#69 MY MOTHER, MY SELF, MY GOD!

#69 MY MOTHER, MY SELF, MY GOD!

Prologue
    I woke up this morning wondering if there is any way out of my predicament, if I will ever float past this time of uncertainty, helplessness, hopelessness and despondency. I could see no way out, went to bed last night with all of this roving my mind indiscriminately - tossing feverishly with any number of disappointing scenarios scurrying around my brain. When I slept, it was to have dreams of  rejection and pleading.

    Because I am accepting of a state of  float, the opposite of self-reliance, I asked the universe if I would possibly survive my present conditions. I use the word universe to avoid saying God, so tired am I of groveling to this deity. I heard no answer so went to the kitchen, made coffee and read the paper that had nothing new to tell me and several things to make me squirm. Where will it end? I asked. I was still - the answer I heard was unpleasant: The only way out is death unless you want to try love.

    I replied in all honesty: You know I am unable to love wholly so I am stuck with death. It’s not at all funny and I am not at all laughing. Tomorrow upon awakening, that word itself suspect in regards myself, I will ask again. Do I think I will get a different answer? No. But I would like to know the future for myself as a bargain-basement being of little stature with the added responsibility to love indiscriminately. Will I ever recover myself? I keep asking because I wish to know the answer. I would find it not only interesting but helpful.

    PART I
    I am my usual belligerent self today. No that is not accurate. I am worse than usual. I have my mother to deal with or she me, whatever. Guilt and irritation engulf me today, my fortieth birthday, as it happens. We are supposed to be celebrating; is that some kind of  joke?  I am neither a good daughter nor good to myself (and yes, I am seeing a shrink). I seem to have acquired additional emotional troubles as of late. When were they inducted into my hall of unreason?  How? Why? I ask expecting answers but when I receive an answer, as I did, I’m cavalier in my attitude. It’s too late now for a reasonable life, I can’t afford one anyway. I can only apologize and beg forgiveness. I wish I could forgive myself, forgive my family but maybe the truth is I want to hold onto my grudges. My inner brat enjoys them, sitting poolside, willful, mean, ugly.

    I should explain that my mother brings this out in me. I am sorry but I own the anger and can say I forgive but do not really know if it’s her or myself that requires this forgiveness. An impasse, a gridlock laced with confusion has us exposed -  in bare tolerance, she for my shitty malfeasance and me for…something in the past I have no idea of except to say,  I thought I’d licked it and I was, once again, wrong.  Nevertheless I was born on a certain day to a certain woman and nothing can change those two facts. I’m hoping the chilled Soave will turn the tide; allow us to fulfill the duties of the day with, if not aplomb, at least a degree of fortitude.

    Last week she asked cheerfully what I wanted for my birthday. I want so many things, have so many desires that I have trouble sleeping at night just contemplating all that I do not have. If I sound greedy or ungrateful, it is not so much material things I yearn for, though I certainly do, but am intelligent enough to know that a craving for material things belies a craving for things less tangible - things that fall into the category of human relations that, as I may have mentioned, elude me.

    I wrote down a list of my desires just to have a clearer picture in mind because I have terrible bouts of envy. I am filled with anxiety and/or despair whenever I read about someone’s success either in the paper or on TV. It doesn’t have to be anyone I might be acquainted with. Today I was envious of a young woman who has something of a high score for her Facebook page, giving her the designation of “an influential,” the new status in the world of cyber sociability. I was envious. Why? I don’t even have a Facebook page and don’t necessarily want one. What I do want is attention. I want to be looked at and singled out for attention. I also want influence. Why? Vindication. For what? Failure. There you have it. The lack of a Facebook page is only denial.

    Forgive me. Six months with my mother has been fatalistic. I am not asking to be let off the hook, I know my lack of fealty is not commendable. You only have to look at me these days to see the lack of appeal and it comes from inside. My inner state is as unworthy of admiration as is my outer state.  I don’t feel like myself when I am so irritated. It is a condition that swells, like a dinner of pure sugar and white flour to the mid-section, and is projected onto all that I see, all that I read and expands and colors my world in a putrid shade of defiance. It has me running for my shrink’s couch for fear I will not last the night.

    I have been seeing my shrink, Dr. Michelle Ainsberg, for the past six months with little improvement. If my mother weren’t paying I’d have written her off as essentially useless. She cannot begin to touch my animosity and I think she knows it. Sometimes I think she is a little afraid of me. I have been waiting for her to get tough, stop coddling me. I could use a little more reaction. I often wonder if she has the guts to really get to the core of my persona or if she is content with the surface, afraid of the darkness lurking within; the one crazy patient to go off the deep end and take her along. She is, I suspect a non-believer so is unable to bring God into the mix even though I often bait her with just that sort of thing. She doesn’t fall for it and redefines the session according to her Jungian/Freudian apparatus. Now who’s in denial?

    But today she said something useful; made a commitment to a diagnosis: You feel powerless in significant ways and this creates yet more powerlessness as your beliefs contribute to the choices and behaviors keeping you powerless, dependent. You have low self-esteem, a narrow view of your potential. That was a lot for her. She almost earned her money with that one statement. Maybe she finally got bored listening to my whine-fest and decided to participate.

    There she sat in her expensive shoes, looking fresh and rosy from her recent laser peel while I sat on her Italian leather sofa feeling like a bug she hasn’t yet decided to squash, not knowing if she’s quite equal to the task of killing. Of course this is how I’m feeling and may bear no resemblance to what Michelle is actually thinking or feeling. I am projecting my own low self-esteem onto her. We’ve already hashed that one out on a previous session.

    “Wow, Dr. Ainsberg I think you may have said something real there. Something useful.”
    “Your sarcasm, Adele, is not at all helpful, you know. It may work well with your family or your friends and I understand it can be useful in novels but if you could put it aside for just an hour, we may uncover what’s behind the flippancy.”
    “Touché, Doctor.”
    “Do you think you have low self-esteem?”
    “Don’t all children of divorce?”
    “Come now, Adele, you are not a child and it is you who said you wanted to deal with the present.”
    “But I was a child when I developed my quick-fire sarcasm and my hostility.”
    “Do you think you are hostile?”
    “My mother thinks I’m hostile.”
    “Are you?”
    “I wouldn’t call it hostility necessarily. More like an inability to see the best in others. When I was young, about ten, my aunt used to tell me, Always look for the better side of people; everyone has one and if you respond to that side, you will not only bring out their best, but find your own best self. She told me this after I blackened the eye of some sneering little rat of a kid who lived in her building. I will admit I have never been able to do it. I did try here and there, but really, most people are so busy exposing their crummy side, what chance did I have?”
    “Did you love your aunt?”
    “I don’t know. I told you, I don’t really know what love is. That’s my problem, isn’t it? I’m hostile and unable to love. That’s why I’m here talking to you.”
    “Okay, did you like your aunt, respect her when you were a child staying with her?”
    “Well enough. I didn’t hate her or begrudge her. She was religious - not obnoxiously so but she said she was a believer. That’s how she put it. She belonged to an Episcopal church and went regularly although not every Sunday. She took me once or twice during that summer. My parents belonged to the Methodist persuasion but rarely went. It was just a place for my dad to network, sell insurance to the congregants. I don’t think either of them believed in any way that mattered, like my aunt. They seemed a godless sort.”
    “What about you? Your dream upset you. What do you think it meant?”
    “Doctor, I can’t interpret dreams. I believe that is your profession’s calling. Can you?” (She dutifully ignored this, as she does all of my impertinences.)
    “So you were told in your dream that it is either love or death. Do you believe that?”
    “No, of course not. But it wasn’t a dream - I was perfectly awake, buzzing on coffee.  No, if love were required for survival of the species, the human race would have been wiped out centuries ago.”
    “Let’s talk about your self-esteem some more.” 
    “What about it? You said it was of the low variety and that I  use sarcasm to cover my tracks. You have a point but so what? “
    “Did your parents use sarcasm?”
    “My mother did. She has a sharp tongue and a wry wit. Dad was never any match for her. He was always upbeat, ready to see the good. Like his sister, my aunt. Mom was less so. She was competitive and hungry. She’s Jewish, you know. Or was. She hides out in my father’s Protestant protection program. I was fifteen before I knew. She said because she did not adhere to the Jewish faith, in fact, had a certain disdain for it, it was irrelevant.”
    “Who do you see yourself taking after?”
    “Mom, naturally. No one can accuse me of being upbeat.”
    “What about your sisters? Are they upbeat?”
    “They’re more well-adjusted if that means anything. Twins always have each other.”
    “Did they make you feel left out?”
    “Yes they did. I was always the little sister, the bratty little sister. Some one to brush off.”
    “Were you? Bratty?”
    “So I’ve been told.”
    “Did you or did you not see yourself as a brat?”
    “Not at first. I actually loved my sisters. I wanted to be like them.”
    “You said you loved them. Are you saying you once loved and lost the ability or do you think you turned to hostility when you thought you weren’t loved in return?”
    “Who knows? It’s so long ago. Let’s stay with the present. It’s the present I’m having trouble with. Shall I tell you about my envy? I’m almost crippled by it these days.”
    “Envy is often an effect of low self-esteem. But we will have to save it for next time. I think we have made progress, Adele. We will work through what is currently bothering you and why you are in a dependent state, unable to write or move forward.
     “Or love. Don’t forget that.” Michelle looked at her watch, afraid I’ll bring metaphysics into the dialogue again, confounding  her strictly analytical approach.


    My rancor probably stems from having it implied that I was “nothing special” when I was young by more than one person. Don’t you just love it? Who hasn’t had things like that thrown at them at a vulnerable age? Who do you think you are, the Queen, a movie star, Einstein? Get real! Parents have since learned not to say those things to their children lest they acquire low self-esteem and have to visit shrinks. Alas, I was born at the end of that age, the accidental love child of aging parents already looking for a way out; at a time it was still considered irresponsible to let your child suspect he or she was anything special; he or she might actually believe it and then where would he/she be?

    Those with a decent amount of spite, a dash of grit,  enough piss and vinegar, say, I’ll show them. I’ll show the world. And then they spend their life doing just that. Admirable. Most of us just roll over and play dead. When life has played enough tricks on us, we seek help in some way. Many drink or use drugs although that is not my particular way out although I won’t say I haven’t tried it. But that early pain never really disappears, does it? You may not give a rat’s ass what your foolish, clueless  relatives think on anything, they are irrelevant. But the poison has been drunk and there you have it.  I started out wanting to show them but have been derailed. Now what?

    Thinking about my next session with Doctor Ainsberg had me excited. Maybe she will reveal something else constructive. I  began to look forward to Thursday.  I could tell her about my birthday and my mother’s gift but it does not seem so portent now. I was vexed about it on the day, I could barely contain my animosity after opening the package. You see, I knew what she had given to my sisters the previous month. If I wouldn’t have been staying with her I would never have known that she sent each of them a $500 gift certificate to Neiman Marcus so they could “pick out a nice pair of shoes.”  She didn’t actually tell me about this gift; I overheard her talking on the phone to her friend Berthe, who is French and loves nothing more than a “nice pairs of shoes.” I’ll probably waste some of my hour with the doctor whining about my gift which is unfortunate. It’s not even worth focusing on.

    Arriving at my scheduled time, I noticed Doctor Ainsberg was decked out in a new Prada dress and feeling quite pleased with herself, as anyone would. I knew it was brand-spanking new because it just arrived in the stores. I keep track of these things having worked for Saks while writing my first novel. Did I mention my novel? Well, yes, I published my first novel at the age of twenty-eight. And it was something of a success. At least for a first novel. The reviews said I showed great promise and we could all look forward to my future offerings. There was talk of a possible screenplay. I made a little money though not enough to feel secure. But I was to receive a much larger advance on the sequel which already had a healthy platform and if all went well, much more in royalties. Based on this information, I may have overspent, overplayed my hand, so to speak. When the sequel bombed I was in quite a predicament as I had taken on a mortgage - a small but elegant San Francisco flat. That was my first mistake - counting chickens before…well, you know how it goes.

    “Hello Adele, how are you today?” Michelle always begins with this innocuous greeting.
    “Reasonably well, Doctor. You’re looking swell.” I stared at her dress which unnerved her a bit. The last thing a shrink wants is for a patient to be distracted by her high-end lifestyle. Because I dress so poorly these days, she probably didn’t think I had a clue about such an extravagant frock. To be polite, I kept my thoughts to myself.

    “We ended our last session talking about your feelings of envy. Would you like to continue in that vein?”
    “If you think it will help.
    “Let me ask if this envy you feel is something recent or if you experienced it in your youth.”
    “Believe it or not, it is new. My mother once accused me of being jealous of my sisters but she was wrong. They were ten years older than me, after all. I resented my mother saying that. She wanted to cast the blame on me because she actually did prefer my sisters and was guilty.  And she thought because I was, in her opinion, homely, I must resent them. But I didn’t. I resented her pushing her short-sighted judgments onto me, trying to put me at odds with my sisters. But I knew she was just rude and didn’t take it to heart as much as you’d think. My sisters, by the way, were very attractive girls, both of them. They weren’t identical twins but they both had healthy good looks, athletic and sharp. I was bookish, ‘the worm,’ as my mother once referred to me. Not bookworm, just worm. How’s that for demeaning? But I never felt envious of my sisters. They were a little removed from my sphere. They went to private school, used up all the money and I went to public school. As I said, I was the unexpected late child no one planned for. So if I am envious, I have just cause. However, it has only come to me lately, with my own failure.”
    “What do you envy? Who do you envy, besides the Facebook star?”
    “Okay, I’ll  debase myself with one more episode: I was envious of another young woman who published a credible book, not some dopey novel, but a useful sociological study on a topic that struck me as important. She was not only appealing personally - a gifted speaker, a lovely homespun blond, nice sense of deprecation, honest - but her topic seemed forward-thinking and relevant. She can also be ascribed the trait of brave as she had to travel to dangerous parts of the world, or at the very least uncomfortable parts of the world to make her assertions. I could barely get through her lengthy interview on C-Span. Just being on C-Span made me envy her.”
    “Why is that?”
    “One of my dreams is to be on C-Span.”
    “Why?”
    “Because if I were on C-Span I would have done something important, written something meaningful or have significant knowledge. That would be my gauge. For the rest of my life I could say, I was interviewed on C-Span, and feel smug.”
    “Adele, we all can find people we look up to. We don’t necessarily envy them. We admire them. Are you sure you don’t just admire the author? “
    “Admire, envy, look up to, who knows? All I can tell you is I had to turn off the TV and swim laps in the pool.”
    “So this woman made you feel inferior?”
    “I can’t tell you…my stomach was roiling, I thought my head would cave in.”
    “Why did this particular woman make you feel so inferior?”
    “Because she achieved something rather special at a young age. And I have achieved very little and am not getting any younger. I was forty this week. And I was having a bad morning.”
    “Haven’t you published a book?”
    “A slight novel that was supposed to be the promise of something more. That something more did not happen and by the time I realized I had struck out, it was to late to reconfigure. By that I mean, I want to write a book with meaning. I don’t want to write another novel about a foolish woman and her amorous choices. Chick lit, it’s called. It wasn’t a category when I wrote my little novel but now it has been duly pigeonholed and I’m sunk. It would have made a good screenplay but the market by this time was flooded with this genre - so easy to emulate.”
    “What would you prefer to write about?”
    “I’d like to write nonfiction or at the very least, serious fiction but it’s like I had my chance and didn’t amount to anything and time has moved on to other authors, like the woman on C-Span whose name I don’t even remember because I didn’t want to register her or her important book.”

    Michelle probably thought by this point that I was even envious of her Prada dress and seemed to wear it a little less confidently but dresses do not have the ability to cause envy in me. I’m am not desirous in the least for things others have. I envy achievement. I was not supposed to be a failed state. I had my mother to overcome: and I had. But it required I be successful, at least on my own terms.”
   
    “You said your mother played favorites?”
    “She certainly did. Does.”
    “But you’re staying with her now?”
    “Yeah, well, after I lost my flat, my boyfriend and my publishing success, I pretty much had nowhere to go. I’m parked in her condo ostensibly because I am writing the third book, the book that will redeem my reputation and make me a literary sensation. I was dropped by my publisher but picked up by a boutique publishing house my editor started. But it’s just so hopeless. I’ve moved on from the brand and can’t get her to see any other possibilities. But she’s all I have.”
    “You mentioned in an earlier session you have writer’s block. Is that still the case?”
    “Relentlessly. Monstrously.  There is something about being in my mother’s presence that brings up all the old resentments that I thought I had long grown out of and keeps me from realizing the author in me. It’s horrible to be in this situation at my age. All of my friends are married, have children, careers. I’m broke, broken and can’t see a way of hauling myself out of this predicament.”
    “You said your mother plays favorites, present tense. Do you want to talk about that?”
    “Last week was my birthday. I was not looking forward to the day because we would have to pretend to care. She would make a point of a lunch in a restaurant, a present, a cake. All nonsense because I’m too old for it and would like to let the day pass unmarked. She would too but as a mother, she can’t. So she invites her friend Berthe, whom I rather like - with her refreshing droll humor. Before we left for the restaurant, my mother made this flourishing presentation of a beautifully wrapped package and I pretended to delight in receiving it. If I sound cynical, it’s because she hasn’t a clue of what I like and refuses to acknowledge my taste in anything. From the time I was young, she would not let me choose my own clothes because she said I had ‘questionable’ taste so any gift that looks like clothing makes me nervous. It is an ongoing battle. To this day, she still criticizes my clothing, often in front of others, I can’t tell you how irritating that was as an adult. My friends were mortified for me, my boyfriends confused. She was so boorish my father had to say, Why don’t you lay off the kid, Marge. You’re embarrassing her in front of her friends. I think at twenty-three she can choose her own clothes. So you see, presents in those clothing boxes make me flinch. You may think to look at me Doctor, that I have no fashion sense. But that is just a temporary ruse. I am, believe it or not, considered pretty stylish in my world so I resent her attitude but that is an old story and who cares?”
    “So the present?”
    “Yes, the present. Well I opened it to great fanfare but little enthusiasm to find  an acqua zip-up sweater, with matching knit, elastic waist pants, suitable for someone eighty-plus-years-old, one step from the nursing home, $39.99, if I am to believe the tags she didn’t bother to remove.” I got a little smile from Michelle for this confession - I knew she could feel my pain with this one but that wasn’t the entire story. I then went on to tell her about the $500 gift certificates for shoes for my sisters, both in a high tax bracket already. The only way I got through the lunch was Berthe’s look of shock when I opened the present. Then embarrassment. She smiled at me, a woeful little upturn of her reddened Dior lips and raised her glass to me when my mother wasn’t looking. I knew she was a silent pillar of support and that is how I didn’t cry during lunch. Am I ridiculous enough?”

    Michelle was silent and let me finish the pacing I’d begun when the topic was broached.  “So you see, Doctor, my mother does play favorites but that is really not my problem. That is only one small victory for her.”
    “How so?”
    “She wanted to let me know that my failed state has been duly noted and given its ranking in her estimation. You have failed, I will treat you accordingly.”
    “Do you see how a lifetime of this, Adele, could lead to your feelings of low self-esteem?”
    “Of course I do. But I tell you, it is not my biggest concern.”
    “What is your biggest concern, Adele?”
    “That because I am unable to love, my life will never be anything but a stinking death sentence.”
    “You said you didn’t believe the voice you heard in your head.”
    “No, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the truth.”

PART III
    I told the good doctor more than I ever had in a session. I exposed myself. Sons and daughters with mother issues must pass through her rooms daily. She could deal with that and I was glad to hand it to her. It was, most certainly, one of my issues, but just one. The only reason it is an issue today is because I’m staying with my mother here in L.A. in dire straights. The clothing issue is benign. I had a very nice wardrobe with my Saks discount. I was even  photographed for an “on-the- street” spread in a fashion magazine when I visited New York. None of this I told Michelle. Let her think I am a humbug. The truth is, I can no longer buy clothes, makeup, shoes, have my hair highlighted, or my nails polished. I have moments of grief over this - here in L.A. it’s hard to look bad and retain any confidence, add a critical mother to the mix and I’m wallowing - but as I told Michelle, I have other concerns.

    In the next session I asked Michelle if her other patients had my concern.
    “What concern is that, Adele?”
    I asked her if she believed in God. She stared at me for a about twenty seconds before smoothing her skirt (Michael Kors) and re-crossing her legs. 
    “Adele, I suggest if you are having a crisis of a religious sort, perhaps you may want to talk to a minister or a priest. (I don’t think she knew the difference.)
    “Or a rabbi possibly?” I threw in for good measure. “Or the Dalai Lama, if he takes cases.”
     “Whatever,” she sort of blustered. (I told you religion makes her nervous and of course, I’m being facetious again.)
    “It’s just that I heard this voice clearly and I’m not ready to let it go but on the other hand, it’s nonsense, isn’t it? I mean a decree from God! Even I’m not that desperate.”
    “What about your desperation, Adele?” She was trying for a new direction.
    “Well, I’m desperate because I have no money, have writer’s block, am living with my mother, have been dumped by my boyfriend, my second book was a flop so the option for a third was dropped, I look like hell, I have no future unless I can write the great American novel which I can’t and I’m seething in a state of negativity and old grudges. Is that enough for you?”
    “What about your boyfriend? You haven’t mentioned him before. Is that something that is bothering you?”
    “Just one on the list.”
    “Tell me about him.”
    “I think it’s a waste of time but okay: Morland is his name, one-up-man-ship is his game. We’d been together for five years - he’s the west coast reporter for a news magazine, writing a book on the California economic collapse, we have the same agent in New York, we met at a book party, we were planning on selling our separate apartments and buying one together, we spent weekends in Napa at a friend’s house, my book was supposed to have given us the wherewithal to do all the things our friends do, and we were talking marriage. When my book bombed, I became a free-lance writer and when I could no longer afford my mortgage and had to sell in a buyers market, I hoped to move in with him. He then had second thoughts on all of it. When I went into the depressed mode, he lost patience. When I whined about writing fluff, his attitude implied that fluff is as fluff does; that it’s possible my mind was not capable of anything more and I should be grateful to be given the chance to be published at all; many authors never get that far. Just write the damn fluff and sell it,  he said. I pouted, told him he wouldn’t write shit, was attempting something important and why was I anything less? He didn’t take the bait but I meted out his real regard for me, and I let our ‘love’ crumble as everything else in my life was crumbling.”
    “Were you hurt, insulted? What were your true feelings?”
    “Hurt, insulted, irritated. All of the above. But he’s not my issue so let’s not dwell on Morland. I was actually tired of him.
    “Did you love him at one time?”
    No. I’d like to think there was something there but it wasn’t love. I may not know what love is but I know what it is not. He acted as if he were above me somehow. That what he did was important and what I did was not so much. But he did love the parties and soirees my little unimportant books generated. Trivial, but nevertheless fun and free. His writing was not all that astute politically, I came to see. He thought I was unaware of current affairs…I was taught never to discuss politics and in truth, I didn’t feel I needed to expound on anything more earth-shaking than recycling and the banning of plastic bags in San Francisco. But I read the Wall Street Journal every day. And let’s not forget C-Span.”
    “So you felt discredited - that his opinions mattered and yours didn’t?”
    “Yes, Doctor, my low self-esteem had me discredited. But as you see, I was able to out him. Just as I was able to eventually out my mother: offensive people who need to feel superior to others. It’s not breaking my heart any more than my mother is capable of breaking my heart at this stage. Irritate the bejeezus out of me, sure. But anything of an emotional nature just isn’t there. I’m tougher than that.”
    “I wonder…”
    This was said to give pause, but it annoyed me. “I wonder if I am capable of love, Doctor. That is what I want to find out. I can’t think of a single instance where I love unconditionally. In fact, I don’t even really like people that much. I avoid them. I’m socially adrift. One of the things Morland and I argued about was  ‘the friends.’ He thought every spare minute should be spent with them. I wanted to be alone to write and indulge my whims and after a couple of weekends in Napa, didn’t really care to go that often. Ditto for dinner parties. I found people insufferable with their endless need for approval and an even mightier quest for status. Maybe I need to get a dog. I read that having pet brings out the love in you.”
    “I don’t think being antisocial necessarily means unable to love. Dig deep, Adele. Try to relive any feelings you’ve had of love in the past. You don’t  mention your father at all. Let’s talk about him in the next session.
    “Ugh. Okay, that’s not kind.”
    “You know Adele, there is a theory that says you must love yourself before you can love others. My question to you is, do you love Adele? That is what we’ll investigate in our next meeting.
   
This week’s session ended and I think Michelle was actually beginning to understand where I’m coming from. How about that love-yourself-first for a light metaphysical touch? When she stood up she had on killer platform shoes from Yves St. Laurent. I noted this, Michelle noted my noting and neither of us said a word. I think Michelle and I bonded over the bad gift. She took my meaning and I appreciated it.

PART IV
    Being somewhat on edge, when my mother asked if I would wear the acqua pants set I told her flatly that she should return it, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it and furthermore, found it insulting. She got a little nervous but regained supremacy and let me know that since she was paying for my treatment, (Michelle) she thought that enough was spent on me and the gift only a token. “Something for you to open. (What am I, six?) Besides, you don’t go anywhere, I thought it would be something you could put on to write in or wear at the pool. It’s just for casual wear, Adele. Wearing ripped jeans and t-shirts may have worked in San Francisco but this is a senior complex, I wanted you to blend in better.”
    “Thanks, Mother, but I don’t think I could write a decent sentence wearing that outfit. Sorry.” The gift was returned and nothing more was said. But she was right - she was paying for whatever it was Michelle and I were trying to unearth - to clean up in my rotten personality.

    The following week I decided to get a little gussied up for my appointment with Michelle. My ego required it at this point. I put on my ten-year-old Missoni dress that never fails to flatter, my Gucci sandals and wore makeup and earrings.  I breezed into the room and daintily sat on the leather sofa setting my vintage Vuitton bag on the table.
    “Good morning, Adele. How are you?” She was appraising me and I could sense a flurry of status renewal going on with her.
    “I’m fine, Doctor Ainsberg.” Today she is wearing a Miu Miu blouse with the same Michael Kors skirt. I can’t see her shoes behind the desk. I notice she has a new piece of art flanking the doorway but I don’t comment on it. I am never impressed with the choices people make in their artworks. It’s usually vacuous enough to make me wonder about them personally which is never a good thing. I tend to judge people on their taste, their purchases. Michelle’s wardrobe is impressive so we’ll leave it at that. Very few people know anything about the visual arts but feel they should if they have extra cash and a lifestyle built on impressions.

    “Would you like to tell me about your father, Adele? What sort of relationship did you have with him?”
    “The sort that left a blank space in my mind, wondering where he was, where did he go, what was his purpose. He sold insurance. My parents divorced shortly after I was born, he came around because my sisters stayed close to him. I never got to know him like they did.”
    “You said he defended you against your mother when you were twenty-three. About your clothing.”
    “It was at my college graduation which is how we all happened to be together. I grew up never seeing them in the same room. He is just a missing person to me.”
    “Did you love him or did you feel that he loved you?”
    “Ah, there’s that question again. Love? I don’t remember feeling any such thing for him but I once saw him looking at me when I was about twelve with something… not quite affection, not quite the ease he felt with my sisters, but a quiet assessment that had the feel of…something like sentiment. I’m not describing it well, like he was seeing something in me that he missed before. Another daughter, unplanned, a mistake, but I saw a spark of something that might have been love…for just a minute. When he saw  that I was watching him, he smiled and started the useless small talk: How’s school, Adele, what interests you…do you like your teacher? Bullshit. But it was the first time he took note of me and I him. I never forgot it but it was too late for that childish adoration one feels for a  father. He was too remote and my mother did not help matters by harassing him whenever she could about child support, things like that. I missed out on fathering. And yes, I do blame my mother once again.”
    “We keep coming back to your feelings for your mother.”
    “You mean my resentment of my mother, let’s not mince words, Doctor.”
    “Adele, it is not possible to erase the past, I think you know that. But it is possible to established a new relationship with your mother based on a willingness to let go of the past. Do you think you could do that?”
    “Not while I’m staying with her. It’s in my face every day. The reminders. Her petty remarks, her graceless sniping. And gossip. She fills my days with rancor. I tell myself, get over it Adele, ignore it all, and I am doing better. I wish I could work on my book without all this bull from the past cornering me. In my heart of hearts, I believe she is responsible for my inability to love, even myself, and I’m not being very forgiving.”
    “So you think it’s necessary to forgive her?”
    “I have no idea. But I do read quite a bit about the necessity of forgiveness before you can move on. Is it just new-age jargon or is it a fact? Even the Lord’s Prayer says to forgive those who trespass against us. It is said we cannot love until we can forgive and it does make sense, doesn’t it? The inability to love is like writer’s block - keeping one from getting anywhere.”

    Michelle crossed her legs again, I saw her glance at her watch and I knew we had entered rough terrain where she did not feel as comfortable in whatever shoes she was wearing. It was a subtle shift but I am not a writer for nothing. I make it my business to detect subtlety.

    “So Adele, do you think your writer’s block has to do with not being able to forgive your mother?”
    “I do not know, Doctor. I came to you to find out.”
    “How is your book coming along? You mentioned that you were trying to write a third book, hoping that it might have some sort of meaning your others lacked?”
    “I don’t know. I type away but have yet to find inspiration. I will be sending the first chapters to my editor next week. We shall see. It begins with a woman attending her father’s funeral.”
    “Is your father still alive? You didn’t say.”
    “Yes, he is. He lives in San Diego with his second wife and her son and daughter.”
    “Do you see him?”
    “Rarely.”
    “Why is that?”
    “For the reasons I’ve stated. Too late to get the fathering I missed out on.”
    “Do you resent him?”
    “No. My mother made him crazy. I felt sorry for him for the most part. He was too lackadaisical for her ambitions.”
    “Did you wish to live with him?”
    “Some of the time. I wished he was on hand for things…you know, holidays, school stuff, learning to drive.”
    “But you didn’t resent him?”
    “No. I resented my mother for making him leave.”
    “Where do you want to go with our sessions, Adele? What do you hope to gain?”
    “I’ve said, I want to know why I don’t really love anyone and why I am floundering. And for that matter, how to get over it. My sister, Karen, said I need to grow up when I complain of our mother. She’s right. I need to transcend my animosity.”
    “Do you remember what I said last week about loving yourself?”
    “Most definitely, Doctor. I thought maybe we were going to trek into new-age territory. I was looking forward to it.”
    “Why would that please you?”
    “I think psychology that leaves God out of the equation is basically hopeless. It’s not that I’m religious, Doctor, don’t get me wrong, religion gives God a bad name and is sort of creepy. It’s just that there are things that can’t be explained through the mind only.”
    “So what do you think is out there in the way of explanation?”
    “I truly don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I wasn’t in the same hopeless boat as all my fellow-sufferers.”

    Our session ended on a melancholy note. Michelle again asked me if I loved myself. I asked her if it was necessary, she side-stepped the question and rose from her chair behind the desk. “We’ll take up this question next time,” she said.  I let her walk ahead of me to open the door so I could take a quick gander at her shoes. Salvatore Ferragamo. Nice.
    “I like your shoes,” I said. She wished me a curt good day, but I detected a subtle grin.

    I’d like to say I got my mother’s money’s worth but I got little from this session. I think it’s possible Michelle may not have the answers I’m looking for. After next week, when we find out if I love myself - I can’t miss that - I may have to let her go. My mother should get something for all her trouble. She should get her daughter’s love, right? (Did I just think of my mother in a sympathetic vein? Maybe Michelle is working her thing after all.)

PART V

    I never got to that session on loving myself. It is said that life is not lived in a vacuum, that change is inevitable but the change in this instance was not so good. My mother had invested most of her money - money she worked hard for over the years, and some she inherited from her parents, with an investor who turned out to be a world-class scumbag  - a crook, a reptile, a Ponzi schemer of the first magnitude. She lost so much of her savings that she had a breakdown and had to be hospitalized for a day. We thought she was having a heart attack and that is what it looked like but it was only a form of acute anxiety. I was called to the hospital by Berthe who was with her when the story broke. Many of the victims were interviewed on TV and my mother, once home, just sat in her armchair staring at the television set with an almost other-worldly expression that made me frightened for her. In the following days, she trembled, she couldn’t eat, she cried and spent a lot of time on the phone with her attorney and her sister who was also a victim, via her husband. They were in the process of selling their apartment in New York and relocating to Florida. They would have to live out their retirement years in a cheap condo and Social Security. Others they knew had it worse.

    My mother sat blankly, living on fruit and candy, seemingly unable to leave her chair and the TV screen. I would read the newspapers stories about the ensuing mess out loud, at her insistence. My sisters were on the phone hourly trying to glean some idea of her financial situation. They implored me to find her bank statements, tally her expenses and do what I could to get her through this. None of us knew if she owned the condo outright or if there was a mortgage. And she refused to talk about any of it.
“We’ll just have to give her time to digest what’s happened,” I said.
“Just make sure you’re dealing with things, Adele, and not shirking responsibility,” said my sister Carla in Seattle. I would have ripped her hair out had I been with her but only said, “Give me a fucking break, Carla,” and hung up. Then my sister Karen in Palo Alto called to find out why I was so rude to Carla which only pissed me off while our mother pretended to be asleep not wanting at all to talk to them which they could not believe. “Tell them I’m asleep, I’m on medication,” she’d say when she knew it was one of them. I was not sure why she was doing this but followed orders. 

    I could tell they were debating who would take her in if it became necessary and only as an aside, what would become of me. These were troubling days and for a time, I had to forget my own predicament and take care of my mother. I wanted to kill the crook, as others did, I was incensed, ranting on the phone, trying to obtain information, trying to get her attorney to level with me and let me know what the prospects were of retrieving what she’d invested. I was only one of thousands doing the same thing, feeling the same rancor and bile in my chest, worried sick for my mother’s future.  I really didn’t know if she was broke or just broken. She kept murmuring things like, all gone, all for nothing, all my saving, all my planning, gone, stolen, who would have thought such a thing possible? I may as well die. Was she exaggerating? She is prone to that… I kept a sharp eye on her.

    She was put on tranquilizers and sleeping pills but after ten days passed, I got her to dress and come out to dinner, hoping to talk about her situation. “Mother, you have to let me know where you stand financially or Carla and Paul will be down and you know they will make everything worse right now. You have to give me permission to take over your finances if you are just planning on…” I was going to say sitting in a chair all day stewing, but stopped myself.

    Each day I spoke with my Aunt Beulah in Florida who had become a beacon of information on the crisis. She knew countless people who had “lost it all,” and she would tell me how they were coping, who was seeing a psychiatrist, who was having a super meltdown, who had the best lawyer, financial service planner, who was selling what, who had the scoop on the big banks…she lived and breathed financial ruin.

    At first my mother dutifully listened to it all, saying little, giving no information on her own state of affairs but taking it all in. After two weeks, she said, “Adele, tell her I’m out from now on. I can’t take much more of this.” I continued making excuses for her which caused all manner of repercussions for me. My sisters accused me of shutting them out for some gain to myself though what that was, none of us were certain. When my mother refused to speak with them they called Aunt Beulah and built conspiracy theories around my possible motives.

    This went on for several months as my mother grew weaker, less attentive, less active though Berthe was on hand every day for which I was  grateful. She’d arrive bringing food - things older women like - cakes, Jello salads, doughnuts filled with custard, club sandwiches, egg salad, rice pudding, nougat candies and once an entire pot roast dinner. With all this fuss, my mother’s appetite picked up and that was a start. “She’ll talk when she’s ready,” said Berthe. “Everyone should just leave her be. No one likes to be harassed, especially when they’ve suffered a shock.” She made tea in the silver tea set that was, previous to this, never used and served my mother like she was the queen. We should all have such a friend. When I said this to my sisters, they scoffed and threatened to come down and find out what was really going on. Somehow they never got around to it.

    One day over morning coffee my mother told me that the condo and her car were both paid for but that she had no cash left to keep them operating other than her Social Security check that would not even cover the HOA fees. She had no money to pay Mark Jamison, her attorney, nor any other services she might need. I had called Michelle letting her know what had happened and asking her to recommend someone for my mother to talk to.
    “I have no desire to talk to anyone and certainly cannot pay for it so I think we can put that idea aside, Adele.”
    “Just checking…” I said. I thought of calling my dad but what would be the point? She’d be livid anyway although as it turns out, Karen already had for no apparent reason.
   
One day she seemed to remember my existence and asked, “When will your book be published, Adele?” This threw me into a panic; it implied that I be ready to support her which sent shivers down my spine for numerous reasons.
    “It hasn’t even been written yet, Mother. We can’t count on it but I will try to find some free-lance work in the meantime. Try not to worry.”

    And she didn’t. She started watching daytime talk shows on TV and got hooked on a soap opera or two. She watched the financial channels all day, hoping for a glimpse of the “devil.” Seeing him in handcuffs, no matter how many times it was replayed gave her satisfaction. Seeing his haunted wife gave her even more though she admitted she felt sorry for “the poor woman who was bamboozled like the rest of us.”

    I put my book on hold and joined the media, ablaze with coverage with not only the Ponzi schemer but the Wall Street crash, the most ferocious since 1929. Because of my mother and Aunt Beulah, (firsthand knowledge) I was able to pick up quite a bit of work writing about the personal aspects of “losing it all.” I interviewed people all over the country and had a byline in a number of important newspapers, magazines and blogs. (Take that, Morland.) I zoomed in on this story, I could think of nothing else for months. I began to bring in some money and eventually wade through my mother’s financial affairs. She had been living very well and the bills could only be described as calamitous. Though she did lose an appalling sum, fortunately, she had time to mull things over. But she was right: she had very little to live on and she would need to sell her condo and find cheap senior-citizen rent in L.A., move to Florida with Beulah or in with one of her daughters. She had not arrived at this conclusion yet but it was coming. Unless some of the money could be clawed back in time to save her.

    “Mother, have you given any thought to moving to Seattle with Carla and Paul? They have room.”
    “No, I haven’t. But I can tell you I don’t want to and so I won’t.”
    “Well, I guess you’ve thought of it then?”
    “Whatever…”
    “Have you thought of letting me put the condo on the market? It will free you up, give you options.”
    “To live where?”
    “I think the idea of Florida not a bad one. You can buy a condo there for as little as $50,000, according to Aunt Beulah. You can probably get $250,000 for this one, I’ve been doing research. It makes sense; free up some cash, live near Beulah and Ted. I’ll help you with all of it - the sale, the move.”
    “Florida is so ghastly humid.”
    “Just tell me what you want to do. I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay here forever. Mark Jamison says you will eventually get some of your investment back but the bad news is, you’ve already received a lot of it in returns and it will be a couple of years at least before it’s all worked out. I think you should sell and get out from under the expenses. The numbers can’t be made to work for you, Mother. I’m sorry.”
    Then she surprised me by saying, “Can’t I just stay with you?”
    “Where, Mother?”
    “We’ll split expenses here.”
   
    Oh, God. I cannot tell you how painful that idea was to me. To be locked in with the mother/daughter antagonisms indefinitely. I would need two shrinks and more anti-depressants than advisable.  “I’m planning to return to San Francisco, Mother, as soon as I can settle you. I’m sorry. L.A. is a temporary stop, always has been. You know that. I may even go to New York if I can get work there.” She got up quietly, turned off the TV and went to bed. I sat up trying to write but could only shake with fear over the future for both of us. And to think, a few months ago I was worrying about whether I was able to love or not. Ridiculous frivolity. Like the song said, What’s love got to do with it? I went to bed but tossed and turned  just as I was doing when I began this story but I was no longer pleading for understanding. I had to kick ass.

    The next morning my mother rose early and dressed to kill - her black Calvin Klein sheath, her red pumps, her pearls. “I have an appointment with Mark,” she said. “I have make some decisions and I’m not taking any shit about hunkering down.”
    “I’m so glad, Mother.” I hugged her, so relieved was I to see her dressed and back to life with that old aggression flaunted. Who knew I’d miss it?
    “You know Adele, what I said last night about living together…”
    “Yes. I’m sorry if I reacted badly. It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to returning to my old life. I’ve got some plans…I’m pitching a new book based on my articles on the schemer…I’m starting to see possibilities and…” I shut up, at  a loss for words that didn’t sound ungrateful or self-centered. Oh, God, if she wants to come with me, I’ll have to let her, was then my prevailing thought. I could only hope the panic didn’t show.

    But she was smiling, I believe for the first time since hearing the news of her loss. It stirred something in me…warmth flooded my heart region and an entirely new sensation encompassed my being.
    “Adele, I know I shouldn’t say this, please don’t repeat it, but you are my favorite daughter. You know how to ride the waves. With you there is a chance of overcoming obstacles. Every one else is stiff with pride and riddled with insecurity. In a crisis, I’d rather be on your ship. You take the cake, my dear.”  With that, she parked her Chanel sunglasses on her face, waved goodbye and got into her car, leaving the bunker for the first time in months, ready to face her “issues.”  I went back to my laptop with a feeling that maybe I had conquered one of my own. I spent the rest of the day in a state of love and made dinner for my mother and Berthe, complete with champagne and authentic French chocolate mousse.

    Epilogue
   
    Before leaving for San Francisco, I made an appointment with Michelle. I was looking forward to seeing her again and I wasn’t disappointed. Despite the air of doom and gloom everywhere in the country, she was wearing a slick indigo Armani suit and her St. Laurent pumps. I can’t tell you how this cheered me up.
    “Well, Adele, it’s good to see you again. Where were we, it’s been awhile?”
    “Well, Doctor, we left off wondering if I could possibly love myself. You asked me to think about it.”
    “And have you come to any conclusions?”
    “Just one.  It’s easier to love oneself if there is someone else in the picture.”
    “Have you met someone new?”
    “No. I reconfigured something old.”
    “I’m not sure I understand, Adele, but I can see you have changed. You no longer look like you are on death row.”
    “This is my last session, Doctor, I’m leaving L.A.”
    “Back to San Francisco?”
    “Yes. Finally.”
    “And your mother? She is okay?”
    “She is fine. She went back to work.”
    “Good for her.”
    “Yes, my mother is not one to grovel and beg. I hope I take after her - when all is said and done.”
    “Yes, Adele, when all is said and done, we are our mothers. It’s something we all have to come to terms with. Congratulations on making the leap.”
    “You mean the love, Doctor. That is, after all, what we were trying to uncover.”
    “Then I’ll put you down as a success. No more failed state?”
    “C-Span here I come.”
    “Make sure to let me know the time and date.”
   
    She walked me to the door, I took a last look at the St. Laurent pumps, admiring such excellent taste, but said nothing.  I wouldn’t want her to think me envious.  I won’t say the feeling has left me but I have passed through a chapter of my life that rendered me helpless and ineffectual. I am grateful to be moving into another. My conflict has been resolved but I am not so confident there won’t be others. Maybe I’ll occasionally recall my torment and not have to put myself through it again, God, willing. The one important thing I have learned is I can count on my mother when all else fails. We should all be so fortunate.