Today in History

May 19, 1972. Fifty years ago, a junior high school counselor had spent three days researching with the district psychologist the best course of action for an extremely suicidal, intelligent, anorexic student she had worked with for the past year who could no longer stay safe with equally unsafe, divorced parents. On this day, the counselor obtained permission to drive the 14 year old Joceile to Child Study and Treatment Center, a part of Western State Hospital, to commit her/me. That was the summer I woke up from a childhood nightmare to a life that finally belonged to me. Fraught with continuing danger, I began my travels to the land of mental health that last to this day.

I was in that psychiatric residence for five months. To many people, this would be an event happily blotted out, forgotten, never to be revisited.  To me, it is annually celebrated as the beginning of my healing.  It’s not that Western State Hospital was perfect and didn’t have it’s therapeutic problems.  It’s that it was also five months of firsts in a long, painful experience with adults working to keep me safe.  

One example is that I learned how we all give cold pricklies and warm fuzzies to others.  Of course, they are silly names used for children’s learning. But it was a concept for identifying how we treat others. An outcome was learning for the first time that I could ask for a hug (a warm fuzzy) from adults I trusted and get a safe one in return. I could also give one. What a revelation for a kid starved for safe, unconditional affection!

There were many other firsts.  Some profound.  Others less so but memorable.  Group hiking trips, train rides, movies, walks, shopping trips, and backpacking with staff who truly cared.  These all happened in the company of a small community of 14 to 17 year old girls and a diverse staff whose job it was to look out for us and us for each other. (I’m sure not every patient saw it that way.) I remember going to the Puyallup Fair with eight to ten girls and staff. I couldn’t not keep track of the other girls. I remember a staff member looking to me when looking for a missing girl and I’d gesture to where the girl was last seen. It was an overdone strength, impacting my enjoyment of the fair, but I had to look out for our safety. It was emblematic of the struggle for my own safety. 

I have only four pictures of me in that transformative summer. This is the me that held on bravely and took each step that presented itself without knowing the final destination. In October 1972, I was discharged to go live with my beloved grandparents. Taking in a troubled teenager is another act of great bravery and love. Joe and Lucille are gone but their love surrounds me. 

I am filled with gratitude to my 14 year old self for her breakout contribution to a life well lived and to all of us who continue in life by putting one foot in front of the other, embracing love for ourselves and those we come in contact with. If love is a religion, it’s mine. We can’t know another’s path but we can assume they need kind regards as much as we do. 

Reporting from Life’s front. 

Joceile 

5/19/22

The story can be found here:  https://joceile-memoir.blogspot.com/2018/12/entry-1-july-28-1986.html

Pictures:  1) My counselor, Jerry, and I in the woods. 2) A volunteer, me, and a patient on the campus. 3) Me at the ocean. 4) Me after the girls badgered me into letting them put eye make-up on me—never again!

Scarlett’s Words to Live By

Scarlett, Queen of the Cat Empire, has deigned to teach me her magical secrets of success. Those of her kind frequently reiterate them. She whispers them in my ear. Just listen:

“Now is a good time to nap.”

“Nap now, not later.”

“Long naps are the answer to peace and tranquility.”

“Aren’t you feeling nappish?”

“If you wake up, you can always look forward to a nap.”

Scarlett says, “This is how those of my kind have ruled since we came upon those of your kind.”

According to Scarlett, this is my retirement plan. She doesn’t care about 401Ks, pension plans, Medicare, or social security. (She might if she was paying the bills.) As for me, I’m so tired that if you plugged me in as a 250 watt lightbulb I’d have the brightness of a 30 watt bulb. Maybe Scarlett has something here. After all, those of great royalty should know.

Joceile

5.12.22

[Picture of Scarlett, a cream colored long haired cat with tabby markings on her head, laying on a blue comforter. Her blue eyes are half open with undisguised wisdom.]

Dear Mother

“Dear Mother. I’m reaching out to you to see if it’s possible for us to have email conversations. This is a big step for me. I request that you be gentle in your conversation with me. I will do the same. 

“The two of us will not continue to be on this earth together forever. This email is an invitation to communicate a bit at a time.”

I write these words and I’m filled with the impossibility of the task. It’s been 50 years since I ran away. I don’t believe my mother can maintain any sustained level of communication without ranting about the ways she has been wronged. It’s not possible for me to believe. 

I’m making myself wait until after May 7th when she gets the card for her birthday and the delivery of tulip bulbs in a woven planter. I’ll see if and how she responds. I don’t trust her. I have nothing to base any trust on. 

I remember my year 14. I remember her picking me up from Western State Hospital to deliver me to my grandparents. I remember my year 15 when she told me my beloved school counselor was jealous of my relationship with my mom and wanted to come between us because she didn’t have that kind of relationship with her own daughter. (Oh for god’s sake.) It was the moment I knew she would do anything to manipulate me and could never be trusted. It was the moment I saw her as a difficult, troubled human in addition to being my mother. 

I remember living with my grandparents and her getting a job in the donut shop across the street from the service station where they lived. It meant she was watching every day after school when I got out of the car and walked inside the station. Every damn day I had to decide if I was going to cross the street to see her. Every damn day. God, I felt tormented. (I’m sure it was no picnic for my grandpa while he worked at the station all day. They weren’t speaking at the time.)

Kindness and justice was not in her behavior arsenal. I was hers and I’d been stolen from her by my grandparents and others through no fault of her own. Her only alternative was to woo me back. She was relentless in this “see, I’m not doing anything wrong” way.

I was a troubled kid trying to navigate my way through mental illness. She didn’t believe that my condition was valid. My situation was all manipulation on the part of my counselors, my grandparents, or me depending on the day. Someone had to be at fault besides her or my father. Someone did this to our family but it couldn’t be the two adults in the house. It had to be an outside force, a diabolical conspiracy to separate me from my parents. “Oh. It was, Mom.” It was a conspiracy of generations of parents and other adults abusing kids in the secrecy of home, school, and church without penalty or accountability. 

I still fantasize about making more meaningful contact with my mother as we approach her 87th birthday. Eighty-seven!  I haven’t seen her since she was 54. I could bow my head and pray to the god of grief.  The pain of disconnecting to a person that was so crucial in my child life feels like too much to bear until I remember the treatment when I’ve tried to re-engage. I am painfully aware that time is fleeting. But I can’t believe she’ll respond to me any differently than she did when I was a five foot ten inch tall, 14 year old girl weighing 112 pounds. A stiff, restrained girl trying her best to avoid the traps of generational illness and find a way to thrive in a life that looked bleak. 

Fifty years later, I’m here to say that it can be done but not without determination, persistence, and a shitload of luck. I’m sorry, mom. I don’t believe you’ll be on the other end of the line without more of the same. I can’t fool or trick myself into believing you’ll be there with what a loving person would find as gentleness and acceptance. 

Since the conspiracy of the day and an ex-president has been a massive disappointment to you, mom, I can’t imagine I’ll do any better than I have in the past. If death provides any relief at all, I hope you find it. I hope your god shows up in unexpected ways for you. I can’t give either of us relief in this corner of the world. 

Sending my love, virtually. 

Joceile 

4.30.22

[Picture reflecting clouds on the lake and houses on opposite shore in the waning light of evening.]

Words to Live By

Just because I feel shitty doesn’t mean I have to look shitty. 

Given a choice between being kind and gracious or righteously indignant, choose kind and gracious. 

I am not the only one having a really bad time at any given moment.

Intentions don’t matter. Actions and behavior are what counts.

Always allow Love to have a broad definition. 

Just because I wholeheartedly disagree with someone doesn’t mean they’re bad or stupid. At the very least, it doesn’t pay to treat them that way.

Belief in my moral imperative does not make my actions morally right.

My hero moment could come at any time. Shoot, did I miss it?

If I miss the pitch, I gotta keep swinging. I’m bound to connect eventually. 

If I care about my obituary, I better write it ahead of time.

Always winning may not be in my best interest as the penalty may be too high.

Just because I’m not a musician doesn’t mean I don’t have music in my heart.

The injury is never as difficult as the recovery.

Short term strategy may not serve long term interest.  I gotta know the difference.

Screwups are unavoidable. Learn from them and move on.

An apology is not a vehicle to justify behavior.

If I make it to a higher step, I must lend a hand to those on the steps below.

I’d rather have fun then be proud.

If I’m certain I know where X marks the spot, I need to recheck my calculations.  X is never where I think it is.

Very few of us have original thoughts. I’m not an outlier.

I’m not the first to feel this way and won’t be the last.

My team and I aren’t the greatest ever to do what we’ve done, we’re just the most recent.

Always have grave doubts about those who say they have the key to my salvation. 

Feeling something strongly does not make it truth. 

Learn to distinguish facts from hyperbole. 

Look up hyperbole.

I can’t fix what’s not in my control, even though I may care passionately.

Not much is in my control.

Joceile

4.13.22

[Picture of me at three and a half swinging a baseball bat wearing a white top, shorts, and saddle shoes. September 1961.]

From the Leadership that Sucks Department

A certain government agency director with whom I am no longer affiliated speaks at a virtual all staff meeting about opening up to the public after the two year COVID shutdown.  Due to the nature of the customer population the agency serves, staff expressed their concerns about opening and their safety.  

From the agency director, Figure A:

And from the human resource director, Figure B:

True story. You can’t make this stuff up. (Artist unidentified.)

Joceile

3.16.22

[Pictures: Both cartoons. Figure A is of woman in business attire with the caption, “Morale is low. Have we tried telling them that they’re courageous?” On her desk is a sign that says, “Courage.” Figure B is of a woman in a robe with the caption, “That’s a great question and a complex issue, but it’s hard to hear you from my cruise ship. LOL. You are brave, byeee.”]

Fifty Years Sheila Rae!

Dear 14 Year Old Joceile,

Fifty years ago. You were brave. It didn’t feel like it at the time. Then, it felt like extreme survival. “How to Keep Living in a Situation of Immense Adversity.” No guide books. “This is What to Do When Parents Abuse. Steps 1, 2, 3, etc.” Nothing like that. 

“This is What a Child Should Do When Feeling Suicidal.”

“This is What a Child Should Do When Thinking They’re Crazy.”

“The Modern Guide to Running Away and Accessing Social Resources.”

“Who to Talk to When You’re Terrified.”

“What to Do When a Parent Says They’ll Kill You if You Tell.”

There was no such bibliography. If you told the wrong person, it was worse than telling no one. Adults could not be relied on to do what they said they would do. 

“What to Do if You’re Hearing a Voice in Your Head.”

“What to Do if You Think You Might be Hallucinating.”

“What to Do When It’s Not Safe to go Home.”

“How to Recognize What is Safe.”

There were no obvious paths, only destructive ones and less destructive ones. But you navigated them complete with pitfalls and false starts. I’m so proud of you. I stand next to you, holding your hand, hugging you. I look in the mirror and still see your troubled eyes. They don’t scare me anymore. I see their compassion and ability to love. I see your heart. 

I remember the internal conversations. How do I get away? Prison or mental hospital? What are the ramifications of each?

Arm cutting was not yet a common thing. You stumbled on it because you weren’t sure you could kill yourself by cutting your wrists. The first cut was just a test. You found it gave relief. It was both a troubling and course setting activity that narrowed your choice to mental hospital. No guidebook for navigating the mental hospital setting. 

“How to Cope with Hospitalization from Day One.” No orientation guide. You learned by doing. All of life is like that. It’s still nice to get hints. There’s no “Surviving Life Without Getting Killed for Dummies.” Regardless, we navigated and have thrived despite it. 

You did that. You entered Western State Hospital. You bobbed and weaved while you contemplated discharge options that had even a sliver of hope for success.  It was an act of great bravery and perseverance when all looked hopeless. You found guardian angels along the way. Counselors, teachers, staff, and grandparents. There were 14 other girls. Few of them succeeded. Some have died. You wrote down their names along with what you learned from them. You were the youngest. I’ll wager none were quite as lucky as we have been. 

It would take a book to write all the twists and turns of your success leading to my success. I want to celebrate what you did fifty years ago and what I’ve done in the fifty years since. As Sheila Rae, The Brave, says in her book by Kevin Henke, “‘I am brave. I am fearless.’ She stepped on every crack. She walked backwards with her eyes closed. She growled at stray dogs, and bared her teeth at stray cats. And she pretended that the trees were evil creatures. She climbed up them and broke their fingers off. Snap, snap, snap.”

With all due respect to trees, you are Sheila Rae, The Brave. You are on the Broadway stage receiving my standing ovation.  May all enjoy such applause in life.

In celebrating Life’s Magic with you, I’m grateful. 

Love,

64 Year Old Joceile

3.8.22

[Picture: Book cover of Sheila Rae, The Brave, by Kevin Henkes, with Sheila Rae as a mouse-being wearing a lavender jumper with yellow top striding confidently carrying a banner with her name on it.]

The Commercial

In the dream, I watched a commercial. A medium height white woman of average build wearing a purplish blue track warm-up suit with a white stripe down the side, athletic but not too thin, medium length straight long hair in a low pony tail. She was running with long strides and talking about defending herself. The camera view was from the side showing her whole body.

“Come after me if you want…but I’ll be ready... Bring it on.”

“Oh, honey,” I thought, “Don’t say that on television.”

She kept running and talking. I thought, “Well, maybe, she can outrun them.”

She still ran almost casually and talked. It was clear she could run a considerable distance without tiring. Suddenly, she stopped and faced the camera walking toward it.

“If you think you can take me, give it your best shot.” At that moment, her right fist shot out with power in perfect boxing form straight at the camera. The screen went black.

Then, white letters on the black background read, “Teach Your Daughter Self-Defense.”

The dream was generated by several things. My friend Sue, while pregnant, ran from her assailant husband toward the hospital but he caught her. She lived as did her son. An ex-boxer detective series I’m reading. He’s Leonid McGill, like the Spenser series, except Leonid is African American. Spenser is a white ex-boxer. Both workout hard to burn off their anger and moderate their tendency toward violence.  

And the Ukraine invasion, where civilian women are making Molotov cocktails. I’m hoping the women are trained to throw them properly to avoid self-injury. This too is a skill. These tools are better learned in advance. Teach your daughter self-defense.

Joceile

3.3.22

[Picture: Me, third from left in back row. Sue in front of me with long braids. High school track team. 1974.]