Self-care is the Antidote to Self-loathing

For the month of February 2020, I took myself out of mid-winter New England to warmer places with beaches and loved ones. It was one large act of self-care. It took years of hard work to recognize the importance of self-care and to figure out what that would look like.

 Living under the anvil of my father’s abuse and the icy wall of my mother’s neglect taught me that ME – little Donna Jean me – not only didn’t deserve care and attention, she didn’t even know what it was except those occasional times on her grandparent’s farm where their loving eyes were easy on her spirit.

 This taking care of myself came oh so slowly. Inch by inch I unraveled the steel wool that encased my mind. As if all the abuse that happened to me was like a great big hairy spider that ejected a shiny thread of steel from a spout in its back. He just kept marching around and around my mind spewing that string of steel until it made a dozen impenetrable layers - closing my thinking, preventing me from figuring out what I needed. Preventing me from finding out what would make me feel good, loved and nurtured.

 But guess what – I found a giant tool. It looks like those huge bush trimmers gardeners use – a sort of scissor-like gizmo, clip, clip, clipping. I built my trimmer with counselors and therapists, through activism and workshops. I treasure every step in the direction of healing I took to cut through another layer of that steel web – all woven to make me hate, punish and shame myself.

Another layer was destroyed as each new dawning presented itself to me, convincing me I WAS loveable. My mind got freed up to see where to take myself, what to give myself, how to treat myself with care. My brilliant survivor sister, Rythea Lee, has an incredible free YouTube course on this very subject called Advice from a Loving Bitch – 20 five-minute episodes all done with great wisdom and humor. 

 Here’s a breakdown of the care I gave myself in my month away:

 Week One:

Melbourne Beach, FLA with my daughter, Jen. She found us a place a block from the ocean. For her first 18 years, I was with Jen just about 24/7. But those days are long gone. Now we have to be very intentional to live in each other’s orbit. And what a glorious orbit we had: beach sitting, writing together, cooking meals, finding a funky restaurant while getting lost looking for another one. I did yoga while she walked the beach. We saw “Little Women” sharing the electricity of the character Jo March trying to write and get published – something we’re both striving for these days. How grateful I am to have a daughter I love going on retreat with. She restores my soul and reminds me of one of the best things I’ve added to this world – HER.

 Week Two:

Next, my self-care extravaganza landed me in Puerto Rico meeting up with my two high school buddies, Karen and Ella, arriving from Milwaukee. It’s quite amazing to have friends for more than half a century and find ourselves acting like the teenagers we were when we first clicked. Our week in Loiza had a pool, a beach and my Alexa soundtrack of Rhythm & Blues and Motown oldies to sing along and dance. We had a wild ride in a utility vehicle through the rainforest wearing helmets we wouldn’t have been caught dead in back in 1960. We took a ferry ride to the island of Vieques. There were no jeeps or golf carts to rent. But we’d learned about hitching rides back in the day, so you know we got to the sweet little harbor town of Esperanza and back to our ferry to the mainland with, heck, five minutes to spare.

 Week Three:

I dropped Ella and Karen off at the airport for their flight home with an hour to wait for the next arrivals. I found a quiet corner in the parking garage and took a nap. Really, I did! I thought I’d use the time to get some supplies at a supermarket but, hey, when you’re on the self-care express, naps get priority.

And my second week on that magnificent island I was joined by my two friends from NYC and DC, Judy and Reena, who arrived, and we headed west for Vega Baja.

Both condos I lived in while in Puerto Rico had balconies with wide-open views of the Atlantic. They had to have those balconies. I had to have a daily perch watching the waves roll in; hearing the waves lull me to sleep, feeling the sea-salted air swirl around me. Those balconies had me at hello. It was all early morning coffee and journaling; mid-morning yoga; every evening a glass of wine and a plate of cheese, crackers, grapes and such. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Reena and Judy telling our stories to each other; laughing and sympathizing and wonderment at the lives we are leading. We’re all each other’s posse – riding in formation through our bouts of breast cancer; holding each other up while we mourn a passing or celebrate a beginning. 

 Almost every day we’d pack some towels and treats and drive to a new beach– Puerto Rico is bursting with beautiful beaches. And being buddies for over three decades we know just how to let each other talk out loud about where she wants to go next with this life of hers. And every talking brings the wisest of advice, which is quite easy to give and get when you’re so well seen.

 Week Four:

I left Puerto Rico vowing to return to this beautiful place filled with friendly, open people. Back in Florida, to spend the week in Fort Lauderdale at Jen’s with her life partner Sev and my grandson Cole.

They showed me so much love and sweet attention. Cole and I went out to lunch at his favorite Italian restaurant. Out back was a Vespa. Cole said, “Hop on, Gramma, you’ll look cool on that.” I got to go to the last night of his job as a dishwasher before he heads out to college. He picked me up and dropped me off at the airport and every day we told each other, “Love you.” It don’t get better than that!

 For my birthday, #73, Jen took me for a spa day at the beach and later they all took me out for a wine tasting and yummy tapas. We made a happy crew.

Jen gathered a group of wonderful women into her living room and I led them in a writing workshop. There was good, strong energy in that garden of writers. And I attended the public speaking workshop, under Jen’s excellent leadership. Two intense, fruitful days for a group of Ted Talk/Keynote Speaker “wanna bes”.

And all four weeks I was away, each day, I’d have two sweet phone calls with my beloved; the holder of my kite string who was keeping the home fires burning. Every morning we traded the question, “How’d you sleep?” and every evening, “How was your day?” Such simple but profound asks. I get filled with a double dose of gratitude that not only does he love me, but I healed enough to let that love into my life.

Great experiences one and all for a survivor who’s come to believe that self-care is the antidote to self-loathing. When I make choices to do things that make me happy, be with people who love and see me, I’m purging all those razor-sharp messages from my father's abuse and my mother's neglect telling me I am worthless. I’m deeply dedicated to showing and reminding myself that I AM worthy. I say, ‘YAY me,’ for all the ways I’m caring for me. How about you?

Since my return the corona virus pandemic has been blasting through our world. I’m doing all I can to continue taking care of my self, as I stay sheltered at home. Hope all who are reading this are doing the same. 

Thanks for reading,

Donna

The Snapshot

I have had the extreme pleasure to be a part of a weekly writers group for over twenty years. Through these years I’ve come to write about my experience of surviving incest both through non-fiction and fiction pieces. Sometimes the fiction can be just as empowering for my voice as the memories. Recently our wonderful leader gave us our starting prompt: “Think of a photograph and enter it.” Here’s what I came up with:

 A photograph slipped out of my memory and onto the movie screen that resides on the inside of my forehead. It’s where so much played the two years I did EMDR trying so hard to reconcile the shunning of my family when I came out about the incest.

The photo is black and white, 3”x3” with the date printed in the margin, 1959. I’m seated on our front stoop comprised of two cement steps and a 4’x4’ platform in front of the door leading into the duplex — we were living on the bottom floor.

 I’m twelve years old in this photo. The sexual abuse ended that year though I didn’t know it at the time. I was still keeping vigil through the night — sleeping lightly so as to steal myself if the door to my bedroom should open.

In the photo, a step behind me stands my three-year-old brother, Davey. His right forearm leans on one of the posts holding up the roof over our stoop. His left hand rests on my right shoulder. He’s wearing a pullover shirt with wide black and white horizontal stripes and a white collar with three buttons going down the front.

In his freshly combed hair you can see the neat part on the left that will disappear once he’s off the stoop making a run for it down the front walk. But he never beat me — I always caught up with him before he got to the curb.

We both have short hair. I had just gotten a new and special haircut called a ducktail — though try as I might with the sticky gel the beauty shop lady gave me — my tail would fade and fall within an hour.

I let my imagination transport my present self into this sixty year old photograph. First, I stand silently on the walkway — letting the two of us get a good look at the adult me, get a little used to me being there. I don’t want to scare us anymore than we already are cause dad’s still drinking and that’s enough scaring for a couple of kids.

Geeze, writing that phrase — ‘a couple of kids’ –stops me in my tracks. Usually, whenever I let myself glance back at any of those days I think of Davey as the kid. I’m the big sister. But, really, I’m a kid, too. I started being a big sister at the age of nine, two years after the incest started 

 Anyway, back to my entering the photo. I take a long time approaching us. Davey immediately gives the adult me one of those sparkly smiles of his. But the twelve year old me is not so quick to respond to strangers. In fact her first instinct is to slide across the stoop, scoop Davey into her lap and wrap her arms around him, which causes him to put his favorite thumb in his mouth and stare up at her chin.

I wait some more. Then in a very soft voice I ask little girl me, “Mind if I sit down here on your stoop?” Little me shrugs her shoulders in an ‘I don’t care’ sort of way. I’m causcious not to touch them, to move slow and smooth, to keep my face at rest — no large grins of friendliness or measured scowls of concern.

Eventually I say, “Hi, my name is Donna.” Little me looks up, “Me too.” Her response makes me want to place my palm on her cheek — she doesn’t know what prophecy she’s just uttered — but I don’t. I keep my hands to myself.

I take a deep, quiet breath. Looking down at the walk I tell her, “The worst of what dad’s done or is going to do to you is over.” I let that sink in. Little me presses her lips together and lets her eyes glance to the side away from me in disbelief. Why would she believe me? How could she believe me?

I keep on telling her what I know, what she can’t yet know, “You are going to get through this. You are going to decide that no matter how hard it feels you are going to do everything you can to heal from all the awful things dad has done and said to you. And you’re going to heal from the travesty of mother not ever protecting you. Then you’re going to find the medicine your heart will need when this sweet boy brother of yours — in a few decades — abandons you for making what he’ll say are false accusations about the man that is father to you both.

You’re going to forget that I came here today to tell you all this — but not completely. A tiny spot in your heart is going to know that you can and will believe in yourself.