Yesterday I was a guest on Tara Kennedy-Kline’s show, Parent Nation Radio! We discussed depression, how mental illness is still mostly hidden from society and raising kids while battling the disease. Here’s a link to the show. Let me know how I did!
Stop Pressuring Girls/Women About Their Bodies And Marriage Already!
October 31, 2014. Halloween. Sienna dressed as Snow White. Yellow skirt. Blue top. Red bow in her hair. A plastic jack o’lantern in her hand waiting to be filled with candy. She’s 2 1/2 years old. She still doesn’t quite get the trick or treating concept. But that’s ok. Mommy and Daddy are proud. So proud. Mommy missed trick or treating last year and she’s super excited. And then we knock on the door. The man opens. He’s 50-ish. Salt and pepper hair. Taller than me. He hands Sienna 3 mini Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. And then he says it:
“Don’t eat all of that tonight or you’re gonna get sick and fat and you’ll never get married.”
Excuse me? Seriously, excuse me???
My wife and eye exchange a glance of anger, surprise. I grit my teeth through a smile.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “She’s not eating any of it. That’s our job for now.”
My head swirls. My daughter, my little Snow White just experienced the first crush of societal pressure heaped on girls and women about body image and marriage. I’m just so thankful she didn’t have a clue as to the negative and destructive power behind this man’s words.
But I did. My wife did. And I wanted to throw this man against the wall and scream at him:
“How dare you???” YOU are what’s wrong with this world! YOU are the cause of eating disorders and depression, of mental illness and suicide!! YOU and people like you!! Do you work in advertising, perhaps? Film? Television?? Do you enjoy spreading this propaganda?? This societal sickness that steals female empowerment, wrecks self-esteem and replaces them with a desperate need to compare themselves bodily and matrimonially, to starve themselves to death, to sit in therapists’ offices bemoaning that they’re 30 and not yet married. WHAT THE EFF IS WRONG WITH YOU??? Here’s an idea…read something about female body image disorders. Jean-paul Sarte wrote that ‘words are loaded pistols’ and you just pointed one right at my beautiful little girl. HOW DARE YOU???”
Instead I made a joke and my wife laughed, but as we left his door for the next, anger bubbled in us and the joyful playfulness of Halloween felt tainted. Our innocent Snow White just experienced the evils of the world even if she didn’t realize it.
Does this little girl look like she needs to be worrying about body image and marriage
Sienna’s still too young to feel the backhanded sting of slings and arrows, still too young to study herself in the mirror, tearing herself to shreds because her 12-year-old waist is thicker than Mary’s or her belly’s too flabby so she needs to diet, diet, diet. Or she’s 28 and crying that no one will marry her because she’s too ugly, too fat despite her being positively gorgeous. Right now it’s just “green day” at school and she needs to wear a green shirt and bring in a green toy. Right now the world is an abundance of wonders.
“I want to touch the moon! I’m taking my flying carpet to China! Leaves are falling! Leaves are turning yellow!”
Leaves!
And that’s what it should be. That’s what it should be for everyone. This society has a deep-rooted, systemic sickness, a hatred towards girls and women with even an inch of extra meat on their bones, a brutal “tsk-tsk” for unmarried women. Society, thanks to unrealistic portrayals on magazine covers, in commercials, print ads, media of all forms, causes females to turn on and rip each other and themselves apart rather than band together as the beautiful people they are, and it causes men to objectify them. Sienna’s gonna face it. There’s nothing I can do to stop it except educate her as best I can, but what is one voice against the relentless, insidiousness media, the never necessary taunts in school, the comparisons, the scale, the mirror. How much can I do?
2 1/2 years old and already the pressure starts.
That’s why we need sites like A Mighty Girl. That’s why we need female superheroes. That’s why we need podcasts such as this one by City Dads Group in which Jeff Bogle of Out With The Kids and Mike Reynolds of Puzzling Posts discuss “the uphill climb our daughters still face in the 21st century and the role that we as dads can play in challenging the long-held beliefs and stereotypes that are foisted upon women and girls.” That’s why we need people like Christopher Persley’s column, Advice for my Daughter in which successful women provide advice for his 3-yr-old girl as well as the world at large.
I will educate my daughter as best as I can. I will raise her to avoid the societal pressure pitfalls that have led to my own battles with depression and anxiety (different pitfalls, of course). I will raise her to be strong, to fight back, to be herself and be proud of who she is. I will raise her to realize how ignorant a 50-ish man with salt and pepper hair can be.
Who’s with me?
Returning To the Scene of One of the Worst Moments of My Life (Sort of)
“Come to my apartment. It’s getting harder to meet in the city and you obviously hate phoners.”
But I hated the idea of going to her apartment more. Fear. Crushing anxiety. I’d feel them each time my therapist suggested we meet at her apartment. Why? It’s just an apartment, right? Not really. To me it’s a symbol. It’s a symbol of one of the worst moments of my life. My second nervous breakdown and my therapist’s home intricately link in my brain to form a site of horror and embarrassment, of uncontrollable stuttering, gasping for breath, sweating, shaking, and tears. So many tears.
And the craziest thing is that my therapist moved a few years after my breakdown, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still HER apartment. It’s still the idea of where I was at my weakest. It’s still a frozen, miserable moment.
But last week I did it. I went back. And it was scary. It was so damn scary.
As I sat in traffic my skin prickled from the memories of sitting in the car with my mom. 35 years old. Slumped and crying. The outside darkness matching my inner gloom. We were early. We waited. I don’t remember if my mom said anything. It doesn’t matter. This is one of the few times when I can recall the feeling of utter loneliness, helplessness, shame. 35 years old and I’m sitting there parked at the curb, my mom in the driver’s seat, a desperate last-minute meeting with my therapist looming. They would determine if I needed hospitalization. I knew I was bawling, but couldn’t understand why. All I comprehended was the oppressive humiliation.
The clocked hummed along and soon it was time. I stumbled to my therapist’s apartment building. Once inside I broke down. Wailing. Hyperventilating. Arms locked around my torso as if already in a strait jacket. How long did I wait in the lobby? How many people passed by trying not to stare? How did I get from the lobby to my therapist’s apartment? I have no idea.
I don’t remember much from the emergency session. I was far away, buried deep inside this shivering body. There was a consultation with my psychiatrist, I think. Discussions about hospitalization. Me screaming against such a thing. Someone calling my father. My abashment at my dad learning about my state, but an underlying anger at him as well, anger at everyone. I can’t remember exact words, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t know what to say. I’m pretty sure he said everything wrong that night. My therapist coaching him on how to talk to me, explaining things, I think.
I’M 35 YEARS OLD!!! I’M A FAILURE!!! MY TIME’S UP!!!
What did her apartment look like? Where did I sit? Where are the details???
Gone. All that’s left are tendrils of guilt and self-disgust and the apartment as the embodiment of it all. And that’s why I wouldn’t go back for a long time even though she’d moved. That’s why I wouldn’t go back until last week.
But I did. I finally did even though all of those awful memories returned. I sat there clutching a pillow to my chest, my legs wrapped around each other. Twisted. Tight. Anxious. My therapist has a small dog and I watched (him? her?) gnaw on a bone thinking it’s so easy for dogs. It’s so easy. My therapist showed me pictures from her life trying to break me out of my head, trying to show me she was a person, trying to kill the connection between her apartment and my breakdown.
We spoke a little. Not much. I mostly stared at the dog. She knew my fears of coming to her home. She worked with them. She worked around them. I did my best which wasn’t good enough. Or was it? Was just going there enough? Slicing through the thick web of panic and symbolization? I have to try to think it was for how else will I grow?
And so I’ll go back. I’ll conquer this fear. And one day maybe my skin won’t prickle; my chest won’t tighten; my breath won’t catch.
Maybe one day it’ll just be an apartment again.
Anti Same-Sex Weddings? Go To One Because It Might Change Your Persepective
Look at the above picture. Religious zealots call this an abomination. Some people consider this against their definition of marriage which states marriage consists strictly of union between a man and a woman. I call this love. I call this humanity. I call this happiness. I call this evolution (sorry Creationists).
Yesterday I had the privilege of attending my first same-sex wedding. I wasn’t nervous. I didn’t care who walked whom down the aisle. I didn’t care what the brides wore. I didn’t care if they called themselves “brides”. And why should I? We live in New York, one of the states that legally allows same-sex marriage, something that should, in my opinion, be legal throughout the nation.
But why can’t “they” just have civil unions? Isn’t that enough?
No. No, it isn’t because this is a free country and marriage should, in my opinion again, be about the love between two people and their willingness, their desire to spend the rest of their lives together just as my wife and I did 8 years ago. Anything else is exclusionary. It demeans people. It paints homosexuals as subhuman.
The wedding I attended was nothing short of beautiful and touching. The wedding theme was “Our Favorite Things” and the bridesmaids and held paper flower bouquets, each one personalized specifically for them. For example, one held an ingenious bouquet crafted out of Tom Petty lyrics. Placed around the room were wonderful black & white photos of the couple. Each attendee wore a button boasting their name and a short and personal humorous blurb – mine read, “I’ll be blogging about this tomorrow.” They sure know me.
The gorgeous program told of N & L’s story as well as how the wedding would proceed. It also included painstakingly punched out paper hearts made from NYC maps (NYC being one of the couple’s most favorite things) which we would throw instead of rice. We read that many of the items on the menu were provided or inspired by their favorite eateries and our mouths watered looking at the choices.
But first came the ceremony. First came two young women walking down the aisle, their arms wrapped within those of their parents’, and taking their places before a loving audience filled with family, friends, coworkers. They stood nervously before a judge and with humor and clear undying affection pledged themselves to each other. Tears flowed as family members read some of the couple’s favorite pieces. Laughs rang out when the judge, an old family friend of one of the women, pronounced them wife and wife but then had to take it back because he’d jumped the gun and forgot to let them read their own vows. Then he pronounced them wife and wife again and we in the audience clapped and cheered as N & L kissed.
What followed was like any other wedding. A cocktail hour. The wedding party entrance. The couple’s first dance. Speeches during which voices broke. Dancing to great 80s music. A brilliantly crafted wedding cake with NYC as its theme. A photo booth where you could take silly pictures. A sign-in book keepsake for well-wishers to express their joy to N & L. Booze galore. And then there were the special things. A real famed NYC Nuts 4 Nuts cart handing out roasted peanuts, cashews and almonds (if you’ve ever been to NYC, you probably know the sweet smell of these confections). Pizzas delivered by a favorite restaurant after dessert, after we’d all been stuffed to the gills by food provided by Dinosaur BBQ.
The specialty wedding cake baked by N’s coworker
So now that I’ve been to my first same-sex wedding, let me tell you the 3 differences between it and all of the heterosexual weddings I’ve attended including my own:
1) Two people of the same sex walked down the aisle.
2) Two people of the same sex said their vows.
3) Two people of the same sex were joined as partners for life in sickness and health.
That’s it. Why does that matter to anyone? Why does that matter more than love, joy, happiness, life? And why is it any of your business? Who gave anyone the right to define marriage between 2 people? If Sienna discovers she’s attracted to women I’ll be as proud to say I’m her father as I would be if she were attracted to men.
N & L are deeply in love. They’re happier than they’ve ever been. They’re off on their honeymoon.
Just like any heterosexuals who decide to take the marriage plunge.
Why I Want My Daughter To Curse
No. Not right now. She’s 2 1/2 years old, silly people! Right now I want to her to spout goofy things or get all serious like she did the other day when she said, “I love you, Daddy.” I’m not ready for her to go all Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy of George Carlin on me, though come to think of it it’d be pretty cool if Sienna started dissecting language the way the great Carlin did. No. I just don’t want her to become like me, a person so scared of being judged that he’s unable to say the four-letter words that comfortably fill the public lexicon.
I’m not ready for Sienna to have her mom’s sailor mouth, but eventually, when she’s a teen, I don’t want her to be afraid of speaking the language of her classmates (yes we’ll have the comedic swear jar) and once she reaches adulthood, I hope to be ready for her to speak such words in my presence as part of normal conversation because the reality is that cursing is ordinary and sometimes, often even, acts as a release for pent up stress.
I wish I had that release, but I’m terrified of what people will think of me if I curse – fear of judgment, just another aspect of suffering depression. I’ve been trying to figure out where this particular one comes from and I believe it’s from my father who in turn got it from his mother. My grandmother doesn’t curse at all and doesn’t believe either of her children, their spouses, any of her grandchildren or THEIR spouses use words like s–t or f–k…EVER. She lives in a perpetual dreamworld, a life of denial, because as far as I know, just about all of them curse. My sister dropped the F-bomb at least 4 times during a magazine interview about the prominent comedy club she runs and I can only imagine my grandmother’s face as those bombs exploded before her eyes. My late grandfather, teller of bawdy jokes, probably cursed, though never in front of my grandmother. My aunt, I’m not sure. My dad? I assume he did when he was younger in front of friends and while in the National Guard. I know he does at work sometimes. I heard him once when I temped at his office. But he seems uncomfortable with it, like my grandmother’s directly in his brain.
My dad never cursed in front of me when I was growing up and seemed terribly uneasy when my mom did. And I think I took that discomfort and internalized it to the point where I can’t curse in front of anyone…not even my wife. I think I feel that if I utter a f–king this or f–king that or call someone an a-hole, my dad will know and think less of me. To be honest I imagine everyone will think less of me. And that’s insane. It’s ludicrous. Why would anyone care? But just like with my anxiety it manifests physically, twisting my stomach, weighing on my chest, my veins feeling as if shot with cold radioactive dye. I even have trouble writing the words as you can see by my incessant use of hyphens.
I tried to change when I went to college. I went in there thinking that I’d start cussing like Al Swearington on Deadwood (ok, Deadwood wasn’t on yet, but you get my meaning). I wanted to create a new identity. I wanted to be normal. So I tried. Freshman year I said something about my roommate to my best friend, something like my roommate’s “getting off” on being a jerk and my best friend’s eyes widened to the point where I thought they’d burst.
“You’ve never said anything like that before!” he shouted. I know he was proud, but I took it as criticism – and I didn’t even really use a swear word! And that was it for me in college. I couldn’t curse after that. Freshman year became a pathetic war with hallmates trying to get me to utter obscenities.
I’ll never forget Chad, a tall, lanky, long-haired blonde fratboy who’d corner me daily.
“Say s–t,” he’d say, but I wouldn’t. “Come on. Just say it.”
And he’d laugh when I I couldn’t because at that point he’d win. They’d all win. I’d be cursing for them, not for me. And the pressure in my head built.
When alone, profanity swirls through my head and expletives spout from my mouth. If driving alone I’m not immune to deriding a bad driver with a “motherf–ker” or even give someone the middle finger. When I’m alone vulgarity comes easy, but my jaws clamp in front of others. “Friggin’” I’ll say. “Morons. Jerks. Idiots.” For the longest time I wouldn’t even say “hell” or “damn.”
18 years post-college and I’ve cried in front of my therapist about my inability to curse, tears streaming, face scrunched and reddened with embarrassment and anger.
“You’re safe here, she’ll say,” leaning towards me as twist myself into a pretzel. “Let go. Say f–k.”
I sputter like Fonzie trying to admit he’s wrong. “Fu…fu…fu…fu.” But that’s as far as I’ll get.
“I’ll leave the room,” she’ll say. “I won’t hear it. Just say it.”
And she’ll leave, the door clicking. I’ll sit there furious with myself, face blotchy, hands tightened into fists. The room dulled and quiet. Sometimes I’ll whisper it, sometimes not. It doesn’t matter. No one’s there to hear me so I’ve still failed. “F–k” and “s–t” and so many others remain missing from my daily speech.
I have, however, added some over the years. For some reason I can now say “hell” and “damn” and even “bastard” and “son of a bitch.” It took 30+ years for me to say those words out loud in front of people. I’m not sure if I say them in front of my dad. I KNOW I don’t say them in front of my grandmother. But I still feel so much internal pressure when it comes to swearing, like the world would stop, a collective gasp catching in everyone’s throats, fingers pointing, judging, always judging, if I dare utter the f-word in front of another person. And I don’t want that for Sienna. I never want that for her. The cycle that began with my grandmother, passed to my father and then to me seemingly by osmosis will end. I want my daughter to curse.
I look forward to having a swear jar and by the time Sienna’s old enough, I hope to be adding a few coins to it myself.