Better Things-- Seeing Ghosts

Pamela Adlon talking about Better Things

The holidays used to roll in and it would be impossible not to write about how they bring forward emotions we don't dwell on otherwise. Memorial Day is no different from Thanksgiving in this way.

On such days there's a breather from work.  We're happy if the weather obliges, anxious if there's a harbinger of family conflict at an anticipated reunion, or just sad that certain people aren't around.

On that note, in 2006 or 2007, I posted about what it means to believe in spirits. Google's Blogger, the host of this blog, tracks such things and would periodically reveal to me that of the hundreds of seriously rough, unedited essays, visitors hit on "Spirits" most frequently.  They search for essays on ghosts and spirits. Who knew? I didn't understand it.

But a television show — Better Things —clarified. Better Things is a production of Pamela Adlon and Louis CK.* She produces, writes, and acts the lead, Sam. The show feels biographical, almost anthropological as a recording of a particular tribe: a family, their lives as experienced within a particular culture. The stress associated with single parenthood, in addition to being the child tapped to stay on top of her own mother is familiar. As good media can do, Better Things brings us Ms. Alden's stories, shows them to us, so much so that the word "sandwiched" isn't necessary in the dialogue.

The show is a guilty pleasure despite the cringe bathroom humor, an entire episode dedicated to colonoscopy prep; most others replete with uncensored references to sex. Expect that, most episodes treating sex for what it is, especially to teenagers. It is not a pretty slice or interpretation to those of us who believe in love-making.  The language of the show is always coarse, direct, graphic.

So what's the pleasure? 

The stark truth of the relationships reels me in. When this show gives, it gives all the way, and you want to take every moment of the gift.

SPOILERS IN THE NEXT 4 PARAGRAPHS

In one of the most moving episodes, The Unknown, Sam is summoned by her daughter to come upstairs; she's sure there's a ghost in the house. Sam checks it out and oddly enough there's an indentation on the seat of the bed. Sam can't help but comment on the similarity of the size to her father's derriere. He passed away young, around 50. He was her rock. Her mother struggles with dementia and you wonder if it is alcohol related, sense she has always been as she is, British, detached, on her own planet, yet wildly popular among her peers.

Sam is driving in the car and Dad pops up in the passenger seat, comments about a man she is seeing. She has to think about the observation. She never would have looked at it this way.  I think, will my daughter, my sons, do that? Think about what I would say about something after I'm gone? It is hard not to ponder this.

Sam is honored at an event at her father's club  (Lions, Masons?) as his stand-in. After accepting the award, sitting at a a bar with  his best friend, the "best friend" hits on her. She leaves as he protests. On the way out she sees her father in a chair in the lobby.

They high five. 

The Eulogy Episode- so indescribably touching I refuse to spoil it. Too moving, healing, full of the love rarely expressed while we're alive. We wonder what people will say at our funerals, but wouldn't think to get a preview. Some of this episode is up on YouTube, but don't do it. See the show from the beginning or it isn't meaningful. And it is a meaningful enactment of how healthy people relate to one another.

Rereading this, it would seem all I care about are shows about dying, friendship, parenting, and being parented. Could be.

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*The producers reached an agreement after the accusations against him of sexual harassment so that Ms. Adlon could work without Louis CK on the set, or maybe not as an active partner, either, pretty sure.

Envying the Rich

Matzah the poor man's bread

I don't remember my parents ever envying the rich, only enjoying their friendship-- my father, anyway. It made him feel rich, golfing with someone who had a medical degree (in his day medicine meant money) or playing poker with a man who didn't mind losing a few dollars by midnight, when the men went home to their wives and lied that they came out even. The night after a poker night would be a good time for me to hit my father up for pocket money.

My parents would return from a destination wedding and regale us with the details, simply happy to be a part of it. I do think that they were happy with their lot, that they were ash-rei b'chelko (rhymes with posh-tray-b'-well-tow, happy with one's portion), albeit ever striving for more. Both grew up poor. My father liked to tell me that he picked feathers and lice off of chickens at his first job in America, immigrating from Poland. (He had stories about being the new kid in class, speaking no English). My mother, born in Chicago to immigrants, describes not having a nickel to buy a coke at the local "drug store" like the other girls. She really was envious of them, come to think of it.

No matter. I'm more like my father, maybe, one of those people who marvels it what others have, what they buy, and think, This makes them happy? All I want is to have enough left over at the end of the quarter to pay the IRS. Someone once said to me, I love paying my taxes. Some of us get that.

How does one get to a a point of no complaint?

I don't know.

I liken it, however, to accepting things as they are, not exactly mindfulness, but surrender. The winter in Chicago, for example, simply having the wherewithal to get through it, this is the key. Then just when you think it is over, it snows in the last days of April, and you're not happy, but you do what you did all winter, get on with your life.

We just finished Passover, which is like moving out of your house then moving back in. You clean it first, top to bottom, everything, your ovens, refrigerators, remove every vestige of leavening agents or things that have yeast (or flour!) from your home and then settle into the holiday and eat matzah for 8 days. It is a tough holiday, tough on us physically, gastro-intestinally, too. We bring up Passover dishes and pots and pans from the basement and eat off of these for the week. Then we pack them all back up and bring them back down after the holiday, put the kitchen back with the everyday appliances, the food processor, toaster, coffee maker and microwave tray to get our lives back in order. During the holiday we didn't use them, wouldn't risk contaminating our unleavened food. A crazy holiday.

Exhausting.

Rich people go away to resorts and eat food that other people have cooked for them, supposedly under the close supervision of a rabbi. Friends of mine, rich or not, won't do this, fearful that the rabbi isn't watching very closely, fearful of breaking the law, eating something that perhaps isn't even kosher, let alone, not kosher for Passover.

The holiday accomplishes one thing, however, rich or poor It makes us happy for what we have. The matzah is what it is all about, the poor man's bread. It is emphasized in the telling of the story of Passover, and naturally, all week long with butter or cream cheese. In the biblical story, the Jews, running from the Egyptian king, the Pharaoh, who is about to change his mind about letting them leave slavery in Egypt, are commanded by their Higher Power to take their dough, not wait for it to rise (as I am doing right now) and leave Egypt immediately.

It turns out that unleavened bread, difficult to digest, is filling and would go a long way during that long trek from Egypt, the perfect camping food. The Jews would theoretically be going camping for a month before they reached their destination.

So much more to the story, but suffice it to say that matzah is and always has been the Poor Man's Bread, and the reason it has so much to do with Passover is that we are to be reminded, when we eat it, that not only were we poor, but we were slaves for over two hundred years in Egypt. Being poor, we are reminded for one week out of the year, having no real bread, is where we come from, all of us in my tribe.

We may feel like slaves every day as we head off to work early in the morning. We may resent those who don't have to work hard, who don't have to rob Peter to pay Paul, and for sure, we are likely to be envious of the heated sidewalks of acquaintances when we're forced outdoors, shovel in hand. But to a great degree we are free. We have free will. There is so much that we can do as our own boss to a  large degree.

Leavened bread, wheat bran

Why are some of us less content with what we have than others? I think it has to do with hope, more than anything. If we have that, if we can keep striving, trying, plotting, planning, creating, whether or not we think it will get us anywhere, we can dream, and take pride, and hope for a better tomorrow. It is when we lose that, when we cannot push on, that the things that others have reminds us of our ultimate powerlessness. And we don't like that.

Religion being a great equalizer, we can pray together, rich and poor, and connect, occasionally socially, work on projects for the common good. Some will even play poker, golf.

Last night FD swept up, but I just finished putting away the toys and vacuuming up the last of the crumbs of the holiday this morning. And I thought: I wouldn't trade a day it with family, with all of my children here at my table, or playing Chess and checkers, Mancala and Connect 4. That's rich.



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One Teenager Killed Himself. Six More Followed

You may know that therapists run differently, some falling into two camps. In one they are interpreters who divine meaning that may or may not be there, from words. In the other they are more client-centered, assume that the meaning the client attaches to her words is the one that really matters. The rest of us, like me, are a combination of both. But if you tell me that you think the sky looks green, then I'm going to go, Wow, she sees a green sky! What else is she seeing up there?

Snowfall April 14, 2019

I get to the office on Sunday morning about 30 minutes early because the Sunday bus is reliable at 8:00 a.m., but not necessarily at 8:20 and I start seeing patients at 9. Taking the earlier bus also allows me time to pop into Tony’s to buy some produce, and I always buy too much to carry on foot comfortably. But that's just what happens. 

So when I do get to the office I’m a little out of breath, but not cold--  even though it is snowing on April 14, 2019, at this writing, a wet sleet-like nasty snow that will turn into big fat snowflakes in about an hour.

And I think, wow— I really did master winter this year— probably because of the fashion invention, leggings.  Under a warm skirt, these are phenomenal.

Layering up is a metaphor that we might apply to surviving dysfunctional families and/or dysfunctional work environments, too. People layer up, defend with coping strategies against the craziness. The healthy ones hide out with friends, confide in them or not, or they play sports, slap paint on a canvas, write songs, journal, study, create. They tend not to need therapy unless they can’t sleep or feel too much sadness or anxiety, or powerlessness and unworthiness become overwhelming. The unhealthy ones drink to much, use drugs (the wrong ones or too much of the controversial substances, pick your poison), identify with the aggressor and bully others to feel better about themselves, that insecure narcissism we see in so many successful people, oddly enough. 

Some kill themselves. Yesterday’s Wall Street Journal ran a story about copycat suicides— six teenagers. No longer with us.

How do kids survive the world we’re living in? How do they layer up? How are they handling the attention deficit they know they have that makes concentration in school and at home so difficult, the known cause that constant electronic bombardment (only during waking hours), all that too much information consumed in the form of entertainment, games, social networking, even on television? Not that this is a cause of suicide, but it's a problem. And the violence, no question. A problem. 

We have to talk about this. 

Okay, my 9:00 will be here soon. So not now.

therapydoc

How I Could Have Saved the Chicago Cubs This Season

I'm writing this at the behest of a friend. He honestly thinks that a little marital therapy could have gone a long way to save Addison Russell, the promising Cubs shortstop. Addison helped the Cubs consistently on the way and during that World Series run in 2016. But this year, accused and found guilty of domestic violence/spousal abuse, his performance at bat, and sometimes on the field, greatly disappointed.

Addison Russell and his kids

"I don't know much about the case," I shot back, "but it makes sense. He had a terrible season, probably because he felt indefensible-- not a good feeling for a guy playing defense for a living."

Shortstops tend not to be the greatest performers at bat, but their agility and dexterity in the field are highly valued.  Addison, the bright star in 2016, can hit, too. But this year he slumped and didn't hit very often, slumped the whole season. We didn't even see him play all that much.

Melisa Reidy-Russell left him after he hit her one time too often. She told a reporter the following:

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-6245297/Who-Addison-Russells-ex-wife-Melisa-Reidy-need-know-her.html?ns_mchannel=rss&ito=1490&ns_campaign=1490

She writes further on that Addison warned her that leaving him would be a big mistake, he had so much to offer (by way of money, lifestyle). How could she leave him? She must losing her mind, he allegedly said, and she would never find anyone who loved her as much as he did.

Ms. Reidy-Russell came out with the stories on Instagram. Apparently she has found someone else who loves her, perhaps more. If you love someone, you don't scare them, hit them. That's not a definition of love.

But that's as much as I, personally, know. And I haven't even really looked at the Instagram account. 

So how could I have saved the Cubs? Frankly, the team never gelled this year. So many players were out with injuries, the manager, Joe Madden constantly juggling the line-up. It was an unusual season and that they did as well as they did surprised and inspired Cub fans. Five games ahead of Milwaukee at Labor Day, only to blow it at the end. But that's baseball.

On the other hand, there is one thing I would have told Addison Russell, had he asked me.

It is that domestic violence is no longer treated as merely anger management: self-relaxation/leave the room/breathe/  behavioral strategies. Therapy is about changing individual belief systems.  It is an individual cognitive therapy that confronts misogyny* and hegemonic masculinity, the belief that as a man, one needs to have the power to decide in a relationship. It is a right is embedded in social institutions and families and it is challenged by feminists.

At this point-- I'm just saying--men and women need to start listening more closely to the feminists.

The case of the Russells makes it abundantly clear that anything-- misogynist thinking is one variable, perhaps the most important variable-- that enters into an equation, a recipe that cooks up violence, destroys relationships (and work performance). The character of the perpetrator, all that enters into becoming who he is, is worth tweaking (changing) and rethinking.

Hold on. We're not supposed to use the word "perpetrator" anymore. The "perpetrator" is someone we want to become a client in therapy. The word  perpetrator is negative, demoralizing, blaming, and  clients emotionally check out when they hear it, already thinking:

She made me do it.

So therapists, stick with non-threatening language, as should everyone else.

In the new Intimate Partner Violence therapy, the Duluth Model, the victim IS a victim, not a catalyst, a person who instigated or deserved to be on the receiving end of violence. The victim has been victimized, pure and simple.

The client, in the Duluth Model, owns the responsibility for the problem.

Among the things the client needs to change is the tendency to emotionally manipulate to  win arguments. This person needs to see that aggression is beyond checking out, 'seeing red" or becoming an animal driven by a primal aggressive need. It has been socialized (taught as masculinity), and it manifests as negligence of care for a partner's health and security.

Other reasons for violent behavior will be unveiled in a good therapy.

The current thinking, no matter, is that the most important intervention is acceptance--admission of a problem, owning it entirely, not blaming anyone else for having triggered an outburst,  eroding that person's sense of worth over time.

Own it, admit, it, get therapy to find out why this is the person you have become.

It is a very rich, fascinating therapy. If it becomes a couple therapy--and couple therapy has to be considered VERY carefully, because it can trigger more violence--the client may find himself on his knees, literally-- as anyone who truly harms anyone else should be.

Addison Russell, the still promising Cubs shortstop will be suspended from MLB play until May, 2019. By that time he may no longer be a Chicago Cub. But I hope he is. I hope he gets the right kind of help and feels the power of self-containment. Breathing can probably help him at bat, too.

But honestly, he wasn't the reason the Cubs didn't make it past the Wildcard this season. The team didn't have it. No matter the reason for that, the text FD sent me the night the Cubs lost to the Rockies lifted my spirits:




And as all good Cub fans say, There's always next year.

therapydoc

Many thanks to Jorge Argueta for teaching me more about Intimate Partner Violence. If you have a problem with it, contact him at AVANCECOUNSELING.COM. He's amazing.

* Misogyny is the hatred of, contempt for, or prejudice against women or girls. Misogyny can be manifested in numerous ways, including social exclusion, sex discrimination, hostility, androcentrism, patriarchy, male privilege, belittling of women, violence against women, and sexual objectification.

Bibliotherapy

Well, I liked putting out that post on breathing. It felt good to write to educate people again.

But then I forgot to send links to it to new people who subscribed by sending me their email addresses, rather than rely upon the feed-- as recommended :). And I felt guilty about that, naturally, and I thought, do I write about that guilt?

Maybe.  But not now.

Not blogging regularly hadn't been intentional, rather there was too much else to do. And now, with a research project in full swing, there's even less of that. But for some goofy reason here we are, me talking to you again, you reading along. You have no idea how nice that is for me.  But maybe you do!

Because at some point, who does the therapist talk to? We've discussed this before, consulting, even socializing with other therapists. But at 5 a.m.  Who then?  It's good to vent, no? Just write things down, whether anyone is listening or not. It's called bibliotherapy. Talking when you know someone is listening is even more therapeutic, once considered THE healing agent, above all. Maybe it still is. I haven't kept up with the outcome research.

So maybe there will be more from me here, now that I've figured out how to log into Blogger again.
There's no one else to tell things, to kvetch. Like, what do I do when the Rabbi complains about bowling alleys, that a person can't look up at his score without having to see Tiger Woods golfing on the screen next to his bowling score (he took the kids on vacation). What do I say, "Hey Rabbi, watch it. Some of us like bowling and we really don't care what's on those screens, and by the way, usually it's baseball.

Don't throw out the baby with the bathwater. Also, maybe Tiger has attended a 12-step program by now, is a model citizen.

You see, there are other thoughts about it these things. 

Yours in vanity posts, 

therapydoc

Breathing

Well, it’s been awhile. Hope everyone’s doing well.  You need to know (if you’re wondering why there’s nothing so little new content here)  that I subscribed to the volunteered slavery of research. I'm loving it, but it is super  time-consuming. One day I'll publish something helpful to society, you never know,  something like this little piece from my friend.  But more about me. I’m still in practice, and being fairly certain that the State of Illinois  still demands continuing education to stay licensed, I took another course on  Mindfulness. Naturally that led to a hack, a quick and easy way to get people to do it.  Then, in the process of recommending that to people, I realized that my hack was  working as well as anything that I had learned in the class. So when that happens,  as it probably does with many of us, for sure with me, you know, I started telling  everyone. Everyone. (It has to be boring to be my friend.) And then I thought of you. In a word, neglected. The original book on mindfulness and psychology, Kabat-Zinn’s Full Catastrophe Living,  suggests, among many other things (it is a good read) 3 minutes a day of mindful breathing.  There are different ways to do it, according to the continuing ed program, like there’s  Lion Breathing, and Ocean Breathing. Ocean breathing is cool because you simulate the sound of the ocean. Anyway, I found myself copying those different breathing instructions and  recommending them to patients— just about anyone who desperately needed to  calm down. That would be 3/4 of my buddies. Except they didn’t do it. Maybe they tried it once or twice.  I said, “You don’t have to do it for 3 minutes. Do it for 30 seconds.” Didn’t happen. Maybe one person did that. And of course it helped her, and  she's continuing and doing much better. I would say, this isn’t going to help you for 3-6 months, but the sooner you get onto it,  the sooner it will help you. It will help you more than you can possibly realize.  This I knew from personal experience. But the crazy thing was that  I never did the 3 minutes. That could be why it took me so long, not sure.  That would make sense. The 3-6 month thing could be true, or could be a paradox. I might have made it up. I didn't finish Full Catastrophe Living, truth told, it was due at the library. But here’s the thing. That hack is helpful, and I knew that, so I tried it with patients.  I told people— anyone who would suffer the lecture-- Don’t worry how you breathe.  Don’t worry when or how often or for how long. Just throw it into something you do,  your life. Concentrate, becoming aware of your breath. Do it while washing dishes,  or standing in line at the grocery store. Do it while waiting, waiting for anything,  a bus, an appointment. Don’t worry about technique. You breathe just fine. You're good! Quit judging how well you do it. It’s all good! If you feel dizzy,  make sure that your inhale and exhale are equal, say a count of 4 on each or 5, 6,  any number, any count, and it need not be the same count. You can count 3, then 5,  then 10, whatever. Doesn't matter. Keep it comfortable. Go with how your lungs  are feeling. Just notice it, feel it. Feel your lungs, too. Do it while you’re exercising, do it while you’re cooking. Do it before sleeping or  while your boss is criticizing you. Do it in the shower, on an airplane, do it when  you’re bored. Do it before you check your messages or email, or social media.  Do it while you're social networking. Do it while making love.  Take a few seconds to notice that you are doing all that it takes, the only thing  it takes, the only requirement, for being alive.  To life, and if we don't talk before the holidays, Happy New Year.  therapydoc. ReplyForward

Starbucks Diversity Training and other Important Matters

Ducks in a row

Today's the day! Starbucks is closing for the afternoon. If you work there you'll be training up, as they say at Relationship-Wise.com, a group of people who simply hate sexual harassment. 

Starbucks will be using The Kaleidoscope Group, a Chicago (!) based diversity consultancy.

And for those of us who just want a cup of late afternoon Joe, it won't hurt you any to miss it.

You'll sleep better, maybe.  

Let's get on with the show.

Muir Woods Or Bust

About a month ago, when those of us who suffer the long Chicago winters woke up to birds singing, temperatures in the 70’s, and sunny, sunny skies, I took to lubing up my bicycle and filling the tires. Time, finally, to ride to work.  

Spring is a big deal for Chicagoans battling W-PTSD, Weather Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. We immediately mistrust everything, especially our perceptions about reality. Is it really going to stay warm? Or is this merely a temporary drop in temp.  We become hyper-aware, check our weather apps again and again, seeking out abrupt changes that will make us wish we wore a sweater, or sorry we forgot our snow boots (in April). 

But on this day strangers smile at one another on the street, whispering, Finally! The exclamation is like sharing a secret-- no explanation, no more words necessary. It is finally warm. We are healed.

So I ride my bike to work.

The bike path runs parallel to the Chicago river, and at the underpass are ducklings and geese greeting one another in the water. Soon we'll see occasional canoes and kayaks, kids rowing hard. I stop my bike to gaze into the water and see a styrofoam hamburger container, the kind you might get at a take-out place.  It is floating out there on the river like a boat. A misplaced bit of garbage that might be in the river, might travel downstream until it hits the Gulf of Mexico. 

before 

This bothers me a lot, seeing that styrofoam box in the river, knowing it isn’t biodegradable. And it hurts my need for order, beauty.  About a yard away is a goose (not shown), a beautiful creature, sitting proudly in the water. He is staring at me as if to say,  I didn’t make this mess. You guys did.

floating burger in a box

That's when I remembered the book I promised to review ages ago, MUIR WOODS OR BUST, a very nice little paperback, good for the beach and apropos to our discussion about garbage in a river. 

Because this is about me, I have to confess, that cringe is not my thing. I still remember the earwig in a Star Trek movie, avoid anything that makes my stomach turn, which means skipping most futuristic television, and some really good movies. So the fact that I kept reading MUIR WOODS, knowing full well that there might be more cringe material after reading about the stink bugs that have invaded the homes of our author's little neighborhood, probably because of polution, tells all. 

 IAN WOOLLEN’s  Muir Woods kept me reading! Having a low bar for novels, that's all that is required, no need for psychological import. Muir Woods,  despite the stink bugs and that the protagonist is a therapist, kept me reading. You’re all psychologically astute, so whatever you’re thinking about my not liking books about therapists is probably correct. 

But this is about a marriage and family therapist, and realistic, too, he's such a humanist, not an every day therapist, and there are only so many of those. This therapist is depressed, aging, a scholar who has recently has lost his spouse, a rabid environmentalist. He misses her desperately, converses with her, imagines her while he drives, sees her in the rearview mirror (or am I making that up?). He sees her watch him play poker on poker night, and this alone is good story, as is the story about their son, a seemingly lost soul, a gamer/game programmer, who stares at a screen during his waking hours.

Who doesn’t fear that this is the future of all young sons?

It is futuristic, in that way. The world will be designed at the pleasure of talented children, and could be colorful, if our boy has any color to him, but he won't, not until he meets someone, he'll be a mourner and a downer, glued to a chair, programming the perfect game. But he meets someone! For our author is a romantic, and this makes the story so much happier, just plain better, for you do have to wonder if they will make it as a couple. And isn't that what all couples therapists are wondering most of the time?

So despite the cringe, the environmental blights, the dim, dreary, catastrophic events, and the  
air, if there is any, that just feels bad, this is a book about people getting help from random events. Ian has woven them all together, masterfully. There’s so much plot, so much really good fanciful plot, so much story, well, eventually I did finish it and here we are, in the middle of a review. Were it not for the plot, there would be no review, you see, for we therapists, you see, are in it for the story, and might not deign to review a book with little story.

And even better, there's a satisfying ending, tying together many diverse and engaging characters. 

Where could Mr. Woollen have possibly have come up with great plot and so many weird, diverse, engaging characters (that I haven't the strength or time to describe)? 

One suspects Ian is a therapist, or worse, had one for a mother or a father, or heaven forbid, both. He could be an ACOT, Adult Child of a Therapist, or maybe just somebody like me, with all that education under his belt, who just likes to write.

Sure, check this one out. And no littering, okay? See to it that our rivers, our world is habitable.

therapydoc 

General Welsh and Why Men in the Military Rape

Oh, I would have loved to write this one, but here it is, somewhere else.

I feel this is worth the read, am pretty sure we've talked about rape myths here on this blog, but maybe not. This author, a friend of mine, mentions 15 of them! Fifteen, and she says there are more.

There are, you should know, also myths that men believe that justify their sexual harassment of women in the workplace. But let's start with rape. It isn't going away.

Here's the link. The General And Rape Myths.

Hope all's well! Drive safe if you're in Chicago. It's a blizzard out there.

therapydoc

Hawaii

Would you believe it? A shoe store capitalizing on the false nuclear alarm in Hawaii. Sorry, Famous. Bad taste.

You may know that I have a little annihilation anxiety, most of us do. But I’m still conscious of it, having had it most of my life. For years, as a little kid, then well into my adulthood, I had a recurring dream about home invaders, two big men climbing through my bedroom window or banging down the front door of our home. I could see them through the little triangular windows of the front door, used all my might to keep them from getting in. I'd wake up in a sweat. 

The dreams persisted once every month or so, until, as a middle-aged woman, as a responsible mother, they just faded away. There were too many other things to worry about, like the safety of the family, my children.

That, or the dreams stopped with the empowerment of Master Han, a Tai Quan Do instructor. I was too uncoordinated to do Tai Quan Do so he just gave me a couple of private lessons. Master Han taught me to bang an attacker's nose with my head, smack a groin with my knees, and box ears, if at all possible. Use your whole body, he told me.

That helped, and when I walk alone I flex my muscles, open and close my fists. Smack them, ready. But I still worried, even after Master Han, when I got on an airplane, that it would go down, worried to the degree that at one point I wrote last requests of my children, deep thoughts, a kind of a will. I found it recently and boy, am I glad I didn't die. They would have thought me beyond help. Dead, but beyond help.

Do not open unless I'm not here any more. 

I tore it up, irrelevant so many years later. Sometimes I think about this blog and think: I should take that down, too. 

Once, before getting on a plane to Israel, I glimpsed someone I recognized, also boarding, a teacher, a woman who contributed to the community's intellectual and spiritual growth, every single day. I was in awe of this person and thought, We’re good. This plane isn't going down. It was a great trip. I never relaxed as well.

And flying hasn't been a problem since.

Have I told you, that despite the nuclear scare in Hawaii, we went anyway? I started this post before we left but decided to wait to post it because the pictures would surely be worth the wait. They're going up in the waiting room. 11 x 9's.

The thing about Hawaii, what makes it a big deal, is that it is the kind of place we've wanted to visit for decades. I do mean decades. You get older and say, decades. We'd joke around and say, One day, before we die, we should go to Hawaii. But it is so expensive, and being committed to spending our tourism dollars in Israel (and seeing family there) we usually head the other direction, assuming there's time and money, a big assumption. So Hawaii was really kind of a dream.

But the miles build up, flying to Israel, taking domestic business trips. Then one day last October FD proclaimed:

"There's a conference in Maui. Why don't we go?"

Maui, as in Maui Hawaii?

Yes.

Book it, now! 

So no to Costa Rica, no to Barbados and St. John. No to Viet Nan or Thailand. Although I have been to China without him for a wedding, and we have been to Paris for a day and London to see relatives, also on the way to Israel, but that was years ago, decades even, so. .  .

YES to Hawaii, even with the stupid nuclear alert, and that it is so close to Korea, such a sweet, happy target. And YES to the new world view—It is the regrets, at the end of your life, you regret the most.

Between October and early February, however, the universe still conspired, fanned my latent annihilation anxiety, the nuclear alert in Hawaii a big part of it. But there was also The Crown.

BIG SPOILER ALERT!! If you haven't seen this docu-drama about the Queen of England, try to find it one day. We're about to ruin an episode is in the second season, the one where Charles goes to a physically taxing boarding school--Phillip's insistence, Elizabeth's objection. It was HIS school, Phillip's alma mater, thus the son must go. If you haven't seen this and think you might, then SKIP THE NEXT PARAGRAPH. You have been warned.

We flash back to Phillip as a child, away to this school. He hates it and is moody, oppositional and punished for that, not allowed to go home at semester break to see his beloved sister and her family. We're in Nazi Germany, pre-war. Since he isn't free to go home, his sister goes on holiday elsewhere, and we see her and her family on a small commuter or military airplane, not sure which, but there's terrible turbulence, and screaming, and it doesn't look good at all, and FD turns to me and says: Not the sort of thing we should see before a long trip, I suppose. And I think, Well, no, probably not. It ends badly for Phillip's sister, one of the only sympathetic people in his life.

So for about half a second I reconsider Hawaii, then recover my sanity. 

Young mothers and fathers feel this paralysis when they entertain the notion that something could happen to them, leaving their children orphans. They hold that baby, that child, and think: What will this helpless creature do without me? Good G-d, I have to stay alive!!

And it is true. We know, quite well, that it is horrible to lose a parent young, a nightmare. We need our parents, especially the really good ones who love and love and then love us some more. It is a universal nightmare, the idea that we will die, will leave our dependents because face it, nobody could possibly nurture them the way we do. The thought of abandoning children keeps parents on their toes. They say no to the third or fourth drink, and when the joint is passed and they're driving, decline that, too. Young parents, even older parents, are wary of danger, and when they travel, say extra prayers, some take out extra insurance. (Is there still flight insurance? I don't think so, but my mother did that).

Knowing that anxiety is a family thing, and that we are little sponges as children, that we absorb our parents' feelings, I think I always knew, at some level, that this would be a personal lifelong curse. It seemed likely that my annihilation fears, which have generalized to worrying about everyone close to me, FD, my brother and his family, extended family, certainly my children, would linger despite the irrationality. We're all going to die, are we not? It is an uncomfortable feeling, anxiety, so I've learned to talk myself down, naturally, and mastered a thousand other ways to reduce anxiety behaviorally, never took a Xanax in my life. Without all that work, my thinking, I would be that apple that falls close to the tree, my mother's daughter. For her anxiety, especially about us, my brother and I, never faltered until the day she died.

What are the statistics of dying in an airplane crash? I only looked this up on Google, not the psych databases, because I had to pack for a trip and didn't have time. And now that I'm home, sorry, I'm too busy studying other things. But once I really did look it up for a patient. I can't find the results of the literature review right now, sorry, but learned that the best treatment for a fear of flying is virtual reality therapy, or desensitization, VRT. Get one of those head sets and a professional to hold your hand, or use your other tried and true interventions, breathing, muscle contraction, Headspace. The odds of dying on a commercial flight are 1 in 11 million, by the way. So bet on the pilot.

You get older and it isn't so scary anymore, the idea of dying, not that you want to abandon your kids. Even if it isn't scary, however, it isn't what most of us want, not having finished what we've started, fulfilled our dreams. We have more work to do, even if we're almost at retirement age. Some of us can't even conceive of retirement. Some of us. (And can't afford it, probably).

So did I worry about dying on that airplane?

I don't think I did. The anticipatory anxiety was all I needed, which is why the paradox intervention, even if you see it coming, still works. If you fear flying, be sure to do your preventive worrying regularly. If you're already doing that, kick it up a notch. Worry harder.

We started this post with that clip from an email advertisement from Famous Shoes, This is not a drill. . . It is likely that the CEO of Famous knew of Tom Leher. Mr. Lehrer, a satirist, wrote some great lyrics about nuclear war (see the video below to the end).

One more thing. Mr. Trump? If you're listening? Or Kim Jung Un? What about a little detente, some good relationship therapy. I'll take your insurance. Donald, you might have to apologize for what happened in the Korean War, just a head's up.

Oh, and both of you need a visit to Hawaii. It is a must before you die.

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What Jewish Women Like to Do Most to Their Partners

I understand that nobody blogs anymore, and that Orthodox Jewish women, in particular, are disappearing from print word journalism. They're turning instead to Instagram. So this inspired me to get more personal, because although a picture may be worth a thousand words, at least if you're selling something, or know how to mark it up, stories can be told over and over again.

Jews bowling

Here's one.

FD and I are getting ready to go to the bowling alley at 9:00 in the morning on New Year's Day, January 1, 2018. Monday mornings are slow times for bowling, and neither of us are working, so it is a win-win. This being a holiday, some of the best bowlers will be there, showing off their power, their best form. It is pretty fabulous.

Now, I love FD and am not afraid of telling him this, although I think he likes it better when I say, "You look amazing throwing that bowling ball." Objectifying someone isn't always objectionable. It can depend upon the context and the way a person takes the other's words. It depends upon permission.

Since bowling is a very intimate thing, or can be, FD and I relish the time together, a time to communication directly, hold back on the usual reservations. If he looks at me and asks, "What could I have done better there?" then I have to be able to say, "Well, your aim was to the lane on the left, not even our ally." That's sarcasm, but he'll laugh. It won't be much fun at all if I can't criticize what he's doing. He's bowling against himself.

An advice-giver usually likes to know that the advice is welcome, it feels good. The irony is that therapists usually advise against advice-giving. People just want to vent, not be fixed, unless they ask for it.

And yet, some of us are thinking, If you want real intimacy, let him (it's usually a him) give you advice, and listen to it. You might tell him to wait until you're finished venting, that you'll give him a sign. Because it feels really good to the person giving the advice to be able to help, especially when someone appreciates advice. It's a delicate balance, but mostly he should put a sock in it, and then, at some point when she's ready, he might be asked for his opinion.

FD and I are no different in that regard except there is no "he", no "she". With bowling, the gloves come off. In other situations we'll work on letting the other vent, be tolerant of all kinds of mistakes, hold our tongues. We would never intentionally hurt the other's feelings, even try very hard to avoid accidentally hurting the other's feelings. Even in the bowling alley, where we welcome one another's advice, we'd would never say, "Your form is terrible!"

But we have no compunction saying, "Yeah, you totally blew that one. I think with that heavy a ball, if you bring it back as far as you do, you'll lose control. Your spin won't compensate."

In bowling the empathy comes in when we just miss. We feel automatically feel the other's pain. It hurts us to feel our partner hurting, because when you get gutters, at our age, it hurts.

I feel like the more we can criticize constructively, the greater the gain.

"I want you to honestly tell me what you think of the pie," he asks, a spoon in his hand.

My mouth has been watering since that smell from the oven wafted into the family room. I know it will be amazing, this spoonful, but he wants a more discriminating answer. I taste it and say, "The crust--perfect. The filling . . . Hmm, you have nutmeg in there?!" (It is chocolate).

"Yes," he says, an exultant, hopeful look on his face. "A very small pinch."

"It helps! I like it. Would I like it without it? Yes. But I love this. I think I prefer it with nutmeg. And you know, I'm not a nutmeg person. I always thought I hated nutmeg."

"A tiny pinch," he explains.

It is a win-win, my honest opinion about his pies.

Anyway, we're getting ready to go to the bowling alley, and I am a bit slow. I lie down for a minute and say to him:  "I'm so glad we took up this hobby. We've talked about it a thousand times, how silly it is, how we really don't have time, and yet, how we look forward to this one hour a week. It keeps us from going crazy. But if this were me and a girlfriend, if it wasn't with you, it wouldn't be as good."

"Sure it would," he immediately counters.

"Nope. And I'll tell you why. I wouldn't be as happy for a girlfriend who gets a strike, as I am when you get a strike. Something about seeing you get a strike makes us both so happy, which might be the same with a girlfriend but I doubt it. You would feel the same, bowling with other people."

"I guess," he concedes.

"Conversely, empathy plays into it, too.  I feel badly if you feel badly, which is why when we bowl badly we just joke about it, laugh it off, say it is just a practice game.

If you get a strike, I think several things add into me being happy for you. (1) The sex roles are reinforced, (2) I don't have to feel badly about winning, (3) you might even pay. And the opposite tickles me when your ball lands in the gutter.

But honestly, we're not even thinking about any of that, it's unconscious. We play because we just love the heck out of the game.

"Let's go, already," he nags.

I roll off the bed, put on my boots. This is a dirty winter's day in Chicago. "Don't you think it is amazing that we can give each other, want each other's advice? Seriously, what couple criticizes without somebody getting all weird and sensitive about it? Only bowling couples. I'm telling you. That back and forth in bowling is probably the most intimate thing in sports."

"Ha, ha," he replies. "You like that back and forth because you're a woman, and the objective of every woman, especially Jewish women, is to marry the man to change him."

"Let us not stereotype," I say. "It isn't becoming."  Then I think about all the times he's pushed me to be a better person, to get a PhD, to call someone who is lonely. And I push back more:

"And really. I mean, look who's talking."

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