Inner Peace ... It Isn't Out There!

By Dena Stewart

The Fifth Commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother. But what if thy father and thy mother didn’t garner thy honor? WALK AWAY! That’s what this author did to end her ongoing war with her relentlessly critical mother and emotionally vacant father. “Jenna” (author), a descendant of the Grand Rebbe of Belz (Poland), grew up in a community of Orthodox Jews who self-righteously monitored each other to guaranty nobody broke with tradition. Damaged by her mother’s manipulative guilt trips and relentless verbal abuse, Jenna challenged her own hypocritical fakery when she married a man whose view of life was not skewed by a filter of religious indoctrination. With his support, Jenna discovered her own beliefs, and the further away from her family’s emotional reach, the more Jenna accomplished creatively and professionally. With extensive and extraordinary public recognition and validation, after twenty years of estrangement, Jenna reconnected with her family. But, as her new relationship with her mother evolved, fate took a hand to give her story an unexpected turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dena Stewart
• Release date: Nov 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310035739

Dena Stewart

Dena Stewart is a self-taught visionary artist who picked up a paintbrush for the first time shortly after she turned thirty. Her colorful canvases express her life experiences, dreams and beliefs. One of her early works, "Christmas Tree in the City" was part of the 1982, ‘83, ‘84 and ‘89 UNICEF Greeting Card Collection, with more than three million "Christmas Tree in the City" cards sold world-wide. Ms. Stewart served as an Honorary Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF in 1989.Born in Manhattan, Dena graduated from Pace University with a degree in business education. Before becoming a professional artist, she taught High School in New York, was an editor for a large textbook publishing company, and personnel manager for a national department stores chain.Along with her husband, artist Stewart Stewart, Dena relocated from NYC to Miami Beach, FL in 1987. Together, they founded Center for Folk and Community Art (CFCA), a non-profit organization with a mission to use visual art as a tool of intervention, prevention and education. Her nationally acclaimed Telling Stories Through Visuals curriculum was selected by the President’s Committee on the Arts and Humanities as a model outreach program. Telling Stories Through Visuals is a Lesson Card in the SRA/McGraw-Hill reading and language arts program – Imagine it!, a comprehensive literacy tool used in schools in more than 50 countries around the world.Dena was honored by the Miami Beach Commission on the Status of Women as a “Woman Worth Knowing”. In appreciation for her civic involvement, Ms. Stewart received a dozen Miami Beach and Miami-Dade County Proclamations, as well as the Key to the City of Miami Beach.In addition to facilitating programs to address social issues, Dena and Stewart co-host Alive on South Beach, an entertaining online video show for SyndicatedNews.Net (SNN.BZ).

Book preview

PART I

HELP!

Chapter 1

The strong crosswind slammed the heavy outer door shut behind her and the room vibrated. Her prized Seth Thomas pendulum clock bounced off the wall shattering as it hit the parquet tiles.

Holy Crap! This can’t be happening! Jenna cried out.

June 19, 1978, 4:00 p.m. was Jenna's defining moment. She stared at the broken symbol of time. The room spun. In a wave of dizziness Jenna crumbled to the floor. She sat there, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees and rocked back and forth. Her mind raced with repetitive thoughts, Who am I? What does she want from me? Why can’t I ever get it right? I’m so darn tired.

Ten minutes later, when Jenna’s husband Michael returned from walking their dog, he found her still on the floor. Their dog ran to Jenna and kissed her tear-stained face. Michael ran over and checked for bruises. Jenna what happened? he asked, his voice radiating fear.

The clock broke, she cried.

That's why you're on the floor? Michael asked with an incredulous shake of his head as he extended his hand for her to grab onto. She refused it.

I lost my job, she mumbled, and stayed where she was for another twenty minutes, pulling at her hair and babbling about being a phony-fake-fraud-failure.

Jenna, call Sam. He’s a really good therapist. He’s helping me get over my stage fright. I’m confident he can help you, Michael softly coaxed. Michael’s phobia surfaced in acting class, movies and theater roles being his latest career goal. His coach recommended therapy to broaden his emotional range and another acting student referred him to Sam. Michael already had three sessions with him.

I’ll be okay, Jenna said when she came out of her stupor. This time when Michael extended his hand, she took it and stood up. Thanks for being understanding, she said and kissed his cheek.

Please call Sam. I know you’ll feel much better after talking with him, Michael said.

Really, once I get over the shock of this awful day I’ll be fine, Jenna replied, sitting down on the couch with a thump.

Michael reached over to the end table and handed Jenna the wireless phone and Sam’s business card. Please Jenna. Make the call, Michael pleaded, his worried eyes not leaving hers.

She took the phone and card from his outstretched arm and called. Sam answered on the second ring.

Jenna introduced herself. Michael said I should call you. I’m flipping out, she told him.

Sam paused for a moment. Okay … If you’d like, we can talk tomorrow. Is ten a.m. good for you? he asked.

Yes. See you then, Jenna replied.

It was gray and cloudy out, just the way Jenna felt as she trudged the two long blocks to the subway. She caught the express train and reached the 14th Street Union Square station in a matter of minutes. Jenna decided to walk crosstown, too impatient to wait for the shuttle. By the time she reached Sam’s rundown five-story tenement in the West Village, beads of perspiration dampened her forehead. Jenna wiped her brow and grappled with which of her twisted thoughts to reveal to Sam.

The dimly lit elevator was on the ground-floor. She got in and pressed the button. The tiny cell was stifling and Jenna wished she had walked up. She was gasping for air by the time she reached Sam’s third-floor landing. Before she knocked, Sam opened the door and greeted her with a warm smile. He led her into his office and motioned for her to sit in one of two overstuffed chairs. She chose the one upholstered in a bright floral print cloth. He sat opposite her on a wooden rocker that squeaked with every movement.

So, what’s up? Sam asked.

I was fired from my job yesterday … When I got home the clock fell off the wall ... I took it as an omen that my time was running out ... I think I’m going crazy, Jenna said flatly.

Sam’s glasses were thick, his eyes hidden. Jenna couldn’t read him.

What else happened to set you off? Sam asked.

And the words tumbled out …Yesterday, just before my boss gave me my walking papers, I called my mother. She was leaving later that afternoon for her annual visit to her family in Israel. She’ll be there for six-weeks. I wasn’t able to say goodbye to her in person and she was angry that my work kept me away. First she called me selfish then she told me to drop dead and go to hell, Jenna replied with a deep sigh. Whenever my mother is unhappy with my response she curses me. Her rant was predictable but this time her words penetrated, she added as explanation.

Sam didn’t comment. Instead he said, Would you consider having Michael join your sessions? You will each have your own designated time to talk. Working with both of you together would be very beneficial. That is, if you and Michael agree to this arrangement.

It’s fine with me. I’ll ask Michael, Jenna replied, said goodbye and left.

When Jenna returned home from her meeting with Sam, Michael was molding chopped liver into a heart. He had won a part in the movie Hair, set to begin filming the following day. Only one line, but still a cause to celebrate. He planned a sumptuous home cooked dinner.

How did it go? Michael asked, handing her a forkful of the lumpy pate.

You were right. Sam is easy to talk to. He said we’d get a lot more out of therapy if we shared our sessions. I said yes. But, you also have to consent, she replied. The liver is delicious, she added, going for another dollop.

Glad you like it, Michael replied. And in answer to joint therapy, after our year on the road and the past few years dealing with your family there isn't anything we can't say in front of each other. I’m all for it.

Good. Then I’ll make an appointment for noon tomorrow, Jenna said. She gave Michael a grateful kiss for being thoughtful and set the table for their private party.

I took the first step and already I feel like a rock has been lifted off my stockpile, Jenna commented over a glass of Merlot.

It doesn’t matter what you wear. Just throw on anything, Michael said, tapping his foot as Jenna picked through her wardrobe in anticipation of their first session together with Sam.

I’m embarrassed enough that I need to see a therapist. I don’t want to appear crazy and disheveled, she replied.

Come on. Let’s go, Michael urged. He put therapy in the category of higher education without any stigma attached. He wore his tattered old jeans and a tee shirt. He didn’t care how Sam or strangers perceived him.

The crowded downtown Lexington Avenue train was waiting at the stop, the crosstown shuttle pulled in just as they arrived. With no delays, they were a few minutes early for their appointment.

Want to split a prune Danish while we wait, Michael asked.

The rundown neighborhood was full of immigrants, mostly Eastern European. The window of the bakery next door to Sam’s building brimmed with fresh-looking pastries.

No, I’m not hungry. But you have one, Jenna replied, suddenly nervous about being vulnerable in front of Michael and Sam.

That’s okay. I’ll pass, Michael said.

Jenna wondered if he too had anxiety but didn’t ask. Then let’s go, she said, anxious to start the process.

They walked up the three flights. A pretty woman with blond hair and tear-streaked cheeks passed them in the hallway. The outer door of Sam’s office was open. They knocked and walked in. Sam’s back was to them. He put a file into a cabinet draw and turned around.

Find your chair and get comfortable, he said.

Jenna sat down in the big chair she used the day before. Michael sat to her side. Sam took his seat facing them. During the few moments before starting the session, Jenna looked around the room. She had been so preoccupied with herself the day before she didn’t notice that the walls were bare, not even a clock, and very little light shone through the dark blue drapes.

What do you want to achieve from your therapy? Sam asked, interrupting her décor scan.

I want to be self-confident and anxiety-free. I want inner peace, Jenna answered, prepared for that question.

Yesterday, you mentioned your mother’s verbal abuse. How would you describe your overall relationship with her? he asked, without commenting on her goal.

Jenna took a deep breath and sat up straight. She’s angry. I’m defensive. She’s depressed. I’m guilt-ridden. She’s highly critical. I cry, she answered and paused.

Sam didn’t interject so she exhaled and continued. When I was a teenager, my mother repeatedly called me a bastard. If I’m a bastard, you’re a tramp I once sassed back. She called me a bitch. Am I a pedigreed poodle or a mutt? I replied. She smacked me across my face, called me a fresh, spoiled brat and didn’t talk to me for a week. She tells me to drop dead and go to hell to end every fight, Jenna said and slumped back into her chair, suddenly self-conscious.

Go on, Sam said.

Jenna reminded herself that she needed his help. Holding back was a waste of time and money. The day after Michael and I were married, she started to harp on me to make her a grandmother. She’s extremely competitive with her sisters and sisters-in-law. Their children already made them proud by having scores of babies. I can’t handle her pressure, Jenna revealed.

Sam tilted his head. I was under the impression keeping women pregnant and barefoot was eradicated decades ago. Why is it so significant in your family? he asked.

Oh, I thought I had mentioned that my family is ultra-Orthodox. And for the sake of harmony, I pretend I am, she answered.

Sam raised his eyebrows. Ultra-Orthodox! I knew your family was Jewish, but ultra-Orthodox? Religion can conflict with traditional therapy … he began.

I’m not Orthodox. I’m over it, Jenna quickly assured him.

Okay. We can come back to that. Let stay focused on how you and your mother interact. Do you believe your mother loves you? he asked, refocusing the conversation.

I don’t know. Once, when I complained to my aunts about my mother’s verbal abuse, they told me I was lying and to never speak badly about her. She loves you more than life itself, they said. Of course, I want to believe she loves me. But she isn’t demonstrative, and she never said those words, Jenna replied.

When your mother demeans you, criticizes you, calls you hurtful names, do you believe she hates you? Sam asked.

I try not to take the nasty things she says in anger seriously, Jenna answered.

Why do you deny the hateful things she says to you and embrace the love she doesn't express? Sam asked.

Jenna started to cry. Sam handed her a box of tissues.

I was brought up to honor my parents. When I don’t, I feel guilty. I guess my religious indoctrination is part of my problem, Jenna reluctantly admitted.

Sam nodded. We’ll talk about that another time. Now, tell me why you feel guilty, he said.

The short version is my mother is depressed two weeks out of the month. She’s angry for a week after that and blames me for her misery. Then she’s in a good mood and we get along well and I feel great. When my mother is sad and hurting, I feel responsible as her daughter to do what I can to make her happy, Jenna said, her voice steady.

So two weeks out of the month you feel guilty, one week you are demeaned, and one week your wounds start to heal. Then the cycle begins again. Would you explain how your guilt eases you mother’s depression, Sam said.

Guilt motivates me to be more attentive to her, Jenna replied with a hint of belligerence.

Correct me if I misheard. Didn’t you say that your efforts to please her provoke anger rather than praise? Sam asked.

Jenna tightly crossed her arms. She didn’t answer.

What exactly do you owe your mother? Why do you believe you have to put up with her emotional destruction? Sam asked.

Jenna thought before she answered. She’s made a lot of sacrifices on my behalf, was the best answer she could come up with.

Such as …? Sam asked, nailing her down.

She stayed in bed almost the entire nine months she was pregnant to guarantee I was born. She had a previous miscarriage. She slept sitting upright the entire summer I had the whooping cough for fear I’d choke to death. She paid for my private school tuition and scrimped so that I could have a room of my own – none of my cousins had their own room. And she gave me permission to leave the neighborhood on Shabbos (Sabbath), Jenna answered, realizing that when broken down, in reality her mother sacrificed very little.

Sam remained stone faced while Jenna spoke. Your mother puts an emotional price tag on everything she does for you and your guilt is the only currency she accepts. Do you realize that no matter how much guilt you have, it will never be enough to wipe out your debt? he asked.

I get it, Jenna replied. As I listed her sacrifices, I realized how she manipulates me. So, how can I diminish my debt to her and be guilt-free? Jenna asked.

Declare emotional bankruptcy.

Sam stood up and stretched. We’ll talk more at our next session, he said, and sat down again. It was Michael’s turn. And when his time was up, another patient was waiting.

Their next session was two days later. My dream is to be a free spirit, Jenna wistfully told Michael while waiting for Sam to buzz them into the building.

Sam’s a therapist, not a miracle worker. So let’s take it session by session and see how it goes, Michael replied.

Sam greeted them at the door this time. After exchanging amenities, they took their seats and returned to where they left off. Sam turned to Jenna.

What I am about to suggest is extreme. Only a small percentage of my patients follow through. However, if you do, your life will change forever, he said.

In anticipation of finally learning the secret to fulfilling her dream of inner peace, Jenna leaned forward gripping the chair’s armrests to brace from falling.

You need to walk away from your mother! You also need to walk away from your father, brothers, other family members and friends. Stay away from the neighborhood. Divorce yourself from everyone!

Jenna’s jaw dropped. Her heart pounded. She looked at Michael for support. He nodded in agreement with Sam.

I don’t see how hurting my mother will make me feel good. I went into therapy thinking you would help me fix my personality so that I’m able to get along with my mother, and feel worthwhile, confident and good enough as I am. Instead you’re telling me to divorce myself from everyone! Why? My brother Louis is on an open-ended trip cross country. Stephen is busy with his new job and girlfriend. And Maddy is my best friend. We never fought, not even a small argument. I can’t wrap my brain around what you’re telling me. Why do you suggest I walk away? Jenna asked, her voice ten octaves higher than usual.

Hysteria took over. She stood up and rushed into the tiny bathroom. The lock on the door was broken. She turned the water on full force and watched a rusty stream flow into the sink. When the water cleared she wet a paper towel and dabbed her flushed face, wiping away the mascara that ran earlier. When the room stopped swaying, she re-joined Michael and Sam.

Sam picked up the conversation. Two reasons you need to walk away: The first most vital one is because your mother is destroying you. If you want inner peace, you need time and distance from her in order to heal. The second reason is for perspective. For you to clearly see who your mother is, as well as everyone else, you need space from them.

Sam is right, Michael interjected, and moved over to stroke her arm.

Jenna heard every word Sam said. Intellectually it made sense. Her reaction was visceral, but unable to curl up in a ball, Jenna shook her head no and said, My mother will be devastated. I can’t do that to her.

Just think about it. You don’t have to do anything this moment. Your mother is in Israel and won't be back for several more weeks, Sam said.

But will walking away from everyone alleviate my guilt? Jenna asked.

It’s a long, slow process. But in time, you’ll see, Sam replied.

My mother isn’t that bad, Jenna commented to Michael over dinner at a coffee shop they stopped at on their way home from their double session with Sam.

Boy, are you in denial, Michael replied.

And you’re guiltless, she accused him.

That’s correct. I have no reason to feel guilty. You heard what Sam said when I described my relationship with my parents. He told me that I would have been better off had I been an orphan. I agreed and I’m convinced. When we get home I’m calling them to say they shouldn’t expect a visit from me any time soon, Michael stated with unwavering conviction. His parents were retired and living in Boca Raton.

Before making himself comfortable in front of the TV, Michael made the call. His mother answered. Daddy’s already at the club house and I was just about to meet him there. So unless it’s an emergency, I have to go, she greeted.

Go. Have a good life, Michael replied and said, Goodbye!

Why waste words. My parents aren’t interested in me, he told Jenna.

I need to tell my parents to their face why I’m walking away, she told Michael, and silently reflected on some of the incidents in her life that brought her to this breaking point.

Chapter 2

Jenna’s thoughts went directly to Michael … Six years earlier.

I’m almost twenty-four years old. I’ve been on enough blind dates to know they rarely lead to another. So what about Michael is different? Jenna asked Maddy.

Maddy was her best friend since their junior year in high school. Maddy, full-figured and flirty, liked brooding, self-absorbed artistic types. Jenna, petite and spunky, preferred funny, out-going activists. Whenever either one met a decent guy more suited for the other, they introduced them.

He’s cute and he seems nice. He’s in the publicity business and lives on the Upper East Side, Maddy said.

That’s it? How long do you know him? Where did you meet him? Jenna asked.

I met him yesterday. He has an office in the same building as my dentist. We spoke a little while waiting for the elevator and he invited me to join him for a cup of coffee after my appointment. I accepted. Physically, there’s no chemistry but I really think you’ll like him. I praised you to the sky and gave him your phone number. He said he would call, Maddy answered.

In other words, you barely know him, Jenna responded. Optimism gone!

Michael called the very next day. They both liked rock and folk music and traveling. Jenna didn’t know anyone in the publicity business and Michael made his work sound exciting. Jenna decided she wanted to meet him, but after an hour long conversation Michael didn’t ask her out, leaving her to wonder if it was something she said.

A week went by, then a month, then several more. Jenna forgot about Michael. She worked days in the administrative office of a private University and was finishing her last few evening college courses there before the required semester of student-teaching. Her goal was to get her teachers license and move out of her parents’ apartment. Twenty-five was the age she targeted to set herself free.

Six months later, around noon on the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, her phone rang.

Hi, it’s Michael. We spoke a while back.

Jenna felt a flutter in her stomach at the sound of his voice.

I spent the holiday upstate with some friends and just got back to town. Would you like to get together later this afternoon? he asked.

Jenna weighed her options. She had nothing planned and a blind date was better than staying home listening to her parents fight. Sure, why not, she said.

Great. I was hoping you’d say that. Listen, I’d be happy to come downtown but I’m not familiar with your neighborhood, he said.

That’s okay. I’d rather come uptown. How about meeting at the Metropolitan Museum? Jenna replied. She didn’t want him anywhere close to the world she lived within.

It’s too cold to wait outdoors. Why don't you come over to my apartment? From there, we can walk to the museum together, Michael said. He gave Jenna his address and door-to-door directions by bus. They agreed on three o’clock.

Jenna rummaged through her closet, settling on her new bell-bottom jeans and a long-sleeved red turtleneck sweater. She blew out her shoulder length shag hairdo to add extra bounce. A dab of lipstick and mascara, she was good to go. She topped off her outfit with her plaid wrap-around coat. She checked her image in the full length mirror nailed to her closet door and tied her belt.

I’m leaving. Don’t know what time I’ll be back, she yelled in the direction of the kitchen where her mother was sitting at the table sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.

Where are you going? her mother yelled back.

I’m meeting a friend. I’ll tell you more when I get back, she answered and left before her mother asked more questions.

She walked five long blocks to Allen Street to catch the uptown bus. It was breezy and cold. Jenna lifted her collar and quickened her pace. The bus arrived within minutes. She found a window seat and watched the neighborhoods go upscale as the bus headed north. She ignored the muttering old man who sat down next to her and fantasized that Michael would be as interesting to talk to in person as he was on the telephone. That he would be sexy. That he would be Mr. Right.

Two months after her twenty-third birthday she almost married mother-approved Mr. Wrong. She had chosen him to lose her virginity, a calculated act to catch up with her friends, but he mistook her brazen gift of sex as a sign of love and proposed. She accepted his proposal in the hope of leaving her parents’ home earlier than planned. He broke their engagement a month later saying he wasn’t ready to settle down. Jenna told herself to stop fantasizing.

Arriving at her uptown destination Jenna walked one block west to a big white building with a circular driveway. A doorman in a formal cerulean blue uniform with matching cap stood in the entrance way.

I’m visiting Michael …, she began.

You must be Jenna. Mr. Michael is expecting you.

He ushered her into a marble-tiled lobby with crystal chandeliers and six-foot high oil paintings. Jenna took in the ambiance, impressed by the ostentation.

He’s on the 17th floor. Apartment A, the doorman said. He pointed in the direction of the elevator bank.

Waiting