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Here is another excerpt from my book ‘PERFECTLY FLAWED’ written under the psuedonym Barrett Rose Baum, available now at Balboa.press or Amazon.com.

I have had a migraine for the past five days, and when I’ve been ill like this my normally bouncy self loses it’s resilience and just lies down flat, void of buoyancy and affect.

The only antidote that seems to reboot my bounce are these three C’s:
Caring, Comfort and Compassion. I haven’t run into those three C’s often in my life, partly by fate, partly by choice.

In my past I’ve partnered with women who have replicated my mother. I’ve replicated the negative pleasure of choosing cruel and physically powerful women who could double whammy me both in mind and in body.

I understand why I did that now and I am finally beginning to forgive myself and most importantly to own and claim my shadow self who was not the innocent victim I made myself to be. Yes I am responsible, for it always takes two.

These past few months have brought me to my knees, the pain so deep it has excised my anger and resentment that I have been storing up for the past 50 years.

Today I feel re-born, re-energized and re-jigged. Despite my health challenges or perhaps because of my health challenges, I have re-prioritized what is important in my life.

Here is my list:

1. Love
   There is no 2. because love is all that matters. Giving it, getting it, creating it and most importantly, believing you are it.

There you have it, my mini manifesto.
The Beatles had it right all those years ago, love really is all you need.

Thursday Morning Musings

Good Morning All!

I have found that almost five years into my sobriety journey, the hardest part, harder for me than staying sober, actually so much harder, is allowing myself to feel all my feelings that I haven’t felt since I was fourteen, when I discovered the pure relief of using food to escape the feeling of my feelings.

I know for some people ‘sober’ and ‘food’ do not go together but for me they do. I ate like an alcoholic drinks, not to enjoy but to obliterate.

Despite my valiant efforts to keep my fear at bay, I find myself terrified that I might lose the one being I hold closest to my heart. My fears aren’t rational and I can’t CBT them away. I can’t go back in time despite my desperate desire to do so. If I could, I would right so many wrongs it would take pages and pages to document, but I can’t, so I need to stop this recrimination dance as my spinning does not help anyone and my legs are getting tired.

I am astonished at the depth of my self loathing and self abnegation. It’s terrifying to be emotionally naked without my usual escape routes. Today I received an email from a client and my first thought before I had even opened the email was “How did I fuck up this time?”

I am distraught and so ashamed that after all the work I have done to heal my wounds, my go to gut response is still –

‘BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BABY, YOU ARE A BAD GIRL!’

I’m not sure what to do or how to proceed to stop those strong negative voices and my subsequent somatic responses from happening.

Perhaps the not knowing is a good thing. I have spent a lifetime trying –
trying so hard to be good, to be thin, and to be normal, whatever the fuck normal is.

Beginning this Thursday morning I’m going to stop trying so hard and just begin being gentle with myself and all my strong scary feelings.

Today my bestie Grief, her sister Panic, and I are all going out for high tea, where we shall sit together eating tiny, sliver thin cucumber sandwich’s, and each will say to the other:

“Hello there, I see you”.

Because in the end, isn’t that truly, what everyone wants? To finally be seen in all their messy bruised glory and to be accepted and acknowledged still, exactly as they are.

Love And Other Crimes Of The Heart.

Love and other Crimes of the Heart.

It was autumn of 2012. As a therapist, my mandate was to provide a safe space for my clients but I was having problems concentrating and my body ached all the time. I thought I might have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome so off I went to my doctor to find out exactly why I was so bone weary.

Initially all the tests came back negative, so it was at my next appointment that decided to speak about the elephant in the room, the one waving at me in her pink tulle tutu. Yes, her.

“Yoohoo,Katharine!” she called “Time to tell the good doctor what you are finally brave enough to explore, your facial differences.” So I did just that.

I look slightly different from most people, I can not move my eyes from right to left, and I speak slightly differently than most, perhaps akin to someone who had a minor stroke. I had always felt different because of my looks, an all purveying global sense of shame.

I braved through my fears and talked to my doctor about these anomalies and he then sent me to a neurologist, who then sent me to a geneticist. The decisive conclusion? I was diagnosed with Mobius Syndrome. Mobius Syndrome is an extremely rare congenital neurological disorder characterized by facial paralysis and the inability to move the eyes from side to side.

I was considered one of the ‘lucky’ ones. I could smile (at least with my lips closed) and I had 20/20 vision, even if I could not see peripherally. After I did some personal research I found that Moebius is thought to be an immune system disorder, hence my Chronic Fatigue like symptoms.

While I did not know I had Moebius Syndrome growing up among the beautiful and the privileged in my wealthy Montreal enclave, I did know that I did not fit into their high standards.

That alone was enough to make me feel different. The writer Andrew Solomon in his book ‘Far From The Tree’ writes about wealthy families who have a child who is different than the norm. Andrew originally thought that money would help these children have an easier life, and in many ways it did (better doctors, private schools) but what Andrew found after interviewing these affluent parents and their children, was the pressure to be and look perfect made life very painful for these different children in their strive for excellence at all cost families.

This described my experience in my family of origin perfectly. Instead of being empathetic or at least honest to describe my differences, my mother told me over and over again that I was weird. What constituted the weird was unclear, but not looking perfect played a big factor as well as a predilection for reading and music that did not endear me to my extroverted and tone deaf mother.

Add to that mix a slight speech impediment and a tendency, despite the impediment to always speak my version of the truth did not help matters. I remember one occasion when once again my mother was yelling at me for some real or imagined transgression I looked directly into her eyes and said “Good mothers do not yell” and she replied “What do you know? You are four years old!”

What I did know instinctively that nurturing was not part of my mother’s equation. I had hopes that school would be better, but the children at my school just continued the verbal abuse I was experiencing at home.

My classmates called me names and would laugh at me in front of my face. I had no friends and would eat my lunch in the girls bathroom stall. For years after whenever I was walking down the street and heard someone laugh I felt instinctively they were laughing at me. My survival now depended on my retreating to the safety of my mind as it was too painful to be fully embodied and present in my world.

I taught myself to read at three. Books became my best friend and my salvation. I tried my hardest to fit in and be normal but normal was not made available for me. As I entered high school the bullying began to intensify and many painful years ensued.

The summer before I began university it occurred to me that my troubles would diminish if I could somehow become beautiful. Perhaps then people might stop hating me for having committed the cardinal sin of being born different, for all I had ever wanted was to be loved and accepted and to fit in.

Fitting in and conforming were my parent’s way of life, something they both tried desperately to impose on their misfit daughter. I was raised not to become a doctor or a lawyer but to become someone’s wife. To get that title of Mrs. and that final rose, I had to somehow become beautiful.

For their sake as well as mine, I tried. At the encouragement of my mother I had rhinoplasty and a breast reduction. I poured toxic chemicals on my hair turning my naturally brown jewfro locks into long blond hair that even Farrah Fawcett would envy.

Voila! It worked!

Instead of being an object of their derision, I was now an object of their admiration. Women would tell me how much they loved my hair. Men began to ask me out on dates. The bouquets appeared and the Cristal champagne flowed, and my plan for the beautification of Katharine Angelina was complete. The ugly duckling was transformed into a swan. My work was done.

Except that it wasn’t. I was hiding another secret, one that made me feel on the inside as different as I had looked before on the outside. I liked women. I did. But what could I do with those feelings? All I wanted was to be accepted. Just once. So I dated all the single Jewish boys in Toronto (having moved there in the great Montreal migration of the eighties) and was left each time feeling bored and disillusioned. Then karma called and his name was Bob, my future husband.

I had never used birth control because I thought whatever happened to me genetically probably prevented me from having a child. I always thought I would adopt when the time came, but just before deciding to leave Bob, I became pregnant.

Finally, for the first time in my life, I felt normal! I was having a child! Someone to call my own. Someone to frolic in the fields with, a little helper for choreographing Mother / Daughter Bob Fosse dance numbers. I became pregnant in July of ’91 and walked down the aisle in October of that same year praying, as I walked down that long red carpeted aisle that God would forgive me for betraying my soul’s desire.

Listed below my takeaway from those golden years:

1. It is much better to be feted than hated.
2. No matter how beautiful I was presenting on the outside, I still felt disfigured on the inside.
3. My blood sport was choosing partners (husband included) who would reflect my self-hatred back to me.

My daughter was born on April 11, 1992. I made the decision shortly after her birth to become healthy and own my attraction to women. I divorced my husband and began to explore the world of women.

Suddenly, being in relationship where I was not respected no longer felt sexy. Healthy attachments were assuming paramount importance. I now desired my person to show up, be responsive and attuned. Oh yes, and one more thing: to really really want to be present – here and now to help celebrate together every special ordinary moment.

A few months ago I was watching the news show 20/20. This particular episode featured young adults with facial anomalies who had the opportunity to have a renowned plastic surgeon repair their flaws. I was particularly taken with one young woman whose eyes and nose were unusually formed. I thought she looked lovely and compelling – much more interesting to look at than the classic cookie cutter version of beauty.

Those feelings of appreciation of her unique beauty were for her though, and her alone. All I had ever wanted, was to have a great big toothy grin so I wouldn’t have had to witness that fleeting look that passed over most people’s eyes when they first meet me. I abhorred that look. It singled me out and dismissed me, both. That look made me try even harder to charm and be witty so that everyone could see that I was not handicapped, but trying even harder left me feeling depleted and desperate. I needed to accept my differences and come to peace with my flawed and fractured self.

I came to realize that only through surrender would I find the love I so craved, the love I had been searching for all my life. And so I surrendered –

My craving to be loved and seen by my family.

My desire to be saved.

My wish to be beautiful.

Slowly I relaxed into my body and finally made peace with my crooked little self.

As I end this chapter of my story, I am reminded of the words of the late poet and author Raymond Carver that in closing, I would like to share here.

Late Fragments

And did you get what you wanted from this life even so?

I did. And what did you want?

To call myself beloved.

To feel myself beloved on the earth.

Perfectly Flawed

I have decided to post selections from my book ‘Perfectly Flawed’ every Saturday.. Again, I wrote it under the pseudonym of Barrett Rose Baum. If this piece intrigues you, you may purchase my book at Balboapress.com or Amazon.com. Thank you.

It was autumn of 2012. I was having problems concentrating at work (I was a psychotherapist) and my body ached all the time. My very thorough doctor put me through a series of extensive tests. He thought I might have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. However, all tests came back negative. It was then I decided to speak about the elephant in the room, the one waving at me in her pink tulle tutu. Yes, her. “Yoohoo , Katharine!” she called to me “Time to tell the good doctor what you are finally brave enough to explore, your facial differences.” So I went for it.

I look slightly different from most people, nothing major, just a few minor facial anomalies, but enough to warrant some investigation. My doctor then sent me to a neurologist, who then sent me to a geneticist. The decisive conclusion? I was diagnosed with Mobius Syndrome.

Mobius Syndrome is an extremely rare congenital neurological disorder characterized by facial paralysis and the inability to move the eyes from side to side. I was considered one of the lucky ones. I could smile (at least with my lips closed) and I had 20/20 vision, even if I could not see peripherally. After I did some personal research I found that Moebius is thought to be an immune system disorder. hence my Chronic Fatigue like symptoms.

While I did not know I had Moebius Syndrome growing up among the beautiful and the privileged in my wealthy Montreal enclave, I did know that I did not look perfect enough to meet their high standards. That alone was enough to make me feel different.

The writer Andrew Solomon in his book ‘Far From The Tree’ writes about wealthy families who have a child who is different. Andrew originally thought that money would help these children have an easier life, and in many ways it did (better doctors, private schools) but what Andrew found after interviewing these affluent parents and their children, was the pressure to be and look perfect made life very painful for these children in their strive for excellence at all cost families.

This described my experience in my family of origin perfectly. Instead of being empathic or at least honest to describe my differences, my mother just told me that I was bad. What constituted the bad was unclear, but not looking perfect played a big factor. Predictably, a predilection for reading and music did not endear me to my extroverted, tone deaf mother.

Now add to that mix a slight speech impediment and a tendency, despite the impediment to always speak my version of the truth did not help matters. I remember one occasion when once again my mother was yelling at me for some real or imagined transgression I looked directly into her eyes and said “Good mothers do not yell.”!and she replied “What do you know? You are four years old! “

What I knew for sure was that nurturing was not part of mother’s equation. I had hopes that school would be better, but the children at my school just continued the verbal abuse I was experiencing at home. My classmates called me names and laughed at me in front of my face. I had no friends and would eat my lunch in the girls bathroom stall. For years after whenever I was walking down the street and heard someone laugh I felt instinctively they were laughing at me. My survival now depended on my retreating to the safety of my mind as it was too painful to be fully embodied and present in my world.

I taught myself to read at three. Books became my best friends and my salvation. I tried my hardest to fit in and be normal, but normal wasn’t made for me. As I entered high school the bullying began to intensify and many painful years ensued.

The summer before I began university it occurred to me that my troubles would diminish if I could somehow become beautiful. Then people might stop hating me for having committed the cardinal sin of being born different. Then perhaps I would begin to be deserving of love.

That was certainly the message I had received from my social climbing parents. Fitting in and conforming were my parent’s way of life, something they both tried desperately to impose on their misfit daughter. I was raised not to become a Doctor or a Lawyer, but to become someone’s wife. To get that title of Mrs. and that final rose, I had to become beautiful.

For their sake as well as mine, I tried. I had rhinoplasty and a breast reduction. I poured toxic chemicals on my hair turning my naturally brown jewfro locks into long blond hair that even Farrah Fawcett would envy. And it worked!

Instead of being an object of their derision, I was now an object of their admiration. Women would tell me how much they loved my hair. Men began asking me out on dates. The bouquets appeared and the Cristal champagne flowed, and my plan for the beautification of Katharine was complete. The ugly duckling was transformed into a swan. My work was done.

Except that it wasn’t. I was hiding another secret, one that made me feel on the inside as different as I had looked before on the outside. I liked women. I did. But what could I do with those feelings? All I wanted was to be accepted. Just once. So I dated all the single Jewish boys in Toronto and was left each time feeling bored and disillusioned. Then karma called and his name was Bob, my future husband.

I had stopped using birth control when the idea of a child began to take hold. My child. Someone to call my own. Someone to frolic in the fields with, a little helper for choreographing Mother / Daughter Bob Fosse dance numbers. I became pregnant in July of ’91 and walked down the aisle in October of that same year praying, as I walked down that long red carpeted aisle that God would forgive me for betraying my soul’s desire.

Listed below my takeaway from those golden years:

1. It is much better to be feted than hated.

2. No matter how beautiful I was presenting on the outside, I still felt disfigured on the inside.

3. My blood sport was choosing partners (husband included) who would reflect my self-hatred back to me.

My daughter was born on April 11, 1992. I made the decision shortly after her birth to become healthy and own my attraction to women. I divorced my husband and began dating. Suddenly, being in relationship where I was not respected no longer felt sexy. Healthy attachments were assuming paramount importance. I now required my person to show up, be responsive and attuned. Oh yes, and one more thing: to really really want to be present – here and now to help me celebrate these very special ordinary moments.

A few months ago I watched the news show 20/20. This particular episode featured young adults with facial anomalies who had the opportunity to have a renowned plastic surgeon repair their flaws pro bono. I was particularly taken with one young woman whose eyes and nose were unusually formed. I thought she looked lovely and compelling – much more interesting to look at than the classic cookie cutter version of beauty. Those feelings of appreciation of her unique beauty were for her though, and her alone.

All I had ever wanted, was to have a great big toothy grin so I wouldn’t have to witness that fleeting look that passed over most people’s eyes when they first meet me. I abhorred that look. It singled me out and dismissed me, both. That look made me try even harder to charm and be witty so that everyone could see that I was not different but just like them.

But trying even harder left me feeling depleted and desperate. I needed to accept my differences and come to peace with my flawed and fractured self.

I came to realize that only through surrender would I find the love I so craved, the love I had been searching for all my life. And so I surrendered –

My craving to be loved by my mother

My desire to be saved.

My wish to be beautiful.

And slowly I relaxed into my body and finally made peace with my crooked little self.

As I end this chapter of my story, I am reminded of the words of the late poet and author Raymond Carver that in closing, I would like to share here.

Late Fragments

And did you get what you wanted from this life even so?

I did. And what did you want?

To call myself beloved.

To feel myself beloved on the earth.

Perfectly Flawed

Happy New Year!

When I look back on my year through my photographs, this photo stands out and stands in for my feelings.

It’s all about Love. Our world is often challenging. Life can kick you around and knock you down, but love will always buoy you back up.

2019 was the year I found myself. 2019 was the year that I wrote and published my book ‘Perfectly Flawed’ which I am inordinately proud of.

This feeling of happiness around my work took almost as long to cull up as it did to write the book. I always feel I could do and be better and whilst that is still certainly true, I’m now able to rest gently on my somewhat wilted laurels, but laurels nonetheless, and shout to the world (Oy! Can I actually shout out to the world? Maybe I can whisper to the world..) that I Katharine, am worthy of love and respect and I am, actually good enough.

I declare 2020 the year I shall find and claim my Bashert. Together we shall be lifted up and buoyed by our love.

May you all shout (or whisper) your worth to the world. May you all find your heart’s desire. May you all rest in the knowledge that you are perfect exactly as you are, and that where you are is exactly where you need to be.

A Happy New Year to all!

Hello There, I See You

Good Morning All!

I have found that almost four years into my sobriety journey, the hardest part, harder for me than staying sober, actually so much harder, is allowing myself to feel all my feelings that I haven’t felt since I was fourteen, when I discovered the pure relief of using food to escape the feeling of my feelings.

I know for some people ‘sober’ and ‘food’ do not go together but for me they do. I ate like an alcoholic drinks, not to enjoy but to obliterate.

Despite my valiant efforts to keep my fear at bay, I find myself terrified that I shall be alone and unpartnered here on earth for the rest of my days. I can’t go back in time despite my desperate desire to do so. If I could, I would right so many wrongs it would take pages and pages to document, but I can’t, so I need to stop this recrimination dance as my spinning does not help anyone and my legs are getting tired.

I am astonished at the depth of my self loathing and self abnegation. It’s terrifying to be emotionally naked without my usual escape routes. Today I received an email from a client and my first thought before I had even opened the email was “How did I fuck up this time?”

I am distraught and so ashamed that after all the work I have done to heal my wounds, my go to gut response is still –

‘BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BABY, YOU ARE A BAD GIRL!’

I’m not sure what to do or how to proceed to stop those strong negative voices and my subsequent somatic responses from happening.

Perhaps the not knowing is a good thing. I have spent a lifetime trying –

trying so hard to be good, to be thin, and to be normal, whatever the fuck normal is.

Beginning this Monday morning I’m going to stop trying so hard and just begin being gentle with myself and all my strong scary feelings.

Today my bestie Grief, her sister Rage, and I are all going out for high tea, where we shall sit together eating tiny, sliver thin cucumber sandwich’s, and each will say to the other:

“Hello there, I see you”.

Because in the end, isn’t that truly, what everyone wants? To finally be seen in all their messy bruised glory and to be accepted and acknowledged still, exactly as they are.

My Book Is Here!

My book is here! I have worked so hard to put this together. I’ve written about my life in the last few years in short digestible chapters. Available now through BalboaPress.com or Amazon.com.

Moebius and Me

www.youtube.com/watch

Moebius and Me

www.youtube.com/watch