Your own personal demon, hearts and stars

Working on a drawing, a little girl meticulously drew hearts all around her picture's heroine.  She then put stars in the sky shining down on the scene, tens of stars.  The hearts swirled around the girl and the stars twinkled in the sky.  When asked why the hearts and the stars didn't overlap or touch, the little girl replied, "Because the hearts keep you right here where you are and the stars take you to your dreams."

Another show business death has the media asking questions and the world in mourning.  Whitney Houston was, no question, an international star, a voice, a presence, an icon.  She was also a mirage.  We saw in her what we wanted and in all the smoke and haze, we'd convinced ourselves (collectively speaking, of course) that she was indeed all that we projected onto her, rather than a mortal like the rest of us.  Yes, she was beautiful and alluring.  Yes, she had talent beyond measure.  Yes, she appeared to have grace and poise and everything else.  This was how it all seemed.  What we hoped and what we dreamed.  Already her physical presence is dissolving from this world, but the haunting sound of her pitch perfect voice, of her mesmerizing beauty, and of her all too common human experience lingers, and has clouded my thinking for days.

It has clouded my thinking because on some level, I identified with the girl that was Whitney Houston, fantasized about what it was like to be the woman, cannot even get my head around what it was to be the superstar.  A star so incredible, so bright as to outshine all other stars, which are already pretty bright given that when we finally see them, many in the sky are already dead.  The light we see is the flash of light it left behind before fading.  There is endless talk that Whitney's star was either fading or had long gone out.  And here is where I ache, not just for her, but for all people who have dreamed of stardom, fame, accolades, attention, accomplishment at any cost, destroying themselves to achieve stardom.  Stars fade.  But in a human life, we have many phases, more like those of the moon.  In our lives, we wax and wane, have lean and fat times, and can often see ourselves after long suffering or famine, rejoicing in abundance and joy.

People talk about a meteoric rise as though all of this can be discussed in terms of not just external drives and forces, but outer space, intergalactic travel, otherworldliness.  I do believe that artists tap into something, the collective unconscious, the God source, the Divine.  And that the energy can be so strong, so intense, so overwhelming, that it can knock even the strongest to their asses if they have not centered or grounded themselves.  How do we ground ourselves if the earth under our feet is always moving?  If long before we become adults something knocks us off kilter, changes our perfect nature, torments and eats away at us?

When I was a young girl I had fantasies of breaking into show business.  I was a dancer, creative type, cocoa-skinned, bright eyed, and eager to please.  I didn't talk much, but I often envisioned myself in the chorus of a Broadway show, doing commercials, or even peering from the pages of a magazine or newspaper, local or national.   Both my sister and I were egged on by our babysitter whose children, all gorgeous Afro-Cuban talents in dance, music, and acting had each found some success in the big city.  We were convinced that on the other side of that bus ride into New York was our future and in it we were celebrated on Broadway, dancing with prominent ballet companies, modeling for Macy's or Abraham and Strauss, or tossing that Nerf football, or helping Barbies peach and tan slide down that windy blue slide into her fabulous pool. 

Just one thing stood in our way.  My mother was not as interested in our professional pursuits and as she was to be the chauffeur and handler, this was a real obstacle.  No stage mother here.  Though I believe that her main concern was the long drive and tedium of castings and auditions, there was probably some fear of the entertainment industry.  She, like so many others, just did not trust the industry, hangers on, emphasis on appearances, total disconnect from feelings, seemingly unflinchingly involved with making money or selling something, anything, that lesser souls can get crushed. 

We weren't buying it and I will confess to being quite upset with her for years after.  I was upset because I believed, truly, that she was pulling the plug on my destiny, that she was disallowing me the opportunity to leave my regular, difficult, trying sub-suburban experience and be propelled into the stratosphere.  In hindsight, I can see that my desperate, lonely, emotionally challenging life up to that moment would have provided no grounding for me.  Completely untethered, I would have failed miserably in protecting myself in a new and alien landscape.

Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction brings us awfully close to the ground.  Often lying on the ground and I say that actually and metaphorically.  What gets us there are a myriad of circumstances and situations and reaching, climbing, even soaring towards the stars cannot prevent us from hitting the floor on our faces.  There has been so much said about who is at fault, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done, not only in the case of Whitney Houston, but with Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, the folks regularly paraded on Intervention, and in the millions of nameless others around the world who suffer, have suffered, continue to suffer or who have died from this terrible disease. 

I was never an addict but have seen too many others close to me torn to pieces, ripped from the inside so that all they had left was the hole from which their own light would have to guide them, a light that was with them all the time, one for which they did not need to climb or launch themselves into oblivion.  I have been the friend partying alongside the addict, knowing full well that there was no reason that person needed to be in that situation but having too much of a good time myself to stop them.  I have sworn to withdraw contact, if not love, if he/she did not seek help and stop, and then returned.  I have had a glass of wine, done a host of other illicit drugs in the presence of an addict who told me that it was cool, knowing full well that it wasn't. I am not proud of that and certainly wouldn't do anything like that now.  Thinking about the utter ruthlessness of it fills me with shame and embarassment.  In truth, I was a young, naive, dangerously depressed young woman who but by the grace of God really, did not find myself addicted, just attracted to the dark side.

We all carry our own personal demons and some of them are deadset on killing us if we let them.   We walk hand in hand with them,  believe what we know is crap, think we have any control of the substances that we unleash into our bodies, into our hearts, our families, our lives.  Or we look at those who have let those demons in and are unable to kick them out on their own as less than ourselves.  We elevate ourselves because reminders of falling on our own faces, the struggle, the climb to salvation and a life worth living break off arrows in our hearts, remind us of how hard and painful it really is to find love and serenity in our own lives. 

I am searching for the compassion, in myself and in others.  We are all fallable and if we think we have it all figured out, have our demons in check, we are fooling ourselves.  Whitney Houston was a star who reached unfathomable heights and I suppose watching her twinkling up there, we believed we could see the flaws, the second chances, the denials more clearly.  Because we wanted so badly for her to use her fame, her money, her resources to save herself.  Because we saw her demons take her by the hand and crush it in a vice grip, we hoped she realized how serious it all was too and tried to break out. 

 I have heard it said and believe it to be true that one has to want sobriety, freedom from addiction, a change in their life and lifestyle in order for it to really happen.  I have cried for those who could not want it enough for themselves, could not allow it, and have been blessed to rediscover some who found themselves anew.  The demons are still there with them as are the stars for which they reached.  They are held at bay with the desire to love, to share a life with family and friends, to soar with hearts wide open, to live in light rather than dark.

I am most hurt by the passing of this bright star not so much because I know she could have saved herself and should have abandoned the hangers-on that enabled her destruction, but because she leaves in her comet trail a daughter.  A girl who has seen in her short lifetime addiction up close and extremely personal.  A girl who no matter how many times was told she was loved, no matter how much she was given, no matter the comfort the spoils of success provided, has earned a demon or two of her own.  And without support, guidance, love, and compassion, a burden as big as the falling of a star could very well crush her.

I know that I have harbored secret pains, hurts lesser than those she must feel right now, that nearly killed me.  I continue to fight them off for the sake of my girls, for my family, for myself.  As the girls get older, I will share and reveal more of my life, of the real me, so that when they walk their own paths, they know that I have been there before they and can walk with them.  So that when the demons come close, we can look at them, acknowledge them, and keep it moving while still reaching for the stars. 


(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.