If you are interested in watching me make an ass of myself on stage, please come watch me perform an original monologue in the play “Expressing Motherhood” at the Lillian Theatre in Hollywood in January. Click here for tickets:

http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/88255

Did you guys know that I graduated from NYU Tisch School Of the Arts with a Degree in Acting? Do you know that this was almost 2 decades ago??? Do you think I remember anything? And how the hell does my classical, Shakespearean training apply to my snarky Angst Mom essays?

Ok… enough angst! I am excited and honored that I was asked to be in this production and I would love if you would come and support me. It has actually been a latent desire of mine for years to get back on the stage, and I am thrilled to have this opportunity to perform an original piece.

And if I suck, please lie to me and tell me I was awesome.

What a wonderful weekend! I am so blessed that my family and closest friends joined us for Haley’s Bat Mitzvah. It was truly a beautiful day and I am so proud of Haley for everything that she is and all that she has accomplished. Here is the blessing I read to her during the ceremony:

When I met with the Rabbi and the Cantor to talk about my blessing for Haley, I was encouraged to speak about her qualities rather than brag about her accomplishments. Thank God for this- because there is not enough time in the day to speak of how bright, accomplished, and gifted this beautiful young lady is! Anyone who knows Haley can attest to this.

 Haley’s Torah Portion is Bereshite, which is all about creation. God said “Let there be light,” and it was good. Haley’s light shines brightly, and all the people whose lives she touches feel her warmth.

When we came into each other’s lives over eight years ago, things felt a bit chaotic, probably a bit the way the world was before creation. There was no form to our relationship, as neither of us had a blueprint on how to navigate what we were about to enter. But just as God created light and saw that it was good, I got to know Haley and saw that she was so much more than good- she is a gift. I am so grateful to have her in my life today and I am honored that I was able to help support her at pursuing a Jewish education and becoming a Bat Mitzvah.

In many ways, Haley inspires me. Yesterday I had a great idea- I wanted to pick up haley a few hours from school so we could get some manicures and pedicures before her big day. When I told Haley of my plan, She immediately replied, “I can’t miss school to get my nails done Jenny!” Now in my world,  a mani and pedi is a form of Tikkun Olam- for when I repair my nails, I am sort of repairing the world- right? In all seriousness, Haley’s values, priorities, and integrity actually inspire me to remember what is truly important.

It’s especially fitting that her Torah portion is Bereshite because she is so incredibly creative. Not only with her artistic talent and love for reading and writing, but in the way she treats people. She has a gift for honoring people and making them feel special and loved. She is a wonderful daughter and step-daughter, big sister and friend. She is so sensitive to other people’s feelings, and will go to great lengths to make sure that the people in her life feel welcome and included. She doesn’t fall pray to cattiness and gossip- she has a wisdom beyond her years.

Haley has a compassionate heart. For her Bat Mitzvah, together we decided to keep the theme of the day Mitzvot, and this theme is illustrated all throughout the choices she made- from using Sova food baskets as centerpieces that will later be donated, to the Tzedakah project  we will all be participating in during the reception. Haley embraced the idea that her Bat Mitzvah is a spiritual journey and encouraged me to stay within the spirit of the day as I was planning the reception.

My prayer for Haley is that she always has the love for Judaism and Israel that she has today. I pray that she stays true to her values and ideals, and continues on her path of sanctity, learning, and love. I have no doubt in my mind that on this day, the day she becomes a Bat Mitzvah and takes on the responsibility of being a Jewish young woman, God is shining brightly down on her and saying, “It is very good.”

Today I decided to embark on a new experience- the Korean Spa. I am generally not a fan of spa treatments. They actually seem to have reverse effect on me- instead of getting relaxed, I tend to get freaked out as some stranger massages me either too hard or too soft. Then I begin to obsess on how I should tell them to change their technique without hurting their feelings. If I finally do manage to unwind, the masseuse will undoubtedly be a Chatty Kathy who gabs non-stop while trying to squeeze some free therapy out of me, during my intended hour of peace and quiet. And frankly, I am not too keen about some stranger rubbing their cooties all over my naked body- especially during flu season.  Consequently, I tend to avoid massages most of the time.

But my friend told me about this incredible Korean Spa which she claimed was “amazing, clean, and unbelievably cheap.”  Having had a stressful few weeks with work and family responsibilities, I decided to treat myself to a massage. As I looked at the spa menu online, I was pleasantly surprised by the options and prices. I booked a 2 hour treatment, which included a body wrap, massage, facial, and conditioning hair treatment. All of this was only $130!!! I felt like I had struck gold.

When I arrived at the spa, I was impressed by how clean it was. However, I was not impressed by the fact that everyone was nude- including the employees. Don’t get me wrong- I am not a prude, I don’t have a problem with anyone’s naked body.  Personally, I prefer to be nude in a dim room while flat on my back (and not breathing) after my husband takes his glasses off. But I figured that when in the Korean Spa, do as the Korean Spa-goers, so I mentally tried to prepare myself for imminent full-frontal nudity. I felt badly for exposing these poor Korean women to my boobs- which are really quite frightening after breastfeeding for nearly four years. Even the elderly woman who was getting out of the Jacuzzi (and looked to be around eighty years old) had perkier breasts than me!

My technician was a stern, husky, middle aged woman (who happened to have great tits). She was armed with some scary looking scrub-brush and commanded me (in broken English) to get naked- in a communal treatment room under fluorescent lights. I was terrified to drop my robe, but even more afraid to defy this imposing woman, so I did as I was told. As she surveyed my body, I could have sworn her  eyes lingered judgmentally on my breasts. I gave her my most apologetic look and flung myself face down on a plastic treatment bed, almost sliding to the concrete floor in the process.

She began to scrub, and scrub and scrub. Like she was trying to get the varnish off an old piece of furniture. I was in excruciating pain and certain my skin was getting rubbed right off, but as I looked at all the other nude Korean technicians scrubbing away I was inspired by their milky, flawless skin- so I decided to brave it out- repeating the mantra “beauty is pain”. 

The scrubbing continued and my skin felt raw.  I considered voicing my concerns, but for some reason, I didn’t think my technician would be sympathetic. It began to feel like she was using a brillo pad to scour a filthy roasting pan. Granted I’m no spring chicken, but I happen to shower and exfoliate regularly, and I don’t work in the coal mines. What the hell was she trying to scrub off of me? I laid there passively, paralyzed by fear and pain. At some point, I began to identify with my captor and convinced myself that this torture actually felt good. Finally it ended! Then she wrapped me up in what appeared to be a gigantic piece of tin foil and began violently scrubbing my head. I feared for my highlights.

Next came the facial which was (surprise!) a super-aggressive cleansing followed by an ice- cold stringy mask that was aggressively slapped on. It seriously felt like worms were being dropped onto my face- in retrospect, maybe they were, but I dared not ask any questions, for inquiries could be construed as challenging this woman’s authority.

Next came the massage. She drenched my body in hot oil and began beating my poor muscles into submission. By this point, I was counting the minutes for this treatment to end. I’d really had enough- my capacity for pain was maxed out. She got on top of me and began pounding on my back. I felt warm droplets splash all over me. I figured she was pouring more oil, but then I realized that both of her hands were occupied as she was beating the shit out of me.  I reached my head back and saw sweat pouring off her face and body and splashing down. All over my naked body.

I needed to get the fuck out of there right now.

“Is it almost over? I asked bravely, hoping that someone would understand me and respond.  She sent another technician over- a young woman who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model- to translate.

“Half- hour!” she replied curtly, and continued to pound and sweat away. There was no way I could endure this torture for another 30 minutes.

I suddenly had a flashback to the novel “1984″ when the lead character was forced to face his personal hell as he was locked in a tiny room with a swarm of rats. Having a stranger squatted over me and schvitzing on my naked body was my own version of hell. I needed to escape.

I abruptly sat up, and for an instant forgot about my breasts, which were quite possibly in the most unattractive position possible,  and declared, “I need to go now.”

She put her hand on my chest and pushed me back down on the bed, “Not yet!” she barked, and continued the attack. Clearly in the Korean Spa, when a woman says “no” it doesn’t mean no.

I sat up again and with more urgency in my voice I said, “I need to go NOW… I am late for something.” I darted over to my robe to wrap up my body, which was pink from all the scouring, pounding, and shame.

Now that I am home and mostly recovered, I am happy to report that my skin looks and feels great. My hair is shiny and bouncy and I actually feel pretty good.

 But God help, I will never voluntarily subject myself to such abuse, humiliation, and sweat ever again.

I have come to believe that no male physician, no matter what his education, training, and experience, can truly understand the angst a woman experiences when her vagina gets sick. Consequently, when I am having an embarrassing female issue, the last thing I want to do is seek help from some asshole doctor with a penis.

It is an unfair law of nature that when men have problems with their penises, they are usually unaware of the lurking infection. It is common for a man with an STD, yeast infection, or UTI to be blissfully ignorant and symptom-free, while a woman with the same ailment would be in excruciating pain within hours.

It is important to note that while men’s parts are not quite the plumbing nightmare as women’s, when something does go wrong, the mood suddenly becomes very somber. Heavy scanning equipment is utilized and the worst is imagined. Consequently, a man often remains in denial for as long as possible. He will even rationalize a sore on his penis by saying, “It must have got caught in my zipper.” Men seem to be constitutionally incapable of facing the truth about their penises, while women are hyper-concerned about the health of their vaginas. Perhaps this is why male doctors rarely feel empathy for a woman who is panicked and on the verge of hysteria when she is having “feminine problems”.

A woman with the merest twinge in her nether region will contort her body into a pretzel as she sits on top of a magnifying mirror to scrutinize her genitals, in an attempt to decipher if things look normal. Having been in this compromising position a few times in my life, I am always mystified by my findings. Perhaps because I never bother to check how things look when my vagina is healthy, I have no basis for comparison. It is easy to become hypochondriacal as I am squatted over a mirror and trying to decode something as intricate and complex as the vagina. Especially as I am experiencing strange and horrific symptoms that nobody ever talks about.

This is exactly how I found myself last Friday night at 7pm- spread eagle over a mirror as I ventured to assess why over the course of a few hours a mild discomfort and pressure above my pelvis blossomed into full-blown pain, coupled with an intense urgency and burning when I peed -which I was doing every 2 minutes. My husband was out of the country and I had 6 children under my care, as I was hosting my step-daughter’s slumber birthday party that evening. I googled “vagina pain burning peeing” and my search yielded over 6 million results. Panic and hysteria set in.

I called my best friend Beth, who matter of factly informed me that I had a urinary tract infection. She brought over one of those home tests, I peed on the stick, and it came up positive. She told me I needed to quickly get some antibiotics or my infection would get worse. Given that it was a Friday evening, I could not imagine waiting until Monday to see my doctor, so I paged my OB. After an hour, I still had not heard back from her. My pain was getting exponentially worse as I simultaneously tried to entertain a house full of children while running to the toilet to squeeze out a couple of drops every few minutes. Out of desperation, I paged my regular doctor- a man- on his emergency line. He called me back within minutes.

“What’s the emergency?” he barked in to the phone.

I was in so much pain I could hardly speak. I was laying on the floor in a fetal position as I fought through the shame of having to talk about my vaginal symptoms with some cranky, old dude who seemed totally annoyed that I had disturbed him on a Friday night. I understand that the last thing he probably wanted to hear about was some neurotic chick’s vagina, but he is a doctor after all, and I was hopeful that he would be able to summon up some sympathy for my condition. I tearfully told him what was going on- down to the google search, magnifying glass, and positive UTI result.

“I don’t prescribe over the phone!” he practically screamed at me, “If you are in enough pain to page me on my emergency line, then you need to go to the ER.” Motherfucker.

I told him that I had a house full of children and I was hosting a slumber party and that my husband was out of town. Frankly, I would rather cut out my vagina than sit in a crowded ER for several hours late at night (during flu season) to simply get a prescription for a UTI.

He was unsympathetic “What’s more important, your health or this party?” he growled. “If you felt bad enough to page me, then you can go to the emergency room.” And with that, he hung up the phone.

I was stunned. Clearly, my pain was bad enough for me to page him. Why should I have to wait days to get relief for a problem that would quickly be resolved with the proper medication? Of course my health was more important than this slumber party- you can be certain that if I were having symptoms of a heart attack or a stroke I would drop everything and immediately go to the hospital. But while my malady was incredibly uncomfortable, a burning pee-pee is not life threatening and does not warrant a trip to an emergency room.

Furthermore, I found his inference that I could simply leave the kids and go to the ER totally misogynistic and callous. Clearly, this suggestion came from a person with a penis, who has never had the pleasure of having a house full of children and a spouse who was out of the country while his crotch was on fire. What kind of monster would advise me to abandon my children and expose myself to God-knows-what to simply get a prescription for a condition that had already been 98.4% positively diagnosed, based on my google search “accuracy of home UTI tests.” All I needed was a goddamned prescription, which he could easily write for me if he wasn’t being a such pissy son-of-a-bitch.

As I was ready to completely succumb to the anxiety and pain that had been mounting for hours, my phone rang again. Hallelujah! It was my OB/GYN, a wonderful woman with a depth of knowledge, compassion and humor. I breathlessly told her the whole story and she listened patiently.

“What a fucking asshole” she said “You clearly have a UTI and need antbiotics. And you also need to get a new doctor while you’re at it!” With that, she called in my prescription and even convinced the pharmacy to deliver it to my home.

So the moral of my story is this: when the magnifying glass comes out, DO NOT attempt to discuss your findings with any member of the male species because they just don’t get it. Men are emotionally and biologically incapable of truly understanding the gravity of the situation and the complexity of emotions that accompany it. When it comes to your vagina, only another woman will do!

In the aftermath of child rapist Roman Polanski being taken into custody after trying to enter Switzerland on Saturday, questions about culpability, morality and teen sexuality have arisen. The Academy Award-winning director pled guilty in 1977 to a single count of having unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor, acknowledging he had sex with a 13-year-old girl, but fled the United States before he could be sentenced. It is alleged that in addition to raping the child, he also drugged and sodomized her after her mother dropped her off at Jack Nicholson’s home for a supposed photo shoot with Polanski.

While I wholeheartedly believe that Polanski should be held 100% responsible for his egregious crime, I also feel that only focusing disproportionately on him seems hypocritical in a society that all-too-often celebrates and exploits teen sexuality.  Everywhere we turn, we see splashy images of sexy young girls- and often times their parents and other adults condone their exploitation.

A few days ago, I met with the photographer I hired for my step-daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. While we were discussing packages and options, he showed me the book of a 13 year old girl’s Bat Mitzvah that he had recently shot. In the opening photograph, I saw a provocative photo of a girl (who could have been anywhere from 13 to 30) with glowy makeup, blown-out hair, and a strapless mini-dress and silver stiletto heels. I was aghast.

I asked the photographer, “How could her mother let her wear that dress? For her Bat Mitzvah no less?”

He replied, “All the young girls dress like this now- their moms think they look cute.”

Cute was not exactly the word that came to my mind.  I found the photos disturbing and repulsive. How can this child’s mother not know that she has made her daughter into a  juicy target for pedophiles and other creepy people who hide in the shadows waiting for ripe opportunities and easy targets to present themselves?

This dilemma was illuminated again recently after Miley Cyrus performed her “pole dancing” routine on the top of an ice cream truck at the Teen Choice Awards. The over-arching question was, “Is it appropriate for a 16 year-old-girl to be sexualized in such a blatant manner?” There were those who were quick to condemn the act as exploitative and unacceptable, and others who felt that her display was no different than previous incidents of glorified teen sexuality, ranging from Brook Shields’s provocative ads when she was not yet an adult to Britney Spears’s seductive schoolgirl routine in the music video, “Oops I Did It Again.” The glamorization of the sexy teenage girl has coincided with the growth of an industry punishing men for acting on their attraction to teenagers. 

My point is certainly not that it is ok for a grown man to heaven forbid rape an underage girl. But while we rightly condemn these men who act on their imperious urges, what about the other adults who enable these teen girls to be sexualized so freely? Did anyone arrest Brooke Sheilds’s mother, Terry, or demonize her as a sexual predator? And someone had to provide Miley with the pole. Was that person held accountable? And shouldn’t these moms who dress up their children like junior hookers and drop them off at grown men’s homes be held responsible as well?

Perhaps if we were more honest in our discussion of how we all contribute to the sexual exploitation of young girls, whether we are parents who think it is cute to dress them up provocatively or TV execs who provide them with stripper poles, we could remember that the finger we are so quick to point at Polanski also needs to be pointed back at ourselves.

When my long lost buddy sent me a Facebook friend request nearly a year ago, I was ecstatic. Claire and I were inseparable all throughout high school. We finished each other’s sentences and shared not only our clothes and makeup, but our darkest secrets and fantasies as well.

Then, in the middle of our senior year, she got a boyfriend and I was quickly fazed out. I was hurt that she could so easily turn her back on our friendship for some dude (who turned out to be a complete asshole-of course!) after all we had been through. What I learned is that there are some girls who cannot maintain relationships with their friends once they have a guy in their life. Claire was one of those girls.

Nearly two decades passed, and I always wondered about Claire. But when we both left for college, we had nothing more than each others’ home phone numbers, for these were the days before cell phones and twitter, and all the other technological mediums that provide us with the illusion of friendship and connection, but only leave us more isolated and incapable of making a genuine human connection then ever. But, I digress…. back to Claire. And that ubiquitous Facebook friend request:

“Hi Jennifer, Sorry for stalking you… if you would rather not respond, I completely understand. But I would love to get back in contact with you. I’ve always thought of you as one of the few true friends I’ve had in life, and that is such a rare thing. If you’d be interested in getting back in touch, please respond. Love, Claire“

I was elated. We began sending each other long emails about our lives and journeys over the past 20 years. We even explored the issues that led to us drifting apart. Claire wrote:

“I have googled you more times than I can count over the years. I didn’t contact you in those early years was because I was so ashamed of what a poor friend I was to you toward the end of high school when I hooked up with Joe and was incapable of having any other relationships. Thank God we’re finding each other now instead of when we’re 80! Now you’re stuck with me for good!“

Within a week, Claire sent me an email asking me if she could come visit me for a few days. I invited her to stay in my home and planned the whole weekend out for us.

We had an awesome time. She met my husband and children, I took her to my favorite restaurants and we spent hours talking, and even sat on my sofa late at night and continued our gab-fest over a bowl of chocolate chips-just like old times! We were thrilled that after all these years, we still had nearly identical tastes and beliefs- from politics to social issues to music.

We made a commitment to stay connected via Facebook, to talk on the phone at least once a week, and make the effort to visit each other every few months. I felt like I had my best friend back.

I knew Claire had a demanding career and she and her husband where avid travelers, so when her emails became less frequent I thought nothing of it. But a couple of weeks ago I suddenly realized that I had not heard from Claire in over two months, so I decided to check out her profile and see what was up. She was no longer on Facebook! I assumed she must have deleted her account. On a whim, I clicked on one of our mutual friends and looked at her list of friends. Lo and behold, there was Claire, on her list.

Was it possible that Claire had deleted me as her friend from Facebook? And if so, why in God’s name would she do such a nasty and reprehensible thing?

I immediately sent her a new friend request, and left her a voicemail, as well as a personal email. I racked my brain and tried to think of something I could have possibly done to warrant such an immature act of technological vengeance, but I drew a blank.

I waited all day and heard nothing from her. And I admit it- I began to obsess. I emailed one of our mutual friends on the site:

“Hey Joy- have you heard from Claire lately? For some reason, I can’t access her page.”

Joy immediately responded:

“Yeah- she is still on. She got back from Tibet a few weeks ago- she has some great pictures posted!”

I felt dread wash over me. Claire was still on Facebook and for some reason had deliberately deleted me from her list of friends. That night, I checked my pending friend request to Claire and it had been….DENIED! Worse yet, she had blocked me from her account. The message rang loud and clear: “I hate you- get the fuck out my life- never contact me again!”

This couldn’t be happening to me.

In our generation, deleting a friend from Facebook is the ultimate act of “fuck-you.” Facebook has become synonymous with popularity, friendship, and connection. People feel great pride over the quality and quantity of their “Friends List” on the social networking site. When someone is unceremoniously deleted from one of these lists, they often feel intense rejection and angst. Teenagers have been known to commit suicide over this.

But for God’s sake, I am not in junior high school, I am a 35 year old woman and I have worked way too hard in my life to get dissed by one of my best friends on Facebook- some lame-ass site that I never wanted to join in the first place because of the ridiculous stories of public betrayal and rejection that I had heard. Stories like mine.

Right then and there I decided that I was not going to go down in a sea of shame on Facebook without one hell of a fight!

I don’t easily open up to people and let myself get vulnerable, as I had done with Claire. She was the one who had pursued me and invited herself to my home, and made grand apologies and new promises of renewed friendship and connection. And now she was rejecting me on Facebook? My despair turned to anger. This is bullshit- if I had done something to upset her, the very least I deserved was an explanation.

A few more days and sleepless nights passed and still no word from Claire. On a whim, I risked being classified as a “Facebook Stalker” and messaged her husband:

“Todd- this is Jennifer, Claire’s friend. I have been trying to contact her for the past few days online and on the phone. For some reason she has not responded. I am totally confused. Please, at the very least, let me know that she is OK. Thanks.“

Within an hour, Claire responded. Finally!

“First of all, we just returned from Tibet which is why I have not responded to you- (Really? According to our mutual friends she had been back for weeks.) I can’t believe you would think I would delete you- I would never do that! I have been trying to delete my account from Facebook- since I am no longer getting anything out of being there, except wasted time. I think some of my friends got blocked in the process. (Then why was she on all of our mutual friends’ lists except mine?) Now for the good news…Todd and I are moving to Tibet in 2 weeks! It has always been our dream to live there and we were offered a job to manage a luxury monastery for two years! I am so excited! I am going to be very busy for the next few weeks preparing for this move, and once we get there I don’t think we will have internet. But I am so happy we reconnected and I wish you all the best!”

For some reason, her response left me feeling more sad, confused and rejected then when I thought she had simply deleted me off of Facebook. I never wanted to relive the emotionally enmeshed connection we had in high school- clearly that wasn’t healthy and wouldn’t have worked in either of our busy and full adult lives.

But I expected her to treat me with compassion and dignity and be responsive when I attempted to contact her. Instead, she left me in a holding pattern for days and couldn’t bother to respond to my multiple messages and voicemails, despite the fact that I was clearly upset and anxious. It felt very cruel. I believe she only replied to me because she felt backed in to a corner.

Now, I wasn’t being dumped for some dumb-shit dude, rather I was being tossed aside as she pursued her new life. I was being told “Don’t bother contacting me for the next few years because I am going to be unreachable” with no mention of our commitment to stay connected to one another. By the way, I am hard pressed to believe that there is no internet in Tibet!

Our reunion was a complete waste of time and emotional energy, which has left me questioning our entire relationship. I also feel totally used- like a baby blankey or some other transitional object that was snuggled up to and sucked on until something better came along.

So, I responded to her in the only way I could:

“Sounds like an exciting opportunity. I wish you and Todd all the best. Take care.”

In retrospect, I wonder…was I actually deleted as her friend on Facebook? Maybe. Was I given the ultimate kiss-off and essentially told “I’m just not that in to you anymore”? Absolutely. Am I surprised? Not really? Am I hurt and angry? Unquestionably.

And if, upon her return from Tibet, she comes knocking, texting, tweeting, or Facebooking, my heart will be closed. No matter how seductive the illusion of her friendship appears to be.

Whatever happened to the art of RSVP? Our generation are the rudest, most inconsiderate  RSVP”ers ever. It amazes me how even my closest friends are waiting till the absolute last minute to respond to Haley’s Bat Mitzvah invitation-in case something better comes along perhaps? People experience tremendous existential conflict and become blubbering wafflers and commitment-phobes when confronted with those ominous initials- RSVP. 

If I could hear the inner dialogue of of one of these RSVP flunkies, I bet it would go something like this- Who am I? What am I doing? Where am I going? What is religion? ? Is there a God? What are the serving for lunch? Will I like it? What will I wear? Will I look fat? What is the meaning of this ceremony? And why the hell does the  poor child get bounced up and down on a chair during the party?

Listen up friends- the reason I invited you this special event is because you are special and important to me and my family. We are not using this spiritual rite of passage as an excuse to have a lavish, obnoxious party that bastardizes the true meaning of the day. Rather, we have planned a ceremony and reception that we hope will be both moving and fun. 

But please….get off the fence and be courteous and RSVP. Leaving a good friend hanging until the last second- no matter how legitimate your reasoning- is not cool. The Bat Mitzvah is 2 weeks a week and it is time to make a choice, which I sincerely hope is one of the smaller and more insignificant decisions in your life. This is a few hours out of one day of your life- a few hours which are incredibly meaningful to me and my family- and I hope you can join us.

If you can’t come, then I will do my best to not suffer a nervous breakdown and cut you out of my life forever.

Peace!

Now that Mackenzie Phillips has come forward about her chaotic childhood, which was fraught with addiction and sexual abuse, we are again presented with a vivid example of how parenting and substance abuse don’t mix. It is easy to respond with shock and disbelief upon hearing how Mackenzie’s father taught her to roll a joint at age 11 and shot her up with heroin shortly thereafter, but sadly, her story as the child of a drug addict is not that unique.

While many parents who are addicts make an initial attempt to shield their young children from their using, eventually, the child grows older and wiser and will catch on.  As the parent progresses in his addiction, personal boundaries are violated, as the environment becomes more and more unsafe and distorted. In an addicts mind, teaching his child to roll a joint may not only seem acceptable, but fun and cool. Children are easily manipulated and targeted to fulfill the addict’s desire, and the emotional toll that this exacts can be lifelong and devastating.

When parents get loaded around their children, whether with drugs or alcohol, they expose them to a myriad of emotional, physical, and sexual abuses. Additionally, an alcoholic or addicted home is a petri dish for violations of all kinds to flourish.  Children will go to great lengths to convince themselves that their parents are “good” and “right”, even in the face and unimaginable horrors. These misperceptions can have a lasting impact and persist well into adulthood. We only have to hear how Ms. Phillips describes the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of her father as “consensual” to understand how intensely distorted her perception of the situation is. Even if she physically consented to the abuse on some level, she was emotionally manipulated to a profound degree, which resulted in her skewed belief that she was a willing participant.

It is impossible for a parent who is drunk or high to be truly responsive to their child’s needs, no matter how “in control” they believe they are while under the influence. Also, when children see their parents reaching for a drink or a drug to deal with life’s stressors, they are robbed of the opportunity to learn about healthy forms of self-soothing.

Perhaps the most tragic aspect of being raised by alcoholic or drug -addicted parents is that the child learns to not trust their own intuition. For even the youngest children have an intrinsic sense of what feels right verses what feels wrong. When the people in their life that they trust the most are behaving so selfishly and egregiously, the child only knows that as the status quo. And as with Mackenzie Phillips, their own sense of emotional security will be deeply impacted.

Hello Everyone and L’Shanah Tovah to all my Jewish friends!

I wanted to remind you about the very important group I am starting for moms who are struggling with addiction. This group will meet in the Los Angeles area and is for women who are struggling with drugs, alcohol, prescription pills, food addiction, shopping, gambling, or sex.

We will meet weekly in a safe and non-judgmental environment and you will have the opportunity to discuss what is really going on in your life, receive support, and  learn new coping to replace old, destructive behaviors.

I have many subscribers on my mailing list who are dealing with addiction in one form or another, and now is the time to get help! You don’t need to do this alone anymore.

Please email me directly for more information about my group and individual services.