Tag Archives: Advocacy of the Self

Mar11

Struggling with #Writing. Struggling, Period.

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I have had a hard time of late writing my memoir, about all of this: unearthing. Despite some of it being a totally fun ride, a lot of it is heavy stuff.

A book about healing ancestral trauma recently came out this week which both delighted me and sent me into a vortex.

It delighted me because it affirms what I’ve been feeling in my bones and also reading, discussing with my therapist and friends and learning about in recent years. It’s that we all are part of a web, no matter how far we are out on the line, whether we are poor or rich, tall or short, pasty white or bronze toned, male or female: that we are affected by stuff that happened hundreds of years ago; stuff that is unresolved, unattended and still festering in our genes. Don’t believe me? That’s ok. You keep doing you.

None of these past hurts and wounds are our fault, but once we learn about the patterns in the web, we are confronted: stay there and let the spider (past wounds that aren’t even ours) consume us or stare at the spider on its approach and wriggle ourselves free.

I have chosen to wriggle myself free. I’ve been wriggling myself free since before I even knew there was a web. I have always been ready to stand and resist.

I have not read the book that was recently released and I have no doubt it’s brilliant because its author is a psychologist I do not know yet I hold in high esteem. She is vulnerable and real. She puts herself out there and I sit with sincere admiration for not only her work but also her Work and the effort of writing a book, which is NO simple task. Writing a book requires either thick skin or complete arrogance because you are putting yourself out there — no matter what the genre is, you are literally saying “these are the words I’ve strung together to compose these sentences to complete these thoughts and I’ve done it consistently to the tune of about 300 pages and if you think they’re brilliant or if you think they are dull, it doesn’t matter: I can’t unring this bell.”

That is guts. It’s a similar energy required of actors, singers, dancers, artists and anyone (apparently other than politicians) who aims to express themselves through a certain medium.

The vortex that I recently crawled out of however, has taken some Work and some standing back and looking at my situation objectively after my pity pouty (and that’s not a typo, I actually pouted, and not in a sexy way). It hinges on the fact that yet another book has been released about transgenerational trauma and it’s a memoir which of course meant that I should not be writing mine. In came the judgment: you suck Who needs another memoir you suck about dysfunctional families, unconscious habits and how you still suck even though that unconscious habits thing might have traction one person has worked to end the cycle? I mean, c’mon, right? It’s just one you suck more person saying mean things about its family, cry baby, you suck its relatives, you suck the neighbors it had and how everyone was against this person? Right?

Well, no. I remembered that a good memoir, one that engages and informs and delights and entertains has a balance of justice, humor, reality, and truth. A good memoir isn’t like tragedy porn, where the writer goes on and on about his or her exploits or the beatings or the drunken nights, or the arrests or the blackouts or the one-night stands, DUIs or even the days at the park with the nanny and butler or sunsets spent sailing after a day of horseback riding with the polo team whilst eating crumpets and sipping a cuppa tea. No.

It’s a mix. Just like life is a mix. And it doesn’t have to include every freaking detail: I woke at 6:52, the brown velvet curtains were drawn but I could see the sliver of light…. I was wearing my Snoopy pjs, the ones with the hole in the shoulder seam, not the ones without the hole as they were in the hamper, with my GAP hoodie, the socks I wore to Alexandra’s fire pit when Sam was there with his new girl. It was 6:53.

The only way to make that interesting: it was 6:53pm

I can include highlights and lowlights. I can include my screwups and my parents’ moments of cogent brilliance. I can include stories about my dog and cats and how the house was broken into and when my dad or mom said really stupid or creepy things. Or when my dad took us sailing and never relaxed the entire time. My dad: Captain Ahab of Buffalo Harbor. It’s all of it. It’s life. The reality though, is that I’m doing it to get some things off my chest, to share with people that ultimately while we aren’t responsible for the stuff that happens to us when we’re younger, at some point the statute of limitations applies when constantly blaming our upbringing.

So it took almost an entire session today with my therapist to get me to turn this bus around and reframe the whole thing. She said, “Well, you could just stop and give up on it; if it’s causing you that much stress. Don’t finish it.” She’s such a minx. I said, “Nope. I see now, better, that what I’m doing is an act of generosity and kindness to entertain and help people heal and maybe feel strong enough to get on the couch or share their stories because that’s how we help each other from the web.” Crawling out and seeing the sun included that I read a text from a family friend who’s LITERALLY got my back. This person came out of the woodwork to offer professional expertise gratis and if that ain’t a sign of go! go! go!, I honestly don’t know what is.

Plus, I think this psychologist who released her book would be right there telling me to run and get writing. This is a big enough world. Everyone deserves a chance to sing their song.

So: I’m back, peeps!

Thank you.

Feb28

So I’ve Figured out This Much… #writing

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So I’ve Figured out This Much… #writing

The vertigo has been helpful, or at least it has pushed me into the direction I mean to head. I have been taking prednisone for it. On Tuesday (three days ago) I got an 80mg shot of it in my ass. From my understanding, that’s a strong dose. My doctor said, as she was seated on one of those round leatherette-upholstered low stools that roll around the linoleum while glancing between me and her computer, “Hmm. Should we just go for it and give you the 80? That would likely do the job… we may as well while we are here…” and she ordered it.

I don’t claim to know the difference between 2mg of prednisone and 100mg of it*.

*“Of it.” That was such a Doug Turnerism. He would say “of it” at the end of sentences… after the sentence had paused, even and we were ready to move on. And he’d just say “of it.” Like an old man. And I guess it’s because he was an old man… but it was like this all-encompassing tie off, so to speak, of what he was expressing… so that I suppose, to him … maybe it was a complete thought? That none of us would wonder if he were done? Or if he’d heard himself? Hard to say. Of it.

Anyway, the prednisone has kept me awake longer — and when I say “awake” I mean staring-at-the-ceiling-maybe-I-should-just-go-do-some-laundry-or-walk-the-dogs-in-the-cold-dark-night-alone-or-join-a-neighborhood-watch-patrol-do-they-even-have-those-anymore-maybe-we-should-get-a-ring-doorbell-but-that’s-an-Amazon-thing-no-better-not-do-that-but-what-will-help-us-stay-safe awake… in other words awake and stupid.

But I was also awake and aware enough to shift gears from thinking about letting Jeff Bezos have any more of my money for things than I’m comfortable with to figure out what to do about my writing at least for now and whereas Miriam, (a reference to my first book) is concerned.

I’m going to keep that manuscript and keep writing for the Unpulled Pin (fiction based on real shit) to flesh that out and because it’s so helpful to me emotionally, and it’s sort of essential to set the framework of her origin story. Then I’d launch into Miriam with a new beginning basically being me:

Miriam wanted to be a writer; and she was good at it, plus there was no getting away from it: it was in her blood for many generations and she sees it in her own children as well. She also wanted to be a good person. She also grew up with some really weird shit going on in her home. While some of it resembled Running with Scissors and it wasn’t as thoroughly dark as August: Osage County, it was haunting like Long Day’s Journey Into Night it was true that it ended ok, because Here She Was.

She knew her story was good enough to fill some pages, especially because she was healthier now, after, during and because of her therapy, yoga and having a family of her own, but she also knew that “tell alls” are for presidents and their lovers.

But this wasn’t going to be a “tell all” — she’s not out for blood anymore; that ship has sailed, but Miriam knew her story was interesting enough to share and be helpful for people who thought they were alone: upper middle class, adult children of well-educated, connected and upwardly mobile alcoholics.

So Miriam was at a crossroads: she could write her book about her story, but she’d have to tell the truth and to her, that “truth” part was at odds with being a good person. People who loved her parents didn’t really KNOW her parents, and while her parents were pretty fucked up people, they also deserved some dignity. But then she recalled what Anne Lamott said in Bird by Bird,

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

Sounds good.

So there’s that. It’s going to be a story about a story. Funny, now that I reflect on the last few days — I’ve been humming “Paperback Writer” to myself, especially the lines “It’s based on a novel by a man named Lear, and I need a job so I want to be a paperback writer…” What I’m doing is a story about a writer who wants to write a book. Pretty meta.

So I have determined that I will channel Miriam with me as my muse and maybe sass it up a bit from time to time to make things seem super outrageous so that people won’t know up from down? I’m not going to sweat the details right now — that’s a way to keep from writing. I’m just going to get going.

In the meantime, Mary Oliver beckons:

Later!

Jun2

Mindfulness can be Confusing and Political Correctness Fatigue

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The thing is … Life is not perfect nor predictable and that’s the only predictable part of it.

That clichés are often true doesn’t help.

Alert: Stream of consciousness commences … now. 

I’m starting a Mindfulness course tomorrow.

Gosh, just that sentence makes me laugh. There is no easy way to “be” in the moment. “Being in the moment” means there is no moment to be in as it’s always fleeting. If we say to someone, “be in the moment” — to her, or him, or whatever pronoun is least offensive (more on that later), that moment could be really shitty. So saying “it’s [that shitty moment] over” isn’t really true because we are not the person who experienced it, even though we know the quickest way to recover from that shitty moment is to realize it’s over, but for the person who experienced it: it keeps coming back, looping.

That looping, however, is totally addictive and most people like it because the brain doesn’t really know the difference between pleasure and pain — it just knows how to dump chemicals which are responses to stimuli. So more and more adrenals pump and we are on heightened states of alert and that alertness makes us feel important.

To someone…

“Be in the moment” is bullshit. But it’s also the Zen riddle, isn’t it?

Next … I am calling in sick due to political correctness fatigue (PCF — it’s a thing).

I wanted to say to someone today, because we’ve had an abbreviated week with Monday off for most of Americans, “The good part about thinking Tuesday is actually Monday is that Friday comes much sooner.” Thoughts like that happen often and I like to think are very Winnie-the-Pooh of me.

But I decided against saying that, or anything at all about it because I’d quickly be chastened to remember “Some people still had to work on Monday… and we should be grateful to them, so there is no such thing as thinking ‘Tuesday is actually Monday‘… there is no sooner Friday for those people…” the implicit next thought I’d infer from that astute person is that I should go fuck myself because I’m an insensitive jerk for assuming all Americans got Monday off.

I’ve recently received an email from a person I respect. Sort of. Well, I mean, I do respect this person because this person is a human being and deserves respect, but now I’m feeling all silly about it because this person has at the end of its email a signature (I shit you not):

3rd Person Pronouns: they/their/them

Item of note, this person’s name is the Spanish feminine for “the.” Knowing what I do of languages and of culture (limited but with aspirations of growth), I TRULY and SINCERELY wonder if a more appropriate PC name, and one in keeping with the English use of pronouns (so it’s already exclusive of all cultures seeing as how it’s English and all English are bad, just ask the Amish): “they/their/them” would one be lacking in any culture and would simply be Prince’s adopted glyph for his name:

Screen Shot 2016-06-02 at 9.42.02 AM

But because that’s clearly already taken, we could make a new one like this (it’s just a prototype):

New Book 15 - 1

But even here, I’m constrained by the eventual truth that I will have left someone out. That I’m being exclusive. That I’m not truly open-minded. That it shouldn’t be mostly pink. Well, what you call pink, I call magenta (which has a lot of blue in it). See?

I hope I’ve covered everything though. That heart-like looking thing is supposed to be a heart, for love, but also for the actual heart in all artichokes, but then I didn’t want it to be unclear that I wasn’t including gamblers, so I drew a “club” in it, which of course could be exclusive because clubs are exclusive by nature, right? I mean the clubs one joins, not the ones dealt in a game of poker (or any card game! I mean to include all!) or the ones used by cavemen or golfers.

I was inclusive to all agronomists, grassists, turfists, sportos, Biarritzists, and potheads over to the right with that patch of grass (it looks like grass, but you can call it whatever you want, ’cause free world right?).

The far right is the tail of the Ichthus, which is that fish glyph one might observe on the tailgate of a car driven by a person who follows Christ — not in traffic, follows (however, you never can be sure), but you know, a person of faith.

Moving on.

The sun-like looking icon is a splattered egg. You are wrong for thinking it was to include helophiles. You are a fool. I shun you. Eggs aren’t just for breakfast.

That thing that looks like an “I” is for egoists and narcissists. And for people who like architecture because it resembles a column. It’s also a letter, so writers (POETS, TOO!) are included.

On the upper part, we have something that looks like waves in the water. That’s for hydrists. I made up the word.

Those who are stoned, or whatever, can find representation in the far lower left area — the scattering of dots, which can be interpreted as atoms, the insides of a capsule of Oxy, or dust motes in the winter coming through the southernmost window in a dilapidated abandoned crackhouse — OR — just places where I left my stylus too long.

The swirl-like item near the narcissist’s mark is a swirl. It’s for ice cream lovers. But only soft serve. The hand-packed ice-creamists will simply have to fend for themselves. Or it’s for recovering addicts because life feels swirly for them… but not just them, it feels swirly for all of us. So it’s for ice-cream, toilets, and addicts everyone.

That thing to the left of the hydrist’s glyph is a surfboard. Everyone has to catch some tasty waves.

And to the left of that is not a tree. It’s an atom bomb exploding. Look, where is the love for our nuclear engineers?!

Is that sort of a yin/yang thing going on center left? You tell me. I’d like to think so, but I’m open to whatever you think feel.

Those two dark “round-shaped” images near the yin/yang (“ish”) thing are supposed to represent Newton’s cradle. Just in case some of you refuse to accept the tree thing is NOT an atomic bomb. Or instead of being Newton’s cradle, it could be a smirk. RIGHT?!

There’s a paw-like looking thing. That’s where my cat stepped. But I do eat meat, so there’s that too.

That star-like part in the near-center (or maybe too far left for some of you) is from the early beginnings of this drawing. I can’t remember. But let’s make something up right now: it’s the “less than” sign. For all of us in our moments of inadequacy and self-doubt.

I think the reason why most of the world has a headache is because we are lost; lost from trying to do all things and follow all people and be nice to everyone and give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and let everyone have a 50th chance and wait and see and #hashtag.

We all have our sense of right and wrong and count on it: they will clash with others’. I say we own our shortcomings, notice the shortcomings of others without really getting overworked about it and move on and do what works best for us.

Here’s me: if we’re worrying about being nice to everyone, we’ve lost our boundaries and when we lose our boundaries we become codependent and when we become codependent, we lose resilience and then it’s a free-for-all and everyone gets to be included and excluded.

That’s… sort of life. Tell me when you are constantly feeling included.

It’s a sad state of affairs when we worry more about offending others than we do our own sense of self and what works for ourselves.

What I’m saying is NOT about excluding others; it’s the opposite: it’s the taking into consideration that you’re definitely always going to be pissing off someone else at any turn, and to learn to be OK with it.

ANNNNNND for the people who are constantly working to look for ways to be excluded and to be offended: to get over yourselves. Person up. I won’t say “man up” because that’s mean. That’s gender specific, and being gender specific is limiting and so now I risk being seen as acerbic and mean and exclusive and horrible and WRONG even though we all know what the hell I mean.

I mean this: grow up.  Stop taking emotional selfies. Stop sharing. Stop. Draw a boundary and discern.

You’re going to let so many people in traffic ahead of you you’re going to be late. You won’t ever get there.

Polarity is a real thing. Accept it. Get used to it. Without it, our compasses (not metaphorical — yet) wouldn’t work.

I need a nap.

Thank you.

 

Jan14

Because You Can’t Make this Shit Up. #Customer #Service #humor #insurance

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I went to my gynecologist for her annual spelunking appointment and she wrote me a new prescription today to help with (men, you can come back in a paragraph if you want) my hormone-induced perimenopausal symptoms such as hot flashes, bloating which mimics the USS Dallas (as seen in “Hunt for the Red October”) spontaneous melodrama, night sweats, in-the-basement reason forgetfulness, brain fog, insomnia, inability to make sandwiches, and laundry neglect (that last one’s a gimme).

The medication is relatively new, so I’m relatively freaked out about it. There isn’t too much data on it. It’s a super low-dosage cousin of some rather storied and potent shit out there, so I’m not sure I’m dedicated to the cause yet. I mean, what’s (sorry men, I lied, come back in another paragraph) wrong with some really heavy cramps, ennui, intense bleeding, possible anemia (isn’t the harpie look in this year?), totally inconsistent period arrival and the occasional urge for solace by digging a hole to China under a crescent moon with my bite guard?

Other than Flonase and antibiotics for the occasional lapse of taking my Flonase, I don’t take many prescriptions. I like to go the herbal route. The supplement route. The what-the-fuck-is-in-this?, but-at-least-it’s-not-linked-to-inducing-suicidal-thoughts route. It might not always be efficacious, but I also believe in the placebo effect.

So today, because of this new script, I called my insurance company to learn the ropes about costs and copays and deductibles. Before I got too deep into the details, my very helpful Aetna rep told me I needed to call CVS / CareMark whose wizards would know the answers to all my prescription-based questions.

This is how that call went…

CareMark: Thank you for calling CareMark, may I have the member ID?

Me: Hi, this is Molly Field. I’m calling to find out cost and copay details for a new prescription. The ID number is  1234567.

CareMark: Who do you work for? >slurp<

Me: Uh, myself. My kids. I don’t have a job that provides insurance. I’m a … yoga teacher…?

CareMark:  Are you Daniel?

Me: No. I’m me. I’m his —

CareMark: Why are you calling about Daniel? Are you calling on his behalf?

Me: No. I’m calling on my behalf. My name —

CareMark: Why do I have Daniel’s information then? >clichslurk<

Me: You asked me for the account number.

CareMark: Who is this?

Me: I’m his wife. He’s my husband. I’m calling on my own behalf for me about … me.

CareMark: What is your name and date of birth?

Me: (relieved: now we are getting somewhere.) My name is Molly Field my date of birth is ___ ___ 1829.

CareMark: Ok. Why are you calling? >slurk<

Me: sigh. To get cost information on our policy and how much a new prescription will cost… When I dropped it —

CareMark: What is your account number?

Me: I just gave it to you and it seemed to confuse —

CareMark: Account number please. >skicch< I can’t look up anything without that… Do I have your consent…

Me: Yes. You have my consent. The account number will give you … it’s 1234567.

CareMark: Am I speaking to the spouse?

Me: Yes. On my own behalf about medication prescribed for me.

CareMark: How may I assist you?

Me: Ok. I’d like to know cost and copay information about a medication called STOPSHITTYSYMPTOMS.

CareMark: That’s the 7.5mg dosage, correct? >skicch.<

Me: (after memorizing the promotional crate it came home in, complete with two obscured magnets to keep it closed, what the what is this? a Michael Kors bag?? Now I know where the money is being spent by this pharma) Yes, 7.5.

CareMark: A 90-daysupplyis$97. Untilyoumeetyourdeductible. >skich.<

Me: What is the deductible?

CareMark: Thereareseveraldeductiblelevelsonyourplan. >slurp.< Oneis25anotheris35andthefamilyis65. Per year. >clitch<

Me: (what the fuck is that sound?) Ok. So what’s the copay?

CareMark: What are you talking about? What copay?  >shlink<

Me: (irked and confused and super curious about what’s in her mouth) Ok. You just said … if I’m following you, why would I pay the full $97 for the 90-day supply seeing as how I’d met at least one of the deductibles you mentioned? I mean, even at the 65, I’d only need to pay, what… $32 and so then, what would the copay be after that?

CareMark: You >sklurk< wouldn’t have met the deductible.

Me: But you said the deductible was three levels. You said “25 and 35 and 65.” Those are the figures you gave me. So if I pay $97 for a 90-day supply, I would have already met the deductible. Yes?

CareMark: >slurp< No. Nowhere near the deductible.

Me: (slamming face with desk, wondering about the need for this medication when all I think we need to do is rid ourselves of idiots at call centers) But … that’s close to $400. A three-refill 90-day script, which is what I was given, will cost … $388, way beyond the deductible you quoted me. You just said, “25, 35 and 65 are the deductible levels…”

CareMark: (audible groan) >querlk< HUNDRED. TWENTY FIVE HUNDRED, THIRTY FIVE HUNDRED. SIXTY FIVE HUNDRED.  (you freaking idiot.) That’s your deDUCTible levels.

Me: (oh hell NO you didn’t…) HUNDRED?! As in Twenty-five hundred dollars for a deductible? Is THAT what you meant? (CareMark Mistress of the Dark is >sklerking< in the background…)

You said “twenty-five, thirty-five and sixty-five” and didn’t say “hundred” after any of those figures. So naturally, I thought you were talking about an entirely different denomination… >pausing to listen< Um, (with obvious bitter disgust) are you eating something? Because I can’t unders–

CareMark: >pause< No. I am not eating any — I am SUCKING on a COUGH DROP. I am SICK today. >SLERK SKECK CRUNCH<

Me: >pause.< Oh. I ask if you’re eating something because I’m having a hard time understanding you. You aren’t speaking clearly. And, that you left out of that deductible information by a factor of one-hundred.

So, then, yes, doing the math that I understand now, I would not meet the deductible. That’s fine. It is what it is.

Now, since CareMark has been our prescription program provider for several years, can you tell me what my family’s history was last year on what we paid for prescriptions so I can get a sense of whether or not we even came close to meeting those deductibles? You know, so I can get a ballpark on —

CareMark Viper from Hell: You want a WHAT? >sklerk< From WHEN?

Me: (fuck you; you work for me) I’d like to know if you can provide me with a … report, yes, a report of what we paid last year for prescriptions so that I can understand how that shaped up… I know some systems won’t give access to data so maybe you need to transfer me (please o please o please transfer me…), but I’m just looking for a snapshot, if you will, of how much we paid —

CareMark succubus: I don’t know what YOU’RE talking >slurk< about, but I can give >sklech< a COST REPORT (you moron) of your prescriptions from last year. I can send it to you …

Me: (incredulous) Mmmmmm Nnnnnooooo. That won’t be necessary; you don’t need to print it out and mail it to me, I’m just looking for a quick-and-dirty here (still trying to be niccccce….) so that I can .. can you just look at it and tell me?

(envisioning bats pipping and fluttering about her head; her face slack, with green from the reflecting the screen) Is there a screen you can click on? Do you have that (carefully choosing my words) ca-pa-bil-i-ty on your sys-tem that will show you that his-tor-ic in-for-ma-tion so you can just tell me the cost report from reading it on your screen? (SMILING a TOOTHY GRIN but with narrowed eyes.) 

CareMark demon: (likely hunched over one of those ancient monolithic IBM 8600 desktop computers we used to call “machines” back in the 90s) You didn’t meet it. >slerk< You didn’t reach your deductible last year.

Me: (oddly proud that we didn’t need that insurance but pissed we paid for coverage for it) Oh. Did we come close? I mean, would have this addition of this STOPSHITTYSYMPTOMS last year, hypothetically of course, would it achieved the deductible? (at this point, i’m not sure of why i’m asking about any of this; something about this woman made me want to pick at her though…)

CareMark: No. >sklerrrrk<

Me: Ok. Well, that’s that. (sincerely) Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.

CLICK.

Me: hello?

She hung up on me. Not a “Thank you for calling CareMark and giving me a job to do and keeping my wages coming in…” or “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” or, I don’t know, “Good bye.”

I think she needs the medicine more than I do.

So then I called Aetna and told them what happened to me. They took a full report.

You’re allowed to be sick. You’re allowed to sklerk on a lozenge. But you’re not allowed to be viperous. You’re just not.

Here’s the final thing: I’m a big girl, I’m healthy, I’m happy and living a very wonderful and stable life. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this puff adder would somehow meet up on that phone line with someone who’s really in need. Maybe a mother of an infant with a blood infection; a father who’s son is in rehab, y’know: PEOPLE. I was concerned that she would affect a person who’s rattled, whose spouse just had a stroke, or who needs to know about his or her new health plan and that this agent would treat that rattled spouse or parent or patient so horribly that the day would be ruined. 

Truth be told, I thought of my father, who’s 84 now, and if he needed to call CareMark to ask about his prescription benefits. I thought about my mother-in-law, who’s 29, and considered her situation with that agent and I decided I couldn’t let it go. 

So I called CareMark later on and spoke with management. The manager I spoke with was mortified by Elvira’s behavior and grateful that I called back. 

CareMark redeemed itself to me on that second phone call. It turns out it’s not a “deductible,” it’s a Maximum Allowable Benefit (MAB), which is the exact opposite of a deductible. A deductible is threshold you must meet by paying into it, and  it would eventually reduce your out-of-pocket expenses as you go forward. When you reach your deductible, your costs go down. The MAB is an already established account, with funds already in it, that when you buy your medication, that sum is deducted. When you run out of the MAB, you pay more. It’s like a bet the insurance is taking, that you will try to meet. 

I don’t know how that rep has stayed employed.

Why am I in the basement and what am I looking for down here? Geez, I hope it’s not for the laundry.

Thank you.