If I trace my interest in psychotherapy began with a deep curosity about this thing called life. I was a deep thinker, even as a child, and questions of meaning erupted in my early childhood. I wrote my first existential poem at age 9, provoked in no small part from reading the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull. If you have read it yourself, you no doubt understand, and if you haven’t it’s a small text that is more like meditation but include the story of Jonathan, who unlike the rest of his flock, was less consumed by the task of feeding, and more immersed in the transcendence of flight itself.
This interest in the human being remained with me, even as I discovered my love of photography, which lead to a first career in television. I remember the revelation that was stopping motion. Look through the lens of a camera at 17 yo, I felt the power of creativity, to choose, when to pause the image, when to capture the spirit of the dance. I recognized the immense honor and priviledge it was to play with life this way, to pick out pieces and freeze time.
My fascination with the human being lead me to want to study us. While in college I was initiated into what most consider to be a cult, but I consider to be school. In the work of Ouspensky and Gurdieff, I found the study of man as a spiritual being. This work introduced me to Sufisim, Hindusim, Judism and the common thread between all major religions. Yes, Sharon Stone was a sychophant, but for me, the work was a revelation. I left after 3 years, and what had been a inadequacy of life experiences was given four fold. Within a three months of leaving school, I became pregnant with my first child, a year later was married, and over the next twenty years, would experience most of human life’s most challenging events; severe illness, divorce, single motherhood, and finally a career change.
I had attempted to study psychology when in my early thirties, and had been accepted to Fordham University School of Social work. I was to begin in the Fall of 1995. Alas, my second child decided to come to me and instead of writing papers, I was changing diapers that Fall.
Soon thereafter, circumstances in our professional life lead my now husband and I to move from Manhattan to South Florida…yes, major culture shock. I once again set my sights on graduate school to receive an education to become a therapist. I had determined that I wanted “who I was, to be what I do” which was the title of my application essay.
I was accepted to the program, and very much wanted to begin. However, we left Manhattan in part due to financial freefall; we were in debt, even after paying off 80K in credit card debt, we still had a 50K business loan to work off. I decided to again postpone my career change, and get to work. I found myself work as a producer in South Florida’s ludacrive and sketchy Infotainment industry, crafting advertising as public service.
The production company I worked was run by a spoiled child man, who inherited wealth from his father’s grocery story chain. He was thought by most to be a creep and a douche. He treated his employees like shit and was incredibly paranoid. This was 1990, and the place was rigged like a high security prison. In order to move about from offices to production suites and studios required a fob at all entry points, the phones were tapped; not kidding. It was such a different vibe from the creativity of NY. Where the fuck was I?
Working in Boca, I felt like a alien. I was a New Yorker. I dressed in scaled down, muted and minimalist wardrobe. I drove a Jeep Wagoneer. Looking around at the new money, the Mercedes and the ladies dressed in white, with white hair, artificial nails, and lots of “work”, I began to question my own gender identity; where the fuck am I?
For as miserable as I was in my professional life, I was equally miserable in my marriage. My husband and I tried counseling again, eventually we started talking about divorce. I had two daughters, who were my everything. I was despondent and tormented, and bout cry on my way to work, at times imagining whether driving into a tree would do the trick. The narrative running in my mind was “leave the job, stuck with the husband, leave the husband, stuck with the job” I saw no way out.
As life often does, the universe heard my call, and provided a way out. It came in the form of a cancer diagnoses. I had lost a lot of weight, and one day sipping chai tea in a cold editing suite, I found I could not warm myself up. I was freezing. That triggered episodes of extreme drenching sweats, fevers of 103+ (yes, they were that high) followed by shivering chills. I would lie in bed drenched with sweat, shivering, followed by peaks of high temperature. I would bring it down with Advil, which would trigger the sweats and chills…over and over this cycle went.
Eventually, I landed in the hospital with excrutiating abdominal pain. It was Christmas, 1999. Tests were run, no one could tell me what was happening. I saw my primary, who sent me to a gynocologist. It was he who suggested I see a oncologist. I still remember the eerie feeling I had leaving his office “an oncologist”…it was as if I was falling off a cliff in slow motion. Was this it? I thought of my children, would their mother be barely a memory in 6 months time. After months of inconclusive tests, several painful bone marrow biopsies, and two oncologists, I had enough of the Micky Mouse medical establishment in South Florida and made my way back to New York, stained bone marrow biopsy slides in hand. The oncologists at Sloan Kettering ran their own painful tests, and made a diagnosis. Despite the “paucity” of definitive Reed Sternberg cells, they were fairly certain it was the C word, Hodkins lymphomia, They recommended a course of a fairly new treatment protocol Stanford 5. Shorter duration, more intense, overall less accumulative chemo. I went back to Florida to be treated by was treated with chemotherapy by my oncologist in Florida, who I actually adored. Dr. Jonathan Cohen of Cedars Medical Center. He answered my questions, he allowed me to be a partner in my care, and he had a great sense of humor!
For the next 6 months I would go weekly and receive an alternating cocktail mix of corrosive chemotherapy drugs. On one memoriable occasion, my callous husband sat next to me, giving me the silent treatment while reading the NY Times while I was hooked up to an IV. My crime? Asking if we could talk about his use of marijuana after my 5 year old inquired about Daddy smoking on the patio. There are many more stories of his narcissim to tell, but perhaps that is another writing.
Our divorce was put on hold, so gracious was my husband. He did his best to care for me, and for a brief time we found a way to live together. Mortality does have a way of prioritizing what battles are worth fighting, at at that time, I couldn’t find many beyond my life.
During this time, I had time to reflect. I realized that all of the anxiety about money, about the future, about having enough for retirement, was only relevant if I made it to retirement age. I found my way back to my spirituality, began practicing Dao In Yoga with a wonderful practioner and his equally lovely and wise wife, Frank and Miki Iborra of White Crane Healing Arts Center.
After treatment, I was given a clean bill of health, but symptoms would rear their ugly head every 6 months or so. I would return to the oncologist, get more CAT scans and tests, but nothing conclusive every came from it. Two years later, fearing a relapse, I returned to Sloan Kettering. They ran a PET scan, did a laparoscopic biopsy and again came back inconclusive. I decided then that unless I was literally dying, I was done with follow up testing. It was always inconclusive and I didn’t want to live my life chasing results.
I began to feel vital again. I invested myself in my kids lives, volunteered at my kids schools, became co-president of the PTA, and took odd end jobs writing and editing with occasional producing here and there. My marriage remained unsatisfying, disharmonious and disconnected. The fighting continued. During this time, I became both the seductress and victim of a ménage a tois with my new best friend and her husband. She fell in love with me, and he and I fell in love with each other. I realized that if this triangulated love affair would at all interest, it was indeed a sign that it was time to finally end my marriage. I told my husband I wanted to take a sabbatical from the marriage, I told him about my other relationships. He played offended and hurt and victim.
This was a scary time. I knew that playing small would no longer be an option. No more little girl, it was time to embrace my position as a strong woman. It had been a long time coming. I told myself that I would put blinders on and walk through that portal; I would not look down or back until I was through with it, no matter what. My ex lost his job, and the refinancing we were in the middle of suddenly was now an imperative. However, I thought we owed it to the kids to try one more time. I told my husband that I really had barely an interest, but if he was willing to go back into counseling, and actually do the work of change, I would be willing to as well. His words “I’m not quite ready for that”. And so…I showed him the door, and I closed it behind him.
My ex had gotten involved with another woman, which at that point was no consequence to me. But of course it was she would admitted to me that they weren’t just friends, which of course I knew. She and I were really fond of each other, she was good to my girls when they visited her home and months later, when she too got tired of his manipulation and siphoning, she did some of her own digging, and it was revealed that he had been cheating on her with a woman who he had also been seeing during our marriage—a woman with whom he had also been unfaithful to his second wife (I was #3). I will never for the life of me understand why he didn’t just take it up with her! But he was very vain man, and she was actually hard to look at, but apparently adored him.
His inability to be upfront, his decision to play the victim when I had been transparent, was the final cut of any ties I felt toward him. It is when I realized we didn’t even have a friendship.
My ex couldn’t find gainful employment, and we had to decide if we were going to sell the house or if I were going to take it over. We decided it would be best for the kids to stay in the house, I remortgaged the house, bought him out and had the deed signed over to me. For the following 2 years, rather than receiving child support from him, I deducted his share of the proceeds had we sold the house, which was calculated by the arbitration lawyer to be $700 a month for 2 years. This allowed us to keep the kids in the house, but for the remainder of their lives, I was the primary financial support. At one point, after the last of the $700 deductions, he began to give me $350 a month for the 2 kids, barely our electric bill but I would reimburse him $500 for the health insurance premiums for the kids from his COBRA plan, so it was a wash. The financial responsibility for the house and for my children now fell 100% onto me.
Thankfully, as the universe has always done, once I made the decision to leave my ex, the universe brought me a very well paying job, literally from someone I met through my ex. It was enough to pay my bills and keep the kids and I in the house.
Unfortunately, it meant my kids would either be alone, as in the case with Noelle, or with school friends until I got home.
During this time, the ménage e trois ended, in part due to my imploring the husband to go to therapy to figure out what he really wanted. He and I truly believed we were in love. He’d seen a lawyer, but I couldn’t in good conscience move forward, knowing it was killing my girl friend. She did not want to share her husband after all. I insisted we would not get together until years after he had ended his marriage, because I wanted to know he made a decision to end his marriage for his own reasons, not because of our love affair. This was my decision for myself. I knew I was done with my marriage.
In the end, he determined he wanted to give his marriage a fair chance. And as was totally understandable, it meant we had to end contact. Suddenly, I went from lover/advisor to completely cut off from both of them; zero communication. This was very hard on me. I was very attached to both of them, sincerely wanted the best for us all. I went through a severe heartbreak. As much as I wanted this affair to end, the manner of ending was very abrupt, and after what had previously been a carefully navigated path by the three of us, I found I was suddenly pushed off the cliff.
This began a several year run in reality television production, where time was scarce but money was not a problem. I worked on a few successful shows, and took on supervising casting director position. It was very hard to be a single mom and a television executive. The show I worked on was the hardest show to cast in the industry. There were so many variables that had to be met. I had to come up with 14 new people each week, meeting a diverse set of attributes. We needed a variety of tattoos and a variety of storylines. We were casting nationally. Each artist had their own style and what they would and wouldn’t tattoo. Had to have a story that pulled at the heart strings and others that were simply eye candy; hot girls, sad stories, great tattoos. And the clients paid for the tattoo, and their own travel. We literally had tens of thousands of applicants, and the ratio was 100:1. Meaning we’d see 100 people for each 1 that would fit the show.
As demanding as this position was, I was also dedicated to being there for my kids. I tried to be super mom, leaving work in Miami Beach, driving back to Broward, take my youngest to talent castings, drive her back to Broward, and then back to work down in Miami Beach. I turned down a position as an on set producer because I needed the flexibility to be able to leave the office at a moments notice. I found myself working 80+ hour weeks while raising two children alone.
After 18months at this pace, it was no surprise that I relapsed. One day, while taking my youngest to voice lessons so she could audition for The Lion King on Broadway, I realized I couldn’t walk without extreme fatigue, literally walking from the car to the elevator made my legs feel as if I had done a workout.
I once again found myself in the hospital with fluid in my heart sac and lungs. I was on my laptop working on a presentation for the revamping of the casting department while in the ER. Some part of me knew this was nuts, but I could not lose this job. I was the sole support for my children. I spent 10 days in the hospital, suspecting a relapse of my cancer, eventually returning home and fighting for my position.
Once again, the diagnosis baffled the doctors. They could not make a dx of Hodgkin’s Disease I was discharged not knowing what caused the extreme inflammation in my body.
It was January, 2007. I was weak, sick and tired. In a very generous accommodation, it so happened that the series I was working on had produced a spin off in LA. I was given the task to cast the premiere episode, all from the comfort of my home. This kept me employed, at full salary, for the next 7 months.
Come September, the gig was over. I was still experiencing symptoms, and on a merry go round with doctors trying to figure out what ailed me. They ruled out Lime, Lupus, no one had a clue. I had to find another job, and was hired as an editor for Judge Judy. Again, I found myself sitting in a cold edit suite, working 10 hour days, trying to meet the demands of this salacious storyline. I would take breaks throughout the day and go to the beach with a jacket and sweater on…just trying to warm up for ½ an hour. It was torture. After 3 weeks, and rejected rough cuts; I was let go. It was the first time in my life I had been let go from a job. I was defeated and broken.
Over the next 8 months, while I tried to figure out what was next, I went through the 25k in savings I had amassed. My boyfriend at the time contributed another 15K to help me keep afloat.
Eventually, I had no options. I had no choice but to leave the industry, the stress from it all was literally killing me.
Not knowing what I would do. I was so ill, the thought of serving tables exhausted me. I sent out resumes for office work. I went to see the Director of the pre-school my daughter had attended. She and I had a good relationship, one grounded in mutual respect and spirituality. Perhaps I could once again try to write her screenplay. It so happened she was looking for someone to work in her administration, producing documentation and materials and helping run the school. It was 10 minutes from my house. I humbly accepted her offer of $21K annual salary. I had to punch a clock again, something I hadn’t done since my very first job when I was 17 years old. I changed my title from Office Manager to Communication Director, figuring at least it was somewhat related to my prior profession. I had no idea what was next for me.
Money was extremely tight. It so happened that with the market crash of 2008, mortgage rates dropped, and my mortgage was reduced. I picked up freelance writing gigs whenever I could, as well as a few short term producing gigs if they fit into the schedule. Somehow, we stayed afloat.
A year later, I realize my boyfriend of 5 years and I were not going anywhere. I ended our relationship and decided that it was time for me to revisit the idea of changing careers. I had to carve out another livelihood, one that would take me into my old age, as I had absolutely no retirement funds or savings. The house was all I had, and I had to leverage its value to create a future for myself. Becoming a therapist fit the bill. I figured I could grow old and still talk to people. As long as my heart still had empathy, I could work until I was old and grey.
I reworked and resubmitted my application for Graduate School. I took out student loans with the intention that some day, I would sell the house and pay them back.
Once again I was accepted to the MFT Program. 10 years after I had previously been accepted by the very same institution, 14 years after my initial effort in New York.
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