Hey Drama Goblins,
I don’t know if there’s a word for being both exhilarated and exhausted, but that’s how I’ve been feeling the last couple of months.
I have had so much to do, and most of it is stuff I want to do. I don’t for a second take a second of it for granted. I am very, very, lucky.
And, I’m also proud. I’ve made a conscious effort and worked hard to get where I am. I have work I enjoy and feel competent to do, a wide and deep social circle, and hobbies and interests that interest me.
The signs that my mental health has improved continue to rack up. I don’t take any of them for granted either. I know how life can turn on a dime, but I’m not anxious or waiting for shoes to drop. I’m not puh, puh, puh-ing or muttering “kinehora.” I have a confidence I haven’t had in recent years that I’ll be able to deal whatever comes at me.
Mental health or delusion? Either way, I’ll take it.
I’m so glad you’re here,
Lara
A Little Behind
Short Story
In 2016, I read Hillbilly Elegy like a good little liberal. After I finished it I closed the cover and thought, “That guy still has a lot of work to do.”
Long Story
It’s no secret I’m a Mad Men fan. It’s not just because of Jon Hamm and his handsome mug (although that doesn’t hurt) it’s because it’s an accurate, tragic, and beautiful story about the impact of childhood trauma.
If you’ll forgive me spoiling a show that’s been off the air for almost 15 years, Master of the Universe Don Draper is an imposter. He assumed the name of a fellow soldier who died in battle so he could leave his past as the bastard, orphaned, son of a whore who grew up in a brothel named Dick Whitman behind.
Dick Whitman was behind him all right. Whispering in his ear that he wasn’t good enough. That he didn’t deserve his beautiful house and beautiful wife. That his Madison Avenue colleagues and their Park Avenue wives would figure him out and cast him out if he makes one false move.
It’s what both propelled him to propel himself up the ladder of power and fame, and also to behave like a complete bastard to everyone who had had the nerve to love him. He punished them for loving him because they made him feel unworthy. He treated his wives like garbage because he expected them to make him a better person and they didn’t.
In 2016, in the wake of the election, big-city and coastal liberals were admonished to reach out and understand our fellow Americans who voted for The D. Not the millionaires who were protecting their pocketbooks, but the so-called “real Americans” of the midwest, south, and Appalachia who had been left behind.
Diners in small-town diners could barely make their way to the restroom because the joints were so chock-full of reporters from The New York Times and NPR eager for some evidence that it wasn’t racism, misogyny, xenophobia, Islamophobia, homophobia, a twisted interpretation of what Jesus would do and a creepy gun fetish that left them no choice but to vote for an unqualified, small-fingered, bankrupt-in-all-ways conman.
So, our book club got in line and chose Hilbilly Elegy for our next meeting after the election. I acknowledge I went into it with a bad attitude, but I went in. I even bought a copy at an indie bookstore to alleviate my liberal guilt.
Yes, because in 2016, even though we were the losers, we were admonished to extend the olive branch to the winners. We were supposed to feel bad about characterizing Republicans as “deplorable.” We were told to sit in the corner, think about what we had done, and read Hillbilly Elegy.
So read it I did. And when I closed the cover I thought, “That guy still has a lot of work to do.”
I don’t remember a lot of the details of his story growing up. I do remember thinking, “He’s not really that hillbilly” compared to say, Dolly Parton. I mostly remember that his description of his transition to and time at Yale Law School didn’t sit right with me.
He seems to have almost fallen into Yale, without a lot of effort or support. Possible? Sure, but my Spidey Sense told me a lot was missing.
And when he got to Yale, his almost seamless transition was also suspect. Oh sure he made nods to feeling out of place and having to learn a few social graces, but… there was no Dick Witman. None that he acknowledged.
I didn’t buy it. I didn’t believe he moved so effortlessly from one world to another. I didn’t believe the differences between him and his classmates didn’t cut a thousand little wounds. I didn’t believe that he didn’t feel shame, the kind of deep shame you feel not because you’ve done something wrong, but because you are wrong.
And while I have been wrong about a lot in recent years, I have been proven right about JD. He gets more odious with each passing day.
But among all the many, many, MANY things about JD Vance that make him deplorable and squirrely, his name changes are not among them. I saw a Substack post from The D’s niece Mary making fun of him for having changed his name so many times. That didn’t sit well with me either.
His carousel of monikers is the result of a tumultuous childhood. A birth father whose name his drug-addicted mother erased from his life and birth certificate. An adoptive stepfather with whom he is no longer in contact. The hardscrabble grandparents who raised him when they probably would have rather enjoyed their golden years.
There was a scene in Roseanne Barr's memoir (I know, another weirdo) where she said she started getting plastic surgery because she looked so much like her abusive father and hated seeing him in the mirror.
That broke my heart. And made so much sense.
JD's ACE's (Adverse Childhood Experiences) have made him the twisted mess of a human we see before us because he let them. I have all of the compassion in the world for someone with an abusive or chaotic childhood. John and I used to say building an adult life is like building a house.
Some people have a solid foundation of concrete, some have quicksand. It's much easier to build a nice house on a solid foundation. Building a shack on quicksand is a god damn miracle. But all anyone ever sees is the shack.
JD and Donald have built rat-infested McMansions on their shaky mix of advantages and adversity. ACEs don't absolve you of your obligation to be decent. And, it's up to better minds than mine to determine how much agency you have to make good choices when you haven't been raised by someone like Tim Walz.
I've seen the joke that The D and Vance represent the ultimate rise of men who need therapy. That is absolutely true. And tragic, because even when they lose in November, we have all already lost by having to spend so much time and energy on them while they avoid workin' on their shizz.
I once said to someone who hurt me, "I want there to be as many healthy and whole people in the world, and I want you to be among them." A few months later, when she hurt me yet again, I said, "I want you to be healthy and healed so you no longer hurt people the way you hurt me."
JD and The D have hurt so damn many people, and regardless of their office, will likely spend the rest of their lives hurting many, many more.
Lara Sez…
Listen!
Bronski Beat is having a bit of a moment due the virial 80’s parent dance challenge. Here’s another fun dance groove from them.
Follow!
The @outta_puff_daddys are a group of middle-aged men who met while taking their kids to dance class. They didn’t think the kids should be the only ones having all the fun, so they formed their own crew dedicated to fun, friendship, fitness, and fighting the stigma of men’s mental health.
They are adorable and like Tim Walz and Doug Emhoff, the Tonic Masculinity we knew we needed.
Buy!
A couple of weeks ago I recommended Color Wow Dream Coat. The trick of it working is that you spray it on your hair and then blow dry it “with tension.” You can do that with a hair dryer and a brush, or you can use one of these babies.
The Revlon One-Step Volumizer went viral a couple of years ago, and if you ask me, it lives up to the hype.
Well done, Lara! Your theories make much sense, and your lead in and interpretation of Mad Men was very astute. I enjoyed reading this.
So much gratitude for you speaking up about mental health and our coming to terms with personal and collective trauma. I wish I could open a door 100times daily for all the Donalds, JDs or Rosannes. I do this work professionally and I believe that every hour spent on personal archeology rewards us all, and our planet.