Floating Home

Dear Readers:  Please know that the following story from my past reveals my birth name, because it's about me long before I gave myself the nom de plume of Gossamer Penwyche. 

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: "I'll go take a hot bath."
- Sylvia Plath

I was a breech birth.  That was the first and probably most meaningful sign in my life.  Despite its deep significance, I didn’t learn about the circumstances of my birth until I was thirty-three years old.

Although I knew nothing of numerology, I’d favoured the number three since childhood when I learned that good things (and sometimes bad) happen in threes, such as the granting of wishes by fairy godmothers.  No further thought or reason went into keeping three as my favourite number.  Anything to do with fairies was good enough for me.  So a couple of decades later, as my thirty-third birthday approached, I had a deep feeling I was entering a very good year, and invited a few friends over to celebrate.  My mother came over before the other guests to help me set up for the festivities, after which she would leave to let me party with my friends.
While my mother was still there my guests seated themselves rather demurely in the living room, glasses of wine in hand, waiting to bring out the weed once my mother took her leave.  My friend Calvin, ever the provocateur, changed the very polite, slightly stilted conversation by posing an unusual question to my mother. 
“So, Mrs. Remkins,” he asked, “was Silvia an easy birth?”
I cringed.  I was certain my mother wouldn’t discuss my birth with a dozen strangers, because she’d never done so with me.  I thought she’d be embarrassed and evasive.  After a brief, reflective pause she spoke.
“Well, no, actually.  It was very hard.  Silvia was a breech birth.  The doctor had to turn her around three times before she came out."
I was gobsmacked, not only for my mother’s uncharacteristically frank answer, but because I was hearing this information for the first time in my life, and on my thirty-third birthday no less.  All at once the number three took on even more significance.   Three times I turned my back (or feet) on entering the outside world before I was forcibly removed.  It was an it’s a sign moment long before those three words became a mantra of mine. 
As I pondered my mother’s extraordinary revelation, my roommate Toria, who was sitting next to me, leaned over and whispered “That’s a sign you didn’t want to be born.” 
Talk about signs of things to come.  Suddenly my whole life made a little more sense.  The new knowledge of my entry into life explained many of the choices I’d made, as well as some of the things I liked and didn’t like.  It certainly helped me understand my love of warm baths and hot tubs.

When I first discovered this cheap, accessible form of therapy, I sometimes spent so much time in the tub I’d fall asleep.  (There was never any danger of drowning.  Taking water in through the windpipe has a way of rudely and very quickly waking you up.)  And it was never about washing to get clean.  I didn’t lift a finger to perform any sort of ablutions.  I just lay perfectly still, submerged up to my chin.  Within a few weeks of beginning my multiple soaks a day, I noticed an unsightly, dark ring forming around my neck.  I had no explanation for it, nor did I connect it to my daily soaks.                                
I didn’t figure out why I had a muddy-looking circle around my neck until I met my sister for lunch one day at an outdoor café.  As we chatted over wine spritzers and salad my sister suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and stared at my neck.
“What’s that ugly ring around your neck?”  She’s never been one to mince words, at least not with me.
“I don’t know.  It was very faint a few weeks ago, but it’s getting darker.  I just can’t figure out - Oh..."
Then it dawned on me.  The ring around my neck was the water mark I’d developed after weeks of submersing myself up to my chin in still water.  Even though I wasn’t dirty, the body’s natural oils floated to the surface and stuck to my skin.  I’d contracted a case of bathtub ring.
The ring disappeared quite easily with some soapy scrubbing.  Okay, so my bathtub ring didn’t really have any metaphysical significance, but it was a sign that I was spending way too much time in the bathtub. Since then I always add some bubbles to my bath for self-cleaning purposes, and move around a bit to stir up the water.                      
Water is one of the best conductors of sound, which means that a growing, free-floating foetus feels vibrations from sounds and emotions originating outside of the womb.  My mother was three months pregnant when she and my father were married.  I don’t think I was an unwanted child, but I certainly was an unexpected one.  Add that to an unexpected husband after a rapidly arranged marriage, and setting up new living arrangements, my mother must have been under considerable pressure while she was pregnant with me.

The carefree time I spent submerged in the safety and warmth of the womb also explains my love of floating.  When I spend time in any body of water larger than a bathtub, which is usually a fresh-water lake or river, I prefer bobbing around and floating on the surface to actually swimming.  The element of water is where I prefer to relax or play, not exert myself.  Just let me breathe deeply while doing a gentle breast stroke and I’m exactly where I want to be.  The Australian crawl is for Type A personalities, which I’m decidedly not - another thing my resistance to being born and taking on life in the “real” world would seem to have presaged.  Floating has always been my preferred speed and style.  That’s probably one of the reasons I like my wine and weed.
I’m sure not everyone who’s born breech feels as I do.  But I’m a writer, which is why I can’t ignore a major metaphor that describes the most significant passage in my life so far.  Being born is a struggle, even for people with uncomplicated deliveries.  If everyone remembered the major trauma of their birth, we’d all suffer from PTSD.  Not an auspicious beginning. 
Near death, paranormal, and extreme events aside, death is the other most powerful passage in a person’s life.  If I have any control over how I take my leave of this mortal coil, it’s because I’ve been reading the signs along the way.  I don’t intend to rage against the dying of the light.  Although Dylan Thomas’s poetic advice on how to die is an exquisite metaphor, it’s not mine.
When I go, I hope I float.
- g.p.

From the Mouths of Babes

Hey there Good Readers:  The following story is another piece from my rejected book proposal.  It's more or less a companion piece to the previous post. 

People are like stained glass windows.  They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in; their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.    
 - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

It was a warm and sunny day, but I was in a dark and stormy mood.  I’d been invited to a friend’s party that evening, and despite my gloom, I really wanted to go.  I hadn’t seen my friend for a while, and needed connection.  While I wanted to stay curled up in a foetal position in bed, I was also restless and bored and dying to get out and do something or see someone.  The conflicting emotions made me feel as if my head were going to explode.  However, I knew I could find sure-fire relief from all the craziness by cutting myself.
Unfortunately, if I cut myself I’d have to cover up my angry, new wounds, which I usually applied to the inside of my arms.  But I desperately needed to express some blood.  My only recourse was to find a place on my body where my shame didn’t show.  I decided that the soft, fleshy inside of my thighs would do.  So that’s what I did.  I was able to relieve my anger and tension without the usual visible signs on my arms.  When I went to the party later that evening I wore a long, loose summer frock that hid my dirty work and didn’t rub against my fresh wounds.  I was good to go.
There were about a dozen to fifteen people at the party.  Everyone spent the evening outside on the patio in the sultry air.  The only person I knew was my friend who was hosting the party, which was fine by me.  I wanted to sit quietly by myself and watch the evening unfold, listening to the ambient sounds of gentle conversation and laughter.  I remained polite and aloof, soothed by the friendly, pleasant, low-key company.  A little girl of around five years old skipped and danced around the patio, weaving in and around the circle of seated guests.  She seemed very happy to be staying up late with the grownups.  On one of her circumambulations, she suddenly stopped directly in front of me.  Then she pointed right at me.     

                                                                                       
"I like her,” she announced to no one in particular.  A moment later she resumed her rounds.
That was it.  She came and went so quickly I wasn’t sure I had heard her properly.  Or maybe I had imagined it.  Nonetheless, I was left feeling surprised, pleased, and puzzled all at the same time.  It was a heady mix of good emotions, something I hadn’t experienced in a long while.  Until that moment I thought I’d been doing a fairly good job of remaining neutral and unnoticed, then along comes an innocent child to indicate otherwise.  And it stopped me in my tracks.
I’ve always trusted the words of very young children.  Kids are disarmingly honest, and don’t care what others might think.  Their neural inhibitors haven’t fully formed, so they tell it the way they see it, whether you want to hear it or not.                                        
The very young, as well as the very old, are able to see beyond the material realm.  The very young have recently entered this world, and the very old are soon to leave it.  For a short while toddlers and elders live in that in-between world where borders aren’t as clearly defined.  They’re able to see beyond the veil.  That little girl saw into my deepest self, and must have seen a light that I thought was long extinguished.  The psychotherapist David Richo has said that our wounds are often the openings into the best and most beautiful part of us.                                                                                      
I trusted that little girl’s unfiltered, untainted feelings better than I trusted my own.  She validated me.  Her message was simple and clear – I see you.  I like you.  You’re worthy.  Her words proved to be both a stop sign, and a signal to go ahead.  Stop hurting yourself.  Move on. Except for one embarrassing incident a number of years later, I stopped cutting myself after that.                     

                                                       
I paid attention to the message that little girl delivered, and it changed me.  My life didn’t exactly turn around that day, but she pointed me in the right direction.  Her words put me on the road to healing.  In my books that makes her an angel, but not for the magically-inclined thinking it appears to be.                                                                    
As a writer I put a lot of faith in words, because they help me to interpret the signs I encounter.  Words by themselves are obvious messages, but when I know their origins I understand them even better.  The English word angel is derived from the Greek angelos, meaning “messenger.”  Angie (that’s what I call her) was a messenger who bore glad tidings, which renders her an angel in a very literal sense.  Okay, so she wasn’t some cherub sent by a big, bearded, white guy in the sky, but she sure as heaven delivered the goods.  
Amen to that.
- g.p. 

Turning the Page

To my Fanatical Followers:  Not too long ago I received a final rejection for a book proposal I'd sent to numerous publishers.  I took a downward spiral into a trough that I'm still digging my way out of.  Constant failure and rejection can be a real bummer. 

The book I'd proposed was about the many signs and synchronicities that turn up in my life, and how they've helped me heal and cope with depression.  As required, I'd written several sample chapter/stories to submit in the proposal.  Since the little web you're reading now is  also about signs and includes a number of stories about my history of depression, I've decided to post a couple of the chapters I wrote for the proposal right here.  I'll be damned if I put so much time and effort  into writing all those words and then have them sit unseen in my files.
Unlike the blurbs I write for this little web, which tend to be about stuff that's currently going on with me, the personal essays I wrote for the proposal mostly describe events from the past.  The new-agey/self help book I proposed is autobiographical, so it gets pretty confessional at times.  You have been warned.
Anyway, here goes...

I used to cut myself as a way of releasing “bad blood” from my body, the kind of blood that tainted my soul.  Or so I imagined.  I discovered cutting as a form of self-punishment, or self-improvement, while making half-assed attempts at slicing my wrists with razor blades for the purpose of putting an end to myself.  Obviously I wasn’t successful. That’s got to be the only time I’m glad to have been a complete failure. 
The horrible habit of cutting myself stuck around for a while in the early years of my life as a depressed adult.  The only way I felt I had any power over my feelings was to abuse my body.  I was rendered powerless by brain chemicals running amuck.  When my brain was engaged in chemical warfare, the compulsion to cut was overwhelming, and I almost always succumbed. 
Apart from the masochistic pleasure of feeling myself bleed, cutting was a symbolic act for me. I was fascinated by the way the blood that oozed from the superficial cuts on the inside of my arms formed rows of small, red beads that slowly expanded and then merged together, creating glistening, crimson lines on my skin.  It gave me perverse comfort because it appealed to my sense of drama.  I was a struggling, failing actress - I had to get my drama somewhere.   
Unfortunately, I was expressing the worst part of myself.  But my anger and self-loathing had to be released somehow, and cutting offered me a controlled, albeit disturbed way to get rid of all the emotional crap that was roiling inside me.  Despite the chemical soup of bad hormones that pumped through my body, the actual act of cutting myself was always carefully executed.  I was very focused and determined as I let the bad blood flow into the bathroom sink and watch it go down the drain.  I liked knowing that eventually my ugly feelings would end up in the sewer where they belonged.  It was all so very dramatic, and rife with  symbolism.  When I eventually realized that this demeaning way to punish myself fulfilled my need for drama and ritual, I was hooked.            

I cut slowly and carefully, taking my time between each line that I inscribed unto my flesh.  There was something strangely soothing about it, even a little euphoric. That’s not as sick as it seems.  Scarification, which is a tribal rite of passage in some West African countries, is known to induce a euphoric state in the participants, because the brain naturally releases endorphins to reduce the pain. There’s also the social and communal element of these tribal rituals, which would explain the more pleasurable psychological effects of scarification.  This appealed to my love of ritual drama, too.  Unfortunately, I besmirched the sanctity of my private rites of passage by making sure the temporary high I got from cutting stuck around for a while  by downing a couple of mild tranquilizers with a glass or two of wine.  Then I’d just float about in a semi-stupor while cradling my wounded arm like an infant, which I’d tenderly wrapped in gauze bandages. 
Although I performed this ritual in the privacy of my bathroom, the results of my handiwork were clearly visible for a couple of weeks afterwards.  I once overheard a co-worker at one of my many in-between-gigs-I-never-got jobs say that the inside of my arms looked like corduroy. I usually wore long sleeves for a while after my masochistic rituals, but eventually the fresh wounds turned into puffy, red scars which remained for a long time.  Sooner or later someone was bound to see them. 
My mother first saw my cuts when I was staying at the family cottage.  We were lounging on the dock, spending the day jumping in and out of the lake when she noticed the sore, red welts on my arm.  I heard her gasp and fully expected her to plunge into her mother/nurse role, fussing all over me.  But that’s not what she did.  I saw her suddenly stiffen, her jaw firmly set.  Any maternal instincts were completely absent, because she kicked into denial and a “keeping up appearances” mode.
“That’s disgraceful,” she pronounced with finality. 

My “habit” was never mentioned again.  It was as if it never happened.  In later years, when I indulged in other, more acceptable forms of self-abuse such as excessive drinking and pot smoking, there was never any lack of “discussion” about all my self-medicating.
My cutting days are long gone, and since then I’ve acquired a couple of tattoos, which were applied when I was honouring, rather than lamenting, a rite of passage.  The one on my upper left arm is a butterfly, representing transformation.  Okay, that’s hardly original, but at least it’s attractive.  The one above my right ankle bone is a hummingbird, which I got on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death. 

On my first visit to the tattoo studio, I was feeling rather smug about how the procedure barely hurt at all, despite dire warnings from seasoned tattoo recipients.  The whole thing didn’t seem much different than going to the hairdressers for a haircut.  While the tattooist and I carried on a casual conversation about nothing in particular, he suddenly asked me, “Do you drink a lot?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I muttered, a little taken aback.  “It depends on what you consider a lot.  So, uh, why do you ask?”
“You bleed a lot.  Alcohol thins the blood.”
Oh boy.  I just couldn’t get away from it.  There I am, under highly controlled conditions, getting a sign on my body that’s supposed to indicate positive change in my life, and I’m still letting go of bad blood.  So much for keeping my lurid past a secret.  That tattoo took on more meaning than I intended.  But that’s okay.  It’s more interesting that way.            
One of my entirely unintentional self-inflicted scars happened one drunken night a decade and a half ago.  I had spent the evening with a friend who was even more depressed than I was.  Our dysfunctional friendship was based on mutual misery we discovered about each other in a local bar.  Most of our time together was spent enabling each other’s self-destructive habits.  On the night in question I left her place as I always did, unable to remember why I was so miserable, and everything else about my life.  I lived only two short subway stops away, but chose to walk instead.  When I’m sober the walk takes about twenty minutes.  I have no idea how long it took me to get home that night.  But I’m lucky I did.
The next morning I woke up in bed to find the sheets splattered with bright, red blotches.  My left shin was caked in dried blood.  Somewhere between my friend’s place and mine I had come upon a mishap that left a deep, inch-long gouge on my shin, and no doubt lots of my DNA somewhere on the park sidewalk in the west-end of the city.  The scar that remains isn’t pretty, but it’s powerful.

The body is a canvas.  It shows a person’s history, even when it’s being deliberately disguised or covered up.  I look at people’s clothes, makeup, cosmetic surgery, tattoos, and scars (whether deliberately inflicted or not) as markings that hide or enhance personal stories.  Terrible accidents can leave a beautiful soul with physical disfigurement.  Cosmetic surgery can make the normal, natural aging process look like a fake and freakish attempt to maintain one’s youth.   It doesn’t matter whether the story is happy or sad, good or bad, I want to know what it is.  It’s the way I learn compassion and understanding, even for people I don’t like.   
The sad scars that I deliberately put on my skin many years ago are faint and barely noticeable now, and where few people can see them.  But I’m glad some vestige of that painful period of my life remains posted on my body.  They’re reminders of past injuries and lessons learned.  They mark a path I’m never taking again.
So mote it be.
- g.p.

Underground Angel

While riding the subway home from work recently, I was suddenly aroused from my mid-afternoon stupor by a young black woman loudly proclaiming something-or-other as she walked up and down the subway car.
“Uh-oh,” I thought, “another out-patient who forgot to take her meds.”  My reaction was basically the same as the numerous other passengers on the car.  Most of us looked up to see what was going on, and then quickly looked away so as not to make eye contact with the “loon” who was making a scene.  The young woman persisted in her rant, so I couldn’t help stealing glances until I finally settled into watching her do her thing, even if it meant catching her eye.
As soon as I began to pay genuine attention it was obvious she wasn’t mentally off-balance.  In fact, she was anything but.  She was well groomed, nicely dressed, and completely focused.  She had a story to tell with a serious message.
“I’m speaking to all of you today because I know that there’s at least one of you who woke up this morning and wondered if it was worth it,” she began.  “You wondered if there was any point in getting out of bed and pretending that you cared about anything.”  She spoke with authority and passion.  “And just maybe one of you even considered ending it all.”
Wow.  Those were mighty powerful words to hear on what began as another ho-hum, Sunday afternoon subway ride.  It occurred to me that perhaps she was a performance artist.  She certainly had the conviction and presence for it.

“It’s not about your age, or gender, or the colour of your skin,” she said, “it happens to all kinds of people everywhere, and they show us who they are every day and all over social media.  You know that selfie you see on Instagram of a beautiful teenage girl who looks so bright and happy?  That’s one tiny moment of her life when she faked a smile and looked good long enough to snap a picture of herself.  Then she posts the picture so everyone can see just how awesome she is.  And after she’s put it out there she collapses into her bed and cries and cries and cries.”
The young woman on the subway wasn’t talking about a situation I’ve personally experienced, because I’m not part of the selfies and social media generation.  But I’ve certainly felt the emotions she was describing.  It was as if she’d been spying on me that very morning and boarded the subway car to deliver her message especially to me.  It was a thrilling shot of synchronicity.
Despite the deep, uncomfortable truths the young woman shared, I could see that there were still a number of passengers who refused to pay attention to her.  I wondered if they weren’t listening because they still judged her to be another nut case who was making a scene in public. Or maybe they were just too embarrassed to look up and reveal that they were actually taking notice.  But that wasn’t the case for everyone.  I noticed murmurs and nods of approbation from several people who were obviously tuned into what she was saying.  I heard a mother, sitting with her pre-adolescent daughter, whisper “right on” as she held up her smartphone to video the spirited young woman.

“Haven’t we all been there?” our heroine went on to say.  “Haven’t we all known days like that?  And haven’t we seen with our own eyes and hearts others just like us?  Know this, good people, you are enough.  I’m 22 years old, and let me tell you, I know for sure that you are enough.”
I wanted to cheer, but I didn’t possess the courage that the lovely subway speaker displayed.  She repeated you are enough so many times that it became a mantra.  I’m old enough to be that girl’s grandmother, and I couldn’t help marvelling that such gutsy, wise words came from one so young. 
Perhaps she was the girl in the selfie she spoke about, or knew someone who was.  I don’t know if she was a performance artist or not, but she was certainly an advocate for mental health care.  And she had the courage to board a subway car in the biggest city in the country, full of all kinds of people from all walks of life, and spread a message of hope and self-worth to anyone who cared to listen.            
In keeping with my beliefs and the way things work in my universe, I know that it wasn’t mere coincidence that she took her personal mission unto the very car where I was seated on that exact day.  Although my circumstances aren’t as dire as the ones she described when she first began to speak (I don’t want to “end it all”), her words touched me deeply.  I also believed her when she said I was enough.

That brave and beautiful stranger also helped at least one other person that day.  While she was still in performance mode a slightly scruffy, middle-aged man got up to get off at his stop.  Before leaving the car he walked right up to her and gave her a long and loving hug.  She returned it in kind.  The man’s act of gratitude encouraged me to address her as well when it came time for me to exit the train.
“Thank you,” was all I said.
She took my hand and held it for a moment.  “God bless you,” she replied with a smile meant just for me.  Her parting words confirmed a growing suspicion I had as I was listening to her.  I’d encountered an angel.
- g.p.

Love Lost and Found

I learned how to love from a complete stranger who loathed me.  It was a very difficult lesson which was the result of a deeply unsettling experience.  Even as I write this several weeks later I still feel a little unnerved by the whole thing.  But I'm a lot wiser now, and a little sadder.

A few nights before the incident that taught me how to love I went to bed hurting badly over being rejected by a dear childhood friend for reasons I can't discern.  It's been at least six years since she threw me over, and normally I would have accepted the situation by now and moved on.  Unfortunately, because of a Facebook connection, I'm occasionally reminded of my loss and the pain resurfaces.  That was the situation when I went to bed nursing old wounds.  But this time the pain I felt manifested as anger and the desire for revenge.  So I spent a long time imagining outlandish scenes of humiliating my old friend on social media. 
It's not unusual for irrational, vengeful thoughts to afflict wounded or rejected friends and lovers.  That was the only "normal" aspect of the mordant minutes I spent lying in bed before I finally fell into a fitful sleep.  Not surprisingly, late that night I dreamt about the loss of my old friend and woke up shouting invectives at her. 
When I awake from a bad dream because I'm shouting or screaming, it invariably marks the beginning of a bad day.  Sure enough, the day after blaspheming my lost friend was a bad one.  Apart from banal stuff such as professional rejection both as a writer and an actor (never good for the ego), I sliced a very small piece of my finger off while chopping vegetables, and  I also experienced lower back and hip pain that periodically flares up.  On that day it was more painful than it's ever been.  Usually a good walk, which I love to do, works out some of the stiffness and pain, but not this time.  The right side of my lower body hurt so much I limped.  Fortunately, I was off from work for two days.  Otherwise I would have had to call in sick. 
Yup.  The karma dump truck dropped a big load on me for my unkind and vengeful thoughts, although I hadn't yet made that connection.  And there was a lot more to come.
I dealt with the physical and psychological crap I was going through by going to my local Y to soak in a whirlpool bath and detox in a sauna.  One of the reasons I love visiting the Y for hydrotherapy is because of the community of women that gather in the tub and sauna.  Women of all shapes and sizes, ages, and ethnic backgrounds come to laugh and chatter in numerous languages while sitting around the large, communal tub.  Usually it's the physical size and cultural background of the women who go there that determines whether they wear a swimsuit or not.  I always go naked. Wearing a swimsuit spoils the pleasure of feeling a jet stream of warm water directly against my skin.  The same goes for the sauna.  Tight clothing defeats the purpose of sweating.  For a couple of hours the heat of the hot tub and the sauna drain me of any toxic feelings.

When I landed in the tub there were more women than usual having a soak.  I found a corner to slip into, and a beautiful woman of great girth, sporting a swimsuit and lots of raven coloured hair, moved slightly to one side to make room for me.  When I thanked her for accommodating me, she acknowledged me with a curt, perfunctory nod.  I wasn't sure if I was imagining annoyance on her part.  A few minutes later she left.  In retrospect I regard her role in the drama that was about to unfold as a harbinger of what was to come.  
Shortly afterwards another very large woman came to the tub.  She was around my age and wore a muumuu which came to her knees.  She sat in the only spot left in the tub, which happened to be next to me.  And though it didn't bother me, I noticed that I was the only completely naked woman there. 
Despite the very close quarters, Madam Muumuu and I didn't make eye contact.  I couldn't help thinking that that was a deliberate choice on her part, because I felt a bad vibe coming from her.  Maybe she was a generally miserable person.  However, a few minutes later she exchanged some friendly words with the Chinese women sitting at the other side of the tub.  That's when I began to worry that the malice I felt was, indeed, reserved just for me.  Sheesh.
As we continued to sit in the tub in very close proximity, the palpable hostility I felt from her intensified, but I still clung to the slim hope that her animosity towards me was all in my head.  That hope disappeared instantly when we finally caught each others' eye and I flashed a quick smile to indicate that I bore her no ill will.  But she clearly did for me, because as soon as I smiled she turned her back on me and shook her head in disgust.  I was mortified.  And deeply puzzled.  She didn't know me from Eve, and I hadn't done or said anything, offensive or otherwise, to have elicited such animosity. 
A few minutes later an opportunity for her to demonstrate just exactly how she felt about me occurred.  I was unaware that a bandage on the small cut I'd inflicted upon my index finger a couple of days earlier had come off and was floating in the water.  It was wet but perfectly clean.  (I wouldn't have gone into the tub if I was still bleeding.)  When Madam Muumuu spied the bandage, she picked it up and threw it onto the tiles, exclaiming in a voice thick with vitriol, "Whose bandage is this?  That's disgusting!"  She knew perfectly well it was mine.  I quickly offered a sincere apology, and felt truly grateful that at least it was a clean, harmless bit of flotsam. 
The situation was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, but I wasn't going to leave the tub, because I had just as much right to be there as she did.  The Chinese ladies, who hadn't noticed any of the goings on at our side of the tub departed shortly afterwards, leaving Madam Muumuu and me alone.  Talk about awkward.  But as awkward as it was, I knew I had to address the issue at hand. 
I spoke to her as reasonably and politely as I could.  "You're obviously very angry with me," I said.  "Would you please tell me how I've offended you?"  My newfound enemy was clearly taken aback.  I guess she didn't expect me to call her out on her unprovoked enmity.  At least I felt some satisfaction that my forthrightness had momentarily thrown her off balance.  She mumbled something inaudible and then moved to the side of the tub that the Chinese women had vacated.

I was relieved not to have her sitting right next to me, and tried to relax as much as I could under the circumstances.  But it just wasn't working.  I had no intentions of leaving, so I had to come up with some way of ameliorating the situation.  I wondered what a yogi or an enlightened person would do, even though I suspected that a truly  enlightened person wouldn't have found themselves in such circumstances.  Nonetheless, I considered my dilemma for a moment and decided that an instructive, civilised response would be one of compassion.  Perhaps I should try returning conspicuous hostility with love.  But how could I send love to Madam Muumuu when I didn't feel it?  Then it hit me.  I'm an actress.  I could act or pretend to send love, because that's what actors do.  Truly fine actors conjure up genuine emotion when they perform.  And actors' training consists of many exercises that require them to be or feel something completely foreign and outside their experience.  I've done it many times. 
"So - " I thought to myself, "I'm no saint or sage, but I am an actress, and I know I can act as if I feel real love for this enemy of mine."  So that's what I did.  I lay back in my corner of the tub, breathed deeply, and pretended like hell that I felt genuine compassion for someone who despised me.  A few minutes later I realised that I felt calmer than I had since I first entered the tub.  In fact, I felt fine.  Really, really fine.  No sooner had I observed the welcome change in my mood than Madam Muumuu got up and left.  I have no idea if she "received" any of the love I sent, and I really don't care.  I was just happy that she was gone and that I was free of anxiety.
Shortly after Madam Muumuu departed, another woman entered the tub.  We exchanged brief, sincere smiles of acknowledgement.  I felt safe, my paranoia was gone.  As I sank deeper into the water I felt a sudden, but not entirely surprising release of emotion.  That's when I crumpled.  Hot tears streamed down my face.  I made no attempt to hide them.  I'd been through a horrible and emotionally intense assault on my psyche.  The woman who had just arrived asked me if I was in pain.  "Yes," I answered honestly, without mentioning that it was emotional rather than physical.  She said a few kind and appropriate words.  I thanked her and then we fell into sweet, companionable silence.
A short time later I left the tub.  I dried and dressed, and as I exited the change room I passed Madam Muumuu, who was laughing and chatting gaily with other women.  It became even more obvious that all the animosity I felt from her was specifically for me, and not the world in general.  Normally that realisation would have brought me right back down again, but the love I'd "practised" during my actor's exercise in the tub was sticking to me.  I walked blithely by.
I headed for the subway by way of a lovely, old growth park.  Still feeling the effects of having conjured love out of seemingly nowhere, I was suddenly aware that I was walking completely free of pain for the first time in three days.  Walking was a joy again, and I haven't had a physically painful recurrence since.
I won't pretend that Madam Muumuu didn't rattle my cage big time.  It's hard to find out that someone despises you simply because you exist. 
Sometimes, when I'm feeling down, I fret that I'm a big, fat failure.  Most of the time, however, when reason holds sway over self-doubt and fear, I know I'm not really a loser.  But then along comes Madam Muumuu to reinforce all those dreadful, destructive feelings.  If that doesn't make her an enemy, I don't know what does.  She is a perfect representation of the Jungian archetype known as the "shadow," the unconscious, negative aspects of one's psyche.
I now know that expressing love is a practice.  There are many people for whom loving comes quite naturally, and I envy them, because they almost always receive it in return.   (I should mention that I have no problem with showing affection for animals.  But humans are another story altogether.) 

Madam Muumuu's appearance in my life was no accident, nor was the fact that I was completely naked and exposed when we encountered each other.  I couldn't have been more vulnerable.  But those were the circumstances in which I learned first hand, and the hard way, that love really does heal.  Even the pretense of love heals, because it requires positive behaviour modification to pretend to care.  More remarkable still is that I learned this lesson from someone who had absolutely no love for me. 
At last I understand what the Buddha meant when he said your worst enemy is your best teacher.  I also discovered that sometimes I am my own worst enemy.  But that's okay, because I've learned the importance of practising self-love.  And learning to love oneself, as the song goes, is the greatest love of all. 
So mote it be.
-g.p.