The Catholicism of my youth felt punitive. Fire and brimstone. But I have learned, post-50, to take what feeds me spiritually and disregard what I believe to be man-made mistakes. Maybe being a cafeteria Catholic is hypocritical to some, but it works for me.
Kids can be cruel to one another. I felt like a freak. I still remember an incident in third grade—ridiculous, I know—in which the pack leader of our class started the “freckle club” and I was the only one who had none. Denial of membership still smarts when I think about fragile eight-year-old Maria. Another vivid and hurtful memory is when a classmate told me I had “nigger lips.” That derisive sentiment did not stop him from attempting shortly thereafter to jam his tongue in my mouth at the eighth-grade graduation party, much to my horror. I did not even know, at that point in my life, that anyone kissed like that.
I spent a great deal of my early life trying to assimilate. My mother was an immigrant from the Philippines. The “No Colored” signs on D.C. restaurant doors when she came here to pursue her master’s degree in finance during the 1960s sometimes applied to her and sometimes did not. The prejudice in this country seems to have been directed more harshly at African Americans than other minorities, and her initial years in this country must have been confusing. She chose not to teach me her native language and most of her customs. She wanted me to be “American.”
When my mother came to the United States, she planned never to return to the Philippines. As was common with many immigrants from lesser developed countries, she believed America was the land of opportunity. She believed the streets here were paved with gold.
My white father and brown mother married after a short courtship, and had me soon thereafter. My grandmother sent a series of nannies from the Philippines to care for me. My brother was born a year after me, and my Filipina grandmother came to stay for good.
My “Nana” was the strongest woman I have ever known. She also was a skilled entrepreneur. She birthed my mother in Manila during World War II. According to her account, hours after giving birth, she evacuated the hospital with her newborn to avoid a Japanese bombing assault. She went to her grave with a hatred for the Japanese because of the atrocities she witnessed during the war.
While on the island to which she and her small family were evacuated, she assessed that the food supply would not suffice, so she quickly gathered and purchased all the coconuts she could find. When food became scarce, she sold the coconuts at a large profit. I like to think that I inherited my resourceful nature from her.
Although I loved my Nana dearly, I was embarrassed by her carrying a parasol to shield her relatively light skin. During summer months, I did not mind tanning. As teens, my friends and I would try to tan, slicking our bodies with baby oil, unaware then of the sun’s deleterious effect. My mother frequently would say to me, “Why are you letting yourself get so dark? You look like a farmhand!” I did not understand the colorism of her culture. Being lighter skinned was widely regarded by Asians to be of higher stature and closer to the ideal in beauty standards. I later learned that colorism was not uncommon among people of color.
My mother and grandmother had heavy accents. I laugh now, remembering funny things my mom would say, like “Stop driving so erratically,” which came out sounding like, “Stop driving so erotically!” Or, “I am going to marry Mr. Beach, so you will have to call me Mrs. Beach,” the surname being pronounced by her as “Bitch.” But as a child, I cringed.
My mother married another white man, who had five children. The mother of those children walked away, so my mother helped my stepfather raise them. My family felt so much more complicated than other people’s families. It got further complicated when my father married a much younger woman and together they had my half brother. All of this contributed to my feeling different from my peers.
Like most kids, I just wanted to fit in. In 1970s suburban Maryland, I wore Levi jeans and wished for my feet to grow faster so I could wear Chucks sneakers. I wore my hair for a while like Olympic medalist Dorothy Hamill. I became a teen and tortured my pin-straight hair into a semblance of the then-popular Farrah Fawcett hairdo. But I couldn’t lighten my dark skin color.
One kid in my neighborhood taunted me with rice paddy jokes and slurs. I wanted to be tall, blond, thin, and white. Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Tiegs were the most admired pinup gals of that era, which seemed to translate into the tall blondes being the most popular in my neighborhood as well. Sadly, it was not until my 20s that I began to embrace my cultural heritage and uniqueness.
Abuse is part of my story, as is rape. I was sexually abused when I was a child. I thought I was a freak and did not tell anyone about it until I was about to get married and worried about protecting my future children. I learned later, in therapy, that one in four girls will be sexually abused before they turn 18 years old.2
I coped by pretending these things never happened. But the wounds began leaking and eventually burst open. I entered a deep depression and was almost catatonic. Through therapy and medication, I got through it. I allowed other women to bear witness to my pain. We helped each other become not only survivors, but thrivers.
With no older siblings, and having parents who were fighting their own struggles, I tried to fit in. First it was through sports. Later, it was through drinking.
I spent a long time running away from my childhood. I sought refuge in books. I once read Emily Post’s Guide to Etiquette cover to cover because I knew my family was different and wanted to know how to do things the “right” way.
I was a straight A student, which gave me something of which to be proud. At least getting good grades kept my mother off my back. And my maternal grandmother gave me money for every A on my report cards. My Filipina mother wanted me to become a doctor or a lawyer, which seemed to be the most respected occupations in her culture. Since I fainted at the sight of blood, I chose the law. I became a lawyer not because I loved the law; I wanted to please my mother and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.
By-products of my particular childhood experiences included resourcefulness and the ability to compartmentalize, pretending certain dark things never happened. The former served me well in life; the latter caused a breakdown. I had a chameleon-like personality that allowed me to assimilate fairly easily. But the fear of being discovered to be a fraud haunted me, as did the double consciousness of moving through a white-dominated culture as a dark-skinned person.3
There are, of course, certain things from childhood all of us would benefit from retaining. The most important one may be the childlike sense of wonder about the world. The Toltec shaman and bestselling author don Miguel Ruiz reminds us of how free we were before the world changed us:
The real you is still a little child who never grew up. Sometimes that little child comes out when you are having fun or playing, when you feel happy, when you are painting, or writing poetry, or playing the piano, or expressing yourself in some way. These are the happiest moments of your life—when the real you comes out, when you don’t care about the past and you don’t worry about the future. You are childlike.4
This ability to recapture that sense of presence and wonder may lead you to your 50 new things. My concerted effort to do so certainly led to some of mine.
• 2 •
The Emptiness of Materialism and Trap of Perfectionism
I graduated from a well-regarded law school in the flush 1980s. Top-tier law school graduates were courted and wined and dined. At age 25, I was making almost six figures (adjusted for inflation, which was a great deal for someone my age).
I met my husband while in law school. His WASP-y grandmother, upon seeing my photo, asked if I could speak English. His family was anti-Catholic also. We married anyway. He is a good, ethical, smart man.
My husband and I each got high-paying jobs at large law firms in Washington, D.C. We bought a house downtown, and entertained and went out frequently. I sc
ored a job as a political appointee in the Clinton administration and enjoyed the headiness of spending time at the White House and working on matters that constituted breaking news.
Five years after marrying, we had a baby and moved to a tony suburb. We joined a country club and a yacht club (though we owned no boat). I played a lot of tennis and hosted coffees and fund-raisers. We summered in Nantucket. I learned that some used “summer” as a verb.
In our all-white neighborhood, I was frequently mistaken for the nanny of my lighter-skinned children. People at the country club mistook me for a waitress there on several occasions. It was annoying, and I wrote a couple of books about those experiences.1
I hid behind designer items to try to make me feel better about myself. Perhaps if I wore expensive clothing and jewelry, people would like me better or respect me more, I thought. Maybe my BMW or Mercedes would confer extra status upon me. I have learned, unfortunately not earlier than at age 50, that anyone who would hold me in higher esteem because of my material things are not the people with whom I want to spend time. With age comes wisdom.
I cared too much about appearances—of my house, my kids, my husband, the food I served. . . . I relentlessly organized events in my neighborhood, at my children’s schools, for charities and at my home. I had thousands of “friends,” but failed to nurture the friendships that meant the most to me. My 40th birthday party began with an invitation list of 1,000 people, which I whittled down to 200, per my husband’s reasonable request. My life at that time was exhausting.
Other than the unconditional love I had for my children, I felt fraudulent and empty.
Post-50, I no longer lust after material objects. I much prefer experiences over things. I learned that the thrill of obtaining a material item is fleeting and that, as Theodore Roosevelt once said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”2 What I have is enough. I am enough.
I so often confused pleasure and excitement with happiness. Happiness, for me now, is more about contentment and serenity. They last much longer.
The trap of perfectionism was likely a contributing factor to the snap that took place the year my father died. His death forced me, in a way, to stop and look within and behind me. Not places I was comfortable visiting. Like a rubber band that was stretched beyond its strength allowed, I plummeted and then joined the sisterhood of the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI) takers.
The faithful say everything happens for a reason. Depression, in some quarters, is a closely held secret. I have learned that hidden depression can be fatal and that working through depression can sometimes serve as a gateway to clarity on many levels.
When my father died, I snapped. My social and other obligations came to a screeching halt. I felt as if I were floating above my life. My closest friend said I was a ghost of myself.
I am normally chatty and gregarious. I can talk for 20 miles of a marathon, and have done so three times. Something was seriously wrong with me. I went silent for months, and spent hours staring at the wall.
A therapist informed me that my depression was likely caused, at least in part, by unexpressed rage. I had assumed the depression stemmed from the sorrow of losing my father to cancer and the ugliness my stepmother caused while he was dying and as we planned his memorial service.
While on his cancer-stricken deathbed, my father shared information with me about my mother—things I had long suppressed and had no need to know on a conscious level, like her infidelity. It probably was an attempt to exonerate himself for how broken, drunk, and harsh he had been when I was a child. He died very shortly after telling me. I had no idea how to process the information.
Was the divorce my mother’s fault? Or had she sought solace in the arms of another because my father was a violent alcoholic? Maybe it was a chicken/egg situation. I doubt I will ever know the truth.
I mourned for the innocent child I was, caught in the crosshairs of my parents’ misery and actions. Children are fine observers but poor interpreters. What had I thought? How did my parents’ issues affect me? How did they affect my now middle-aged brother, who I did my best to parent, though it was not my responsibility to do so?
According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America (ADAA),3 depression is one of the most common mental disorders in the United States. Approximately 15.7 million, or 6.7 percent, of American adults have experienced at least one major depressive episode. It is treatable, yet only about one-third of those who need it in our country seek treatment. Stigma regarding mental issues remains in our society. This is especially so for the older demographic that was raised with the mentality that one must pick themselves up and persevere at all times, and that a family’s dirty laundry was not to be aired outside the home. But nontreatment can lead to suicide. I now know 10 people who have taken their own lives. I definitely thought about it and was convinced not to do it, at least for my children’s sake.
I love my children fiercely and would do anything in my power to save them from harm. But my mind was so skewed that I thought my children would be better off without me. After I shared that sentiment at a 12-step meeting, a kindly stranger looked me in the eye and said, “Every child is worse off if their parent kills herself!” That was enough to stop me. In that moment, at least.
The taboo regarding depression and other mental illnesses needs to be eradicated. If you think you have depression, please get help from a medical professional. There are various levels of depression and many ways of treating it. Do not suffer alone. You are not alone.4
It surprises me how many people have no familiarity with clinical depression. Some of my friends and family members implored me to snap out of my depression and anxiety. I wish I could have. It was like being in a hole and not being able to extricate myself from the murky molasses-like muck holding me down. It feels otherworldly. My viewpoint was all out of whack, which is not surprising in retrospect, given that depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain.
On the other hand, there is a huge percentage of the population that takes medication for depression. According to National Public Radio, one in 10 Americans takes antidepressants.5 The highest demographic of those getting antidepressant medication prescriptions is women in their 40s and 50s.6 After I began speaking openly about my antidepressant medication use, women seemed to come out of the woodwork, sharing about their use of these sometimes lifesaving drugs.
Why middle-aged women? Perhaps men suffer in silence. Maybe they are socialized not to show emotion or weakness. In any event, it is my firm belief that by continuing to cultivate passions in life, midlife angst and even depression can be mitigated. Once my clinical depression was treated with medication, my horizons expanded exponentially.
The most commonly prescribed medications for depression are SSRIs, such as Zoloft, Prozac, and Lexapro. They ease depression by increasing levels of serotonin in the brain.
It was intensely frustrating to me, however, that those who wish to take medication to treat anxiety and depression often must try several medications before finding the one that is right for them. And most medications take several weeks before their efficacy can be experienced. It seems to me that modern medicine would have found a way to test our blood or brain waves to save us from this human test tube-like experimentation. But they have not.7 I ended up trying five different medications before I felt relief from a medication with tolerable side effects.
I did not rely on finding a magic pill, however. I tried to exercise, engaged in talk therapy, and forced myself to get out of the house each day (though I spent a great deal of time staring at the walls). Forays to the grocery store took hours. It felt very difficult to choose items there. Too many choices stymied me.
I felt ridiculously anxious. My then-husband and best friend tried to help me calm my exaggerated fearfulness. There was a period when I implored my husband every morning not to leave for work. I simultaneously worried that my problems wer
e too big for him to handle and that if he really knew what was going on inside my head, he would leave me. A few times, I even thought I heard voices. Inside the refrigerator. When alone, I would stay so still that I once saw a field mouse peek out from under the oven and look at me.
There is a generational resistance to mental health treatment. My parents’ generation was mostly of the stiff upper lip sort. The potential for shame outweighed the potential for feeling better. Thank God this was not a factor for me, though I admit that I lost a few friends during the time I was severely depressed. Those who did not understand depression’s effects kept their distance from me. I understand that people are resistant to things they do not understand, and that they would prefer to keep company with upbeat friends. But when I got well, I remembered who stood by my side during the dark days and naturally gravitated toward them.
One of the medications I took made me zombielike. Another made me manic. The mania-inducing one was much preferred. Filled with long-lost energy, I sprang into action, starting numerous projects.
I also upped my alcohol intake. A lot. And the medication magnified the intoxicating effect of the alcohol. It was not a good mix.
I started buying cheap wine by the case and hiding the bottles around the house. My husband started noticing the empties, first in our recycling bin, then in our neighbor’s. “Yes, such a coincidence that they drink the same wine. Big sale at the local store,” I’d reply. He was skeptical, and started finding my alcohol stashes in various places in the house. Maybe I wanted to get caught. Maybe this was a cry for help.
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