What is a Grief Hole?

The beginning of my grief hole

A grief hole is what you make when the physical discomfort of stress collides with the emotional pain of situations you can't fix. I mean the times  when your shoulder muscles are wound so tight even the most determined massage therapist can't break the tension buried deep within your body. When your usual coping skills of eating fine ice cream and pastries makes your stomach hurt instead of soothing it. When you  know you definitely wouldn't give into the temptation to drink or smoke or pop some pills because you know you would become an instant addict, thereby screwing up your life even more than it already is.

My grief hole began as the solution to a simple problem. My kids had a backyard trampoline that was placed underneath electric power lines that connected our house to the rest of Denver's utility grid. Although it was probably fine, I worried that the kids might jump too high and come into contact with the lines. I decided the only option was to lower the trampoline into the ground. Getting rid of the tramp didn't occur to me as a possibility because it was their main form of entertainment and exercise. Whatever kept them under reasonable control was what were doing.

I started digging, not realizing what I was really doing. It was a simple hole in the backyard, dug with a cheap shovel from Ace Hardware. It was going to take a long time, but that was the one thing I had at my disposal. Time to worry, time to feel helpless, time to be furious at the people who seemed to have an easier life than me, which appeared to be everyone. I was trapped in a horrible place of watching my brother, whose life had already been one big pile of steaming injustice, suffer even more. Where was the fairness? What was the point? What kind of universe would create the evilness of cancer in such an innocent body? The whole thing sucked and I despised it.

I dug my hole for an hour a day while my youngest child was in morning preschool. After I put him on the bus, I fed my brother his breakfast and the handful of meds the hospice nurse had organized into a pill box. Then I cleaned up the kitchen, put laundry in the basement washing machine and did the routine chores of a housewife while working my way towards my backyard project. After an hour of hard core shoveling, wheelbarrowing and dumping, I was tired and needed to shower before my son got off the noon bus.

Over time I recognized my arms were getting stronger and the tightness in my shoulders was incrementally lessening. I started looking forward to the peace and quiet in the backyard, just me and my hole full of dirt. As I worked, my mind fell into the rhythm of the movement and I slowly noticed times of mental silence. It was nice and something I hadn't experienced since I ran cross-country in 6th grade gym class.

After 3 months of steady digging, my hole was done and I had renamed my project. It was no longer the trampoline hole, dedicated to my children's safety. It was the grief hole, where I excavated my lifetime of anxieties, hurt and confusion. It served an important role in my mental and physical health at the time and I reflect back on it now with nothing but 3 feet deep of gratitude.

My Favorite Thanksgiving Memories, Served With Sides of Relaxation and Revenge

To be honest, holidays aren't my favorite thing. I put on my happy face in public and try to keep my grinchy side tucked in tight, but sometimes I just can't help myself. My lack of enthusiasm leaks out through holes I can't plug fast enough. Luckily, my family doesn't hold this against me.

It isn't about not having thankfulness, or joy or religious enthusiasm, it is just DANG - I don't have memories of childhood holiday perfection. If you had a generally crappy childhood, it wasn't magically better just because it was Jesus's birthday, or the Bicentennial of 1976 or whatever.  Holidays just meant there was no escape from whatever was going on at home. Yippee. As an adult, I slowly came to the realization that holiday fun = a hell of a lot of work, time and money, especially as the mom who was supposed to cook, clean and make the magic happen.  Bahumbug. I just want to sit down and read a good book.

In light of Thanksgiving happening this week, I want to share with you my two favorite memories of Thanksgiving past:

 TV Dinner Heaven

 At my adoptive family's home, Thanksgiving was a week long ordeal of Virginia buying food, preparing food, cooking food and in-between her once-a-year activity in the kitchen, yelling at us kids to clean up the mess after her. When she cooked, she used every pot, pan, bowl and spoon in the kitchen and whichever unfortunate child caught her attention (usually me or my sister Emelia) would be ordered to spend all day in the kitchen with her, washing dishes as she used them. It was a dreadful job, made only worse by never knowing what Virginia was going to be crabby about at any given moment. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner were the two times a year the good dishes came out and the table was set with crystal goblets, irreplaceable china and real silverware that had to be polished before use. After the meal, every piece had to be carefully hand washed and stored in the china hutch. Heaven help the poor soul who broke or chipped a dish! I  don't recall any of us children making that fatal mistake.There was nothing I looked forward to about Thanksgiving.

That all changed the year that life fell apart for the Spencer's. For whatever reason, our family had to move out of one rental house and into another over Thanksgiving weekend. It wasn't our typical organized kind of move. It was more like hurry up and throw that box in the truck, we are outta here sort of thing. I had learned to not ask questions, so whatever. All that mattered to me was, "What about Thanksgiving?" I couldn't see how we could possibly do the typical week of  Thanksgiving torture with all our dishes in boxes. I didn't dare breathe a word of my thoughts, I just waited to see what would happen. Praise be - God does answer prayers because for the first time in my adopted life, we had no Thanksgiving preparation. Just packing, loading and unloading truck loads of household goods. Thanksgiving day arrived with us sitting in the living room on unopened boxes, nary a proper silver fork in sight.

At lunch time, Harley plugged in the stove and turned it on. Virginia had planned ahead and had purchased a stack of Swanson frozen turkey tv dinners, which were unceremoniously heated up in the oven. Oh the smells! Turkey gravy, mashed potatoes and cherry cobbler all mixed together, filling our new rental house with warm gooey goodness that didn't require me to stand at the sink, dodging scalding pots and barbed tongues. Yay for Swanson! The greatest thing ever invented in my short 13 year-old life, was the frozen turkey dinner that required no preparation and no clean up on my part.
I ate my tv dinner with quiet satisfaction, thinking it tasted better than anything I'd ever eaten. No holiday had been as relaxing and uneventful as that one and I enjoyed every minute of it.

  The Thanksgiving My Son-in-Law Came to Visit

 Fast forward 33 years. I was all grown up, with grown children of my own. My daughter had been married for just under a year to a guy that I repeatedly reminded myself that I although I didn't care for him, my daughter did. She was bringing him home to enjoy a long Thanksgiving weekend with the rest of our family. In the name of supporting my offspring, I sucked up my irritation and got on with the business of Thanksgiving.

 I was cooking away in the kitchen when my son-in-law called me to the living room. He wanted to play his video games with me. He had already worn out every other member of the family with his non-stop 24-7 obsession with video games and it was finally my turn to deal with him. The food was at a place where I could let it go for a bit, so I took up his challenge. He carefully demonstrated how to use the game controllers to make the characters on the screen move. The first game we played was fencing. He made a big show of explaining sparring, jabbing and other fencing moves. I didn't pay an ounce of attention to his instruction. I had no intention of being a real contender with his silly video game. I'd never seriously played video games in my life and had no interest in starting now. My goal was to lose as quickly as possible so I could get back to the comfort of my kitchen, where no one bothered me with stupid things like dumb video games. 

When the game began, I started thrusting the game controller at the tv screen as fast as possible with no regard to form or technique. My son-in-law made an alarmed squeaking noise as he started to correct me, but then he noticed I had killed him. He quit paying attention to me and concentrated on his game. In less than 10 minutes, I fenced him to death on every level of his video game. He was NOT happy. He was a military dude with top-security clearance in his field, and his chubby, ignorant mother-in-law whooped him good. I repeated the same thing with my son-in-laws boxing game. Within another 10 minutes, I boxed him to knockout on every level of his video game. He started to complain that I had cheated, but was silenced by the loud laughter of everyone else.

I pretended to be nonchalant, like I knew all along I was going to win. I am super cool like that. In reality, I didn't even know how to turn his game on, let alone how to win. I just wanted it over. My son-in-law's naturally occurring bravado was taken down a notch and we all enjoyed a peaceful Thanksgiving afternoon without testosterone-filled competitiveness. It was delightful.

The next morning I was so sore from the previous day's exertions I could barely lift my arms to dress myself. I had used muscles I didn't even know existed and they were not graceful in their introduction to the rest of my body. I spent the rest of the weekend in a pain med haze and it was so worth it.
A few years later when my son-in-law's lack of character came to the full light of day, I stood next to my daughter in the courthouse while their marriage was dissolved. I took great satisfaction in remembering that although he was over 6 feet tall and cut an imposing figure, I wiped the floor with him the first Thanksgiving weekend we had together. I was the only person who was undefeated against him.

I love the holidays. Don't you?

The Objects of Our Affections

My brother Rex loved people. Even when they didn't love him back, he never really stopped caring for them.  He couldn't help it. In the book, I tell a story about how during high school Rex fell hard for a beautiful, popular cheerleader. There was no chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks she was interested in my underdog brother, but he didn't give up until there was a show-down with the cheerleader and her football-playing goomba boyfriend with half the school watching. It was heart-breaking to witness. Public rejection of affection is harsh business.

 My brother wasn't the only one mystified by the nuances of love. I was just as clueless in the romance department as he was. From the first time I chased down cute third-grader Billy DeYoung, pinning him to the school playground, I realized an eternal truth. It wasn't hard to catch a boy, but what to do with him next was a real conundrum.

Rex and I both longed for love in all forms. Since we didn't get it from our home, we sought it out everywhere else. The part of my brother's high school romance that I didn't put in the book was the story of what I was doing the same year that he suffered the ultimate teenage rejection. While Rex was busy following the cheerleader like a puppy, I was stalking my own prey. There was a breath-takingly gorgeous boy at school. We didn't have any classes together because he was a year older than me. We did have the same lunch hour. He and his football buddies commanded the lunch table next to where I sat with my girlfriends while we all ate. He was so adorable, I had a hard time not staring at him. More than once he caught me looking at him and made an ugly face to discourage my attention. It didn't work. I was smitten.

For some reason that escapes me now, one day I decided Today Was the Day I was going to declare my adoration of him. At lunch the routine of us kids sitting at separate tables, ignoring each other went on as usual. I am going to speculate that Lori, one of cute girls at my table of smart, honor roll girls (I was the oddball in that group) was flirting with one of the boys at the table of my love. As the attention of the boys turned to our table, I got brave and in a burst of pent-up enthusiasm, I threw my mystery-meat lunch burrito at the back of the boy I adored. He turned his beautiful head of blonde hair to us and bellowed, "Who threw that at me?!" I sat silently while the girls all around pointed their fingers without hesitation right at me. He stood up, surrounded by his hulking athletic friends and towered over me, "What in the @#$%^* is wrong with you? Why did you throw your *&^%$ food at me?" His angry questions came at me hard and fast. My face turned beet red with embarrassment as I realized he missed my obvious attempt at showing affection.

His friends standing next to him suggested they beat me up. Whoa! This wasn't going at all how I planned it in my head. I thought he would good-naturedly get my joke and understand my sacrifice on his behalf. I willingly gave up my government-subsidized free lunch burrito for him, which was a big deal because I missed breakfast and wouldn't eat again until supper. I didn't give up food without a good reason and what could be better than sending the message, "You are too cute for words and I want to be your girlfriend"? Nothing. Nothing was better than finding true love over high school lunch period. He just needed a reason to really look at me, to see the pure intent of my heart and appreciate my most excellent inner qualities. I helped him out, giving him the reason he needed to find his destiny.

Unfortunately, his buddies didn't follow my romantic script. They threatened to do bodily injury to me for assalting their buddy and I got scared. I scrambled to my feet and took off running, with a pack of testosterone-fueled boys close on my heels. I broke a cardinal rule of high school lunch hour by ducking into a hallway of occupied classrooms, figuring if I could get to the the girls restroom they wouldn't follow me in there. The boys ignored the invisible blockade outside the girls bathroom and started to enter behind me. I panicked, realizing for the first time I might get hurt for real. Luckily, the boys were stopped by a no-nonsense female security officer who threatened to throw them in detention and get them kicked off the football team if they didn't leave immediately. I was saved.

The next day, the boy who I now not-so-secretly adored, came up to me before school and said, "Hey Heather (he knew my name! Yay!) I got into trouble yesterday because of you. I had to go home to change my shirt. I missed my afternoon classes and you ruined my t-shirt, so you owe me money for a new shirt." I stammered something about how I didn't have any money to give him, but I was sorry for his getting in trouble. He waved me off, saying, "Just stay away from me and keep your food to yourself."

That was the end of my interest in the most beautiful boy at school. Shortly thereafter, I found the book How to Win Friends and Influence People in the library and discovered a new, more rational way to approach the problem of how to get a boyfriend. The book had absolutely nothing to do with romance but was an excellent primer on basic social skills for those of us who had none. The book not only worked, (I landed my first real-life boyfriend before the end of the school year thanks to a well-placed sincere compliment,) but it gave me the confidence I needed to keep working on the most important goal of all; to love and be loved.


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I called my best friend Stephanie to ask if she remembered the burrito incident and what the boy's name was.  She definitely remembered. She was there that day. I could swear his name was Darrell. She looked through our old yearbook and she is certain it is the boy in the center photo, Darrin. I remember Darrin as being a friend of Darrell's and one of boys who chased me into the bathroom. I don't think he was The One. Or maybe I am confused and it was Darrin and Darrell was one of the guys who chased me. I dunno. To do my due diligence to you, my  dear reader, I called the only other person who might know about the burrito boy. My other best friend from high school, Mike, was no help at all. He asked, "Why would I know who you threw a burrito at? And why would you do that anyway?"
I said, "Because I adored him and that's how I showed my feelings, DUHHHH.  We were friends and I was hoping maybe you were there that day, or maybe I told you about it. Surely I talked to you about Darrell (or Darrin) and told you how much I liked him."
"No. I don't think so. I don't remember that at all."
"Really? You have no recollection of any boy I had a mad crush on at school?"

Before Mike could deny his knowledge again, I remembered instantly my friendship with him. I talked, I cried, I showed every emotion in the rainbow of girl's feelings to him and he always listened silently. I thought Mike was the world's most amazing guy friend because he never cut me off before I was done talking and that could take a while. Now that I've been married almost 30 years to Rob, a most fabulous man who goes silent when he's not listening, I understand what was going on with Mike. I was pouring out my soul to him and his mind was off wandering into la-la land, waiting for my emotional storm to pass so he could ask me for help with whatever he needed. He probably doesn't remember anything I've ever told him. Stupid boys. On the other hand, my secrets are safe with him because he wasn't even paying attention.
Mike did offer a bit of practical advice at the end of our phone conversation.
"Darrell, Darrin- what does it matter? Just tell the story without using his name and don't worry if you have the wrong picture. No one will care."
I gave up and sighed. "Yeah, you are probably right."
 What I really meant was, "Boys just don't get it."

The boy in the middle. Maybe. Darrell? Darrin? Who knows. 

Thank You For Listening

Yep. That's exactly how I looked.

Today I gave my last college presentation for the semester. I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. It has been an intense few months, full of preparing for and giving lectures to students about my book. As we all know, Ezra and Hadassah isn't a stand-up comedy routine. I am happy when I can get a chuckle out of the audience in a place or two because talking about serious topics for a whole class period can be very....serious.

This time was fun because I got to the classroom before the instructor and some of the students asked if I was the guest speaker. When I said I was, they were all, "Oooo....awesome! We are looking forward to your lecture. We heard you were really, really good." and I was all , "Awww...shucks. That's nice to hear." I thought that was a kind way to start our discussion of hard things.

At the end of of my talk I took questions from the audience, which I have decided is my favorite part of speaking. The students asked smart questions that showed they were listening and thinking about what I said. One student asked, "What can a social worker do to protect a child in the foster care system from being abused?"
I responded with the truth. "Not a damned thing. You can't control how any adult treats a child outside of your view. But what you can do is be the adult a child would trust to tell if they were being abused."

So you can see, in my presentations we talk about hard things. And now I am telling you the same hard things. Being a trusted adult isn't just reserved for social workers. All adults should be the kind of people that children can turn to when bad things are happening to them. Look out for the children in your life. Watch them, talk to them, let them know you care. Most of the time, the stories they tell you will be happy ones. Enjoy them when they come. But also be ready with a comforting smile, a hug or a real offer of help if they tell you a hard story. Be the grown up that protects them and makes their world a safer place to live. 

That's really the only thing we can do. 

What Everyone Wants to Know - Part II

The one and only family picture taken with the Spencer's

In my last post, I gave you the answer to most popular question I get asked about my book. http://ezraandhadassah.blogspot.com/2014/11/what-everyone-wants-to-know.html

That post stirred up feelings for some members of my adopted family. I understand their position and think that there is a need for more exploration on this topic. There are some universal themes that I think touch more than just our family's pain.

First of all, it does hurt to think of someone you loved as being portrayed as all bad, all the time. You have good memories of them. That is true. No one is 100% bad or 100% good all the time. Even my brother Rex, who I describe in my book as a highly spiritually sensitive person, managed to drive me crazy with his need to do good things for others because his good deeds always required my help. I just wanted to sit and read a book in peace and quiet. His zeal was exhausting. No one is 100% anything all the time.

I am sure if we interviewed the family and friends of Jeffery Dahmer or Charles Manson, we would find people who have fond memories of them. It is not wrong to claim those good times as positive. It is also not wrong to tell the truth, warts and all.

The underlying message of "but Harley and Virginia did good things for me" brought out one of the principle points of the book.  I tried for years to forgive them for the things they did to their children. I tried to think of the positive things they did for me. I even searched the patriarchal blessing I was given at 14 years old, looking for the reason God put me and my siblings in the Spencer's home. I decided there was one good thing that came from living with them. I became a Mormon because of them. And I stayed a Mormon in spite of them.

It sounds crazy, right? I was baptized into the Mormon faith when I was adopted because like all children, I didn't have a choice about what religion my parents chose. It was no different than all the other churches I was baptized into when I was in foster care.

As I got older and started paying attention to what was being taught at church about loving your family, I silently questioned  Harley and Virginia's ideas on child discipline and love. For years I listened to Harley's prophecies about the End of Times and what was going to happen to us kids if we didn't mend our wicked ways. I chose not to believe the things Harley swore to be true because they didn't pass my test of believability. I grew a thick skin about religious doctrine. That skill has proven to be very helpful in my adult spiritual life. As I hear people's ideas on heaven and hell, what God really wants from us and all other aspects of our religious lives, I use my inner "bullshit" (excuse my salty language. I can't think of better word for it)  meter to judge what is true for me and what is not. I do not concern myself with what others chose to believe or do to honor God. I respect every person's right to worship how they want. I  do object when a religious faith abuses others, especially women and children. I made my peace with God independent from Harley and Virginia and that saved me. Their version of the gospel was not healthy for me and it was good I learned that while I was still a teenager. It made me strong and helped me avoid the common pitfalls of youth that would have derailed my life.

Of course, I must give full credit to my brother for completing my religious education. Through his experiences with his Best Friend, I saw what having an active relationship with Christ could be. I am grateful for Rex's influence in my life and the spiritual clarity he gave me. I was so lucky to have him as my brother. And I am content to think that I was lucky to live with Harley and Virginia. They taught me a lot and I am a better person for having lived in their home. I don't accept crappy religious doctrine, I don't espouse anything beyond "Love One Another," and I don't expect God to make decisions for me that I am perfectly capable of making on my own. For all of that and more, I thank Harley, Virginia and the universe that decided they were the best teachers for the lessons I needed to learn.

I am blessed.

What Everyone Wants to Know

Wanna guess the by far, number #1 thing that people want to know after they are done reading Ezra and Hadassah?

If you haven't read the book yet, you don't have a clue. If you have, you probably already did what lots of people have done and emailed me from this site, wanting to know the answer to your one and only question.
In case you haven't, I'm gonna help you out and answer your question now. Dang, the customer service on this blog site is simply stunning.

Ok ----Here goes:

The question is: What Happened to Harley and Virginia? 

Taken for an anniversary, after Virginia had her stomach stapled to lose weight. Unfortunately, she gained a lot of it back. And yes, she's wearing a wig. 

The answer is: Nothing. If you were hoping for some kind of public thrashing for their behavior towards their children, that didn't happen. Nothing happened. All their kids grew up, moved out and that was that. Like I explained in the book, after I moved out on my 18th birthday, I never spent another night under their roof.  They continued to move and change jobs every few years, so no one ever really got to know them. I was told stories over the years about how loved they were by their church congregations and how they gave inspirational talks about the importance of families.  Knowing Harley and Virginia, I am sure they were amazing and brought audiences to tears.

 Have you noticed how I am writing about them in the past tense? Yep. Past tense. Both of them died two years ago, less than 3 months apart. Harley went first. I didn't know about it for a couple of weeks because at the time he passed, my father-in-law also had died very suddenly. I was out of town with my husband's family, participating in my father-in-law's funeral services, and no one could contact me about Harley's death. I missed the whole thing. Luckily, my adopted sister Emelia went, intending to comfort Virginia and to attend Harley's funeral. Imagine Emelia's surprise when she shook the Bishop's hand at the church before the services and the Bishop had no idea who she was. He didn't know Harley and Virginia had any children besides one daughter (an older sister who moved her family to be near them) and her children. They attended the Bishop's congregation for a handful of years and he had no recollection of Harley or Virginia ever talking about having any other children. He visited them at their home and saw no photos or evidence of them having a large family including children and grandchildren.

When Emelia set him straight, his face turned ashen from the shock. He had no idea. What kind of people don't acknowledge their children and grandchildren? Especially in the Mormon faith, which is so super family- focused it is hard to remember anything else it is known for. I'm sure Harley's funeral service was the strangest meeting the Bishop ever officiated, considering no one else at his church knew the Spencer's were the parents of  11 or 15 children (depending on how many of their unofficially adopted children are counted. I can never keep it straight.)

When Virginia died 3 months later, Emelia didn't go and neither did anyone else besides their local relatives. Oh well. They say funerals aren't for the person who died, they are for the living left behind. We all took a vote and decided it wasn't worth it to go and either pretend we were a close family, or what - stand up and tell the whole congregation what messed up, miserable people Harley and Virginia were? Naaahhh. Not worth the time or trouble.

The only thing I can say for sure that I learned from finding out my parents denied their children's existence, is that I do look at older people differently now. When a sweet elderly man or woman tell me they have grown children and grandchildren who are selfish, neglectful people and never visit, I find myself taking pause. Maybe one selfish child, possibly. But if more than one child doesn't come home for holidays or have their children visit over summer vacation, something is up. It goes against nature to want nothing to do with parents, especially if grandchildren are involved.

 I have seen my share of crazy, dysfunctional families who fight like cats and yet still manage to stay connected. It may be messy and stressful and hard, but family members do, deep in their hearts, want to stay together. I am blessed to have my biological parents, Ralph and Claudia Wade in my life and I know I am lucky to be able to share my husband, children and grandchild with them.

Too bad Harley and Virginia chose something else. They missed out on a whole lot of the sweetness of life.

Why Writing as a Form of Therapy is Crap

A few days ago I ran into someone who read my book. She commented that it must have been therapeutic to write it. I laughed and replied, "Not really. I don't recommend writing a book as a way to heal."
She was taken aback and said, "Well, I am sure it helped you process stuff."
I laughed again and said, "Actually, it made me very sick to write the hard parts. Some of it I hadn't thought about since I experienced it the first time and that was enough for me. It wasn't a great thing to do and I didn't feel better for doing it."
She persisted, "But the fact you got sick while you were writing it means that you weren't done with processing it."
I was getting tired with my inability to explain myself clearly and her inability to understand me. I let us both off the hook. "Yeah, I'm sure you are right."
She smiled at my acknowledgement of the correctness of her assumption. She continued for a few more minutes to heap praise on the value of the book and the importance of it's message, so I walked away feeling positive about the whole exchange.

Except...

That was not the first time someone had commented that writing the book had to be healing. I dunno, maybe I should just handle the whole thing with more graciousness and class. Maybe I should just let people assume whatever they want about my motivations and rewards for writing the book. I probably will, since my previous attempts at explaining myself haven't gone so well.

Except...

I sense that there is an important lesson to be learned from this situation. The lesson could be just for me. Maybe the reason I haven't let the comment, "Writing your book must have been therapeutic for you," slide by is not because the commenter needs to understand, but maybe I do. After all, who cares what someone else thinks? What matters is what I think. This whole thing is silly because I am the first person to jump up and say that writing definitely helps me. When I am stressed or upset, my first inclination is to dash off a few lines. Heck, that is exactly what I doing right here, right now. Of course writing is therapeutic! I use it all the time. Duh.... everyone knows writing down stuff helps purge it from your mind. It is a standard tool used in formal therapy for a good reason.

Except.....maybe not always. Maybe there are superficial levels of pain that are resolved by writing. And then there is another deeper level, that requires much more than just writing to heal. I am going to try for the first time, to fully explain why writing didn't heal my childhood traumas, and what actually did.

As you remember from the book, I spent years carrying around serious anger at my foster parents, adoptive parents, and the foster care system. I tried conventional therapy to talk through my pain, but I couldn't afford the costs in terms of dollars and time. I read my fair share of self-help books, I approached the church, I talked to any girlfriend who would listen, I talked to my husband, I did all kinds of homegrown, poor people versions of conventional approaches to mental health healing. None of it really made a difference. I was still mad as hell and couldn't let it go.

Then I became the mother of three children whose health needs drove me to my knees in utter exhaustion. I sought out solutions from our doctors, who had none to offer. I was forced by my unwillingness to accept three miserable, chronically ill children, to look towards unconventional healing. I had to let go of my life-long fear of being considered odd, like the rest of my childhood family members, to do what I could to help my children. They needed assistance that was off the beaten path and I was the only one who could get it for them. I discovered a whole new world of  underground healthcare, centered around excellent nutrition, the concepts that physical and emotional health are intrinsically tied together and that man has been healing himself for centuries without the benefits of prescription medication. Not that there isn't a place for prescription medication or modern medicine, but that it wasn't the end all, be all that I was raised to believe it was.

As I started the process of finding ways to heal my children, a funny thing happened. I started healing, too. The chronic acne that had plagued me for 15 years, cleared up. My ability to concentrate improved, my energy levels went up. My bowels became regular in ways I didn't know were possible. And most importantly, I lost my anger. As my outer physical symptoms improved, they mimicked the inner soul healing that was simultaneously happening. It was a graceful, gradual lifting of my emotional pain that I found mystifying and peaceful.

When it came time, years later, to write the book, I wasn't expecting to have a physical reaction to any of my past. I was done with it, healing had happened and it was over. My expectation was proven wrong. As I recalled long ago memories, I went from being fine to throwing up in the nearby trash can within minutes. I collapsed into my bed for a few days, unable to work at all while my body burned with a fever and sweated out its pain. I used all the healing arts at my disposal to support myself. I knew that I didn't have the flu. I didn't catch a bug from my children. I had total emotional clarity that my physical symptoms were directly tied to digging up the horrors of my childhood. When I was finally well again, I had a new, deeper level of inner peace that I hadn't experienced before.

So yes, in one way, my book fans are right. Writing was therapeutic. It brought old junk to the surface, giving me an opportunity to heal my wounds in whatever way I saw fit. Writing in and of itself - Not Healing. Writing being the catalyst for peeling off a previously unknown level of trauma so I could then do other things that healed me physically, emotionally and spiritually? Yes. Absolutely.

Interesting, isn't it? Who would have guessed? Not me.

Of course, I am telling you the short version of the process, and I can tell you in full confidence that my healing is not done, just as no one's is until they leave this life. As old trauma's heal, they are replaced by whatever the new drama of the moment is. The difference is I have skills for understanding and supporting my present day stresses that I didn't have in the past. And for that, I am grateful.

And look! After writing all this out, I do feel better. In fact, I would say it was therapeutic. Go figure.