Turning 50: How it was supposed to feel

“Who is the crone? She is the most dangerous, the most radical, the most revolutionary woman in existence. Whether in fairy tales or in consensual reality, the old one goes where she wants to and she acts as she wishes; she lives as she chooses. And this is all as it should be. And no one can stop her. Nor ought they try.” —Clarissa Pinkola Estés, PhD

“Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six.” —Nora Ephron

Please note: some of the linked videos are not for kids’ ears (or for those who don’t like swear words). 

A couple months before my 50th birthday, I bought this purple t-shirt that said “Fifty AF” on it. That was how I wanted to feel on my 50th birthday. Sassy. Fully embracing it. I wanted to be as pleased and unapologetic about being 50 as Molly Shannon’s SNL character, Sally O’Malley, remember her?  I wanted to feel like Susan Sarandon at this age, who seemed equally unbothered by being middle-aged. She was one of my favorite actresses around the late 90’s, back when I only gave the occasional passing thought to what growing older would be like. I loved how full of vibrant energy she was, with that vibe that got her on a “sexiest women over 50” list when she was closer to 60. (Why do I mention her, specifically? I’ll explain shortly…). 

On a more serious note, as I approached this milestone birthday, I wanted to be ready to step right into the crone phase. I wanted to feel crystal clear about what’s most vital and precious, razor-focused about where I place my time and energy, and ready to OWN my hard-earned wisdom and inner authority. And further, I wanted to be ready to explore new ways of using that in service to young people, and my little corner of the world. 

I also wanted to feel indifferent to others’ opinions—at least the ones rooted in patriarchy that devalue all the parts of us that can’t or won’t conform to its rules, including the simple fact of aging.  And though I believe happiness to be overrated, that’s part of what I wanted to feel, too, not only AT this age, but directly related to it. Like that Ani DiFranco song, “If you’re not getting happier as you get older….”

I didn’t think it through explicitly while placing my t-shirt order, but in retrospect, all of this was what “Fifty AF” said to me. 

Well, when the day arrived, I was feeling exactly none of it. A craptastic summer full of stressful and heart-breaking events had left me reeling, still raw and fragile by the end of August. I went ahead with my COVID-safe backyard birthday gathering, blessed with the presence of amazing people I’m beyond lucky to have in my life. And yet, I was largely going through the motions, grateful but barely able to have actual FUN, and robbed of embodying my “Fifty AF” groove. In my state of emotional convalescence, I wore the t-shirt anyway, trying to rally. When I put it away in the drawer a few days later, I wondered if I would be able to wear it again and have it feel true.  

For the most part, what I want to embody at this age has nothing to do with “aging gracefully” in the physical sense. AND. Let’s deal directly with the vanity stuff because that’s there, too. That’s the part I feel forbidden to talk about if I’m to promote healthy body image and anti-ageist perspectives for younger women and girls—something that’s important to me as a woman who is now an elder (wait, WHAT??) as well as a reproductive/women’s healthcare provider. But let me not pretend to be immune. 

Recently, my younger son complimented my silver hair (silver, not gray—his word!). I told him I’m glad I stopped dyeing it, because I’m saving a lot of time and money, and what’s wrong with looking the age you are, anyway? “On God,” he said. (Apparently, in the teen/tween lexicon, “On God” is the new “Facts.”). I was past ready to let all the gray come in, and the early days of the pandemic made it a no-brainer. My natural hair feels more “me” by the day. I wear make-up more often than I used to, but I still leave the house without it on most days. Plastic surgery or even Botox is not something I would ever consider, although I hold zero judgement for those who do—we all have to deal with the culture’s expectations of women in our own way.  

Despite the ways I’m embracing (or at least at peace with) the aging process, it’s bizarre and disorienting sometimes to be in an age group that in my mind is for other people, not for me, and to see the changes happening so quickly before my eyes. The wrinkles. The weight gain. GRAVITY. Lamenting the body I used to have, and I didn’t even appreciate it. If I were an actress, my last f**kable day would have been, at the latest, sometime in 2015.

And now I’ll tell you about a silly epiphany I had right around my 50th birthday. Twenty-plus years ago, when my husband and I were in the long-distance phase of our relationship before we were married, he would refer to a female friend during our long phone conversations. After he mentioned hanging out with her several times, I asked, “Who is this woman, anyway? Should I be concerned?” He replied, “She’s like, 50 years old, Camille.” (we thought that was old, LOL). I thought about that for a minute, then asked, “OK. Are we talking about 50 in a Susan Sarandon kind of way? Or in a Kathy Bates kind of way?”  “Kathy Bates,” he said. OK, then. Nothing to worry about, I decided. 

Then one day, two decades later, I looked in the mirror and realized: Holy shit. I’m Kathy Bates. 

I’ve been thinking about that—can this be OK with me? As much as that moment of realization was a bit of a shock, the answer is yes. I looked through pictures of her on the internet and considered: a) if I suspend culturally ingrained ideas about beauty as best I can, is she beautiful? And b) if she were not, does it matter?  My answers are most definitely a) YES and b) NO.  

Last summer is getting farther away in my rearview mirror, and I’m getting closer to all I wanted to feel at age 50. The crone is peeking in my windows, seeing what I’m up to, waiting for me to let her in once I believe in my bones that her gifts are mine to receive, and give. Almost, almost. With a potent mix of her, some late-90’s era Susan Sarandon energy, Kathy Bates kind of beauty, and a little Sally O’Malley spunk, one day soon before I turn 51, I’m going to rock this t-shirt.

My Dopamine Hits Playlist (and why you should make your own)

“We’re going to snatch every bit of joy we can out of this moment, because that’s what it’s about now.” –Rhiannon Giddens, at what we now know was, sadly, the very last Rhythm and Roots Festival, 2021, Charlestown, RI

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a DJ–the radio kind, not the standing at a mixing board in front of a dance floor kind. I had forgotten all about that dream before I was old enough to pursue it, but I still love curating music, and have always made mixed tapes, then CD’s, and now digital playlists. I’ve shared a couple of them here on this blog related to the 2020 election, but other than that, it’s been mostly a private pastime. Maybe that’s because sharing music can be oddly personal. If you’ve seen the movie “Begin Again,” (and if not, you should!) you might remember when the main character, songwriter Gretta, was reluctant to share the music on her phone with her new friend and record producer because it contained “many embarrassing, guilty pleasures.” There are a few of those on the list I’m sharing here.  

It’s February—the coldest month of the year here in New England. Not the darkest, but the bleakest. The time when winter blues can hit some of us hard (not every year for me anymore, yay!). This is a playlist for when I need a little pick-me-up. I started it a while back, but added most of the songs in January, a time when most of us are doing some type of reflection, so it was a good time to think of ways to keep my mood elevated through the rest of the winter. Making this playlist has helped me start the New Year off in a positive way. 

DISCLAIMER: I’m not suggesting it’s always a good idea to try and engineer a better mood. Sometimes, we just need to feel our painful, uncomfortable feelings without trying to chase them away with music or anything else. In fact, I have another playlist for times when what I really need is to wallow in it for a little while, but that’s another post for another day. 

DISCLAIMER #2: Yes, I thought about whether I should be sharing or even still using material off Spotify. I would rather support platforms that don’t promote and profit from the conspiracy theorists and science deniers who have prolonged this pandemic and contributed to countless preventable deaths and mass suffering. Plus, I hear the sound is much better on other platforms. So I will probably switch eventually, but right now that’s way down low on the to-do list. After the Dakota Access Pipeline atrocities, I made a decision to remove our tiny little speck of business from two of the big banks funding that project by refinancing our mortgage and switching bank accounts to our local credit union. It took me three years to get around to it, but I finally did.

Ok, moving on. This is not even a list of my very favorite songs, necessarily. Some of them might be, but there are so, so many I love as much or more that don’t belong on this playlist, simply because they evoke different feelings. These songs light me up in a particular way. I catch myself smiling spontaneously. I CAN’T not sing. Some of them might provoke raucous chair dancing while driving (which could also be embarrassing, but whatever). And if I really needed another cup of coffee some morning, one of these songs would have the same effect, energy-wise. In other words, if I need a boost for my mood or energy level or both, these songs will do it, reliably. 

This playlist is heavily skewed to songs that are many decades old. My kids would say, “That’s because you’re an Old Head listening to Old Head music, Mom.” And sure, that’s part of it. But when I started digging and learning more about dopamine responses to music, another reason for this became clear. Dopamine involves memory in the sense that when its release is associated with a particular stimulus, the brain is prompted to seek out that same stimulus over and over, and repeating the experience becomes a positive feedback loop. (That’s why it’s the primary neurotransmitter that drives addictions.) Take two songs you love that are both “up” songs for you, one from back in the day and one newer one, and the one you have a history with will probably deliver a stronger dopamine response because it’s been reinforced repetitively over time. Understanding this, I’m not surprised this list is mostly older stuff, and the newer songs tend to be the ones I’ve been obsessed with and had on repeat for weeks. 

A few of them are there because they hold that special kind of excitement that comes from hearing a song and feeling the hair on the back of your neck stand up while you say to yourself, OMG WHO is THAT?! And nothing else can happen until you find out. 

Lyle Lovett—walking past Goldy Records on Thayer Street and hearing that song coming from their outdoor speakers ,and running up the stairs to ask who it was. 

PJ Harvey—driving up Doyle Avenue, PRAYING the DJ would announce who it was after the song was over (no Shazam app back then!). 

Sarah Jarosz—sitting in labor room 18 at the hospital in the wee hours of the night with a beautiful laboring woman who needed some music and didn’t bring any, so I found a blank CD someone had left in the old CD player we had (this was before EVERYONE, not just the early adopters, just played music on their phones). It was so unexpected and so perfect for that moment, and I knew I had found a new forever favorite. Since it was a blank CD with nothing written on it, and no one working that night knew who it was or even whose CD it was, the next day I had to google lyrics I had made a point to memorize, until I found her name. 

Some of them, older still (like Hall and Oates) are tied up with childhood memories of hanging out in the backyard at single-digit ages with my little transistor radio, listening to Kasey Kasem’s top 40. Or running errands with my mom, singing along to some of her favorite songs in the car (Gary Wright, Doobie Brothers). Or the tangible body memory of putting the same record on my turntable in my bedroom, dropping the needle on the precise spot over and over—the Old Head version of “on repeat,” if you will (Grease soundtrack). 

One of the songs, “Take the Long Way Home,” is one that never particularly resonated when it came out, by a band I had absolutely no use for. Then, years later, I read a novel whose title I don’t even remember, but the main character talked about that song as the one that never failed to make him feel better when he was down. So I gave it a fresh listen and GOT IT. 

Still other songs got me through specific ordeals or entire time periods. Our Lips are Sealed helped me weather years of being slut-shamed in high school. Now it works not only as general mood-lifter, but also for times when I’m a little too concerned with what people think. As a teen, listening to Led Zeppelin, Prince, the Allman Brothers, Aerosmith, Little Feat—walking for hours while chain smoking, never without my Walkman—absolutely helped me survive a couple of particularly hellish years. In adolescence and through my 20’s, music was just about the only healthy thing I used to alter my mood.   

Speaking of The Go Go’s, that and the Police song are tied to the very specific memory of those being the first two songs on an episode of “Video Jukebox,” the half hour video series that ran on HBO in the early 80’s. I waited for it to come on again so I could put my little tape recorder next to the TV and stand there, hand poised over it to make sure to press “record” at precisely the right time. (Fellow Gen-X’ers know)

Springsteen’s lyric in Thunder Road–

Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night

You ain’t a beauty but hey, you’re alright

Oh, and that’s alright with me

Only recently have I been able to pinpoint why I always loved that lyric so much (besides the fact it’s awesome songwriting). When I was younger, that line made me feel OK about not being pretty enough (you know, by the usual standards…).

And Statesboro Blues—because the first words, “Wake up, Mama” spurred the stream of consciousness that led to naming this blog. And because Allman Brothers concerts were a huge part of my teenage years. I never missed them if they played near me, and theirs are still some of the best live shows I’ve ever seen, even decades later. And because thinking about it sparks nostalgia for some long-ago gone and more recently lost Rhode Island institutions where I saw them play. The Leroy Theater. McCoy Stadium. 

Those are just a few—lots of other goodies in there–72 of them at last count!

Because dopamine is tied to memory, my list, while it could have some overlap with someone else’s, can work only for me in its entirety, and yours might work only for you—even if we happened to have near-identical taste in music. Because our memories are different, even within the same genre or artists or generational cultural frame of reference, our neural pathways are likely wired up with different songs.  Apparently, there is science to support this: 

“Hearing a song from our adolescence brings back a flood of feelings and memories. But why do those songs have such a strong hold on our emotional core? Our brains develop rapidly between ages 12 and 22 (there’s a reason they call it our “formative” years), so when we make a connection to a song during that time, it’s a strong neurological connection. The massive rush of hormones associated with our pubescent years tells our brains that everything is super important, and that includes whatever music we’re listening to at the time. That’s why when we hear a true throwback to our high school days, it’s a powerful thing.”  —SCL Health

This reminds me of a fun game I like to play: Say a song I grew up with comes on the car radio and I’m all excited to hear it and sing every word. But t’s definitely NOT one of the handful of artists I loved back then whose whole catalogs I still go out of my way to listen to. I try to listen to the song objectively and decide if I only love it because it’s nostalgic or if I would like it if I heard it for the first time today. I never find this question easy to answer! I guess that’s because there’s a lot of complex brain science involved. 

I hope you enjoy at least some of this evolving playlist. I would love to hear yours—please drop it in the comments! 

On Mindfulness: Doing what works, not forcing what doesn’t.

Charlestown Beach, RI

I get my best ideas and insights on walks. This is clearly a positive thing—it promotes exercise and insights at the same time! So why would I resist it, thwart it?

Because in my efforts at self-healing, a big part of which has been mindfulness practices, I got the idea that the “right” way to take walks is to turn them into mindfulness meditation sessions.

I’m not knocking meditation or suggesting it’s overrated. I’m much calmer, less reactive, and more present to all that is important, and better able to let go of what’s not, during times when I’m disciplined about starting the day with sitting meditation, even if it’s only for 5 minutes. Personal experience aside, there are mountains of scientific evidence demonstrating the many benefits of meditation.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with walking meditation, either. This can be a great practice, if and when it works for a person. What I am saying is, buying into the idea that that’s what I, personally, should be doing when I take walks—and more generally, that we should ALWAYS strive to be rooted in the exact present at all times—has not served me.

Besides buying into external ideas about the “right’ way to live, the mom multitasking habit has been part of the appeal of approaching walks as a mindfulness meditation. With two jobs and a family, it’s hard enough to find time for either exercise OR meditation, never mind both. Putting pressure on ourselves to make sure we’re doing all the things can take activities that are supposed to be nurturing and health promoting and turn them into just another item on the to-do list (and often one that doesn’t get done!). I guess I figured I could kill 2 birds with one stone and do both at the same time.

So I talked myself into focusing on the breath, the sensations of each step. But it didn’t make sense to me to turn inward like I was doing a sitting meditation when I was outside in the world. When that didn’t feel right, I focused on the sounds and seeing things I’ve never noticed before on the path I walk time and again. Staying in the moment by keeping my attention on the environment seemed the “right” way to do it. And it did make more sense.

But I still imposed the mindfulness meditation structure of noticing when the mind inevitably wandered and purposefully bringing it back to the present moment, and whatever sights and sounds were in the immediate experience. Whether or not what I found myself thinking about was actually worthwhile didn’t matter. It was to be redirected, reigned in.

What about the inherent value of daydreaming? Allowing the mind to wander? Is this really a thing to be avoided, or might there be a place for it? I’ve never read anything about this in books or articles specifically about mindfulness. (If you have, please share it in the comments!). As parents, most of us have heard by now that we need to protect our kids from over-scheduling and overstimulation so they have time and space even for boredom, and their minds and imaginations can wander and flourish. Why, then, should “aimless” thinking be a bad thing for adults?

I wish I could remember where I read this so I could credit the person, but recently I read something about the importance of having (or allowing) time and space for the mind to wander, and how for the author, that happens most naturally and easily when he’s walking. The author said daydreaming while walking is when the best problem-solving and creative ideas happen, because new ideas as well as different ways of thinking about the same things are more likely to arise spontaneously.

That’s how it is for me, too! I thought. And look, it’s more than OK. Maybe it’s especially good.  I knew it!

As we get older, we come to accept some things about ourselves. That’s a fine balance, because I want to keep learning and growing until my time on this beautiful and wounded planet is over. And yet, there’s comfort and self-respect in accepting that certain things can just be, and don’t need to change or evolve. (Or even, with some things, that it might be good if they changed, but they probably won’t. And that’s still OK.)

Letting the mind go wherever it’s going while walking—this I am no longer trying to change, which is liberating on many levels. It removes an item on the long list of things I feel internal pressure to “improve.”  And it frees me up to do what WORKS. What works, in this case, happens to be the same as what feels natural and automatic for me. That is most definitely not always true, and it feels like a gift. I’ll take it.

By the way, I already knew all this, about me and walking, but didn’t trust it until I read someone else say the same thing. This is not necessarily a bad thing—it illustrates the power of writing, and the value of reading many different perspectives. And yet, I often don’t trust what I know if it’s contrary to something I’ve at least partially bought into, until I have external confirmation from someone who says exactly what I’m feeling.

Especially with habits that take some discipline, like any kind of meditation, it’s easy to think that if a standard recommendation doesn’t gel with you, it’s just the typical resistance we feel when trying to adopt healthy habits. That can be true, but sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, you just know what works for you, and what doesn’t. Placing more trust in that is one thing I wouldn’t mind changing, as I try to find the sweet spot between healthy commitment to growth and being on a hamster wheel of perpetual self-improvement projects (a state of being which is at once self-critical and self-absorbed).

In between the wanderings and mental tangents, I still make a point to listen to the birds. And the kids playing in the park as I walk by. And I still make it a point to look around and notice things, like how the trees look a just a little different than the day before, in the spring and fall. Going through this process gave me that, which is good. I’ll keep it.

© Camille Williams and Wake Up, Mama! 2021

Thank you, Eddie Van Halen (and David Lee Roth).

In the 80’s, I was that girl in the jean jacket with the big VH logo patch on it. (Gen X’ers—you know, the one with the peroxide-bleached feathered mullet and the knee-high moccasin boots, smoking in the bathroom between classes.) I wish I knew whatever happened to that jacket! It went missing long ago, along with the spiral notebooks with the same logo etched into the covers by a teen fan’s ballpoint pen.

That feels like several lifetimes ago, and I haven’t really listened to Van Halen’s music in decades. When I heard the news of Eddie Van Halen’s death last week, I was of course saddened and mostly I felt for his son, whose heartbreak was palpable in his short announcement.

In the week and a half that has followed, more has come up for me personally than I ever would have expected. No doubt like many people who came of age during Van Halen’s heyday, revisiting and celebrating EVH’s music has meant revisiting those years in the visceral way that only music triggers. In perfect timing, last week there was a meme going around that says something like, “If visual art decorates space, music decorates time.” This has never felt more true.

How many fans have long love stories like this? I want to read them ALL. Here’s hoping mine finds a few die-hards who truly understand, and it makes them smile.

The “1984” album dropped during my 13th year. I had some vague knowledge of Van Halen before that— Continue reading

21 Days from the Old to the New Normal, Week 3: #StayingAtHome, Sitting with Paradox (and catching babies!)


Part 1 of this series can be found here. Part 2 is here.

The Weekend: March 14 and 15

Saturday morning, a friend suggested we meet up at a basketball court so the kids could play. I’m thinking, that’s OK, right? It’s just my younger son and one other kid. My husband Gurpreet says he thinks we should shy away from that, especially with contact sports, and in general we should keep everyone at home. Yet again, I’m thinking this is nuts, we’ve gone from no crowds to no school to no small gatherings to no get-togethers with even ONE kid? But he was spot-on about not going to India. That gave me pause, along with having just experienced an entire week of safety thresholds changing by the day.

Moments later, I got a message from another mom on a group text. Her son was already asking to have the usual small group of boys over—what did we think? I replied that our “family policy” was evolving in that moment. Continue reading

“They Grow Up So Fast.” On memory, and remembering, and the Hubble Space Telescope.


My boys, when they were four (the Hubble Space Telescope phase) and one.

“They grow up way too fast.” It’s so cliché, you’re probably rolling your eyes as you read it. We all know it, and yet when we’re in it, in the day-to-day of parenting, we forget. So even if we have a knee-jerk “yeah, yeah, I know” reaction to the cliché, how do we actually remember this thing we all know? As our children grow up at dizzying speed, faster with each passing year, is there any way to counterbalance the feeling that it’s getting away from us, without holding on to them—or the past—too tightly?

Most mothers of small children have had some version of the following experience: you’re in a public place and your toddler is melting down while the baby is screaming (or substitute some other flavor of wildness and chaos that comes with parenting small children).  An older mother, or a mother of children older than yours, gives you that knowing smile and says, “They grow so fast—hang in there, savor every moment!”

Some people (like this mom) hate this. They find it patronizing and invalidating and I get that, which why I resist the urge to say it myself—especially to people who are clearly struggling—now that my kids are getting older. It never bothered me, though, and in fact, I always appreciated the reminder. Because it’s so easy to forget, isn’t it, when things are hard? Or even when things are fine and routine but we’re on autopilot, caught up in the busy-ness and tasky-ness of life.

So, whether or not we want to hear it from others, how do we remind ourselves how soon these days, months, years, will be gone? Continue reading

Spiritual White People: Do we really want to help heal humanity? Or are we full of sh*t?


Photo by Stephen Sandian on Unsplash

Spiritual white people: do we really want to help heal humanity? If we do, it’s past time to take a long, hard look at the ways we use spiritual beliefs to harm rather than heal.

Spiritual bypassing continues to show up in white-dominated spiritual/personal growth communities and wreak insidious havoc. Sometimes it’s empresses who turn out to be naked, like Danielle LaPorte or Marianne Williamson. Sometimes it’s emperors, like Tony Robbins. At least weekly, a lesser known spiritual entrepreneur—who may not be a household name but still might have followers in the thousands—uses their social media platform to push platitudes that deny and minimize oppression and legitimate suffering. This encourages their followers to follow suit. Just when I think I’ve said all I have to say on this subject, fresh inspiration is always right around the corner.

I’m talking to and about white people living in relative privilege who hold spirituality (not necessarily religion) as part of our identities and value systems. When I say “spiritual white people living in relative privilege,” I’m speaking about us as a collective, not as every single individual. So let’s practice observing our knee-jerk tendency to start concocting #notall type rebuttals, and then let that go, ok? On second thought, I do mean every individual, because we’ve all been complicit in some aspects, to some degree.

The following is a short list of beliefs and behaviors people in white-dominated spirituality/personal growth circles—including way too many “thought leaders” and spiritual business gurus—are very busy selling, buying and feeding each other. Continue reading

Spiritual Bypassing and White Fragility, By the Playbook


Photo by Valentina Aleksandrovna on Unsplash

At the end of this essay are some links to pertinent articles, videos and books, mostly by women of color whose perspectives on this matter most. Also, on a time-sensitive note: on May 17, there is a free webinar for white women who want to do the internal work necessary to be part of the solution on these issues. More info and sign-up link here.


Last week, Danielle LaPorte, one of the biggest names in women’s spirituality/personal growth entrepreneurship, launched a program with some marketing images that were racially problematic at best. When she posted her promotion of the program on her business’s Facebook page, numerous women of color (WOC) and white women in her target audience, many of whom had followed her and bought her products and programs for years, were upset and concerned. They let her know this with thoughtfully written, heartfelt (and yes, in some cases, angry!) explanations of why the marketing campaign was racist, and gave a wealth of educational links and suggestions for repair.

The original insult was compounded by her response to the feedback. She removed the images from online marketing materials and acknowledged the problem with her marketing campaign, but simultaneously implied the real harm was being done by the people giving the feedback rather than by her actions. Continue reading

Getting Unhooked: What Happened When I Took a Break from Facebook


Photo by William Iven on Unsplash. Image description: smartphone showing Facebook log-in screen next to the words “social media” spelled out with Scrabble letters.

Facebook and I have a love/hate relationship. I’ve reconnected with people I never would have without social media, which has been (mostly) a blessing, and made new friends. I’ve seen some ideas that have changed how I operate in my daily life, like bullet journaling, and found some great parenting advice, insight and camaraderie. In the last couple of years, political and social justice actions have been facilitated or even made possible by Facebook. I’ve participated in some important and enlightening discussions (along with the many futile and exhausting ones). I’ve been educated, enraged, amazed and moved (both to tears and to action) by countless articles, blog posts, long form Facebook posts, and discussions I likely would not have seen otherwise. And this platform has allowed me to share my own writing. Lots to love.

AND. Facebook trips the wiring of my addictive tendency, which is always looking for a way to get reactivated, the minute I leave it unsupervised. Continue reading

Fear of February: How my winter depression shifted

IMG_2148 2

I really have no business living in New England.

I was born in New Orleans in August, in the middle of the afternoon. I could check what the temperature was that day, if that info is even available, but whatever. It was hot. We moved when I was just over a year old, and I spent a few years of my early childhood in Rhode Island. I can access a few hard details and events that stand out in stark relief, but most of my memories from that time are only sketches, shadows, colors, feelings. Vague images of snow angels are among those.

Before kindergarten, when my parents divorced, we (my mother, baby brother and me) moved back down south, initially to Mississippi where my grandparents lived. My mother remarried shortly thereafter and I was back in Louisiana—Baton Rouge this time (much less interesting than New Orleans, just as hot). For a couple of years at age 10 and 11, we had a stint in Indiana where I enjoyed the snow and don’t remember hating the cold, after which we were back in Baton Rouge.

Then, at age 13, my fighting spirit collided with family issues and catapulted me back to Rhode Island alone, this time without my mother and brother, where I arrived to live with my father, stepmother, stepsiblings and new baby sister—a process which was set in motion in February of that year. Continue reading