I’m Glad My Mom Died is the title of a new memoir by a former child actress I’ve never heard of, and it’s a best seller. It has received more attention than any other recent book that’s not about Donald Trump, and the response to it seems uniformly favorable.

For all I know, Jeanette McCurdy is a good writer. But it’s the shocking title that seems to please reviewers most. How daring of her! Good for her! The book is a chronicle of abuse by a terrible, exploitative and seemingly mentally ill stage mother whose conduct sounds like something from a Grimms’ Fairy Tale.

But now the mom is safely dead from cancer and Jeanette is sharing her story of suffering and redemption all over the internet to hearty accolades, not least from others who hate their parents and share her bold sentiment. A piece in the Huffington Post reveals that “it’s not uncommon to feel that way.” Uh-oh.

Naturally, as a mother I find this chilling. As a mother estranged from an adult child, I can’t help feeling the title embodies my worst fears. I know my adult child wants nothing to do with me for reasons only he understands. I mean, I know I wasn’t perfect and I yelled a lot. And abuse is in the eye, and narrative, of the self-proclaimed abused party.

But it pains me to think that my death will actually be celebrated, you know? I guess it won’t matter since I won’t be around to be horrified.

Back when I learned about forums for adult children who hate their mothers, I had to stop looking at their posts when someone admitted to feeling no grief upon losing their parent. They weren’t exactly proud of their reaction, like Jeanette seems to be, but rather a little defensive. The other mommy-haters on the forum reassured the griefless adult child that they looked forward to the death of their parent and the relief it would bring.

Since I can only speak for myself, and my own narrative of my experience as both a mother and an adult child of a mother, I guess it’s not for me to judge these damaged victims of bad parents. But it seems like the title “I’m Glad My Mom Died” is somehow acceptable in today’s zeitgeist (sorry!) of proud victimhood and trauma survivors, whereas the title “I’m Glad My Daughter Died” would never be published, let alone applauded.

Is it because it’s reasonable to hate your mom but not your daughter? What about “I’m Glad My Dog Died” or even “I’m Glad My Neighbor Died’? None of these work, do they?

My guess is it’s because the Awful Mother is now a staple of our cultural landscape, from Carrie to Mommy Dearest and beyond.

Mother’s can’t win, is my feeling. The best of us are still not good enough, although Donald Winnicott disagrees. (More about the concept of the good-enough mother here.) Our mistakes engender bitter resentments that time cannot eradicate for many. But it’s my belief that whatever you do as a parent will be wrong. All you can do is try your hardest to make the best decisions you can, to get help if you see you’re fucking up, and to love your kids unconditionally.

I’ve come to forgive my mother for her shortcomings and her bad behavior with the awareness that she was a complicated person shaped by her own difficult childhood. I’m not glad she died; I’m screwed up but I’m not heartless.

Jennette McCurdy tells an interviewer somewhat self-righteously that she’s “done the work” to earn the right to her title. Whatever that means. Is she sorry she was born? I’d like to ask her that. Because she owes her existence to her mother, which is not nothing.

And now she’s making a fortune by speaking Her Truth about her mother. She also complains in the book about her Nickelodeon co-star Ariana Grande’s greater success, which could lead to another brave best seller if Ariana could only die.

Just kidding! You do you, mommy haters.

Thoughts and insults, anyone?

* Giaquinto di Corrado Bottega, Medea, 1752, Hinton Ampner National Trust

A Pat Benatar song came on the car radio the other day and I was instantly reminded of a blog post I wrote years ago about antinatalism.

Antinatalism is the belief that it’s morally wrong to have children. Why is it wrong? Because “life is harm” and because the unborn is unable to give consent.

On the face of it, this argument is just nuts. I mean, it’s unconscious knowledge that this is nuts. By unconscious knowledge, I mean instinctual knowledge. We may also find it self-evident that a person who believes that “life is harm” is a deeply unhappy person.

But in trying to refresh my memory on the lunacy of antinatalism, I came across an essay that tries to refute the idea that antinatalism is a philosophy borne of depression. Yeah, well, some depressed people may see things more realistically than an incurable optimist, but it’s inherent in the illness to see the world in distorted ways that only therapy or meds can modify. (The most well-known proponent of antinatalism is a guy who insists on strict privacy about his private life so that we can’t extrapolate anything from his history or psychological make-up. Hint: He is miserable.)

Anyway, Pat Benatar caused me to go back and read the post from 2008, and just as I recall, the comments are hilarious. Comment threads like these have kept me writing here for a million years, and while they don’t occur very often, they are pure joy. I hope you will go read that post and then laugh your heads off at the comments.

And I hope you will be moved to comment here, so we can laugh some more.

There are now an increasing number of stances you can take about being forced to stay home. The stances may be infinite for all I know, but let’s review the ones getting the most play.

There’s the Gratitude stance, which I personally find horrifying. This one is popular on Instagram, often with a stupid Buddhist-style image of a sunset and a silhouette of someone doing a yoga pose. It’s a sanctimonious sermon on how this pandemic can teach us to use the planet more gently, how we now have the opportunity to rethink our selfish ways, blah blah blah. It’s an awful slap in the face to anyone who is actually suffering. I refuse to be grateful for a pandemic. Fuck that idea and the horse it rode in on.

Then there’s the Scolding stance, another dreadful position that tries to make you feel bad for spending hours watching Netflix or staring at your phone. This one blames you for losing touch with your Inner Life and your creativity. What’s wrong with you! it gripes, You brainwashed consumer! Have you lost the ability to sit in a room and just be present? Please. As if.

Then there’s the Silver Lining stance. This is the one where you finally have the time to learn a new language, to read War and Peace, to finish that screenplay, to rearrange your living room, try out new recipes and to host zany get-togethers with your girlfriends on Zoom. It’s fun being home with free time! Let’s get busy!

There is also the Existential stance, and that’s the one I’ve chose for now, although it’s more accurate to say it’s chosen me. This is the one where you face down your dread, the continual dread of being alive but close to death. It’s the one where you realize your existence can be reduced to almost nothing, just eating and sleeping with some time-wasting stuff in between. You wonder why you bought all those clothes, all those stupid eye pencils and shoes and trinkets. Life is only about having someone to talk to, to hold you, and a decent bed to crawl into. Life is about waiting for something to happen but hoping it won’t be something awful or unbearable.

However, the last couple of weeks have brought some unexpectedly wonderful moments. I watched Jeopardy for the first time in probably twenty years, and one of the categories was “Otters.” I forgot the question, but it led to the revelation that otters hold hands while they sleep. This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard, and sure enough when I googled it, I found loads of pictures. I’m so glad to have discovered this, I can’t overstate the joy it has given me.

Also, in the same episode of Jeopardy, I was able to shout out a few questions before anyone hit the buzzer, a momentous burst of feeling intelligent that I haven’t experienced in ages. It reminded me of my mother, dying of cancer and watching Jeopardy in bed, crying out the word “Loyola!” in a weak but authoritative voice, and being correct.

As time passes, my stance may change. I wonder if I’m the only one who is mentally writing a will? In California, a handwritten will with your signature is legal and binding. I’ve already promised my tiger claw jewelry to my friend Marya and my footwear will go to Simone. Anyone want anything else? Now’s the time to speak up!

Mid-rise. Four-pocket styling. Single cropped leg. Zip-fly. Partially lined. Tonal hardware.

“Single cropped leg.” Roger that. No explanation necessary! Here’s another view:

So good.  All eyes will be on you, hopefully. It’s a casual look, and quite breezy on the one leg, but you can upgrade for a more formal look by getting the nicely proportioned matching jacket.

For some reason, I think the trousers would be better for a one-legged person, don’t you? Instead of leaving that poor exposed leg to just hang there so vulnerably, a one-legged person would look great, without having to to take it to a tailor. I feel the same way about the popular one-armed look in dresses and tops. I just don’t feel good about the bared limb.

Let’s say you’re Dan Cooper, a guy who is currently featured on a reality show in the UK, living in a house with 4 other “extraordinary” people. Evidently, viewers don’t have much sympathy for Dan, who had his leg chopped off in order to feel “whole.”

Dan has BIID, and suffered for many years with the affliction of having one too many legs. Interestingly, this appears to be an extremely British disorder. There’s a great documentary somewhere that spends time with a few of these guys and they are all British. A Scottish surgeon got in trouble for amputating healthy legs, even though he was just trying to prevent his patients from seeking a potentially life-threatening back alley solution to their being bipeds.

Be that as it may! Dan is now a TV personality and people will just have to learn to accept him. Thank god that fucking leg isn’t tormenting him any more. But how good would he look in those mid-rise, partially lined pants at Ssense?

I’m just saying.

I wanted to rant about the celebrities on Twitter who are responding to the suicide of Kate Spade with recollections of their first Kate Spade bag.  IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU, I was thinking in disgust, who cares about your fucking personal memories right now?

But my own reaction, having been “triggered”, was equally personal and about me.

My feeling was, don’t send condolences to her family or the usual bullshit, talk about suicide prevention and signs of risk.

Some woman who claimed to be a friend told CNN that the suicide was “out of character.” Like it was unusual for Kate Spade to kill herself. Idiot.

But Kate Spade’s sister gives a harrowing account of Kate’s persistent mental illness. The sister says that for years, she’s been trying to get Kate to admit herself to a hospital, to get treatment for her depression. She recalls how fixated Kate was on Robin Williams’ death. She reveals that Kate feared going public about her depression would ruin her personal brand as a happy, bubbly person. Most upsetting, the sister says that she finally had to “let go.”

“Sometimes you simply cannot SAVE people from themselves! One of the last things she said to me was, ‘Reta, I know you hate funerals and don’t attend them, but for me would you PLEASE come to MINE, at least. Please!’ I know she perhaps had a plan, but she insisted she did not.”

Well, letting go isn’t the answer when a loved one talks about their own funeral.

Letting go is never going to help a person in crisis, even if the crisis goes on an on.

I’m so sorry about this. In order to leave a 13 year old daughter, Kate Spade must have been in unbearable pain. You take your own life only when your suffering is stronger than your resources, I have read. She must have thought her family was better off without her. Because that’s how the suicidal brain works.

I’d like everyone who is worried about someone to call them up. Remind them that you care about them, that you need them in your life. If you’ve already had enough of someone’s resistant despair, have some more of it! Do not let go. Hang on tight. If you have a gut feeling that something is wrong, don’t ignore it.

I’m sorry. Kate Spade may have found peace, but those around her are just beginning to face a loss that will never end.

Text HOME to 741741 from anywhere in the USA
for free 24/7 crisis support

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

I watched the new documentary about Rachel Dolezal with a mounting sense of disbelief that turned to anger, pity, sadness and revulsion, cycling through all these emotions several times. What a piece of work is Rachel Dolezal. And yet in no way deserving of the seething hatred still aimed at her.

The film may be just a Rorschach test that divides people along color lines. I’m not black, so I can’t access the outrage she evinces in that community. I will be shocked if any black viewers decide to cut her any slack. As a white woman, I feel compassion. Because above all else, she is fucking nuts.

The film details her childhood: Evangelical white parents who adopt a bunch of black kids only to beat them like animals. It’s not hard to see why the blonde, dowdy, emotionally abused Rachel would side with the black children. They are literal innocents, and she strives to save them.

Somewhere along the line, she imagines that she’s one of them. That part is the thing that can’t be explained, or, apparently, forgiven. She continues to insist on her blackness to this day, at the same time acknowledging that she was born white. She views her racial “identity” as similar to gender identity – something one can decide, and expect others to respect, or at least accept.

Part of me wants to think, Well, yeah, if I can tell you I’m really a man inside my female body, why can’t I also tell you that I’m black? If it’s simply a case of I am what I feel I am, why is gender okay but not ethnicity? What is so sacred about ethnicity?

How you answer that question makes all the difference.

Putting that aside, there are Rachel’s children, who are clearly suffering from her notoriety. Your heart breaks for them, especially the sensitive 13 year old, whose father is a black man we never meet. Why doesn’t she put her children first and do what’s best for them? Maybe she’s convinced that she is doing what’s best, by standing her ground and not giving in to societal pressure. Or maybe she’s incapable of putting anyone’s needs before her raging exhibitionism and deep psychological wounds.

Then there’s her fucking hair. Oh my god, the hair. In the course of the film, she changes her hair a million times. The knee-length braided extensions underscore her not-Beyonce-ness. But she doesn’t give a fuck. Her hair is like a whole extra character.

When she brings a new baby into the drama swirling around her, it’s hard not to question her motives. And sanity. It seems like the last things she needs, but then we see how much the older kids adore the baby…whose father, naturally, is black.

The most disturbing aspect of this brutal character study is Rachel’s seeming gluttony for abuse and punishment. She continues to court a high social media profile, despite the barrage of hateful comments that attend her every Facebook post and public appearance. Writing a book about herself only stokes the hatred. But she seems baffled by it and stubbornly refuses to back down or apologize.

What’s wrong with Rachel Dolezal? Never underestimate the consequences of sustained child abuse, but this is more.

In her deludedness, she is more heartbreaking than infuriating. And in the end, to me, she is almost worthy of admiration in her strength of purpose. She will not crack. She will not give in, no matter what.

The very last scene is a spoiler that will blow your mind. Once you’ve seen “The Rachel Divide,” a fascinating but draining experience, get back to me and tell me what you think.

My meds don’t work anymore but I’m afraid to get off them. Effexor is notorious for terrible withdrawal symptoms like dizziness, nausea, migraines, nightmares, brain zaps, insomnia and more. Drug companies prefer the word “discontinuation” to “withdrawal.” They warn you to seek your doctor’s help if you want to stop taking your meds; they know you will be fucked, no matter how slowly you titrate down.

My prescribing doctor insists that I should try adding Abilify. Call me crazy but I don’t want to add drowsiness, weight gain, blurred vision, drooling, restlessness and possible tardive dyskinesia to my current panoply of “challenges.” He has written prescriptions several times, saying, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

The original literature on Ability says:

[it] can be effective in treating the acute manic episodes of bipolar disorder in adults, adolescents and children. However, its effect is only useful for the manic phases with little or no effect on the depressive phases.

Abilify is an expensive drug and so naturally the strategy is, Just use it for other shit as an add-on! If I wanted some more debilitating side effects, I could just stuff my face and bang my head with a frying pan every day.

If you’re taking antidepressants, you probably had a compelling reason to start. But no one ever says, “Hey, you’re functioning pretty good now, let’s get you off these meds!” And no one knows the long term consequences for your poor brain.

Once in a while, I forget to take my Effexor. I can always tell the next morning, because one day without them triggers epic nightmares of blood pouring from the ceiling or worse.

I’m never going to be “happy” in the usual sense. I would settle for miserable. Meanwhile, my brain is stuck in exhausting circular rumination and an urge to be unconscious. I keep wondering about the purpose of life. Not just mine, but mine most acutely.

Do normal people wonder about this? I just don’t know. What are they thinking about instead?

Does anyone have any advice that isn’t a personal horror story? Or if you must, I’ll listen to your horror story. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

*

I know you’re supposed to be horrified by school shootings, and I am, but from the first description of Nikolas Cruz, my heart went out to him.

No one is justified in shooting up a school. The actions aren’t justified, but they seem tragically predictable. Given his circumstances, I believe he is a victim of Florida’s gun laws, and the NRA. Without easy access to assault rifles, he would just be a lonely outcast, failed by his parents, his school district, and the local police department.

Here’s an interview with a neighbor:

“He had emotional problems and I believe he was diagnosed with autism,” Mr. Gold said of Nikolas Cruz. “He had trouble controlling his temper. He broke things. He would do that sometimes at our house when he lost his temper. But he was always very apologetic afterwards.”

“He would sometimes be hitting his head and covering his ears. One time, I sent him home because he was misbehaving at our house and he took a golf club and smashed one of my trailers.”

He said that Mr. Cruz at one point had gone to a school for students with special needs. “Kids were really picking on him and would gang up on him and beat him up a little,” Mr. Gold said. “They ostracized him. He didn’t have many friends.”

Nikolas was adopted at 2 years old. His father died when he was six.  As a child, “Nikolas was moody, prone to an explosive temper and at times seemed to delight in antagonizing others.” People began to avoid him. In school, kids started calling him crazy. He played with his fingers and talked to himself. As he grew older, his mother often called the cops to reprimand him for his outbursts.

Let me stop here and say, HELLO, SCHOOL ADMINISTRATORS? HOW ABOUT SOME INTERVENTION? HOW ABOUT SOME BEHAVIORISTS? HOW ABOUT SOME SOCIAL SKILLS CLASSES? HOW ABOUT A CHILD PSYCHIATRIST AND SOME MEDICATION FOR ANXIETY OR MOOD SWINGS?

Instead, Nikolas went to a nice, wonderful, gigantic high school where he could be shunned and act out with weird talk about knives and weapons. The nice wonderful school expelled him because he just wasn’t right in the head. Here’s what a student at the nice school said about Nikolas:

“He was definitely not accepted at our school socially. People saw him as someone who was different than the normal people at our school,” Parodie added.

Douglas High has a place students call “the Emo Gazebo,” he said. “That’s where all the kids that are considered weird or not accepted sat. Kids at the Emo Gazebo didn’t even accept him there. He was just an outcast… He didn’t have any friends.”

“Most kids ignored him at school. They pushed him off to the side as if he was garbage. He screamed in class one time. He was upset and just started yelling at the teacher. The teacher was trying to help him and he just took it the wrong way,” Parodie continued.

Meanwhile, his Instagram is full of guns and weapons. Right in the open for all to see. He is obsessed with them. He comments on someone’s video that he wants to be a “professional school shooter.” He uses his real name!

In November, his mom suddenly died of pneumonia, leaving him alone with no support system. A sympathetic family takes him in. But he is devastated by the loss of his mom, and very depressed.

You know what happened next. Now he’s on suicide watch. His lawyer says he is remorseful and distraught.

I have known families with troubled kids, kids who have conduct disorders along with autism, kids who flip out and can’t manage their impulses. Often, thee kids are sent to residential schools for intensive therapy. And often, they can move back home, more in control and aware of boundaries and consequences.

A few years ago, I had a new neighbor, who had just divorced a very famous movie director. She confided that their son was at a residential school due to his violent outbursts. She loved her boy but was afraid of him. His diagnosis was autism, but he may have been bi-polar as well. Time passed and I saw the kid at the Oscars with his famous dad, looking nicely groomed and very happy.

Poor Nikolas didn’t have a famous rich dad. That’s his crime.

The rest is on the fucking NRA and their flunkies in congress. Thoughts and prayers to those bastards.

Today, it’s “narcissist.” People throw this term around like it’s fairy dust, meant to undermine or discredit anyone you don’t like. In fact, only around 1% of people are narcissists in the clinical sense.

To some degree, narcissistic traits are healthy and useful. But the label Narcissist should be applied with care, unless you want words to stop having meaning, in which case I hope you’re good at interpretive dance. I think it’s safe to say that Trump is a narcissist, and maybe my dad, who wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t mirror his sense of his own wonderfulness.

Some poor children who hate their mommies are still writing to me, to offer their diagnosis of my narcissism. Again, please study your DSM. I am profoundly depressed, with some PTSD. Got it? Self-help culture has confused a whole bunch of fragile, angry Adult Children. Some of them don’t even understand satire. It’s probably Mommy’s fault.

Anyway! On SNL the other night, Pete Davidson did a sketch about depression, and his recent diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder. If you thought he was joking, he was, but not about his disorder. He is not ashamed of his diagnosis, and he can see the funny side of suffering. He is going to help remove the stigma of mental illness, and god bless him.

Borderline Personality Disorder is a tough one. It’s core conflict is “I Hate you, Don’t Leave Me,” the title of a really good book on the subject. People who tell you about their psychotic ex will often accuse them of being Borderlines. What they usually mean is that the ex dumped them abruptly without explanation and they are fucking furious as well as hurt and baffled.

I love abnormal psychology! I have shelves of books on various disorders, including The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat, of course, and some good ones on OCD. OCD is particularly poignant, I think. Especially the kind where you think you ran over someone in your car and have to keep driving back to check. Personally, I have no OCD traits but don’t worry, I have plenty of trouble without them.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing is kind of a fatuous cliche but it applies pretty well to psychology. How many times have you yelled “You’re projecting!” during an argument? Or what about “control-freak?” If you’re mean, you probably like to accuse people of being “too sensitive!”

Those of us who live with mental illness are keenly aware, for the most part, of our challenges. If you want to call us names, just stick with “nuts” unless you know what you’re talking about.

And here’s something exciting: I’ve discovered a brand new disorder that might explain my entire life!!! I have to discuss it with my psychiatrist before I announce it, but as awful as it is, I’m prepared to joke about it. Gallows humor is not only my brand, it’s my life force. I don’t mean this in a narcissistic way – I’M JUST SAYING.

Thoughts, delusions or rationalizations, anyone?

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. I might have been able to ignore it if I hadn’t read that the son of a disgraced Fox news host killed himself yesterday by overdose. Nineteen year old Eric Chase Bolling Jr. was distressed by his father’s troubles. Eric Bolling was fired for sending lewd photos to women, with a ton of fanfare on social media.

Bolling Sr. may be a cunt but no one deserves this. And no one should be in such pain without a person to talk to or a voice reminding him that he is needed in this world, no matter how hard that is to recognize in moments of despair.

I needed Eric Jr. and I needed Chris Cornell, Chester Bennington, and Blake Heron, who died from an overdose three days after leaving rehab. Every day I read about someone’s son or daughter or parent leaving by suicide, and my heart breaks each time. The suffering they leave behind is unimaginable. If only they could all come running back!

Suicide can be prevented. Not always but in many cases where a hand to hold or a compassionate word might have made the difference.

We can all try to be a ray of light in someone’s darkness. What better enterprise is there, right?

We can learn the warning signs of a psyche in distress.

I admit that I struggle with To be or not to be, every single day. What keeps me here is the awareness of shattering other lives in my haste to depart. What a mess it makes! No one recovers. Obviously.

If you’re suffering, I urge you to stick around. Things will change!  Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255)  Or click here for helpful advice.

***If you are in crisis but would be more comfortable texting, 24/7 support is available by texting 741741.

If there is anyone you are concerned about, take a minute to check in with them. It could change their life. xo