“I’m mad as Hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.”

When fictional television anchor Howard Beale leaned out of the window, chanting, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” in the 1976 movie ‘Network,’ he struck a chord.  This famous quote refers to the workplace, but it is also applicable to life in general.

Ho many times have you opened the door to your heart only to be greeted by the face of criticism, judgement, fear, mistrust or even worse, the specter of those who want to “fix” you, to give you advice, to help you be the person “you are meant to be.”  And just what person might that be?….the daughter your mother so desperately wanted and needed to give her life meaning?….the wife who dutifully sublimates her needs and interests to those of her aspiring husband?…the woman who, in the face of societal norms, represses her sadness, her anger and frustration only to become depressed and suicidal?…..the child who has been abused and then threatened to prevent her from “spilling the beans, airing the dirty laundry, asking for help?

If you were to ask me what I regret most in my life, it would be not speaking out sooner.  My wonderful mother in law coined an expression for the language of the South (I moved from Indian to Memphis in 1969).  She called is South-mouthing.  Ya’ll know what I am talkin’ about.  It happens when you run in to your husband’s bosses wife at the grocery. She immediately pastes on her beautiful, fake smile and says, “It is so good to see you.  John and I have been meaning to have you over for drinks.  I’ve just been so busy getting the kids off to camp.  Mother is a nursing home and I have to get by there everyday.  Then there is our older son, James, who has been accepted to Harvard law.  I am going up to get him situated in an apartment.  Poor boy has no sense of decor.”  Pushing the cart forward, she turns her head and gives the Eva Peron wave.  “Best be going.  Call you soon.”  Of course, you never hear from her.

I heard this same phenomenon described in another way.  Here is the South we avoid telling it all.  You know, it is propriety over priority.  Something like that.  What the Hell.  I want to have meaningful conversations.  I am sick to death of small talk, cocktail banter, frivolous chatting about nothing.  My mother accused me of being to serious, dramatic, overwrought, bossy, hard to please, whiny, needy, always wanting attention and doing anything in the world to get it.  Never mind that my father was sexually abusing me, and physically harming my brother and grandmother.  Mother said, “You are prone to exaggeration.  What a Sarah Bernhardt you are.  You are so self-absorbed.  Always me, me, me.”

So what did I do?  I turned to cigarettes, alcohol, sex, anything I could find to numb the feelings I had.  I decided that no on cared, and it would be best to shut up.  I worked hard in school and did well.  When feelings arose, I found ways to push them down, to hide from them, to disguise them, to dress them up and make them pretty. That worked fairly well until I got married.  I assumed my knight in shining armor would want a deep and meaningful relationship with me.  Boy was I wrong.  He wanted a dutiful wife who would cook and entertain and keep her shit together.  Betrayed and angry, I acted out.  Drank more, became more and more irrational, even violent.  Finally I had an affair and the marriage ended.  Thank God.

I threw myself back in to school, and finished my undergraduate degree.  I then entered the masters program in French.  The thread of life was running thin.  Squeezing myself like a giant pimple I squirted into a full-blown psychotic break.  I dropped out of school, and, of all things, got married again.  This time to a radical, hippie theatre dude whose flamboyant promised permanent oblivion.  Not so.  I got pregnant, had a daughter, and came face to face with my warped internalized expectations of motherhood.  I had a home birth and breast-fed.  Never mind that I was drinking and smoking on a daily basis.  I had a full-time job, which I left everyday at noon in order to breast feed my sweet child.  I would be the perfect mother.  I must be the perfect mother.  I was not.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not meet the “standards set.”  I screamed and cried.  I felt trapped and alone.  I wanted to run away.  I did.  Into alcohol and affairs.

Then I woke up.  I realized, I am my mother.  I am my own worst enemy.  I am everything I said I would never be.  I am mad as Hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.  I went to AA.  I got sober.  I faced my fears.  Well maybe not.  I was so depressed, I ended up in treatment where they immediately put me on prozac, the new wonder drug, the vallum of the 1990’s. s It worked.  Life became manageable.  I successfully raised two children who are both fairly well-adjusted.  I broke the cycle of abuse and dysfunction.

I opened and ran, for 12 years, a very successful yoga studio.  I put my heart and soul into the business and the practice of yoga believing it would heal me. It did not.  It taught me to be breath and move and to quiet my mind, but it did not give me the tools I needed to open the Pandora’s box of my past.  In fact, being part of a “spiritual community” demands    repression.  In order to attract others, one must present the image of being “healed” even if that is not the case.  Yoga philosophy promises the practitioner will, over time, be calm, discerning, compassionate, to be loving, giving., to thrive in all areas of life, to be joyful, hopeful and fully alive in every moment.     That he or she will learn to work without desire for reward…. Whew!  No pressure there.

Two years ago I found a lump in my left breast.  It was cancerous.  Surgery, radiation, recovery and therapy have brought me to this moment.  There is no panacea for life.  No miracle cure.  Life is messy.  It is meant to be messy.  I am no longer afraid to air my dirty laundry.  You are not likely to hear me South-mouthing.  NO.  I am going to tell i like it is.  I am no longer medicated.  I have a full range of feelings, the most prominent one being sadness.  I love the soft edges of sadness.  I treasure the way it caresses my heart and moves me out into the world where I long to touch the hearts of others.  Sadness is like a soft melody that accompanies my every movement, my every thought.  I am reminded of this quote Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.   Khalil Gibran  I live in both.  When I share my sadness with you I no longer have to scream.  I am no longer angry because I my sadness mitigates the need I once had to pretend, to play the game, to long for approval, to be the perfect daughter, mother, wife.  Today, in this very moment, I am only me.  What a relief.