How much do you love me?

Growing up, I learned that the way to survive was to praise my father.

But it wasn't enough.

I could say the right words, but he wanted me to believe them. He wanted me not only to walk the party line, to show respect, to do as I was told, but most of all he wanted me to BELIEVE.

He didn't just want me to believe in him - a common enough occurrence, I'm a parent and I certainly like it when my daughter agrees with me or approve of me - he wanted me to truly like the things he liked, approve of the things he approved of, hate the things he hated. Anything less sent him into a rage, or a cold shoulder, or otherwise made my life difficult. He wanted full agreement and adoration.

When I was young, if I wanted something - clothing, toys, activities - that he didn't like, he told me I was stupid. Simple enough. Because of his German upbringing, some of his insults were in German - dummkopf and schweinhund were the two most popular ones. (They translate to "dumb head" and "pig dog" for those not versed in German insults.) It wasn't enough to do more chores, I was supposed to be grateful to do them. If he wanted something, I needed to be happy about it.

There were other insults, too, mostly about intelligence. When I disagreed, protested, or simply said something that he didn't agree with, he told me I was stupid, a cretin, a moron. "Idiot" was common, and I don't remember him telling me that he loved me, but I do recall his shouted "What's the matter with you?" or "What the hell is wrong with you?" as the most common refrain. Disagreement was a sign of lack of intelligence - choosing the wrong item on a menu, or dressing wrong, or liking the wrong movies were all cause for insult.

When I grew up, I got away. Not far away, just across town, but enough. I fought for an education, a career, a life. I carved out a little space for myself in the world, and demonstrated responsibility. I paid my bills, volunteered, held good jobs. I found community. It made me braver. I started to see that other families weren't like mine, and that I wasn't bad for wanting my own opinions, I was normal. My mind was blown. When I watched a friend tease a parent, I cringed, thinking "oh no here we go" and bracing for shouting or worse; when the parent merely laughed I was stunned. I started to learn that it was their version, not mine, that was normal.

(On one occasion when I was eight or nine, my father really gave me a take-down and called me names, and I cried. Perhaps feeling some remorse, he told me that he was just teasing, and I should know the joke. Days thereafter, with this new understanding, he dropped something and I teased him. I can still feel the sensation of his large hand impacting with my face, furious with me. "Teasing" was one directional. Message received.)

Distance made me bolder, and safer. I was a grown women, not beholden to my family. I tried to be a good daughter, but to live my own life. I didn't push back against my family, I just tried not to engage.

Not engaging is not possible.

My father can bear no disagreement, no difference. Every time I chose something different than him - the kind of car I drive (foreign, not domestic), the kind of food I eat (organic, from a wide variety of cultures), the kind of books I read (I read!)...all of it was, to him, not a choice made by a grown woman, but an indictment of his choices.

Sometimes I argued. Of course, that didn't go well. I learned to mostly keep it to myself, to mute myself. But I stepped on landmines anyway.

One Christmas a few years ago, I checked in cheerfully - despite the stress of being in my parents' home - to see which dishes I should bring for the meal. I cook a lot, and enjoy holiday cooking (as do many people). My father said, "We're getting everything pre-made at Costco this year. Don't bring anything, it's all taken care of." I told him I was looking forward to the meal, but that I also enjoyed home cooked food, so I'd supplement with a couple ideas (a home made pie, etc.). He said "No! I told you, we will have it all!" I calmly explained that I liked preparing home made food at the holidays, that it was important to me, and that I prefer home made food, but he didn't need to eat it of course." That wasn't good enough. Not only did he forbid me from bringing anything for myself or to share, he was incredibly angry that I wanted to do so. There was shouting, and actual rage, and demeaning, and questioning my integrity...because I wanted to bake a pie to eat at Christmas. I sucked it up and gave up my hope for good food.

Disappointed, I came to the meal anyway. It was all processed food from boxes and plastic containers; the gravy came in a can. I found it unpalatable and disappointing, but I didn't say so. My father was not satisfied with my cheerful company, or with the fact that he'd won (the food on the table was of his choosing). He wanted me to say that I was wrong, that I loved the Costco food, that it was better than what I would have brought, that it was preferable, that he was right all along. He wanted me to apologize for offering to bring food. My attempts at diplomacy ("I'm just glad to be here with my family" and "it's so generous of you to provide everything") were not enough. He needed me to recant on my wishes, to deny them, to tell him that I should have known better, that his food was the best in the whole world. He brought it up over, and over, and over, souring the holiday. I had to choose between placating him and being honest. (I was distant, honest...until I declared a headache that made me need to leave.)

I have dozens of examples like this. It is crazy making. It isn't enough to say "We can agree to disagree" or to say "thank you" or to say "this tastes good" he needs to know that he was right, that I was wrong, and that even the idea of disagreement was a mistake.

It wasn't about the food. It was all about his insatiable desire to be The Best, to be Right, to be Adored. His version of adoration leaves no room for difference. 

I have all kinds of theories about why it is that way. I think that when I disagreed, it triggered all of his senses of not being enough, of not being loved, of not being appreciated or understood. It triggered his own power dynamics with his own parents. It made him feel insecure, and small, and scared.

And so, like narcissists everywhere, he responded with anger, attempts to control.

And worst of all? I couldn't use logic, truth, or reason. I couldn't change the conversation, flatter about something else, set a boundary, use counter-facts, or point out that arguing about mashed potatoes was silly and we could just let it go.

"Let it go" is not in his vocabulary.

Living like that for my entire life changed me. I became an expert at dodging, both in and out of conversation. I became an expert at finding the compliment and amplifying it. I became an expert at anticipating needs and meeting them. I became an expert at smoothing things over.

But it was never enough.

Imagine, if you can, what it's like to invoke someone's rage over a disagreement over home made vs. store bought mashed potatoes. Imagine what it's like when more important topics come up. I hope you can't imagine it. I hope this feels a little other-worldly to you. If you can understand, empathize, then I'm sorry. Sorry for both of us.

Right now, our nation is arguing with Donald Trump, not about mashed potatoes at the holiday table, but about democracy. He cannot hear anything other than what he wants to hear. Any pleading, any attempts at logic, will fall on deaf ears. Worse, like gremlins, the truth is like water, and when wet with truth, Trump will double down, over and over, exponentially, his rage increasing.

I'm sure it's because his father was an asshole and that he doesn't feel loved, and that he has a giant gaping hole inside that makes him feel like he's dying and that only pure loyalty, respect, love, and adoration can make him survive. I'm sure of these things, because I grew up with them. If you don't believe me, just look at his behavior, just listen to what he says, how he behaves. He cannot abide anything but reverence - anything less than being treated as a god causes him to lash out. I almost feel sorry for him.

But I know that we're in such a dangerous time that even my sympathy for his unmet needs is dangerous, and that if he could, he'd manipulate that sympathy, too, which he sees as a sign of weakness. Incapable of understanding another viewpoint, because it would mean possibly understanding that he did not know everything, that he was fallible. He can't be fallible, he has to be perfect, or his whole world view crumbles. He will fight with any means possible to make sure that doesn't happen. If a narcissist sees sympathy, compassion, or kindness, they see it as proof of another's weakness.

The most dangerous time in an abused woman's life is the time that she decides to leave her abuser.

I escaped my family in degrees - by going to college, by moving across town, by choosing my own path, and creating a series of boundaries every time. But in the end, my parents rejected me. I crossed the line by saying something they didn't like, and unlike in healthy families, they couldn't talk about it, negotiate, ask questions, or let it go. Instead, my father screamed at me, and told me he was ashamed of me, and that was that.

It is one of the hardest things I've ever gone through, and it still impacts me. But mostly, it was a gift. Holding my breath all the time, trying to please someone unpleasable while still remaining true to myself, was impossible, and it hurt. I don't do that anymore. I still hurt, but so much less. Who knew that the amputation could save my life? I miss the limb - how is it that I do not have a family, though they live? - but I value my life more than the limb.

But America will have to fight harder than I did. My father is not in the public eye: for him, having the last word and declaring me persona non grata is enough for him. But Trump will not stop there. He will go to any length - and based on the attempted coup in our Capitol, "anything" could be ANYTHING. Based on chants of "Hang Pence" and the President encouraging an angry mob... I shudder to think of what could come next. I couldn't imagine a coup in our halls of democracy, and yet here we are.

America is trying to leave her abuser. and she's in grave danger. With pursuit of facts, we might win. I fear we will lose a limb, too, and I'm scared about what that looks like.

But if an abuser says "How much do you love me?"  and demands 100% fealty, there is no room for anything other than godlike adoration, and we will fall short. Trump needs perfect love, and we will never be able to give it to him.

Some women are killed by their abusers as they try to leave. It seems to me that is happening to us now. It's really, really easy to back down, to try to soothe it, to hope for peace. But women DO leave without dying. Not all of them, but some of them. He might try to kill - but he won't always succeed.

But my experience, with 51 years of trying to figure out how to please someone who can't be pleased because he's hurting too much to see past his own nose, I have this advice.

Pack your bags. Have a plan. Gather your friends. Practice self care. Get a therapist. Be prepared for shouting, rage, and horrible, horrible, horrible words that will wound you in places that you did not know that you could be wounded. But - take the leap.

Being with an abusive person, whether that is a boss, a spouse, or a partner, infiltrates every minute of your life, when you're with that person or far away. But you need to get out. At first, it hurts all over, but once you realize that you're out, the relief is indescribable.

America is in an abusive relationship, and that relationship is ending. Hang in there, grit your teeth, cry, and scream at the unfairness of it all.

But when the abuser asks, "How much do you love me?" no answer will ever be good enough. You can't be good enough, you can't say the right thing, you can't make them feel good about themselves to help them to see reason and behave.

So you get out.

Surviving

 As a former breast cancer patient, I'm often referred to as a survivor. When I tell people that I've been through cancer, their first words are often "I'm sorry" (what - were you responsible?) or "Congratulations." I recognize that the former is a polite way of saying "I wish that didn't happen to you" but the latter is said as - as what? Acknowledgment that I am not dead? Proof of something about me, maybe that my cancer wasn't that bad after all, or that I fought valiantly, or something else? Other occasions where we say "congratulations" include graduations, promotions, bringing new life into the world, summiting the mountain, writing the book, winning the lottery. Perhaps people are right to say "congratulations" not for any of the former reasons except the last. I know plenty of extraordinary women (I'm thinking of Lisa and Casey right now, more than any other, but there are so many more) who fought valiantly, had an incredible attitude, did whatever it took, and died anyway. It is not because they were less deserving of life than me - to the contrary, I feel the weight of knowing that I lived, while they did not, and I wonder if I'm doing what it takes to live up to their lost legacies - it is because I had the strange and extraordinary luck to win the lottery of life over death (so far).

Surviving, I can tell you, is a mystery.

I fought harder than just about anyone to stay alive, it's true. I took all the drugs, refused to give up when the side effects crippled me (this is not an exaggeration - thanks Femara and Aromasin).When I got third degree burns in radiation that made my radiation oncologist literally gasp at the sight and say "we're done!" I begged to continue through the pain, the ooze, the skin falling off. (Sorry not sorry. You probably didn't expect to read such a ghastly vision when you started reading this, but the truth is that those pink ribbons hide an awful lots of hideous horror.)

I survived.

But I know women who shrugged off their treatments - one who said "I don't like how the pills make me not care about sex; life is too short, so I want to enjoy sex with my husband" and despite her dire prognosis (much worse than mine) she stopped treatment, and, to the best of my knowledge, is still alive and well today. I know women (including ones I only know as an online celelbrity, like Kris Carr) who decided that conventional medicine was Bad with a capital B and went all juices and clean mountain air, and remain alive. I know many more women who made those choices and died. And yet - so many of us live, and we are declared "victors" in the "fight" who have "won" the "battle" and we gain respect and admiration from friends and strangers who applaud us for this accomplishment.

But I don't know how I lived, only that I did. How does a lottery winner win? They play the losing game, but then they get lucky. There are no magic numbers, no systems for bucking the rules - there are just some lucky winners.

But make no mistake: my confusion over the way survivors are lauded in no way negates the way that I feel about having made it fifteen years past the diagnosis that I feared would kill me. I shake my head in wonder sometimes that I get to do magical things like get mad at my teenager for not completing an assignment; or mowing the lawn; or reading a book. When I stand at the edge of the ocean and smell the waves, eyes closed to take in the sounds, scents, sensations - I still think "I nearly missed all of this, and I'm here" and it is so overwhelmingly beautiful that I think about doing a little Sound of Music twirling. (Sometimes, if nobody is around, maybe I do.)

Surviving is confusing, but it's the most beautiful thing there is. I can't explain to you what it feels like, but maybe you know: most of us have had near misses in car accidents, or fevers, or cancer, or appendicitis, or any of a thousand things that nearly kill us. But if you are one of the Really Really Lucky Ones who never had it all go upside down and then had to fight to keep your breath, what I will say is this:

I'm convinced that the depth of my sorrow and loss is only matched by the new heights of my joy.

I feel things more now. Ordinary things aren't ordinary when you think that you might have never seen them again. I understand why people sometimes kiss the ground when they arrive at their destinations, why they burst into tears upon hearing the good news.

It took me years and years to understand it myself, but as awful, painful, and impacting the cancer diagnosis and treatment was on my life, and as much I never ever want to go back and relive it, or, even worse, experience it again in the future (oh please God no, please), I am strangely grateful that it shaped me the way it did, and I like myself more for having handled it to the best of my ability.

My life changed for the better because of the combination of getting cancer and surviving it. I feel more joy, I know what matters to me, and I'm less afraid. (I've done things that would make a lot of people weep. I found my way, often with weeping, but often without. I might be the strongest person you know. Knowing that strength makes me less afraid.)

Which leads us - so much rambling, congratulations if you've made it this far - to the present.

If you're reading this, you and I both survived 2021.

***

First, let's talk about the 350,000 or so Americans who have died from COVID19, and because we know that the world is made up of many places and not just America, let's talk about the over 1.4 million people worldwide (as of November 27) who have died, and the millions and millions of people who are still fighting to regain their lives as a result of the virus. I cannot fathom numbers like that, and when I try to do so it makes my chest squeeze in an alarming way. As they keep saying, "all those empty chairs at the table" and I'm thinking of mothers mourning children, and children mourning grandparents, and new brides made new widows, and it's all unbearable.

I've been careful, and I'm not in a high risk category if I do get it, but we all know that some of it comes down to luck, good or bad. I am healthy, and I do not take that for granted for one second. Perhaps you are lucky, too. So here we are, alive. I know very few people who have actually been diagnosed with COVID, and since I'm white, educated, middle class, and in a state (and on the side of the state) that values wearing masks and distancing and has closed restaurant dining and gyms and theaters so that even those who wish to cannot go indoors and breathe on someone else... so I'm lucky. (In case you've been living under a rock or avoiding the news, I'll explain my white comment. Black and Brown people are much more likely to die of COVID. They are much more likely to get deeply ill. They are much more likely to receive subpar care. This is fact, not opinion, and if you disagree with me please do your research. It is tied to income, but not a result of income: low income folks in general do worse with everything, but low income people of color do MUCH worse. This is horrible, and not the point of this post, but needs saying as often as possible so that people do something about it.)

So, I'm lucky again.

I'm also lucky that my job moved online and I was able to work from home. Teaching online is SO DAMN HARD: the tricks up my sleeve don't work half as well online, and while my students assure me that my class is doing better than some and as well as can be hoped, we all know that people just don't learn as well online, and it makes my job frustrating and confusing. My eyes ache from staring at a screen, I feel ineffective a great deal of the time, and I fear that I'm not giving my students what they need, and my motivation is lower than ever because of all of these difficulties. But I'm grateful every minute, because my difficulties are NOTHING compared to some. I have a warm, safe, comfortable home with a quiet space to work. I didn't lose income (well, except child support, because my daughter's father is unemployed in the pandemic). I have medical benefits in case I do get sick.

So. I know that businesses have closed left and right, that so many are unemployed, that so many are sick, that so many have died. I know these things, feel them until my body tightens with the pain of it all, the immensity, the powerlessness.

But I want to talk to you about survival.

If you are reading this, whether you are ill, or you are unemployed, or you are as lucky as I am, you are reading this. You have survived 2020, for better or worse.

With survival comes joy - who among us wasn't relieved to see the clock hit midnight, hoping that the worst was behind us?

But now comes the business of making it all mean something.

Most people who win the lottery squander it. By the time they're done, they've lost friends and family, spent great quantities of money, and seem no happier than when they started it.

So - surviving cancer is like winning the lottery. I got a rush of love and gratitude that was intoxicating every time I got an "all clear" scan, and on every birthday, every life event, every holiday, and watching my daughter turn from a tiny toddler (she was two when I was diagnosed) to a beautiful woman makes me well up with wonder and thankfulness. One of my many doctors - this one was supposed to put me together physically after cancer - saw how I was embracing life so thoroughly and with such joy and gratitude after I was done with the worst surgeries, chemo, and radiation, and he sat me down and said, "This phase you are in will pass. These wonderful feelings you have now will one day be replaced with more ordinary feelings; the initial rush of being alive will fade. My advice to you is to find new habits, new ways of living, while you have the energy and focus to do so."

It was the best advice that I received about surviving.

With surviving, comes some responsibility, to ourselves and to others. To ourselves, to make good of the life that we did not earn - we won the life lottery, and we're alive, when the disease that tried to kill us allowed us to escape, but some of our friends are dead from that same disease. We owe it to ourselves to live our best life, because if this isn't a wakeup call, then what is? We owe it to ourselves to care for our health: as I like to say, I didn't survive cancer to be taken down by a heart attack. It is a time to add vegetables and fruits, to go for daily walks, to meditate or do yoga. We owe it to ourselves to heed the call of our bodies to stay alive, and to do what it takes.

And, knowing how close we came to nearly losing it all, we owe it to ourselves to not merely stay alive but to really live. I'm not kidding when I talk about that Sound of Music moment that I have, with some regularity, at the edge of the small beach closest to my house. I walk the dog there, and I stand on a log, and I wonder how I ever got so lucky. I never, ever walk by without taking a moment to really take it in, to feel deep in my bones how fortunate I am. This translates to a lot of things: to time visiting with a dear friend, to camping trips, to a really good song on the radio on the commute, to shared jokes, to good food. It means stooping to look at a flower or to hunt for four leaf clovers, delighting in a favorite coffee mug. Little stuff adds up.

And there is the big stuff, too. If I had died, I would have missed so much that I long to do. I wouldn't have been there to tuck my daughter into bed at night, so for years afterwards I felt such tenderness in our nighttime ritual that I felt like I was floating. And I realized that my marriage, the shape and size of it, did not fit me at all, that I couldn't breathe within it, and so I found the courage to leave. I found meaningful work. Little things, and big things.

And with every breath I remember how lucky I am to be here at all, that some of my cancer friends weren't so lucky, and that I could have been them.

Dr. Zucker gave me a poem that I treasure to this day, Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye.

Before you know what kindness really is,

you must lose things, 

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth...

So here we are, at the end of 2020 and the beginning of 2021, and we survived. We have lost things. We've been stuck inside, and we've missed celebrations and hugs and the small joys of visiting in coffee shops and popping our heads into a colleague's office. We've lived with fear, and moist masks, and isolation, and economic worry. We've lost a lot of the joy of our jobs, missing handshakes and genuine laughter and bagels for everyone in the break room. We've missed game nights, dinner parties, concerts, and plays. We've been cooped up, alone or with those we love, crabby at our confinement.

And the end is in sight.

Soon, in a few months or a year, we will all be vaccinated, and we will slip back into something closer to normal life (albeit possibly with modifications). We will once again have to pretend to pay attention in the meeting instead of turning off our cameras and checking our phones or painting our nails through our boredom. We will be saddled with traffic jams, and slow waiters, and overpriced movies. We have all come through such hard times, and we have survived.

But as we look at our survival, we need to decide now how we're going to shape that survival. We are here, so we are lucky. (Maybe you are luckier than me, with a loving family and spouse and adequate savings. Maybe you are less lucky than me, without a beloved child or a comfortable home or work that is meaningful to you. This is not about ranking our luck: if we are alive, we are in luck.)

What will we do with our fortune? What lessons will we learn? Will we remember forever that to hug a friend is a joy, or will we let it slip away? Will we hold the dinner parties, or will we complain about how much work it is to clean the bathrooms and get the food prepared? Will we spring for the concert tickets? Will we remember the lessons about what we felt like we might lose forever, and live in gratitude moving forward?

I'll be honest. Five years after cancer, it was a lot easier to remember the gratitude, because regular doctor visits were reminders that I was not "normal" and that it could still all vanish in an instant. Fifteen years later, it is my habits - a gift from Dr. Zucker's reminders - that keep my gratitude alive. I have wired my brain to notice the sunsets, the sparkle of the rain, the smile of a friend. This summer, one of my favorite moments was drifting on the waves on a child's floatie (mine was a ring with a mermaid tail) next to my dear friend, who drifted on her own floatie (shaped, according to the package, like a "realistic lobster"). It was hilarious. The water was cold, the day was hot, the waves washed us - inept because were couldn't get our balance on the floaties - onto the sand and then soaked us. We are middle aged women, not playful children or flirty teens, and I laughed until it hurt. My friend - perhaps smarter than me - knew to say "yes" to my crazy idea of floating along the beach on children's toys, just for the fun of it. But for me, it was part of my commitment to simple pleasures available for the taking. The chores were done (enough). My daughter didn't need me (just then). The day was sunny. My friend was willing. I chose life.

So, we have survived. 2020 is gone, and the old calendar recycled, the new one freshly pinned to the wall. We all get to decide who we will be in 2021.

Who will I be? Will I remember, a year from now or twenty years from now, how I longed to go to book talks and art walks and happy hours? Will I take the appreciation of filling my table with my people with me into the future? Or will I fall back into old ways, taking for granted so much of my life?

With surviving comes responsibility. 1.4 million people have died so far, and won't get to make these choices. What, I wonder, do they wish they had done before they died? How many of them died content with their choices? What would they do differently if they had to do it all over again?

If I live my life the way I want to, then I honor those who did not survive.

I'm a survivor. Now I need to figure out what to do with that! I have some ideas - do you?