Sheila Flaherty's Blog, page 5

In Gratitude for Good Men

Last week I wrote about the importance of women in my life—especially as supporters of my book, East of Mecca, and of me in my relatively new career as a writer. This week I want to acknowledge the critical role men have played in my life as a writer—and to express my gratitude.

It was a man who first suggested that my story be told as a movie, after hearing my experiences in Saudi Arabia. The idea appealed to me as a way of accomplishing my mission to enlighten a large audience about the appalling circumstances of women living within the Kingdom. I decided to tell the story in a way that would create a sense of empathy for those who live their lives hidden beneath veils and behind walls.

I immediately enrolled in evening screenwriting courses at Northwestern University and began formulating the script. There were ten of us in the class, and our screenplays were as different in genre as were our ages and backgrounds—young men writing comedy, a middle-aged woman writing mystery, several young women writing romance, a burly former cop writing a detective thriller, and me writing drama. Every week in class, we shared what we had written. The night I knew for sure that I was on the right track was when the ex-cop proclaimed, “This is definitely not a chick-flick!”

Just as I wanted to write East of Mecca in a way that observed and presented the abuses fundamental to oppression without blaming Islam, I wanted to illuminate the negative repercussions of skewed power dynamics in relationships—wherever they occur—without bashing men. Feedback from the male perspective was invaluable to my process.

Over the many years of writing and rewriting East of Mecca as a novel—I had the continued support of my husband, sons, and male writing group buddies. During the creation process, many of my readers were men, some who also read and reread as part of my editing team.

My webmaster is a man, who was also part of my creative team (photographer, cover designer, and interior book designer) when time came to actually publish. Three of my four endorsements were men.

Since my book came out, I’ve had many male readers. Old and new friends, former high school classmates, and total strangers have bought the book and supported me through comments, thoughtful feedback, and comprehensive reviews on Facebook, Amazon, and Goodreads. The majority of book clubs I’ve been invited to attend were comprised only of women, but two included men with many insightful, sensitive comments. My husband, son, friends, current and former male patients have attended my presentation at the Evanston Public Library, my launch at Women and Children First, and my reading at the Book Cellar.

For all these men and their support, I am forever grateful. Over the past year, when I’ve spoken about the horrifying experiences of women in Saudi Arabia and other areas of the Middle East (including honor killings, child marriages, and female genital mutilation), I am always asked, “Do you think it will ever change for the better?”

My answer is, “I hope so.” But I know that for real change to occur it will take courageous men of all ages adding their voices to the chorus of those speaking up for the rights of all women and girls everywhere—and demanding an end to the pandemic violence against women and girls.

It will take men like the ones who have supported my journey as a writer, and who have chosen to help me accomplish my mission by reading and promoting East of Mecca. I am honored to have these good men in my life. If women everywhere were as fortunate—the world would be a kinder and safer place for us all.

TONIGHT

Finally, I invite you attend a special reading from my novel East of Mecca tonight at The Book Stall in Winnetka, Tuesday, Sept. 30 at 7:00 p.m. More information about the event can be found here.

The Power of Sisterhood

I am so grateful for the women in my life. On Facebook last week, I saw this post: “There is no better friend than a sister. And there is no better sister than you. Happy Sister’s Day.” I reposted, and since I don’t have biological sisters, I dedicated it to my “soul” sisters. At that point I was thinking of my closest friends, the women I consider to be the sisters I never had. Since that moment, I have given it much more thought—and I realize that I have more than a family of sisters. I have an army of sisters—a sisterhood.

Throughout my life, I’ve had strong female role models. Both my grandmothers were intelligent, hard workers. My mother was a bookkeeper, working to support her family and then herself until she was eighty. During my education and training to become a psychologist, my professors, mentors, and supporters were mostly female. And the same has been true in my relatively new career as a writer.

After a quick skim through my acknowledgements in East of Mecca, I’m reminded of all the women (and men!) who were part of the very long journey to get the book written and published. Now that it has been out for a year, I could easily add a hundred new people to that list—mostly women. All three bookstores that have sponsored my readings (Women and Children First, The Book Cellar, and The Book Stall) are women-owned. Women—including family, old friends, new friends, neighbors, patients, acquaintances, and strangers—are reading, reviewing, recommending, and rallying around East of Mecca in so many ways.

I’ve had wonderful endorsements from the Woman’s Club of Evanston, with support from and proceeds going to the YWCA of Evanston. And I’ve felt privileged to be featured as an “author package” for several fundraisers around Chicago. In exchange for donating some books and my time, I’ve been welcomed into the homes of lovely women who are passionate about supporting worthwhile causes. Two women from these fundraisers, Beth and Beverly, have been super-active in spreading the word about my novel, including promoting East of Mecca for a possible award nomination.

Last week, a former high school classmate contacted me to buy a couple of books.Brenda had seen a picture and recommendation about East of Mecca on Facebook that had been posted by another friend, Nellie. I called Brenda to discuss the details and we had a lovely talk. Aside from seeing each other at a high school reunion in 2011, it had been forty-eight years. And now here she is, supporting my book and happy for me.

Saturday afternoon, I stopped by Perennials gift shop in Evanston to drop off flyers for my upcoming reading. There, I got a warm, welcoming hug from Patty, the owner. A year ago, carrying only my proof, I’d gone into her store to buy ribbon to match the colors on the cover because I wanted to give copies as gifts. Patty asked to see my book then asked where she could buy it. The next day I delivered her a copy and within a week she had read it and asked if I would attend her book club meeting after the members had also read it. Not only was Patty the very first person to buy my book who didn’t know me, hers was the very first book club I attended!

One of my greatest joys has been attending book club meetings to discuss my novel. The most recent was last Thursday night on the Chicago Gold Coast. Pam, the hostess, had purchased the author package I’d donated to the Loyola Ramble fundraising event last Spring, and graciously opened her beautiful home to me and all sixteen of her book club members. The lavishly set table was surrounded with vibrant, intelligent, and kind women who are dedicated to promoting good in the world. All were moved by the story and promised to help spread the word.

Between Patty’s and Pam’s, I’ve attended eight other book clubs—including one in Texas that I skyped into. All had lovely, bright, insightful women for whom East of Mecca resonated on many levels. And I so appreciate each and every one of them for taking the time to read my novel and graciously inviting me into their homes to discuss it. The outpouring of love and support I’ve received has made me stronger and braver than I ever thought possible. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I’ve now met many women from different walks of life and have learned so much from their responses to the book—how they were enlightened, their relatable personal experiences, and what most inspired them. I’ve learned that connections are being made between women as a result of their having read East of Mecca. I’ve heard a chorus of women’s voices joined in protest against abuse of women and girls wherever it occurs. Mostly, I’ve learned that we, as women everywhere, are truly all more alike than we are different.

The power and influence of women is without equal! I am ever grateful to those who are passing along my book and doing all they can do to get the story out into the world—all who have chosen to walk the path with me and help me accomplish my mission by promoting my novel. These women are now part of my “soul” sisterhood—and I am honored to be part of theirs.

*** A note to ALL my many male supporters…I love you, too. Today was about my soul sisters…I will write about you, too!

Finally, I invite you attend a special reading from my novel East of Mecca at The Book Stall in Winnetka, Tuesday, Sept. 30 at 7:00 p.m. More information about the event can be found here.

What Shrinks Know (#17): The Importance of Survival Instincts

“The instinct to survive is human nature itself,

and every aspect of our personalities derives from it.”

~Robert A. Heinlein

Because my last blog post was the hardest and most personal I’ve written, I had to step back and take some breathing room before following up. I’d struggled with opening up—being so vulnerable and disclosing. As a shrink, I walk a fine line. Over the years, I’ve selectively shared my stories with patients when they’ve felt relevant to healing. But I’m still new to sharing my most personal experiences with others, especially in a public forum.

On the day my last post came out, three people unsubscribed before noon. I’ve tried not to let that matter, but of course it does! My “unsubscribers” reinforced the messages most of us get about what we should not talk about. But statistics support the importance of talking about depression and suicide. Nearly 40,000 Americans die by suicide every year, and it is the second leading cause of death for ages 10-24. If we want to better understand depression and help lower these appalling statistics it is time to be brave, step up, and join the chorus.

Aside from the three people who unsubscribed, I had remarkable validation for what I’d written—through personal messages, conversations, and comments. The post on my Facebook author page had a record 631 viewers and I had two new subscribers to my blog. The most common comment I got was “Thank you.”

Below are some of the others:

~From women who were classmates of mine at Mesquite, addressing the need for education and discussion:

“It is such a shame that in that era, when we grew up, we were taught not to tell—not to discuss, etc. We need each other now, but we needed each other then, too. Patty, nor any of us would have been equipped to help you.”

“It saddens me to know you were ever victim of such despair…I was friends with that 16yr old. We conceal our internal pains well. As you say, even the worst can be survived and life become full and rewarding. I hope your message reaches someone needing that confirmation.”

“Our parents’ generation thought it was very important that things should not be discussed outside the home. What would other people think if they found out? My parents were that way. And people who were depressed should just get over it.”

~From someone who has suffered from depression throughout her adult life and contemplated suicide, addressing the value of perspective:

“You know, and I know that if you can remember/feel/believe/see that there really might be some light at the end of the desperation tunnel…it gives you something to hold on to for tomorrow, and the next day and the next day.”

~From others relating personally and addressing the need for understanding the complexities of depression and suicide:

“Thank you for sharing. You continue to help me understand the complexities of this epidemic. For the masses and on a personal level.”

“I like that someone acknowledges the “complexity” of it. That word says a million things.”

“I tried the same thing at about the same age…you’re brave to put it public!”

“The quote used really affected me. Often the most fun people in our lives are the ones in the most pain.”

~A personal message from the mother of a young man who died by suicide made it worth it for me to have told my story:

She told me I helped her understand that, “He didn’t to this TO us, he did it FOR himself.” She said reading my blog articles “made a difference in my life this evening. A lovely difference.” Beautiful words from a courageous woman.

I was also asked by a good friend to share how I survived those dark times as an adolescent. “What helped you get through it? To get to the other side?”

Just as I had to go back and piece together the complex circumstances surrounding my suicide attempt, I had to do the same thing to discover what helped me survive depression. In doing so, I was surprised to see that, at sixteen, I instinctively took actions that were self-empowering. I recognized what I had control over and I took action. That time in my life led to the three things I still find to be most empowering—those I use in my life and teach my patients, and those that saved my life when I was living in Saudi Arabia.

The importance of meaningful interpersonal contact.
The importance of physical exercise.
The importance of productivity.

Life isn’t always easy. I’ve lived an interesting and complicated life—surviving accidents, cancer, divorce, financial disaster, losses of friends and family, heartbreak, and sorrows I never imagined I could survive. The gifts of time and perspective allow me to recognize all I would have missed had I not survived at sixteen. I have had so many incredible experiences and I have so much love in my life.

And life continues to unfold for me in amazing ways. Last Monday I had an exciting experience I hope to be able to share sometime soon. Friday night I attended a book club and met fifteen lovely women who had read my novel. And Thursday night I saw Garth Brooks live in concert! But, most important, every day I have the profound joy of knowing I am able to touch the lives of others in a meaningful way. I am grateful.

Please read my blog post, Silence for ways to be with and help those who are grieving.

Please contact the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention www.afsp.org for more information on understanding, preventing, and coping with suicide loss.

*****

If you wish to read more of my story on how I made it through, please read my piece title After the Storm.

*****

Finally, I invite you attend a special reading from my novel “East of Mecca” at The Book Stall in Winnetka, Tuesday, Sept. 30 at 7:00 p.m. More information about the event can be found here.

What Shrinks Know (#16): The Complexity of Suicide

I attempted suicide when I was sixteen. Over the almost fifty years since, I have told very few people. I’ve only shared when the importance of disclosure felt greater than my desire for privacy. I have shared with others who have survived suicide attempts. I’ve also shared with those in danger of succumbing to their suicidal urges—when the sharing of my personal experience would have more impact than my professional experience—when it might save a life.

Suicide is not a conversation-friendly topic. Like most provocative subjects, it makes people uncomfortable and can generate rigid opinions. But, there has never been a greater need for education on the complexities of suicide. One thing shrinks know for sure about suicide is that it is contagious. Hotlines and ERs have been on high alert since Robin Williams committed suicide. If someone who has so much going on for him cannot go on living, why should I? Maybe opening the discussion is Robin’s last gift to us—not through laughter, but through tears.

We who grieve Robin’s suicide are on a quest for answers as to Why? That’s often the case for survivors of suicide—those left behind. We want to understand. Sometimes the answers are clear, but most times they are not. Grief is complicated by unanswered questions.

I’ve called suicide the most selfish and narcissistic of all acts—because it is at that point the pain is so overwhelming that it overshadows any thought of the consequences of one’s actions on anyone else. The mind in pain gets sneaky and deceitful, rationalizing how others will be better off without the burden of you, the depressed nonfunctioning one. The only way to imagine feeling suicidal without having experienced it is to try to remember the torture of your most intense physical pain, and how you would have done anything to escape it—with little or no regard for anyone else.

My first thought when hearing about Robin’s suicide and his history of depression, was how much pain he must have been suffering. I hurt for his family and loved ones and I hurt for him. Depression is ruthless. It robs you of your capacity for joy while magnifying the smallest hurts. It steals your energy, leaving you exhausted and making any effort to find comfort feel impossible. It isolates you at the very time you most need human contact. It alternately churns your thoughts and emotions like a high-speed blender, or leaves you curiously devoid of feelings. It has many different faces and manifests with a variety of symptoms. Depression is a heavy, dark, cloak.

Depression alone is bad enough, but when stress is added to the mix the risk of suicide increases. For Robin, the diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease may have been the stressor that pushed him over the edge. Stress adds the “I’m coming out of my skin” factor—the urgency to escape what feels inescapable. The hopelessness of the situation and helplessness to effect change leads people take the leap that those who’ve never been there cannot possibly understand. It is at that time suicide feels like the only solution to a problem that feels permanent.

When I’ve held those sobbing in deep despair, who have just barely survived a suicide attempt, or who are on the brink of making one, and shared my story with them—it was not a “textbook” intervention. It came from a place of deep empathy and intuition. It was the only thing I could do at the moment. And it has worked. I could tell them honestly that life does get better. And that there are many joys and surprises awaiting them once we get them past the pain. And they could see me and trust me and believe it to be true. My wish in sharing my story with you, my readers, is that it will help even one of you heal in some small or huge way.

*****

Over the years, when I have shared my suicide attempt, I’ve often said I don’t even remember why. There was no one major event I recall with certainty. This week, I went back, searching for clues. Trying to make sense of what I tried to neatly file away—hoping my search can give me some peace—while helping my readers who are grieving or struggling to more clearly understand the complexity of suicide. If you wish to read my story, please read my piece entitled “Silent Echoes.”

What Shrinks Know (#15): Life Lessons Suck

On July 25th my purse was stolen, and I’ve been locked in a tangle of emotions ever since. The only things that help are all the lessons I’m learning, and sharing my story with everyone I can so maybe it won’t happen to them.

I’ve never considered myself the victim of a crime before. Two years ago, my Rav4 was vandalized—a window smashed in a grab and run. All I lost were a bright pink coin purse holding a few dollars in change, and the hundred dollars and time required to replace the window. I wasn’t happy, but it felt like such a random, spontaneous act that it was easy to move past. And my favorite tooled-leather coin purse remained buried deep in the console, so I didn’t feel any sentimental loss. The only losses were time and money. The lesson learned was never leave anything valuable in plain sight.

The theft of my purse was neither random nor spontaneous. It was a deliberate act perpetrated by a team of professional thieves. It has cost me time and money, peace of mind, and great sentimental loss. Suddenly I understand the experience so many robbery victims relate—that of feeling violated. And I also realize that the process of recovery is much like the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

At noon on the 25th, my husband Barry and I met our friend, Patti, for a music program at Fourth Presbyterian Church on Michigan Avenue, downtown Chicago. It had been an exciting morning. One of my “human angels” had secured me tickets for an upcoming Garth Brooks concert, after I had abandoned all hope. I was filled with joy!

After the program, we walked to a French restaurant on North Wabash and sat at an outside table. A tall, bamboo hedge separated us from the sidewalk, and directly behind me was a concrete wall. There was no place to put my purse, so I set it on the floor between my chair and Barry’s, four feet from the sidewalk. I was aware of one small, narrow opening to the sidewalk, but figured no one could possibly reach my purse through that space. Yet, I kept looking down, checking that my purse was still there.

LESSON ONE: If you’re feeling anxious, pay attention. I should have picked up my purse, even if I had to hold it on my lap.

I discovered the loss at 2:45 PM as we rose to leave. At first I didn’t believe my purse was gone. I kept staring at the spot as if it would suddenly reappear. And I searched all around and under the table, although I knew the purse had remained in one place throughout lunch.

As realization set in, things got frantic. Barry recalled noticing a well-dressed man loitering outside the bamboo hedge looking our way. He set out to try to find him. Patti headed in the opposite direction to check wastebaskets and bushes in case my purse had been tossed somewhere. The restaurant owner pointed out surveillance cameras belonging to Loyola University. I was on the phone with the Chicago police when two Loyola policemen arrived. They took a report, then rushed back to their office to check security films.

Meanwhile, Chicago police told me to start calling my credit card companies, notify them of the stolen cards and ask if there had been recent charges. I mentally went through all the credit and debit cards in my wallet and wrote them down. Then began the frustrating and arduous task of calling information for numbers, navigating automated systems to find real people to talk to, and giving them enough information to locate my accounts.

LESSON TWO: Keep your phone separate from your purse.

LESSON THREE: Put customer service numbers and the last four account numbers of all your credit cards in your phone contacts.

Four of my five cards already had charges on them. Close to six thousand dollars had been racked up in less than an hour in stores including Best Buy, Macy’s, Nordstrom, Nordstrom Rack, and Banana Republic.

LESSON FOUR: Do NOT carry more cards than you need.

Both Patti and Barry showed up empty-handed, but the Loyola Police returned with good news.  Surveillance video captured the thief on his hands and knees, using a hook to grab my purse. He tucked it into a bag, stood up and walked away. It was the same man Barry had noticed standing outside the hedge.

LESSON FIVE: If you notice someone loitering nearby, be aware of whatever belongings they might be checking out. This guy didn’t appear to be a threat, but professional thieves don’t always look like thieves. (Judging by where they shop, the thieves are better dressed than I am!)

After collecting the names and numbers of the Loyola Police we went to the closest Chicago police station to file a report. The officer on duty asked for the description and value of my purse. (A three year old, ratty cloth Baggallini worth no more than $30!) It was when she asked for contents of my purse and wallet, that I began to comprehend my losses. There was the little notebook given to me by a dear friend. I’ve carried it since last October and have no idea of all the information jotted inside over the past nine months. And my case with “Wine Princess” on the outside, filled with business cards.

Inside my wallet were my driver’s license, all my medical and automobile insurance cards, AAA and American Psychological Association membership cards. In addition to approximately $75 in cash were a Starbucks card, a $100 gift card to a local spa, and two $50 American Express gift cards. Folded into a tiny square was a hundred dollar bill I always kept “just in case.” It was tucked into a small silk Chinese pouch and zipped away in the coin compartment.

LESSON SIX: Don’t carry excess cash, and don’t carry gift cards unless you intend to use them that day.

Also tucked into the silk pouch was a pair of earrings my son Jeff gave me when he was five. They were large, brass, gracefully curvy triangles engraved with delicate designs. For many years they were my favorite earrings. Whenever I flew, I wore them to ensure a safe flight, calling them my “lucky earrings.” I wore them until I wore them out. It was then I started carrying them in the Chinese silk pouch. The earrings have no monetary value, but they are irreplaceable. Of all the things I lost when my purse was stolen, the earrings are the only things I grieve.

LESSON SEVEN: Don’t carry anything you can’t bear to lose.

The officer at the police station was kind and sympathetic. She said sometimes purses and wallets turn up because thieves don’t want to be caught with them. “After they take the cards and cash and go through all your stuff, they throw them away.” The idea of strangers going through my “stuff” makes me shudder. I still pray my discarded wallet will show up someday—and that my earrings, somehow overlooked, will return to me.

Over the past two weeks I’ve had to replaced my driver’s license, file an additional police report for the fraudulent use of my credit cards, call every card company with police report numbers and the names of investigating detectives, wait for new cards to arrive, activate the cards, and record the new information. I’ve had to file a fraud report with the three credit bureaus, notify automatic withdrawals of new information, and talk to police and creditor investigators.

LESSON EIGHT: You must file separate police reports for the initial theft and the fraudulent use of your cards.

LESSON NINE: You must talk to the fraud department of all your credit card companies and give them your police report numbers so you won’t be held responsible for the charges.

Throughout it all, people have been kind, compassionate, and eager to help—from the owner of the restaurant, to the Loyola and Chicago police, to the woman at the parking garage who didn’t charge us the mandatory $100 “lost ticket” fee when we told her our story. Patti and Barry who dug through trashcans. My financial fraud Detective who gave me her cell phone number and lets me call her “Barbara.”

LESSON TEN: Look for the helpers. There are always helpers.

I’ve had nightmares, moments of panic, fits of indignation, and waves of intense sadness. I’ve raged and I’ve cried and I’ve told my story over and over again. I am amazed at how many people this has happened to, and how profoundly it impacted them. No matter HOW long ago it happened.

LESSON ELEVEN: If this happens to you, expect to go on an emotional roller coaster ride—and try not to beat yourself up. One of the Loyola Policemen told me, “This is the only time this has happened to you, but this guy has probably done it a thousand times.”

This ordeal is FAR from over and I know I’ll have more lessons to post in the future. Right now, I’m grateful to have the opportunity to share my experience in the hope it will save even one person from having to go through the same thing. Although I’m still sad, acceptance has begun to set in. And with acceptance of loss, comes the possibility of healing. Yesterday, I bought a new purse and have started looking for a new wallet. I no longer have my lucky earrings, but I have pictures and fond memories.

The thief robbed me of a lot of “stuff,” money, time, and peace of mind—and I hope he and his ring are caught—for my sake and the sake of others. But I refuse to give him any more of my emotional energy. He wrecked my afternoon on the 25th, but I will not let him steal any more of my joy!

 

What Shrinks Know (#14): Dreams Come True Outside Your Comfort Zone

“Don’t you sit upon the shoreline and say you’re satisfied.

Choose to chance the rapids and dare to dance the tides.”

~Garth Brooks

 A post is going around Facebook—a Venn diagram of two circles—one small and one large. The small tight circle is labeled “Your comfort zone.” Written inside the large expansive circle is “Where the magic happens.” Most Venn diagrams have intersections where the circles overlap, but this one does not. The two circles float independently in space. The lesson being—you have to get out of your comfort zone to find life’s magic.

We all understand the concept, right? As a shrink, I totally embrace (and preach) the value and necessity of doing things differently to achieve longed-for results. Fight your imprisoning fear! Break free of complacency! Embrace change! Get out of your comfort zone! How many times I’ve counseled others to “sit with the discomfort” of doing things differently!

However… as an inveterate introvert, I’m immensely satisfied staying safely within my own comfort zone. I’ve lived in the same house for thirty-one years, practiced psychology for thirty-two, and my longest friendships span forty-eight years. A creature of habit, I cling to my rituals. And I LOVE my life! I love my home, my career, and my friends. My personal comfort zone has been a rewarding place to reside. And, yet… there is the matter of the book I’ve written.

Even writing East of Mecca became a comfort zone of sorts. I worked on it in one form or another for twenty-five years. All along the way I held the vision of one day completing it and having it reach the masses. What I failed to visualize was how that would actually look. I imagined the story out there, but didn’t imagine myself out there! The picture of personally showing up and promoting the book would have filled me with terror. I imagined authoring the book, but never imagined being an author. And now I am.

To prepare for the release of East of Mecca and establish myself as a writer, I created my website in October 2012 and started writing blog posts. Being a private person, I’ve been taking tiny steps outside my comfort zone ever since. The responses have been rewarding and reinforcing, but I was able to stay somewhat incognito. Now that my book is published, I have to show up live and in-person. I have had to fight my fear and shyness—to sit with my discomfort— in order to follow my mission.

And—WOW! Leaving my comfort zone has indeed led me to magic! At this point I’ve spoken in front of large groups of strangers, something I never imagined being able to do. I’ve been enthusiastically welcomed into book clubs comprised of lovely people who have read East of Mecca and had insightful comments and questions. On the 25th of June, I had my official book launch at Women and Children First Bookstore where over seventy people showed up to support me and my work. The standing-room only crowd included family, new and long-time friends, current and former patients, and total strangers. Instead of anxiety, I felt the amazing energy, support, and love that filled the room. I felt awestruck and grateful. I felt joy. I felt the magic!

In the Venn diagram, the large expansive circle hovers high above the small tight circle—as if magic lifts us up like a helium balloon. I believe it does, because I’ve been floating in a cloud of gratitude ever since beginning this process. And every single step out of my comfort zone adds more helium to my magic zone! I feel as if I can do anything!

There are many lessons to be learned here. I know it will always be a push for me to show up in front of strangers. I know it won’t always be without “blips.” But I know I never want to stop feeling the awesome gratitude and joy that comes from achieving a long-time dream. And I have great satisfaction from being able to practice what I preach!

In my last blog post I spoke of the soundtrack I played incessantly during the process of writing East of Mecca. But since it came out in 1992, the song The River by Garth Brooks, has been part of the soundtrack of my life—especially while working to make my dream come true. It never fails to inspire me. I hope it does the same for you.

What Shrinks Know (#13): Creativity Can Look Like Madness

“I feel Yasmeen’s energy surrounding me

and I smell the sweet and bitter scent of Clementines.” - 

East of Mecca

Lately, I’m reminded why I write—why I write my blog and why I wrote my novel East of Mecca. One reminder came April 17. I was at a concert at SPACE, a local venue, when a woman asked if I was “Sheila.” When I said, “Yes,” she said she’d read my book and recognized me from my picture. This was the first time anything like this has happened to me, and I was surprised and pleased. She said lovely things about East of Mecca, but also told me how much she liked my blog posts—how they spoke to her on a personal level—that she recommended my blog to friends. Then she said, “You haven’t written much in a while.” I agreed, “It has been a while.” When I asked her name, I realized she had written a wonderful review on Amazon back in January, giving East of Mecca 5 stars. I thanked her, hugged her, and walked away feeling elated. Sherry Swaggart made my day!

While it felt cool to be recognized, and I was thrilled she loved my book, what impacted me the most was that Sherry found my blog to be personally relevant. That is what stayed with me—the importance of my mission to enlighten, inspire, and empower my readers.

I have also been reminded of my mission in a way that may sound “crazy.” Recently, I’ve often been aware of the scent of Clementines. It usually happens early in the morning, when I’ve just awakened, but haven’t stirred or opened my eyes. I sense energy— an almost imperceptible weight of a presence. “Yasmeen,” I think to myself. And I’m not alarmed.

Being a psychologist, I’ve always known the power of words—to heal and to hurt. But when I was writing East  of Mecca, I learned about the power of words in the form of story—to create and to conjure. I had a ritual around writing—usually at night after the world had gone dark and quiet. I poured a glass of red wine, lit candles, and slipped on my abaya and scarf. Sometimes I even fastened my khalakhil on my ankle. I put on Middle Eastern music and danced. Swaying to the music, I found myself back in the story and back in Saudi. Night after night, I performed this ritual. It was always the same—until it wasn’t.

One night, deep into the book, I was dancing in my living room. My eyes were closed and I was feeling the music and the passion of my story. Suddenly, I sensed a strong presence. I opened my eyes and in front of me was the transparent, shadowy silhouette of a woman in veils and abaya. I felt the energy and my heart raced. I felt chills, but I wasn’t cold. And I wasn’t afraid. But my cat Blue was! Before I could think I was imagining the form, Blue leapt from his spot on the sofa and raced up the stairs.

She stayed with me awhile, and then was gone. The scent of Clementines lingered in the room.

Writer’s often say, “My characters take on a life of their own.” That night I learned the extent to which that is possible. While Sarah’s story in my novel is inspired by my experiences, Sarah is fictional—as is Yasmeen. But Yasmeen represents all the women whose faces and bodies are shrouded in black and whose stories beg to be told. The brilliant author Khaled Hosseini said the women in his novel A Thousand Splendid Suns represent the “collective spirit” of the women he met while in Kabul, Afghanistan. His words are the perfect definition of the spirit of Yasmeen I have conjured—and of Sarah.

Since that night, I have often felt Yasmeen’s presence. When I got blocked and couldn’t write, I called on her help—and she appeared. When, of late, I’ve felt the weight of her energy and smelled the scent of Clementines, I’ve known she is reminding me to get back on my path—nudging me to get back to work pushing her story into the world. And I believe she is also telling me to keep writing my own stories. Because, thanks to all the feedback I’ve gotten from readers of my book and readers of my blog, like Sherry, I know my voice is heard.

Today, I put on Middle Eastern music, lit a candle, and wore my abaya and scarf as I wrote. Yasmeen came to me—and the words flowed for the first time in months.

What Shrinks Know (#12): The Alchemy of Joy

“Profound joy of the heart is like a magnet that indicates the path of life.”

 ~Mother Teresa

I am weary of winter—and I’m not alone! Thanks to polar vortexes, joy has been in short supply this season! Even those of us who normally enjoy the unique gifts of winter have had enough of snow and ice and wind and way below zero temperatures. How naïve, I think now, looking back to December 9, 2013—when I rewarded myself for shoveling with a snow angel!

Like most people in Chicago, I’ve spent the worst winter on record hunkered down indoors as much as possible. To venture out is to first spend an inordinate amount of time layering up to protect against the very real danger of frostbite! No long walks by the lake for me! My cross-country skis languish on the back porch because I’m far too thin-blooded to brave frigid temperatures for the joy of skiing. I’m locked in polar misery.

Saturday morning, it was a balmy 19 degrees when I drove to my Zumba class and joined a gathering of other die-hard Zumba-fanatics. In the midst of this crazy winter, those of us showing up for Suzy’s class enjoy an immediate sense of camaraderie. And Saturday, one of the women was celebrating her birthday, so Suzy had created a special playlist of her favorite songs. It felt like a party. And, moving my body to the music in the company of thirty other laughing, dancing, sweaty women—I felt joy.

Truthfully, we all yearn for joy—the most complicated and least understood of the eight basic emotions. What we know is that joy is a primal emotion. Our brains are hard-wired to experience it from birth—look at all the internet videos with laughing babies! Physiologically, the experience of joy delivers an adrenaline rush—like a runner’s high. Joy is the experience of really being alive and aware with all our senses. When we feel connected to another—or something greater than ourselves—joy can be experienced as spiritual. The feeling of joy is as addictive as it is elusive. Joy is the jackpot of emotions!

We all know the jumping-up-and-down exuberant joy when something we’ve longed for actually happens, or when surprised by a positive experience—but sometimes joy comes in the quiet realization that there is nowhere else we would rather be.

There are many definitions for joy—but no surefire recipes. The harder we try to create joy, the more likely it is to elude us. We seek joy, but most times it arrives unbidden. The secret to feeling joy more often is to combine as many key ingredients as possible, and hope that alchemy does the rest!

To find your unique ingredients, try this happiness exercise I created years ago:

Think about the times in your life when you were aware of being joyful at the moment you felt it. When there was a pinnacle of joy. It wasn’t in reflection, it was in the moment.
Write those times down. Don’t feel bad if there are only a few. Be grateful there are any. Write down all your happiest moments!
Deconstruct them to discover the various factors involved.
List the factors that were common to your experiences.
Mindfully create occasions in your life that incorporate as many factors as possible.
Be in the moment and surrender to the experience!

When I did this exercise, I found seven common factors in the most memorable joyous moments in my life. These are:

I’m with a person I love and trust.
There is laughter.
I’m outdoors in nature.
The location is outside my norm.
I’m engaged in a challenging (but not impossible!) physical activity.
All my senses are engaged.
And I am present in the moment.

Obviously, I can’t always be mountain climbing in a foreign country with someone I love who makes me laugh, but I can make choices! In the summer, I can go outside and ride my bike harder, faster, and farther than usual. In a normal winter, I can go cross-country skiing along the shores of Lake Michigan. Better yet, I can do it with a friend with whom I laugh. This winter, I can go to Zumba! Most important, when I do anything, I can mindfully engage my senses and be present in my body.

Each of us carries within us a compass that can lead us to happiness—even joy—if we only learn to read it. And it is our responsibility to build into our lives those things we can that make us happy. Even when we put all our factors in place, there is no guarantee that joy will show up. But there is a greater likelihood. And, at the very least, we’ve set the stage for happiness! We owe it to ourselves and those we love to do just that.

What Shrinks Know (#11): Some Wounds Never Heal

December 14, 2013

Today is a year since Sandy Hook. Friday, December 14, 2012, my husband and I were at the Christkindlmarket located in Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago. The open air old-world German market is a holiday tradition for us. We feast on bratwurst and potato pancakes and drink hot mulled wine and hot chocolate while navigating crowds of tourists and office workers on break. The atmosphere is festive. An enormous Christmas tree towers above colorful booths where mostly German vendors sell toys and holiday ornaments. Everywhere are delicious aromas of food and roasted candied nuts. There is a menorah, a nativity scene, and a Santa house. Entertainment includes brass bands, dance troops, and Christmas choirs. Music fills the air—along with the sound of children’s voices and laughter.

On Dearborn Street, directly across the street from Daley Plaza, a jumbo television screen is mounted on the side of a building. Last year at this time, breaking news of the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut was playing out on the screen. The story unfolded slowly and there was a continuous video-loop of terrified parents arriving at the scene and crying children being led from the school.

I remember it vividly. I couldn’t look away from the screen. It felt surreal—as I stood transfixed amongst the joviality of the market, being jostled by the crowd, watching as increasingly shocking information emerged. Traditionally, we buy a new ornament every year. Last year, I said I didn’t want one. I knew it would forever remind me of Sandy Hook. And that was before all the horrifying details were revealed—before the days and weeks of mourning that followed.

This year, I’ve had no desire to return to the Christkindlmarket. I know I’d find myself glancing toward the jumbo screen—my mind replaying what my eyes saw last year on this day. Maybe we’ll go next year. Maybe not.

In the meantime, I’ve researched as much as I can about how the Newtown community has dealt with the tragedy. Over the past year there have been memorial ceremonies, tribute concerts, candle-lit vigils, charities established, and playgrounds built. Green and white ribbons and bracelets have been worn in remembrance—for what will never be forgotten.

Heartbroken parents have bravely produced videos recording the lives of their lost children. The two I watched tore my heart out. One tells of “The Sandy Hook Promise” to build a safer future through finding “solutions to violence.” The other celebrates the power of LOVE over evil.

The Sandy Hook families, the Newtown community, our nation, and we as individuals ripped apart by this unspeakable tragedy will never really heal. This season of twinkling lights, pealing bells and Christmas carols will always hold painful reminders of the innocent lives lost that terrible December day. But the remarkable ability of the human spirit to rise above immeasurable heartbreak and bond together for GOOD is reason for “Hallelujah!”

Chicago Musicians Care has produced a beautiful video that can be viewed below. The song, “Hallelujah!” can be purchased from iTunes, with all profits benefitting the Newtown community.

The post What Shrinks Know (#11): Some Wounds Never Heal appeared first on Sheila Flaherty.

What Shrinks Know (#10): Laughter is Sustenance for the Soul

 

“I love people who make me laugh.

I honestly think it’s the thing I like most,

to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills.

It’s probably the most important thing in a person.”

~ Audrey Hepburn

It may not be the most important thing, and it cannot be the only thing, but laughter is at the top of qualities I love in a person.  The only thing better than laughing is shared laughter—hard laughter!  The kind where something sets you both off at the same time, and you can keep it going—through words or a glance—longer than normal.  Better yet, longer than appropriate!  Best of all, long enough to get you in trouble!

I can name them—my oldest friends, my best friends, my mother, son and brother—all people who made or still easily make me laugh.  Those I can count on to share a laugh in the darkest of times.  I love it when one of my patients and I share a sense of humor, because laughter is healing.  And if there can be both tears and laughter in a session, so much the better!

Since returning from my “once in a lifetime” trip to Paris with Tanya, my best friend of forty-seven years, I’ve often been asked, “What is the one thing you enjoyed the most?”

First of all, why the “one thing” limit?  Is it assumed that without a limit I would drone on and on in a vacation slide-show monologue forcing polite nods and smiles from people who secretly wanted to hang themselves?  I probably would!

Forced to brevity, I respond, “How much we laughed.”

Tanya and I have always had laughter.  My first vivid recollection of our laughing hysterically together was in the PX at Redstone Arsenal Army Base in Huntsville, Alabama.  I was 17 and she was 18.  We were in the greeting card section, selecting funny cards and reading them aloud to each other.  After awhile, the cards didn’t even have to be that funny.  Sympathy cards had the same result.

Life has dealt us both some devastating blows and our ability to connect and laugh through them all has served us well—even when our laughter has a maniacal quality—especially then.  Our trip to Paris came at a perfect time for both of us.  I have been dealing (gratefully!) with the prolonged stress of birthing my book, and Tanya has been dealing with the rapid deterioration and ill health of both her parents.  Her mother died five days before our scheduled departure.  After careful consideration, Tanya decided to take the trip.  We’ve both lived long enough to know that time is precious and if not now the when might never come.

And, so, early on October 31st, we landed in Paris.  I won’t detail all the times we laughed or I will sound like that dreaded vacation slide-show.  And I’ve found that most of the stories are better as spoken word, or turned out to be “you had to be there” funny.  So I won’t write about being offered massages by a random French guy on a plaza—or the scary Madame who swirled her finger around in our goblet of chocolate mousse, tasted it, and proclaimed, “It is fine!” when Tanya and I refused to eat our (yucky) dessert.  I will tell you about our apartment.

When planning the trip to Paris, I was determined that we would stay on the ancient and picturesque Ile St. Louis, one of two islands located in the middle of the Seine where buildings originated in the 17th and 18th centuries.  After obsessively searching possibilities that didn’t cost a zillion euros, I found “Your Charming Little Flat on Ile St. Louis.”  If you check the link you’ll see the pictures are beautiful and the reviews mostly great—“location, location, location” being the common theme—along with mentions of low-hanging concrete beams threatening serious head injury to anyone over 5’ tall.

Everything else sounded so perfect, that I booked the flat then pondered the problem of the low beams.  Balloons! I thought.  And so, we took packages of bright pink and white balloons and a roll of masking tape with us to Paris.

After riding the RER train from the airport to the St. Michel stop on Ile de la Cité, we emerged into the beautiful crisp autumn morning directly across from Notre Dame Cathedral.  It was breathtaking!  Wearing backpacks and pulling rolling suitcases, we walked past Notre Dame and across a bridge to Ile St. Louis.  We continued down a street filled with boutiques, restaurants, bakeries, cheese shops, and art galleries until (after 19 blocks!) we reached 20 rue-Saint-Louis-en-I’île—an imposing five-story stone building with an enormous wooden door.  Very French!

We entered a code into the keypad outside the door and once inside, were met by Adriana, our landlord’s assistant.  After wrestling our bags up an ancient curving staircase to the “first” floor apartment, Adriana gave us a quick tour, and a dire warning not to lose the giant skeleton key to the apartment lest we be charged 300 euros.  “When you check out, leave the key on the table and close the door.”

After Adriana left, Tanya and I collapsed on the sofa, looked around, and laughed.  We were glad we had brought balloons.

The description “charming” was a euphemism for creatively photographed, and “little” a euphemism for “perfect size for Quasimodo (the hunchback of Notre Dame).”  At 5’9” my head touched the ceiling if I stood erect on the loft level.  I couldn’t use the shower without kneeling in the tub, and I would have killed myself walking in or out of the bathroom had I not remembered to duck.

Before even unpacking, Tanya and I blew up balloons and taped them to beams above the loft bedroom and the entry into the bathroom.  After an hour, the beams were no longer as treacherous.  Over the six days we were in Paris, the balloons gave the apartment a festive je ne sais qoi, and eventually we lost count of how many head injuries we were spared as one or the other of us banged our heads into the squeaky rubbery life savers— usually in the middle of the night—always to laughter!

Our pink and white balloons literally saved our heads and left us with unwarranted fondness for our “Charming Little Flat on Ile St. Louis.”  They will forever be woven into the tapestry of our friendship—bright little memories of yet another time we created laughter from what might have been disaster.

We also have memories of laughing while watching street performers wrestling beneath a sheet.  And fifteen minutes of hard laughter we feared would get us kicked out of a quiet restaurant—while a woman looked on from another table wishing she had what we were having!  And laughing while huddled with a hundred other tourists—caught in a torrential rain storm during a boat ride on the Seine.

Near the end of our stay the balloons began to shrivel into sadly funny wrinkled little pouches.  We were tempted to leave them behind as a gentle suggestion to our landlord, but feared we’d incur additional charges.  At the very last minute we stripped them down, tossed the giant skeleton key onto the table, and—after one final laugh in our charming little flat—we closed the door behind us.

Video of Eiffel Tower from the Seine at night

The post What Shrinks Know (#10): Laughter is Sustenance for the Soul appeared first on Sheila Flaherty.