To My Daughter, Turning 18

All the things I can think to say are the same things that have been said by millions of mothers throughout time.

It has gone so fast.

I remember the day you were born.

I can't believe my baby is grown up.

These ideas are tenacious because they are true; but the endless repetition has stripped them of their depth of meaning. We hear the words, and we recognize the sentiment, but the enormity of the emotions I'm feeling right now is lost in our familiarity with the phrases.

So instead of searching for new words to describe these universal ideas, I will tell a story. This is the story of me raising my child.

The moment I found out I was going to have you, my only thought was

I'm not ready for this.

I was 23. I was barely able to responsibly take care of myself; I had no idea about how to be an adult. I had no confidence in my ability to care for something as important as a child. I was so scared. I HAD JUST KILLED AN ALOE PLANT FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

Time went on, and I became more comfortable with my upcoming new role in life. I did prenatal-safe exercise like water aerobics. I ate healthy food. I avoided anything that could hurt you, all the way down to caffeine. Taking care of my body became important to me, because it was by direct proxy taking care of yours. I read everything I could get my hands on about pregnancy and infant care and parenting. I vomited a lot. Seriously, I vomited for nine months.

But gastronomical issues aside, it was an amazing nine months. I was fascinated whenever I would feel you move. I giggled when you got the hiccups (when the doctor told me that was what those tiny spasms in my belly were, it was the cutest thing that had ever happened on the planet). I thrilled at how you would kick and move when I played my horn. I talked to you. I sang to you. I began to understand just how much I already loved you.

Then, on the morning of August 14, 1996, I held you in my arms and looked into your eyes for the first time. And I fell more deeply in love than I could have ever imagined.

You were not the only one born in that room at that moment. Your Mother was also born. I was no longer merely the woman called Nena; I was something so much more. I was Your Mother.

I whispered in your ear. The first thing you heard outside of the womb was my voice telling you your True Name. Did you ever know that I did that? You have a name that only you and I know. It was a very hippie, new-agey thing for me to do. But I wanted us to have something special, something no one else in the world shared, right from the very beginning.

And, as it so relentlessly does, time continued to move forward. You ate; you pooped; you cried; you slept. You held my heart in your tiny hands. I fed you, cleaned you, held you, read to you, sang to you, and watched you grow. In the blink of an eye, you were smiling; laughing; making sounds; walking; speaking; drawing; reading; counting; writing; going to school; discovering favorite stories, tv shows, songs, and toys; finding your talents; establishing friendships; experiencing heartbreak; enduring pain; finding your passions; driving; dating...

Graduating.

Turning 18.

Leaving home.

I have watched you wave goodbye and had to let go so many times already. I remember all the letting-gos: the first time I dropped you off at preschool; your first day of kindergarten; the first time you rode the school bus; your first sleepover at a friend's; your first summer camp; your first rave; your first date; the first time you drove somewhere on your own.

Your graduation.

And now, adulthood. Today I let go of the child, and embrace my adult daughter. And very soon I will wave a very big goodbye as I watch you drive away with your things, leaving the nest of your childhood home and beginning to build a life of your own. It will be the most difficult moment of my life. And also one of the proudest.

I know that this is what is supposed to happen. This is the desired outcome. You have grown up. That is what children do.

But I have to admit, I am so scared. I am scared of not knowing whether you are safe. Or hurting. I am scared of not knowing if you are getting enough sleep. Or eating right. I'm scared of not knowing when you are home safe at night. I'm scared of not seeing you often. I'm scared of my new role as a supporting character in your story.

But my story of raising my child has come to an end, and it is time for a new story. It is time for you to tell your own story. I hope with all my heart that it is exactly the story you want it to be. And I hope that I am always a part of it. Words are not adequate to illustrate how intensely and purely I love you. My entire life is you, and I am so grateful for the story you have given me.

And as many good stories do, my story has come full circle; because in closing, my only thought is

I'm not ready for this.

On Suicide

Today, we lost someone who gave laughter, deep thought, and joy to many people.

Robin Williams was an American comedian and actor who was dearly beloved by nearly all of my generation, as well as the generations before and after mine.

He was timeless.

Even the people who parodied him and made fun of him realized that they were making fun of something that may have been utterly absurd and mockable; yet it still drew people in and made them laugh. Robin had a style. Sometimes his style was the result of being incredibly high and having no sense of stream of consciousness; but it was still always his own style. He could be imitated, but never replicated. He was very, literally, unique.

I followed Robin's struggle for years. I was always very interested when he submitted to rehab; was released and considered clean; was being treated for mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety; was given a clean bill of health.

I paid attention to his comedy during these different reported phases of his life. I knew that the media couldn't know exactly when these things were actually happening (counseling, rehab, psychiatric treatment, etc.), but they gave me as much of a timeline as I could have as an outsider. And I saw the patterns. And I understood them. I understood them so terribly well.

I knew Robin was going to do this.

I didn't know when. I didn't know how. But I saw very clearly the tortured man he was.

Robin loved his family. He loved his wife, his exes, his children. He wanted a clean, happy way to connect with them, and he could not find it. His life became unmanageable, and the things that were most important to him were out of reach. He loved his career, but it was secondary to his family, and yet it was requiring all his time. And even when he took a break, he found that the disconnect had become too vast.

I understand his decision.

Sometimes, even when you have a good life, there is pain that is too much to endure. Sometimes you realize that you are never going to be able to provide the comfort and happiness to those you love that you so very much want to give. Sometimes, you realize that you have fulfilled your evolutionary requirement, and you are done.

Sometimes it is not selfish.

And those of us who are hurt and distressed by the decision need to just shut the fuck up with the judgement. Yes, we are hurt. It is ok to be hurt, and it is ok to be angry. But let's stop with the judgement and the name calling. We have no way to know how much pain he was feeling. This was Robin's life. This was his decision. He owed nothing to you.

Nothing.

History From Our Lifetime

This post is going to be very different from what most of you are accustomed to reading on my blogs. It is going to be fact-heavy, informational, less humorous, and somewhat more impersonal in many ways than what I usually write. But I hope that you will read it. I hope you will take the time to read what I have to say here, because while it may seem impersonal, I assure you that this post is a very important one for me to write. I know it's long; I know it is more detailed and less touchy-feeley. But it is an emotional piece for me, and I want to share it with you.

History is a subject from which I've often felt pretty far removed. Sure, I have an interest in the ancient, the classics, the medieval. But I've never really studied a historical event that truly evoked strong personal emotion for me. 

Until my trip to Berlin.

Most of you are probably assuming that I'm going to say that I found a new fascination with WWII; and you would be partially correct; but that is not what I'm talking about here.

Here I am talking about the era of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR), known to English speakers as the German Democratic Republic (GDR). The informal name for the state, with which most of you will be more familiar, was East Germany. I will be referring to the era and state as the DDR in this post. 

This post is going to be primarily about my visit to the Berlin-Hohenschönhausen Memorial, which was the most impactful three hours of my entire trip. But first, a brief history of the DDR. 

(I know, you're thinking "ugh, history," but  stick with me, this is important. Trust me, I am going into very little detail here, and I'm holding back a ton that I have learned that I want to share; I may do a more in-depth blog regarding post-WWII Germany later, but for now, I don't want to lose readers to TL;DR.)

Following the painful and devastating second world war, Germany was divided and occupied by the Allied forces. The DDR was the area of Germany occupied by Soviet Union during the Cold War period (1949-1990). The DDR economy was state owned, and poorly executed. As a result, emigration to the West became a problem; there was a particularly dramatic exodus of those with higher education and valuable skills. The population of the DDR declined rapidly, and it was determined by the State that measures must be taken to retain its citizens. That measure was a wall.

I won't continue in detail regarding the politics of the wall. Suffice it to say that crossing the wall legally was nearly impossible; and crossing the wall illegally was a serious crime.

It was a crime serious enough to warrant apprehension by the Stasi (the secret police of the DDR), and imprisonment in a Stasi prison, such as the one at Hohenschönhausen. 

Hohenschönhausen prison. Berlin, Germany

The tour of Hohenschönhausen included a detailed account of what it was like to be arrested and imprisoned there. Those attempting to escape the DDR were apprehended and forced into a small, windowless truck. With no way of knowing where they were going, they were driven around for hours; alone, bound, and frightened. They were not informed of the reason for their arrest. Now, those who were arrested in the act of escape knew the reason, but there were many who were arrested based on intel that they had plans to escape; or had merely expressed the desire to escape; or had been identified as an accomplice or a dissident. More on this later.

Prior to their initial interrogation and sentencing, prisoners were placed in a holding cell. 

These cells could "comfortably" accommodate two to four people for a few hours. The cells were shared by ten to fifteen detainees; sometimes for days. Most holding cells had no windows. There was no natural light, and no fresh air. There was a bucket in the corner for a toilet. The detainees had no way to know when they would be called for their interrogation. Sometimes there was not even room to lie down. These terrified people had committed no crime besides the desire for freedom. 

This cell had a window letting in natural light;
most cells were without windows, and
were nearly impossible to photograph.

The judgement took place in a small room, this time with a window so the accused could suffer a glimpse of the outside. The accused were offered no lawyer; no defense; and no opportunity to speak. They sat alone in a room, looking through a barred window at their judge, who announced to them their crime and imposed upon them their sentence. 

Once judged and sentenced, prisoners were kept in complete isolation. No one spoke to them, and they never saw another human being besides the one guarding them and leading them to and from their cell. 

 

Prisoners would go days with no human interaction, no fresh air, no way to read or write, and meager sustenance. They were not allowed to speak, sing, or otherwise entertain themselves. The tiny peepholes in the door provided constant surveillance, and the familiar, distressing sound of the metallic grate of the guard sliding the peephole cover opening became the thing of their nightmares. 

Our tour guide, Peter, demonstrating the
horrible peephole sound.

They were ordered to stand or sit during the day and to lie flat on their backs at night. Food and water was delivered three times a day, through a tiny hatch on the door. Their only fresh air and sunlight was their occasional escorted trips to the "Tiger Cage," the prison courtyard where they were allowed brief time to walk, exercise, and remember that there was a world outside of their concrete cell.

The "Tiger Cage"
This image is not mine; it is an uncredited image
found in a flickr.com archive. I could not
find the source to credit.

It was at this point in the tour that our very handsome and friendly guide, Peter, informed us that he had been among the prisoners.

Peter was not a prisoner at Hohenschönhausen, but at an identical facility in Dresden. Up to this point in the tour, the account was horrifying. From this point on, it was quite literally emotionally painful. Peter delivered the tour with such grace and eloquence, and responded so kindly and helpfully to our questions. The knowledge that he had endured such atrocities was heartbreaking.

Part of the imprisonment sentence included regular interrogation. A guard would come to escort you to your interrogation room. The guard was always silent; to ensure that you would not see another human being while being escorted, traffic lights were used at corners.

When the light was red, the guard would stop and order you to face the wall until the prisoner with right-of-way was out of sight.

Inside the interrogation room, your interrogator was your friend. Remember, this is the only human interaction you have had since your imprisonment. The interrogator would ask about your childhood; he would tell you about himself; he would ask about your favorite foods, if you liked to swim...

And then he would ask the real questions. Do any of your family members also have desires to leave the DDR? Who was helping you with your plan to leave? Who was going to leave with you? Tell me about these tunnels, are there more? 

And sometimes, you would talk. Because that is what you do after months or years of psychological torture and physical discomfort. And the times you talked would haunt you for the rest of your life.

We asked Peter how he could give these tours, realizing that he must be daily reliving this ordeal that none of us can even imagine. He told us that it was therapy for him. Sharing the experience with others and making sure that the political crimes of the Stasi were never forgotten provided him with healing. He explained that he was able to give the tours at Hohenschönhausen, but he was sure that he would never be able to visit the Stasi prison in Dresden. 

Peter, I admire you for sharing this with us so candidly, honestly, and passionately. This tour was an experience I will carry with me for the rest of my life. If you ever read this, I am the American lady who offered that the little yellow weed-flowers that occasionally grew in the Tiger Cage were called "Dandelions" in English. 

I thank you from the bottom of my heart. May the rest of your life be filled with freedom, love, comfort, and joy.

Sources:

• Information gleaned from various tours, memorials, and museums visited in Berlin, Germany
• Conversations with Lisa Beesley
• Wikipedia article on East Germany
• Wikipedia article on the Berlin-Hohenschönhausen Memorial
• Stiftung Gedenkstätte Berlin-Hohenschönhausen website

The Wolf You Feed

“A wise tribal elder told a story to his grandson one evening by the fire.  ‘Inside me, there is a fight raging between two wolves.  One wolf is anger, bitterness, self-pity, jealousy, and sorrow. The other wolf is love, faith, hope, peace, forgiveness, and joy.  Both wolves are strong, and they battle fiercely – not just in me, but in everyone, even you.’
The young boy thought for a moment and asked, ‘Grandfather, which wolf will win?’
The wise elder replied, ‘The one you feed.’”  -- Cherokee proverb

It’s a great feeling.

You’ve finally come to a place in your life where you have truly let go of the self-hatred. All of the doubts and insecurities and criticisms have faded into the background, and made way for real self-acceptance and love. All of your give-a-fucks have shifted away from what other people think, and have settled squarely on what makes you happy. You see yourself with new eyes; you want to take care of you for the right reasons; you are at peace with yourself.

And then something happens. Or nothing happens. Maybe there is an incident; or maybe everything is exactly the fucking same as it was yesterday. But for some reason –

It shatters.

One day you wake up and that face staring at you in the mirror has somehow turned back into that person who was so full of loathing for herself. The beautiful, confident woman you were learning to love has been replaced by that flawed, insecure lady who has haunted you your whole life. The bitch is back.

She laughs at you; she calls you a fool for thinking you are really worthy of love and confidence. She reminds you that no matter how many times you tell yourself that the opinions of others don’t matter, you know that they do. You know that you see all the eyes of everyone you encounter, looking at you, judging you for being fat; for how you dress; for being old…they’re judging you and it matters.

You know that she will always be there. She is much older than this new, confident creature that has so recently been born in you. There is no way to kill her. She is too strong. You can turn your back on her, you can refuse to acknowledge her, and you can fight her. But you know that she will never die; you know that she will always come back.

But here is the good news. Yes, she is strong. But just as you can’t kill her, neither can she kill this new woman who is developing in you. She can stifle her temporarily; she can knock her down and she can even cause some damage. But she can’t kill her; because this new woman, though she is still fragile, is already a part of you. She has already taken hold, and she will grow and flourish, because she is the one you are going to nurture.

She is the wolf you will feed.