine. I can usually rid myself of headaches by laying down and working through awareness of my body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

When I let go of one desire (say, a $1000 meditation class), something even better often comes to fill its space. For example, one that costs a lot less, is closer, and just feels "my speed." My contemplative yoga instructor ended up offering a meditation course nearby. Close enough that I could walk. The Universe is wonderful that way.


Sometimes when I am meditating, I feel like I am in a time machine. I meditate for 10 or 15 minutes, and it often feels like less than a minute. The first time this happened was in my second day of meditation class. When the instructor told us to start wiggling our hands and toes and take a deep breath, I was so disappointed it was over. But when I sat up, I felt profound peace. The peace was so enveloping that I looked at her and noticed that I could not imagine how she felt.

The following week, she would announce that she wanted to talk about synaesthesia, and asked what kind I had. She had been on my website, and knew I was an artist, so maybe that's what influenced her guess that I was a color-sound synesthete. "No," I said. "I have Mirror Touch."

"Oh," she said, seriously, "I wish I had known that before we started class."


Another part of being a mother is having to interact with a lot of other kids and parents. If homeschooling, it might mean even more interaction with other kids and parents than one might have if one's children attended school, because one is being proactive about socialization, since that's what everyone will ask about when they first are shocked by the announcement that the kids within earshot are not attending school.

So, hauling them to at least one - no two, because more is better - "Park Days" every week becomes an imperative. On top of that, there are probably one or two private "playdates" at friends' houses, and then on the weekends time with extended family. In a week, a homeschooling mother might see, on average, fifty people, most of whom she has some level of personal knowledge. Maybe she even has some "thing" she talks about with each one of them, and since she is a neurobiologist, it is something along the lines of nutritional or psychological well-being. Technical, but simultaneously emotional stuff. Lots of the moms are worried or flustered when talking with them because one of their kids has some difficulties. Many of them are exhausted. That's a lot of contact. That's not even counting the internet forums, where one is feeling, either correctly or incorrectly, the words spewed forth by people from all over the world.

Maybe this mom had taken a personality inventory when she first got out of graduate school, during the interview process to become a technical recruiter, and the psychologist had said that she "Would be a great recruiter, except [she is] too empathic and it will be psychological torture." Maybe she was offered the job and had the wisdom not to take it.

She said, "No thanks!" and went on her merry way to dirty closets at the Veterans' Administration where she would be degraded by her boss for her ineptitude at being unable to keep 60-70 plates of Henrietta Lacks' cells alive (Hey - her cells are supposed to be immortal!). And that experience would be so insanely isolating that when she became a mother, she wholeheartedly embraced the community of fellow mothers, many of them also empaths.


The thing about Mirror Touch is that sometimes it can have the effect of amplifying emotions, especially in the context where I'm with another empath.

This can be really fun, because it means I make a happy get together even happier!

Or it can be really horrible, as all non-happy feelings get felt deeply and transmuted into despair.

It means that if a person has a convincing mask, I really believe it, unless they clue me in otherwise. Because of the profound empathy I feel, it takes me a long time to give up on a person.

This is precisely the reason a few of my friends told me they didn't want me to do meditation. They were worried I would lose my empathy. That I would be a different person. The kind of person who gives up on others easily.

But what they didn't know is the intensity of my sensitivity - the enormous burden I was carrying. Before I started making art, I remember having the conscious thought that I was giving away little pieces of myself all day long, and that I didn't have anything left for myself. I actually had the thought that this must be what a sex worker feels like. I felt like it was my duty to make life richer for everyone else, without concern for myself.


Invisible Labor is the type of work primarily handled by women in our culture. It consists of all of the thankless (and uncompensated) tasks of motherhood that make life richer for families, like paying the bills, planning vacations, taking care of the automobile maintenance, replacing broken dishes, weeding, shopping for birthday and holiday gifts, making dentist appointments, emptying all the trashcans in the house, going through household stuff to get rid of things... okay, I am going to stop because the point here is that it is all the stuff that someone has to think about, and regularly do.

The commonest complaint among my mom friends, kids in school or not, is lack of time to themselves. I can't even imagine, really... because I try my damndest to have time in Ye Olde Mind Palace, specifically through being fairly heavy handed with my evaluation of whether various "Invisible Labor" tasks are Worth It or not. And frankly, over the years, Elizabeth Stevens, office worker, has decided that All Work and No Play make her a VERY dull girl.

Luckily, play can just mean being alone. It can mean journaling. It can mean drawing, painting or any act of creation. As long as the mind isn't being directed.

And recently, I found, it can mean meditating.


Yale Psychologist Paul Bloom argues that we, as human beings, should do away with empathy. He claims that compassion is superior because it does not incorporate unconscious motivations. With empathy, the feelings of another are felt - unless we are incapable of identifying with the other, for some reason. Prejudice and internal biases, for example, can prevent an empathic reaction. However, it is possible to have compassion for people, because it is a conscious response and can incorporate the conscious decision to ignore our biases. Compassion, therefore, is empathy evolved.

My meditation instructor would argue in favor of compassion in a different way. She explained that profound empathy was due to a loss of the life force, prana. Throughout our lives we are to learn karmic lessons, which essentially help us to reach higher states of consciousness. In Mirror Touch, and empathy, one takes on the karmic lessons of others. We were not meant to take on the karmic lessons of so many other people. Certain Saints were capable of doing this to heal people, but, she said, it is extremely rare.

So, the pain empaths feel for others are the karmic lessons of the other people. The pain manifests as samskara, which are repetitive behaviors, thoughts and emotions. Compulsive repetition of unhealthy behaviors, thoughts and emotions are due to an unconscious desire to avoid a certain pain.

During meditation, as visions are seen (like in my particularly quick trip in the time machine), and symbolize the burning of these painful karmic lessons. During our recollection of our time meditating, I apologized because I thought I might have vocalized, and the class said I had giggled. My instructor thought it was a manifestation of the burning of a samskara. This is precisely when I noticed I could not feel her as I gazed at her.


"There’s some evidence that meditative practice and mindfulness meditation makes you into a sweeter person. There’s no definitive evidence of this, but the argument is that mediation makes you more compassionate by diminishing your empathy, so you can help without feeling suffering." - Paul Bloom, Yale Psychologist


I had figured out, over the past two years or so, how to turn my MTS off and on. So not being able to tap into it at all was - weird. One would think it would be disappointing, but since the inability was accompanied by a profound sense of calm, I was thankful.

I always thought, when someone said, "I feel you," that they really meant it. It's not something I have ever said, but something I have felt deeply for most of my life.

Don't get me wrong - it hasn't been all horrible. As my mom said, once, because of my deep feeling, my life has been full of the highest highs, and the lowest lows. That's a gold mine for a creative person.

I feel like meditation has unlocked the ability for me to have power over whether or not I feel another. Maybe it is the power to fly too close to the sun and come back stronger than ever - one of my very favorite pastimes. So, look out Sun - here I come.

Monday, September 3, 2018


I was just barely 16 when it happened. For the last 27 years, I have gone back and forth between wondering if he had been a stranger, taking me at knife point, would the experience have been less traumatic? Maybe then, the effects would have been limited to just being afraid to walk alone at night. But this was someone I knew - who I thought I knew well. He was the first person I felt safe opening up to about my childhood trauma. He was 19 and was volunteering by helping our creative problem-solving team, so we stayed up late many nights, building things together, talking about all manner of things. I was attracted to him, but never imagined he felt that way about me. So when my friends warned me about him, I did not listen.

There was, in my mind, no reason he would think of me like that. Certainly not, because my ballet teacher had shamed me when I was 5 or 6 years old for my abdomen, which stuck out much more than the other girls'. Certainly not, because in elementary school, several boys called me "Amy McBunnyfreak" for my large incisors and love of rabbits. Certainly not, because my close friend's mother had expressed concern for her daughter's weight when we were in middle school, and I was even heavier. Certainly not, because that one guy in middle school called me fat in front of my peers. Certainly not, because just the year before, in dance class at school, a classmate had asked me if I was pregnant. Certainly not, because I was one of the only girls in my high school with braces and glasses.

I have wondered, over the years, if he knew the full effects of what he did, because I was not the only one. He liked virgins. Someone told me there were 14 before me. I knew two of them. Did he get to know the soul of every girl before he degraded and discarded her? Did all of them say "no" like I did, under the influence of alcohol, and unable to defend herself? Did he prey on the ones with insecurities?


I remember the day when the #metoo movement started. I remember thinking that it was great that women were finally speaking up, and also thankful that I had left social media, because I didn't have to concern myself with solidarity over an issue that was still actively eating me on the inside. A few months later, I would tell the only male friend I have had in twenty-five years, in the context of a discussion about the movement. It was terrifying being this vulnerable, even though it only took a minute. I am sure I was shaking.

The details I shared of my life with this guy - my hopes and dreams - my personal struggles - I had never shared with anyone before. So, when he used me for whatever validation he was looking for, and then discarded me - the effect was that I felt fundamentally broken. Fundamentally unlovable. Fundamentally worthless.


Last week my husband was walking alone in the park by our neighborhood at dusk. He came home sad and upset that two women he encountered on his walk were clearly uncomfortable when he passed them. One had stepped off the path to dial on her phone, keeping a close eye on him. The other stepped well off the path with her dog and watched my husband pass. For years, my male doctors kept suggesting that I walk several times a week not just to lose weight, but also combat depression. It took a hypertensive crisis on January 11, 2017 to get me to face Fear of Walking Alone Dragon. Two weeks later, I began attending community college with my son, and so I felt safe walking around campus by myself when he was in class.

I still had trouble wanting to walk around my own neighborhood - one I chose for the safe feeling it gave me - by myself. So, I started walking regularly with a girlfriend. One day, I thanked her for walking with me, sharing that I realized I was afraid to walk alone because of several things I witnessed over the course of my life.

The worst of these was when I was 17 years old. I was fueling up my pickup truck at the Conoco station a few blocks away from my house when a homeless man offered to wash the windows on my truck. Well, he didn't so much offer as he started to actually wash them. I told him, "No, thank you," but he continued. I barely had money for gas, let alone money to pay him for washing my window.

"Leave her alone!" I suddenly heard. I looked up from the pump and saw another man, pointing a gun at the window washer. A gun. I can't remember if I paid for the gas or not, honestly. I got in my truck and drove down Colfax a few blocks, where I knew I would find a police officer. He immediately called dispatch and left for the Conoco station, so I don't know what happened after that.

That was the closest call, but I also witnessed two assaults from the front windows of my homes - one as a teenager, and another as a young mother when I first moved back to Colorado. For some reason, people yell when I'm walking, even if I am with my husband. Maybe it is not at me (although it has happened enough when I am all alone, I always wonder).

So, just walking alone feels like an act of bravery to me. This fear has impacted both my physical and mental health in a profound way.

It was interesting, last weekend, seeing my husband finally "get" how it is to walk through the world in fear. As a woman.

"Are women just always afraid?" He asked.

"Yes," I said. "I am, anyway."

After a few months of walking on campus, I felt confident enough to walk around a nearby sculpture park while my son was at class in Windsor. I walked there weekly on Sundays. Sometimes I would call my friend on the phone while I walked, and other times I would enjoy the sound of nature. One week, I became aware that there was a man walking fifteen to twenty feet behind me. I tried to walk faster to stay ahead, but quickly realized that I couldn't keep his pace. We were in an area with no other people, and no cars. If I could just keep up the pace until the trail came out onto the main road, I would be okay. There would at least be witnesses, I thought. I walked on the main road, passing two women and their children taking photos on the bridge. I rushed through their picture, apologizing. Then, I got to a fork in the road where I could either turn to continue the trail loop, or stay on the sidewalk along the road. I looked over my shoulder.

"I'm not following you," the man, who was now only about 10 feet away, said.

"Oh," I said, feeling like a tremendous idiot. "Sorry - past life experiences!" I shrugged. My mind was swimming. What if that man had been my son?

Or my husband.

Neither one would intentionally hurt a woman, I am sure of it. They are both acutely aware of the extent of the damage done to women by men.

So, for years, I have avoided men as much as possible. It's not hard, really, being a stay at home mom. Exposure to men occurs so much less - the ones I see with any frequency are my friends' husbands, and ones in a professional capacity (doctors, dentists, mechanics, store clerks).

For some reason, I didn't worry about older men. If they looked like my grandfather, and worked with lots of people physically every day, certainly they must be safe, right?


I have gained and lost weight over the years like the tides. The first time I lost a lot of weight was through walking and counting calories, over the course of about two years from 1998-2000. Then I became a mother. I then slimmed down again through breastfeeding from 2004-2006. The weight came back as I threw myself into cooking nourishing meals for my children, and so in 2009 I lost it all again with a regimented exercise program and a low-carb diet. The weight came off so fast that my hair was falling out, and an extreme depression set in, so I added back carbohydrates in order to heal, and in the process, got up to my highest weight ever.

This time, I decided, I would take a moderate approach. The word "sustainable" became the cornerstone of my health routine. It has been challenging, where I live (everyone is on a diet and belongs to a gym, it seems), to dig my heels in and defend my sustainable approach. If I am tired from not enough food, lack of sleep, injury, too much drama, or because I am getting sick, I take a break from exercise. I try to walk 3-6 times a week, getting at least 6000 steps a day. Six thousand isn't very many, but it's enough that I have to put some shoes on and get out of the house.

I think often of my female ancestors who didn't have gym memberships, knew nothing of intermittent fasting, and lived to be at least 80 years old, despite exposure to significant lifetime stress and lots of second-hand cigarette smoke. They weren't concerned with what their long lost acquaintances from high school were thinking.

After my moderate routine was fairly well established (it is difficult to maintain over the holidays and the hottest months of the year), I found a physical trainer to give me a routine.

I chose my trainer specifically because I knew she and I would see eye to eye on nutritional requirements, but also I knew that she was not in the business of getting people "jacked" but trying to help people heal. Still, though, I expected she would give me a routine that would keep me busy while my son was in class, so I could use the rec center. What she gave me was so sustainable, it was ridiculous. The first time I did my exercise routine at school, it took me 45 minutes to change into my clothes, do the routine, add interval training, shower, and get dressed again. So, I decided to just do it at home, to make it a lifelong habit.

The struggle here has just been eating enough, and getting the right food, and feeling strong enough to do the very simple routine. Last spring, I made the mistake of pushing myself to do it when I was frustrated about something, and I hurt my shoulder, badly, trying to work out some stress.

My personal trainer helped me deal with the shoulder pain using some energy healing and hypnotherapy, but it was stubborn and kept coming back. So I went to see my chiropractor, who I hadn't seen in years.

This is when I would learn that even Grandpa sometimes isn't safe.


I thought I was asking a professional question when I inquired if the size of my chest could be causing the shoulder and neck pain I was experiencing. I mean, he's a doctor, right? The weight had melted off the rest of me, leaving my breasts larger than they had ever been, so it seemed like a reasonable question.

The conversation got weird, fast.

He started talking about his own chest, and the chests of his friends. He asked me if I was thinking about getting a breast reduction.

And then, he sat down beside me and put his hand on my upper thigh.

"What?" I thought. "Is this really happening? This isn't happening. It's all in my head."


A female friend recently talked to me about responding versus reacting. I had never really thought about the difference between these two things, because I realized I do neither. I realized, when she was explaining the concept to me that, "Oh, I am a freezer."

"A freezer?" she asked.

"Yes, a freezer. I do nothing." I explained.

In talking to other women about what happened with my chiropractor, they were all surprised that I did not do anything. But this response, or lack thereof, is common for survivors of abuse, I learned. Furthermore, the personal and private nature of most abuse makes survivors end up questioning their sense of reality. I now see a therapist at least once a week so I can tell her about my life, what happened, and how I responded, in large part because some of the things that have happened to me are so unbelievable I worry that it is all in my head. That's why they call it "crazy making."

In the months since this has happened, I realize how my silence over the years has enabled abusive relationships on many levels. And, thanks to therapy, and witnesses, I know I'm not imagining these things.

I looked at my silence as a way to remain easygoing and likeable. Maybe, on some level, it helped me feel lovable, at least consciously. But I wasn't loving myself, so I really wasn't lovable.


The Universe is funny. Sick funny, I think, but still wise and wonderful. One of the ways I have been able to work through this tremendous pain, and still accomplish anything, is by being a life-long learner, and looking for lessons in my experiences.

When I was born, my mother was sure I was going to be a boy. She knew that she would name me "George" after my two grandfathers, George Graves, and George Robert McMullen. I always felt like I had escaped a fate worse than death since I didn't like the name George. But now I see how I have a little bit of St. George in me, and it probably would have been a great name for me, had I been male.

So many times in my life I have had the sensation that in following my intuition, questioning the status quo, I have been both foolish and brave. When this happens, I feel both exhilaration, and terror.

Writing this is one of those times.


The last two years have been the most psychologically difficult in my life so far. One of the things I learned during my homeschooling years is that keeping busy helping others is a way for me to avoid facing my Dragons. Since my inner St. George actually loves the business of slaying Dragons, I am really good and finding unsuspecting Dragons to slay.

But when I finally slowed down a few years ago and had to be content just being for a while, the Dragons got a lot bigger, and a lot scarier. Like this #metoo Dragon.

Several situations, all at once, would force me to look at how focusing on pleasing everyone else was robbing me of my self worth. I made the decision to speak up. I spoke up for my kids, so they could see how to advocate for themselves. And, over time, I finally started speaking up for me.

I lost several friends, with whom I had abusive relationships. In trying to please these people, I gave them all the power in the relationship. There was a common thread - if they needed my help, they were aggressive and even forceful in their use of my time, which I enabled. But when I needed reciprocity, they were nowhere to be found. The relationships were slowly eroding my sense of self worth. My own needs were unimportant, it seemed, because their problems were worse, and I was not even deserving of an answer when I would reach out for connection.

I have thought, "I should have been voted most likely to be ghosted when I was in high school."

It was just a pattern, right? Sharing myself completely with someone, and then being ignored. Actively ignored. Avoided. Sometimes silence can be violent.

In these friendships, I constantly felt like that fly in the blue guy's soup on Sesame Street. An annoyance to the blue guy, and to Grover (the most lovable monster - who wants to annoy the most lovable monster?), and to the kitchen staff, and even to the contents of the soup, which were going to be wasted.

When I feel like that, I know it's time to speak up and let go, and that that is also an act of love, because letting people behave in abusive ways without speaking up lets them continue behaviors that absolutely make them hard to love, and make it harder for them to love themselves. Life is full of difficult discussions. I think it's important to have them.


I developed early, so the comments about my breasts also started early. My middle name is Elizabeth, after my biological great-grandmother who raised my grandmother and mother after her husband committed suicide during a very long battle with tuberculosis during the depression. Adah was a gentle-hearted woman, standing not even 5 feet tall, with a generous chest. Her mother, Edith, for whom my sister was named, was slender and tall. My sister and I resemble our respective namesakes.

In high school, my sister was popular, always had a boyfriend, and a very close-knit group of friends.

I kept myself busy with clubs and after school activities, on the periphery of the various groups. I had one close friend from most groups, and was rarely invited to things, unless a friend needed a sober driver.

I was Miss Congeniality. For real. I participated in a pageant in high school and won Miss Congeniality.

So it is interesting to me that the majority of my body image issues have nothing to do with my relationship to men, and everything to do with my relationship to women. Being around women all the time for the last 12 years has done a real number on my self-worth.


Because, I swear, women hate their bodies. It is almost impossible to spend time with a woman socially without her complaining about how she has recently gained weight, or how she is bloated because it is her "time of the month." Discussions of what constitutes healthy and not healthy food is always a favorite subject. I have been very careful about what I say about myself around my daughter because I do not want her to have the same insecurities I do. But I have two family members who would regularly discuss dieting, juice fasting, and one of them even refused to eat anything but celery for a whole weekend while visiting. I was always nervous that my daughter was in earshot, and I worried that she would pick up their insecurities and hold herself to some ridiculous standard the way they did. They are both thinner than I am by several sizes, and so when that was going on regularly, it was nearly impossible for me to come away from being with them without totally hating myself, because in my mind, they were way more beautiful than I was.

Here is the really disturbing thing. Like I mentioned before, I am used to being ghosted, being treated like I am invisible. I mean, who wants to spend time with a pathetic SAHM who doesn't know how to have a good time? Everyone clearly wants a MILF! During the times when I lost weight, the craziest things happened. People I had known for a long time didn't recognize me. Certain people seemed intimidated. They called me beautiful. They wanted to know what I was doing to lose the weight. The cashier at NAPA hit on me when I was buying washer blades. The tire guy flirted with me. Women were kinder than usual. The tour guide in Prague suggested a kinky rendezvous under his breath. A guy bought our couple friends and us several rounds of drinks, while going on and on about my dimples in front of my husband. An older man in Australia in a bar went to a liquor store and brought me back a bottle of wine from his home town. I hadn't even exchanged words with him. Everyone was flirting with me, telling me how nice I looked. It was weird, because I was the same person on the inside. I can see how if one was accustomed to this treatment, it could be quite confusing if the treatment suddenly stopped. For me, all the attention made me confused, and a little sad. That is the hardest thing to accept about life, I feel - that ultimately people subconsciously treat you in proportion to how beautiful they think you are, and could care less about who you are on the inside.

And so we do this to ourselves - judge ourselves by our outward appearances, rather than by loving our whole selves. It is a terrible shame.


So, to deal with the burning junkyard of existential crises in my mind (thank you, dragons, for setting everything on fire), and also my screwed up shoulder, I turned to contemplative yoga and meditation.

Soft woolen blankets, Indian meditation music, and my instructor's soft voice would help my soul, breath, and body finally relax. For a while.

My instructor looked at my website and decided to ask me if I would do line drawings of the yoga poses for her. I was flattered, and it seemed like an easy task.

We got together before meditation class to take photos of the poses. I thought maybe she would do the poses, but when we got there, she was wearing her baggy pants, and my fear was confirmed when she asked me to set up in shavasana.

"I must not look that bad." I thought.

Later in the week, she sent the pictures, and I was mortified. Mortified.

I was laying there, spandex-clad, little left to the imagination. None left to mine, that's for sure.

"I cannot do this." I thought. "No way. Is this a test? This must be a test. She must know. She's a guru. She wants me to push through this pain and fear." She probably had no idea.

Several other really difficult things happened that week when I was bloated and needed to be alone. The week before, I had been contacted about the acceptance of some of my writing into a book, but the pain of having to face the reality of pictures of my body in spandex, and several other intense psychological developments overshadowed any joy that brought. As the moon became fuller, the shadows took over my mind.

The funny (not funny) thing about mental health issues is the tremendous amount of guilt associated with just having those issues. Anything hurtful I have ever done has been at a time when my Dragons have hold of me somehow. Those Dragons - Fear of Failure, Fear of Rejection - tend to rear their heads when I haven't been taking care of myself. They really like to come out and play at the end of my menstrual cycle when I need most to care for myself. Because I am a caregiver, I desperately need this time to be alone. Maybe if I had a red tent tribe to sit around with, eat ice cream, and watch sappy movies with, I wouldn't need to be alone. Being alone allows me to have a little heart-to-heart with the dragons. It helps me to accept they are there, and that they are not all of me. If I don't get time alone, the worst dragon of all comes out, Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids. This one is the worst because it tells me that my mere existence is screwing them up. When Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids comes out, I know that I am in the state I call Not Fit for Public Viewing.

Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids Dragon is much, much less likely to come out to play if I have been doing things that make my heart happy. When the Obligation Meter is near full, and the Satisfying Experiences meter is low, Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids is ready to burn the whole house down. Feeling rejection while simultaneously having committed oneself to drawing pictures of one's own body falls squarely under Full Obligation Meter territory. So, I did not handle extended family obligations on top of all that very well. Lets' just say that Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids Dragon was like, "Let's do this thang! You have some kerosene, right?"

So, instead, I sat with Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids Dragon, and we had a little heart to heart about how whenever it shows up, when I win, I am stronger for my efforts. Ultimately, I feel tremendous guilt for bringing kids into a fundamentally screwed up world where they will be judged for their looks and used for their kindness, and think how great it would be to clock out, but then realize that each second here is a damn gift, and that with the great pain is always great joy. And I have so much left to learn. I locked myself in the guest bedroom for a whole day and studied something new, spent lots of time laying on the sofa in the quiet, and also meditated. When I felt strong enough, I worked on some art. I know, when I can bring myself to work on some art, that everything is going to be better.


Having vanquished Fear of Permanently Screwing Up My Kids Dragon again (thankfully its arrival is not a regular thing, since I keep a close eye on the Obligation and Satisfying Experiences meters), perspective fully restored, Fear of Rejection and Fear of Failure Dragons were way easier fights.

"How do you eat an elephant?" a friend once asked me. "One bite at a time."

Humor often helps me feel a little braver, so I thought of something funny to draw to help myself feel better. A yoga hippo. I drew it in my head, doing warrior pose. It made me happy. I imagined Martha from the children's books George and Martha, doing yoga.

Then, I realized, a line drawing abstraction like what my instructor wanted was not going to give away too much. I just had to open the files again in my art program, swallow my pride, and start.

I told a few good friends what I had to do, and they responded in ways that let me know it would be very difficult for them to do. I am pretty sure they aren't survivors of sexual assault, but I know most of them have body image issues of some kind. One friend asked me, "So, what are you going to do?" And I said, "Well, I am going to have a good stiff drink and get to it."

So that's what I did. And, most importantly, I breathed.

It was terrifying. Every step of it from opening the file, to selecting the tool I was going to use, to tracing the first curve of my body. This body, that gave life to two people. This body that has known both pleasure, and pain, and nearly died twice.

But with each line I drew, I saw a beautiful me. I saw the peaceful me, who loves herself, who cares and feels deeply. I saw the me who will drop everything to be there for a friend when that friend is experiencing pain. I saw an Empress, The Divine Feminine, in myself. I was a freakin' Fertility
Goddess. Take that, Fear of Failure and Fear of Rejection!

I realized that the rejection, the ghosting, and the abuse I experienced over the course of my life are not a reflection of who I am. They are a result of the insecurities of others - those behaviors are how other people protect themselves from rejection, ghosting and abuse. It's a power play, an act of self-protection, for them, and they don't realize how it propagates that same behavior through society. And, I saw that the way to break that cycle is to learn to love myself. Loving myself makes it easier to let go so I don't fall into the same behavior pattern.

As long as a person is actively trying to better him or herself, in the attempt at self-love, I can forgive them for mistakes of all sorts. But if the relationship is like Einstein's definition of insanity (doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results), then I have to honor myself. Otherwise, it is just a dragon-feeding exercise.

And I'm here to slay dragons, not feed them.

That's what makes me worth it. That's what makes me lovable.