We need more role models

I called SZ Magazine today to order more copies of the Summer 2010 issue as I have an article in there. And the founder and CEO answered the phone! It was Bill MacPhee and I was thrilled to talk to this icon -- briefly, it is true, but he took my information and will send me the magazines. I told him, ending my call, that I don't have a lot of role models.

Let's amend that. I didn't have any role models. I hacked my own way through the bramble patch (thanks, Sue!) to the shores of a foreign sea and launched my craft alone to face the wind and waves. Oh, yes, others would have helped. I replied by barricading myself on the first rock I reached, making a moat with mental sharks; I didn't know any better than to be an island in the middle of the perfect storm, battered on all sides, hurting my friends and family and myself most of all -- what role models were there for me in those days, the 1970s to the 1990s, other than therapists who told me I would never work again? I may have overlooked some individuals who could and would have helped. I don't know. I felt I wasn't worthy of those who would befriend me positively, perhaps those who had been there before (I didn't know; will never know). I was a rock. I was an island.

It's always a bit risky to adopt a member of the opposite sex as a role model. Let's face it, it just is, as in the 12 step programs they used to say one's sponsor mustn't be a person of the opposite sex. To avoid 13th Stepping, haha, a little insider joke there. It's changed now. A lot has changed, and a lot has changed for the better. But to get back to my point, I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable with my enthusiasm at finding someone who is so open about his schizophrenia and has succeeded as an entrepreneur and speaker of note in a very tough and rough world.

I'm delighted to read and hear of Bill MacPhee, and would be thrilled to meet others like him. I would be thrilled to be a role model myself, in what little and limited capacity I can. Two members of my family other than I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I hope to bring them out into the sunshine, but I don't want to embarrass them, either, so they regretfully will remain unnamed and uncelebrated. But they are heroes, too, in my opinion; both high functioning as myself; both polite, gentle, and intelligent men. No, they are NOT the two children I raised by myself with the invaluable assistance of my brother and his wonderful wife, as well as my first husband's cousin, and much misguided effort on my own. But there does seem to be a strong genetic component in my birth family, perhaps stemming from ancestors in Scotland long ago, as my maternal grandfather's history is not known. The two children who have accompanied me on this journey since their birth are strong, bright, successful individuals whom I fear may always bear in their inner psyches the scars of my emotional neglect and yes, emotional and mental abuse. I loved them. They are the jewels in my crown if I were Queen. But my feelings were in boxes, locked away in a maelstrom of confusion, anger, and fear. I compartmentalized my feelings, on the advice of a therapist I saw in the 1960s, years before my first breakdown. The craft I sailed so bravely after my first husband died in 1970 was leaking by the time I met my nemesis in 1975.

My role models were pirates and villains gleaned from books, movies, and songs.

Now there are real life heroes, flawed and funny and falling down on their faces into cream pies thrown by life itself, getting up and laughing and crying rivers of tears -- hugging me and loving me and allowing me to love in return. Thank you, friends and renewed family.

Yes, I fell out of the boat. Oops, here the water's fine. The shore is silver sand and I see a Blue Lagoon.

Who needs a boat?