Author: Becky Sarwate

A Holiday Wish for Closure (November 13, 2013)

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“It’s no longer that I bitterly wish them ill for all they’ve done (or not done). Time, distance and therapy have resolved those feelings. It’s more that the longer they exist and go about their daily lives in unrepentant silence, the more impossible it is for me to absolve them with ‘Well, they did the best they could.’ Or, ‘They would have made amends if only they’d had more time.’”

This is a self-quote from my latest Skype therapy session with Dr. T., the brilliant, patient and empathetic expert with whom I’ve been working on and off for five years. I was 30 years old and in the midst of a full-blown, third-life crisis the first time I darkened Dr. T’s doorway. Emotionally stunted by a traumatic childhood and a series of toxic relationships that I later came to recognize as replicas of the dysfunctional, yet familiar rapport I experienced with my parents, Dr. T has long provided a safe forum for working out patterns and reaching alternate conclusions. This professional has helped me access and leverage the internal resources I didn’t know I had to chase (and in some cases, even capture) career dreams, eliminate pernicious influences (people) without guilt and begin to build a life that feels healthier and instills me with a pride that lay dormant beneath decades of shame.

Dr. T has also metaphorically (and patiently) held my hand as I learned that it’s far better in the long run to articulate and own feelings that might scare me, rather than tamp them down in favor of a faux moral high road. An observed correlation between a long history of emotional siloing, and the autoimmune diseases that have ravaged my body in recent years (chronic migraines, alopecia, pompholyx eczema) cannot be easily dismissed.

And so with baby steps I’ve learned to cut the bullshit and armor against the judgment of society, in order to set myself free. I’ve reached the point in my rehabilitation, however, where it’s no longer enough to come clean with one person staring back at me through a computer monitor. The holidays are barreling down upon us and they bring accessories with them:family get togethers and celebrations, gift/wish lists and hoards of cheesy, yet delightful decorations. Yesterday, I shared my annual holiday desire with Dr. T. Now I’m ready to share it with the world.

I want to be free of my parents and their long run of disregard for the messes they made. I haven’t seen my mother in nearly 13 years. My father and I have been estranged for five, a decision self-imposed for a number of protective reasons. Yet physical distance from these two architects of misery, humiliation and pain has not been quite enough to allow for proper resolution and context. The number of medications I take to combat the perpetual fight or flight response my body doesn’t comprehend as contemporarily unnecessary, tells the story. As does the frequency with which I see them in my dreams, waking up in a cold sweat while I breathe deeply and remind myself that the threat has been neutralized. And the renewed sense of loss and sadness I experience upon recollecting that they don’t expend nearly the same energy and resources thinking about the children they brought into the world, as those grown kids do in attempting to heal from their mismanagement.

My mother fled from the two young adults she raised without ever a second’s glance backward, leaving in her wake a trail of stolen identity, police reports and a mountain of debt. Occasional online searches (the power and tyranny of Google) turn up that she is alive and well in another distant down, living off the proceeds of a legal settlement that reeks of the fraud she perpetuated throughout our acquaintance.

My father is a slightly different case, less sociopath than a truly mentally ill person, incapable of viewing situations as a normally functioning person might. And thus unable to stick to a treatment plan. Thereby unable to make solid decisions about marriage and parenthood, making his choice of mate the more unfortunate for the helpless babies left to go it alone. Underfed, underloved and raised in the most physically and psychologically dangerous conditions, those little girls deserved better. Yet by clinging to each other with a shared tunnel vision of escape, the frightened youngsters that my sister and I once were grew into responsible, successful adults determined to break the cycle.

I’m ready for that story to be over. But can the book really close while my mother and father still breathe, still avoid responsibility for themselves and the lives they created? And what does it say about me that my annual holiday wish is to bid them a final adieu, to exhale the breath I’ve been holding for three decades? To be able to say “Well, they did the best they could.” Or, “They would have made amends if only they’d had more time?”

Life and Death and Language (November 7, 2013)

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Issues of life and death have been at the forefront of many recent personal musings. As a writer and former aspiring singer/actress with a flair for the dramatic, I’ve become more cognizant of the ease with which I throw around mortality idioms:

“This pompholyx eczema is killing me!”

“Another roach in the apartment? I can’t live like this!”

“If the Seahawks take me out of my Pick-A-Winner football pool another year I’m going to murder Eddie Vedder! [Who is not, in fact, a Seattle native. But this is an easy way to get under the skin of my beloved, a dyed-in-the-wool Pearl Jam fan]”

Under more conventional circumstances, I accept my theatrical ways and allow myself a free pass to over emote in speech, well aware that my nearest and dearest understand when to parse actionable intelligence. But lately, people I love and respect have been grappling with way too much illness and death. I don’t wish to compound their anguish with careless expressions.

Within the last fortnight my boss has buried her father, my brother-in-law has lost a beloved uncle and my romantic partner is currently bereaved of his maternal grandmother, the last living elder on either side of his clan. No matter their respective beliefs on the afterlife, or the level of gratitude experienced by an end of suffering, the people I care about are hurting. The early stages of grief have little patience with rationality and big picture thinking. And as helpless as I feel at times to alleviate their collective distress, watching my mouth seems like an easy cherry to pick.

And that’s all I need to say about that.

Sisters By Chance, Friends By Choice (October 22, 2013)

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Anyone even slightly acquainted with me knows I love my little sister. Before I migrated to Open Salon on May 5, 2010, we co-authored Which End is Up!? on the Google Blogspot platform. Jenny dragged me kicking and screaming into starting that bad boy when I had nary a professional writer’s byline to my name. Although she is a smart, funny gal in her own right with plenty of good stories, I was onto her immediately. She was concerned that if she didn’t offer me a venue to just get going already, I might never be brave enough on my own. Then and now, I believe she was right.

When the original blog was conceived in January 2009, it was intended to be kind of a point/counterpoint forum for two working girls with completely different lives. Jenny is the suburban, stably married mother of two adorable girls, with a dynamic career in radio broadcasting. Though I was married at the time, my vignettes were of the city-dwelling, fledgling author trying to navigate the transition from corporate drone to something more creatively fulfilling. The end of the latter story has yet to be written, but I am pleased to report that I am farther along the path than I could have imagined nearly five years ago. The marriage foundered under the weight of this effort, and plenty of other supporting issues, and I unwittingly stumbled into Carrie Bradshaw Sex in the City territory, without the fabulous shoes and unaffordable apartment.

Life, as it is wont to do, intervened and altered the amount of time we could invest in the blog. I began to write more as I focused and found my voice. As Jenny’s youngest grew into school age, and she discovered an interest in local politics (actually participating in, not just writing about), her contributions started to taper off. Again, I suspect that was always the point. That Jenny is a shrewd one and almost uniquely capable of reading my mind. That can be frustrating when you fancy yourself a cultivator of mystery.

Our relationship is not perfect, nor would I like it to be. How boring. We look quite alike and our voices are identical, resulting in decades of creeping people out, but we are two strong, independent women with our own agendas. Though we have and will again butt heads, we remain each other’s #1 fans (with all due respect to Max, JC and the girls).

Staying informed and keeping in touch has never been a challenge. Just try to get a word in when we’re in the same room. Go ahead. I dare you. But what has proven to be test over the course of our adult lives is one-on-one time, free of partners, children and work demands. Not that we don’t love and appreciate those things. In fact, they are the respective raison d’etre (yes, Jenny and I both took years of French lessons as well). But there just aren’t enough moments when we are allowed to set aside our other personas, take off our worldly masks and return to the two small kids we once were – best buddies with their own language, adversaries who often settled confrontation with physical altercations (usually won by the junior sis), the girls who would stay up into the wee hours singing songs, laughing and conversing until we finally passed out. Our father’s frequent bedtime admonition: “That’s enough from the Talking Heads.”

This past weekend in the resort town of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, Jenny and I took advantage of a rare opportunity to leave schedules behind, pamper ourselves and quite frankly, bullshit with abandon. I have been acquainted with my sister for all of her 33 years on this planet, and for most of them, I’m the individual who has known and loved her best. That said, I learned more about this woman in three days than I could have imagined I didn’t know.

She loves documentaries. If you have a favorite, she’s probably seen it, especially if it involves animals or 9/11 theories. She is still the same girl who will start trouble, then flee with the confidence that her big sister will clean up the mess (a late Saturday evening snafu entailing the use of our room key in the wrong hotel guest door). She stays away from bars and binge drinking (um, yeah we differ there) but loves live music of all kinds. She yearns to sleep in, but her internal clock, trained by years of motherhood, won’t allow it. She wants to “choke slam” S.E. Cupp, one of the hosts of CNN’s revamped political roundtable show, Crossfire. She appreciates nature and quiet to an admirable degree considering her noisy, messy urban upbringing (meanwhile, I can’t sleep without sirens blaring and CTA buses passing).

If it is possible to fall in love with your sibling all over again, I did so this weekend. I already adored the baby I pushed in the stroller, informing passerby that she was “mine;” the child who wouldn’t sleep in her own bed; the high school graduate who moved into my campus apartment before her first semester of college, rather than put up with our unfit parents another second; the young mother who trusted me with her newborn while she attended night classes; the honey badger who worked every unpaid internship and promotional gig she could until she convinced a Chicago radio station to hire her full-time. But now I’m acquainted with the 30-something Jenny, a full-grown lady with complex ideas and quirks, and I don’t just love her. I like her. A lot.

Manning the Transition (October 15, 2013)

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For lovers of the NFL, one of the big stories of the season so far is the resurgence of Denver Broncos quarterback Peyton Manning. The 37 year-old has simply been on fire, and in the course of a career filled with numerous triumphs and milestones, the athlete is poised to turn in his best year yet.

For a number of reasons, not the least being his calendar age (in 2008, the average quarterback handed in his cleats at 29.1 years old), Peyton is a marvel. For comparison purposes, you don’t have to look farther than another branch of the Manning family tree. Peyton’s younger brother Eli is the two-time Super Bowl-winning QB of the New York Giants. The 31 year-old Eli “leads” the league this season with 15 interceptions in just six games. Turn on any Sunday game broadcast and you’ll hear commentators celebrate Eli’s “Hall of Fame” career as if he has already retired. Ouch.

But there’s another facet of Peyton Manning 2.0 that is every bit as inspirational as his longevity. And that is his almost bionic ability to rebound from serious injury.

In May 2011, four years after Manning’s Indianapolis Colts shamed the Chicago Bears at Super Bowl XLI, the superstar underwent neck surgery to deal with neck pain and arm weakness that had plagued him for several seasons. Just two months later, the Colts displayed confidence in their marquee player by signing him to a five-year, $90 million contract extension.

The first procedure unfortunately failed to yield the necessary results, and in September 2011 Manning underwent a second, much more serious surgery – a level one cervical fusion. The Iron Man had never missed a game before, but was forced to sit out the entire 2011 season during his recovery. Meanwhile the Colts had drafted the promising Andrew Luck and were getting antsy to put him on the field. And so in what may go down in hindsight as one of the most questionable and ungrateful moves in NFL history, Indianapolis released Manning on March 7, 2012.

Just over two weeks later, after the legend visited and worked out with several NFL teams (I will NEVER forgive the Bears for not trying to make the man a serious offer), he signed with the Denver Broncos on March 20, 2012. The rest, as they say is history and to invoke a second cliché, the moral of the story is: if Peyton Manning tells you his has gas left in the tank, believe him!

Beyond simple admiration for Manning’s talent, temerity and professionalism, I am invoking the player this week as an inspirational figure. For myself. In the last several months, life has been turned upside down by chronic pompholyx eczema that is slowly taking over my hands. Burning, painful itch and disfigurement has pretty much consumed my waking hours, affecting my career (often my extremities are too swollen and uncomfortable for typing), my self-esteem and beloved, therapeutic exercise routines (adieu, Russian kettlebells). I am still coming to terms with the reality that my once soft, unblemished hands are never returning. Mitigate and workaround is the best I can do. Too often we don’t realize how much we’ve taken something for granted until it is gone. I am an Italian woman who no longer uses her hands demonstratively in conversation. The sense of touch is limited to the hours of the day free from plastic gloves, and restricted to those certain not to recoil from my frightening looking appendages.

Though I am making peace with and saying goodbye to certain elements of my former existence, I have to believe that new opportunities will present themselves, else I’ll give into the temptation to wallow (and yes, I will have those days). My talented hairstylist and friend Linda told me last week she was surprised that there isn’t more awareness of pompholyx eczema, given the incredibly debilitating and depressing nature of the condition. She then pointedly added “I know a great writer who could change that.” While I’m not sure I’m ready to be the “face” (or hands) of pompholyx, Linda got me thinking of how I might ultimately put my suffering to good use.

I’m still sorting it out, but as a source of comfort and motivation, I’m seeking identification with a post-Colts released Peyton Manning. We’ll never know exactly what was going through Manning’s head in the moment, but I can imagine the loss of support from the team he built hurt a great deal. Maybe he experienced moments of doubt about his playing future. Perhaps he wondered if he’d ever return to champion form, before promptly silencing all of those internal questions and external detractors with mind-boggling productivity.

Maybe there’s a Becky 2.0 waiting to be unleashed: a little older, slower to heal, more deliberate and thoughtful in her movements. Trades have to be made. Chances have to be taken. Unproductive days have to be anticipated and respected. But perhaps my Denver Days are still ahead.

Unsolicited Arrogance (October 10, 2013)

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“Good advice is often annoying. Bad advice never is.”

-French Proverb

I’m a huge fan of pithy, enigmatic quotes, but the Frenchies couldn’t be more wrong on this account. After weeks of sitting on the receiving end of advice from friends and strangers alike, I can confidently declare that really tone deaf guidance is more offensive than the helpful variety. Although when it comes to perfect strangers, I’d rather prefer they offer nothing at all.

For several months I have been grappling with a progressively debilitating case of pompholyx eczema on my hands. It is a particularly mercurial form of the skin affliction which affects only one of out every 20 eczema sufferers. Its causes are mysterious and there is no known cure. Available treatments offer limited results, are typically expensive (Coming soon in my annual blog series: America’s Healthcare System is Still Broken – Part III, wherein I examine an employed woman with a “Cadillac” health insurance plan dropping $540 on necessary medications at the local CVS), and bear the threat of their own detrimental side effects.

The attacks are affecting my work, exercise and wellness routines and most certainly, my self-esteem. It is my firmly held belief that creative types such as writers are already cursed with inordinately high levels of insecurity and self-consciousness. The misfortune of contracting a disfiguring and crippling chronic condition compounds the pain of profile immeasurably.

For the most part, friends and colleagues who want to discuss my illness and treatment course are loving people who mean well. Though there are times I’d rather reflect on something, anything besides the constant burning itch and unattractive qualities of my hands, I have patiently indulged their collective desire to help. I’m confident that I’d have much bigger problems to deal with if these souls lost interest in me altogether. And there have been times where the sincere pain I see in the eyes of a valued friend, envisioning my suffering, acts as an imperceptible balm for the heart and soul. May I never grow so cranky from inveterate discomfort that I stop appreciating these overtures.

I have noticed a real peculiarity, however, on the part of people who don’t know me from Adam. And it has taken me the more by surprise since I hail from, and still reside in Chicago, a bustling metropolis known for harried citizens who shuffle quickly down the streets, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It’s as though my embarrassing malformation has become community property. I can be quietly minding my business, reading a book or what have you, staring out the window of a CTA train. And it’s just then that an interloper crashes my reverie, feeling fully empowered to question and offer unwanted, asked for counsel about my “problem.”

I give you two anecdotes from the last 10 days, by way of example.

On my way home from a particularly dispiriting workout at the gym, where my hands cracked and bled profusely after relatively mild strength training, a man seated next to me posed the following question: “Excuse me, but I’m a professional chef and I have to ask. Did you burn your hands?”

Before I could organize my thoughts, humiliated blood rushed to my cheeks. I love the anonymity that city life offers and I was suddenly acutely aware that the hated eczema came with a price I’d never anticipated. I no longer blended. Once I recovered from this horror, I grew incensed by the man’s impertinence. The visibility of my affliction does not make it a topic for public discourse, and the whole “I’m a professional chef” declaration seemed to suggest that this show of concern was merely an excuse to talk about himself.

This was one for Ms. Manners. What do the rules of civility say about my obligation to indulge and respond to such unwanted conversation? I downshifted to the sunny disposition I typically reserve for telemarketers and unwashed tavern suitors: a dead eyed, nail-to-the-floor bitch stare accompanied by as few words as possible, spoken with flat affect. To my later amusement, the man seemed to take this disinclination for engagement on my part as a character flaw. I had to appreciate the irony.

But you know, CTA weirdos and miscreants abound, and I was ready to chalk it up as a one-time, annoying encounter. Until last night.

I was on my way home from the pharmacy chatting with my younger sister on the phone. I reached the station where I was to change trains, when a young woman tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around briefly and pointed to my cell. I figured she wanted directions or something and would understand to seek them elsewhere. Alas, she wouldn’t let up and I told my sister I’d call her right back. The most creative fiction writer in the world could not have devised what I heard next:

“Sorry to bother you, but you know, doctors aren’t going to tell you that it’s all the toxins in your body causing that problem with your hands. What you need is a colonic. It will clean your system and fix you right up.”

I believe my mind actually went somewhere else for several seconds. I was paralyzed and emotionless, incapable of doing anything more than standing and blinking. Then a well-bred autopilot functionality kicked in. I thanked the women for her counsel, told her I had a train to catch and walked away.

What. The. Hell. My beloved and hilarious friend Beth summarily labeled this “The Magic Poop Theory,” offering me my first genuine laugh of a trying evening.

This pattern of unmitigated gall has instilled more than a wish for invisibility. I am left wondering about the crust of people. When did it become socially acceptable to identify people’s physical ailments and then discuss bathroom cleansing rituals in the same breath? I mean, shouldn’t she have bought me dinner first?

I don’t know if anyone who might be tempted to quiz me about my hands will come across this blog post, but just in case let me be clear. John Q. Public: your desire for information and need to pass yourself off as an expert of some sort pains me more than the pompholyx. Real talk. I am under the care of several physicians and have tried more remedies in the last several months than you can imagine. You do not have the answer, and even if you did, frankly, your disrespect for my personal space and privacy renders me unwilling to hear it.

I read somewhere recently that there is strong connection between chronic conditions and the development of agoraphobia. At the time, I found the relationship puzzling. How could the spirit crushing itch and burn with which I struggle lead to a fear of open spaces? Turns out I was missing the Jean Paul Sartre principle so important to this correlation. Hell is other people, or in my case, outsiders who mistake my condition’s perverse visibility for a “Help Wanted” sign.