Shamefest 2010 - The Headliner

Warning: This posting contains candid and possibly painful observations about my family. It's the truth as I see it. You, any reading family members, may disagree. I love you all, and I'm happy to talk to any one of you about what I write, and why.

The headlining act at this year's Shamefest was my 84 year old grandmother.
Hedy Alma Willavene (Sue) Bennett Miller is a Living Legend of Shame, and while she has all-around talent, she specializes in Shameful emotions (and the suppression of said emotions.)  The really amazing thing is that Grammie (as we call her) had no clue she was headlining anything. She was the center of everyone's attention - which she loves, but denies - and she didn't even know it.

Grammie has been diagnosed with Dementia ("Alzheimer's-type" her doctor says) and has recently been moved, against her will, to an assisted living facility. Fiercely independent, Grammie cannot fathom that she is now living in a place where people she barely knows can walk into her "apartment" and check up on her. Some days she imagines she is in the hospital, others - it seems - a prison. She talks like she is going to be released for good behavior. She diabolically plans her escapes - calling doctors with lies of deaths in the family, or walking visitors to the door and trying to slip out. She has, thus far, cut off four "Wander Guards," bracelets that alert the staff if she tries to walk away. Whenever one of us visits, we surreptitiously search for scissors. (I scored a pair of thinning shears from her bedside table - but I had to stick them down my pants so she wouldn't see what I was doing. Danger!) Bottom line: the woman doesn't want to be there, and she is really, really REALLY angry about it.


Our family gathered on a Tuesday in her former apartment, with most of her furniture and collections of things, and talked about the estate sale we were preparing to have that weekend. The estate sale she did not know about, that she would forget about even if she knew. My mom works as a director at a Life Community - incorporating retirement homes, an assisted living unit, and what is euphemistically called "Memory Care." She is our family expert on all matters demented. As we discussed Grammie's current condition, everyone got emotional. Everyone felt bad for what we were doing. We knew how much these things that surrounded us meant to her, and we were trying to put a price on them. My mom summed it up when she said "Families of those with dementia have to say goodbye twice." And that's what we were really all there to do. To say goodbye to the Grammie that we knew, to the Grammie who would know us.

Part of that statement assumes that the Grammie we knew was a kinder, gentler, more perfect Grammie than the person we were now encountering. I imagine it is easy to romanticize who someone used to be, especially  when who they are becoming is so challenging. But, like all of us, Grammie is a complex person. And as the oldest living member of this family, she is our only known source of some serious family dysfunction. I'm sure it has passed down from unknown ancestors, like hazel eyes and long toes, but she is the source we can see.

I believe that someone at some point told Grammie her feelings were shameful. It's really very simple. Anger, sadness, frustration, even exuberant joy, all shameful. And the longer those feelings have been hidden, the more powerful they have become. And the more powerful they have become, the more they have turned into something to fear. It seems that Grammie believes her anger or her sadness could literally destroy her.  As a result, my entire family has one job - protect Grammie from her feelings.

I cannot begin to count the number of times I've been told "Don't upset Grammie," or "You can't do (or say) that, it will upset Grammie," or, on a couple of occasions "See what you did? You made Grammie cry." My entire family is participating in a conspiracy to keep Grammie from feeling anything at all - we are all terrified of her emotions, because she is terrified of them. The legacy? We all excel at hiding our own emotions, to the point that we are not even aware we are feeling them.When I was 12 years old, my sister and I stayed with my Grammie and Papa while my parents went on a trip to Scotland. One day, when they called to talk to us, I told them I missed them (of course!) and I started to cry. Grammie pulled me off the phone so fast, it made my head spin, and told me not to cry. Not to do that to my mother. The lesson I was taught? How you feel is not important, and your feelings are so disgusting they could harm people you love.

We've all paid our own prices for hiding how we feel, both in physical and mental health. I hesitate to speak for my family as a whole, but I see the results of holding so much inside. Depression, stomach ailments, even cancer, have all been linked to repressed emotions. The irony: now that Grammie is "losing her faculties" she is unleashing a tsunami of negative feelings. She may feel shame about them at her more cognizant moments, but for the most part, she is Shamelessly Enraged. She has 84 years to catch up on, and she is doing one hell of a job. The question now is how does this family cope with those feelings in all their power? What will we learn from her long-suppressed anger?

My hope is that all of us will learn to love her as she is, and love that part of her that no one else has ever allowed. Maybe, by doing so, we can all get better at loving ourselves, and move forward on this difficult journey with truth and compassion.

Hedy Alma Willavene Bennett, aged 5 (or so)

Shamefest 2010

I'm back! It's summer, as you know, and I guess you could say I've been on vacation. It's been a family vacation, of sorts, but we didn't bring back any t-shirts or snowglobes (and thank god, cause our overcrowded apartment couldn't handle one more tchotchke!) Where did we go?

Shamefest 2010, baby!

That's right, I've taken a little whirlwind tour of the world of Shame over the last month, and I feel damn glad to be home. I would have written, but Shame doesn't have any postcards. That's the funny thing about Shame - they don't want you talking about it to other people. They'd be happy if it was like you never visited!

But I made a pledge to myself and to you to talk about Shame in the hopes we can all feel its power a little less in our lives. So, I am here to report on what I saw. The nice thing about a vacation is that it generally gives you a lot of fodder for conversation.

My first dispatch concerns a conversation I had with the moms at my son's playgroup yesterday. And it dovetails perfectly into a dilemma I'm currently facing. We were talking about the choice to be a SAHM (that's Stay-at-Home-Mom) and how we feel about it. This group is just really getting started, and I am amazed at the candor and honesty I've found with my new friends. I'd gone to other mama/baby groups and immediately felt the competition between the moms for some elusive prize for being the best mom, or having the best kid. None of that here, thank you!


My friend, Jana (let's call her that) stated she knew she wasn't meant to be a SAHM. While she loves her daughter, loves that she gets to be with her, she hates being cast in the role she is in. Hates that she is not just staying at home to raise her daughter, but that she is also the de facto housekeeper, too. Hates that she feels like less of an interesting person because of it. Our conversation got interrupted but I found myself hungry to keep talking about this subject, partly because I feel that role constricting me right now, too, but in a different way.

My partner and I have become more clear recently about how uncomfortable we are with the roles we've taken on as parents and how they relate to each other. I throw myself into whatever I do headfirst, and becoming a SAHM has been no different. I cook, I clean, I take the kids on outings, I manage our household as best I can, I defer to the family breadwinner on matters financial (because who am I to ask questions.) I am playing the role of Donna Reed, except with a much less attractive wardrobe. He goes to work, comes home and plays with the kids, and takes out the garbage on Wednesdays. Not that he does nothing else around the house, but it's the feeling I'm after here.

He plays the role of Dad, the authoritarian, the guy with the answers. I seek his approval, I fear his disapproval. It has really been screwing with our relationship.

We should have known this a long time ago. Every time we go on vacation this dynamic changes, we get along better (except for Shamefest, that place sucks for relationships!) When he took an extended paternity leave earlier this year after our daughter was born, our relationship was renewed. Breaking out of our patterns - and our small living quarters - brings new life to us. It's like we become ourselves again, not these fabricated caricatures of parenthood. It feels great to know this. Even a date to walk around the neighborhood without the kids helps. The question is, how do we break these patterns in our day-to-day lives. Can we?

After going to bed last night confused by my automatic, unwarranted, and unwanted submissiveness I lay in the dark, awake, and asked for answers. Why couldn't I relax and let go of this role? I'm an actor, and I certainly don't take those roles on for the rest of my life.

I'm going to try to figure this out. No answers for myself or my readers today. But perhaps asking these questions and acknowledging there are no easy answers is the first step towards redefining what it means for these two non-traditional people to be in a traditional relationship.

It's good to be back. More reporting from Shamefest 2010 coming soon!

Denial Is In the Details

The women in my family are obsessed with cleanliness. Their homes always seem spotless with everything in its place. No dishes left on the counter, no spots on the furniture or the floors, no animal hair waiting to attach itself to your pants. Everything appears to be under control.

My home has never been like this, and is even less like this now that I have two small children. According to what appears to be the family standard, I generally live in filth. And I'm not saying someone needs to call Child Protective Services or anything. I just tend to let a lot of things go that others in my family wouldn't dream of releasing.

I'm not free of the obsession, though. I'm hyper-aware of this state of things, and often when I am feeling out of control about some other aspect of my life, I obsessively clean. And it isn't pretty to behold. My partner is greatly disturbed by my manic cleaning. He knows it is a warning sign of some other emotional upset that I am not dealing with in the moment. For me, Denial leads to Detailing. The worst moments of this were immediately following the birth of our daughter 4 1/2 months ago. I was supposed to be recovering from birth, nesting with my new family, but every day around 5 pm I would go berserk. I would hop out of bed and start randomly roaming the house, picking up everything in sight. He would stop me. I would flip out. I had to clean or die! People were coming by to see the baby, and they were going to see that I was a failure already as a mother of two, unable to handle the normal functions of a "homemaker."

I've had many conversations with him - and myself - about just what the expectations are for a Stay-at-Home-Mom. Finding myself in this very traditional role has been extremely confusing. On the one hand, I am so grateful that I can care for my children myself. I cannot personally imagine working full time, not being their primary caretaker. But, on the other hand, I feel guilt that their father has to go out into the world and make enough money for all of us, when he would prefer to be home and working on his very promising writing career.

Add in another hand, and I'll tell you about the shame and dread I feel when I tell a woman of my mother's generation (the founders of Feminism) that I have chosen to stay at home, to be what they called a housewife.  The ones who know me well think I'm wasting my talent/intelligence/education - this appears to be my mother's view. The ones who've just met me assume I don't have the above-mentioned talent/intelligence/education. I don't know which is worse.

Which brings me back to cleanliness. Upon reflection, I think my refusal to keep things clean may be an insistence that "I'm not one of those stay at home mothers. I'm free to live any way I see fit, even under this towering mountain of laundry." But I think all that becomes is Shame masquerading as Defiance. And, as the ants partying in my kitchen can tell you, it has not been serving me.

So, over the past week or so, as I've been actively letting go of the various flavors of my shame, I've decided to become better at this. Better at keeping house, less ashamed of a possible genetic mutation that makes me a wee bit obsessive about it.  And, while it's not House Beautiful (yet,) there is an order and baseline neatness around here that is allowing me the mental clarity to do other things - like writing a soon-to-be-award-winning blog.

If you're looking for some advice on cleaning, these sites were a good jumping-off point for me:

http://www.mothering.com/discussions/forumdisplay.php?f=311
http://www.flylady.net/pages/begin_babysteps.asp
http://www.realsimple.com/home-organizing/cleaning/daily-cleaning-checklist-00000000000953/index.html#password_action=confirm
 

Finally Shameless After All These Years (sort of)

I'm thinking quite a bit about "Just remember to take care of yourself" this week.

Most days that means remembering to eat enough. A couple times a month, lately, it's deciding to go out for a Mommy-only activity. Once or twice a year it means I get a massage. But, on a technicality, that doesn't count as taking care of myself. Someone else almost always insists on it. Mommy Martyrdom strikes again.

What did "take care of yourself" used to mean? Regular haircuts, buying new makeup, facials, massages, shaving my legs, sleep, sleep and more sleep. Most of this has gone completely out the window now that I'm a mom. Part of it is just not having the time anymore to make grooming a priority. Part of it is having a partner who sees the make-up and hair and all the rest as an armor I used to wear, a mask that kept him from truly seeing Me.

Most of the time I'm ok with the crunchy natural girl I've become. I can shave my legs a couple times a month for that special night out. I wear my hair long so I don't have to worry about haircuts quite so much, and it's often easier to just let it dry and put it in braids or a ponytail. And I'm finally starting to realize that I look a lot better without makeup, after years of hiding my so-called imperfections behind a layer of foundation.

Most of the time I've been ok with it. This week has not been one of those times. Tonight I am coming face to face with my past masked self in the form of an event for my 20 year high school reunion. I've kind of lost my mind about the whole thing, too. I slept all night with stinky henna in my hair to cover up the abundant gray. I've been wondering if I'll have enough time to shower, shave, pluck, make up and find just the right thing to wear. I have even considered leaving my glasses at home, all in the name of vanity. And fear.

And shame.
What?! I'm striving for Shameless Imperfection here, aren't I?
So, fuck it.  I'm 38, not 18, and there's no reason to be ashamed of anything that has changed (inside or out) in twenty years. Here I come Class of 1990. My hair won't be as high, but my sense of self-worth will be through the roof!

1990 in all my school spirit glory.

                                                           2010 in wisdom and love.

Yep, Motherhood is Effin Hard!

Have you seen Sex and the City 2 yet?
What a horrible way to start my very first blog posting...oh well, I said I'd live shamelessly, and that's what I'm gonna do!

So, seriously, have you seen it? More specifically have you seen the motherhood scene? If you have, you know the scene I'm talking about. The scene where Miranda and Charlotte sit down over a couple of double cosmos (I assume) and talk with gut-wrenching honesty about how hard it is to be a mother.

I cried through the entire scene - big, wet, messy tears with snot coming out of my nose. "Finally!" I thought, "Finally someone is saying it! And in a mainstream movie that a lot of women will go see, no less! Yay!" Miranda and Charlotte, with much help from some Grey Goose vodka (ok, I don't know that part, but that's what I would have if I wasn't breastfeeding) say right out loud that, no matter how much you love your kids, sometimes being a mother really, really REALLY sucks!
Sometimes you even - gasp! - hate it.

Why is it no one prepares us for this? What if, at every baby shower, there came a point when all the shades were drawn, the childless were ushered from the room, a few black candles were lit, and the pregnant guest of honor was initiated into The Truth of Motherhood? There you sit with your mother, grandmother, aunts, cousins, and friends and they all, one-by-one, tell you their war stories, their moments of chaos, their ugly and shameful secrets. Now that's a useful baby shower activity!

But that doesn't happen. You might have that one family friend - you know the one - who winks and says "Well, good luck!" Or the cousin who tells you how horrible natural childbirth was for her, but tells you nothing about what happens A.B. (After Baby, afterbirth is something different.) Or someone, a distant aunt maybe, tells you in the only acceptable code we have: "Just remember to take care of yourself first." And you sit there in your blissed-out hormone cocktail of pregnancy and think "Take care of myself? They have to tell me that? How hard can that be?"

Let me tell ya - pretty effin' hard! And no one wants to admit it. Mothers want to seem like they have it all together. If you, as a mother, ask a new mother how it's going, chances are she will say "Good!" without even thinking about it. From prenatal yoga class to library storyhour to mom and baby playgroups to online forums, we all seem out to prove that we are Good Moms. No, not good enough, we want to be Perfect Mothers. And I've had enough of it. So I am here to declare "I am a Shamelessly Imperfect Mother!" I'm done apologizing and I'm done competing for the Perfect Mother tiara. My two year old son would probably wear it in the bathtub and ruin it anyway.