Monthly Archives: January 2009

I REMEMBER DYING

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I remember dying. There is nothing like it. No words can say it, surround it, share it, divulge it.

A US Airways jet crash landed in the Hudson River today. There were more than 150 people on board Flight 1549 from New York to Charlotte North Carolina. At this writing all reports indicate everyone made it off the plane alive. The FAA says preliminary reports indicate the plane struck a bird.

But it was not the cause of the crash I was thinking about when I watched the scene unfold on television. I was thinking about the horrifying moments the people on the aircraft endured and are still enduring. When the pilot told them to brace for impact, every single human being in the plane began going through an experience that told them they were in their last moments. They were dying. Their it-can’t-happen-to-me syndromes forever destroyed.

Moments like the passengers and crew endured and lived through, like the moments I lived through in 1984 after a teenager put a gun to my head and shot me, are moments that rip apart and blister away any emotional defense system that may have been meeting the challenges of daily life. There are no daily life challenges that prepare you for the merciless onslaught of unexpected imminent death. You go through them naked. Fully exposed. Your heart and soul bared. Your entire being covered in terror’s icy lace.

Then, if you live, people will tell you that you are lucky. And you wonder what they are talking about because you don’t feel lucky. You don’t feel lucky because you aren’t lucky. You are not lucky to be in a plane the has to crash land. You are not lucky to get shot in the head at point blank range by a drugged up teenager. What you are is blessed. You are blessed to be alive. I am blessed and so are all those who lived through that trauma today. So are those who live through all life threatening traumas.

But don’t call us lucky. We are dealing with what did happen, not with what could have happened.
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FEAR OF INTIMACY

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Fear of intimacy is an epidemic in my culture. This fear, this unkind barrier to people fully loving each other, robs so many people of the relationships they deserve – and want.

To my mind, there are three primary forms of intimacy: physical, emotional, and spiritual.

There are numerous essays and articles on the net talking about communal relationships as opposed to exchange relationships, or, as one article I ran across calls the latter, strategic exchange relationships. This latter form of relationship is highly problematic if your goal is to be in a loving intimate relationship with someone and not simply use someone for sexual or material gain.

While it seems to me the strategic exchange relationship is by far the most common relationship we see, I believe most people honestly and honorably want the communal relationship.

As I understand it, the strategic exchange relationship is a relationship where one person is seeking to get something or give something to the other in part by convincing them that the relationship is based on true intimacy. To my mind, this pattern of manipulative behavior can be driven by the subconscious as well as the conscious. According to more than one source, strategic exchange relationships are rather brittle and likely to break apart and come to an end when disagreements and differences arise.

Communal relationships, the truly emotionally, physically, and spiritually intimate relationships, are the durable ones. These relationships are far more likely to weather the storms. Their foundations are not so apt to be fractured and damaged by disagreements, differing views, and the traumas life dishes out to us all. Why? Because there is trust. There is a belief that each is their with the other person’s best interest at heart. There is a belief that neither would knowingly do nor say anything to wound or damage the other. This type of bond does not exist in the exchange relationships.

But why the exchange relationships in the first place? Why the fear of intimacy? Why the fear to trust? These fears arrive in our lives for real reasons: past wounds, betrayals, abuse of all kinds endured as children, or adults for that matter.

In other words, it’s our histories. Components of our histories provide the biggest obstacles to our ever realizing the kind of communal relationships so many deeply and sincerely long for.

So, here’s a thought to take with you. Who deserves to be in charge of your ability to be in the kind of communal relationship your heart desires? You or your history? I say, you.

The thing is, when the fear arrives, when your history raises its hideous head in an attempt to derail you, talk to the person you are with about your fears. If they listen, you are in good stead. One other thing, let them talk, and when they do, listen to them. Listen to each other; don’t judge each other.

And for god sakes, don’t forget to hold each other.

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NORMAL, THE WAY IT’S ‘SPOSED TO BE

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Normal is you giving yourself permission to be you.


In a recent workshop with trauma survivors and today in a conversation with an extraordinary woman, the subject of normal came up. Normal is a dangerous notion because it is drenched in the poison judgment. Judgment is poison, at in my view it is. Were it not for my allegiance to free speech, I would urge that the word normal be banned. Normal as an expectation should be banned. What gets presented as normal by society is driven by commercial interests which are driven by the desire to make money which is, more often than not, driven by greed. And nothing driven by greed can be normal, meaning nothing driven by greed can be physically, emotionally and spiritually healthy.

The line from Bruce Springsteen’s song Badlands says a lot about the greed-driven “normal”:

“Poor man wanna be rich,
rich man wanna be king
And a king ain’t satisfied
till he rules everything”

I know a business owner or two that went from good to bad ‘cause they wanted and want to rule everything. Wanting to rule everything? Now that ain’t fucking normal.

Normal is being who you are. Nothing more, nothing less. Being who you are, learning to be who you are, allowing yourself to be who you are, and not letting your history stop you.

Think about it, if there is anything in the world you deserve to be, it’s you. You are a wonderful discovery. If you don’t think so, take some decision making power away from the unhealthy messages inflicted on you by your history. When you do that, you will get to meet your true self. Guaranteed you’ll wind up best friends.

That’s the way it’s ‘sposed to be.
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"Keeping Quiet" by Pablo Neruda

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Knowing the last year has been a brutal one for this writer, Deanna, a wonderful friend of mine from California, sent me this Neruda poem. It is exquisitely healing. And so, for the first time in this blog’s history, another writer’s words take center stage. After you read them, I think you’ll agree that is exactly where they belong.

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still



For once on the face of the earth,

Let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.



It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.



Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would look at his hurt hands.



Those who prepare green wars

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing



What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.



If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.



Now I’ll count to twelve

And you keep quiet and I will go.



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DO YOU WANT A BLOW JOB?

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The following is an excerpt from the memoir



I am 12 years old walking across Lincoln Center Plaza on my way to catch a cross-town bus to go to the Harkness School of Ballet. I just got out of my classes at Professional Children’s School, a private school for children in the arts: dancers, actors, painters, models, musicians, composers and so forth.



My weeks are packed. I take dance classes six days a week, go to school five days a week, and work off the books for a couple of hours one day a week washing dishes at a local restaurant near my home. My Dad has instilled in me the importance of always having a job, no matter how few the hours, so I can always have a couple of dollars in your pocket.



I am passing the fountain in the plaza’s center when a middle-aged man with red hair begins to walk next to me. He is on my left. I am in a hurry.



He says, “How are you today, young man?”



“Fine,” I say.



He says, “Where you off too?”



“Dance class.”

“Dance class, really…that sounds nice.”



He continues at my side as we reach the end of the plaza. He says, “Can I ask you something?”



“I gotta catch a bus.”



Would you like a blow job?”



“I already have a job.”



He looks bewildered. “No no. I wanted to know if you want a blow job.”



I am not the most patient 12 year old on the planet. “I just told you, I already have a job.”



We have reached the bus stop. The bus is arriving. He looks at me. “I’m asking you if you’d like a blow job, kid.”



I’ve had it. “What are you, stupid or something? I just told you I have a job.” I glare at him before getting on the bus.



The middle-aged man with the red hair stands outside the bus giving me a strange look. As the bus pulls out, I give him the only reasonable response I can think of, the finger.



My Dad and I are driving home that evening on the Palisades Parkway when I tell him some guy kept offering me a job today.



He sounds surprised. “Somebody offered you a job?”



“Told him I already had a job.”



“Where did this take place?”



“Lincoln Center.”



“Really. What kind of job?”



“He asked me if I wanted a blow job.”



Had I known at that moment what a blow job actually was I would have been immediately as impressed with my father’s ability to keep the car on the road as I am today.



“Oh, Pete,” he said, looking worried. “We need to talk.”



“You okay, Dad?”



“Your okay, that’s what matters. And yes, I’m okay.”



My father then explained what kind of, well, job, I’d been offered. And although I didn’t realize it then, I know now that while ignorance may not always be bliss, it can protect you from trauma.

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