Write On!

Many writers talk about the need to write, like if we didn't do it, we would lose our minds. I've always loved writing, but the drive to do it has become more pronounced in the past few years. Right now I'm fortunate enough to be home full time. This gives me more of an opportunity to write than I've ever had before. I've become spoiled. If anything interferes with my writing, I miss it terribly. I start to become antsy. Maybe I'm having endorphin withdrawal, like runners have when they can't run for a few days.

Life doesn't always allow regular schedules. We're in the midst of house renovations. The kids have school activities and emergencies. I have health snafus, like exhaustion, related to my needing a second artificial hip. Shit happens. The long periods of quiet which I crave for my writing are rare.

Do you write? How and when do you do it? When you need to write, how do you handle life's interruptions? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it.

On With The Show

The comedy show went very well last night. I was very nervous and forgot a couple of my lines, and also forgot to thank the M.C. (our comedy teacher) and the venue owner, but otherwise I am told I did a good job. Fortunately, I am one of those lucky people whose nervousness is not very visible on stage. It feels good to be a bona fide graduate from a professional comedy school, certificate and all.

That's me, the tall one in the back, with long hair. The man to the right of me is a Drew Carey impersonator, can't you tell? He travels all over the country for all kinds of gigs as Drew, after winning a lookalike contest, and took this calss to axpand his job options. Our wonderful teacher, Matt Kazam, is in the front with the black shirt on and the infectuous grin, two thumbs up.
The evening again reminded me of how fortunate I am to have the family I have created for myself. My husband Ken was beaming with pride, and told me that he admired me and would never have been able to do what I did. Our younger son, who is very sensitive, told me that when I was onstage he was shaking for me. Both of our sons were there, and my mother-in-law, who I adore, as well as some friends. (Mum was relieved to find that my act did not include any mother-in-law jokes.) The kids were brought into the act by our teacher, who referred to them several times when he attempted, usually unsuccessfully, to tone down his material. Of course, we had warned the boys and Mum about the content beforehand, since all of the acts, including mine, had lots of swearing and blatant sexual references.

Another performer is providing me with a DVD of the entire evening since my son pushed the wrong video camera button, so I don't have a homemade video of it. That will take a week or two, and then I will post my perfomance here for you.

The other female comic is a child psychiatrist, and she is encouraging me to go to open mikes in Philadelphia with her. She says we should get an act together and work medical and pharmaceutical conferences. We would definitely have lots of material and those gigs pay very well. To my surprise, my husband is also encouraging me to continue traveling the comedian avenue. It's so damned nerve wracking and time consuming that I'm not sure I'm cut out for it, especially since the vast majority of comics barely scrape by and very few make a decent living. I could see working it into my public speaking work or using it to enhance anything related to my writing, but still don't aspire to be a comedian for its own sake. The bottom line for me is if it supports my writing, yes, and if not, I don't have a lot of time to put into it.

BTW, the comic I have mentioned before spent very little time on the bit regarding teachers having sex with their students. It got some hearty laughs and I have to admit I was laughing too. Although I would have preferred it not be there at all, it could have been a lot worse. Until last night I wasn't entirely at peace with not making an issue of it, but now I think I made the right choice.

Marketing Gone Wild

Let's see, you rent a big party hall or bar, advertise cool parties with hot gals for the guys and free entrance and drinks for the gals, hire hot chicks to come in and take their clothes off once the party's in full swing, get the guys to cheer on the naked chicks, and encourage the now-drunk gals to get naked. The more the drunk gals take off, the more cheering, encouragement, and attention they get. You don't check to see if the gals are of majority age, but you get them to sign consents, after they're nice and drunk. Your cameras are everywhere, recording every flashing, mooning, grinding moment. Then you make hundreds of thousands of DVDs from the film you've shot all night long. You make multi-millions from these parties and DVDs, and instead of calling it what it really is, you call it Girls Gone Wild. Then, after you've ruined these young gals' reputations, careers, and family relationships, you cry about what a poor victim you are.

Now you're upset because you've been vilified.

What did you expect, that you were going to be canonized?

54 Hours & Counting Down

I apologize for not being able to post more often right now. We are having some construction done on our house, and it has been a full time job for me for the past week or so. I look forward to being able to blog more when my time frees up a little. I am also very much looking forward to having more time to write. I am in the throes of putting the finishing touches on my memoir and it's hard to be torn away from it at this exciting late stage.

Update on the comedy show thingy: Sunday's newspaper had some huge wire services articles on sexual abuse in the schools. The articles did a good job of dispelling some of the myths about abuse by teachers and other school authorities, like that it is more serious when done to boys than to girls, and that it is rarely occurring. I don't expect the topic to come up in Wed night's comedy class, but you never know. If I were joking about something, and articles like that came out against it a few days before my show, I would consider changing my material.

Of course, that's just me.

This is why I could never be a professional comedian. (OK, one of the many reasons.) I've spent the past 27 years educating myself about human issues requiring sensitivity and compassion, and it would be like throwing that all away if I joined a field where those things are made fun of. Yeah, a lot of it is funny, but it's also insensitive, lacking compassion, and uneducated. Example: In one part of my act I talk about a client who was suicidal. In the context of my act, it's funny, but in real life it isn't. Yet I, who had compassion for that client, am joking about it. In real life I would never joke about something like that in that way.

Other than that I am using every free minute to memorize my eight minutes of material so that I don't have to refer to notes when performing it. Ten of my friends and family will be there and I feel very supported, despite it being a scary thing to do. Even if I bomb, I have to give myself kudos for getting up there and putting myself out that way. The whole thing has been a great experience.

The Dilemma of the Sensitive & Educated

My comedy class seems to be going well, so it looks like I'll be posting a video here of my performance on graduation night. Stay tuned if you want to see approximately five minutes of me on video, hopefully being somewhat funny. It will be posted sometime after Thursday, Oct. 25.

I've been struggling with one of the bits that another comic is working on. The bit is about how stupid male adolescents are to bust their teachers for sexually abusing them. How could they mess it up, he asks? Don't they know when they've got a good thing going? They'll never have such an easy piece of ass again for the next ten years. He just wishes he'd been sexually abused by a teacher when he was in school, it would have been any boy's dream come true, etc., ad nauseum. Of course, he makes it a point to state that he is discussing female teachers. After all, sexual abuse is funny, but God forbid anyone think he might be gay.

Besides the fact that the joke is so old that it's cliche', it's ignorant and insulting to sexual abuse survivors. I won't go into speech mode here, other than to say that one out of every five to seven boys in our country are sexually abused before the age of 18, and it seriously messes them up no matter who does it.

As we have been developing our comedy acts, I've thought about sharing my feelings, or pointing out that anyone who is even a little bit educated about abuse issues, or was sexually abused as a child, or just has children, might not find it funny, so it might benefit him to remove those lines if he wants to be well received. Unfortunately, I don't think my fellow comedy student would have a clue about what I was talking about, and he wouldn't change his act anyway. I can see that he is a good person who would not intentionally hurt anyone, and that he just doesn't know any better. I've been through this before, and I can already hear the reactions to my asserting myself: "Lighten up. Don't take everything so seriously. There's a recovering alcoholic in the class, does that mean we shouldn't do any jokes about drugs or alcohol?" It would only result in my creating bad feelings about myself , or possibly creating tension in the class.

If I were a comic, I would try to be the kind of comic who uses comedy to make people feel good and laugh, while also making them think about social issues. What a wonderful way to bring all sorts of people and minds together, and teach at the same time - through laughter. But not everyone is that kind of comic, and some people are not interested in taking it to that higher level. Each kind of comedy has its audience, too. I'm not really interested in hearing a hundred reasons why you can tell somebody's a redneck either, but lots of people are.

File Under: I Can't Believe I'm Actually Doing This!

To keep my public speaking skills honed, and present myself with a stimulating challenge, I signed up for a comedy course. It's a three night (3-5 hrs each night) course, with a graduation ceremony at the end that requires - yes! - performing live in front of a crowd of strangers in a real comedy club. Five to eight minutes, all my own original material.

Besides the horror of having to perform without written notes or a podium to hide behind, my big challenge is figuring out what my schtick is. I would love to be one of those comics who can gallop all over the stage, bigger than life, inciting hilarity at every turn. However, that's not going to happen. I have discovered that I am to comedy what Murphy Brown was to singing Natural Woman.

In a word, Scary.

The course is taught by comedian Matt Kazam, who you may have seen recently on Last Comic Standing. Matt's a real pro, and the class is a hoot. Matt said that to be successful, any aspiring comedian has to tap into their true selves, to find their unique core, for their material. Everyone is different, and has something unique to bring to the stage, just like they do in real life. He has a spiritual approach to comedy which I find refreshing and inspiring.

I come from a family of storytellers, and I am going to be a storytelling comedian. Matt says some of the best comics are storytellers, like Ellen DeGeneres. He particularly likes my story about the time I led a family counseling session with about 12 of a client's family in my psychotherapy office, and then discovered after everyone left that I had had my skirt tucked up into the back of my pantyhose the entire time. (Talk about em-bareass-ing.)

Don't worry, I have no aspirations to become professionally funny, and I certainly don't have any delusions of Degeneresish grandeur. But I am going to do my best to kick ass come live standup night. If it isn't the absolute worse thing ever witnessed on earth, I'll post a video of it here on my blog, for your masochistic viewing pleasure. No matter what happens, I will have had a great time, as well as continued to grow. And isn't that what it's really all about?

Everything Doesn't Happen For A Reason

There's a saying that rankles me every time I hear it: "Everything Happens For A Reason." It's usually accompanied by a far-off look of reverence, and spoken with a tone of spirituality, like the person who says it has their own personal pipeline straight to God.

It's the lack of self-determination that annoys me. Like, no matter what we do, it won't make any difference anyway, because God and the universe has already decided what's going to happen. It's already in the Master Plan.

I don't buy it. I think that sometimes, shit just happens. Sometimes, babies are born with AIDS, people are killed by drunk drivers, and innocent children, including babies, are abused. Pianos drop out of twentieth story windows and crush people on the street below. These things happen because someone drinks too much, or has unprotected sex with someone who is HIV+, or shares a dirty needle, or doesn't get therapy. There was no larger plan, or grand lesson. No one learned anything. Shit just happened.

As just one example in my own life, I was in an awful car accident that was 100% legally not my fault, and that I had absolutely no control over. I will be getting my second artificial hip related to this car accident soon, and I am in chronic pain. It will affect me for the rest of my life. And all I was doing was driving down a country road, singing loudly to the CD player, and minding my own business.

Meanwhile, the person who caused the accident was in his own pain, and was probably distracted, because he was on the way back from the cemetary, where he had been visiting his daughter's grave, after she died in a car accident. Although legally our accident was his fault, and his insurance company accepted full responsibility, it's hard to resent the guy, considering the circumstances.

Again, no one learned anything. Shit just happened.

Now, the determinist, who claims all things happen for a reason, would seek until they found one. Maybe, they would argue, the accident happened to make me appreciate my life more. Maybe it happened to help that father appreciate his life more. I'm sure if we search hard enough, we can come up with all sorts of little gems that would apply.

My view is the converse. I don't think things happen for a reason. I think when things happen, it's up to us to make them meaningful.

Looked at this way, when shit happens (and you know sooner or later it always will,) you can either let it defeat you, or you can grab it by the short hairs, and make something great out of it. The accident didn't happen for a reason, but since it did happen, I have chosen to learn to be ever more vigilent on the road. I wasn't abused for a reason, but since I was, I have chosen to prevent the abuse of future children by educating people about it.

If all bad things happened for a reason, there would be no motivation to take responsibility for our lives at all. Why bother seizing the moment, and taking control, when it's already all a pre-determined part of the Master Plan? Nothing we did would make a difference anyway.

What the Heck is Recovery Reconnaissance?

I've been seeking a new blog name: One that would reflect the many positive life changes available to survivors of childhood abuse, while also relating to my memoir in progress.

I believe the new name works. A reconnaisance is an investigation. "Investigation" is an accurate description of how I have approached my recovery from childhood traumas. In fact, a large part of my recovery has involved going back to my childhood home towns and talking with people who knew my family way back then. Interviewing them, and hearing their views on our family dynamics, has been pivotal in my healing.

In the past twenty five years, I have interviewed many people who cared for me in one way or another when I was a child. Some of them knew that our home was abusive, and others suspected, but weren't sure. All of them have been fully willing to help me as I have journeyed through many painful years of recovery.

Now, my memoir nears its end. Writing it has brought me full circle ~ through all of the pain, and all of the love, that I have experienced as a result of the abuse. I started my book many times over the years, but wasn't truly ready to write it until this year. This year has provided me with some excellent opportunities to improve my writing, as well as the time to do so. For that I am thankful.

Lack of confidence has made me hesitant to mention my book here. But just like abuse, there comes a time to own it, and my time is now. I believe that my memoir is not only good, I believe it can help many survivors of childhood abuse and trauma, the way so many other people and books have helped me.

I hope that you like the new blog name, and come back to hear more about my memoir as time goes on.

It's All Relative

I never felt like I fit into my own family. I was surrounded by an assortment of crazies, druggies, and meanies, all clammoring to get their own needs met. I could never understand the need for all the drama, as it was pretty easy for me to get along with everyone. I was like a 1960's juvenile version of Rodney King, wondering in my own little naive' way: "Can't we all just get along?"

I always liked those shows about weird families. You know, like the Adams Family, and the Munsters. The guy with the talking horse closeted safely in the barn. I never related to shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family, because it was always abundantly clear to me that shows like that were pure fiction.

Truth be told, I didn't get a clue about how weird my family appeared to others until I was six years old. Until then, I just loved them, wanted them to love me, and wondered why everyone couldn't seem to love each other. Then, in first grade, I got my first validation that the outside world saw my family the same way I did. I was walking down the hall when Mrs. Moony, my older sister's teacher, stopped me.

"You're a pretty little girl. What's your name?" Mrs. Moony wanted to know.

"Polly. Polly Kahl," I said.

"Kahl? Did you say Kahl?!?" Mrs. Moony's eyes got large and her jaw just about dropped to the floor.

"Yes, Polly Kahl," I repeated.

"Are you related to Cindy Kahl?" she asked me.

"Yes, I am her younger sister," I said.

"But you couldn't be!" she said, "You're such a nice little girl!"

That reaction wasn't uncommon, because my older sister did things like beat up boys during recess, cut her hair off in class with the little blunt art scissors, and go up to the front of the class to scratch her back on the corner of the teacher's desk during lectures. My younger brother sat in his class room looking catatonic, until his teacher called me in to remove his coat and boots every day. Then, at the end of the day, I was called back over to dress him for the bus ride home. My sister, they said, was deeply troubled. My brother, they said, was retarded. How he managed to score near brilliance on tests baffled them, since he did not talk. As far as I know, no one looked further than us kids, to our home.

Since it befell me to be the normal one, I spent my days honing my codependence, while concurrently trying to hide my shame and mortification about the rest of my family members.

Then one day I saw her on TV. Marilyn Munster. A young man had shown up at the Munster mansion to take the lovely visiting relative Marilyn out on a date, and when Lily and Herman came to the door instead, he took one horrified look at them and went tearing down the street, screaming his head off. Then the Munsters discussed Marilyn behind her back, saying things like "Such a pity about poor Marilyn, she really has no idea how ugly she is."

Wow. Finally there was a member of another weird family who was just like me.

Of course, I am in no way claiming to be normal. If you're from Normalville, you may notice that I don't quite fit in. I enjoy swearing, and when I get going my potty mouth could put a trucker to shame. I am socially awkward. I can appear aloof, because I would rather be by myself, doing the things I love, than making small talk just to be with other people. Polite pretending in boring social situations is hard for me: As I get older I barely have the patience for it anymore. Even though I am somewhat insecure, I can appear arrogant, because I am intelligent, and I will argue a point if I know what I'm talking about. Although I would never hurt anyone intentionally, sometimes I say what's on my mind without thinking first, which isn't always the best idea. Fortunately, my friends can see that I have a good heart underneath it all, and they love me anyway.

Of course, times have changed, and we all understand things about our families that we did not when we were kids. Mr. Brady turned out to be gay, and so did Alice. Danny Partridge has problems with his addictions and temper. Half the stars in those goofy fictional families have died, ended up in rehabs, made fools of themselves in Playboy Magazine, or been busted for robbing their neighborhood dry cleaners.

They say there's no such thing as a functional family. I say some are more functional than others. Was mine pretty bad? Yeah, as a matter of fact, it was. Were some worse than mine? Yes, some were. All in all, although I wouldn't have chosen my family, or foisted it on anyone else for that matter, I am glad for the lessons I've been able to extract from all that wackiness. It turns out that, in the end, what they say is true: It's all relative.