Category Archives: Liza’s Diary – shared personal journal notes

Maybe it’s narcissistic to share these musings publicly but I do so in the hope that my experience will be useful to some readers. Others may simply be amused by my personal soap opera. In either case, it’s all good.

Mother and Our Three Dogs

This is my first experiment with posting my audio recordings. I made this one on my 63rd birthday during a period when I was trying to sort out how my childhood experiences have shaped my personality, character, and adult behavior.

All of us have had some trauma as we grew up. Challenges are part of life. For many of us, the small, vaguely remembered incidents may have had more influence than those lightbulb events we usually label as psychologically impactful. This is a recollection of three incidents that I rarely associate with my mental health issues of depression, fear of abandonment, and anxiety over challenging authority. Don’t get me wrong. I love animals – horses and dogs especially, cats too but not as much. My childhood home was always teaming with critters – familiar domestic pets, captured or wounded wild ones, and science experiments. Most of my memories are of gratifying interactions. But these three probably deserve some further reflection.

Click on the white triangle below to listen. It takes a few seconds for the audio to load before starting.

Bloodhound Dog with long ears on floor.

The original Liza’s ears drooped on the floor when she slept. Pepper would lie like this at the foot of Mother’s bed.

Trippy was always alert for a game or a chase, even a car.

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by | November 16, 2024 · 12:02 pm

Practicing Being 80 – Episode 1

Very few of us have had the privilege of being taught how to grow old. For most of us, this is a process of discovery. I began my  80th year a few months ago and I’m trying to figure out how to play the game of life in this last phase. How did I get

from this:

 

 

 

to this:

I wake up each morning in my cozy bed and stretch. What hurts today? Will I be hot, cold, or comfortable if I move the covers? Will I wet the bed if I don’t immediately rush to the bathroom? What do I absolutely have to get done today? Does it matter what I wear? Do I have to get dressed at all? What would I enjoy doing today? What is the purpose of my life in this “end-game” stage?

Others are raising their grandchildren, running countries, or meeting adoring crowds at 80. Although I am apparently healthy, I don’t have that much energy.  I dread taking on new obligations and the isolation of the pandemic has gotten me used to staying at home. My income is stable, my daily needs are met. My children and grandchildren are doing well. In spite of all this good fortune I feel immersed in a pool of sadness. How do I make this an era of joy and satisfaction?

 

Perhaps the problem I am facing now began in my early teen years. That’s me in the middle  of a class picture – maybe 6th grade. I felt like the ugly, brainy outsider and retreated into intellectual oddity.

I’ve learned to cover up the alienation from myself and others, to say the culturally appropriate thing and deflect attention away from myself and onto others. I’ve devoted my life to modernizing education and other “high impact” social causes. I’ve accomplished enough, given enough, to feel I’ve paid any debt owed to my society.

When I tell people I’ve been fighting depression all my life they respond, “Oh no, not you, Liza. You’re always smiling and right on top of things.” That’s what it looks like from the outside because I have made sure nobody sees me when I’m vulnerable and can’t cope.

 

80 is different. I’m no longer climbing  a career ladder or building institutions. I’m cleaning up the messes in preparation for passing on all those responsibilities. But it’s the met responsibilities, the fulfilled obligations, the kept promises that have gotten me out of bed in the past. That pressure has been a dike that kept the depression within its banks and the alienation at bay. Now my psychological armor is peeling away and I’m having to face my inner demons without the excuse that focusing on myself is somehow “selfish”.

It’s time to reconnect with the curious, exploratory, hopeful character I was as an infant, a toddler, a child before “self” became “selfish”. And you’ll just have to wait and see whether I ever feel like writing Episode 2!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Second Entry: March 18, 1961

June 1, 2019.

I wonder what I was having trouble doing.

 

I had a horse and a dog at this point. The cats had all died. So had the white mice and the parakeets. Animals were my refuge. I suspect I was angry at my mother and wanted to convince myself to be gentle with her.

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First Entry: March 6, 1961. Going on 16.

 

June 1, 2019 –

Paragraph 1.  See introduction.

Paragraph 2. I remember so clearly the struggle I had not to become lazy and complacent. By any standards we were rich. I knew I had choices. I was enrolled in 4 advanced placement classes in an academically challenging private school. I didn’t know it then but I had mild dyslexia perhaps complicated by a pair of eyes that didn’t focus together (a condition called amblyopia, I was born with one crossed eye). I couldn’t catch a ball reliably. I read slowly. It would have been so easy to lie back and relax, become a “girly” girl like so many of my classmates were doing, Even so, learning was the game I was best at.

The very public conflicts my divorced parents had over money led me to my skeptical view of my potential earning power. My mother, who grew up sewing her own underwear on a chicken farm in upstate New York, had gotten into an extended custody battle over my brothers and me with my wealthy “Our Crowd” father 4 years ago. I still don’t know what details she kept from me but she made it perfectly clear that she went back to work because my bastard father cut her off, she was sacrificing for me and I was inadequately grateful. As you may read about later, my father was unsuccessful at disinheriting my adulthood self so, in complex ways, it turned out that my schooling really has not had much impact on my earning power or lifestyle.

It is significant that this early interest in the interaction among personal effort, job-related earning power and educational level has stayed so prominent in my mind that I am still writing about it. (See www.netaablog.wordpress.com)

Paragraph 3.  I had just read Voltaire’s Candide for the first time. My preoccupation with appropriate use of superlatives is still with me as well.

Paragraph 4.  I’m sure I hadn’t yet read Plato’s Republic so I expect the story of the cave was related to me by either parents or my older brother and his friends. I majored in philosophy in college and, to this day, consider myself a career “social philosopher”. Oh, the seeds we sew.

Paragraph 5.  The school that I had been attending since second grade was nondenominational but certainly Christian in orientation. We were required to study both the Old and New Testament of the Christian Bible and to attend morning chapel three days a week. I was familiar with Exodus 3:14. I had also been exposed to Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am”. But, looking back almost 60 years, I suspect my existential crisis was more closely related to my increasingly tumultuous relationship with my mother than either religion (which was strictly forbidden by both my atheist parents) or philosophical texts that I had heard about but not yet read. It’s ironic that gratitude is a hot topic among members of the “self-help” crowd today.

Paragraph 6.  I’m still haunted by what I called ’ostentation’ at 15. At that time people used to accuse me of being ‘conceited’, of thinking I was somehow better than everyone else. In some senses they were right. By any objective measure I had been gifted with more than my fair share of musical, mathematical and literary talent for which I could claim no intentional merit. I hadn’t earned those gifts and I knew it. My peers were missing the fact that much of my bravado was compensation for low self-esteem. Further, my parents brought up the concept of ‘noblesse oblige’ with some frequency. I had been born into privilege and I would carry an obligation to give back all my life. They also demanded that I “carry myself” like the aristocrat I was supposed to be. It was 30 years before I learned enough about body language to stop striding into a room as if I owned it with a haughty expression on my face. And you’re reading this because I’ve given up secrets.

 

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Inside Liza: Reflections on Reflections – Introduction

I was born in 1945. I tried writing a diary when I was 7 and then again when I was 10. I thought it was what girls did but I couldn’t get into it. Maybe I was too busy living to reflect on what was happening or why. But by halfway through my 15th year the questioning had started in ernest. I’m sure I talked things over with my friends but that wasn’t enough. I know my mother wanted access to my inner life. We spent hours discussing current events, whether either of us would be able to shoot a neighbor breaking into our bomb shelter (actually, we didn’t have one), what had happened to our “beautiful relationship” (the one we had when I was a child who worshipped her and didn’t question her decisions), the meaning of life in general. By 15, sharing my inner life with my mother had begun to feel invasive. Besides, I already knew what she thought and I wanted more. So I got an extra spiral-bound notebook and began sharing with myself.

Today, June 1, 2019 (It happens to be my mother’s birthday, or would be if she was still alive) I’m going to begin Journaling 2.0 – Reflections on Reflections. I’ve kept all those old notebooks. Each time I return to them I’m amazed at how little I’ve changed. That doesn’t mean there’s been no change, but it’s clear that, at age 74, I’m the same person with many of the same unanswered questions. As you’ll see on the next page, I began with the sentence:

 

“Possibly if I write down my thoughts, the one’s worth thinking will not be forgotten.”

 

The years have taught me at least two things. First, that writing down thoughts in a private journal will not preserve them. I will die, the notebook is likely to be thrown out unread, my memory will go with me. That’s forgetting. But if I share what I’ve written, publish it, there’s some chance the wish embedded in my sentence could come true.

Second, there’s no a priori way to judge which thoughts will have value, “be worth thinking”, beyond the simple joy of having them. There’s a kind of natural selection for ideas as well as genes that happens over time. Genes are lost by being bred out of the gene pool. Thoughts just get forgotten. Publishing thoughts may be like the strategy in nature of an individual laying 10,000 eggs each season even though only 2 or 3 of them are likely to survive to produce the next generation. Perhaps I can push this metaphor a little further. Most of those eggs get eaten by other species. Their specific genes are digested, destroyed, not passed on. Still, the eggs have served a purpose. They have nurtured someone else. Maybe thoughts really are like eggs…

My juvenile notes are interesting to me, in part because I can compare them to what I think now as I read them. I’ve chosen a strategy make them interesting to you by adding my “mature” reaction to each journal entry. You might want to do the same and pass the result on. 

One more lesson I hadn’t learned at 15. There’s a certain value in simply amusing each other. My mother used to repeat, “Fools names and fools faces are always found in public places.” I interpreted this to mean I shouldn’t carve my initials in tree trunks or paint them on mountain tops. Those who did were fools. I also believed, on a deeper level, that I shouldn’t talk about myself. So I kept this journal secret. Experience has taught me otherwise. People enjoy stories, the more personal the better. So, dear reader, even if you find no profound ideas in the words that follow, I hope you enjoy the story. 

 

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Life worth living isn’t necessarily easy…

Recovering alcoholics use the phrase “one day at a time” because, even after years and decades, contemplating 25 hours without the sauce is too ambitious.

I’m sitting back focusing on my breathing after reading this blog from a recovering alcoholic. Hard lessons, hard truths herein.

 

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Link

I’ve never been a substance abuser but what gets me is that everything Emerson says he misses about alcohol I miss too: having a social life, a hobby, becoming a different person, the lack of struggle to achieve goals, the drama. My drugs have been intellectual debate and psychotherapy. Yours might be physical exercise, work, religion or rescuing people. It doesn’t matter what the escape mechanism is. I’m guessing that the key to addiction is not the drug itself but the underlying dissatisfaction some of us feel when we’re “straight” — the need to escape ourselves. What challenges and unites us is the drab, empty terror that takes over when we remove our drug of choice.

The line between healthy motivation and addiction can be a thin one. If you can pursue what brings you bliss without ruining your health or abandoning your niche in society you will be considered a hero, a credit to your parents, a leader or a valued contributor. We make celebrities of the dedicated nurse, the successful entrepreneur, the devoted mother, the political crusader, the athletic champion. We often assume that our heroes don’t suffer from the internal insecurity that plagues those of us who describe ourselves as “depressed”; that they can keep themselves under control without an external crutch, that they are “happy” when we are not. Emerson has captured my reality:

I thought sobriety would be a fresh, clear-eyed start, but sometimes it feels more like an endless homework assignment.  Link

Buddhists, practitioners of positive psychology, religious leaders and 12-step program members offer many mental and physical anodynes to those of us whose un-drugged life feels like continuously falling down a bottomless well. Smith2008MapImage source

Yup, this homework assignment is endless. It isn’t easy. If only I could learn to love it. I’m told it gets easier with practice.

My therapist, who uses “attachment therapy” techniques, joins me in weekly journeys into the swamp of my emotions, a place filled with primitive, wordless fear. Other attachment therapists have made the connection between subtle childhood abuse and addiction:

 I have yet to meet someone who struggles with addiction who doesnt also have some kind of attachment trauma. 

ONDINA N. HATVANY, MFT

When I exit my therapist’s office I have to button up my cloak of normal, non-addicted, social behavior but I often wish I could just pop a pill that would erase the hidden terrors. Yes, I, like millions of other Americans, have tried Prozac and other anti-depressants. Maybe they give the well a bottom so you can stop falling. Maybe they just take the fear out of the falling sensation. Maybe they curtail all emotions but this removes the highs as well as the lows. After twenty years they stopped working for me. To me this felt like a slippery slope to addiction not better than alcohol, weed, or other mind-altering substances.

The problem is, I want my mind altered — but not too much. I have an expectation that happiness lies beyond vigilance, self-control and constant psychological work. I long to be able to relax into a flow that buoys me up and carries me to some satisfying destination I can imagine but rarely experience. So far (and, by the way, I’m 71) this isn’t happening. My life is like that of the recovering alcoholic who misses the remembered ease of being “under the influence”. I’m guessing I’m not the only one.

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How Medical “Research” Can Harm Individual Health

This morning, KQED public radio’s Forum program aired a piece about tooth flossing:  Episode airs August 3, 2016 at 9:00 AM

Screen Shot 2016-08-03 at 9.48.50 AMThe tag line reads: “Since 1979, the federal government has recommended flossing daily to help prevent gum disease and cavities. But according to a new report by the Associated Press,  there’s little scientific evidence to support that advice. We’ll drill down into the data, and we want to hear from you: Will the news affect your oral hygiene routine?”

The problem with this discussion hinges on the difference between statistical and individual results. I, personally, am a good example of this. I have two gaps between molars that have enlarged as I’ve gotten older. When I chew meat little bits lodge in these gaps and the gum there becomes inflamed within 24 hours if I don’t remove the debris with floss (or a toothpick). For me, flossing is critical. My individual experience may not have any perceptible effect on statistical results but it is critical to my personal health. No “scientific” (read statistical) study can tell me what will benefit me. I’ve had several occasions when doctors tell me a behavior or treatment is not worth doing because there are no scientific studies that support it. Unfortunately, it is not possible to determine whether you or I fall within the large number of individuals who populate the high point on the statistical curve or are part of the long tails on either side of the statistical norm.

Screen Shot 2016-08-03 at 9.46.02 AMWhen dealing with personal health, paying attention to statistical probability tells us only how likely it is that a medication or treatment will help us but tells us nothing about how any one person will respond. The bottom line, on flossing or any other medical recommendation, is to look for a personal solution. The fact that a treatment doesn’t work for 99 out of 100 people does not prove it will not work for you or me.

Attention to medical research results, research results in any field for that matter, should not be limited to reports of statistically significant outcomes. The gap between what is statistically likely or probable and what actually happens in any given situation is unpredictable. Research that uncovers rare phenomenon is just as important as that which shows us the commonplace.

The medical profession, the government and the media can actually harm individual health by focusing public trust on statistically probable to the exclusion of exploratory research outcomes. Doctors hesitate to try unusual treatments when more common solutions fail. The FDA limits access to drugs that are effective for small numbers of people and encourages everyone to consume foods that may be harmful to some. The media often touts studies that just barely cross the threshold of statical credibility but excite an uninformed audience.

I applaud KQED for opening up this discussion about federal recommendations and personal practice. Let’s go further and address how to interpret the discoveries, meanings and messages of scientific research.

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