La Belette Rouge

Freudians are sexy; Jungians are not ( at least not this last weekend)

Published on January 17, 2012 in Belette in Psychotherapy, Meaning Making and Quotidien. 19 Comments

I spent Friday night with Jung and Saturday morning with Freud. That sounds kind of bad. It sounds like I get around, at lease theoretically speaking. Doesn’t it? And the truth is, I do. I am a bit of a psycho-dynamic polyamorist, meaning I love Freud and Jung and Lacan and Winnicott andFairbairn and Bion and… But I am not writing today about my theoretical polyamory. Today I am talking about sexy. Sexy isn’t something you think a lot about when you think about psychology but it was something I have been thinking a lot about.

Friday night I attended a documentary about Sabina Speirlein and the audience was heavily weighted with Jungians. And the look of the attendees was decidedly “not sexy”. Most of the attendees were over-50 woman who rejected hair color with the same vehemence they might reject a prescription for Prozac or a cognitive intervention. The room was so gray that I felt like I was attending an AARP convention in the midst of hippy-dippy-granola-town-goat’s-milk, USA. Then there was the matter of their clothing: again with the gray. And with the gray there were the ubiquitous shawls and the ethnic inspired jewelry, a’la Chico’s, and the VERY comfortable shoes. I have never seen so many comfortable shoes in one place—there was not a single pair of platforms in the entire pavilion. The lady in gray who sat next to me during the screening was so comfortable in her Mephistos that she took them off. She sat next to me in a public place in her bare feet. I was aghast at her barefooted boldness. I sat there in my red J Crew suede pointed-toe penny loafers and silently judged her for exposing her feet in a public place( yes, I have some naked feet issues and these issues are amplified if the naked foot in question has never been pedicured) and scanned my mind for the appropriate DSM-IV diagnosis that would fit such shocking lack of public decency.

Beyond the drab clothes, gray hair and comfortable shoes there was just a general vibe of croniness(The crone is the archetype of the the old wise woman), haginess and witchypoo-ness to the event. These Jungian women seemed to actively embrace these archetypes and I don’t think they would in any way bristle at me describing them as a crone or a hag. As I am a gal who loves her chemically assisted hair colour, Botox, fashionable attire and heels high enough to enter the realm of Icarus, I felt very out of place and, to tell you the truth, in such crone-filled environments I often feel more than a little unwelcome. I sometimes get the feeling that if you look like you make too much effort on your appearance that the Jungian crone women will decide that you are lacking in depth. That may not be the case but I can tell you that it certainly feels that way.

When I was working on my graduate thesis “The genesis of shame: The fig leaf of fashion and its place in psychotherapy” and I would tell women analysts in the Jungian community in which I trained that I was writing on the topic of clothing I received some pretty harsh judgements. Clothing was looked at as immaterial to the field of psychology and judged as a surface interest and not one that should be given serious academic consideration. It’s interesting to note that five years after completing my thesis that the very same institute offered the course, “Clothes in the Analytic Relationship: Not For Women Only”. It was bittersweet to see that the topic was finally being considered. I attended the nearly sold out event and was somewhat pleased to see that the women who did the presentation had not approached the topic with the depth of analysis that I had. I was also amused and somewhat irritated by the participants cooing question to the presenters, “This is such a rich therapeutic topic. Why hasn’t anyone written on it before?” Grrr!!!!

Okay, sorry for the tangent, back to sexy. So Friday night was extremely un-sexy. That’s not entirely true. The documentary on Sabina Spielrein was kind of sexy in that she was an amazing women who contributed much the the field of psychoanalysis and she slept with Jung and she had the balls to call him out on his bad behavior and then spilled the beans to Freud and went onto become a psychoanalyst. Sabina was sexy. Jung not so much and the attendees of the documentary were definitely not sexy.

Saturday morning I attended a lecture on the Greek Philosophical Roots of Psychoanalysis. I was expecting for the class to be fascinating and insightful and it was. What I had not expected was that the teacher was going to be so sexy. She really was. She had long hair that she tossed back away from her face to great effect. She wore an amazing and figure flattering dress that I would have loved to have. She gesticulated passionately with her long and manicured talons. Peep toe platform pumps revealed red pedicured toes. She was undeniably sexy and super smart. As I sat in the audience discovering how Freud had likely been influenced by Aristotle, I found my mind reviewing some of the female Freudian and Post-Freudian professors I’ve had and how most of them looked extremely embodied, sensual and as if they probably had a pretty amazing sex life( that could just be my projection however there has been a kind of wildness to their hair, some serious heels and a leather skirt or two that all seem to say that their knowledge of sex is more than just clinical).

As Dr. Sexy Freudian lectured I found myself comparing and contrasting the differing representations of femininity that I experienced at both events and I felt MUCH more at home at the second. As I contemplated the differences I imagined that the gray/drab/Mephisto wearing women were a kind of asensual-intellectual that rejected sexuality and embodiment in favor of the world of the mind. and that the wild-haired and skirt and heel wearing Freudian’s clearly had a life in which they managed to be embodied, sexy and smart(Dr. Sexy has a PhD and a PsyD and is a psychoanalyst and an artist and she speaks Latin and she has crazy-sexy style and she is funny).

When the lecture was over I went up and thanked Dr. Sexy for her lecture. What I didn’t thank her for was her willingness to be feminine and sexy and smart(not choosing one at the expense of the other) nor did I tell her how personally meaningful it was to discover such a well-dressed role model. I really wished I had thanked her for being who she is as witnessing her being herself was even more awesome than anything I learned about Aristotle ( and I did learn some good stuff about Mr. Golden Mean). I am sure she over the years she has received some guff for being so glamorous but she didn’t let the guff stop her. She could quote Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle with ease, all while looking like a Russian Jaquelyn Bissett and that is seriously impressive. And no woman, no matter how high her IQ, wouldn’t like to hear that she inspires and looks great while doing it—at least no woman I know of.

Labels that lower your worth or J Crew as Bad Faith

Published on January 11, 2012 in Belette in Psychotherapy and Meaning Making. 40 Comments

Okay, so here’s the deal, most of us…me included….like our labels. No, I am not talking about Gucci, Pucci and Fiorucci–although those are some nice labels. Actually my labels of choice are more likely to be JCrew, Kate Spade, Diane Von Furtstenburg and Tory Burch. But those are not the labels I am talking about. I am talking about identity labels—-labels such as “mother’, “daughter”, “therapist”, “wife”, etc. We work hard to achieve those labels. We go to school for some of them. We go to counseling to maintain others. We pay $100,000 for a party that announces we are now a “Mrs.”. These labels define us and when we lose them we can feel like we have lost our purpose in life.
This last year I lost some labels and gained some new ones. Being someone’s wife give me some social cache and comfort. And as I was no one’s mother, being someone’s wife made me feel like I had at least achieved one developmental milestone that made me seem like I was on the adult-who-plays-by-the-rules track. And in losing the label of ‘wife’ I had some undeniable existential angst, ennui and meaningless. However, ultimately in losing the label I gained more freedom to be who I really am.

Jean Paul Sartre, the father of Existential philosophy and the only philosopher to ever admit being chased by a crustacean( a bad mescalin trip), and the other fab four of the existential philosopher club ( Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Camus and Heidegger) ask their readers to dump these labels(being-in-itself) faster than you might ditch a questionable Prada knock off. But why do they want you to ditch them? They think it’s bad faith. What’s “bad faith”? “Bad faith, according to Sartre, is “the phenomenon where a human being under pressure from societal forces adopts false values and disowns their innate freedom to act authentically.”

Let me have Sartre explain bad faith in his own words: “Consider this waiter in the cafe. His movement is quick and forward, a little too precise, a little too rapid. He comes toward the patrons with a step a little too quick. He bends forward a little too eagerly; his voice, his eyes express an interest a little too solicitous for the order of the customer. Finally there he returns, trying to imitate in his walk the inflexible stiffness of some kind of automaton while carrying his tray with the recklessness of a tight-rope-walker by putting it in a perpetually unstable, perpetually broken equilibrium which he perpetually re-establishes by a light movement of the arm and hand.” Sartre is not singling out waiters, it’s just likely the example that came to mind as he spent so much time hanging at out Parisian cafes. Sartre is using them to attack the notion of over-identifying with a role( what Jung might call Persona identification) and how that over-identification with a role limits our freedom.

Satre expands his analysis to those who work at the Piggly Wiggly: “A grocer who dreams is offensive to the buyer, because such a grocer is not wholly a grocer, ” Sartre continues. “Society demands that he limit himself to his function as a grocer, just as the soldier at attention makes himself into a soldier-thing with a direct regard which does not see at all, which is no longer meant to see, since it is the rule and not the interest of the moment which determines the point he must fix his eyes on (the sight “fixed at ten paces”). There are indeed many precautions to imprison a man in what he is, as if we lived in perpetual fear that he might escape from it, that he might break away and suddenly elude his condition.”

Did you read the fantastic book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog? If not, you should. In it there is a character, Renée, who is the concierge of an upscale Parisian apartment. She works to conform to the expectations people have of a concierge. She is fat, cantankerous, and is seemingly addicted to TV. She hides the parts of her that do not conform to the cliche of concierge. Renée is secretly a cultured autodidact who adores art, philosophy, music, and Japanese culture. Renée is a perfect example of Bad Faith.

When I started my blog I wanted a place to talk about things that I couldn’t talk about as a therapist. I had interests and passions that were not considered “depthful” or appropriate interests for one who was working on accessing the unconscious. My interest in shoes, clothing, skincare, and aesthetics were considered surface and not part of the expected interests of one who was a depth psychotherapist. La Belette Rouge gave me a place for me to break from the role of therapist and in having a place for that part of myself I began to value it more and was able to incorporate more of myself. I found that the more I wrote about these interests the more authentic I became and less and less felt the need to act out of an expectation of the role of therapist. I am a therapist who loves depth and discourse and philosophy and I also love skincare and shoes and leopard print and being girly. Sartre would like that about me, I think.

Sartre was so committed to this notion that one shouldn’t be identified by labels, and that to do so is to treat yourself as an object and not as a being, that he refused to accept the Nobel prize. He knew if that he accepted the prize that was accepting a label and to accept a label is to limit your freedom. That is putting your money where your mouth is. I think if I was JPS, I might have tried to write a book of philosophy that argued it isn’t bad faith to accept a Nobel prize.

So what labels are you over-identified with? Do you find that these labels impinge your freedom? Oh, and just to bring about of whimsy to this post and negate the entire premise of this thesis, what clothing label do you most identify with and why? For me, JCrew continues to be the brand that I most identify with. Why? I suppose they are about classics with a twist. That’s me. I like things that endure and yet aren’t stuffy. I’m Episcopalian ( definitely classic with a twist). I prefer classical literature to modern novels—-mostly. I like designs that promise to be in style in twenty years and that don’t take themselves too seriously. That said, I also buy clothes from unexpected places (Target, etc)—which I think means I am not so over-identifed with a label that I am committing sartorial Sartrian bad faith.

Not sure where to start

Published on January 9, 2012 in Quotidien. 40 Comments

So much time has passed since I last wrote that I don’t know where to start. Weekly I think of two or three topics that I could write about and then don’t. The longer I don’t write the more I feel that the first post back has to be super-special and somehow encapsulate in some witty and wise way all that I have learned in my absence—-and that creates a lot of pressure which then prevents me from posting. So I am taking the pressure off. This post will not be witty, wise or insightful, I promise. What it will be will a list of events that I planned on turning into posts and didn’t. Here I go.

1. I learned how to use cruise control.

This blog post was going to be a wonderful and insightful exploration of “cruise control” as a metaphor and how I am no longer afraid to use cruise control in my car or in my life. It would have been chock-full-of-insight. However as I never wrote it I forget the insights.

2. Beauty may only be skin deep but that is exactly why I want the CO2 laser.

In this post I was going to write about my inner conflict about being a person of depth who is choosing to have a painful and costly cosmetic procedure. As I have already had the procedure and recovered from the horrible pain, swelling and orange glow that came post-procedure, I am not at all conflicted. My skin looks MUCH better. It was totally worth all of the peeling, swelling, and scabbing. And I am still deep even after lasering off a layer or two of skin.

3. I went to Morrissey and I didn’t buy a stupid tee shirt.

This post would have been one in which I raved and raved about how much I love Morrissey and what a great time I had when I went to see him in concert and how awesome Morrissey is. For self-serving reasons, I also would have a included a picture that a friend took of me that night in which I look like a 40-something Barbie, thanks to my friend’s camera skills and the makeup artistry skills of the girl at MAC Beverly Hills. The picture is included in this post. The post, however, still remains unwritten.

4. I found a house.

In this landmark post I would have raved excitedly about the house and I would have looked back at the time when house hunting used to make me sick and scared with a terror that required extra sessions with Igor. The theme of the post would have been ‘I can’t believe what a difference a year makes’. That is a theme that I continue to explore.

5. We moved into the house.

This post would have likely been short. It would have had pictures of boxes. I would have complained about the mess. I would have shared with unbridled excitement the joys of a dishwasher, washer/dryer, bathtub and having a home office. I would have told you how cute my house it and how happy I am. I am sure you would have written some lovely comments and wished me well in my new home. Thanks for that.

6. Merry Christmas.

On the 25th I could have just posted a picture of Lily sitting by our Christmas tree, but I didn’t. That said, I hope you had a Merry Christmas. I did. It was a pretty low key Christmas for me. I was in the middle of the move. I was also recovering from the C02 laser procedure. But I was with my guy and my mom and my friend and Lily and it was great.

7. 2011 a year in review.

This post would have been epic if I would have written. 2011 has been huge for me. I can’t think of a year in my life that was more filled with change. I hope 2012 is a bit calmer. I hope your 2012 is whatever you want it to be.

8. The post in which I admit to having bought clothing at Forever 21.

I shop at Forever 21. I’m not proud of it but I do. I buy jewelry there. They have great jewelry. I love their jewelry. I know the quality is crap. It is essentially temporary jewelry, single wearing on some occasions( Forever 15 minutes is what they should call it)—but it is fun jewelry. I stick mostly with necklaces. I occasionally get a pair of earrings.
When I go there I construct a narrative in my head that allows me to shop there without too much shame or fear of looking like mutton shopping for lamb skins. I tell myself that I am there shopping for my imaginary teenage daughter. That narrative protects me from the glances of seventeen-year-olds who see me as an old bat and wonder what I am doing in their territory. I repel their looks by telling myself, “I’m shopping for my daughter.” On a recent trip for “my daughter”,I found my way out of the jewelry section and into the clothing section. A 46-year-old shopping at a clothing store meant for 21 year old girls. But there I found it, in spite of my shame. I found a perfect trench coat for $25. Or should I say, I found a perfect trench coat for my daughter.

9. Perfect day.

I could have written this post almost any day the last four months. Ever since I met “him”, most days feel perfect. We had one on Saturday. I feel sure we’ll have another one today. This post likely would have been sappy and sounded overly sentimental. I wouldn’t care. I’m happy and in love and I don’t care who knows it.

10. Humanistic Existential Philosophy and its Impact on Psychoanalysis

On Saturday I went to a lecture on this topic. I would love to write about it. It was an incredible class—two of my favorite topics in one lecture. I learned about death anxiety, existential dread, the danger of being in itself and the archetypal outfit of middle-aged and older male-psychoanalysts. That last one was not listed on the learning objectives and yet I learned it just the same. ALL the men there, in the over 40-age-range, at the New Center for Psychoanalysis, had on the same outfit as if a uniform: 1990′s leather jacket; pleated trousers; and Rockport shoes. I think Sartre might say that this outfit is a “Being for others” move and hence one of “bad faith”. At some point this became the look for this group as a way of identifying as part of the psychoanalytic club membership and it seems like a variant on this look is as welcome as a cognitive-behavioral intervention or a suggestion of a self-help book over psychoanalysis. I also noticed that beige is THE colour among the female attendees. I would have analyzed that as well. I would have had to do some self-analysis too as I was wearing a camel sweater. Perhaps I too have some “bad faith”. I think it’s unlikely as my beige was actually more caramel and not the “beige of belonging”. I don’t know why I put that in quotes and yet it feels like that is exactly where it belongs.

Rudolph the Depressed and Traumatized Reindeer

Published on December 9, 2011 in Belette's Favorites. 5 Comments

Last Year I wrote this on the psychology of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer for Psychology Today. I thought it might be fun to pull it out of storage and repost it. I hope you enjoy!

When you think about how you want to spend your holidays, I imagine that activities like shopping, cocoa drinking, gift exchanging or ice skating come to mind. It is not my hunch that watching others be judged, shamed, publicly ridiculed and kicked out of their families for birth defects or job preferences signify happy holiday activities to you.

However, there is a part of my Christmas tradition that is a must: watching an innocent be tormented for what one might consider a birth defect. That is, watching Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. I have watched it ever since I was a child and never gave it up (even when I figured out that this is a highly abusive story line; however, less than the unwatchable Christmas Story. I know many people love that movie. I hate it. It is the therapist in me that cannot stand to watch actual children being emotionally abused. Young puppet reindeer abuse I can watch more easily as I know that no real reindeers were harmed in the making of this Christmas special). The emotional abuse of a tiny reindeer continues to be part of my annual Christmas tradition.

Let’s go through the entire show and look at all of the psychological issues that occur in its 52 minutes:

1. Santa has an eating disorder. He starts the show thin and balloons up by the end, fitting in his fat Santa suit in time for Christmas.

2. Mrs. Santa has a need for her husband to be fat. She shames him by saying, “Who ever heard of a skinny Santa? Eat, eat!” It seems that to find him lovable, he needs to look a certain way. Very often those with eating issues want to control others’ food. I think, at the very least, Mrs. Santa is codependent.

3. Rudolph is born with a “shiny nose.” Mother says, “We’ll simply have to overlook it.” Father is unable to see past his son’s faults. Ah, the joy of Christmas.

4. Santa comes to see the new baby, sees Rudolph’s nose and is equally aghast. Then, in front of the new mother and her baby, Santa decides to break into song about how he is the “King of jingling.” Methinks Santa might be a tad narcissistic. Santa is not on the nice list.

5. Rudolph isn’t an hour old and his father already has turned him into a bad object: “He’ll never make the sleigh team.” It seems Rudolph was born to live out his father’s dreams. Donner has issues. He needed this tiny reindeer to be a perfect reflection of him. Now that Donner sees that his son has some physical challenges he is angry and anxious.

6. Donner, in an act of desperation, decides to compromise his son’s breathing by taking a clomp of dirt and placing it on his baby son’s nose so as to hide his birth defect. Anyone have the number for child protective services in the North Pole? Donner is relieved, Rudolph’s nose is hidden, “Now he’ll be a chip off the old antlers.” Narcissism is rampant in the North Pole.

7. The first time Donner shows any affection to Rudolph is when he is wearing what Winnicott might call, “The False Self” or “The False Nose.”

8. Mother kisses her son. He grows giddy from the affection and praise, which causes the false self/nose to fall off, and once again is met with parental disappointment for his “non-conformity.”

9. Rudolph grows older and Donner got Rudolph a prosthetic nose. Rudolph objects and explains that it isn’t comfortable. Donner says, “There are more important things than comfort, self-respect.” I guess Donner believes that self-respect can come through prosthetics. Mrs. Donner stands by silently and does nothing to intervene on her son’s behalf. It is possible that she too is a victim of Donner’s emotional abuse.

10. Now Rudolph is depressed. He takes to singing songs about how he is a misfit. This would be a good place for a commercial for Zoloft.

11. Comet, the coach of the Reindeer boys, is trying to initiate the bucks. Rudolph gets some positive attention from a girl, which makes him fly higher than all the other bucks, and his false nose/self falls off. All of the kids in flying class call Rudolph names and he gets cut from the team. Sensitivity training in North Pole? I think not. Then Santa flies off the handle and shames Donner for having such a freak for a son.

12. Happily, Rudolph has one person in his life that likes him as he is, a lovely doe named Clarice. But her parents are mortified to learn she is dating a red nose and they insist they break things off. Uh, is all the red nose stuff via the McCarthy era?

13. Rudolph grows increasingly depressed. He joins an alienated elf and they decide to run away. Neither of them need anyone, or so they say. Actually, Rudolph needs accepting parents, peers and community support. Hermey, if he wants to be a dentist, needs clients.

14. Rudolph is feeling so alienated that he runs away and get involved with ne’er-do-wells and other loners. He grows up alone and with no friends and family and when his antlers get heavy on his head, he stops thinking clearly and decides he needs to go back home to the place he received all the early emotional abuse. Doesn’t this just warm your heart like a Yule log burning brightly in the hearth?

15. He gets home to discover that his parents finally developed some guilt and had hit the road looking for him. Narcissistic Santa, true to character, sees Rudolph and tells him that what he is worried about is how all this is impacting them. Santa, at least in this tale, is not capable of empathy.

16. After a tragedy (the seemingly untimely death of Yukon Cornelius) the narrator, a snowman prone to understatement, tells us that they were “a little hard on the misfits”. Even Santa admits he was wrong. Donner apologizes. That is all well and good, but it would be a much better story if Santa, Rudolph’s parents, the coaches, the bucks and all the members of the community openly and publicly made amends to the poor reindeer. It would also be great if they could all undergo some sensitivity training and promise not to torment others based on the color of their nose. Rudolph also needs some therapy.

17. Only when there is a horrible storm that threatens Christmas does narcissistic Santa see how the traumatized reindeer could be of use to him. Rudolph, completely lacking in self-esteem and needing to please the men (his father and Santa) who shamed him, agrees to meet Santa’s needs. His father, also a reindeer with some serious narcissistic wounding, then takes pride in his son’s nose and claims that all along he knew that Rudolph’s nose would come in handy some day. Something about seeing him gloat makes me hungry for reindeer meat.

Beyond Rudolph’s tale of abuse, neglect, depression, alienation, there are also other story lines of abuse in this brief but traumatic tale. However, if I analyze the elves and the island of misfit toys this session will go way over. And anyways, Rudolph is the identified patient of the story.

Bruno Bettelheim, the acclaimed psychoanalyst, in his book, The Uses of Enchantment, makes an eloquent case why it is so important for children to read fairy tales. Bettelheim believes these Grimm stories prepare children for the harsh realities of life. And I suppose one could argue that watching Rudolph prepares one for the difficulties of the Christmas season. Surely there will be family members who will make us feel like misfits. Some of us might have narcissists that are unable to see our light, our true selves or are not able to see us in any way but in how we reflect them. Maybe that is why this story endures as it has.

I would, for the sake of truth in caroling, like to rewrite the Christmas carol classic that celebrates poor Rudolph. Come on everyone, sing along!

Rudolph, the emotionally abused reindeer, had a very narcissist father. And if you ever saw him you would even say he blows.

All of the members of his community laughed and called him names, inflicted shame and excluded him from their reindeer games.

Then one eating-disordered narcissistic man came to say, Rudolph I need you and your disability to help me achieve my narcissistic need. Then all the reindeers loved him, as they shouted out with glee, Rudolph-the-traumatized and depressed reindeer, you need a lot of therapy.

Not the Mamma/ You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Published on December 5, 2011 in Childless Not By Choice. 26 Comments

If you have read my blog for long then you know how very much I wanted to be the “Momma”. I did everything in my power; I went to acupuncturists three times a week; We remodeled our chi thanks to Feng Shui and Chi Gong. I sought out astrologers for the most auspicious dates for our IVF procedures and consulted assorted healers. I prayed even though I am agnostic. I trusted my fate to Maori healers who charged $350 in cash for a 50-minute consultation. I ate my weight in yams and sweet potatoes( supposedly the nutritional super-food that can promise a pregnancy even when the top doctors in reproductive medicine can’t deliver). I endured countless artificial reproductive technology procedures( $100,000.00 worth). And now I feel nothing but grateful that I am “Not the momma!” and that is a miracle even greater than me somehow managing to get pregnant.

It continues to surprise me how grateful I am in retrospect not to have achieved my long cherished dream of being a mother. For nearly the past three months I have been with a very wonderful man and I am crazy about him and if he had a voice on this blog I feel sure that he would tell you that he is crazy about me. This lovely man has two nearly-adult-children and he is a wonderful father, and I love that about him. The super-duper-crazy thing is that as I watch him father his children that there is no envy in me, rather there is relief. Being in the relationship with him hasn’t filled me with longing to parent a child with him( a biological impossibility, by the way) or regret that I can’t( I imagined that falling in love might create some familiar stirring to be a mother). I instead feel so extraordinarily grateful. I feel crazy grateful for how everything worked out so very perfectly. And I think about how if I had gotten what I hoped and prayed and paid Reproductive Endocrinologists for that I would now be a very unhappy gal who likely would not have had the courage to do what I did in March( leave) and how I certainly would not be in this new relationship with this wonderful man who makes me ridiculously happy. I feel blessed( I know that word has slightly religious tones to it but I almost feel that there was a divine hand in all of this unfolding as it has—-emphasis on the word “almost”).

In the last ten months I have thought of the following quote more times than I ate sweet potatoes( and I ate so many that I was in danger of turning orange) or charted my temperature back in the height of the IUI days:“More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.” That is a line from Truman Capote’s self-destructive novel, “Answered Prayers”. Each time I think of the quote or say it I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that I didn’t get what I wanted. Not getting what I wanted may prove that grace exists(by the way, Grace was the name I wanted to name the daughter that I thought I wanted to have).

Sure there are days that I am punched in the ovaries by the unchangeable fact that I will never be anyone’s mother. I will never know what it is like to have someone call me “mommy”. I won’t ever have a little baby hand hold onto the back of my neck( for some reason this is an image that has dogged me since I began trying to become pregnant). But I also won’t have all the headache, hell, heartache, expense and frown lines that come with mothering. Now I am free. I am free to do what I want and to spend my time and money the way I want. Now I get to spend my life doing what I want to do. I know that sounds selfish and I suppose it is. But as I am not a mother my selfishness isn’t hurting anyone else.

And, yeah, I am still really and truly happy to be in Los Angeles. I know this isn’t new news but it is a fact that continues to surprise me. I am even house shopping. Me and the adorable boyfriend are looking for a house and I am not freaking out in the least. Okay, not true, I am actually freaking out in the good way. I am actually happy to be looking for a permanent residence in Los Angeles. Yes, I am proof that miracles happen. I prove that not getting what you want can make you extraordinarily happy, in the long run that is.

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So how has not getting what you want made you happy? Please share!

Step by step

Published on November 1, 2011 in Quotidien. 19 Comments

Sunday I ran a 10K, which in “American” is seven miles. It wasn’t just a run—it was the culmination of a long journey. So, do you want to know the secret to my completing the seven mile run? A single step. Seriously. The entire run was accomplished by taking “just one more step.” It is a noble lie that I tell myself each time I tell myself “I can’t”. I listen to the tired me who feels committed to the “I can’t” and I tell her that I understand. I might even muster my most compassionate therapist voice, “I hear your pain. I know that you think you can’t. You don’t have to; really, you don’t, you just have to take one more step.” I have this conversation with myself hundreds of times during a single run. I have had this conversation with myself thousands of times since my life began anew last March. And each time I tell myself “just one more step” I manage to accomplish more than I ever imagined and I accrue milage, both geographical and metaphorical, that astounds me.

Sunday was my first 10K ever. Sure I had run in the past—I ran for fitness at many different times in my life—but I had never been a runner. I think I have become one. You see, for the past nine months I have run not so much for fitness but rather because it is what I do to feel strong and free and good. There have been times in the last nine months( especially in March, April and May) when my time running was the only time I felt good. If you were here with me back then you will remember that I was feeling a bit like a shark, I was feeling like the way I could handle all the anxiety of my new life was to keep moving. I was a constant moving machine. When not sending our resumes or house hunting or doing a million other things to prove to myself that I could take care of myself and that I would be okay, I was working out. When slammed by the midnight monsters that came out from under the bed and out of the closet who delighted in telling me horrible stories about how I wasn’t going to be able to make it on my own and how I would be homeless and destitute and alone, I would deal with the haunting anxiety by jumping out of bed and onto an elliptical machine and moving as fast as I could. During those first few months it was nothing for me to spend two hours a day on the elliptical machine. As long as I was moving I could keep the anxiety at bay. Moving became a prayer for me.

When I moved into my Casa Azul in May I had no room for an elliptical machine. Actually in my darling little casita I barely have room for my shoes, so I needed to come up with some other space friendly prayer practice that would deliver me from anxiety without taking up any square footage. Running was the obvious choice. From the first time I took a run I felt a kind of strength and power and freedom that propelled me forward in my own life. Maybe just fifteen minutes before I had begun the run I had been feeling doubt and fear—but once I began to run I became a strong woman who may or may not be related to Zeus and Hera. I was, even when I fell, a Wonder Woman when I ran.

On Sunday when I ran the seven miles I didn’t listen to the carefully crafted music playlist that I had created to accompany me through the run, instead I spent the first six miles thinking about the last nine months and how far I had come and how incredibly proud I am of myself and how much I love the life I have created for myself. It, my friends, was a much better and more motivating soundtrack than anything on my iPod. However, on my sixth mile I kind of hit a wall. You see, I didn’t do a few things I should have done to make the run a little easier for myself: 1) I didn’t hydrate before the run. Four shots of espresso do not count as hydration. Water might have been a better choice; 2) I ate only a half a protein bar prior to the race. A banana might have been a good addition to my pre-race meal plan in terms of giving me some potassium to help fuel me through the “I can’t” phase of the run; 3) I forgot to put sunblock on my arms so I couldn’t take of my Lulelemon jacket and it was a warm and sunny SoCal morning that most certainly did not require a jacket. Having the jacket on only added to my sense of being overheated; 4) I forgot my gum( For some reason I find chewing gum to be incredibly helpful when I run. I can’t even explain why. I just know that it works for me). When I hit the wall and was going up what felt like a steep incline( even though it was more of a mole hill that my fatigue was turning into a mountain) I had to go into “just one more step” mode. I told myself almost every step of that mile that I just had to take one more. I dug deep. I turned on the Rocky song on my iPod. I thought of Hillman. I thought of the money I raised and the people who believed in me enough to donate on my behalf. I thought of what waited for me at the finish line: The sense of accomplishment, a bottle of ice cold water and my darling boyfriend( not necessarily in that order). And I kept going, step by step.

When I arrived at the finish line I was very happy to be there. I was happy to be done with the run. I was happy to see my boyfriend’s smiling face. I was delighted that soon there would be blueberry pancakes with butter and syrup—and no guilt. However once I crossed the finish line I forgot about all that it had taken me to get there and I suppose that is as it should be. I was enjoying the moment and the promise of pancakes. But now that I look back on the 10K and the last nine months, I see so many lessons that running has taught me. And I can see all that it took to get me through the marathon of the last nine months.

1) “I can’t” is usually a lie.

2) The pain of the moment does not last forever. If I keep moving the pain will change.

3) Pushing myself just to go a little bit further than I think I can will take me further than I can imagine.

4) I am strong. I can endure. A few falls can’t stop me.

5) I ALWAYS feel better after I have run. This is NEVER not true( sorry for the double negative). This parallels in my non-running life. I almost always feel better having done whatever I think is hard. Having done that hard thing almost always gives me a greater sense of freedom and relief and, on occasion, some endorphins.

*******

I want to thank all of you who supported my run. Thanks to you I was able to raise $880 for The Hirshberg Foundation For Pancreatic Cancer Research. Thank you Anna, Audrey, Daphne, Deni, Keith, Kristin, LeShaune, Laura, Leah, Lynn, Mary, Mona, Pam, R, Rabia, Sharon, Sheila, Susan B., Susan T., Stacy, Tom and Wendy S. Thank you so much!!!!!!! Your support means so very much to me. My goal was $1000. I am only $120 away from achieving it.If you didn’t donate and you would like to, you will be happy to hear that it is not too late. My fundraising page is still up and happy to accept donations.

James Hillman, April 12, 1926- October 27,2011

Published on October 27, 2011 in Belette in Psychotherapy, Meaning Making and Psychology. 16 Comments Tags: James Hillman.

This morning, my boyfriend and teacher and long-time inspiration, Dr. James Hillman lost his battle with cancer. And to say I am sad doesn’t quite do it. I loved Hillman. I did. And I still do. Anyone who knows me knows that I love Hillman. Loving Hillman is part of my identity. I have, with sincere and unshakable affection, called James Hillman my boyfriend. He wasn’t, of course. Hillman didn’t know me from Adam. But that didn’t stop me from loving him. I didn’t love him in “that” way. I loved Hillman’s mind. I loved the depth of his intellect and I loved his bold, brave and brash spirit. And, for an 80-something-year old man he was a bit of a hotty( as you can see in the picture, well I can see it—maybe you can’t).

I have read and reread everything that he’s written and if you spend more than a day with me you will likely hear me quote him or use one of his stories as my own. I made annual pilgrimages to Pacifica Graduate Institute to hear him talk. I would get there early to get a good seat and be close enough to make out what color socks he was wearing( Hillman was fond of colourful socks and because I was so fond of Hillman I found his idiosyncratic footwear to be adorable, in a lesser man I would find red socks to be nothing but an eyesore). I loved hearing Hillman speak for so many reasons. I loved his mind. He was unbelievably brilliant. I don’t think that in my life I have met a person who could match his intellect. He was fantastically funny. And he, my dear Hilly, did not suffer fools gladly. No, he had an incredible bullshit detector and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Because of Hillman’s genius he tended to have an audience filled with intellectuals and many of these intellectuals wanted to flex their cerabellum in front of this great teacher. Many of these cerebellum flexors were men. As soon as they would get up to answer a question Hillman could see through them and their posturing and their 15 minute questions that would often include quotes in Latin, Ancient Greek or Aramaic and some other obscure and unreadable text. Hillman would yawn with impatience and say. “What’s the question?” or “I’m not interested” or “That bores me.” I know it may sound like he was cranky and cantankerous, and he was. But he was cranky and cantankerous in the cutest of ways—and that ain’t easy.

All the years I went to see Hillman speak I would never ask him a question. I would when close to Hillman be sure not to make eye contact. As much as I loved him he also scared the shit out of me. I didn’t want any of that cantankerous coming my way. However, two years ago when I went to see him I finally got the nerve to speak to him. A friend who is a Jungian analyst, knew of my crush and encouraged me to finally speak to him. I was apprehensive. I didn’t want to ruin my affection for Hilly by having him hurl some hostility my way. I spent the better part of a day coming up with a question for him that was relevant to the topic. I made sure that it was a clear and concise, and not stupid and one that he might actually like to engage with. When I finally got the nerve to ask him I got up and stood in line, behind the long line of cerebellum flexers. I stood way back from them as if I didn’t want to actually own my place in line. Hilly’s wife saw me standing in line and she encouraged me to move up, so I wouldn’t lose my place. I whispered to her, “he scares me. I need some time to breath before I get up there.” His wife nodded compassionately, “I get it.”

I have no idea the questions that the people before me asked. I have no memory of what they said or even what Hillman said back to them. I was in a maelstrom of panic, anxiety and rehearsing what exactly I was going to say. I rehearsed so much that I didn’t even know what the words meant anymore, the words lost their life with each anxiety filled repetition. When finally it was my turn to stand in front of the microphone I took a deep breath and was about to begin when Hillman interrupted me, which only exacerbated my anxiety. Hillman said, “I need to make this point. It is very important to consider who it is our patients have a crush on. This is important stuff.”

Okay, so here’s the thing, this point about crushes was a total non-sequitur. According to friends who were in the room and who had been able to listen to him speak, as they hadn’t been in the anxiety state that prevented them from hearing or feeling their legs, as I was,—they told me that there had been nothing before said about crushes before I made my way to the microphone.The crush thing just came to him when I stood there ( Hillman,if pressed to explain why this happened, might have said their was a causal relationship between my crush and his inspiration to speak on the topic). Hillman finished that thought and then turned to me and said, “okay, now you..” So, with the absolute best comedic timing of my life, I said, “Um, well, I have a crush on you.” Hillman looked up at me and smiled boyishly and said, ” This could be dangerous.” The crowd went wild. I relaxed when I heard the laughter and dared to say, ” I was scared of you but you aren’t so bad.” Hillman retorted, “I can be.” Again the audience laughed at our somewhat bawdy interchange. Hillman then invited, “so what’s your question?”. I asked it, and I won’t ask it here as it would take me 500 words to explain the context of the question in any meaningful way and it would take me about 2500 words to give you Hillman’s thoughtful and engaging answer.

When I left the microphone I was beaming, Hillman liked my question. I spoke to him. I survived it. Nothing bad had happened. Strangers came up to me after and told me that our interchange was the highlight of the conference—-and even if it wasn’t for them it certainly was for me. Truly, this was a big moment in my life. I remember the first session I had with Igor after this event and how I told him how by daring to speak to Hillman and surviving it that I wondered what else I could do that I thought I couldn’t. Something about that interchange gave me the courage to speak up. It changed me. I can’t give you concrete ways. I don’t have examples that will prove my point, I just know it’s true. Something happened to me through that interchange, a kind of boldness began to emerge. And I don’t think it is hyperbole to look back at the changes that I have made in the last year and to give some credit to this interchange with Hillman playing a part in my courageous life changes that followed.

When I heard the news that Hillman died I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I knew he had been sick. He had to cancel his last conference that he has been scheduled to present in March. He had canceled because he was ill. At the time I was in the midst of my own personal crisis and the news of Hillman’s illness amplified the pain. I couldn’t imagine a world without Hillman. In March I wrote the following: My beloved boyfriend is not doing so well. I was supposed to be going to Pacifica this weekend to see him. However he had to cancel the event due to serious illness. Hence I will not be spending my birthday with Hillman. As soon as I heard of his canceling I had a horrible thought come to mind, “I can’t imagine a world without Hillman”. This is an awful thing to think and a worse thing to write. I can’t tell you how much it hurts me to think it. It feels like a betrayal to him to even write it. I don’t want him, with the help of Google, to ever find this post and have him find that for a minute I ever doubted his capacity for immortality. I want him to know that his existence is important to me( insert tears). Even though I have never met him, my Hilly holds father energy for me and so if he’s gone then I am once again fatherless. I know its irrational and that it is strange and absurd to project so much power on a man who doesn’t know me from Adam—-however, there you have it, this man means something to me and his presence in the world and in my psyche is grounding and important to me. And I grieve even the thought of losing him.

Today Hillman has left us. Some of you may not feel impacted by that truth. Some of you may never read his books or know his theories and that’s fine. I share this with you not to prosthelytize or to convince you of anything. I share all of this with you to tell you that a man I love is no more and that I am better for knowing him and deeply saddened that I now live in a world where he doesn’t.

A few of my posts featuring James Hillman: I <3 Hillman

Follow your uncertainty

What I brought back with me from Santa Barbara

Red Faced

I dream of boots and beauty and making up

Some of the best of Hillman:

The Soul’s Code

We’ve Had a Hundred Years of Psychotherapy and the World is Getting Worse

Re-Visioning Psychology

*****

Hillman’s obituary

Change in status

Published on October 25, 2011 in Quotidien. 9 Comments

No, I’m still middle class, middle aged, middle of the road when it comes to politics, and still frequently have a have a middle part in my hair. It’s just that my Facebook status has changed. For the last eight months my status has read “separated” and for years before that I was, I thought, permanently “married” to my status. I remember the moment that I had the nerve to change my Facebook status from married to separated. It was a big moment. Big. I remember the condolences, concerns and comments I got in response to my status change back in March. I remember them as if they were yesterday—only it was a whole lot of yesterdays ago. And all those yesterdays ago I never imagined that nine months later I would find myself where I am today.

When I look back at all that my life was when I was in separated status I am a bit gobsmacked. I have to say that in my separated status I really kicked butt and took names; seriously, I was on fire. I got a great job. I moved out. I lived on my own. I installed my DVD player to my television( some achievements are bigger than others). I paid my bills. I got the oil changed. I survived having my car hit. I dated. I went on Match.com. I went on some HORRIBLE dates( dates so bad that I would cut off my arm to be free of them). I survived those dates. I went to Chicago and discovered that I have absolutely no interest in moving back there. I did a whole lot of growing and changing and learning just how strong I am and just how much I am capable of. And I learned that I am really proud of myself. I like the separated me, I really do.

So, as you know, I have been seeing this guy. And I felt pretty sure that me and my guy had moved from simply dating into “in a relationship”. Let me list some of the indicators, which include the following: He’s met my mother; We’ve named exclusivity; I am cooking for him; We are seeing each other almost everyday/night. This didn’t feel like dating. However it has been a long time since I’ve dated and maybe this is what dating looks like in 2011. Nah, this is not dating. This is something else. This is a relationship. Right?

Well, as of 8 p.m. last night I changed my status. I am no longer “separated”. My status on Facebook is now”in a relationship.” It, my friends, was also a very big moment. BIG. It’s not just big to be in a relationship, it is big to name it and claim it and have it be so true that I would be willing to edit my personal settings for it.

As soon as I updated my status I started to panic( just a little bit). Was I assuming something? We hadn’t said the “R” word and maybe he didn’t think we were in a “R”. What if he didn’t and I changed it and he didn’t?

So, I texted him. I said: “Um, how do you feel about my new relationship status on FB?”

He said( and I paraphrase in order to protect his privacy): “What do you think I think? I think it’s great.:-)

I said: “Are you saying that you are happy that we are in a relationship?”

He said: ”You are hillarious” and then he told me how happy he is and then he listed all these things about me and us that he likes ( I’m not telling you all those things. I want to keep those for myself) .

Well, it seems that we, my guy and I, are in a “R” and that he likes being in it and that he is happy that we are in a “R”. I know that I am happy to be in a “R” with him. I’m really happy.

I don’t know what the next nine-months will bring. In truth I hope that they don’t bring as much change as the last nine did. I hope that the next nine months involve lots of hanging out, hand holding, kissing, and going to dinner and movies and going shopping together and a trip or two. Maybe in the next nine months my practice will grow a little. Perhaps I will move to a new place with a bigger kitchen. And maybe other unexpected changes will surprise, delight and even, less desirably, annoy me. And I suppose that is one of the wonders of this moment, it is extraordinary how very little I want. I just want to be in my life right now and enjoy the now for the wonderful moment that it is. The now is pretty amazing. In my new “in relationship” status I have no lists of goals or actions to take or future that I am planning for, okay that is not entirely true. I do have a list I made this morning, let me share it with you.

Angel hair pasta

Tomatoes

Garlic

Parmesan

Olive oil

Paper towels

These are the things I need to make my guy dinner tomorrow night. Other than that I don’t need anything…and the status of being desire free feels especially good.

Internet/dating

Published on October 22, 2011 in Quotidien. 27 Comments

So I’m dating a boy. Well, he’s not really a boy…he is more of a man. I suppose I could even describe him as a mature man; 55 years old definitely qualifies him for man status. But for some strange reason it feels better to call him a “boy” when I tell people I am dating him. I say, when asked about why I look so happy, “I had a date with a lovely boy last night.” My co-workers then ask me how old this “boy” is and then I tell them that he is 55. I am usually beaming and smiling brightly when I say it. Happily my co-workers don’t correct me or disabuse me of the notion that I am dating a “boy”. They seem to get that when I call him a “boy” it is because something about dating this “man” makes me feel especially “girlish”. Dating him is fun and delightful and easy and fun( did I mention that already?).

Something you should know about this “boy” is that he knows about you. Yep, this “boy” knows all about you. He has read my blog. He is reading this post. And he has read the bulk of my blog, which is no small feat. He read a whole lot of my blog even before we had our first date. Back in the days when my blog was written solely under a pseudonym and I anxioulsy guarded my real identity, I used to worry that patients or friends or family members might discover the blog and/or my real identity might be revealed. Never-ever-ever in a million years did I imagine that I would ever go out with someone who would find my blog on their own before we went out; never.

How did he find my blog? Well, he knew my La Belette Rouge email adress and he Googled “Belette” to figure out what it meant and he found my blog and he started to read it. And, as I already mentioned, even after reading my blog he STILL wanted to go out with me. Okay, let me say for the record, that I don’t think there is anything about me or the blog that would make a man want to run away from me—-it’s just that it is a whole lot for a man to know about me before our first date. It’s just odd for him to know so much about me without me telling him. I felt a bit vulnerable. In a lot of ways my blog is like my diary and it is an extraordinarily surreal experience to have a guy that I barely know reading such personal material. He—even before we sat across from each other for the first time— knew about Igor, Infertility, Lily, and my passion for high heels. He didn’t know about it because I told him but rather because he had read my blog. He had read posts that tell the story of my life, the life I recently left and he even read about the guy I most recently dated—and he still wanted to go out with me.

I couldn’t help but wonder if it would be weird for him too. He has assured me that there is nothing weird about it. He likes my blog and he even has a La Belette Rouge app on his IPhone( how cute is that?). He also admitted that his having access to my blog has made him feel like he has known me longer than he has and that he likes that. And as for his feelings on me introducing him to you, this very cute boy has given me the green light to write about him. I think, he is sort of actually looking forward to me writing about him. He has been asking me when I am going to post next and I feel sure that he is wondering what part of our dates are going to show up in an upcoming post. However, I don’t know exactly how to write about him. It’s sort of odd to write about someone new in my life. We are just getting to know each other and I want to be respectuful of him and our developing relationship. I don’t want to write about anything that makes him feel the least bit uncomfortable. I told him that I would be highly respectful of him and our relationship in any and all writings and he said he already knew that about me. Nice, huh?

I was, I can tell you, a bit concerned about introducing him to you. We have only recently started dating and I didn’t want to introduce someone to you unless I felt pretty sure about him. Well, I’ll let you infer what you will from the fact that I am writing about him. I suppose I could have just not written about him….but that would feel odd too. He’s there in my life and to not write about him would feel somehow dishnonest. So, he’s here. He’s reading this. He’s reading me write about him. Yeah, that’s not weird. Ha!! Dating in the digital age is an entirely new ball game.

Scotland: the West Coast Edition

Published on October 13, 2011 in Quotidien. 10 Comments

Thanks to a dear and lovely friend’s extreme generosity I am spending the weekend in this ideallic location. Lucky me, huh? Something about this place reminds me of the Moors of Scotland, not that I have ever been there but I have watched the Monarch of the Glenn. I plan on spending this weekend with my dear friend and sitting and watching the Ocean, eating pumpkin pancakes while wearing a luxe hotel terry cloth robe, sitting in front of a fireplace, drinking champagne, having a spa treatment, and not thinking about work. I can hardly wait. I NEED this weekend.

I’d tell you where I was going but I think I will wait until I return. I’ll give you a few clues:
1) It is a place where the moon is never full.
2) The Great Pumpkin likely lives there.
3) It’s bigger than a bread box and if it was a bread box it would have pumpkin bread in it.

Hope you have a weekend as lovely as I am about to.

La Belette Rouge

Freudians are sexy; Jungians are not ( at least not this last weekend)

Labels that lower your worth or J Crew as Bad Faith

Not sure where to start

Rudolph the Depressed and Traumatized Reindeer

Not the Mamma/ You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Step by step

James Hillman, April 12, 1926- October 27,2011

Change in status

Internet/dating

Scotland: the West Coast Edition

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