“So much has happened this week alone that Donald Trump’s non-rally at the University of Illinois at Chicago on the evening of March 11 feels like ages ago. This incident, in particular, has offered an easy analogy to the 1968 Democratic Convention, also held in the Windy City. Understandable. Student protests, a divisive political candidate and police activity. Same, same right? Wrong.”
Read the full post at Contemptor.
Welcome to a new weekly feature at BeckySarwate.com! 2016 has been a pop cultural, political and global whirlwind. How are busy people supposed to keep up? I’m here to help with commentary and links directing readers to the stories that may be worth a little weekend investment. Here’s three that caught my attention this week…
– While we’ve been watching presidential campaign debates on both sides of the party divide, the trading of insults via press conference, town halls and the like, a situation has been brewing between the Bernie Sanders campaign and the Secretary of State of Ohio, John Husted. Sanders’ team filed a lawsuit this week alleging that Husted changed rules in order to block 17 year-olds from voting in next Tuesday’s winner-take-all Ohio primary. It doesn’t appear to be a cut and dry issue. Read about it on CNN.
– Have you been enjoying the feud between Bette Midler and Kim Kardashian over nude selfies? While that’s been taking place, Lane Bryant has been grappling with what looks like actual injustice. According to sources, the company created a sultry lingerie campaign – in the vein of Victoria’s Secret ads – featuring their plus-sized models. Disappointingly, the ad was rejected by at least two major networks and the reasons given were vague. View this TMZ video report and judge for yourself: is this a case of too fat for TV?
– And while Chicago’s local television news reports have been dominated by another rise in gun violence, you may have missed a very touching viral video. The clip was originally posted by a suburban Chicago girl on her Facebook page. She surprised the man who raised her with something very special – so special that Ellen DeGeneres caught wind of it and shared the video on her own official Facebook page. Grab some tissues and watch it here.
What do you think of our new feature? Anything else happen this week that you think we might have missed? Tips and suggestions welcome!
On August 8, 1978, a warm and humid evening in Chicago, Rebecca Ann Bluemel was born at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. The symbolism of this inner city debut would come to define much of her character.
Rebecca was the first realized, but fourth conceived child of Gregg and Gloria, 23 and not-quite 22 years-old respectively. She was number four. The first three fetuses had been aborted by the young and careless couple.
I know this because my father confessed it when I checked him into a hospital several years ago for another mental health episode. I was horrified, and hated him intensely at the time for speaking. But in a way, the truth did offer freedom. I’d never heard that my sociopathic mother insisted she couldn’t get pregnant, and that my troubled father failed to question repeated, terminated evidence of her falsehood. I guess the former Catholic alter boy who still skipped red meat on Fridays couldn’t stomach a fourth trip to the abortion clinic. So my parents got married and six months later, there I was.
When I was around eight years old and my family was sinking in the quagmire of too much responsibility and too little stability from its leaders, my parents had another horrible argument. This one ended with dad screaming the following words, forever seared in my formative mind – “YOU TRAPPED ME!” I wasn’t old enough to understand it all, but I absolutely felt the rage – and comprehended that the “trap” was me.
The impression this accusation left, deepened by natural inclinations of character and desire to be loved, unleashed a firestorm of achievement-oriented activity. I wanted to be the best at everything, to keep climbing new heights, make them proud. It was so painfully and openly needy. I owed it to my dysfunctional parents to help them care more, and I was persistent in effort. After all, wasn’t their unhappiness and disinclination to provide for our basic needs my fault? I trapped them. I was hungry in more ways than one to show them that engaging was worth it. That I was worth it. As a bonus, I enjoyed the luxury of disappearing into industry. A mind and body always in motion doesn’t have time to hurt and despair.
Years later, when my father told the whole truth – that three other babies could have been in this position – a whole new can of psychological fuckery opened. Why me? Why had I been born at all? What would the unborn have been like? How did I compare to the people they might have been?
I’ve been thinking about all of this ugliness a lot lately. I’m healthier and happier than ever. There’s been miserable years, necessary estrangement from both parents, lots of therapy and personal labor. But early in 2016, I live a contented, peaceful, fulfilled life for which my younger self dared not hope. Aspiration was just too painful, especially under the impression that in burdening my caretakers with an unwanted presence, it was necessary to work harder and repent more. So very Dostoyevsky without the religion.
I’ve had time to think about my father’s 5150 revelation. Of course I’ve understood in a real way for several years now that my parents had plenty of choices. Like birth control. It’s not anyone’s fault that their broken interpersonal gamesmanship ended up in a rotten marriage and a daughter for which they weren’t prepared to care. I also know that playing the “What if my unborn siblings would have turned out better than me?” game is a psychological fool’s errand. I’m here. That’s how it went down. And despite it all, I have a life of which I’m proud.
I’m ok with being number four. I carry the idea of the three that never were with me. They are not forgotten. Unhealthy people made decisions for all of us (or at least our collective cells). I’m finally living truth that once seemed impossibly buried under the heavy weight of sins not my own. Overachievement that always felt more exhausting than productive is leveraged today by passion, rather than a campaign for the acceptance and love of those who can’t give it. I like myself a lot more this way. It’s sustainable.
As I move through the novel experiences of 2016 and settle into some wonderfully comfortable routines, I’ve been thinking about the years I spent looking at Rebecca Bluemel (now Sarwate) as a booby trap. I’m nobody’s regrettable baggage. And the first embryos weren’t either. Numbers one, two and three travel with four in spiritual communion.
In public speeches, on this blog, and in daily life, I’ve spent two years talking about my struggles with pompholyx eczema, a little understood autoimmune disease. As a refresher, here are some basic facts about the mercurial condition, courtesy of DermNet:
“Pompholyx presents as recurrent crops of deep-seated blisters on the palms and soles. They cause intense itch and/or a burning sensation. The blisters peel off and the skin then appears red, dry and has painful fissures (cracks)….
Pompholyx is multifactorial. In many cases it appears to be related to sweating, as flares often occur during hot weather, humid conditions, or following emotional upset. Other contributing factors include:
[Additional risks involve] secondary bacterial infection with Staphylococcus aureus and/or Streptococcus pyogenes…results in pain, swelling and pustules on the hands and feet.”
So yes, debilitating, painful and at times, humiliating. I’ve written about society’s tendency to treat another’s visible disfigurement as an acceptable conversation topic. Strangers ask rude, invasive questions – like “What happened to you? Did you get burned?” – that they wouldn’t dream of posing to someone in a wheelchair, for example. And very rarely was I in possession of answers.
The condition typically onsets during young adulthood. I was 34 years old – not a geezer, but past the blush of youth. There’s no pompholyx family history. I’m allergic to nickel as well as a number of medications. But that’s always been so, and reactions stop at vomiting and temporary hives. Also? My case exploded near the Thanksgiving holidays. I live in Chicago. So much for the hot, humid theory.
Emotional upset? That I can believe. When the initial outbreak occurred I was living in a studio apartment falling down around me, ending an 18-month relationship with a psychologically abusive alcoholic, the plaintiff in a lawsuit (ultimately resolved in my favor) and between jobs. I was a bit stressed, but for better or worse, my harrowing upbringing instilled excellent coping skills. Why now if not then? I’ll never know for sure what caused my autoimmune system to shift into hyper revolt.
Over 18 months ago, I wrote about being one of the lucky ones. Pompholyx has no known cure, and most patients endure interminable alternation between steroid therapy (which temporarily subdues the swelling and growth) and escalation. It’s miserable. I used to dream of happily cutting off fingers, a macabre but welcome relief. I’d often awake in tears when I realized all ten burning digits were still in place. Chronic pain is the enemy of rational thought.
But in one of those right place, right time, great mysteries of life, raw, organic beet juice presented itself as a solution when my medical team had just about exhausted available treatment options. Had I not discovered that disgusting, beautiful, natural, thick red elixir, I’d be on disability right now rather than climbing the corporate ladder, taking on new writing and leadership challenges, or preparing to teach my first collegiate course in the spring. I’d never have traveled to Alaska or fallen in love with Bob and our dogs. 20-30 ounces a shot, 5-7 days a week, and except for the part where every fluid emanating from my body was crimson tinged, I went on as I once was.
Beet juice was a part of life, was life itself. And then all of the sudden, toward the end of October, another miracle: the pompholyx went into remission. I’ve enjoyed nearly eight symptom, juice-free weeks and counting. In preparation for writing this post, I looked up the technical definition of that word: remission. These are the three explications offered by Google:
“1. the cancellation of a debt, charge, or penalty.
2. a diminution of the seriousness or intensity of disease or pain; a temporary recover
3. forgiveness of sins.”
Through sheer luck, I’m not in financial distress. And as an atheist, I don’t believe powers higher than myself and the needs of the global community are required to guide my moral code. Guilt and I are old, longtime friends. Yet when I look at the three varying definitions of “remission,” I relate to them all under present circumstances.
In the throes of acute physical suffering, it was easy (and romantic) to wonder if the bad juju I know I’ve put into the universe yielded deserved pain. I don’t need a god’s help to see that almost everything is connected. Somehow I’d asked for this. But if so, to whom could I plead for relief and absolution? It was too, chronically late.
I don’t know what led to this pause in physical torment any more than I can ascertain what led to it in the first place. Has existential debt been forgiven, or is it (a far more likely scenario) that my human body, with all its mysterious quirks, has finally caught up to the happiness, mental health and peace I experience through better life choices?
Remission. Rumination. Resolve. So many “R” words, so little certainty. Gray areas used to drive me batty. Now I can just be grateful for the calm, taking comfort in the knowledge that if symptoms return, there are beets.
“We are the city that reversed the flow of the mighty Chicago River in 1900 to rid ourselves of toxic filth. We can do it again. We must. If not, we are officially, if passively, surrendering to an Orwellian dystopia. And we can’t complain about anything else from here.”
becky sarwate 