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Part of me

            There’s a part of me that really really wants to be cool; wants to be liked not just by the nice people, or the empathetic people, but by the mean ones, the materialistic ones, the narcissistic ones who couldn’t care less about me or anyone else.

“Wait a minute. Why is my picture here?”

            This part of me doesn’t much like the rest of me: the chubby, exhausted, sympathetic, empathetic, creative, turtle slow, endlessly curious majority of who I am. She wants me to stop eating, completely, and to stop writing a blog that brings in no money, and to stop thinking about what I want or what feels satisfying and do what will make me rich and famous.

            I was not especially successful in my attempts to be cool as a kid or a teenager (or ever); first and foremost because I couldn’t figure out what “cool” might mean in any given situation. At first I thought it had to do with my clothes, or the music I listened to, or my clunky glasses, but over time I realized that it had a lot more to do with how cool, or cold, a person could be – seemingly indifferent to the opinions of other people while still being able to meet or surpass all expectations.

            I am not good at being indifferent. If I cause someone pain, even accidentally, I feel the guilt for years, not just hours. I don’t “play it cool” very well, or hide my emotions successfully. My eyebrows jump up and my cheeks turn red and I cry easily. I am no one’s idea of impervious.

“That’s one of the things I love about you, Mommy.”

            But I still have this part of me that believes I SHOULD be cool, and believes that I am all wrong the way I am, and believes that if I were cool and indifferent and mean then I’d be successful. And this part of me has always been there in the background yelling at me for being such a loser.

            I know where she learned this: at school, at home, at camp, at my best friend’s house, pretty much everywhere there were loud voices telling me that my problem was that I was too nice and too much of an emotional sponge and if I could just stop reacting to everything then people would stop picking on me. And if I would just do what was expected of me – marry the right man, get the right job, have the right number of children, etc., I’d be fine; if I would just stop being so permeable, and stop trying so hard to be good (which is clearly a waste of time) and learn how to climb the ladder, no matter whose neck is in the way, then everything would be right with the world.

            The reality is that the few times I’ve attempted to let that cool part of me take charge I’ve been unsuccessful, both at stomping out my empathy and at ignoring my shame.

            At a certain point, I tried to put that cool part of me in a box, on a shelf, out of the way, because she was causing me so much pain and because I was so afraid she would act out and the shame would last forever. But lately I’ve been wondering if, maybe, I overestimated the threat she posed, and underestimated the pain and fear behind her belief in the need to be so cool.

            What if what I really need is to open that box and let her out, a little bit at a time, in order to offer her comfort and to hear her stories and to help her figure out what she really needs rather than what she thinks she needs?

“She probably needs chicken treats.”

            But I’m afraid. What if I let her out and she pushes me into self-destructive behavior or behavior I will regret, or what if her pain overwhelms me, drowns me, because it’s so deep. I know that more than just her pain and fear got locked away in that box, that other valuable memories and feelings were locked up too. I’m just not sure I’m strong enough to deal with her yet.

            Therapy allows for growth, but it doesn’t make growth inevitable, or easy. It leaves room for the possibilities in all directions. And I still have a lot of calibrating questions to answer, like: when does a healthy amount of self-doubt (as in, I can’t always be right, and sometimes my assumptions will be wrong) turn into an unhealthy amount of self-doubt (as in, I can never be right and I have to trust what other people say about me, no matter how destructive); When does a healthy amount of self-care (resting when tired, crying when sad, eating chocolate cake when necessary) become selfishness (I should have my every desire met at every moment, no matter what the cost to others); and when is it safe to trust other people to see you clearly, and offer constructive feedback, and when is it as dangerous as offering a loaded gun to an enemy? And how do you know the difference?

            I feel like I’m vaguely moving towards a reckoning with this “cool” part of me, but I’m still tiptoeing around her, worried she’ll explode into a million pieces or take me down into the deep with her, instead of coming up to meet me in the daylight. I want to be able to trust myself, my whole self, but I’m not there yet.

“I trust you, Mommy.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

Stay Cool, Cricket


We are still working on keeping Cricket calm and quiet, while she’s getting her leash on to go outside. My latest attempt is to sing to her. The song that keeps coming to mind is “Cool” from West Side Story. Of course, I had to switch boy to girl, “Girl, Girl, crazy girl, get cool, girl!” The next line in the lyric is, “Got a rocket in your pocket,” and that made me think about the whole question of dogs having pockets. If Cricket has hidden pockets, and she keeps rockets in them on occasion, that would make the amount of time she spends writhing on the floor, scratching her back, seem much more dangerous.


“I can scratch my back if I want to!”

“Keep coolly cool girl?” The lyrics seem a little sillier than I remembered.

“Girl, girl, crazy girl. Stay loose girl!” I can picture Cricket doing the dance moves at this point in the song. She’s outside in the dark, wearing her denim jacket and canvas sneakers (just go with me on this), and she’s getting really low and jazzy and snapping her fingers (side point, what made God decide that dogs shouldn’t have fingers? Do dogs have no need to snap?).

“Breeze it buzz it, easy does it. Turn off the juice girl,” except, given that the goal is to get Cricket outside to pee, I’m not sure this line in the song is very helpful.


“You’re not funny, Mommy.”

“Go, girl go, but not like a Yo Yo school girl,” this reminds me that Cricket is not allowed to go to public school, which still bothers me, because she would love to learn French, and math, and a little bit of social studies, and she would especially love running laps in the gym.

“Just play it cool girl, real cool.”

Cricket responds well to music, actually. She especially prefers it to when I say words like no, stop, sit, and other cruelties of that kind. She watches my face very closely when I’m singing, just like my oldest nephew did when he was a baby, as if he was trying to figure out where the sounds came from.


Music soothes the savage Cricket.

It takes at least the length of the song to get Cricket quiet enough to be leashed and allowed out the door. Once she’s outside, though, all bets are off. She’ll bark at just about anything.

But that’s a challenge for another time, and a longer song.


“I don’t think I can take anymore, Cricket.”


“Wake me when the training is over.”