On a recent, rain-soaked evening, I hopped over puddles, holding my pink umbrella high so as not to poke New Yorkers in the eye with it. I had just spent two hours in a taxi to travel less the nine miles from LaGuardia Airport into Manhattan. A mile from my hotel, I asked the cabby to pull over. I could walk to my destination faster than he could crawl through traffic.

I was in New York for our company’s annual holiday party. I work remotely in the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. Despite the destruction Helene visited upon us two months earlier and the ongoing recovery and clean up, I did not want to leave home. I love the mountains, and every day pinch myself that I’m so lucky to live here.

I’m not all that fond of New York

My husband and I moved to Asheville three years ago from the Chicago area. We’d lived in the same house in the northern suburbs for thirty-four years, but it had always been my dream to move to Asheville. After thirty-six years of me saying let’s go, my husband finally said okay. So you can probably understand why I’m so hesitant to leave the mountains, even for a thirty-hour whirlwind trip. Plus, I’m not all that fond of New York. Yes, it is a magical town, but it’s so big and dirty. And crowded. And congested. And expensive.

Thank God, I didn’t have to pay for any of it. It was all on the house.

My hotel was right off Times Square. I got lost there, disoriented by the blazing signs, walking from corner to corner, looking for a neon Hilton sign amongst the hundreds of flashing, moving billboards. I finally found it, dropped off my suitcase, and dashed off to find the office, hopping puddles and running, getting hot and sweaty because I didn’t want to be late for the party.

When I finally got to the office someone shoved a drink in my hands, gave me a hug and all was well. I went around hugging everybody. Forty of us, to be exact. And as we drove through the streets on a chartered bus headed for dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant located beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, I thought, what a miraculous city. All these millions of people basically getting along with one another. Sure, there’s violence, poverty and crime, homelessness and misery, but look at all the people who live there peaceably, who go home to safety and comfort every day, and that’s all they want–to be left alone with food to eat and a bed to sleep in. Millions of people basically getting along.

It occurred to me as I looked out at the hundreds and thousands of lit up apartment buildings that we aren’t inherently bad people. Humans, I mean. I think humans are inherently good. It’s this free will God gave us that screws things up, and, at the same time, is the beauty and miracle of being human. God gave us free will but left that creative spark of divinity in each of us. Some of us feel it, are consciously aware of that spark, and some aren’t. I don’t know why. Why have some people evolved not to be aware of the divinity within themselves? I think most people are aware of it, whether they call it God or spirituality or something else. Maybe just being conscious of being alive is enough for many people.

So, as dirty and crowded and congested and impossibly expensive as New York is, its very existence gives me hope.

People pull together in a disaster

Thirty hours after I’d left the mountains, I was back home in them. It’s peaceful here, quiet and old, where mountains surround me instead of skyscrapers, where I have freedom to breathe fresh air and see nature. Still, each of these places are proof of the existence of divinity, because as frightening and overwhelming as New York City is, so was Helene and the destruction it left behind. But people pull together to help one another in a disaster. Is New York a disaster? It could be on the edge of one. Maybe it’s one waiting to happen, but it hasn’t, it doesn’t, because people are inherently good.

I’m not sure what I’m saying here, only that while I do not like New York, I appreciate it and know others love it, especially New Yorkers. I get that, and I get that many New Yorkers would go bonkers living here in Asheville. Both places have exquisite value.

I’m glad I went to the Big Apple, even though I was stressed out beforehand because I dreaded going. I’m glad I saw how so many millions live side by side, basically in harmony. And I’m glad it’s not my life. I live the way I choose. I chose the mountains thirty-nine years ago. And I am finally living my bliss. To each his/her/their own, and may God bless us all.

My husband and I celebrated our 41st wedding anniversary this week.

“God, forty-one years is such a long time,” I said with a sigh as I sat across from him at the Mediterranean restaurant.

He took a sip of his wine. “I’m half-way through your memoir,” he said with a grimace. (It’s the first memoir I wrote titled Healing Motherhood Rage, unpublished.) “It’s really hard to revisit how absent I was.”

Absent while I raised the kids virtually alone and raged at them. I had undiagnosed, untreated postpartum depression. Possibly borderline personality disorder, too. My behavior was awful back then and so painful to read about now.

So why bother? Why re-visit all that sorrow? And why write down all that stuff in the first place?

Rage is as addictive as heroine or alcohol

Because I wanted to leave breadcrumbs for me and my children out of that forest. I was abused by my mom, and I swore I wouldn’t abuse my kids. I didn’t physically, but I did emotionally and psychologically even though I was trying my best not to. But all that rage reared its ugly head whenever I was hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.

H.A.L.T. I tried to halt, but back then didn’t have that tool at my disposal; didn’t know to stop and consider: Was I hungry? (Eat something!) Was I angry about something else, not my kids? (Identify it.) Was I lonely? (God, yes. Call a friend.) Was I tired? (Always, but some days more than others.)

Rage is as addictive as heroine or alcohol. There’s that same physical rush of euphoria. I felt sick with remorse seconds after bursting out in anger over spilt milk, dumped clothes, tired, grumpy, slow-moving kids who clamored for my undivided attention when I had none to give.

Yeah, it was bad.

But I never gave up. I demanded attention both from my husband, and finally from the therapeutic community. I swallowed my pride and asked my mother for financial assistance to help pay for therapy because otherwise we couldn’t afford it. I looked at my behavior and delved into why I felt the way I did and worked to correct it. We got our kids into therapy. My husband and I went to marriage counseling. Our lives improved. It took years, and slowly, we recovered joy.

The willingness to admit my faults was key. Humility in facing my pain and my kids’ pain was essential. I had done wrong. It didn’t matter that I had been wronged. Well, it did, but that didn’t excuse my behavior. I’ve made living amends to myself, my husband and my children. I wrote about it to bear witness to pain and suffering, and that forgiveness and healing are possible.

Healing from mental illness takes courage and unceasing effort but the rewards are great. Forty-one years of marriage with my soulmate is one of them and loving relationships with my adult children is another.

Don’t give up. Carry On. You can make it.

Treatment for Borderline Personality Disorder

Postpartum Support International

My husband and I were sitting down to watch Heartland, the Canadian show about a family of horse ranchers, when I mentioned I forgot to buy napkins.

“You did what? How could you forget? I wrote them on the list!”

“Yeah, well, I was in a hurry to get the shopping done.”

“Goddamn it!”

“How dare you yell at me?!”

We stared at each other. I felt like leaving the room, but that’s what I would have done in the old days, walked out, slammed the front door and stormed around the block, which is a fine way to de-escalate. Only here there was nothing that needed de-escalating because I have learned to not walk away and instead bear momentary emotional discomfort and stick with the situation.

We’re both too old to hold grudges

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being unreasonable.”

“Damn straight you are.” I stared at him. And that was that.

I even laughed a little, glad we could get on with our show.  

We’re both too old to hold grudges over such things anymore. And besides, it’s rare for us to yell at one another these days. It kind of took me by surprise. But after forty-one years of marriage I’ve learned to stick up for myself.

Except that I didn’t let go. Later in the evening I asked, “Is there anything else going on.”

He looked at me, piqued again. “Just because I got annoyed you forgot the napkins? No, I just needed an attitude adjustment. You don’t expect me to be perfect all the time, do you?”

I saw his point. People get annoyed with each other, maybe act unreasonably once in a while; I sure do. It passes. No big deal. Make an apology, accept an apology, and move on.

My husband and I went on a five-mile hike in the mountains this weekend. The rocky trail didn’t look too difficult, so we didn’t bring our hiking poles. That was a mistake. The terrain rose steadily over two and a half miles and the going was more difficult than we anticipated, but not horrible.

We stopped three quarters of the way at a gorgeous mountain swimming hole where I took a dip in the frigid water. After lunch we climbed another half mile then turned back, not sure how much further the waterfall we kept hearing about was.

To take my mind off how tired I was, I started reminiscing about when and how we met. It was at a group therapy session held by a psychologist who had been abusive to us both. I was eighteen at the time, my to-be husband was seventeen.

“I remember I was wearing a green and blue striped wrap-around skirt I got a re-sale shop and held together with a funky rhinestone pin.”

“I don’t remember,” he said.

“Why would you? It was so ugly!”

“How did you find Tyrell?”

“At first I went through the Yellow Pages looking for psychologists and when they asked how I would pay and I said I couldn’t, they all said sorry. Then I remembered my brother had seen Tyrell and loved him.”

“Yeah, I thought he was this cool guy at first. Until I didn’t.”

Tyrell started being physically, emotionally and psychologically abusive to many of his clients, unless you were on his goody-goody list, which Bill and I weren’t. We were “hiding” our emotions. We were “fake.” I was a “spoiled brat,” and though I’d been raped, I was “a cock tease.”

Mistakes over the decades due to poor judgement

The cramp in my left foot was getting worse. I stopped to take a rest, bend over and stretch the tightness in the small of my back.

“God, we were babies back then. It’s amazing we survived. We’ve been together for so long. Forty years is a long time,” I said, straightening.

“Forty-one,” my husband corrected me as we started hiking again.

“Forty-two, if you count the year we lived together.”

We’ve made plenty of mistakes over the decades due to poor judgement, like deciding we didn’t need the hiking poles when we did. But we’ve survived and thrived because we’ve accepted the challenges and bent with the changes. We continue to make room for change in each other and in ourselves.

And we keep learning from our experiences.

Next time, even if the path looks relatively easy, I’ll bring my hiking poles just in case. I can always use the added support and appreciate how much easier they make the journey.

I’ve learned to accept help. The ability to recognize when I need it is wisdom.

When I was suffering and at my worst as a mother of two small children, I once consulted the I Ching, an ancient Chinese divination tool that imparts spiritual wisdom and sage advice. It gave me the admonition to pray and meditate, implying that those endeavors would go a long way toward solving my problems and the anguish in my heart.

Meditate? I don’t have time to do that! I want answers now! (You know, like that old joke, “Dear God, grant me patience now, damn it!”)

I decided instead that I needed a walk in the woods. I craved a hit of nature, and believed I hadn’t spent enough time in it. So, I took my kids into the forest, and, as they were not pleased and were tired, and would much rather sit down and not budge, I screamed at a tree until my throat was raw, furious that God was not helping me!

I wanted immediate answers, immediate soothing, immediate solutions

Just like my kids, I had plenty of tantrums in those days, which did nothing to soothe my battered heart. (Let alone my kids–poor dears!) I wanted immediate answers, immediate soothing, immediate solutions.

But it had taken me years to get to where I was — angry, sad, dissatisfied, and I was pouting in a horrible way. That’s not to say I wasn’t genuinely sad and depressed and in a bad state. I was.

What I’m saying is that if I had tolerated sitting in prayer and meditation faithfully everyday, even if for just for five minutes at a time, I am certain I would have found a way out of my darkness a lot sooner than I did.

Instead, I isolated and stewed and shared my postpartum depression with no one, least of all my husband or other women friends, so ashamed was I of not being able to cope with motherhood. Back in those days, I was crippled by the stigma of mental illness and would not admit to anyone I suffered from it.

Brooke Shields, Reese Witherspoon, Carey Mulligan

Today, the stigma of mental illness has lessened thanks in part to countless brave celebrities and authors who have gone public: Brooke Shields, Reese Witherspoon, Carey Mulligan, to name a few. I was severely depressed and wish I had admitted it sooner. Kudos to all those individuals who recognize their mental illness and who seek treatment.

And while treatment from mental health professionals is essential, prayer and meditation also help.

Dwell, O Mind, within yourself;

Enter no other’s home.

If you but seek there, you will find

All you are searching for.

God, the true Philosopher’s Stone,

Who answers every prayer,

Lies hidden deep within your heart,

The richest gem of all.

How many pearls and precious stones

Are scattered all about

The outer court that lies before

The chamber of your heart!

–A Song of Sri Ramakrishna

Newsweek published my personal essay this week, “I Hated Myself for What I Did — Then Realized I Was Trafficked.”

The first mistake I made after it was published was reading the comments. Two trolls attacked me personally, saying vile things I won’t repeat here. I thought of replying, finger poised over the submit button, saying I wrote the article for kids still suffering on the streets, you morons. I didn’t, and instead ruminated for twenty-four hours over whether I should have written the article.

And yet, there was another comment applauding my bravery and advocacy. Did I give that comment as much of my attention? No, I did not. That’s a common phenomenon. Why is that? Why focus on the negative rather than the positive?

Because I was experiencing what researchers call the “negativity bias.”

Why do we focus on the negative rather than the positive?

Apparently, it’s an evolutionary mechanism that allowed early humans to learn from negative outcomes and thus avoid certain situations in the future. In other words, attention to negativity enhances our adaptability and survival.

Still obsessing, I finally sought out my Twitter #WritingCommunity for support. Sure enough, friends bolstered my confidence and cheered me on, saying don’t pay attention to those losers. One friend (thanks, Elizabeth!) even sent me this quote:

“If you are not in the arena getting your ass kicked on occasion, I am not interested in or open to your feedback. There are a million cheap seats in the world today filled with people who will never be brave with their own lives, but will spend every ounce of energy they have hurling advice and judgement at those of us trying to dare greatly. Their only contributions are criticism, cynicism, and fear-mongering. If you’re criticizing from a place where you’re not also putting yourself on the line, I’m not interested in your feedback.” — Brené Brown

I love you, Brené!

What this negative experience has taught me is: 1) Don’t read the comments, 2) There are a lot of sick people out there who want you to remain docile and silent, and 3) My story is important and just might help to move the dial towards ending youth homelessness. I think that’s worth tolerating hecklers.

Now, where to submit my next personal essay to?

zhttps://www.ihealthunifiedcare.com/articles/the-negativity-bias-why-our-minds-focus-on-the-negative

vhttps://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3652533

When I arrived at our weekly meeting place, the parking lot was full. I thought, My goodness, we must have a lot of newcomers! And then I saw my fellow members chatting outside their cars. We’d been bumped from our room with no notice by a paying customer.

Being resourceful, we decided to hold our meeting at a nearby lakeside park (not the one pictured above; that’s Lake Moraine in Banff National Park, one of our vacation sites). There were several gazebos with picnic tables to choose from. I wanted to sit under the first gazebo I saw sheltering six picnic tables in deep shade. It was a hot, sunny morning, plus I wasn’t wearing sunscreen. I figured no strangers would join us if we occupied one of the tables.

But a member behind me said, “Let’s use the gazebo where there’s just one table. That way no one will disturb us.”

The gazebo I saw held two tables and was right next to the playground where screaming children played. I was about to protest when I saw the one she was talking about. My fellow members picked up the table and moved as much as they could into the shade.

How selfish I’d been, thinking of my own desires

During the meeting, I reflected silently how sure I’d been about what was right for the group. My selfish desires prevented me from seeing better options, not only for us, but for other parties as well, like those that might need the tables under the larger gazebo.

I realized that no matter how certain I am about something, other options exist. I need to question my certainty and be open to different possibilities, especially when others are concerned. An even better solution might be available as was the case in this situation.

I’m glad I didn’t object out loud and instead went with the flow. We had a lovely meeting, completely undisturbed and with plenty of privacy. I had my shade, as did we all, eventually, as the sun moved overhead. Plus, we had a lovely view of the lake and flock of ducks napping close by.

I hope I’ll remember to always question my certainty when my desire for what I want could affect others. Listen. Be open to options you may not see while in the throes of what you crave for yourself.

Even though my husband is my best friend, there are times when I judge every little thing he does. We went through one of those periods just recently. It all had to do with food.

Let me explain. I recently joined Overeaters Anonymous. I’ve struggled with body image since I was a young girl. I remember asking my mom when I was ten would I ever be thin and her saying, “It’s just baby fat; you’ll grow out of it.” And when I was twelve, I did. But I still worried I was overweight. I never became anorexic or bulimic, but I restricted my food, and then would binge on toast and honey or ice cream and start the worry cycle all over again.

I was never convinced I had a problem with food

When I went to college I gained weight. Pizza. Beer. And when I got engaged I was determined to lose 17 pounds for the wedding, which I did. And kept it off for seven years until I got pregnant at which point I gained more weight than I should have. Then, after having kids, I yo-yoed 20-40 pounds overweight up and down for years.

I’d tried OA a couple of times before, never convinced I had a problem with food, but knowing I had a problem with body image. Then this last time I went because I was truly sick of my weight and eating habits. The folds of fat made it difficult to cross my legs.

So, I got a sponsor and started following a food plan of balanced meals, no snacking. And started regarding my husband’s food choices with disdain. And then that disdain extended to other things–facial expressions he’s made for years that had never bothered me before, and his orderly way of keeping the kitchen counter tidied and straightened just so, judging his every little move silently in my head. And it was coming out in my sour attitude towards him. Plenty of times I thought to apologize but said nothing.

I hated seeing my husband eat all the things I couldn’t

It wasn’t until recently when we were eating dinner on the patio when he threw down his napkin and said, “What is it? Every little thing I do you criticize.” And then I told him ever since joining OA I had been judging him and I was sorry. I confessed that I was angry, not with him, but with the food plan I was following. That I hated seeing all the things he could eat, but I couldn’t. It was my choice to do so. I understood that. I had to keep my eyes on what I was doing because I wanted to.

I wish I could remember what it was I had done or said that was the last straw for him. But it doesn’t matter, because I told him what it was like to admit I was a food addict. That every time we drove down Merrimon Avenue I craned my neck to see how many cars were parked at Whitman’s custard ice cream parlor. That I often stood in front of the open frig searching for that treat that would vanquish boredom or sleepiness in the middle of the day even when I wasn’t hungry.

You do you, I’ll do me.

Admitting all that, getting it all out on the table helped me soften my attitude towards him. He said he understood why I’d be angry and thanked me for telling him what was going on. We went on a long trail hike through the mountains a couple of days later. He brought his sausage and cheese snacks and crackers for lunch and I brought my roasted brussel sprouts, sweet potatoes, and garbanzo beans and was happy. I said as we crossed the foot bridge over a rushing stream, “I need a wet, sloppy kiss,” and he obliged.

The concept, live and let live, means I pay attention to the choices I make, and let others enjoy (or not) theirs. I’m doing this new lifestyle, deciding to eat a different way for the rest of my life, not just to lose weight, but to be healthy and not feel guilty or obsessed by thoughts about food. Nor do I have to be obsessed by how other people choose to live. Let people be who they are. You do you, I’ll do me. We’ll get along much better that way.

To learn about my memoir A Minor, Unaccompanied, click here: https://pollyhansen.com/nasty-girl/

https://oa.org/

My mom was the most fun mom ever. She told scary stories and let us build forts with the living room cushions and furniture. She encouraged us to draw and paint and appreciated what we created. A framed abstract painting I made when I was four hung over the stove for years.

But she was also negligent. We were allowed to roam the neighborhood without saying where we were going. So long as we could hear the old cow bell that hung by our front door, we knew it was time to come home for dinner. Other times Mom would say, “Get away from me, you stink.” Or, she might say, “Go away. Leave me alone.”

I ended up homeless on the streets of San Francisco

I left her alone and she left me alone. When I asked at age fifteen if I could leave home she said yes, so I did. I ended up homeless on the streets of San Francisco trading my body for a warm place to sleep and food. In intimate settings with close friends, I sometimes pull out this period in my life as being my story, my what happened to me. But the real story is that I survived and eventually thrived. But only after I faced the deep pain of abandoning myself.

Once I started expressing the pain I had buried deep inside, I started to notice how poorly I treated myself and by extension other people. Turns out I was, like my mom, a narcissist myself. And then I started praying and believing that a higher power loved me and that I was a good person. Belief in my goodness and in other peoples’ blessedness has expanded over the years.

Too few of us believe in our powerful selves, which I believe is our innate state of being, God given if you will. I think most times we stay stuck in our stories. We focus on what happened to us rather than how good we are. When we are blind to that goodness, we hurt ourselves and those around us. I don’t understand how narcissists get to be that way, but I suspect it may be a cover up of poor self esteem? Self-hatred?

We are so much more than what happens to us

Like my mom saying, “You stink,” when I was ten years old and didn’t know yet that I did stink and needed to use deodorant, or bathe more often. Her words hurt me so much. I was mortified and humiliated. And deeply hurt. As if because my body stank, I was bad. We affect other people deeply in both negative and positive ways. We simply don’t see the detrimental and beneficial effect we have and the ripples of hurt or truthfulness we create throughout the world.

It took me years of therapy and experience to believe in my innate goodness; to believe I can be an agent for positive change and healing. We are so much more than what happens to us, so much more than our story. The real story, the truth about who we are is that we are spiritual beings powerful beyond belief.

Our capacity to influence others positively is beyond our wildest dreams. Do I act as if that’s true? I sure didn’t used to, but today I am conscious of my behavior and how I affect others. That’s the remedy for being a narcissist. We can be agents of healing and grace. Just by believing in our own brilliance, and believing it of others as well. That spreads joy.

To learn about my memoir A Minor, Unaccompanied, click here: https://pollyhansen.com/nasty-girl/