New Year's Reflections... of course

Yes it's that time of year when we reflect back and look ahead, hoping to amend some of our less productive ways. So I'm looking back. In doing so, I found this photo...

This is me and my friend Doe. It was 1998, New Year's Eve. I took something of the chemical variety, most certainly. Though I probably generally looked that happy. I was unmarried but madly in love. I had a good job that I liked enough. I had great friends, Doe included. I was not a parent but that would change very soon. Sooner than planned. I was unencumbered, young (29, if I've estimated the year on this pic correctly), hotter than I realized (I should've realized!) and having the time of my life in San Francisco. I remember dancing that night to Prince's "1999" though at the moment I'm a little fuzzy about whether or not we were welcoming '99 or seeing it go. Nonetheless I love this picture. And I love my friend Doe.

2011 was a big year for me and Doe. She came forward and spoke to the press about her abusive coach. As an incredibly private person, I can't imagine how hard this was for her. Boy am I proud of her. And I think she's finding some peace for the first time in a very long time. I'm proud of myself too on this one. I almost took that bit out of my book about a gazillion times. But I thought: if you want to take it out, it's the part that most has to stay in. It's the part that will ruffle feathers, sure. Which is why you're having second thoughts. But it's true. Leave it. And I did. With Doe's blessing. And now more than 3 years later, it's all come out in the wash. Peters is banned from the sport. He's ousted from the Hall of Fame. And Doe and I are still friends. Best of...

What else? As I look back, I've waded through a lot this year. Last New Year's Eve I'd been on my own less than 4 months. I had friends over to celebrate and I cried most of the time. Quite the hostess I was. I've had more than a few bouts of crying over the last 12 months. Usually brought on by one too many glasses of pinot noir. And an armful of girlfriends to listen to me bawl - "But why didn't he ....[insert choice of phrase here: love me more, try harder, want to have another baby with me...blah blah blah waah waah waah"].

But they - the crying jags - petered out around April or May. I still had my fits of weepiness often brought on by a date. A bad one (is this what's in store?) or a good one (it's officially over, the marriage that is). But then I kind of got my footing sometime this summer. Me and the kids had our "summer of adventure". We went water skiing, fishing, zip lining and so much more. And I started to appreciate the quiet. And by quiet I mean the quiet in my mind. The hardest thing now is welcoming someone new into my life. I associate being with someone with criticism and an unquiet mind. I have to open myself up to the idea that there can be peace in togetherness. Not gay Steve is helping with that. (More on gay Steve coming next.)

I'm calmer now. At work, in life, in parenting. My kids are great. Thriving, in fact. Everyone who interacts with Wyatt these days says: What happened to Wyatt? He's a different boy! So talkative and outgoing. Yup. He's come out of his shell. The kid's got great parents.

I've tried some new things this year. Internet dating. Never thought I'd do that. I joined the board of a non-profit close to my heart, Safe4Athletes. And I can say Doe brought me to them, both literally and in a more figurative sense. I stopped exercising (ok have to fix that ... part of the 'look ahead' bit coming next). I connected with old friends (Lisa, Jessica and a host of other ex-gymnasts) and let new ones in. I realized that formerly work-friend Steve (gay Steve) is friend-for-life-friend Steve. As he told me earlier this year, "We are part of each other's stories now." Yes we are.

I didn't write as much as I would like to be able to say I had. But I used this blog as a means of not panicking, as I said I would at it's inception (thanks KFarr, for telling me to start it for that very reason). I pissed some people off with things I wrote that were stupid and unthoughtful, divulging information that wasn't mine to share. I apologized profusely and with all sincerity and profundity. I learned to express myself in real life (not writing) just a little bit better. That one is still a bit tough for me, I'll admit. I got a new boss. Which seems to be going well. And I built a new home for myself.

Looking ahead... ahhhh. How to do this without coming up with stuff that I will not do and then disappoint myself in the process? Keep it simple. I will exercise. No marathons. Just move the bod a few days a week. I will drink less of that pinot. I'm not not drinking. No way. But less. And I'll write for real. Not signing up to finish a book. But I'll commit myself to trying. That'll do it. Look out 2012. A new calm Jen will take a walk every once in a while, not get drunk every Saturday and scribble a few lines of something' somethin'. Wow, the world won't know what to do with itself.

Happy Holiday

I had a very different kind of holiday this year. Trying to make some sense of it all in my tiny mind. Felt more appreciation, gratitude and peace than I have in a very long time. And yet it was tinged with a bit of sadness. Maybe melancholy would be a more apt word.

It was the first year in my life as a parent that I spent Christmas without my kids. Yes I'm a Jew. But a non-practicing one. I spent my childhood with a Christmas tree, presents on Christmas morning, chocolate croissants for breakfast and a festive family meal - turkey or lasagna, never ham - in the early evening. We didn't go to church. But we certainly celebrated Christmas.

I love celebrating. I love holidays. Birthdays. All of it. I love taking the moment to be with family, to practice gratitude. I love giving gifts and the feeling of generosity that pervades these moments. Not generosity in giving 'stuff'.  Generosity of kindness. Yes it can be carried throughout the year. But we forget. And each year during the holidays, or maybe during a birthday - your spouse, your mom, your best friend - we remember to tell each other not just THAT we love each other, but why. I love this.

This holiday my kids were with my ex-husband. And I was ok. I wasn't even sad. I spent the days prior with my boyfriend. I want a better word for what he is. But we'll use that one for now. The feeling of gratitude I felt waking up Christmas morning with him - even though my kids weren't there bouncing in my room, yelling at me to wake up "It's Christmas!!!" - was astonishing. I've never been one to lounge around. I'm up and at 'em all the way. But I feel, with him, that I can sit. And be. Is it age? Is it him? Is it wisdom? Am I just tired? Who knows.

He left to spend the rest of the day with his mom and dad (not in a Christmasy way, he is a practicing Jew) and I spent it with my brother and nephews. We had a very regular day. And that made it all the lovelier. We made cookies. We went to the park. Hit tennis balls. Ate Chinese food. And lit the Hanukkah candles. Then I came home and my boys transitioned to me. We lit the candles (again, they wanted to) and exchanged gifts. It was quiet. And perfect.

This morning we opened the rest of our gifts, tried out the new baseball bat at the park. Went to a movie and had Hanukkah dinner at my brother's. Again we lit the candles. This ritual has never been important to me. Has never really been a part of my life. But now, with two people in my life that it matters to - my sister in law (we've done it the last few years together) and Steven (better than "boyfriend") - I can replicate it and find the peace in it. In ritual.

I will spend the week with my kids. And New Year's Eve. My brother and his family will move to LA a few days after that. This is what brings the melancholy this holiday season. They have been my solace, my fun, my comfort, my family this year. No way I'd have gotten through without going crazy if they hadn't been here. I love that the boys play together like brothers, none of the artifice of friends or cousins. They fight. They say they don't like each other sometimes. And then they take care of each other. I don't want them to lose that.

I don't want to lose that.

But I can handle it now. I'm on my feet. I have someone that looks after me. That I can look after.  I will visit. I will have a new niece or nephew soon. I will miss them all. The patient and abiding friendship of my sister in law (she's smart, funny, wise and tolerates my neediness with her husband). Harry, my oldest nephew, spending the night. Ike, my youngest nephew, falling asleep on the couch with me. And of course, Chris. C-bro. The bestest little brother a girl could have. Thanks for hanging my television, hooking up my internet, making it so I didn't completely fall apart when I moved out almost a year and half ago and my whole family blew up. What can I say to thank a guy for that? I got your back. Whatever you need.

xo

A Break from Brooding

I've been accused, on more than one occasion, by more than one person, of only writing when I'm angsty. Of only writing about hard, yucky feelings. Of not ever writing about happy stuff. It's true. Writing about happy just doesn't seem that interesting to me. When I'm happy I just enjoy it, I don't overanalyze it. Wouldn't that kind of take the happy out of it? It's like dissecting why something is funny (I'll admit I do this sometimes). Philosophizing and strategizing about funny is utterly un-fun. And un-funny. I kind of feel the same way about happy.

I'm not saying I'm right. I'm just saying that this is how I operate. I can see the folly in this. If you can assess WHY you feel happy, maybe you can sustain it? I see that. I do. And yet, I'd rather just enjoy it. Further, I don't mind all that much being a bit angst-ridden. It's part of life. It provides contrast. It's where insight comes from. I accept it as a necessary part of a contemplative life, of self-awareness.

To be clear, I often write when I'm content but generally I flash back to some difficulty on the road to getting there. This is where I find revelation, enlightenment. A sense of possibility and an appreciation for the journey.

But just so that I can prove my 'critics' wrong, I'm going to attempt to write about the things that make me happy at the moment:

1. I love my independence. I live my life the way I want to, hopefully without being too self-involved. Just the right amount though. I don't feel guilty about having a nice apartment that I love. I don't feel guilty about having a practical but relatively nice (not excessively so) car. I don't feel guilty about pretty shoes, therapy or trips with my children. And yes, I used to. I have found a semblance of peace with my own likes and dislikes. I don't feel like my choices are somehow wrong. Inherently. I love this! It brings me such contentment to exist in this lovely peaceful apartment without clutter or mustiness. And I love having a garage. Ahhhh, the simple things. (I realize the irony of how I iterated my happiness over this point - in the negative, the negation of guilt. Old habits die hard. Give a girl a break on this.)

2. I have such fun with my kids. They are getting older. I'm permissive when it comes to media. We laugh our faces off watching Jackass over and over again. We saw #3 three times at the theater. It's gross. We love it. When Steve-O does the outhouse stunt, the combination of danger, poop, vomit and uncontrollable laughter on the part of the Jackass crew causes us to nearly 1) vomit with them; 2) pee our pants. I love laughing with them. My oldest and I also read the same books sometimes. He recommended The Hunger Games. I read it and we talked about it. He gave away made up plot points, misdirecting me but increasing the urgency with which I inhaled the book. Funny kid. He got me.

3. I am helping to make progress in regards to the protection of athletes. I'm proud that my book instigated this in some way. I'm happy to be part of the community trying to create change on this. I love the strong women I have met in this process. And I am so proud of them all.

4. I have a boyfriend, a wonderfully lovely man who is kind and chivalrous and emotionally expressive. Who makes me coffee in the morning and forgives easily. Who listens to my feelings (when I dare express them) and thinks I'm funny. That's good stuff.

5. I have a great job and I work with great people. Yes it's hard sometimes. There's pressure and politics and pettiness at times. But all in all I work for a company that does good in the world, has a strong corporate conscience, respects consumers and delivers great products that last a lifetime for a great price. That ain't bad.

Ok that's five. I don't want to push it. Five happy thoughts all in one day. Ok one more for good measure - I love salty snacks. I could wax poetic about potato chips, pretzels, fried potatoes of any kind and a delicious margarita with an overly salted rim on a hot summer night. But I won't. I love salt in all forms and I indulge regularly. Yum.

There ... happy Jen in a nutshell. Next post - back to my wheelhouse. Dark and brooding. This is deemed "a don't panic log" after all...

From J-sis with Love

I've been negligent. Not much in the mood to write anything. Busy I suppose. Work, kids, new man. Lots going on. All good stuff. All happy stuff. Still trying to find time to just 'be' ... have come to appreciate the alone time in the last year. I never knew how much I actually liked being alone. Maybe I'm more of an "I" than an "E" (ala Meyers Briggs) than I thought. Or perhaps we change as we get older. But I've come to appreciate the quiet. There's enough noise in my head most days that external quiet is required at least some of the time to avoid complete brain chaos.

Anyway, had the day to myself yesterday. My brother treated me to a brand new tattoo, my 40th birthday gift (yes that was 2 1/2 years ago... we moved a little slowly). Since he's leaving for LA with his growing family, and I'll miss him terribly, we decided on matching tattoos. Not matching exactly. We each got the nickname for the other. Goofy, corny, dumb? Maybe. But I like it. I'm j-sis.

He's c-bro.

MSNBC

I appeared this morning on MSNBC to discuss the parallels between the Penn State case and the Don Peters banning. Watch it here. Key points made, I suppose.

Whole thing was very odd to do from a remote studio. You sit in a dark room by yourself. No one to look at. No one tells you where to look. And then you get questions in your ear. No warning as to what those questions might be. All said, went ok considering. Except for the fact that I look like Morticia Adams.

Salon debate

There seems to be a debate raging on salon.com after my piece, Why My Coach Got Away With Sexual Abuse, appeared on Friday. Check the comments section. It's a little nasty. Anyway, just to clarify, he wasn't my coach. He was the national team coach. And I did travel with him and compete under his tutelage in several major international meets - most notably the 1985 World Championships and the 1986 Goodwill Games. That said, I didn't spend my day in day out training with him. Ok this is besides the point, I just didn't want to mislead.

The debate which seems to have missed the point of the piece is around - Should we compare the anal raping of a 10 year old (by Sandusky) to the somewhat less overtly violent sexual abuse of a 16 year old (by Peters)? I say somewhat less overtly violent because clearly the anal invasion of a child is a horribly obvious coercive and violent act; no 10 year old boy would do this willingly. That said, knowing Doe personally, I know there was nothing consensual about the abuse that she suffered. It wasn't sex. It was rape (and now I sound like a "Take Back the Nighter" ala 1989 but it's true.)

Someone posting under the name of Dr. Owens suggests that Doe was complicit. That all teenage girls are misdirected horny sexpots spewing pheromones everywhere with no sense or distinction as to who might be a good target. That teenage girls go around seducing teachers and parents of friends and any adult who might be able to stick it to em because they are just so damn horny! And this may be partially true. Teenagers' hormones can take over. But this is not what happened. She was a 16 year old girl, who physically and emotionally was likely closer to 11 (that's how we all were); and, not to belabor the point, THERE WAS NOTHING CONSENSUAL ABOUT THIS SITUATION. He used his power and authority to take something from her that was not his to take. Period. Assuming it wasn't sexual abuse is paramount to assuming that there is no such thing as rape. That if a girl or a woman is of age or at least close to it, she's always willing. It reminds me of the age old (not so old really) laws that held that a woman could not be raped by her husband. All marital "sex" is consensual. No. Not so.

But comparing "which abuse is worse" was not the point of the piece. And doesn't really serve much point regardless (tell it to the abused!). The point of it was to explain why the microcosmic world of elite competitive athletics allows for abuse. (And please, no comparisons to the local little league or soccer coach directing a rag tag group of 7 year olds. I'm talking about seriously intense internationally or nationally competitive athletics. When the stakes are high, the rules are different.) The abuse laid out in both instances was brushed aside by people who knew. If not allowed, it was certainly not exposed. Here's why: the coach is all powerful. The athletes and parents and sports officials serve HIM and the sport, not the kids. Not always, but all too often. The kids who get abused are simply casualties of war. And in some instances, it's not even viewed as abuse, at least not abuse that is bad enough to have to do anything about.

Doe is a case in point here. Dr. Owen's point of view is probably not all that dissimilar to that of those who may have known about it back then. And for those commenters who argue: rumors are not enough to have done anything about it. I ask you: if it were your child, and there were rumors of a teacher abusing kids in her classroom, would you not go to the principal, to a law enforcement official and say - please look into this! I think you might.

So argue all you want about the finer points of molestation vs rape vs misdirected teenage lust. They aren't fine points really. They are major distinctions that have legal implications. And I wasn't trying to have that debate anyway. I was merely trying to explain, from an athlete's insider perspective, why, perhaps, Paterno didn't do all that he could have, why the girls that Peters abused didn't come forward sooner. And why the reasons in these two instances are likely kind of similar.

Salon.com

Proud to have this piece run on the front page of salon.com today. The comments are a tad frustrating to read. So I try not to. Again, mad props to all the brave women who told their stories.

Safe4Athletes

I've just joined up with an organization called Safe4Athletes. We aim to protect athletes, children in particular, from sexual abuse and bullying by coaches. And here's the part where I ask for money. If you want to donate, any amount, no matter how small, go to this link . Find "Safe4Athletes" in the drop down menu.

Thanks.

The Ban Has Been Issued

Don Peters has been banned from the sport of gymnastics for life. To add insult to injury, the USAG also revoked his Hall of Fame membership. Certainly that's the part that had to hurt the ego a bit. And, lets be clear, a man who purportedly said, in the throes of all of this horror, "This will all blow over, like the Tiger Woods thing" has a big ego.

Let's not celebrate just yet though. The USAG did the right thing. But their hand was forced by Mr. Scott Reid of the OC Register , proving that solid investigative journalism can provoke change. I'd also argue that the USAG had no choice with the goings on in Pennsylvania at the moment. Do they want to appear to be another Joe Paterno, protecting the university or institution at the expense of children? No. Better to stand up as bold protectors of the athletes. And...the good news is this: if you act that way, you become it. (It's like if you smile enough you feel happy!) Now they are holding themselves to this standard. Now they must staunchly defend the athletes. The cat is out of the proverbial bag, they have nothing left to hide, and they've put the word out that abusers won't be tolerated. They have to walk that walk.  This is great news!

I'm still hoping that: 1) the definition of "abuse" is broadened as we look to protect the athlete - there is widespread physical and emotional abuse and bullying in sports that needs to be tackled; 2) that future witnesses will be moved to action.

We are all "heroes in waiting" as Phillip Zimbardo would say. If we are prepared to do the right thing, when the moment presents itself, we will. We won't pull a McQueary.  We'll go right in that shower and say: What the fuck are you doing? Get off the kid! We'd get physical if needed, then find the closest security guard or police officer. We wouldn't tell university officials or other gym parents. We'd tell the police! Because pedophiles deserve to be punished by law, not just by ban. And until coaches are held to the same standards as teachers and other state childcare workers - obligated to protect the child and report any suspected abuse - we won't fix this problem.

So this is just a start. It makes a statement, to be sure. It is the right thing, to be sure. And for this, I'm grateful.  I honestly thought I'd never see this happen. I've known about the abuse this man inflicted for nearly 20 years. I tried my damnedest to be a good friend to my girl Doe ... standing by and trying to help her figure it out, resolve it, in her own way. Rather than just knock the door down and scream and yell from the rooftops and make Peters apologize and pay and cry in denial then beg for forgiveness (hah) ... which would have been MY way. And maybe not so effective. And certainly not in Doe's best interest. Patience paid off. Truth won out. Even if it was 25 years after the fact.

But it's all just getting' started.

The Hearing

There was a hearing today led by the USAG. Its focus: whether or not to ban Don Peters, the former national team coach circa 1980-1987 and Olympic Team coach in 1984, from the sport of gymnastics for good. He is retired so it is kind of beside the point. But it matters a great deal nonetheless. Especially to those who suffered because of him.

He is accused of sexually abusing any number of girls that he coached. One of whom is a very close friend of mine. A woman that is honest and true. Kind and protective. Goes out of her way not to inflict harm. To live in peace. And finally she has stood up for herself and the others that he hurt. Go Doe.

What choice do they have - the USAG? In light of the fact that 1) he did it and there are a host of girls willing to come forward and speak to it; 2) the Penn State disaster (no one did anything!!!!!)...doesn't the USAG HAVE to act? They have a unique opportunity to appear as if they are taking the lead here. To position themselves as proactively protecting athletes by ridding the sport of abusive coaches. It is the right thing to do.

I'm waiting patiently for the verdict.

A Welcome Change

It seems USAG has felt the pressure. There has been an adjustment to the "rules", a closing of the loophole, so to speak. I do love how they present themselves as having wanted to have closed it all along. Who was stopping you, Mr. Penny? Really? Aren't you the guy that gets to make the rules?

Check out the article...

On the Penn State Fiasco

It's easy to be disgusted when you read about the Penn State sexual abuse. Why, one might ask, would someone willingly ignore reports of heinous, despicable sexual abuse of a child? Someone as “good” as Joe Paterno is reported to be? The hero coach, a model of highly invested and supportive, team building and winning behavior. As a thinking, feeling adult, it seems so obvious what the right choice would be. Report it to the police. No matter what university officials might have you do.

So why didn't it happen? Why are good people likely to do not so good things? Well, when it comes to protecting friends, protecting programs and sports and instituions that their lives have been dedicated to, when it comes to winning... sometimes the “right thing” goes out the window. And it all seems justifiable. I mean, what if the reports weren't true? Then you'd have potentially ruined a man's reputation and blighted the nearly flawless reputation of an institution – Penn State football.

It happens all the time. The sport, the institution, takes precedence over the health and well being of human beings, even if they're children. It happened in the Catholic Church. Wall Street. Enron. Government agencies. Abuse in other sports abounds. There are 79 permanently banned coaches in the sport of gymnastics. Recent investigative reports in the OC Register identify two revered coaches who have long standing histories of sexual abuse of their athletes. One, Doug Boger, was actually on the banned list and found himself a job at an unaccredited gym. The owner coach didn't care about his history. The parents either didn't know or didn't care. Because they thought he'd take their daughters to Olympic glory and Wheaties boxes. Winning mattered more. USA Gymnastics was slow to act amidst reports of abuse, again, protecting the coach and the sport from “bad PR” rather than investigate within the fullest extent of the law. To protect the children.

Pediatricians and other health care workers are required by law to report any suspected abuse of children. They are punishable under the law if they fail to do so. They can lose their licenses to practice. They can lose their livelihoods. Teachers are held to a similar standard. So why aren't coaches? They arguably spend more time with the kids they coach than doctors or school teachers. But they somehow exist outside the law. Reporting the issue to the university president was enough? He pushed it aside. It wasn't enough. I'm sure Paterno feels somehow “covered” by that reporting. But it led to nothing. Ethically, he is not in the clear, even if he is in the eyes of the law.

The solution therefore must be legally mandated guidelines regarding the treatment of young athletes by coaches. Adults cannot be compelled to “do the right thing”. We have more than enough proof of this. They must be legally required to. And children themselves must be educated and encouraged to speak up when there is inappropriate or abusive behavior. All too often a child in a coach/athlete (mentor/mentee) relationship feels powerless. He questions his own rights in the situation, his own take on the experience. He is threatened by the power, enthralled by the coach, is unable to come to his own defense. And the lingering affects will last a life time. And it's not ok.

Parents must demand it. The good coaches must come to the defense of their beloved sports by requiring that the “bad coaches” are held to task. And we all – all of those of us who believe in the absolute protection of the child - must insist that coaches are developers of children first, champion builders second.  

Left My Heart In San Francisco

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Happy Girl

I haven't been writing much lately. Mostly because I'm busy. And happy. I tend to write when I'm angsty so when I fail to put words on paper it is generally because I am enjoying myself. But then I get mad at myself for not writing and that prompts dissatisfaction and a little grumpiness and so on and so on blah blah. What a dumb cycle.

The busy-ness is from all kinds of things. Good things. I've agreed to get involved with an organization called Safe4athletes; their mission is to protect young athletes from abusive, bullying coaches. It was started by an Olympic swimmer who suffered abuse at the hands of a coach, understands the long term affects and the pervasiveness of this behavior and is now committed to being the advocate that the athlete doesn't seem to have in her parents or her sport's governing body. At least not in any sort of systematic way. I'm not sure what this will entail for me but I'm eager to formalize what I've  informally been a part of for the last few years since becoming an accidental advocate through Chalked Up.

I've also been approached about writing a series of young adult books focused on the dark side of gymnastics.  I'm mulling that one over. I want to do it. I'm scared to do it (dramatic structure is not really my thing). Which means I should do it. Things that scare me are the things that have ultimately made me most proud of myself in the end. So I'm trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of untethered, unconnected ideas floating and sometimes racing and often colliding in my head. And hoping I don't embarrass myself by writing a piece of total drivel. We shall see.

And there's the boy. Or man, I should say - if you're in your 40s you definitely deserve the "man" moniker. I have been debating whether or not I should write about him. Not because I don't want to reveal anything too personal to the four people that read this thing. I'm an over-sharer by nature. All four of you are welcome to read about my romantic exploits!

More so because he reads it. (Which makes me happy by the way.) And he's probably reading it right now and writing about him when I know he will read it and trying to be honest prompts that age old question regarding documentary films... is the filmmaker really capturing authentic behaviors, recording reality? Doesn't the behavior of the subjects change simply by virtue of the fact that they are being filmed? Won't what I write change simply because I know he will read it? The answer is most definitely yes, because if this were my journal I wouldn't have started with this preamble. I would have simply written this:

I met someone I really like. The whole thing is unexpected and charming and lovely. I had no hard fast rules going in other than "not an idiot". Preferably has been in a serious relationship - ideally involving marriage (so he understands what that commitment is and what it feels like to have it not work). Preferably has kids - so he gets the whole parenting thing. But I was even loose on these other than the "not an idiot".

What's unexpected about this? I'd kind of given up. Not in a bad depressing way. Just in a "I need a break from this dating thing because these guys are lame and I'd really rather spend a night with my friends or with my kids than going on yet another bad date." Like that. But then I had a good date. A lunch date, in fact. He was easy to talk to. Funny. Smart. All those cliche things that seem like normal things to want but are oh so hard to find. Beyond that... he listens. He makes me feel seen in a way I'm pretty sure I maybe never have.

The other unexpected part is that he is fairly religious. A conservative Jew. I am Jewish, it's true. But utterly un-religious. He's not at all pious, completely un-judgmental and seemingly it is his Judaism that grounds him in this life and keeps him present and grateful rather than something he uses to feel superior to others while pining for the after-life. I'll admit, I would not be comfortable with someone as religious that was a Christian. I'm a Jew by birth and culture, after all. And while I never thought I'd find myself with someone that was religious, his approach to his is one of the things that draws me to him.

What else? He's considerate. He brings flowers. He has strong hands and a big smile and brown eyes. He can fix things and likes to. He laughs at Louie CK even (especially?) the most offensive bits. He has three kids whom I have met and they are all clever and charming and lovely as well. (I'm not always a kid fan... but these were good ones. Really.) He calls, he texts, he communicates in all manner and modes. He can make fun of himself. He realizes when and how he has done wrong in his life (note to the daters out there... if the guy you're dating says the divorce was "all her fault"... run. He's not done the work yet). And he is striving to be a better human.

He is open and honest and I really have never experienced anything like it. So much so that the "L" word floats somewhat uncomfortably through my head from time to time. I say "uncomfortably" only because it is new and lacks the weight of familiarity and knowing and how on earth can I be having these thoughts already?

Oh yeah... and the fooling around is pretty darned great too. There you have it. I'm in deep like. I am hopeful and happy and looking forward not skittishly sideways or regretfully backwards. Just forward. Eyes on the road. But not too far ahead.

It's my clear eyes, full heart moment. And clear eyes, full hearts can't lose, as we all know.

More Mr. Peters

The Don Peters follow up is reported in Forbes. I have to admit, I'm glad. And I feel somewhat vindicated, personally. I know it isn't about that. It's about the girls who were hurt by this man. That is and has always been my biggest concern. My good friend Doe, in particular.

And now, their strength and courage is the biggest reason to take a moment to observe the profundity of the situation.

Does anyone now wonder why I wasn't all that concerned that he would sue me for libel? It is generally considered a requirement that the claim be false for the statement to be deemed as libelous.

3rd Grade Afro

I love this picture. Wyatt's 3rd grade school photo. I mean please. What a cool dude. I think there might be a pick in the back.

The Joys of Enlightening Epiphanies

Epiphanies abound these days. Epiphanies about my writing and what I am free to share and not. Epiphanies about my work and the role it plays in my life (spoiler alert: it does not define me). Epiphanies about money and what it provides and doesn't. How much I need. How I spend it or don't. I can now walk into a store and buy something - even a big something like a new computer - and not leave with the horror that the world as I know it may end or that the sky will fall, my bank account depleted. I can leave the Apple store and feel happy and excited about what this new purchase will provide me with - the opportunity to write stuff! I can walk into the street without crushing guilt, without feeling like I need to hide it in a closet or quickly save that money back. I am responsible when it comes to money and I can actually afford to have made this purchase. Joy!

Epiphanies about my children and how to build their confidence. My son Virgil walked home from school by himself on Friday, a mile and half through city streets. He made it easily, was beaming when he got here. I was a wreck. But he did it. And I fully understand - now - that they are not mine, that they are merely loaned to me for a time and I can only do the best I can to prepare them to leave me. Epiphanies about the nature of love and trust and kindness. And forgiveness. And the realities of my marriage and how to resolve them now that we are not together anymore. Therapy is a wonder.

In my last session, my therapist asked me why I believed all those years that I was married that my husband loved me. He said: you didn't have a lot of evidence of that. Why did you believe it? Gut punch. I clarified. I am focusing on the troubles, there were good times. We were in love. I love him still, in many ways. Admire and respect him. He is an amazing father. A wholly good human being with a giant intriguing brain. We had our great moments.

Yes, he said, tell me about those. I struggled to think of the right moments that provided the required proof. And yet, I know they happened. Mr Therapist said: but why did you believe? In the face of much evidence to the contrary in the later years? You believed, he said, wholeheartedly. You tried to love enough for the both of you. No we loved each other. We did.

But you need to consider the possibility that he didn't love you in the same way. Gut punch, #2. Well (he saw me flinch), the other possibility is that he did, but couldn't show it in a way that would be felt by you. Ok, yes. That is what I'd always assumed. That one. He loved me but we had different ways of expressing and receiving love. He'd chosen me. And that was enough. For a time.

Mr. Therapist then said, you obviously felt a deep connection to him. What was it? I think it was the darkness. He wore it on his sleeve when we met. I hide mine to the world. I am a stoic. I get up and deal and put on a happy face no matter what. But I feel the darkness, and I saw it in him, and I ran towards it, back then, when I was 24. Why do you respond to that? I don't know. I just do. I have sadness within me and I don't related to people that don't, though I don't live there now. Well, we need to figure this one out. Yes we do.

The following week involved some soul searching. I'd been struggling with the fact for some time, that maybe he never loved me at all, and I knew that I'd loved him. This contorted my gut, the potential one-way-ness of this. Made it so I couldn't sleep. It was ugly and rotting inside, this unease (understatement) was blackening my spirit, my mood, my outlook. Sixteen years that I believed and it was a lie? How to resolve this?

And then I reached an epiphany: so what? Maybe he didn't. Maybe he did. I won't ever really know. He may not even ever really know. And I have to be ok with either answer, because I can't ask now (not RIGHT now anyway, we are not there) and even if I did, the answer may not really be the truth. It may not encompass the entirety of the story. So I have to be ok with either answer, and I have to be ok with not knowing. And I can be. It is where we are. It is true. And it is ok either way.

The important thing(s) NOW are:

1. To be respectful of each other. We are the parents of two amazing boys. We must raise them together long after they are gone from us. Long after they not only walk to school alone. But when they date, and marry, and sire. We will be grandparents together. We will be connected forever through these incredible boys. But it's more than that. We will be connected through our shared experience in youth. And, I hope, through friendship.
2. To understand what worked and didn't and make adjustments in the future. I don't want darkness. I want light. But not so light that there is no understanding of the dark. A tricky balance, to be sure. I want communication and understanding and I need to be able to ask for these things as well as provide them. I was never good at asking for what I needed. I quietly built resentment over time (boy could I be a bitch) and held it against him that he didn't provide what I needed. Needless to say, that doesn't work very well. I need to feel I have the right to ask for these things. For things in general. Not a strong suit of mine. I feel I should be able to deal with what I get, and that if I can't, that is a weakness in me. I am working on this.
3. To wish him joy and love and an amazing relationship that he finds fulfilling in ways that I could not provide. Did not provide. And I am willfully doing this every day. Now. I wasn't. I hated seeing him with his girlfriend around the neighborhood. I've run into them several times and I still have no idea what she looks like. I black out, see stars, my head euphemistically hits the table and all is dark. She could be in my living room right now and I wouldn't recognize her. Next time I see them, I will say hello to her, introduce myself. Smile a genuine smile and hope that he is content. That he feels listened to and supported and also like a man in the ways that men need to; he often felt emasculated with me, and some of it came from his feelings of insecurity but some of it came from me and my unwillingness to allow myself to be taken care of in any way. I'm a stubborn one.

And so here I am. It feels like a plateau. A vista from which I can feel and see peace. I like it here. I want all goodness and happiness for him and for myself. And I think I may be ready to take that in. 

My massive fuck up

I hurt some people that I love dearly with my last post. I shared information I had no right to share. I violated the trust of someone that has gotten me through the toughest of times, the last year most importantly. I am so deeply sorry and horrified at my own indifference. My own recklessness about privacy should never spill over to those that I love who haven't granted permission. For this I am forever sorry. I only hope that I can rebuild the trust that has taken years to create. This friendship means everything to me. I will work and do everything that I can to show that I understand what I did, that I am utterly remorseful and that I am worthy of the trust once granted to me. I fucked up.

USAG's half-hearted acknowledgment

The USAG's response leaves a bit to be desired, if you ask me. Having policies that are updated regularly is not the same as enforcing them. Stealing money may be illegal, but if the government doesn't enforce it, it might as well not be (oh yeah, they don't! Oops. Not when it's a lot of money stolen by banks. Only when it's a little money stolen by common criminals. Bankers are "uncommon criminals" I suppose, and apparently above the law.) Here I go again, digressing.


But Mr. Penny, forgive me if I call bullshit ... AGAIN. But feigning "oh my" ignorance, as if you were just becoming aware of the allegations against Mr. Boger and Mr. Peters for the first time in these recent articles is a bit much. These issues were brought to you almost a year ago. And nothing was done. Or nothing substantive, I should say. Yes, you went through the motions. But real action? No.


The pressure from the recent press must have made your lack of action indefensible. Hence the banning and such. Not that the inaction wasn't already indefensible, but I guess not that many people knew about it, so it was easy to get away with it. Not no more.


Please sir, a little outrage might be appropriate. Outrage on behalf of the girls. Instead of this:

The protection of our athletes warrants a prudent and deliberate investigation of misconduct. Most important in these instances is to take every step necessary to come to a correct conclusion following a complete review of the circumstances.


The second sentence sounds like a whole lot of foot dragging to me. And I also hear a healthy helping of defensiveness here:

The cases mentioned in the Register series involve incidents that occurred nearly 30 years ago, but by no means are indicative of our sport's culture.


Really? Are you sure about that? Both these guys were coaching very recently. Boger, when the article came out. Peters just months before. I suspect Mr. Peters' abrupt "retirement" had something to do with the fact that these articles were about to be published. Though I'm fairly certain he'd deny that. 


Mr. Penny, these mealy mouthed words fail to address the issue effectively. Stand up and DO something. Launch an investigation! Commit to legal action not just 'banning' from the sport. Nut up and show a little chutzpah and fatherly rage on behalf of the girls that make your sport what it is. 

Part 2: Doug Boger coach of Flairs Gymnastics

I think part 2 of the gymnastics abuse articles might be more disturbing than part 1. These girls are brave. I'm honored to know them and call some of them friends. And again, for those that would argue, this happened "then", please keep in mind this man still coaches. Or was, I assume, up until about 8a.m. this morning when this piece came out.

The insidious effects of this kind of abuse are salient. These girls (now women) learn not to trust their experiences. To require outside validation for everything. Something bad happened to them as children, really bad, and it was ignored, or worse yet, they were told "This isn't happening. Just keep your mouth shut." Try to grasp the impact of this. You grow up, you have an experience, and you go, did that just happen? Someone said I was bad or stupid or ugly or mean, maybe I am? I don't think so, but maybe I am because he/she said so. I deserve this treatment because I am bad. I will accept it. If I am better, it won't happen anymore.

And so for those who say: this happened over 20 years ago. Get over it. I say: not so easy. These women are strong, and brave, and courageous. To come forward, trust their own experience, and be willing to shout it from the rooftops and take the criticisms that ensue. It is the first step towards believing in one's own worthiness. Go Julie. Go Doe. Go ladies go.

An apology...perhaps?

I'm not one to get too angry. If I'm criticized by someone or a massive group of someones, I generally turn it towards myself. What did I do? What could I have done differently? Was my perception skewed to begin with? Maybe I was just too much of a wimp? Could I have shared this information in such a way that it would have been more likely to be received? Did I not work hard enough? Did I deserve mistreatment? This litany of questions that I regularly direct towards myself is not reserved for criticism surrounding my book. I do it at work. I did it in my marriage. I do it everywhere.

Amidst the group pile-ons around "Chalked Up" (Reader Reviews or Is Jennifer Sey a Liar?), I never got truly mad. (There were a lot more that were a lot harsher than these, I just can't find them right now but I digress...) I sometimes felt unsure of myself. Questioned my experiences, my worth. But I wasn't angry - at least that wasn't the over-riding feeling.

But here's the thing. Now that the Peters' improprieties I alluded to have been confirmed by actual victims - and I do recognize that these are still allegations not charges - I'm mad. I think I actually want an apology. No, I do want one. That's saying a lot for me.  And here's the other thing - people knew. People that mattered knew. Back then. It was discussed. It was whispered and swept under the rug. And those in charge, chose to protect him. Of this, I am certain. Yes I'm mad. This is bullshit.

And for all of you out there who are saying: well, that was in the 80s. It's different now. I call bullshit again. Peters was still coaching up until about a month ago. You think he changed since the 80s? Unlikely. These leopards don't change their spots because the decade lurches forward.

I'm channeling "Network". I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. I'm not going to do anything dumb. Or mean. But I'm not going to be the one apologizing all the time, feeling like everything is my fault. I'm not going to be the pushover. Just this week, a peer at work said something I found insulting about the work that I am responsible for. He called it embarrassing. Usually I'd apologize. Seek feedback. Say: it will be better next time, I promise. Grovel grovel.

But I would never refer to anyone else's work as embarrassing. That's just not cool. Or productive. Or helpful in any way. And this time, rather than grovel and request "feedback", I said, "I'm offended by these comments and I'm not going to have this conversation right now." Wow that felt good.  He apologized later.

It's not lost on me that women generally say Thank You while men say You're welcome - a Prostrate vs Assertive stance but maybe something can be done to even the scales a bit. I'm gonna try to stick with this approach and see where it gets me. At the very least, it feels a whole better. And, to be clear, I'm not asking for everything to be sunshiney and light, rainbows and unicorns. I want helpful constructive criticism. But don't be overly emotional, vindictive, aggressive or passive aggressive. Don't use your perspective to belittle others. Just give me your opinion. I'll listen. Really.

I would like an apology about the Peters' assertions. I'm not demanding one. And I don't know who it would even come from or how it would be delivered. But I believe I deserve one.

Happy New Year, Happy Birthday, Happy New Digs

My kids got their own rooms for the first time in their lives tonight. Kids in the city don't have their own rooms. It's just not how it's done. No one has enough space. Except the VERY wealthy. And even then, the kids often share because if you have a house in the city, even a really expensive one, there simply aren't enough rooms to go around. But I decided that the room that has been empty (except for the boxes and books and suitcases I've been storing in there) since I moved in a year ago, might be better put to use as Wyatt's first solo bedroom. It's a little cramped. But he loves it.

I think Virgil is pretty pleased with himself to have his own pad as well, on this, the eve of his 11th birthday. How did he get that old? I was in labor at this hour eleven years ago. I'd been married just over a year. I'd been working at Levi's just over a year. My how things change, and don't, all at the same time.

Happy birthday Virgil. Happy new rooms boys. (Check out Wyatt below.) Happy New Year to my Jewish friends. May the year ahead be filled with self-discovery and light. Shana Tova.

What's next?

While I'm encouraged by the fact that the women who were sexually abused by their coach more than 20 years ago have come forward to tell their stories, I'm anxious to see where the conversation goes. It isn't enough to run a few stories that appeal to people's sense of horror and prurient outrage. They have to lead to something. A discussion about why this is prone to happening in the sport, for starters. Some commenters take the position of: well, so what. The percentage of pedophiles in the gym community is the same as the percentage in the general population. To this I say: pishaw. I don't think so. I'll admit, I haven't done a quantitative assessment. But think about it... girls in leotards, trusting of authority, needing to be spotted by eager coaches. Ogling and fondling can be said to be part of the gig. It's no wonder the sport draws some pedophilic men. This isn't to say that they all are. Make no mistake. Most, by a LONG shot, are NOT. But as far as percentages go... I'd be willing to wager that it's higher than the population at large.

More importantly, what is the sport's governing body going to do about it? A list on some website won't be enough. Rules are required. Rules around parents being present, no traveling alone with the girls, a promise to pursue the offenders to the fullest extent of the law. Not just place them on a banned list. And, by the way, the list doesn't prevent coaches from coaching again. There are those that have found their way back into gyms that simply don't give a damn. (I believe part 2 of the OC Register piece will touch upon this very issue.) And there is no punishment for a gym that employs an offender. So what's to stop a guy?

Parents have the final accountability for their children. No doubt. But there should be basic levels of protection afforded to children in educational, developmental and recreational settings. We expect it in the schools. In the pediatrician's office. And in any government sanctioned and/or funded organization. So why not here?

Finally, will anyone ask the question of whether or not the sport creates the conditions for abuse that is more diffuse and widespread - broader and more varied - than sexual abuse? The power dynamic, the youthfulness of the girls, the willingness of the parents to hand over responsibility for the chance at medals, the lack of regulation? There is emotional manipulation and abuse, physical abuse as well as sexual abuse, that has long lasting affects. It is insidious and destructive and absolutely cruel. 

That's the critical conversation to be having. Do these examples represent something bigger and more widespread? What do we as parents, protectors of children in general, expect to happen within sports in general to ensure that our children aren't hurt, abused? Rather they derive the full benefit of sport - healthy bodies and self-esteem. And maybe, just maybe, a medal. And even better, if no medal is at the end of the road, a strong work ethic, a great sense of sportsmanship and an understanding that winning is perhaps, not everything. 

Love the comments

DYNAMICINSIGHT

8:47 AM on September 25, 2011

"It would seem that he really got them to perform at their highest potential. Maybe his techniques work... He did bring us Olympic gold and isn't that more important?"

Yes someone wrote this in response to the story about Don Peters, the former coach of SCATS and the national gymnastics team coach for much of the 1980s (including the 84 Olympics). I'm not sure he/she is serious with this insidious comment. Maybe it is intended to be facetious? I sure hope so. 

Ok I think maybe he/she is kidding. Obviously people can't think that. Right? 

I'm not going to read the gym blogs. 1) I think I am blocked from many of them (or was back when my book came out). Or maybe I'm just too dumb to figure out how to get on (a distinct possibility); 2) I've learned my lesson. It doesn't help to troll the comments. People who write mean-spirited, ignorant things on blogs, people that spew venomous hate blaming children... yes children! ... aren't worth my getting upset. So I won't read what they are saying. About Doe. Or me. Or the other unnamed girls. I know what I've said is true. I know I've spoken up with the truth as the priority because it will be the thing that helps the girls that still do the sport today. It will be the thing that helps the sport itself! But I've always considered Doe in this. Because she needed to tell this story herself. She didn't need me to speak for her (but man how I wanted to over the years). 

There is no money in this for anyone, as some commenters indicate. Gyms don't have money (do they?). There is nothing to be gained. And I don't think these women want anything other than peace of mind. I think they'd like to know that perhaps the USAG will look a little harder at these issues going forward. That a serious conversation will ensue about why these things happen and how the girls who ARE the sport will be protected in the future. 

Teachers leave classroom doors open when talking to students. Pediatricians have the parents in the examining room for the same reason. Coaches aren't governed by anyone or anything. They aren't teachers. There are no rules. The bad ones - and there are A LOT of good ones by the way - do as they please. They find ways to be alone with girls and boys who are unprotected. They exploit the vulnerable whose parents aren't around because they work 3 jobs to pay for life and gymnastics classes. This is what sexual predators do. They hide their predatory behaviors from those who seem risky (meaning: those who might tell) and they corner those who, they believe, won't speak up. They use the power dynamic - and lets face it, young girls are fragile, figuring out who they are, desperate to please, and will do anything to fall into the good graces of a coach/teacher/mentor - to get what they want. They shame the vulnerable. They attack the exposed. 

I am inspired by the courage of the women who finally spoke up after all the years of silence and shame and anger and fear.  These women whose trust in authority was violated. And for whom this must still play a role in their view of themselves.  Kudos to you all. Clear eyes full hearts can't lose.

Now let's start the real conversation about what happens next...

A gymnastics story

An article came out today about the sexual abuse in the sport of gymnastics. The primary story line is about a very close friend of mine, Doe. One of the gentlest, loveliest people I know who has suffered immensely over the years as a result of the abuse that went on in her gym. The sport has been slow to respond to allegations. Protecting "the sport" vs the girls who are the sport.

I feel relieved (and anxious) to see this in print. I suspect hate mail is forthcoming. For me and for Doe and the others who are cited in the piece. In my case, they will state that I'm making these accusations to sell books. Which is so absurd to me. I would have spoken of this more overtly in the book if this were the case. I could have written something salacious and ugly. I could have written of the other abusers I knew to be out there. But I wrote the book to write not to expose anyone or anything. I sold very few and that was just fine. It wasn't the point to begin with.

I was always concerned with my friend since the day she revealed pieces of her story to me. I wrote nothing she wasn't comfortable with (and this is a very small aside in the book), as this was never my story to tell. Despite my anger over the years as she told me of what had happened, I remained supportive of her. I wanted to scream it from the mountain tops. Support for my dear friend took precedence, which perhaps was a mistake. But I felt I'd do her more harm than good if I were to scream about it before she was ready to contend with the fall out, the aggressive questioning. It was a conundrum to be sure but I chose her.

But I do feel guilt. If I'd come forward sooner perhaps there were other girls that would have been saved from abuse at the hands of this man. She was my first concern though. Supporting her, getting her to the point where she felt she could come forward in whatever way she felt comfortable. Even if just to her family.

Love you Doe. I'm awed by your courage.

http://www.ocregister.com/news/peters-318708-yamashiro-gymnastics.html

The end of approval seeking? Sometime?

I had a lovely Sunday with my friend Shannon. Saw a bad chick flick (I don't know how she does it - does Sarah Jessica have only one mode? It was charming as a young New Yorker for a while, now, it's somewhat cloying). And we had a lovely lunch in the Indian summer sun. She seems to find a way of therapizing me - she's a therapist - that isn't too much. Feels like being a friend. But more insight. And there is a kind of professional empathy that goes along with it.

She encouraged me to take this moment - this alone time - and figure out what the hell is wrong with me. She said it nicer than that, of course. Why do I continue to be such a pleaser. Why is it that I can be grateful to be on my own and know in my head (with my brain, not my heart) that my marriage was a match that was doomed, that I felt disrespected and disregarded in; and at the same time, I feel it was my shortcoming ONLY. Somehow. I know that isn't true. I don't feel it though.

I apologize profusely, still. To the sound of silence. No response. Certainly no acknowledgement that we both had a role in the ugliness.

And I continue to seek the approval of others. And the granting of that approval is all the more desirable if they seem unwilling to give it. How fucked up and dumb is that? Yeah it's all cuz of gymnastics. I had coaches that not only withheld approval but aggressively dished out criticism. It was enough just to have the screaming and name calling stop. That felt like endorsement! But really, Jen? You know all of this. And you're not over it? Apparently not.

I do it at work. I chase it. The one guy, the one leader, who won't willingly and cheerfully acknowledge my contributions... well, that's the guy I am desperate to please. And never will. I had one boss, once, that didn't make me chase it. He said up front: You're the best at what you do. You're smart. And I certainly don't want to have to debate you. And then we moved on. We debated, we argued, we agreed... and I never doubted my worth. Now, why I'd debate my worth pending anyone's approval is the real question. But, I needed the confirmation, he granted it and then we moved on. Is it possible to have this in a relationship? I believe so. But not if I keep chasing the bad kinds.

I don't really continually chase them. I chased one. For 16 years. And I still feel tied to him (I am). And I still feel somehow at fault. If I were "better", if I could have "taken" more, wouldn't it all have worked out? At my expense, perhaps, but it would have worked out.

Ok...I know I've said it before. And I'll say it again. Lets do this. Lets stop the approval seeking. Lets work on just approving of myself.  I suppose some therapy is in order. Some more, I should say. And on we go.

Jdate, match.com and growing old

I switched from match.com to jdate.com recently. I've never dated a Jew in my life, despite being one - culturally if not religiously. What does that mean? Well, I like rye bread, empathize with Israel (but not excessively), use Yiddish words sporadically (I'm schvitzing!), love Philip Roth and Woody Allen, never eat mayonnaise with my corned beef, prefer bagels and smoked fish for brunch over most anything and am not ashamed of using the word "intellectual" as a positive attribute to describe those I respect. This might not be the real definition of culturally Jewish but it's mine and I'm sticking to it.

I've always loved a Jewish man. My dad and my brother are both Jewish men and are smart, funny, sarcastic but not debilitatingly so, empathetic, good (make that great) husbands and proud intellectuals who like reading the New Yorker and debating cultural and political issues with gusto. I like these things! One could argue I married a Jewish man in a black man's body. He's neurotic (in a lovable way), can recite Manhattan verbatim, is smart beyond what might be considered even useful. He's got better rhythm and style than some Jewish men, but let's just say he got the best of both worlds. (There's bad stuff in there too, but we're not talking about that just now.) He does like mayonnaise beyond what makes me comfortable and has even been known to use Miracle Whip (egads!) but other than that, he could pass for pretty Jewish. I digress...this is not why I started writing.

I switched to jdate because I thought, in general, the smart factor might be higher here than on match. This is a total prejudice - in a positive way. I doubt Jews are inherently smarter but there is an emphasis placed on education and intellect that perhaps drive a greater comfort with claiming it and a greater intellectual curiosity than the "general market". Maybe not. So what. It's what I assumed.

I have nothing to report yet - no dates as of this Tuesday morning - but I will say this: they believe just as much as Goyim that it is their right to date women MUCH younger than they are the second time around. AHHHH! Really? Because I'm a 42 year old woman probably on the outskirts of being able to have a kid (let alone want to), I should have to date a 65 year old? That is only 3 years younger than my dad, by the way. It's old. Too old for me, I fundamentally believe. We might only have a few years together if it were to work out. The average lifespan for men is what? 72? That would give us 7 years. Just in time for the itch to set in. And I'd have to get past sheer oldness.

I imagine "old" looking when you've grown old together is just fine and dandy. I look at my husband - almost ex - who looks undeniably older than when I met him (gray hair, thinning, gray beard, no belly though) and I don't see old. I see handsome and distinguished. But if I met him now, would I? Maybe. He's pretty handsome. But my point is, you carry the younger man with you in memory as they age, and you can see what they looked like before. This makes meeting later in life challenging. But I think we are fundamentally wired to be attracted to people of the same age. Unless "we" are a man. Apparently.

I am inundated with emails and "flirts" (the jdate equivalent of a match.com "wink" or a facebook "poke") from old dudes. Yikes. And then just this weekend I met the new girlfriend of a guy I know, a guy about my age, and she appeared to be no older than 22. More than 20 years younger than he is. Ahhhh!!! If he thinks he should date her then that means I should date 65! Not gonna do it.

This is the male equivalent of Botox. It is fighting death and aging. The logic (or lack thereof) must be: If I can date someone 20 years younger than myself maybe I'll actually appear 20 years younger. Maybe I'll actually BE 20 years younger. Women pump their faces with poison instead. If I can eliminate "the appearance of fine lines" maybe I'll actually appear younger. Maybe I'll actually BE younger. No you won't. You won't even appear younger. You will appear to be an undignified, ashamed 40-something who isn't comfortable in her own skin, with where she is in the trajectory of her life. You will appear to be a 45 year old woman who gets a lot of Botox. Period.

And gentlemen, you will simply appear to be old men fucking young girls trying to fuck your way back to youth which, I don't need to tell you, is impossible. And she's probably going to want to screw more than you can handle, but of course, I forgot about the little blue pills, so never mind. But you still won't be young. You won't be 20. And you certainly won't have any interesting conversations.

What's the Secret?

One of my least favorite things about California is all the self-helpy bullshit. All of it. EST, Scientology, Hoffman, blah blah blah. And for all their "depth", all the people that I meet that are into this stuff, it's all they can talk about! No other outside interests? How long can one discuss self-discovery? It gets pretty boring (for the listener) after a while. And they are soooo serious and shallowly profound about having found the "secret to life". Phht.

It's not that self-discovery doesn't have value. It does. 100%. OF COURSE. We all need to find our zen, our mojo, our peace. I want nothing more than peace of mind. And I definitely do not have it just yet (I know...who am I to judge those who've found it then?) I just fundamentally believe that I am not going to find it by paying boatloads of cash to some guy who loads us into auditoriums by the thousands, collects our hard earned paychecks and then buys horses and mansions with his loot after spewing shards of half-baked, faux Eastern religion wisdom at us for a few days or hours or months, depending on the program. I think we have to come upon it ourselves. It may take longer, it may be cobbled together from loss and joy and boredom and the beauty of books and words and art, but it's ours and in this, has more profundity. No? I think we can share our insights in bits and pieces and then go on to enjoy the spoils of those insights - LIFE. Life is not talking about how insightful we are. It's laughing. It's playing. Enjoying a beautiful book (that doesn't have a title like "Ten Easy Steps to Happy!") with perfect lovely sentences that move one to the core. It's spending time with our kids, our friends. And yes, it's being lost from time to time. But maintaining a sense of humor through it all.

These people - the seekers, I'll call them - never seem to laugh. Not real hearty belly laughs. They may chuckle. Or smile and say: That's funny. But whole-hearted laughter? Not so much. They live in unfunniness. I don't think they like humor, at all, in fact. Because sometimes humor points out ugly stuff about human nature. About us. Sometimes humor is mean. Sometimes humor isn't joyful. But it's funny. And full-hearted, full-bellied laughter, the kind that makes you weep...well, that's kind of it for me. So if finding dark humor that sheds light on people's worst qualities from time to time (our insecurities, our meanness, our stupidity) is off limits, then spiritual seeking is not for me. For now.

Who knows...maybe one day you'll find me standing shoulder to shoulder with other lost people looking for answers, gobbling up expensive pseudo psychological hocus-pocus thrown at me by some non-doctor who either just wants my money or had a spiritual epiphany of his own after tragedy struck - cancer or divorce or a lifetime of general malaise. But for now, I'm content (well, sometimes not so content) to cry when I'm sad, and watch Louie CK when I need to laugh, or visit with my friend Steve when I need to laugh and cry - all at the same time.

And I think, if I really need it, really need guidance in a group one day, I'm more likely to go the route of traditional religion. It's free. Time tested. And if you pick the right one, there's singing and dancing and happiness that comes with all the guilt and God-fearing. That could work one day. Perhaps...

Hmmm...

Ok that last post sounded bad. Selfish and horrible. Perhaps dating B was just that. Selfish. Not ready. But how to get ready without trying it out? Why did W fall in so quickly? How could he forget so readily? In love already. Just a few months after we split. I'm dating trying to forget and it just makes me remember more.

Men are different. They decide to be done and they are done. And he is done with me. And I can't be done. Not yet. For all the bad stuff, the controlling behaviors, the no you can't do that, that's bad, you're bad, you're competitive and everyone must hate you no vacation no moving no more babies...for all the terrible things I did, the resentment, regret, lying, avoiding, falling falling falling...for all of that...I miss him. His big brain, his laugh, his wryness, his intellect. His face. I miss him.

Pluck Continued...

I acted quickly. My first true act of pluck took place yesterday morning. I think that I behaved with honesty and kindness, but did what I needed to do for me, rather than concerning myself solely with the other person in the equation. I ended a burgeoning relationship. We'd been dating for about 2 months. Generally the unspoken agreement on match.com is that you can just sort of wander away without explanation if things aren't gelling appropriately. But if you're 2 months in, texting and talking on the phone regularly, and the other person is saying things like: "I think I'm falling in love with you" (which I think means he already is but is testing the waters to see what the response might be).... well when all of these things have happened, you have no choice but to perform an actual break up.

I don't think I've ever actually broken up with anyone. Not as an adult anyway. I suppose in high school, I did. Nearly three decades ago I told Jimmy Groeling, my first boyfriend during freshman year in high school, that I wasn't ready for a relationship. That I still preferred hanging out at home with my family on Friday nights over going to keg parties (this is what compromised a "relationship" at Haddonfield High School in 1984). And it was true. I hated going to parties where drunken couples groped each other, lined up 3 or 4 in a row on a couch in someone's basement. It all seemed so gross and terrifying to me. I can only hope against hope that my two boys might feel the same way as they approach 13 (I doubt they will).

During my senior year in high school, I broke up with Mike, a real boyfriend. My first love. That one was tougher. It was a confluence of circumstance that drove me to it. I was falling apart, my gymnastics career careening to a not very graceful or dignified end. My parents not wanting to notice, and continuing to drive me forward to an Olympic spot which was clearly not going to happen. And even though Mike made it all better I just couldn't hold him in my chaotic life. And he cheated. All the time. But I wouldn't have sex with him, holding tightly to my virginity for some hard to classify reason. And because I wouldn't sleep with him I didn't really blame him for sneaking in some nookie on the side. I knew he loved me. He did. But the cheating was an excuse to expel the unmanageable chaos from my life so that I could focus on my failing gymnastics career, my anorexia and my parents who seemed to hate me. Fun. I broke his heart and mine. My first experience with love sickness. No fun.

In college, no boyfriends therefore no break-ups. Post college, no boyfriends. Then I met Winslow. We met, we dated, we moved in, we got married, we had kids. We got divorced. A modern day love story. So I suppose getting divorced counts as a break-up and I initiated it. But it unfolded after years and years of struggle and fighting and counseling. It was the inevitable end. It revealed itself and had to be embodied. I stepped into what was already there. Still, there's no getting around the fact that it was hard. The hardest thing I've ever done. Makes sense that I would avoid doing something similar, though far lighter and less fraught with history (and children).

B was nice. Chivalrous, optimistic, kind. But at the end of the day, it was a cultural mismatch. We don't enjoy the same things. Our senses of humor are severely misaligned. He asked me if I'd ever heard of a cool movie called The Princess Bride. That he'd just seen. (I know that doesn't sound so bad - but having watched it gazillions of times, it seemed indicative of something.) He's never been in love. Does he know how to be? I think maybe he just decided to be and I was in his sights. He locked in. We'd had a conversation recently about heartbreak and lovesickness and he had no idea what I was referring to. Huh? How do you get to be 42 and not know what that is? He didn't really understand how I could be heartbroken over my divorce. He said: well, if you get divorced, I just figure there's a good reason. So it's all ok. No. It's not all ok. It sucks. There may be a million great reasons but IT IS NOT ALL OK. What kind of person would be ok with walking away from 16 years, 2 kids, shared hopes and dreams, a future, without what feels like unmanageable sadness? Not me.

He wasn't the guy. Clearly. I could enumerate the reasons but suffice it to say that he taught me there are kind men in the world who want to take care of women (I don't mean this in a 1950's way, rather in the sense that a person's heart is meant to be cared for). There are men who take a protective stance in a relationship. I like this. But it's not enough to overcome hearts and heads that don't connect. Strangely he felt we were connected, but as I've said, I'm not sure he knows what real connection feels like. When pressed on the heartbreak question, he recanted and said his heart had been broken in 1st grade. True heartbreak, he insisted. No. Sorry. Doesn't count.

I called him. Rather than have him drive all the way over to my place so I could stick a knife in his belly. He said: what do you want to do tomorrow? I said: I don't think we should see each other anymore. It feels too imbalanced. That can't lead anywhere good. I really like you but I'm not going to fall in love.

Silence. And then... "I don't know what to say, but I understand." Or something akin to that. Some chit chat - please stay in touch, lets take a break and let me know if you change your mind. And then goodbye.

And done. I felt awful. But relieved. And sort of empowered that I'd done something for me and hopefully protected him from greater heartbreak in the end. And I felt a sigh of relief to be alone in the world. Again. This made me appreciate single-hood. It's far better than a mismatch. There's peace in it. There are no awkward moments. Or hoping to get out of dates and evenings together so you can watch Louie CK.

Now I just need to get to seeing my ex this way. If I can only feel, really feel, that it is better to be alone, than with him, I will have made some actual progress.

No More Pleasing

I am a pleaser. I can't help it. It's what I do. I seek approval. I do it with a degree of grace and discretion. I'm not crawling on the ground, obviously supplicant, begging for scraps of love. Well maybe I am. My fall back setting is: make others happy. Impress them. Put your own needs second - no make that last - in order to ensure that others approve and feel like their needs are met first. A few examples:

1. My Marriage: I never, not once, said to my husband: get a job. It isn't fair. You need to work. I knew it would hurt him. I knew work was hard for him. Dealing with the world, with corporate America tarnished his pure soul. Mine isn't pure so it's ok for me to sacrifice myself to "the man". But not someone as sensitive and special as he is/was to me. So I slogged. I wanted a break but didn't ask for it. Now I wasn't perfect. My resentment and anger surfaced in ugly ways. But I didn't feel I had the right to say: Go to work. I'd like to take a rest for a while. I just didn't think I deserved it. And I knew I could handle whatever it was that needed to be handled. I buckled down and did it. But not without detriment.

2. Work: There isn't a specific example here. It's the constant petitioning for approbation. Trolling for a pat on the back. For what? I'm an adult. Can't I grant myself "ok status"? I should be able to, I suspect.

3. My Divorce: I still want his approval. Still. I walked out the door, I said "I can't take it anymore!" and yet I still find myself soliciting forgiveness. Big "F" forgiveness (please tell me I'm not horrible for wanting out even though I was passive aggressively shoved out through controlling and obsessive behaviors ; never mind that those who leave aren't forgiven, not ever, so I really should just accept this and stop striving for it. I mean, if you leave, aren't you basically saying: I don't care what you think anymore? No. I realize the answer to that is "No" if you're me.). But also little "f" forgiveness: I couch everything apologetically. "Could I maybe see them early next weekend? I mean, if it's not too much trouble."; "I have to go away for work next week. I am SO sorry. It's the last time I promise." ; "Do you think maybe it would be ok if we maybe possibly traded a day 3 weeks from next Wednesday? If it's not too much trouble and I'm really sorry!" Can't I just ask without acting like I'm asking for his kidney?

This has to stop. No more. Well, maybe some more but I'll work towards no more. Someday. It's going to be a hard habit to break. I've been doing it for almost 40 years. It's pretty firmly ingrained in who I am. A few first steps might include: not dating someone I don't like (yes I do this now to avoid hurting feelings; it doesn't work very well. I hurt their feelings eventually); doing my job and leaving it at work; telling W what I want/need rather than begging forgiveness for it.

This is going to take some real effort. Might be the supreme act of courage in my life. I get all tingly thinking about it. I'm sure it will be liberating, if I can pull it off. Sounds lame to call it "courage". People do really courageous things all the time - things like rescuing people from burning buildings, joining the army, teaching at risk kids in violent drug addled neighborhoods. I don't feel comfortable calling my new outlook courageous. But, given that I'm scared to try it out, it will certainly require a bit of pluck. Yup. That's what this will be. My act of pluck. That sounds better. Pluck sounds fun. It's much less austere than "courage". I can do "pluck". Pluck here I come.

Big Kid Momming

My son Virgil just started Middle School. His math homework is about 13 days from being beyond me. Truth is, I already have to strain to help him. But I get there eventually and I feel pretty damned triumphant when I figure out the pre-algebraic equations (sequences, terms, arithmetic patterns... ahh!)

The word problems are particularly difficult for me. They always have been. My head twists up with the to's and fro's and then I get fuzzy and have to start over at the beginning because my brain vision blurs making the sentences meaningless. But then I get fuzzy again. And I get this agitated uncomfortable feeling akin to shortness of breath and then I fuzz out completely, disconnect from the problem, so that I can breathe calmly. Putting the words and numbers out of my mind returns my equilibrium.

But I force myself to focus to help Virgil out. Shortness of breath is no match for this mother's desire to help her son!  Alas, soon even my secret focusing powers won't help us. He'll be on his own.

Which reminds me...he'll be on his own soon enough. He has fewer years ahead at home than he's had behind. That is not right. I just got to being able to talk to him about real stuff and he's going to go and hate me (teenager), then leave me (college student), then tolerate me for brief phone calls (20-something). How did this happen?

Makes me want another kid just to extend the parenting gig. In fact, I've wanted one for a while now. Not a small matter of dispute with my ex. I realized recently, I can have one if I want to. Wow! I don't need to ask anyone's permission, or for anyone's input or perspective or sperm even. I can get myself some store bought sperm. Or adopt. Presto change-o family with three kids.

I raised the subject with my two already living children. Wyatt, the youngest, was excited. "Yes! A girl! Let's get a girl! Maybe a Chinese one?" (Maybe he's reading too much US Weekly, too many Brangelina articles?) Virgil was less enthusiastic. "Hm. I don't think so." When I asked him why, he couldn't say other than he just didn't want another sibling and that he felt badly saying so. "Am I being selfish, mom?"

I told them we'd discuss it some more before deciding anything. I need them to feel they have a vote. They've been through plenty in the last year, they don't need some unwanted infant stealing my attention and patience. But I want a bigger family! I told them they had a say and now I'm thinking, how can I let these children - these children who are going to take off before I can likely manage to arrange my shoe closet - decide the fate of my motherhood? I suppose they already have in that they made me a mother to begin with. But how much say should they have really?

I know they'd embrace and love a child that was real and not just a conversation starter. I know Virgil is partially asserting some will in a family situation that affects him in an effort to overcome the helpless "Hey what about me? I didn't get a vote" feeling that must have overwhelmed him last year when I moved out of our family home.

And just like the way in which Virgil adjusted to our new home by having a say in the decor, he will come to embrace the idea of a differently shaped family, provided he has input and a voice. Or he won't. And we'll be a jolly threesome, then a twosome, then me. Just me. Anxiously awaiting their arrival on Thanksgiving and Christmas, enthusiastically accepting (remember collect calls?) their terse phone calls and pining pining pining for the days of parenting small children.

Asking for Help

Boy do I hate asking for help. I'm tough. I can do it myself. Wah. So there. Well, this morning, after a very long trip yesterday, and after a fitful, jet lagged shitty sleep interrupted by sweaty panic inducing dreams of my ex getting married to his new girlfriend on the day our divorce is final, I awoke to a dead car battery. I didn't awake to it. I raced down to my car, kids in tow, with exactly 9 minutes to get Virgil to school, another 15 in between to get Wyatt to school, and then another 28 to get myself to work for an important meeting. It was all timed perfectly. Except for the dead car battery. Fuck.

What to do. I don't want Virgil to be late for Middle School. It's only the second week. He doesn't need a tardy slip on the 10th day. Arg. Call AAA? No that will take too long. Take the bus? Too long. Call Winslow. What else to do? Nothing. I have to call. Do I want him to pick up the kids and take them? No. I like taking them. Do I want him to come and give me a jump? No. No time. Ugh. Just call.

Hello.
Hi. It's me. (The "me" is me.)
I know. (His voice has this funny dip in it when I call. When he says "I know." Is it condescension? Annoyance? What? He just sounds exasperated, like, Jesus Christ I know already - It's always you. He never calls. He has no interest in ever speaking with me again.)
My car is dead.
What do you want? Do you want me to take the kids?
No.
You want to use my car? (It was ours. Sounds weird for him to say "my". It's still in my name in fact. God I hate that car. That shitty broke down Toyota Corolla from 1997 with a hole in the trunk.)
Sure I guess.
Just use your key.
I don't have it. I gave it back (along with everything I left in what is now your apartment.)
I wish I knew where it was. Ok, just come by.
I'm coming now. Thanks.

I run. With kids panting behind, dragging the heaviest backpacks under law. I ring the bell. He answers all happy and shit. Why? Why so happy now all the time? Virgil, someone wants to say hi...he says. Tiffany pokes her head out. Tiffany whose name he can't remember but he's going to her wedding in Austin. On a plane. A plane not unlike those planes he always refused to fly on to go on vacation with me. She's in a tee-shirt and tights, no shoes. Sleep clothes. She's staying there. I want to avoid her because I know he's been telling her horrible things about me. About what an infidel I am. But I won't stoop that low in shame. "Hi!" I say. "Congratulations! Winslow says you're getting married. That's so great." Hard to squeeze that out. Marriage just doesn't seem that great right now.

He looked handsome. Why is he so happy? It kills me, truly. If he'd been just a little happy with me... well...I wouldn't be having these nightmares.

Get kids to school, myself to work. Crabby but there. Get finished and pick kids back up. Drive home. Ok, time to jump the car. I call him to ask for help. Mortifying. And then I jump it myself before he arrives. Gratifying.

Oh you figured it out?

Yes, I figured it out. I can jump a car. I just can't smile and be happy. Or even pretend to. But I'm working on it.

Perfect Madness (a stolen title)

I just finished reading "The Gifts of Imperfection" by Brene Brown. I'm not usually into self-helpiness. But when you need it, you need it and you'll try anything. I was charmed by her Ted(xHouston) talk The Power of Vulnerability http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html so I figured the book would provide that much more insight. It did.

Made me cry. Oh the truth of it all. One of the most moving parts (there are a zillion) was about perfectionism. Guess what? It's not the same as striving, or just trying to improve oneself. Hah. It is the enemy of these things and most importantly, it is the enemy of self acceptance. It feeds on shame, is self-destroying and addictive, and ultimately, prevents any sense of belonging or peace. Well...I've spent my whole life as a perfectionist. This oughta be fun to snap out of.

Perfectionism is self destructive if only because there isn't any such thing as perfect. True? True. Tell that to the gymnastics judge wielding her poisonous pencil. (I know, cry me a river but indulge me just for a moment. Think of it as an analogy. Don't be too literal.) In gymnastics, we don't even start from ten. We begin the day at less than perfect, we aim to build enough difficulty back into our routines that we earn back the right to be perceived as perfect, before the deductions start and we get kicked back down the stairs to not quite good enough again. What a fucked up system.  Not that I'm a believer in the "Everyone Wins! Everyone gets a trophy!" form of sportsmanship. I don't. It's just as important to learn to lose (or not win) with dignity, to participate because it's fun and striving towards mastery is productive and fulfilling, as it is to learn to win with grace. But isn't there something in the middle - between the "you will always be less than perfect" point system, and the Polyanna "everyone's a winner" bullshit? Surely there must be. I don't know what it is but I am in search of it. For my kids' sake.

I hate to always blame gymnastics for everything. It's pathetic and annoying. And it really isn't gymnastics' fault. I was born a perfectionist. Always wanting to live perfectly, strive perfectly, be perfect to avoid the painful feelings of shame that are my vile, ever-present trigger into the dark. Gymnastics didn't cause this. I WAS this and found gymnastics because it fit the bill. And it reinforced this way of living for me. It reinforced my own emotional belief system. And then it worked for me. I might not have gotten 10's but I got lots of 9.8's and 9.75's which meant almost perfect. It meant that if I believed in the system of perfectionism and worked hard enough to be almost perfect, it would pay off. Except it didn't, not for the long term anyway.

Boy do I sound like a whiner. There are children starving in Africa and all that. Maybe more to the point, I have friends who are sick, who have lost children, who never had children. I really should be ok with my situation. But I'm in some sort of emotional death spiral where I keep re-visiting the same issues trying to understand why I can't just be ok with myself. With my decisions. With my divorce. Which is really what it all comes back to right now.

Maybe if I repeat it enough - I'm not perfect and that's ok. No one is. I'm divorced (almost) but I'm still worthy of love and respect. I will figure this out. I will - I will believe it. Or maybe it just won't hurt so much. Even if it always hurts a little.

I'm told that compassion for yourself can change your entire day, your life when enough good days are chewing-gummed and scotch taped together. I wouldn't know. I've never practiced it. But I figure I'd better start now.