I
wanted to relax, and my feet were a hot mess.
One look and it’s plain to see that when I get stressed out the skin
around my heels and toes turns red, bubbles up, and peels off. As I slid my scaly feet into the hot bubbling
water, Tony asked, “You want Deluxe, right?”
I nodded.
I
went to the salon that day for some peace and quiet, and a pedicure. That is all.
Pretty toes and a vibrator chair.
Two
and half deep breaths later, some chick walked in and announced she just saw
Britney Spears in the Starbuck’s next door.
She
was not peaceful or quiet with this news.
I put on my best “Oh Grow Up” look, but no one noticed. “Chick” was babbling on about her BFF Britney
while the salon manager stuck her cell phone in my face explaining that Britney
had been in for a mani, and here’s a photo to prove it.
By
now Chick had plopped into a chair of her own, and in between fascinating Britney
facts (she’s got a tour coming up ya’ know) ordered a Standard, then blurted
out, “She . . . is . . . so . . .crazy!”
“Just
like that Demi Lovato,” said the lady next to me – hook, line and sinker-ed. “She ended up in rehab after she got drunk
and punched someone in the face.” Leaning
forward, arms raised toward the ceiling revival-style, she declared, “They are
both crazy!” My chest tightened.
A
year and a half ago these comments would have meant nothing to me. I’m no stranger to gossip. Britney shaved off her hair. So what?
Demi in rehab. Who cares? I stared at the muted television until Tony
finished my second coat of hot pink Oh Cabana Boy. He helped me slide on my flip flops, and I
left. Feet aglow that should have been
that.
But
as the days and then weeks went by, when I thought of that visit to the salon,
I got annoyed all over again. The
lingering after-effect had to be about more than gossip, right?
No
one at the salon knew that a year and a half ago my teenage daughter began
treatment for mental illness. In a
moment – the duration of time it took her doctor to say she was in trouble –
bad things no longer happened to others, they happened to us. Ever since that day I have been learning what
it means to live with and help heal the mental illness of a child.
In
the course of researching treatment for my daughter, I discovered that Demi’s
real problem is not that she’s a spoiled celebrity; she has an eating disorder
and depression. The same diagnoses as my
daughter.
I
know what it feels like to think your child has lost her mind. I know what it means when the doctor says,
“Your daughter is really sick,” but it’s not the kind of sick antibiotics can
cure. As a mother, I know what happens
to your heart when your child looks at you and begs you to kill her.
Those
women had no way of knowing what we’ve been through, and even if they had, what
would I have said? A salon isn’t exactly
the right spot for soul-bearing discourse on the state of affairs on mental
illness and associated stigma, or to debate statistics on how common mental
illness is, or the profound gratitude that comes with healing and the work
healing entails. Or is it?
Since
our journey began, I have learned that answers often come by looking inward not
outward. I had been focusing on the
gossip, not my reaction to it or what might have caused it. Mothering a sick child has taught me she
wasn’t the only one who needed to get better, and she isn’t the only one with
work still to do.
I
imagined that day in the salon with several alternative endings, and, as I did,
an old memory surfaced.
My
daughter was 6-years-old. We were
enjoying a play date with a girlfriend and her two sons at the swimming pool by
their house. The kids were wet and
laughing. My daughter is a fish, and
water had and still has the power to sooth her.
Out of the blue, one of the boys looked at her and said, “You’re
fat.”
The
mom turned to me, horror on her face, and said how sorry she was. I sat stunned. Then, out of a sense of what, propriety? Shame?
I said, “Oh, that’s okay.” She
went to her son, pulled him aside, and read him the riot act.
That’s okay. He called my daughter fat, and I said it was
okay. She stood at the side of the pool,
head hanging. After a while we finished
the play date as if nothing had happened.
This
memory makes me sick to my stomach.
Crisis can, of course, bring out the best in people, but it also has an
unpleasant side-effect of highlighting shortcomings. I’ve had plenty of time to ponder not only my
contributions to my daughter’s wellness, but also her illness, and just as much
time to use hindsight to imagine myself as the sort of mother who never made
mistakes or at least as the sort who could instantly correct them.
Had
I helped her out of that pool and cupped her face between my hands, had I
looked her in the eye and told her how perfect she is, had I walked her to him,
and had he apologized to her – with me at her side – I would have taught her
the best kind of lesson. I did none of
these and in so doing she learned, instead, that he must be right.
My
mom used to say to me that children should be seen, not heard. Maybe she meant it as a joke, but probably
not. As a child I didn’t take it as
one. As an only child, I couldn’t think
she was talking to someone else. How many
ways have I inadvertently taught my daughter she’s not worth standing up
for? Not to speak up for herself?
Fear
contributed to my reticence that day in the salon. Would people assume, because of the mockery
that’s been made of Britney’s family, we are like them? In some ways we must be. Would they wonder if we’re alcoholics because
Demi drank? My husband has been sober
for eight years. A bit of propriety
lurked there too: It’s just not polite to tell people they are full of
shit. This, however, is smoke and
mirrors.
The
feeling I had at the pool was the same feeling I had in the salon. I worried what people would think, yes, but
the truth is that speaking up might have confirmed my own suspicions. They would listen and know her illness must
be my fault, that my mothering had fallen short.
What
is more fundamental to motherhood, after all, than how we nurture our children
through food?
Mom
guilt is a bitch I wish would fuck off.
Every
mom I know feels it; over anything as simple as a cough due to cold to serious
physical or emotional distress and beyond.
My daughter’s illness isn’t my fault, but for a long time I felt that
way. I wish there was a cure. A pill or potion or even a formula to share
that would eradicate the feeling most of us don’t deserve. There isn’t.
The
only solution is to do the work. Face
the guilt head on. By work I mean – open
your mouth.
I
won’t kid you. It sucks. I have felt ashamed and embarrassed. The more we share, the more we hear, “Me
too,” the more we connect, the more we remember we are in this together no
matter what. This connection keeps guilt
at arm’s length so we can safely begin to wonder why.
Why
is important. It’s our spring board to
“now what.” We all have “why’s,” but why
keeps us stuck in the past, or might even keep us stuck in bed. “Now what” gets us out of bed and creates our
action plan.
That
day in the salon was an opportunity to learn an important lesson. Silence is never the answer, to
anything. When you stay silent, nothing
changes. Hearts. Minds.
Opinions. Behaviors. On a small scale that means we don’t learn
from our mistakes, and let’s be honest here, as parents we all make them. On a larger scale we’re not confronting
mental illness myths and stereotypes.
It
took a Britney sighting and a pedicure to remind me that silence is as
dangerous as the disease.
Taking
stock of my daughter now, I see a resilient teen turning into her own woman; a
person struggling against demons, real and imagined, taking control of her
recovery, and developing a depth of character that can only come by facing what
could be a devastating life challenge and prevailing. She is creative, talented, and
beautiful. She is also an athlete –
lithe and strong. She works hard to eat
right, exercise, learn, and heal. I may
be a mother who at times fell short, but I am also a mother who helped create
this slice of perfection called my daughter.
A
salon, it turns out, is the perfect place to share a story. One conversation won’t change the world, but
it’s a start. As for the rest, well, one
day one lesson at a time. If I keep
learning mine, I’ll show my daughter how to learn hers, and in this way,
together, we will write our own happy ending.
(This is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week 2014. For more information, please visit http://nedawareness.org)
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