Lise Deguire's Blog, page 8

Taking a Gap (New) Year

When I was 16, my best friend Susan threw her first New Year’s party. We were part of an expressive group of music/theater kids. Each of us was different in some painful way: we had a deceased parent, or divorced parents, or were stuck in a 1980s homophobic closet. However, in our group, we belonged; bonded by the love of creativity, self-expression, and Dan Fogelberg. Susan’s party involved loud music (Doobie Brothers, B-52s), vigorous dancing, and underage drinking of terrible champagne. We slept over and began the new year together, cleaning up paper plates, plastic cups and empty bottles.

The next year Susan hosted another party, and the year after that too. So, it began that I spent every New Year’s Eve with Susan (my “monkey” friend in my book, Flashback Girl, in case anyone is tracking that).

As we grew older, we left Susan’s parents’ house, and celebrated in our own cramped apartments, but still, we were always together. In our twenties, my friends Caryn and Brad joined us, and we became a New Year’s foursome. Then Susan and I each got married, and our husbands joined. Then Caryn and Brad had children. Then I did and so did Susan. There were two divorces. Then there were two remarriages. Picture a multi-cell organism swirling about, constantly evolving, with an unchanging nucleus (me and Susan). Some cells broke off, some cells joined in, but always the same organism, ringing in the New Year together.

New Year’s is our friends’ holiday, which we joyfully recreate every December. Caryn cooks massive feasts with worldly themes (Thai night, Spanish night, etc.), capped off with an aromatic chocolate souffle, warm from the oven. Susan plays guitar and gifts us with her perfect alto voice, declining compliments with a shake of her head. I lead us in overly emotional toasts, encouraging people to share New Year’s resolutions, at which point everyone rolls their eyes but joins in, just the same.

We have a New Year’s band. It isn’t very good, and I don’t recommend us, but we have one just the same. Susan leads on the guitar, joined now by Caryn’s daughter, Laura. Brad plays the piano or ukulele. Doug plays the bass. I figure out harmonies for songs and earnestly teach them to our singers, who either care or don’t care to learn them correctly. The lead vocals pass back and forth between Susan and my daughter, Julia. We sing “Sweet Caroline” and “Closer to Fine.”

When we are up for it, Susan, Julia and I manage 3-part harmonies, and deliver pretty good versions of “Suite Judy Blue Eyes” and “Uncle John’s Band.” I am never quite satisfied with the results (ex-music director that I am) and Julia is either eager to please or annoyed that I am not satisfied. We do this every year. At some point Julia and Susan’s daughter Sara stand up to sing “Loathing” from Wicked. Let us be clear that they have been performing this duet together since… I don’t know… since Wicked came out?

We drink. For each bottle of champagne opened, someone makes a toast. “Here’s to friendship!" “This is our 40th year of getting together” (that was last year). “Here’s to 2020 and a new decade!” (little did we know…)

“Here’s to Robby!” is said every year now. Robby is Caryn and Brad’s son, who died four years ago when he was 20. He loved New Year’s Eve, as do all of our children. He loved to play his drums (too loudly) for our makeshift band. “Let’s play “Psycho Killer!” Robby would proclaim.

"Not now, maybe later."

"No, let's play it now." He was insistent. I'm so glad now that he was insistent.

“OK, Robby” and we would play. Badly, but gamely, Doug’s bass thumping, me on the microphone, "You better run, run, run, run, run, run, run aw-a-ay."

Nothing has stopped this gathering of friends. We have weathered five weddings, six children, two divorces, six snarky adolescent growth spurts, and one unspeakably tragic death. Still, we have always gotten together. Our six children all love(d) New Years, and love(d) our quirky traditions. Nothing has stopped us until. . . COVID.

All year, I worried about the holiday. Once in September, Caryn began to raise the topic. “What about New Years?”

“I CAN’T TALK ABOUT NEW YEARS” I shouted, banishing the thought.

“OK, OK” she responded quickly, bemused at my distress.

But by October, it was clear that New Year’s would not happen. How could we bring three households together, plus five adult children? How could we enjoy our feast safely? How could we sing our songs in the living room, with the windows closed against the winter chill? We could not.

All across America, people sit in disappointment, unable to do their cherished activities with their cherished people. Or perhaps they are still doing their cherished activities, taking chances with their health and the health of others. Or perhaps, they have already lost their dear ones to this terrible pandemic, and their New Year’s won’t ever be the same again.

What brings me comfort is knowing that my friends are still here, and that New Year’s will rise again. Next year, freshly vaccinated, we will reunite, singing, cooking, and drinking. Next year we will play “Psycho Killer” and toast to Robby. Next year we will sing “Suite Judy Blue Eyes” and I still won’t be satisfied with the harmonies. Next year we will gobble those chocolate souffles. We will do all of this next year. And as much as we are always grateful for New Years, I bet we will be much more grateful upon our reunion. Nothing teaches gratitude like the loss of that which we love. But thank goodness, this loss is temporary.

May we all stay safe. May we all take care just a little while longer. We are almost there. Happy New Years! May this coming year be so much better.

The author's memoir, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Newtown Book Shop and The Commonplace Reader.

Chasing Success

What is success?

What is enough?

Generally, I am a cheerful soul, content with my life. My daughters love me, my husband loves

me, my friends love me and I love them back, fiercely. As a psychologist, I know that it is our relationships that bring us ultimate happiness, which has always been the case for me as well.

So it was unusual for me to fret about my level of success. Nevertheless, this is what began to happen, paradoxically at this moment when I had achieved the most success of my life.

Recently, I met my newest good friend, Deb, on the canal path in our town. The canal stretches for miles, paralleling the beautiful Delaware River. Tall trees line the path, Canadian geese honk and waddle past, with the occasional blue heron winging by. Clothed in our fleece and hats, Deb and I walked vigorously. She assumed I was feeling great, with my book doing well and with the exciting media coverage I have received. But I was not feeling great at all.

“I feel bad that the book hasn’t caught on nationally. I always knew that was a long shot. But people love this book, and I think if Flashback Girl could only get a little national spotlight, readers would get a lot out of it. One book reviewer told me it should be a NY Times bestseller. But that is nowhere close to happening."

“Isn’t the book doing well? It seems like it is doing very well.”

“Yes, for a self-published book. Yes.”

“Why are you discouraged?”

“I had dreams of Flashback Girl becoming a huge seller.”

Deb sighs, with equal parts concern, care, and impatience. Deb is a striver too. She is politically active, very successful and has raised three children, each more gobsmackingly impressive than the last. Deb knows about ambition.

“Numbers. Why do we do this to ourselves? Numbers… Let me ask you, how many books did you initially hope to sell?”

“200.”

“And then?”

“Then it became 500.” My voice pitched lower. I could see where this was going.

“And then?”

“1000.”

“Right. And even if you got on Oprah, there would be some way that you would think you didn’t do as well as another Oprah book. Numbers are endless.”

We walked; I was quiet. “Yes, you are right. My problem is that I have always wanted to achieve a higher level, the highest level really, and I never quite do. I wanted to go to Julliard pre-college, and I didn’t get it. I wanted to go to an Ivy League college, and I didn’t. I applied for a Rhodes Scholarship and I didn’t get it. I could go on and on. I’m like that asymptote line in math, always approaching the desired curve but never quite getting there.”

We walked some more. Deb said, “Did you actually apply to an Ivy League college?”

“No.” We laughed.

“Well, there you go. But you see, there’s always something more, something higher, something still out of reach.”

I regarded my new friend, huffing along the canal path with me. She is possibly the most ambitious friend I have, but she was modeling serenity for me, serenity which I knew she had worked hard to find.

Later, on the phone with my wise friend Lisa, I began to fret again.

“Why did you write this book?” Lisa asked me. “Let’s remember that.”

“OK, sure. First, I wrote it because I felt driven to write my life story. I had to write it for my own soul. And then, I wrote it for other people, other people who suffer. Burned people, suicide survivors, traumatized people from toxic families and the people who love them… so many people suffer and need to feel understood.”

“Right. And have you helped them?”

“Yes. I hear from people all the time now. Strangers from everywhere. I get emails and cards from all kinds of survivors, thanking me for the book.”

“Which is great. And that’s why you wrote it, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, then you are already successful, right?”

“Yes…”

“Don’t worry about the numbers, that isn’t what’s important. What’s important is that you are doing what you set out to do, to reach people through your story. You are doing it for love.”

There is some balance, somewhere, between ambition and peace. Without ambition, maybe we won’t work hard, putting ourselves out there, putting in the effort to advance. But ambition can push us too far, into a mindset where what we have is never enough, even if, objectively speaking, what we have is perfectly fine.

I am not an Ivy League, Julliard-trained, Rhodes scholar with a New York Times bestselling book. And Deb would say, even if I were, I would find a new unreached goal to focus on, some new asymptote of a goal which I might not achieve. There is always more.

Here is what my wise mind knows, when I quiet down enough to listen. The people who die at peace are those who have rich, deep relationships, full of devotion and reciprocity. The people who die at peace are those who lived a life full of purpose, who lived according to their values, who contributed love, care or beauty back into the world. Success is not a diploma from Yale (although I really wanted that, so much that I couldn’t even bring myself to apply). Success is being a kind, loving, ethical, conscientious person, day after day, year after year.

When my wise mind contemplates success, I remember Pepere, my father’s father. He was a high school graduate, who never went to college. He had a union job setting type for newspapers. He lived in a small house, never owned a clothes dryer or a single automobile, who cheerfully supported his wife, his son, and his grandchildren. He went to Mass every week and played the piano by ear every night. He knew everyone in his neighborhood. When he retired, he became a crossing guard and the students adored him. Wherever he went, he spread love, warmth and smiles. He died when I was 13 but I will never forget how loved he made me feel.

I believe my Pepere would think I am successful. Not because I am a psychologist, not because I have a doctorate, and not because I wrote a book. I think Pepere would think I am successful because I am loving, loyal and ethical, and because I sincerely try to help people. Because I raised good kids. Because I show up.

What is success to you?

What is enough?

The author's memoir, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Newtown Book Shop and The Commonplace Reader.Flashback Girl would make an excellent holiday gift for your loved ones!

Five Grounding Tips for this Holiday

As we enter the holiday season, worry hangs in the air. There is the obvious anxiety about our health and the health of our loved ones. Should we drive to see our aging parents? Can our adult children fly home for Christmas? Then there are the financial concerns. How many presents can we afford under the tree this year? Can we afford that tree at all?

I mourn the absence of holiday gatherings. For over 35 years, I have spent New Year’s with three best friends, which expanded to our partners and to our children over time. For decades, this merry band of twelve have rung in the New Years together. But not this year. I cannot tell you how sad this makes me.

Not to mention Christmas. My daughters both made it home for Thanksgiving, but neither of them plan to be home this Christmas. My heart hurts just to think of it. For me, absences abraid old wounds. My brother died young, and I still feel the pain of his empty chair at Christmas. All absences can evoke this old wound, even when the missing people are truly alive and well. It isn't hard to stir the searing pain of loss and death.

However, 2020 is what it is, and I am trying to make the best of it. This year, I have created a new home base for myself, with new daily rules. Every day, I try to do the same five things, and they really help. Each of these activities makes me calmer, happier, and/or more at peace. For ease of remembering, think of the mnemonic M.E.C.C.A. (Mecca being both a holy city, and a word that means “center”). What is M.E.C.C.A.?

1) Meditate: Start your day with a brief meditation. I listen to “Headspace,” which offers a ten minute daily guided meditation (learn more about it here: https://www.headspace.com/). To be clear, every morning I wake up and think, “Oh let’s just skip meditating.” I really never want to. But, when I engage in meditation, I feel better: clear-headed, relaxed and refreshed.

2) Exercise: Every day, I exercise. Given COVID, I quit my gym, but I can still walk the dog, or hop on our elliptical trainer, or lift hand weights. As with meditation, every time before I start, I think "Oh let's just skip exercising." Also as with meditation, every time after I exercise, I think “Oh I feel so much better now!” The very best mornings are ones in which I both meditate and exercise before I start my day.

3) Create: Do you write? Paint? Quilt? Perhaps you used to practice a creative art, years ago, when you were in school. Creativity is one of the best coping tools we have. By creating, we can take our feelings and transform them into something else: something beautiful or cathartic. And bonus, you can use your creativity to make presents this holiday. My cousin, Ikuko, sends out exquisite handmade cards every Christmas. Her skill is beyond me, but I always look forward to seeing her creations.

For me, I write and play the piano. I am currently practicing a Christmas piece my musician-genius dad arranged for me when I was a girl. Playing this song brings my dad back into the room, even though he has been dead for decades. When I play his chords, I can feel him sitting next to me on the piano bench, just like many years ago. I can feel my piano teacher- mother there as well. (She thinks I should keep practicing.)

4) Connect: During the holiday time, many people feel lonely. Like me, many people have lost someone, and we miss them particularly in this sentimental season. This year, there will be even more people missing their loved ones, because most of us will need to stay in our own homes.

Reach out to your loved ones. Don’t just text, pick up the phone and talk. I grant you, the conversation won’t be riveting. No one is doing anything, so there isn’t much to talk about other than COVID 19. Just the same, call your friends. Call your aunt. Call your grandparents.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, I talked to four cousins, my college roommate, and a long-lost friend from graduate school. It filled my heart to connect with these women, like no time had passed at all. The phone calls were an investment of time, and texts would have been a lot more efficient. But I know I wouldn't have had the depth of connection just by texting. Make the call.

5) Accomplish: Every day, do something you have put off doing. You know those projects that you never have time for? My house was filled with those, but not anymore! And goodness knows, around the holidays there is plenty to be done. Perhaps this will be the year that I finally organize our Christmas paper bin. It is full of scraps of wrapping paper, dusty ribbons and cardboard boxes of dubious utility. Every year I tell myself I will clean it out and organize it. Something tells me that this will finally be the year. (My husband, Doug, would be ever so grateful if it were.)

No one knows how long we will drift in this odd COVID limbo, but I hope you can make the best of this strange holiday season, caring for yourself and keeping a healthy grounding routine. Remember M.E.C.C.A. and give it a try.

You will find me meditating and exercising (reluctantly), creating my blogs, and calling my friends on New Years. You will also find me in the back of my garage, throwing out dusty wrapping paper.

We will find our way back to normal, at some point. For now, enjoy the twinkle lights adorning your neighbor's houses. Remind yourself that just because people are absent does not mean they aren't alive. Call them. Take care and chin up. Humanity has gotten through many difficult times, and we will get through this too. Happy Holidays to you.

*An earlier version of this article originally appeared in Healthy Aging Magazine.

The author's memoir, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Newtown Book Shop and The Commonplace Reader. Flashback Girl would make an excellent holiday gift for your loved ones!

How Conversation Can Heal Our Nation

Today, I intend to write about politics, but I am scared. My chest feels tight and my back hurts. My breath is coming in short bursts.

Usually, I write without fear. To be clear, I have previously written about my brother’s suicide, my father’s temper, my mother’s neglect, my mistakes, and a detailed map of my body’s scars. I am an intimate writer, exposing myself in ways that other writers praise as “courageous.” My life is, literally, an open book, laid out for all to see in my memoir, Flashback Girl.

So, why am I scared to write about politics? First, I fear that I will instantly lose one half of my audience, because my political beliefs will brand me as “one of them.” Second, I fear that if I am insufficiently excoriating of the other side, “my side” will accuse me of being the Neville Chamberlain of our times.

Perhaps I better not write this blog at all. Yet, I have some thoughts to share, which I think could be helpful. So here I go.

Because I am a psychologist, I get a unique peek into the political divide. Politics are so important to most of us, and psychotherapy sessions frequently touch on people’s political hopes and fears. As a psychologist, it is emphatically not-my-job to argue or dissuade clients from their beliefs. No, it is my job to listen, to support, and to provide help whenever I can. So, I have been doing a lot of listening, and here are some things I have learned.

1) Everyone is scared: The Left is scared of the Right, and the Right is scared of the Left. The Left thinks the Right is going to ruin the country and dismantle democracy. Guess what? The Right thinks the Left is going to ruin the country and dismantle democracy. In fact, . . .

2) Everyone fears the other side are Nazis. Truly. Each side thinks that the other side might just be Nazis. Really. This is how it is.

3) Everyone thinks the other side is trying to steal the election.

4) Everyone thinks they would never start violence, but they would respond violently if they had to. But they themselves would never start it.

5) Everyone wants to get along but thinks it is impossible because of the media the other side hears.

The other day, a contractor came to our house. My husband and I wound up in a long discussion with him, in which he laid out his intense fears about the election, this country, and threats of violence.

We listened politely and I responded, “We have the same fears.”

“You do?” He looked stunned.

“Yes, but we think it’s your side who would do these things.”

“What?”

“We think your side is violent. We think your side is stealing the election. We feel the exact same way, but we think it’s you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. And it’s sad because most of us want the same things. We all want a safe community, a comfortable place to live, and the little stuff like a good dinner or a sunny day. We all want the same things, more or less.”

I have my own theories about how this country got into such a mess. I don’t want go there, because I do have my own political beliefs and, as I mentioned, I’m scared to share them. So, let me put that part to the side right now. I want to talk about how we can heal.

In general, emotional healing comes from being heard. Our pain is lessened when someone listens to us with care. They don’t need to agree with us to help us feel better. They just need to care that we are in pain.

Connection also comes from being heard. When we feel connected to people, we don’t demonize them. When we maintain relationships with neighbors and relatives with differing viewpoints, it decreases our impulse to fear or even hate the other side. It might be uncomfortable sometimes, but it is good for us too.

So, I try to listen to people from opposite political viewpoints. Upon occasion, when it seems safe, I engage with people who think radically differently from me. In these discussions, I assume I will never change the other person’s mind. I know, for example, that no one will change my mind about my political values. I could be in discussion with the greatest political commentator of all time, but I will still hold to my political values.

The point of the dialogue is not to change political beliefs. The point of the dialogue to reestablish civil connection, and to remind the person that I too am a person, just like them. We may hold different political beliefs, but we are alike in many other ways. I think we need to remember that we are all just people, trying to get through life on this little planet that we share. As such, this is what I try to do.

1) Listen civilly: Sometimes it’s hard to listen civilly. Believe me, I find some statements outrageous. Inside me, I want to scream, “How can you say that?” But I don’t believe healing is accomplished by yelling at people and accusing them. In fact, I know that behavior is counterproductive. So I work to keep my voice friendly, my eye contact steady, and my tone respectful.

2) Affirm connection : I listen attentively for areas of common ground. Does this person love their dog? Are they a devoted mom? Do they like musicals? Maybe we even agree on something political. Do they uphold freedom of speech? Great, so do I.

3) Instead of disagreeing, ask questions: I have found that I have better conversations when I ask questions. Instead of verbalizing disagreement, I pose a question, “So when you say you want blah-blah-blah, how do you think that can work?” When I pose a question, the person usually appreciates it, and feels that I am taking them seriously. I find that asking questions, instead of making counter-statements, often turns a political argument into an interesting conversation.

4) Remember that we are all human beings: In the end, we are all people. We love our kids, we love our pets, and we are all Americans. Everybody celebrates Thanksgiving and wants a decent vacation now and then. Everyone bleeds red blood. Everyone hurts inside. Everyone will live and everyone will die.

May the ties that bind us hold stronger than the winds that seek to divide. Peace.

The author's memoir, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is earning rave reviews and is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Newtown Book Shop and The Commonplace Reader

Tales From the Trail

Eight weeks ago, my book Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience From a Burn Survivor was released. Since then, I have been sprinting and huffing up a new trail, a trail I have never walked before.

Do you know how to publish a book? Do you know how to do a good TV interview? Neither did I, but I learned fast, basically out of desperation. I got myself thrown into the deep end of the public relations pool. As of now, I have recorded nine podcasts, four newspaper interviews, five radio, and two regional TV spots. Each of these happened in the past six weeks, and each of these opportunities slightly terrified me.

Most recently, I appeared on Fox 32 in Chicago. This was a huge opportunity, in the third largest American TV market. At the appointed time, made up and well-coiffed, (thanks Michelle!) I dialed in. My face popped up at the top of the screen and I watched the meteorologist discuss the rain.

“We see you,” said the anonymous chat box. “We will do a sound check at the next break."

“OK” I typed into the void. I learned that the sun would be out tomorrow in Chicago.

A few more minutes later, a voice came on, “Hello Dr. Deguire. Sound check!”

“Hello!” I piped, to no response at all.

Suddenly, the camera was on me and the interview began. I felt out of my body, which seemed actually true, with my body in my Pennsylvania kitchen while my face magically appeared in Chicago. I talked about the fire, resilience, and the relevance of my story to 2020. The interview felt like a blink of an eye. (Watch it here.)

“Best one yet!” texted my friend Celeste, when it was over.

“Really? I hardly remember it. What was good about it?”

“You worked the title of the book into your answers. You were clear, concise, and said fewer “ums”.

“Oh, great. Great to know. I have no idea what even constitutes a good interview. I’m just answering questions as best I can." (Turns out that I. . . um. . . say a lot of “ums.”)

As my brushes with fame continue, every day brings a surprise. I have heard from friends of my brother, friends of my father, my mother’s cousins. One day I received a 3-page letter from an anonymous former patient of my mother. And I am hearing from strangers all over the country.

I have had numerous emails from other burned survivors, attesting to the pain that we have all endured. “Your book was like reading my life. Everything, the pain, the bandage changes, the bullying.”

Others have reached out to me. “I had an alligator mother too.”

“My father killed himself when I was five.”

Here is what I feared in releasing my book: judgment, scorn, rejection. It is scary to write a memoir, particularly a genuine one. It is scary to clearly lay out ones fault’s, wounds, and struggles. It’s scary to be honest about one’s family, knowing that others might find that honesty disloyal. It’s scary to be real in this world of fake news. Seriously, take a breath and imagine that level of vulnerability for yourself.

Here is what happened instead of the feared judgment: bonding. I have received letter after letter, and text after text, affirming deep human connection.

“Oh yes, that happened to me too. Thank you for writing it. It’s the same for me.”

“You wrote what I felt all my life. Thank you for putting it into words.”

“Thank you for bravely telling it like it is.”

Has there been criticism? A little. But mostly, there has been an outpouring of human connection, an appreciation for honest discussion of life’s vicissitudes and the grit it takes to survive.

This was my hope for the book. I think the world hungers for authentic discussion of how hard life can be, and the courage it sometimes takes to survive. Social media does us no favors, with endless posts of people implying perfection, bikini thin in their BMWs, with their three smiling perfect children. It is hard to have real conversations these days. But having real conversations is how we heal, through honest sharing about who we are and what we have been through.

Things are going well. Still, I have been tired.

“I’m so tired,” I complained, on the phone to my daughter.

My daughter Anna is pretty darn tired herself, working hard in her graduate program. But she is 21 and not 57, so she has more energy. In that moment, she also had more perspective.

“Mom, imagine if Flashback Girl came out, and… nobody liked it. Imagine if people were just being kind and saying, ‘How nice that you wrote your little book.’ Think how devastated you would have been if it had gone that way. Instead, you are getting all these interviews, and everyone is excited about the book. It’s great!”

Point taken.

So that’s my update from the trail. I am busy, the book is doing well, and starting to have the impact I hoped it would (and I’m a little tired). My dream now is for the book to find a bigger and wider audience. So, if anyone out there is friends with Oprah Winfrey (or should I say, @Oprah), please let me know.

That’s my dream for Flashback Girl. I think she would kick ass on Oprah.

Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is earning rave reviews and is

available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Newtown Book Shop and The Commonplace Reader

Staying Alive: Lessons from my Brother's Suicide

(Note: My brother, Marc-Emile Deguire, died on this day, October 16, 43 years ago. Although he has been gone for decades, he remains alive in my heart. My memoir, Flashback Girl, is dedicated to his memory, and he is one of the heroes of the book. Today, I reissue this blog, written last year, in his honor.)

***

Chances are, you never met my brother. There are still some people around who did, friends from high school, friends from college. Even now, 40 years later, friends of Marc’s contact me.

“He was the smartest person I ever knew.”

“He was my best friend.”

“People tell me I’m a genius, but I tell them they should have met Marc Deguire.”

I think Marc was destined to become a college professor. He was a masterful, if amateur, teacher. He patiently explained algebra to me when my math teacher failed. At the age of 16, he instructed his older cousin how to drive stick-shift. He attempted to teach our father how to pitch the family tent, but that was hopeless. My father couldn’t learn those kinds of things, but it surely wasn’t my brother’s fault. Marc should have graduated M.I.T., earned his doctorate in physics, and taught at a small liberal arts college. He could have inspired his students, coaching, advising, coaxing along, just like he did for me, his little sister. I can see him now, wearing a corduroy jacket, wire-framed glasses and a big wide smile.

But that is not what happened. What happened instead was that my brother, Marc-Emile Deguire, hurled himself out of the 16th story on the MIT campus, and plunged to his death. He was 19 years old.

My brother’s death is the single worst thing that ever happened to me. Now, as a psychologist, I spend far too many hours coaxing my precious clients back from the abyss of hopelessness and despair.

If you are feeling suicidal, I understand. Many people struggle to go on living at times; the feeling is not as unusual as we might pretend. Life is hard, much harder than we tend to admit to others. It is not uncommon to think that death could be a relief, in our darkest moments.

But hear me please; hear me loud and clear. Suicide is a terrible legacy for those you leave behind. I know this as a suicide survivor, and also as a clinical psychologist. The people who love you do not recover from a suicide. Sure, they go on. Sure, they will feel happiness again.

But the legacy of suicide is devastating. It is the awareness that the person chose to leave you that is hard to get past. Sometimes people feel that the suicidal person didn’t love them enough to keep trying. Sometimes they feel the person didn’t care enough to stay alive. Sometimes they feel horribly guilty for not saving the person. They wonder, forever, what they should have done differently. These thoughts and feelings don’t go away. The thoughts stay, firmly encamped.

Miraculously, some people survive jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. These people intended to kill themselves but wound up not dying. When they survived, unexpectedly, each one stated they felt joy to be alive and that they regretted jumping the instant their feet left the bridge. What were the thoughts of the jumpers who didn’t survive, as they plummeted toward the water. Did they also regret their choice?

Did my brother?

These are thoughts I bear in mind when working with clients. Misery can feel unbearable but it is not permanent. Excruciating moments can be survived. I offer hope that everything changes, awareness that misery is but a moment in time. I inform clients, again and again, that the legacy of their suicide will be a dark burden for their friends, family, and most importantly, their children. If worse comes to worse, I arrange hospitalization for clients, where they can be kept safe and secure until their despair lifts. And in the end, clients are always grateful they stayed alive. Misery passes, if you can hold on long enough. Everything passes, in time.

My brother didn’t have a therapist to guide him away from his plans. He didn’t have medication. He didn’t have a support group. He didn’t have a lot of things that he needed. I think he left me here with a job to do, and lessons to keep sending out:

1) Live your life. If the only thing you can do today is eat a little and brush your teeth, OK. Get some help. Keep going. We need you. It is not your time to go.

2) Never believe the thought “People will be better off without me.” That thought is a symptom of your despair. It is not an accurate thought. It is a symptom, like having a fever is a symptom of infection. Even if you are having a very hard time, no one will be relieved by your death. Really.

3) It is easy to give you hotline information (and here it is: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/). It is not as easy to climb out of a deep, dark hole. I recommend finding an excellent therapist and considering medication. I suggest daily exercise and getting outdoors. Learning meditation can be a lifesaver. Please call the friends and family who love you and let them know that you are struggling. There are many paths back to health. I have walked with a lot of clients on these paths, and I know that it is possible. You can feel hopeless one month and be full of joy the next. Truly.

When I was 12, I was complaining to my brother one day. He was 17 at the time.

“You’re so… special. I’m not. You’re this genius, everyone talks about you all the time and I’m like…nothing. All I am is… nice.”

My brother Marc looked at me very intently. There was a moment’s pause. His brown eyes shone with light and care. Gently, he replied, “But Lise, being nice is the most important thing of all.”

I don’t know what is the most important thing of all. I do know that it is important to stay alive. Breathe in, breathe out. Death will come eventually, and we will all figure out what happens then. In the meantime, please take care of yourself, and try to take care of the people around you. If you need help, get help.

Be like my brother in your compassion and your wisdom.

Be like my brother in your depth of knowledge and sincerity of character.

Be like my brother in your passionate love of family and friends.

But be like me in staying alive.

#resilience #mentalhealth #suicide #psychology #FlashbackGirl

Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is earning rave reviews and is

available for purchase on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. On October 18, please join the virtual

book release party for a discussion about the book and an author Q and A. Click here to receive a link for the event, which will be held from 7:00-8:00 PM, EST.

Why the Burned Girl Wears Short Sleeves

An old friend from college recently mentioned me to his pal, Karla. Apparently, Karla and I took psychology classes together, although I don’t remember her. She remembers me, however. (Let’s be clear: when you are the burned girl, everyone remembers you.) Karla told my friend that she always liked me, because I lit up the room with my enthusiasm. Then, she added, “I heard some other girls talking about her, though. They would say, ‘Why does she wear short sleeve shirts when she is scarred like that?’ I felt sorry for her.”

Time warps easily. These nameless girls, who criticized my clothing choices, made those comments 40 years ago. Still, when I heard about them, my heart sank. My heart sinks again, writing their words. Tears well in my eyes and my throat feels hot.

So, nameless girls, today is my opportunity to answer your question. You waited 40 years for the answer. Why do I wear short sleeve shirts? Why does any disfigured person wear what they wear? Let’s talk.

It is true that I appear less scarred the more I cover up. In the winter, wearing jeans, a sweater, and a scarf, you can barely tell I am scarred at all. Additionally, my COVID mask covers almost all my facial scars, so, that’s an unexpected 2020 bonus! Yes, I could walk through life, covered up, and no one would notice that I am burned. I have definitely been advised, more than once, that I look awesome in turtlenecks.

Perhaps I could wear a burka?

But, to answer your question, here are the reasons why I wear short sleeve shirts:

1) I get hot: Hopefully it is not a surprise to learn that burned people, being, you know, actual humans, sometimes feel hot or cold. What you may not know is that burned people often experience heat and cold more intensely. Third degree burned skin is not able to sweat, so I quickly become dangerously overheated. I also get cold quicker, due to the lack of subcutaneous fat, which was lost in the fire. So, I need a short sleeve shirt when it is hot, just to stay comfortable. Did you want me to faint in psychology class? I think not.

2) I like fashion: I am no model, and it feels ridiculous to say that I like fashion. Perhaps I should restate: I like not looking stupid. If it were 80 degrees out, and I wore a turtleneck sweater, as advised, I would look absurd. I would stand out in a different way, and then perhaps be criticized for wearing a sweater in the summer. If I am going to be criticized either way, I might as well be comfortable.

3) I am not thinking about it: I dress as I feel like dressing, which I assume is what most people do. I do not wake up every day, wondering how to hide my imperfections. This leads to #4:

4) I am not ashamed to be burned: I did not choose to be burned, and I wish that I weren’t. However, I am not ashamed to be burned. I was not burned because I am a bad person. In fact, you may find that burned people are often exceptionally kind and thoughtful people, because we have suffered, and it has deepened us. I wish I were not scarred, because being scarred is difficult. But I am not ashamed. Speaking of which. . .

5) Hiding one’s flaws increases shame: Whenever people hide something about themselves, their sense of shame will grow. When we allow ourselves to be truly known, shame melts away. Hiding scars only increases the sense of shame about having them. We imagine, if people only knew how we truly looked, they would reject us. By being open, I am more confident that I am liked for who I really am. (This hiding/shame dynamic applies to everything we hide about ourselves, not just scars. For more about shame and hiding, please watch this amazing Brene Brown TEDx talk: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psN1D...)

6) I imagine that I look nice: Perhaps I do look nice, and perhaps I don’t. People tell me that once they get to know me, they really don’t see my scars. So, I imagine that others might also like my new short sleeve shirt, and think it looks cute.

7) I gave up on looking normal: I am badly burned on two-thirds of my body. I am facially scarred. It is what it is. Being obsessed with looking “normal” would crush my soul. I concentrate instead on being kind, working hard, being responsible, and having my own style, such as it is. Looking normal stopped being an option when I was burned at four years old.

8) I assume the best in you: I assume that most people are accepting and warm. I assume that people see the best in me, as I try to see the best in them. So, I do not imagine that the girls in my psychology class are insulting me behind my back. I imagine that they are not thinking about me at all. I imagine that you are a nice person. Let me keep that assumption.

It is not easy to be different in this world. It is normal to notice people who look different, talk differently, ride in a wheelchair, etc. It is unrealistic to think that people won’t notice difference. That is how we are wired.

We can’t help noticing difference, but we can manage our responses. When you see someone who looks different, please smile and say hello. Do not stare. Do not quickly look away, as if they aren’t there. Believe me, we notice that. (Do you really think we don’t see when you quickly look away?) Instead, smile and say hello. You may find you enjoy the interaction.

When we reply “Hello,” you will feel, right away, that we are people just like you. In fact, we may be markedly kind and interesting people, because we have struggled and suffered mightily, and developed courage along the way. We might turn out to be great friends, people who will love you as you are. . . people who don’t care what shirt you wear.

Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is earning rave reviews and is

available for purchase on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. On October 18, please join the virtual

book release party for a discussion about the book and an author Q and A. Click here to receive a link for the event, which will be held from 7:00-8:00 PM, EST

#BreneBrown, #phoenixsociety #resilience #burns

The Best Zoom Party Ever

For three intense years, I have been feverishly writing, speaking, blogging and preparing to publish my book Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience From a Burn Survivor. Some weeks have been exhilarating, and some have been crushing. Last week was the most exhilarating of all, because my book was finally released.

Caryn, my dear friend of 40 years, advised, “Don’t forget to celebrate this accomplishment.”

“Right,” I replied quickly, already distracted by the next email on my list.

“I’m serious. This is a big deal. You have worked very hard on it, and you should savor the moment.”

“I know. You are right. I’m just so busy.”

“I will throw you a party. Let me do that for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I would love to.” COVID 19 has crushed party options for most of us, but Caryn would not be deterred. “We will have a Zoom party. Tell me who you want to invite.”

There will be future events for Flashback Girl. A local bookstore is co-hosting a large Zoom book release party, with an author Q & A, and press. I will host a backyard book signing soon. But this first event was extra special, so I thought awhile. I decided to invite. . . people who were in the book. Perhaps it was not an exact replica. There may be some living people in the book who were not at the party, and some people at the party who were not in the book. Nevertheless, a representative quorum was achieved.

At 5:00, I gazed at my screen, transfixed, as each dear face appeared. My heart thudded, seeing all my dear ones come together, at a party which never would have occurred, if it weren’t for Zoom.

Almost every best friend I ever had attended the call. To be clear:

My best friend from 1-4th grade, who lives in Los Angeles.

My best friend from 4th-8th grade, whom I haven’t seen in 20 years.

My best friend from 8th grade.

My best friends from 9th grade, whom I haven’t seen in 30 years.

My best friend from 10th grade.

My college roommate.

My other best friends from college, graduate school, my first job, and so on. 24 faces crowded onto my screen, laughing, toasting, and occasionally weeping.

Because of our friendship, many of these people had heard of each other. Because of my book, many of them now knew exactly who each other were. Some of these friends had their own memorable mini stories in Flashback Girl . Thus, my dear friend, Susan introduced herself, saying “I’m proud to be the cloth monkey” and everyone nodded.

Hilariously, my first-grade best friend, Michael, declared, “OK, I’m the Dream of Jeannie boy!” and we all erupted in laughter.

Voice cracking, I introduced Karen as the girl who slept on the floor next to me the night my brother, Marc, died. At one point, I did a reading from the book about the deep value of friendship. This reading focused on Cindy, my MIT friend who cared for me after Marc’s death. I wanted everyone to know who she was.

“Cindy, please wave!”

Cindy, whom I haven’t seen in 35 years, her long black hair now a shining silver, smiled her arresting smile and waved at the group.

This hour was one of the highlights of my life and I will never forget it. It was like attending my own funeral but obviously, a whole lot better. We talked about the book. My friends all met each other. They also shared with me things that I never knew.

You see, from my perspective, these friends saved me. Their kind hearts, devotion, and wisdom carried me through the desolation of my childhood injury, disfigurement, bullying, my family’s collapse, my parents’ neglect, and four suicides. My friends carried me. That is how I always perceived it.

To them, it turns out, I brought optimism, hope and grit. Because I was genuine, without pretense, they were also able to be genuine and without pretense. Because I was so attached to them, they experienced the comforting gravitational pull of attachment. Because I was grieving, they felt safe to grieve. Plus, you know, we had fun.

This was no ordinary group. Each one took a few minutes to say how they knew me and to share a memory or a wish. My friend Celeste prepared written remarks ahead of time, complete with a Joseph Campbell quote and mythological references. I imagined the others coming after her thinking, “Hmm, prepared remarks, I should up my game.” But, no worries. This group was comprised of physicians and attorneys, social workers and professors, editors and principals. A more impressive, articulate, heartfelt bunch would be hard to find.

After the call, I fell into my husband's arms, so overcome with emotion that I felt out of my body. I stayed there a long time. “What an amazing group of people!” said Doug.

“Well, what kind of people are going to befriend the disfigured, scarred burned girl? That attracts a certain kind of person, someone who has depth and substance. Someone who looks beyond the surface.”

Flashback Girl has many themes. I write about burns, disfigurement, and surgery. I write about family dysfunction and neglect. I write about depression and suicide. I write about hope, joy and fulfillment. I even write about monkeys, alligators, and musicals. And repeatedly, I write about friendship because I know that friendship, these friends, saved me.

Life can be brutal, yes. But also, we can save each other.

Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor is earning rave reviews and is available for purchase on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Dear Readers,

I know some of you very well, and some of you I've never met. I connected with some of you in first grade, and some of you at a professional conference this winter. Regardless of how well or how long we have known each other, I thank you for reading this blog.

This blog will be short and sweet, as will the next one. My book, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience From a Burn Survivor, is being released on September 15, and I am very busy. In fact, I now hover two steps away from an anxiety attack on a daily basis.

I am gaining traction. I will be interviewed on The Pulse, a weekly radio program on NPR (WHYY airdate 10/2/20). I have been asked to write a blog for Psychology Today and will be a contributing editor for three websites: Thrive Global (Arianna Huffington’s new gig), The Elephant, and Best Ever You. Consequently, these blog pieces are about to have a much wider audience. I have an article coming out in Authority Magazine. I will be featured again in Burn Support News in the fall. Next week, I am being interviewed for two podcast (Empower Humans and The Hidden Why) next week. Plus. . . we shall see. . . a lot is happening.

All of this activity arose from a simple wish, three years ago, to write my life story.

I have no idea what will happen with this book. I hope it gets a big splash, but maybe it won’t. I hope readers will like it, but maybe they won’t. All I can do is work hard, gather experts around me, and do what they ask me to do. I would like the book to gain steam, not just for me, but because it is an authentic and inspiring story of surviving impossible odds, and still building an excellent life. The book also contains lessons at the end of each chapter, to connect deeper with others who are struggling. Between the lessons and the inspiration of the story, I think this book is perfectly timed for 2020, a year of universal hardship, loss and pain.

There have been times over the past three years that I have wondered why I am doing any of this. There have been dark days, when my work has been rejected. There have been anxious days, when I had no idea what the heck I was doing. Those of you who have reached out to me, telling me that you like my work, or that my writing has helped you. . . I can’t tell you how much your comments have helped me to keep my chin up.

All my life, helpers have appeared just when I needed them. I have been very lucky in this way. So, friends, if you wish to help now, here are some ideas:

1) You can buy Flashback Girl here:

2) If you like the book, please consider writing a short review on Amazon here.

3) If you like the book, and are a member of Good Reads, please consider writing a short review here.

4) If you don’t like the book, (perish the thought), please feel free to skip suggestions 2 and 3 altogether.

5) I will be announcing a Virtual book launch party soon. I hope you will celebrate with me! (Details to be announced; to receive an invitation, I need your email, so please join the mailing list on this website.)

6) Tell your friends, tell your family. . . enthusiastic word of mouth travels fast and wide.

It is time for Flashback Girl to don her little yellow cape and attempt to fly. If she does fly far, it is partly due to people who have shown an interest, given advice, offered connections, shared a blog, or simply clicked “Like.” As you will read in the book, I survived my childhood due to the loving support of many people who took a special interest in the little burned girl. Many strangers, friends, nurses, doctors, therapists, neighbors. . . many people have helped me thrive and shine.

I sincerely thank you for your support.

Truth and Dare

Three years ago, it was my 50th “Burniversary,” burned people’s word for the anniversary of their fire. To "celebrate", I conducted an impromptu Google search which led me down a rabbit hole - I discovered that my parents' story about my fire was not. . . well. . . exactly true. I slumped in front of my laptop, mouth agape.

All my life, I had been told that my mother put lighter fluid on a charcoal grill, but the coals did not light. So, she squirted more lighter fluid on the coals. This time, a tiny flame traveled backwards into the can of lighter fluid and exploded, burning my mother and four-year-old me. The flame shot back in the can because the lighter fluid was not properly packaged, lacking a “flashback arrestor.” My parents blamed the company for the “accident” my whole life.

“That lighter fluid was canned improperly, Lise, that’s what happened. The lighter fluid company didn't package their product safely and they knew it. That’s how you got burned.”

All of this did happen. But it turns out that my mother didn’t squirt lighter fluid on those coals. Instead she used a highly flammable paint solvent which, perhaps, she thought was lighter fluid. To be clear though, the solvent was not lighter fluid and this flammable solvent had no business being anywhere near a charcoal grill. This, then, is what caused the explosion: a misused flammable solvent, poor fire safety choices, and the lack of a flashback arrestor.

I discovered this three weeks before my mother was scheduled to die. I knew she was going to die in three weeks (That is a whole other story. . . covered in the book).

“Are you going to talk to her about it?” asked my husband.

“About the solvent? About why they called it lighter fluid?”

“Yes. It’s your only chance. She won’t be here long.”

I thought about it. I did want to know why she had poured a paint solvent on a fire, instead of lighter fluid. Did she know? And I really wanted to understand why they had always told me it was lighter fluid. However, my mother had a degenerative speech condition which made it difficult for her to talk. The chance that she could meaningfully answer seemed dim. I didn’t think she could do it physically, and I didn’t think she could do it emotionally. My mother was not one to acknowledge mistakes, at least not hers.

“What’s the point? It won’t go well. It will just upset her, which will upset me, because she won’t be sorry. She will make it seem like I am being difficult, somehow ridiculous. No. I’m not going to ask her.”

And I didn’t.

Three weeks after my mother died, after we held her service and cleaned out her apartment, I began to write my book. I had never written a book before. I had no idea what I was doing.

Words poured out of me like water gushing from a garden hose. I woke up and wrote. I wrote every morning before work. I wrote every weekend. I gave up exercising and reading so I would have more time to write. I wrote like a liberated woman, which is what I was. I finally felt liberated to tell my story.

For 50 years, I withheld my life stories. I held back those stories because I knew my parents would be mad at me if I told them. My stories are not the same as their stories. In their stories, they were gifted and brilliant, sexy and fun. And my parents were indeed all those things. But they didn’t keep us safe, me and my brother. They meant to (and it is not always easy to be an effective parent). It is even harder to be an effective parent if you are absorbed with your own needs, to the point that you can’t prioritize your children. . . to the point that you can’t see that your children are suffering. . . to the point that your children are in grave danger and you. . . look away.

What are these stories? There is casual carelessness. There is neglect and abandonment. Also, fun and adventure. Music and travel. Stunning genius (them! Not me). Tragic suicides, searing pain, and more loss. Emotional healing and rebirth. Plus, you know, that flashback fire.

Tension burns a different kind of fire inside me now. Who am I to share these secrets? Is it wrong? Will I regret this? Am I a bad girl, daring to speak ill of my parents, whom I also love? And yet. . .

I need to speak the truth about what I have gone through. I need to tell the truth about my brother and how I lost him. I need to speak the truth for my own wholeness and for the blessed memory of my brother, Marc. I survived my childhood; he did not.

Far beyond my own need to be true, I believe the truth helps people. Many people have suffered through stories like mine, and much worse. Those of us who suffer and get well can build a recovery roadmap for those who suffer now. Our roadmaps can point others toward the direction of healing. I hope my roadmap can help people trying to heal from tragedies and build themselves a better life.

Fifty-four years ago, I was burned in a devastating fire. Three years ago, I discovered the true story of that fire. Three years ago, I also lost my mother, the last member of my first family. Less than one month from now, my memoir will be published. In the meantime, I would like to share this podcast that I recently recorded for the Phoenix Society for Burn Survivors. We had an engaging discussion about resilience and how people can deepen their capacity to thrive after struggle. I hope you find it helpful. https://www.phoenix-society.org/resources/unlocking-your-capacity-for-resilience

Note: The author’s book, Flashback Girl: Lessons on Resilience from a Burn Survivor, will be released on September 15, 2020. Click here to pre-order the Kindle edition: https://www.amazon.com/Flashback-Girl-Lessons-Resilience-Survivor-ebook/dp/B08D7YLKGT. Click here to pre-order the paperback: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/flashback-girl-lise-deguire/1137501586?ean=9781734932003