Category: My Mishamooey

Dear Aunt Judy

August 4, 2022

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, My Mishamooey, PTSD, Tragic Divorce

Dear Aunt Judy,

I know it has been a while since we’ve spoken, but hearing your voice on my voicemail yesterday just enveloped me in warmth and comfort. It’s as if you innately know when the acts of turpitude and depravity that have been inflicted upon me become harrowing and unendurable. You are a paragon of virtue, grace, and compassion, and, most pronouncedly, you are my lifeline.

I’m sitting here crying happy tears because The View just named Ana Navarro as a permanent host. Immigrating to the United States from Nicaragua when she was only 8, she is a hero for so many without a voice. She and I do not belong to the same political party, but we commonly share an open mind and an impassioned concern for the issues that are destroying our democracy. She, too, has stared hatred in the face, though her hatred wasn’t familial.

While writing this, a news blurb just popped up which said that Brittney Griner has been sentenced to 9 years in a Russian prison. My tears are now tears of sadness, of anger, of fear. Nothing more than a political pawn, at the hands of a madman she will continue to be trapped and locked in a cage. I know all too well what that’s like.

I’m not sure if you know this, but when my divorce first began and Jay premiered his matinee, Driving Marla Mad, he insisted that Rebecca go on Birthright. Rebecca was so apprehensive, as she didn’t know anybody else going on the trip. Normally social and gregarious, it was obvious that she was having some weighty doubts. Her parents were beginning what would clearly prove to be a contemptuous divorce, and she would be going to the Holy Land alone. But, to her father, everything was about the Holy Land and Judaism, so not going on Birthright wasn’t really an option.

Dropping her off at the airport was scary, as this helicopter mom saw firsthand that the kids going on the trip already knew each other. I could feel Rebecca’s trepidation, and I told her that she didn’t have to go. Jay, as always, scolded me for my mollycoddling, but, Aunt Judy, I just had such a fretful feeling in my gut. I was right.

A day or two into Birthright, Rebecca went to the hospital. She was rafting down the Jordan River, and her raft flipped over and she hit her head. She was okay, but she wanted to come home. Her father didn’t want her to come home, but I was going to move heaven and earth to get her home. The problem was, however, I was in the middle of a nervous breakdown at the diabolical hands of Nurse Jay Ratched, and I had absolutely no money to get Rebecca a plane ticket home. I had to borrow money from Marissa.

Aunt Judy, the only flight on which I could get Rebecca included a stopover in Russia. Terrified to do this, I knew I had to get her home. Not knowing if she would get back home to me safely was paralysing and petrifying, and who knew if her phone would work in the Russian airport? It was such a leap of faith as I prayed that I put her safety in God’s hands, and my prayers were answered when the mother of a girl who used to babysit for my kids called me to tell me that her daughter, Jessica, saw Rebecca in the Russian airport and took her under her wing. She assured me that Rebecca was safe and that Jessica would get her home safely to me. Thank God, Aunt Judy, Rebecca didn’t become a Brittney Griner.

I was watching my beloved and brilliant Bill Maher the other night, and his first guest was Chris Cuomo. Talking about Chris Cuomo’s new podcast, one knew that it wouldn’t be long until Bill asked Chris about Andrew Cuomo and his shocking and meteoric fall from grace. Chris Cuomo was diplomatic and honest, and when Bill Maher shared his surprise that CNN let Chris go because they said he was helping the former governor, Chris Cuomo’s answer was sterling and authentic. He simply said, “Of course I was helping him. He’s my brother.”

Aunt Judy, I went back and listened to those 9 words over and over and over. “Of course I was helping him. He’s my brother.” How impactful yet foreign these words are to me. I have a sister whose goal was (and probably still is) to see me dead, impoverished, broken, and institutionalised, and here was Chris Cuomo protecting, lauding, and restoring his brother. That’s family.

Aunt Judy, thank you for being my family.

I love you,

Marla

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My Happy

December 3, 2021

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Healing, My Mishamooey, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

The kids, in their masks, are working on an assignment right now, and I, too, am doing the assignment. The assignment is to write about what their happy looks like. In this crazy world of school shootings and this unrelenting pandemic, can these 14-year-olds completely own their happy?

My happy has me seeing my kids again and meeting my grandchildren. Emma, Marissa’s daughter, is running towards me in her pink jumper and black Mary Janes, while Marissa, glowing and gorgeous and miraculously expecting her second child, hugs me with the intensity that conveys every missing second of the 8 years we’ve lost. Rebecca, holding her daughter, Stephanie, immediately dons her comedic role and quips, “Oh, M-ray, it’s good to see that you still haven’t discovered sleeves.” Her husband, Scott, quietly reaches for my hand and introduces himself.

With all of the power one can impart on another, my Zack approaches with an embrace that immediately and magically lifts every ounce of pain from my body. It’s as if he has given me back the years that I’ve lost and brought me to nirvana. I just hold him and stare at him simultaneously, completely immersed in the moment. I don’t look back and I don’t look ahead; I just am.

They’ve come to visit me at my small house on the lake, which is where I do my meditation and my writing. The years have gone by quickly, and they have taken their toll. Never losing my faith, I’ve tried to live a clean and honest life. Choosing kindness over anger, I’ve listened to so many tell me how strong I am and how they couldn’t have survived what I’ve lived through. I wish I could tell those people that words like that don’t help me, but simply hearing, “I’m here for you” would be restorative. Holding on to Cicero’s quote, “While there’s life, there’s hope,” I must reconcile the loss of my mother and how I wasn’t afforded the chance to say goodbye to her.

A couple of people so dear to me were talking a few days ago, and they were commenting on my insecurities. The conversation went something like this:

“If she lost what you’re not supposed to lose, what is supposed to be forever, how could she believe in anything? How can she believe that the rest of us won’t go?”

“We’ll just have to keep proving to her that we’re not going anywhere.”

I’ve come so far, but my story’s ending is still unwritten. My happy, in the form of my kids, my grandkids, my sons-in-law, and hopefully a future daughter-in-law, is, right now, a dream on paper for which I pray daily. But, I will never discount, minimize, negate, or take for granted my happy with my “sisters,” my friends, my guy, my job, my health, and the grace with which I have carried myself throughout this cataclysmic ordeal.

May you all find your happy.

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My Rebecca

May 5, 2019

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, My Mishamooey, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

I woke up about 5:30 this morning, which is late for a work day but early for a weekend. Though my practical mind was telling me to stay up and finish my SGO, PDP, Domain 4, and PD Log, my lazy self was promoting just a few more minutes of shuteye. It is typically during these “just a few more minutes” moments when the nightmares occur, so I really did combat my lazy self when she told me to go back to sleep.

My Rebecca, also known as my Mishamooey, was in my dream this morning, and she was resting on me. My arm was lovingly around her, as it so often was when she was in my life. There had certainly been palpable tension amongst the various ensemble characters in my dream, but for five or so magical minutes, my Rebecca surrendered and let me love her. I was actually crying when I woke up.

It is Rebecca who is a mini-me in personality. Though she looks just like Jay, her joie de vivre and creative wit mimic mine. Unfortunately, I think that she, too, shares two faces – the animated face for the general world and the injured one for her own mirror. While I am certain that her demons have been blamed on me and the “mental illness” with which they have all diagnosed me, I can’t help but think of Jay’s maternal grandmother and her life in an institution. I’m also reminded of Jay’s youngest brother, who, on Passover, tried to kill himself by slitting his throat at his wife’s cousin’s house. Boy, were they able to answer the question, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

Today, Trump is rallying his supporters with a new mind fuck. His current mantra is “Investigate the investigators,” which is, yet again, what sociopaths do. Taking his abhorrent and psychotic behavior and projecting it onto the good guys is dangerous and destructive, and he does it so seamlessly. He’s the master of “gaslighting,” a term I learned when my dad, years into his Alzheimer’s, warned me that Jay was doing to me.

For now though, I will think of my dream and of my Rebecca. I will smile as I think of my little Mishamooey in her favorite crab outfit, the one with the turquoise top and spandex pants. I will cherish the memories of my Beckles with her bottle hanging out of her mouth, wearing only tights and her guitar. I will laugh at my Boo pretending to be Taylor Swift and singing into her hairbrush, and I will stare at her prom pictures, in shock that somebody could be that beautiful. Most importantly, I will pray that she is well and happy, pregnant if she wants to be, and that maybe one day I’ll actually be able to hug her for real.

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Category: My Mishamooey

Dear Aunt Judy

My Happy

My Rebecca