wake

I went to a wake tonight. My friend's mom passed. She was a sweet lady, an eccentric and funny woman. I met her a few times, but my favorite memory of her was when they invited me to Thanksgiving one of the years I was "orphaned" for the holiday. We ate well, I made some legendary sausage and forbidden rice dish, we laughed, played epic Scrabble games and enjoyed each other.

At the wake this evening, my pal told me the story of her mom's passing. They were home, holding her hand. They made peace and it was serene. It all happened the way an idyllic passing would be. 

I efforted to be there for my friend. My intention was to be there to remember her mom sweetly and relish the photos and flowers. But my mind kept jumping to something else.

I kept thinking of my own mother, abusive, mentally ill, sickly and unkind. I imagined her funeral. I pictured my sister, my father and myself at odds. None of them are speaking to me, and I wondered, "would they even tell me if she died?" Instead of being able to be supportive for my pal, I nestled up to my darkest wish, and would have preferred it was my mom in the box... and my painful existence of abuse and agony would just fucking end. I wished my mom was the one who died instead.

Yup. 


There's something wrong there I know. I cannot tell you how arduous and agonizing it is to grow up with a mentally ill parent incapable of loving anything or anyone. The sickness has permeated into everything in my life. I am convinced I am unlovable and unworthy of the life I can picture but never have. I met the man who should be my soulmate, but our relationship is poisoned by my abandonment issues and constant recording in my head that I am simply.... unlovable. I mean, if my mom can't love me, who will. I cling too tightly to my child, and tell him he's loved to ensure he never feels a shred of what my last 47 years of being resented and hated by a parent could possibly feel like.

I don't want my mom to die out of malice. It's not like that at all. I know it's fucked up, but I love my abusive horrible absent mom. Why? She's my mom. I have spent most of my lifetime seeking love and approval, wanting glimmers of what kids with real moms get. So why do I pray for her to die already? I want closure, and I want this agonizing suffering to end. You see, if she is dead, then that can be the excuse why she has abandoned me. I don't have to want a relationship that will never happen. I don't have to dream of some lightbulb moment she is never going to have. She isn't capable now. My mother will be unable to abuse me if she's gone. She will be out of her depression and her misery. She will hopefully finally be at peace, something she has never experienced for as long as I've been alive. I can stop wondering why I don't have a 'normal' family or parents who love me. I can say, it's because she's dead.

Triggers triggers triggers.

I remember that Thanksgiving at my friend's house. I remember how it felt to sit at a table with her, her sister and her mom who was sweet, and nice and loving towards the girls. I remember thinking how lucky they are to have a mom who is caring, and open to inviting a stranger to the table. I get mom envy quite easily, to be quite honest. I try to remember that I deserve to have come into this world to the loving arms of a good mommy. Often I find myself saying over and over in my head that it's ok, I just got dealt a shitty hand. This woman may have not been the perfect mom or the best mom, but she was a loving mom and that seems like a luxury. It shouldn't be, right? It should be a given, your mom loves you unconditionally.

My mother has never loved me. Hell, she doesn't like me. And as she has said for 47 years... she wished I had never been born.

Tonight I sat in a chair in the funeral home, looking at the casket, the flowers, the people hugging and chatting. I imagined the full life this woman lived, and prayed that my pal knows that even though her home life was far from ideal, at least she had a mom who loved her. One shouldn't have to be grateful their parents love them, but when you are me... it's a fantasy not a reality.

I've come to accept that my mom did the best she could with what she had; she was hindered greatly by depression and mental illness and drug addiction. She still is, if she is in fact still alive. I have forgiven my mom so many times, over and over practiced forgiveness, acceptance and all that crap you do on a cushion, on a couch, in a group, at that retreat, and by her side in the hospital after her big stroke. Despite the acceptance and forgiveness, the scars and wounds of her mistreatment of me linger and loiter. I can handle it most days, but today is one of the days I am giving myself permission to break down and just feel like utter crap about it.

this guy was meant for me.....

I’m going to tell you a story so personal, only a handful of people know it. A story about me that reveals more than most people know a story I was trying to spit out over dinner yesterday with a friend... but couldn’t... because I’m better at divulging myself more eloquently on "paper" than with my mouth...

If you could see a younger version of me... the one that was twenty nine, you would meet a woman who commanded a certain power and leadership. Independent, smart and rising in the ranks of the NYC agency scene, I was racing to the zenith of something with a wake of broken hearts behind me. My vigilance spread across every aspect of my life, gym 7x a week, yoga 5x a week, work 24/7, sleep optional and a pair of leather pants for every occasion. My trajectory consisted of one thing... get to Executive Vice President by 30 (this did happen along with partnership). Consequences of how I got there were irrelevant, my effect on others inconsequential. I cared about one thing... winning.


I was never one of those girls who played "house" as a kid or imagined a wedding or a baby. In fact if I saw a pregnant woman on the street it would send me running, because I was afraid that somehow she might be contagious. While my other girlfriends and sister may have been on that mission, I had my eye on one prize, increasing my success and trampling anything that got between me and my ambitious goals.

When I met my now very ex husband, I did what I always used to do in those days... walk into the room, point at the guy with whom I'd be with and 'win' him too. I will forgo the "love" story and get on with what hopefully will be the point of this missive.

When Randouche Mastelbate proposed to me... I laughed. Yes, I looked the love struck man in the face and laughed. Me? Married? Engaged? That convention for those other people sure, but me? F@#$CK no! It may sound cruel, but I really did laugh, I thought he was playing some kind of prank. But he wasn't, he was being totally serious.

Something came over me, I let go and I looked into his pained eyes. I did love him... and something happened... I surrendered... (one of many times I have surrendered in my life) and ... I got married. My wedding was one of the greatest events of all time, we exchanged vows under the BKLYN bridge, had a reception in a DUMBO loft with Superfine food and Organic Grooves.

... and I had a new mission, to make us 'the' coolest power couple ... I opened him an art gallery in DUMBO, my agency based in the back office was raking in real dollars and my staff did my bidding while I went right back to world domination, we became increasingly popular in the arts circles and scenes of choice, we moved into this gorgeous duplex loft, meals were sourced all over town, entertained fabulous parties, at art openings we would laugh at the whispers, "omg, are those the Mastels? yes, yes, it's really them" we ... we... had it all and...

then.. 9/11... I lost all of my business in 4 days and then... how this happened is a miracle... I GOT PREGNANT.

We didn't want kids. But remember I didn't want to be married either. I made being married "cool" somehow, that it would be different but now... aching, confused, plagued... I got pregnant. I never wanted children. For a million reasons and rants, I was not going to have kids. I didn't believe it, peed on multiple sticks that instantly reverted to plus signs, blue lines, pink dots (I peed on a lot of sticks).


I told my parents I was pregnant at dinner, they were floored. Their response felt like what I would have gotten if I were a teenager. Cowering in my seat, I knew... this wasn't really happy news. My sister seethed with jealousy, this was her plan to get married and have kids, not mine. I'm not "mom" material, this is going to be a wretched disaster.

Days later, I'm sitting in my father's car. He's not an affectionate guy, but he was holding my hand. "I don't know what to do dad, I'm so scared."


"If you want to get rid of it, I'll go with you," my father said, "we'll save your marriage, it's the right thing to do."


With that, I made an appointment.... I was going to terminate the baby. In my Elissa Jane style... I made the appointment for 2 days before my 12 weeks were up. This would not be an impulsive move. I'd read whatever I could read and research before making a "choice" I had fought for years to have the right to have. I believed that doing due diligence here would be important and that before I went ahead and made this drastic decision, I'd plan and give it proper thought.
The eve of my appointment, I choked.

I had a check up around 9 weeks and heard the baby's heart beat. I thought I didn't care...that my mind was made up. Something tweaked in me... I took 'responsibility' for the life inside me and chose to take this on. I cancelled the appointment... and well.... my son turns 11 this week.

My pregnancy was a total drag, nothing like the movies. My birth was also one of those crazy stories riddled with extra trips to the emergency room, some RN freaking out that I had placenta previa (I didn't), 11 hours with my legs up, all sorts of drugs to make the baby come out (he wouldn't).

I had a birth plan. Did I? Do you know me at all? Yes I did. My birth plan was close to 8 pages long with instructions on just about every detail. I brought 10 copies which I distributed to nurses, RNs, etc... and also put one in my chart and on the door. I had every detail mapped out. At the hospital, I had two bags full of "gear" to get me through from special pillows to a stack of CDs so I could DJ through my experience with the perfect tune for every stage of the opening of my cervix. None of this happened. My naturally planned childbirth was moved to an emergency special monitoring area where I was unhappily drugged up with labor inducing cocktails, monitors and an overall feeling of failure.


Nothing about this was going as I planned. It was time for a C-section, there were no other options. As they rolled me into the table, my compassionate DR ordered Randouche to go get my boombox and put on my requested soundtrack. This would be Future Sounds Of London "LifeForms" and in less than 10 minutes ... they cut, oh wait, the baby's head is bigger than we thought, they cut again... ok... we can get him out now... Zoren was pulled from me and displayed to me in a grey and red messy ball of tiny human with thick black hair.

There was no turning back now, the baby was here.

In the years that have followed I've learned patience, letting go of expectations, acceptance and what unconditional love really is. I've done my best to make Motherhood 'cool' although there are times this has to be the most mundane uncool typical life on earth. Don't ask me how many times I've cooked "circle pasta with butter." We don't eat at a dining table or keep a schedule. I had to go to a counselor to learn how to 'discipline' my kid. I don't do well with PTA or school authority. At one point I took on the role of Den Mother, that lasted six months. I could care less if my son tests well, although he's in some 90-something percentile for awesomeness and tests well without much effort. He is smart, loves to read, gets great grades without trying, kills it at every sport he tries and has the insight of a very old soul.


I haven't told this to too many people for a myriad of reasons. Guess if I'm blogging it, it's no longer a private story is it?

Somehow, over the years, I've forgotten all about that era... because it feels like there is the life before I was a mom that is fading deeper and deeper into the annals of my memory banks... and the person you see now is a result of acceptance and the gifts I've gotten from the lessons being Zman's mom. Let me tell you … being his mom is the easy part, it is LIFE that is freakin hard!!!

You see, what I think I'm trying to say is... getting married, having a kid... that wasn't "me". But now I cannot imagine loving myself more than I do now... as the person who has learned and grown over the past 11 years.


If 29 year old me looked at 44 year old me... she'd spit, barf, chastise, berate and decimate me for what I've become. I'm everything I said I'd never be. Trust me, there's much I'm grateful for... my 20s were a selfish wonderful time, I saw the world, traveled with bands, had an apartment in Amsterdam, lived out of suitcases, made gobs of money and spent it unwisely, I lead my universe.... and had I not been through all of that, I may have resented my son.


Look... life doles out all kinds of stuff we can't control. Like... I was on the pill and I got pregnant. Life is full of surprises. What if I didn't say yes to Randouche? And we didn't have Z? And I didn't take that job? And I didn't get on that plane, or sign that deal or ....

There's no way to carve out or control the expectations of what we think life is supposed to look like. I am learning every day that all I have is what is in front of me.

When I look at the Zman, I see the world through his eyes, learn lessons about attachments, being reactive, the challenges of being different and carving out a self esteem, being socially awkward and that catching crayfish in the stream in front of our house can be really cool!

I get that loving me on my own is no longer an option, that if someone wants to be in my life they need to love 'us'... because we are this unit that can't be compartmentalized for very long. It's a blessing and a curse I suppose, to realize that I can't separate myself as an individual chick anymore, that I have this person tethered to me regardless of what I do.

It's really amazing that Zoren turns 11 tomorrow. That 11 years ago today I was strapped into a bed with all kinds of drugs and monitors I didn't want, in pain, in fear, in panic.... but he arrived, a perfect bundle of awesome ready to reinvent me in ways I could have never imagined.

Happy Birthday lil buddy...

geraniums smell so nice

the week before mother's day, stopped at the farm stand to get some plants to adorn the entrance of our home. nothing fancy, just some pansies and geraniums and a hanging pot of petunias. this was the first time I put a plant into a pot since my divorce. weird.

 as a drove home, back of the car loaded with fruits, fresh local dairy products and a couple of small boxes with plants, the most amazing scent wafted through the car. it was the geraniums. the scent was as pungent and soothing as any of the other times I've inhaled that distinctive fragrance.

 time travel backwards, 1980ish, Bridgehampton NY...

 it was our first summer in the new house on Mecox Bay. previously, we had rented homes around the Hamptons in the summer, but this was the first summer I'd have my own room, my own stuff, a place for my stuffed animals and toys, a room that was mine to decorate how I like. we were very familiar with the area, the stops we made along the way for hot dogs, ice cream and ... the Green Thumb farm stand. as my dad picked out local eats from the conveyor belt, my mother would meticulously pick the annual geraniums that would adorn the pots in front of our house. each year they were carefully selected in either deep salmon, or bright red.

as we arrived the week before Memorial Day to ready the house for the summer, my mother would plant the geraniums that would flourish all summer long. she cared for them lovingly with miracle grow, water, and care. they would happily respond by blooming straight through to the first frosts. the expressive scent wafted through my nose each and every time we entered our house, it was a signal that summer had arrived. while I could share all kinds of memories, something about my mother's summer geraniums brought me a little feeling of arrival, that I had made it to the sweetness of summer days. 

when I grew up, and became a dweller of my own abodes, I'd do the same thing ... each spring, I'd plant pots of flowers around the entrance of my apartment, and always loved to make sure there were crimson geraniums to nurture throughout the season. I did this from apartment to apartment, city to city, dwelling to dwelling... and when I got engaged and moved in with my husband, and our house, and the houses after until... we got divorced. for the next years, I've kept a few pots, thinking one day I'd fill them with flowers in the spring, but never did. I've always felt this state of 'divorce' was temporary, and that I'd have someone to plant for... someday.

well, there isn't anyone new, no visitors per say but I just instinctively knew, this year, I was planting geraniums. they are in the pots outside, soaking in sun, permiating their scent, beaconing summer. I planted them for me, to bring me that feeling I remember from so long ago, when my mom was still capable of nurturing something. and now, I'm nurturing myself.