Sheila Flaherty's Blog, page 6

“East of Mecca” is Now Available

First, there was a dream—written in black ink in a spiral notebook—Northwestern University printed in purple across the cover.

My husband tells me that an ancient women’s creed part of the Koran is being carried across the desert by two women on horseback and coming into town.  He orders me to get the story.

I climb into a small white pickup truck and drive a long way into the desert on a road heavily fenced on either side.  It is sweltering hot—my hair is in a pony tail, but sweat drips from my bangs and runs down my face.  At the end of the road is a checkpoint with three male guards who make me sign off the road.  They give me clipboard and a pen, but the pen isn’t working and it takes me three attempts to sign my name.

After the checkpoint, I mount a horse and ride across the desert until I arrive at a ranch.  There, I wait and watch until the two women ride up on horses.  The women are very old.  White scarves wrap their heads, framing tan, wizened faces.  White flowing clothing covers their arms and legs and they wear leather sandals.  They ride up to me and stop.  Their dark eyes regard me silently.  After looking me up and down, they exchange glances then solemnly pass me a colorful woven bag containing the piece of the Koran.

The dream is dated October 17, 1985.  Twenty-eight years ago today.  Four years before I went to Saudi Arabia.  Before I knew Saudi was in my future.  Before I had any exposure to Islam or understanding of the Koran.

I found the notebook a few years after returning from Saudi.  As I read the dream, it came back instantly.  With stunning clarity, I recognized the long asphalt road—enclosed on either side by high chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire—cutting through flat, beige, barren desert.  It was the road on the Ras Tanura compound leading to the Najma stables where Aramco employees keep their horses.  I remembered the relentless scorching heat—sweat matting my hair, dripping from my bangs and ponytail.

The setting of East of Mecca is a wire-enclosed compound.  There are barren deserts, small white trucks, and horses.  There are women’s stories.  I’ve been telling the story of Saudi Arabia in one form or another for the past 24 years.  East of Mecca has taken a long, circuitous route to get here—a presentation at The American Psychological Association convention in 1991, a screenplay, and finally, a novel. (Three attempts before it worked!)

Over time I’ve realized how profound and prophetic the dream was.  When I was told to “get the story” of the ancient sacred women’s creed, I was entrusted as one of the messengers of the untold stories of the women in Saudi and other Islamic countries.  I’m not so grandiose as to think I am the only messenger—there are many of us.

There is Malala Yousafzai, the sixteen year old Pakistani girl who, at age fifteen, was shot by the Taliban because she advocated for education for girls in her country. Even after her brutal attack, Malala will not be silenced.

And there is Haifaa al-Mansour (Twitter | ), the first female Saudi filmmaker.  She wrote and directed Wadjda, the story of an 11-year-old Saudi girl who dreams of owning and riding a green bicycle.  Bicycle riding is outlawed for women in Saudi.  Haifaa directed Wadjda from inside a van to avoid discovery and prosecution by religious police.

This past weekend at the Chicago International Film Festival, I attended the premiere of Honor Diaries, a film featuring nine courageous women’s rights advocates with connections to Muslim-majority societies.  They discussed issues such as freedom of movement, forced marriage, honor violence, and female genital mutilation.  Afterwards, I was privileged to meet Paula Kweskin (Twitter | ), the director, and Raheel Raza, one of the brave human rights advocates featured in the film.

All these women are part of a growing movement to raise awareness of women’s oppression and affect change worldwide.  I have joined the movement, and I aspire to be even a fraction as courageous as they.  I continue to believe the dream I had twenty-eight years ago came to me with a divine assignment—and I’ve long given up any futile attempt to stop.  Now, East of Mecca (Buy on Amazon.com | Book website) is published—and my journey has just begun.

 

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Repost: Hope and Action

Hey everyone, October 2013 marks the very first anniversary of my website!  Looking back over my blog posts, I’m reminded of what an eventful year it was for the world, the nation, and for me personally.  Over the past year I’ve had readers and subscribers from all over the world giving me insightful comments and feedback, and sharing their personal stories.  You all inspire me to keep writing and posting, and for that I am forever grateful!  Because October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, today I am reposting my very first essay—Hope and Action.  But look for another brand new post very soon!

I didn’t realize what a daunting task it would be when I decided to write my very first blog in October on the topic of breast cancer.  The original idea came from a celebratory place—on Friday, September 28, I had my yearly diagnostic mammogram and was declared cancer free.  I am now a 10 year survivor—which puts me in the 82nd percentile of women who make it this long.

Evanston Northwestern Hospital Breast Cancer Treatment Advertisement. Photo & Advertisement © 2003, ENH

In the past 10 years I’ve walked for hope, run for hope, spoken about hope, and even been in an ad campaign about hope.  And now, I want to write what may inspire hope— for those going through what may feel like the scariest and loneliest ordeal of your life.

I have much to say, but there is already so much out there.  There is certainly no need to remind anyone that October is breast cancer awareness month—everything is festooned with ribbons the color of a new scar.

As survivors our stories are all unique and all similar—the terror, the tears, the pain, the awkwardness in ourselves and others.  I’ve learned that when you tell people you had breast cancer most of them reflexively glance at your chest!  Although many women would argue that every month is breast cancer awareness month—as the fear is always in the periphery of our minds—there is a need for it to be so in our faces that we cannot hide beneath layers of fear and denial that it can happen to us.  We cannot just hope it won’t happen to us or to women we love, we also have to take action.

I have long known I was at increased risk for breast cancer.  It was 1972 when my mother sat me down to talk.  I was 24.  Mom was pale and trembling, and I had never seen her eyes so desperately sad.  The story was that she had been pregnant once before me and she had miscarried.

During her pregnancy with me, mom was prescribed diethylstilbestrol (DES), the first synthetic estrogen hormone.  DES was created in 1938 and was regularly prescribed for “problem pregnancies” until November 1971, when the FDA told doctors to stop prescribing it for their pregnant patients.*

We, the female children born of those pregnancies, are called “DES Daughters.”  We are at increased risk for a number of health issues including cervical cancer, structural changes of the reproductive tract, infertility, and depression.  Those of us over 40 are almost twice as likely to get breast cancer, and the relative risk is estimated to be even higher for DES Daughters over age 50.

By 1972, articles were being published describing the outcome of long-term studies of the effects of DES.  Mom had read one of those articles.

“I’m so sorry I did something to put you at risk.”  Her eyes filled with tears.  “I was so afraid I’d lose you.”

Of course I understood.  1948 was a time when no one, especially women, questioned their doctors.  DES seemed like a miracle drug—the answer to prayers for those longing for babies.  I comforted Mom with gratefulness at being alive and reassurances that I would be just fine.  Four years later, at age 28, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer and successfully treated with conization surgery.

In my early forties I developed fibrocystic breast condition, characterized by lumpy, painful breasts.  Self-exams became an exercise in terror.  Around that time I had a patient who also had the condition.  She raved about her breast specialist, a surgical oncologist, exclaiming, “I will pay him to examine my breasts for me.”  I thought, “This is my man,” got his name, and made an appointment.  Dr. Stephen Sener turned out to be the man who saved my life.

Over the next ten years I had a number of fine needle aspirations of suspicious cysts, two hollow-core needle biopsies, and the surgical removal of a lump.  Every time I waited with dread for the nurse to call with the pathology reports—which always came back benign.

In October 2002, that wasn’t the case.  My routine mammogram found a suspicious area and another hollow-core biopsy confirmed malignancy.  On Friday afternoon, October 25, Dr. Sener called with the news I had always feared—and I came undone.

The following Tuesday, October 29, I had a lumpectomy.  After the pathology reports came back, my final diagnosis was ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS)—the most common type of non-invasive breast cancer.  The cancer was microscopic and therefore would not have been discovered without a mammogram.  The chances of recurrence of DCIS are 30% and most happen within 5 to 10 years after the initial diagnosis.  DCIS isn’t life threatening in itself, but having it increases the risk of developing invasive breast cancer later on.  To lower that risk I was advised to have radiation therapy.

I qualified for and chose the option of the brand new (at that time) Intensity-Modulated Radiation Therapy (IMRT).  Since this radiation focused exclusively on the cancer site, I only had to go 16 times, instead of the usual 32.  I went to the Kellogg Cancer Center at Evanston Hospital where a team of lovely women—my “radiation angels”—measured where the radiation beams should go, permanently marked my chest, and worked hard to save my life while I stared up at the picture of a Ragdoll kitten taped on the machine.  They kindly scheduled my appointments at 7:30 a.m. so I could keep my usual work schedule.  I never missed a beat, and none of my patients knew what I was going through until long after the fact.  Working was what kept me (relatively) sane.

There were months of extreme fatigue and distorted sense of smell and taste—all the usual side effects of radiation.  Not to mention depression, abject terror, self-pity, and many, many sleepless nights.  But the total love and support from my husband, family, and friends helped get me through.

After radiation therapy was completed, I was prescribed Tamoxifen which is supposed to prevent breast cancer.  I stopped taking it when the immediate and long-term side effects began to outweigh the potential benefits.  I figured that twice a year diagnostic mammograms would be enough to catch any cancer that might return.  Fortunately, I was right.

After 5 years, my diagnostic mammograms were reduced from twice to once a year.  After 10 years, I’m left with a scar that has faded to white and one tiny black dot in the middle of my chest that I refer to as my tattoo.

In the intervening years, I’ve exercised and focused on a healthy diet, choosing mostly organic fruits and vegetables and dairy.  I have limited meat and stayed away from anything that has hormones or additives of any kind.  I drink gallons of green tea in a week, and still enjoy red wine in moderation.

I admit that my yearly mammograms still fill me with terror and dread.  And I find it ironic that I’m not allowed to wear deodorant on the one time a year I need it the most. But during the actual procedure I find comfort in focusing on the date of inspection on the mammogram machine—March 11—my mother’s birthday.

Because psychologists know that hopelessness combined with helplessness is an often lethal combination, I professionally and personally contend that when all else seems out of our control, it becomes our responsibility to do whatever is within our power.  To my women readers, take action!  Know your risk, including your mother’s possible use of DES.  Do self-exams and have regularly scheduled mammograms when recommended.  (Remember, a mammogram saved my life!)  To all my readers, action in the form of good self-care and education to increase awareness is the only way to create more hope—for ourselves, the women we love, and future generations of women.

Since, for me personally, the wolf will always be at the door, I will keep doing what I have been doing—it has worked so far.  On September 28, 2012, I became a 10-year survivor!  On October 6, 2012, I danced at my son’s wedding!  Life is beautiful.

*Although doctors were told to stop prescribing DES in 1971, it wasn’t banned for use with humans until September 2000. Therefore, an estimated 5-10 million people in the United States were exposed to DES, including pregnant women and the children born of those pregnancies. DES sons and grandchildren are also at risk for health issues caused by DES. Read more about DES to find out about your risk or the risk or someone you know at www.desaction.org.

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Ragdale Redux ~ On the Seventh Day

September 8, 2013,

It’s cloudy today, and cooler than it has been all week.  The magnificent storm we hoped for yesterday passed us by, but the humidity has broken.  I woke up at nine this morning, after a solid night’s sleep.  The first since I arrived.  Usually, I’m a force to be reckoned with after so much sleep, but today I’ve got a case of the Sunday’s—moving slow and easy.

It was a great week, productive in every sense.  I settled in, made new friends, ran every day, and got lots of writing done.  This residency is a great gift.  I am profoundly grateful for everyone who has a part in making it happen, and I don’t want to squander a moment.  But yesterday afternoon I hit a wall.

At 5 p.m. I closed myself in my room and lay down on the bed.  If I was a “napper,” it would have been a perfect time for a nap.  But I’m not.  Although I’d written for most of the day, I tried to work a bit more on my new book.  But I just couldn’t concentrate.  I wrestled with what to DO for a few restless moments, until I had a revelation—I’d been so determined to make every minute count that I forgot to figure in the restorative power of “down time.”

So, instead of trying to write any more, or beating myself up because I couldn’t, I picked up Anne Lamott’s new book, Help. Thanks. Wow.  It’s about the power of what she calls “the three essential prayers.”  I read the chapter called, “Help,” which is about how we win when we are able to “stop in our tracks, right where we are” and surrender.   It was exactly what I needed to hear at exactly the right time.  Anne Lamott is one of my “go to” authors.  I can always count on her to give me truth wrapped in laughter—one of the greatest gifts I know.  Yesterday she did it again.

Chef Linda doesn’t work on the weekends, so at 6:30 we residents who wanted to do something for dinner gathered in the kitchen.  I’d changed out of my writing clothes, but I wanted to stay in and was grateful when the consensus was for pizza delivery.  Last night eight of us gathered around the table for an evening filled with conversation, laughter, and veggie pan-pizza.  Afterwards, I felt restored.  And I know slowing down helped me sleep better last night.

Today I’ve kept my pace easy.  On my slow jog through the forest preserve, I listened to an easy-listening mix and took time to look around.  I found the tail of an unlucky rabbit and tucked it into my pocket.  (Now it rests on my desk with the Blue Jay feather I found yesterday, and a stone with “Breathe” painted on the top.)  At the end of my run I listened to Kris Kristofferson sing Sunday Morning Coming Down while swinging on the rope swing.  There is something about a Sunday.

I’ve read the Sunday paper, run a load of wash, and written this essay.  In a little while my new friend Beth and I are going to take a slow walk to the lake.  My sweet husband Barry is taking me out for Sunday supper.  Tonight, I’ll see what happens.  Maybe I’ll stay up late talking and laughing with the others.  Maybe I’ll write.  Maybe I’ll get another long night’s sleep.  Whatever I choose, it will be restorative.  Tomorrow starts another week—and I don’t want to waste a moment!

It doesn’t get much better than this…

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Ragdale Redux ~ Day Three

September 5, 2013,

I’m settling into my residency—slowly getting to know the other residents, spending “tea time” at 4:00 pm with our lovely Chef Linda, working on my next novel, and exploring the Ragdale grounds and surrounding prairie and forest preserve.  Mostly, I’m getting back to myself—and that means being aware of, and honoring the complicated bundle of contradictions that I am.

Always a light sleeper, I’m having trouble going to and staying asleep.  At first, I chalked it up to being in a strange bed in a strange room.  Nights are dark here in Lake Forest, and so quiet.  Country quiet.  Venturing out for a short walk after dinner last night reminded me what a “city girl” I am.  The idea of an evening walk on the prairie was lovely, but after twenty minutes of being startled by shadows and spooked by rustlings I rushed back to the welcoming lights of the Barnhouse.  At home in Evanston, nights are punctuated by the sounds of people walking on the sidewalks in front of our house, and the clatter of the el and the roar of the Metra passing on tracks located on the embankment directly across from our third-floor bedroom window.

While journaling this morning, I realized that I am naturally nocturnal by nature.  I’ve never been a “morning person.”  And although I function best on nine hours of sleep, it doesn’t matter when those hours occur.  When I’ve been in full-fledge writing mode, I’ve stayed up until the wee hours, lost in music, words, and the quiet of the night.  My life as a psychologist forces me to tuck in around ten, read a bit, then go to sleep so I’m able to be focused and alert during my sessions—always a good thing.  To test my theory, I plan to stay up writing tonight as long as I’m able—as long as I want!

In getting back to myself, I’m also enjoying the nature that is literally at my back door.  Beautiful, sunny, late-summer days like these usually find me walking the beaches of Lake Michigan, but here I have the prairie and the forest preserve.  For exercise in Evanston I have Zumba.  Here I have running shoes!  Every day so far, I’ve “run/walked” for at least an hour and it feels good.  While running I listen to the “Country Fitness” station on Pandora radio.  Yep!  This “city girl” is still a Southern “country girl” at heart—especially when it comes to running music.

This morning I took off through the forest preserve and managed a slow jog for 30 minutes straight.  Then I crossed over into the prairie—walking trails through grasses and black-eyed Susans that towered over me.  The sun was warm on my sweaty skin, but breezes cooled me off.  I spotted a flock of yellow finches and a thick-bodied dragonfly as big as my hand.  At the edge of the prairie, right before the Ragdale gardens, there is a rope swing tied to an enormous ancient tree.  I swung for awhile, leaning back and staring up at the leaves overhead, feeling the thick rope on my palms and the wind in my hair.  As I got off the swing, one song ended and another began to play.  It was the perfect song for the moment, the day, my life.  My buddy Harry calls it “Radio Gospel” when that happens!

Listening to Garth Brooks sing the live concert version of Friends in Low Places, I fairly skipped through the meadow to the new modern stage set up on the lawn behind the big house.  I mounted the steps and danced to the music, doing my own Zumba- inspired version of the Texas two-step.  Perfect song.  Perfect lyrics.  Perfect moment.

Here at Ragdale, on this complicated journey back to my complicated self—I am getting my JOY back—and that feels better than good.

Please watch, listen, and—because life is SHORT—why not get up and DANCE!!!

Garth Brooks Central Park-Friends In Low Places by bigjmac0815

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Ragdale Redux ~ Day One

September 3, 2013,

Today I awoke to this lovely view.  I’m in the Yellow Room on the second floor of the building called the Barnhouse at the Ragdale Foundation in Lake Forest, Illinois. Looking out, I see a red-brick courtyard and a statue of two geese.  Directly beneath my window is the bronze “Bird Girl” statue made famous on the cover of the novel, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.  The statue was sculpted in 1936 by Sylvia Shaw Judson here at Ragdale, her family’s summer home.  From my window, I can glimpse the Ragdale House through tree branches.  I call it “the big house.”

Today is the first full day of my eighteen-day residency at Ragdale.  I arrived yesterday afternoon.  This, my second residency, came up quickly.  It was two weeks ago yesterday that I received the email from Regin Igloria, Director of Residencies, offering me an immediate residency starting on August 26th—if I could work it out.  There was no way I could make it happen that quickly, but since it was literally the answer to my prayers I accepted for September 2, and here I am.

As with getting away for anything—weddings, vacations, reunions—it took quite a bit of doing.  Especially for 18 days.  I’ve never had eighteen days away from my life in my life.  There was house stuff, husband stuff, financial stuff, and business stuff to take care of.  All while guiding East of Mecca through the final stages of publication.

I heard about Ragdale on August 19th, had an “important” birthday on August 21st that I celebrated with a handstand in Zumba class, and got sick on August 22nd.  The prescribed antibiotics wrecked havoc on my entire body, adding to the stress of getting ready to go.  Last time I was getting ready for Ragdale, I was in a state of total joy.  This time I was happy, but mostly tired.  Even more than writing for almost three weeks, I looked forward to time away to recuperate from my life.

On Sunday I got an email from Regin saying that because Monday was Labor Day and I was arriving in the middle of the session there would be no staff and no welcome, but Chef Linda would still be preparing dinner.  I let Regin know I was perfectly cool with that—having been here before—and I really was fine.  But after that email I got anxious.  It took awhile to figure out why, but when I did it was with certainty.  It was old anxiety—Army brat anxiety—new girl in a strange school anxiety.

Everyone else has already been here for a week.  They’ve had dinners together and heard each others’ stories.  They have inside jokes.  And here I am—brand new.  And, as I discovered at dinner last night, I’m older than any of them—old enough to be their mothers.  Only one woman wasn’t present at dinner, and I was reassured when she was described as having gray hair!  I wonder what the others saw when they met me. Does the young poet from Berlin see me as her mother’s contemporary?  Maybe even her grandmothers’?  God knows, many of my friends are grandmothers and some early-starters from high school are already great-grandmothers!

It’s weird being my age and not feeling it.  My friends are young at heart and attitude.  I work with a young vibrant population and I play with the Zumba crowd.  My personal trainer Suzy works me mercilessly and had me practicing Pilates’ planks to prepare for the handstand I accomplished on my birthday!

I’m also aware that I’ve practiced psychology for over thirty years, but I’m relatively new at owning the title of writer.  All these young people laid claim to being artists early-on in their lives—to the point of already being recognized by Ragdale.  So even more than being the new girl at school, I feel like the new girl at the artists’ party.

There are lessons in this for me.  This morning, I got up for an hour long walk/run in the surrounding prairie and forest preserve.  After showering I sent off emails regarding my soon to be published novel.  It is only 2:30 and I have finished this blog post.  Now, I’m going to practice my handstand, grab a bite to eat, then get back to work on my next novel, PSYCHOtherapist.  I might be the artistically speaking “late-bloomer” at this party—but, damn it, better late than never!

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Saudi Stories (#2): Exposed and Empowered

Last Tuesday, July 16th, I successfully cleared another hurdle in my life—I was interviewed on the radio by Melissa Heisler on The Empowerment Show.  The interview was about my experiences living in Saudi Arabia and my forthcoming novel, East of Mecca.

Being an introvert, I’ve always been terrified at the prospect of public-speaking.  Over the past few years books and articles have touted the advantages of being an introvert—but all the research in the world can’t reassure an introvert about to make her very-first-ever radio interview about her very-first-ever published book.  Besides, I know interviewing someone is a hard job—and I wanted to be a good interviewee.

Since I have spent months obsessing over the interview, everyone knew that I was nervous.  One long-time patient who has made a successful career in theater told me, “Step into the role.”  Now that it’s over, several people have asked me how I prepared for it.  It helps that those people also said, “I could NEVER do it!”

First, I’ll say what didn’t help.  While meant to be reassuring, being told to “Just be yourself!” does not help an introvert stricken with stage-fright.  I’m great being myself all alone, with my closest friends and family, with my patients, and with acquaintances I know and trust.  I can even be the life of the party when the party is comprised of a small circle of friends I’ve known most of my adult life.

I’m no stranger to panic attacks.  Being “myself” while talking to a complete stranger about the most important thing in my life and having it broadcast into the ether felt like a set up for being reduced to monosyllabic mumbles, unintelligible grunts, or complete silence.  Worst case scenario was breaking into a cold sweat and running from the room.

Pretending the interview was not going to happen and ignoring the approaching deadline also didn’t work.  What helped was being over-prepared.

First, I decided what to wear.  It sounds trivial, but over time I’ve realized that knowing what you’re wearing to an important event is a huge step toward reducing anxiety.  Even better if your outfit feels comfortable and you know you look good in it.  I knew there would be a video-clip of the interview going up on my website, so I wanted to wear something matching my “author image.”  Easy choice—I wore the blouse I’m wearing in my book-jacket photograph.  (And with that revelation I’m all set for future interviews—until my blouse wears out!)

Next, I planned what I wanted to say and what I wanted to be asked.  I wrote it all out like a script and sent it to Melissa.  She replied with thanks and said she hoped I would be able to relax so we could just “chat.”  Ha! Fat chance, I thought, as I responded with a reassuring email.  (At that point Melissa must have thought I was a complete control freak!)

Last Sunday, I took my script to my writing group, Write Club Fight Club (WCFC).  I passed it out thinking that other members of the group would read the questions and I would read the answers—like a rehearsal!  That lasted a millisecond into the first question, when Cathy (kick my ass) P. leapt from her chair and ripped the script from my hands.  “No!  You can’t read this!  Just answer our questions!”

For the next half-hour, the group asked me questions (mostly off-script!) and I answered with whatever came to mind.  We decided which passage from East of Mecca I should read on the show.  I left WCFC feeling really prepared.  I jotted down a few notes that had come out in our “interview” and put the script away.

Monday, the night before the show, I emailed a notice to everyone on my distribution list telling them about it.  Immediately after, I had a total panic attack, took out the script, and re-read it until I fell asleep.

On Tuesday, I got up early and walked to the beach.  It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day.  I walked along the water’s edge imagining I was back in Saudi Arabia.  I sat on my stone and meditated and prayed and was grateful for all the wonderful people who are on my team as I bring East of Mecca into existence.

Later, I went for a mani-pedi, choosing a rosy-red polish for my toes called “Exposed.”  The rest of the afternoon, I gathered my materials together and got dressed.  The drive to the studio in Schaumburg was long and rush-hour crowded, but my husband and I made it there early.  And then I met Melissa, who was delightful—as smart and warm in person as she has been in all our correspondence.  She immediately made me feel comfortable.

After the first few minutes of the interview, I relaxed into the role of being “myself.”  I talked about my life in Saudi Arabia, my book, and the issue of empowerment—about which I feel most passionate.  I never once looked at my notes and the interview went very well.  Afterwards, I heard glowing reviews from family, friends, and WCFC.

This week my theater patient asked me how the interview went.  I told her that I took her advice, to “step into the role,” and it worked.  She laughed and said, “You gave me that advice, years ago.  It always works.”

Please visit Melissa Heisler’s The Empowerment Show for more information.

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Sweet Home Ravinia

Ravinia is always on my summer “bucket list.”  The outdoor music festival is located in Highland Park, Illinois —a thirty-minute drive from our home in Evanston.  I’ve loved going to Ravinia ever since the first time—during the summer of 1983—my second summer in Chicago.  That night, my husband and I took our kids to see the Preservation Jazz Hall Dixieland Band.

Recently up from Texas, we showed up with a motley assortment of lawn chairs, a red and white checkered tablecloth, Igloo cooler, paper plates, and citronella candles.  Wandering the park pre-concert, I marveled at the elaborate picnic set-ups.  Linen-topped tables with silver candelabras and crystal wine goblets.  Elegant tapers with layers of dripping white wax.  Beautiful food perfectly presented on porcelain china.

I don’t remember what we brought for dinner that night, but a bucket of Kentucky Fried chicken and side dishes sounds about right—considering that I was a graduate student with two kids and a serious lack of time, money, energy, and style.  And still, I remember that beautiful summer night under the trees, listening to the kind of music that makes me feel all tied up in knots.

At one point, my son Jeff rolled up in the tablecloth and took a nap.  Toward the end of the concert the band played When the Saints Go Marching In and a spontaneous parade began snaking through the grounds.  We woke Jeff and joined in.  The next time we visited Ravinia was for a different band, but when Jeff snuggled in for a nap, he said, “Wake me when it’s time for the parade.”

After that first summer, we went every year—sometimes twice.  It was a good place to take children.  It felt safe to let them wander off in search of ice cream or play with the other kids running through the park.

My perfect spot is on the lawn in front of the pavilion, audience stage right—a great place to people-watch, glimpse the performers from afar, and dance.  I’m a creature of habit, and those who meet me at Ravinia know where to find me.  The only summer I remember missing Ravinia was 1989, when I was in Saudi Arabia.

I’ve seen Willie Nelson, Lyle Lovett, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Peter, Paul, and Mary, Joe Cocker, Sarah McLachlan, Bonnie Raitt, James Taylor, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, k.d. lang—and many others I can’t remember.

I’ve survived downpours, laughing with friends huddled under umbrellas, wearing make-shift garbage-bag ponchos.

For my fifty-fifth birthday party I took a group of women friends in a limo to see k.d.lang.

I remember taking Mama to see Willie Nelson every summer, waiting for him to sing Georgia on My Mind—crying when he did.

In the summer of 1995, Jerry Lee Lewis was double-billed with Little Richard.  When Jerry Lee walked off stage ten minutes into his set and never returned, Little Richard came on and more than made up for it rocking the night away.  That was the night I met and danced with my Aussie, a “two ships passing in the night” never-to-be romance.

Last year, someone gave me pavilion tickets to see Sweet Baby James Taylor, and I came away with an autograph and a hug!

Lyle Lovett and His Large Band are regulars around my birthday every year, so it’s not unusual to find me there in late August—with my husband Barry and whoever else wants to join the party.

Over the years, the park has changed.  The sound system has improved and enormous screens allow everyone to see the performers up close and personal.  Meticulous grounds-keeping have almost eliminated the perfume of citronella wafting through the night air.  Although prices have risen, crowds have become more diverse and laid-back.  I imagine the picnics for the classical concerts remain much more “high-brow,” but I prefer my casual friends in low places.  And afterwards, there is always the ride home—south on Sheridan Road, winding through the ravines under star-lit skies—the night’s music still playing through my mind.

The audience at last Saturday night’s Ravinia concert was as diverse and jubilant as I’ve ever seen.  Melissa Etheridge was perfect scheduling for the end of a week filled with the breaking down of barriers to loving relationships.  The sky cleared and gentle breezes kept the temperature at just right.  Sipping red wine, holding my sweetie’s hand, and gazing up at the canopy of leaves, I felt home.

Saturday night Melissa sang about love and desire.  When she sang about running for life and acknowledged all of us survivors in the audience, there was a sea of cell phones waving in the air like cigarette lighters.  That’s the song still playing through my mind today.

I have the Ravinia schedule spread beside me as I write.  Willie Nelson will be there July 14, and Lyle Lovett on August 23.  There’s still a lot of summer ahead.  Anybody want to join me? Also, please share your favorite Ravinia memories in the comments area below.

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The Sweet Spot

When East of Mecca officially went into publication on June 6th, my friend Robbi asked  how I felt and it was impossible to articulate.  I’ve felt “finished” so many times before. Now it feels like the book is somewhere out there in the ether.  It won’t feel real until I’m holding it in my hands.  And already there is so much to do moving forward.  Showing up in public.  Talking about my book.  Pushing myself far beyond my comfort zone.  The train has left the station and is quickly gathering speed, but I don’t know my destination.

I miss writing my book.  Writing it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  Harder even than getting my Ph.D.  At least in graduate school you have a clearly-defined roadmap to a clearly-defined destination.  Writing a book, you get totally lost. Kidnapped by the characters you’ve created who live in your head, but refuse to do your bidding!  Dialogue that is concise and authentic in your brain turns to babble on the page.  Page after page after page—written, torn up, rewritten, crumpled, rewritten.  On and on it goes.  Pure torture.

And yet, I loved it.  I feel about writing like I felt about running all the years I was doing it.  Sometimes I had such urgency to run that I couldn’t bear to wait a second more than was necessary to tie my shoes.  I felt like I was coming out of my skin and only running could set me free.  Most times, I dreaded my runs.  Sometimes I procrastinated until the time to run was lost to me, and then I felt a familiar combination of relief and self-loathing.  The majority of my runs started slowly, legs leaden, feet shuffling.  Ten minutes in, I hit a stride of sorts, still reluctantly moving forward.  At twenty minutes I was lost in my head, in my breath, in the pounding of my feet on the ground and the beat of the music in my ears.  At fifty minutes, I slowed to a walk—a cool down.  And then, at fifty-five minutes, I started running again.  It was then I found the elusive “runner’s high.”  My head clear of everything except the sense of flying effortlessly, full speed ahead.  I felt the elation of endorphins.  The Sweet Spot.

When people ask what it’s like to write a book, I tell them you have got to want it more than anything else and be prepared to give up everything for it.  It is all-consuming.  Be prepared for people to be upset with you for not being available for days, weeks, months—even years at a time.  Be prepared for some of those people to not stick it out. Be prepared for people to not care about your book (that means everything to you) and to not want to hear about it all the time.  For years now, when people asked, “what’s new?” I have mostly answered in relationship to the book—where I was in the process—how it was coming along.  My book has been my constant.

And now, like a love affair ended, or irrevocably changed, I say that I have written a book, instead of that I’m writing a book.  I answer that my book is coming out in July. My book is in publication.  I still relate my life to my book.

The truth is I’m feeling melancholy.  I loved the process of writing East of Mecca—the rituals around writing.  Mostly I wrote at night, the house dark and quiet, when I could write free of interruptions.  I started around 10, after my husband went upstairs to bed.

I poured a glass of red wine and put on music.  It was always the same—both discs of the soundtrack to the movie Babel (a variety of world music), and two Middle Eastern CDs. I’ve listened to these CDs in the same order for so many years that when the notes of one song fade, I anticipate the beginnings of the next.

I slipped on my abaya, or the gauzy black scarf edged with red and green sequins and gold embroidery.  Sometimes I fastened my khalakhil around my ankle.  Intricately hammered out of dull silver and lined with dozens of tiny bells, it has weight to it.  And a sweet chime.

It was much like I write on page five of the prologue to East of Mecca.  Except the music that initially made me dance is the third song on disc one of Babel—a crazy Japanese techno remix called The Joker.  Then, breathless, heart racing, I settled in to write.  After a while, I’d get up to stretch and think and do my version of belly dancing—swaying to the beat until whatever words were out of reach would come to me.

On good nights I wrote for two or three hours.  On excellent nights I lost track of time. One moment it was 11 pm and the next it was 2 am, or 4.  Only physical fatigue and the reality of a work day ahead would send me to bed.  I loved those nights—lost in my story—when I truly found the Sweet Spot.

Today I walked on the beach in Evanston, picking up pieces of sea glass, gazing out at the horizon.  I ached with longing for the beach in Saudi—having walked it so many more times in my mind than in reality.  I know every curve, every stone.  I miss the characters who have populated my life for so many years.  Ever since I sent my book out into the ether I’ve struggled with writer’s block.  Tonight I put on my East of Mecca soundtrack to write about writing East of Mecca.  During track three on disc one of Babel, I got up and danced.

And now, I know it is time to move on.  Like any major part of my life story, I will continue to be in a relationship with East of Mecca.  I will speak about it fondly, attend signings, learn from it, spread my knowledge, and write about it.  But I also have other essays to write, and another book that is already unfolding in my mind.  The characters are demanding their stories be written, and taking up too much room in my head to be ignored.  I just have to create a new soundtrack for PSYCOtherapist, so I can continue to find the Sweet Spot.

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What Shrinks Know (#9): “Evil” Should be a Diagnosis

“Understanding does not cure evil,

 but it is a definite help

inasmuch as one can cope with a comprehensible darkness.”

 ~Carl Jung

Joy has been interrupted once again.  The story about the young women held captive for ten years in Cleveland has been far too present on my mind to write about joy—or anything else.  Once details began unfolding, I couldn’t get the story out of my mind.  Like when you pick up a rotten tomato that explodes in your hand and no matter how much soap and hot water you use, you can still feel the slime and smell the stench.

We’ve been given just enough details to let our imaginations run wild.  What’s more horrifying (and a blessing) is that none of us can possibly imagine what those young women and the little girl suffered.  Considering how young the three women were when they were first abducted—and that the six-year-old girl has been in captivity her entire life—it must have felt interminable for all of them.

I cannot fathom the amount of resiliency the women must have had just to survive.  Especially with the systematic brutality Ariel Castro used to make them believe that they were powerless to escape.  The psychological term is “learned helplessness.”  It is the why when victims of abuse “don’t just leave,” even when it appears they could.

There is heroism in the story—Amanda Berry took the chance to scream for help.  I wonder if maternal instinct pushed her past the place of fear—to save her daughter.  Charles Ramsey has also been called a hero, and I have tremendous respect and gratitude for what he did.  But what a terrible thing to live in a culture where a man responding to the frantic screams of a woman is deemed a “hero,” for doing what should be a reflexive action.  The combination of fear and “not my business” is lethal.

Also disturbing are testimonies from random people including neighbors, friends, and relatives of Castro who suspected something “was not right,” but never followed all the way through.  All our instincts are more powerful than we think.  If something feels “wrong,” it usually is.

When I lived in Singapore in the late 1970’s, I became good friends with Betty Snead, a former missionary who ran the Methodist Youth Hostel.  She was my mother’s age and, like my mom, Betty had grown up in Georgia.  It was comforting to spend time with her.

The hostel was sponsored by the Methodist church, but it was secular.  Children of people employed in parts of Asia without school systems could live there and attend the Singapore American School.  Raised Methodist, I find it to be the most accepting and non-proselytizing of all faiths.  The Methodist churches in Singapore were the same.

But there was a strong fundamentalist evangelical Christian presence in Singapore—an organization called The Navigators—which promoted non-denominational Christianity—and Southern Baptists.  Both had youth ministries, and the lines were blurred as to where one began and the other left off.

Through my attendance at a women’s Bible study group, and volunteering in a drug-awareness program, I was asked to help chaperone a Navigator-sponsored youth trip to Chendor, Malaysia in December 1973.  That trip changed my life in too many ways to detail here, but I will say I found a passionate “calling” in working with adolescents.

My continued involvement with the kids participating in The Navigators led me to drop in on weekly meetings which were held at the Methodist hostel.  During these meetings I met a man the kids called “Uncle Roy.”  Uncle Roy was a Southern Baptist preacher and extraordinarily active in youth ministry.  He was in his 40’s with a brown Colonel Sanders’s-style beard, a Bible-thumping persona and a smarmy smile.

I had a negative visceral reaction to Uncle Roy the very first time I saw him—a reaction I tried to dismiss as having to do with his evangelical preaching style.  Kids were always being invited to “accept Jesus and be saved.”  (Kids who had long attended Methodist or Catholic Sunday school—even those who had been confirmed or gone through catechism.)  It was the “one and only way” approach to salvation I had always questioned.  As a teenager I’d had exactly one bad experience in an evangelistic, fundamentalist church setting and once was enough for me.

Everyone in the Singapore missionary culture seemed to love Uncle Roy, but when I watched him with the kids, my skin crawled.  He liked wrapping his arms around the kids, and held the girls on his lap as they fawned over him.  I didn’t like how he touched them.  I never saw anything overtly inappropriate—it was just how I physically and emotionally reacted.  I hated the man and was tormented by decidedly “unchristian” thoughts.  And I felt guilty that I was reading something nasty into what others considered innocent and loving.

On Friday and Saturday nights I sometimes joined Betty for dinner then hung around with her while she waited up for all the kids to check back in to the hostel.  We sat up and talked, or read, or I kept watch while Betty dozed.  One night when we were sitting in her room talking quietly, I took a deep breath and told her how I felt about Uncle Roy. Including how guilty I felt for feeling it.  How wrong.

Betty was quiet a moment then said, “Sheila, you’re not wrong.”

She told me that over the years there had been a number of complaints from children, parents, and others in the religious community (including her) of Roy inappropriately touching and fondling children.  He had been investigated, confronted, and reprimanded, but had never been made to resign his post and leave Singapore.  Betty was visibly upset that night—the only time I ever saw her like that.  She, too, was torn and felt powerless to do anything but stay vigilant whenever the kids were on her watch.

When people ask me, as a psychologist, what kind of person could do what Ariel Castro did to those girls in Cleveland, the only diagnosis I can give includes Antisocial Personality Disorder—what is commonly called a “sociopath” or “psychopath.”  At the very least, Castro meets the criteria of aggressiveness toward his victims and total lack of remorse shown for his behavior—including rationalizing his actions through blaming these young women for going with him in the first place.

Roy didn’t meet the same criteria as Castro, but using his status in the church to betray and victimize children who adored and trusted him was pathological and abusive.  Both men were predators of young girls.  Both have left victims who will never be totally free.

Because of my experience with Roy, I have a sense of the control Castro exerted over those around him—the power that led people to suspect something was wrong, but also left them feeling too afraid to do anything.  I also know the gut-roiling sensation of intuition being at total odds with what is being presented as truth.

What Castro’s attorneys said on the “Today” show make me want to claw my face.

“The initial portrayal of him is one of a quote ‘monster,’ and that is not the impression that I got,” said Craig Weintraub.

Co-counsel Jaye Schlachet added, “He is a human being, but what is offensive is that the women and the media want to demonize this man before they know the whole story, and I think it’s unfair and not equitable.”

Unfair and not equitable?!  I personally believe that “demon” is a much more fitting diagnosis than anything that can be cobbled together from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.  And if “Evil” was a diagnosis, that is what I would assign to men like Ariel Castro—and Uncle Roy.

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Saudi Stories (#1): Before Joy, Comes “Okay”

“There is an alchemy in sorrow.

It can be transmuted into wisdom,

which, if it does not bring joy,

can yet bring happiness.”

~Pearl Buck

In an earlier post (What Shrinks Know #2), I wrote about the importance of resiliency for healthy survival during difficult times.  Now, I am experiencing the importance of resiliency when writing regular blog posts. There is a definitely a learning curve involved in starting and keeping a blog, and what I’m learning most about is myself.

Blogging has reminded me that I am not much for outlines.  In school, whenever the assignment was to outline a proposed paper, I was instantly immobilized.  To cope, I learned to write my paper first—then turn in an outline of what I had written.  With blogging, I find that any attempt to structure my posts leaves me staring endlessly at a blank screen—creativity reined to a dead halt.  But left unbridled, my mind runs wild.

With my book East of Mecca in the final stages of publication, I have Saudi Arabia on my mind. So, this week’s post is no longer about finding joy, but about finding happiness when feeling powerless.  Right now, I need to write about Saudi—because I never knew powerlessness until I lived in Saudi Arabia.

My first day in Saudi, I was photographed, fingerprinted, and my passport was confiscated by the officials at Aramco (my husband’s employer)—only to be returned after an exit-visa had been applied for (by my husband) and approved by the Saudi government.  I had a panic attack upon realizing I was 7500 miles away from home, in a heavily guarded, barbed-wire-fence enclosed compound, and could not simply call a cab, go to the airport, and board a plane back to the United States.

My life has never been one of wealth and privilege, and I have experienced most of the challenges women face in our society.  Through sheer determination and hard work, I have also been able to overcome whatever obstacles were thrown in front of me and achieve whatever I set my sights on.  I was driving at 15 and obtained my Ph.D. at 38.

Although I did my research and was a willing and eager participant, when I left my thriving private practice to follow my husband to Saudi, I had no idea how it would feel to be rendered totally powerless and dependent.  I wasn’t allowed to drive or work, and, as a woman in Saudi Arabia, I found myself on the lowest rung of the caste ladder.  I had become chattel.

I tried to be a good sport and make the best of it, but I didn’t do well.  Every morning I woke up depressed or anxious or both.  My husband went to work and my kids went to school and I was left on my own.  It wasn’t pretty.  I grieved for all I had left behind—and I struggled with creating a new and meaningful life in which my only identity was wife and mother.

I joined the Women’s Club and made a few friends.  And within a week of my arrival, women were literally knocking on my door as word spread that I was a psychologist and not affiliated with Aramco.  Turns out there were confidentiality issues with the company psychologist, who insisted on being called “doctor,” although he only had a Master’s Degree.  He talked to some clients about others, naming names, and he shared session information with Aramco management.  One of the first women knocking on my door was an Arab woman whose husband was a physician in the compound clinic.  She had seen the company psychologist one morning and that evening her husband arrived home in a violent rage knowing all the details of her session.

After a month, even though I had new friends and a growing clandestine practice, I continued spiraling into depression.  Every new story I heard about oppression and domestic violence and the ubiquitous surveillance we were all under in the Kingdom, pulled me further down.  Every time I had to ask my husband for money or a ride to the town outside the compound, I fell deeper into despair.

Two months in to my stay in Saudi, I was clinically depressed.  I knew I had to take action or I would not survive—so I listed the things I knew I could do to simply feel better every day:

Exercise—which usually meant an early morning run on the beach
Write—something, anything.  Journaling my feelings, writing about my experiences in Saudi, working on a creative writing project
Interpersonal contact—outside my family and women seeking therapy from me

Interpersonal contact was the hardest.  It was years before the internet—and time differences and expense limited the ability to call friends and family in the States. Censorship in the form of phone-taps limited phone conversations in general. Interpersonal contact meant I had to leave the house and seek out others.  If friends weren’t available I went to the library, or pool, the community and mail center, or the commissary.  Some days, I just rode my bike through the quiet streets under the scorching sun looking for someone to say “hi” to.

In everything, I had to take action.  I put a sign on my computer: “You DO have control of SOME things!!!”

These were small things, but they were important because I knew they would make me feel better.  They were choices I could make to feel empowered.  Every morning when I woke up feeling depressed and/or anxious, I could choose to get up and do these things and feel better, or I could choose to stay in bed, knowing I would feel worse.  Some days I lost the battle, but over time I won the war.  I made it through Saudi relatively sane, and sometimes I even felt happy!

In the end, Saudi Arabia was my greatest classroom for resiliency.  I learned more about myself during the year I was there than in all the years before.  And I continue to learn. Every day, I still know I have choices to make and most the time I do okay.  But when I don’t, I at least try to be mindful of making a poor choice, so I still feel empowered.

Resiliency can be learned, and I’ve used the lessons I learned to teach others.  It may be the most important lesson any of us ever learn, because feeling hopeless and helpless can be a lethal combination.  Choosing to take actions we know will make us feel better, gives us a sense of empowerment, and paves the path toward happiness.

I also learned to truly appreciate what I already have as a woman in this country and never take it for granted—while I continue to fight for universal gender equality and the end of violence against women.

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