Like most of us in the U.S., this latest spate of mass shootings and particularly school shootings, has flooded me with every imaginable emotion: grief, rage, despair, fear, impotence and more. When I finally become able to think, my mind is like a jammed Los Angeles freeway cloverleaf at rush hour, with countless vehicles crammed with lives and destinations, competing, stacking up, and sometimes colliding. Invariably I get stalled. And I definitely have to carefully regulate how much news, how many personal accounts of devastated mothers, despairing teachers, and defensive officials I listen to. And I am not even a mother. Of course, no one knows what to “do”.
“One trick pony” that I am, I default back to a few fundamental perspectives. No surprise, of course, to anyone who knows me and/or my work. I remember some years ago, I read a novel – Jody Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes – about a young high school shooter. Tracking his whole life, like a well-crafted work of fiction would, it was a trail of isolation and failed relationships. His distress signals garnered no response, except perhaps discipline and ultimately dislike and ostracization, which made for more isolation, frustration and build-up of aggression. His eventual massacre was a culmination of that long build-up.
It reminds me of the process of ricotta-making: watching a large pot of whey slowly brought to a very high temperature. The heat drives the milk solids to the surface of the liquid, and they slowly thicken, thicken, thicken to a heavy white cap. After what might seem like a long time, it starts roiling and rolling until a powerful bubbling breakthrough boil punctures the cap. It bursts like a volcano or an orgasm. And then, quickly before it boils over, I turn off the heat and cover it. However, in this case, we end up with something delicious and nutritious, not a bloody mess of chaos.
I remember some years ago, I read a novel – Jody Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes – about a young high school shooter. Tracking his whole life, like a well-crafted work of fiction would, it was a trail of isolation and failed relationships.
As with many other varieties of terror and violence, the warning signs of a troubled child abound if one is mindful. Of course, in the world of neglect, no one is mindful. There might be awareness that there is a “behavioral problem” that is likely met with a punitive rather than a curious or sympathetic response or reaction. Or the child may continue to be invisible or blend in with ambient or worse chaos until perhaps it is too late.
For centuries, mental illness has been confounded with moral, social or legal non-conformity. I remember when I first started college and was captivated by early 19th Century Europe, and most notably Karl Marx, I read a book about the origins of the “asylum”, which corresponded to the Industrial Revolution and Marx’s “alienation of labor”. Life was bleak, and the family was giving way to mechanization and a kind of “efficiency” and economy that was increasingly disconnected from kinship and relatedness. What I remember as being most striking was the conflation of “mental health” with criminality, often with a measure of religion thrown in. Their institutions seemed almost indistinguishable—Oy vey. Looking at today’s world, that has not really changed much in many places. Even the designation of “behavioral health” seems to somehow cast mental illness as a “behavioral problem” or “bad behavior” rather than perhaps a medical condition or a social problem.
The most logical observer of “red flags”, of course, would be family, at least a family that is awake and minimally non-defensive, empathic and related. Understanding distress or dysregulation as cries for help might obviate the quest for comfort and affiliation in other directions, such as social withdrawal, substance use or gangs.
I have not worked in an “institution” in decades. I did a brief stint at the VA and a couple of drug programs before I was licensed, and I have not “had to” since. Patients who wind up in those places are hard to work with. The VA system was set up such that when people got “better”, it whittled down their benefits, so there was a clear disincentive to recovery. And the most severely afflicted will maybe not ever get significantly better. I was relieved to be free to work in settings where people improve or even get well. It is clearly a privilege that I (mostly) don’t take for granted.
And too, there is something very flawed about a “healthcare” system designed to intervene only when the “patient” is a danger to themselves or others. By then, it is too late.
What I remember as being most striking was the conflation of “mental health” with criminality, often with a measure of religion thrown in
In one of Malcolm Gladwell’s books, again, I read it long ago, and I don’t even remember which one, he cites controversial data stating that when abortion was legalized in 1973, the violent crime rate dropped dramatically. Gladwell linked the idea that the removal of unwanted pregnancy, and thereby unwanted children, resulted in less disenfranchisement, loneliness, and of course, dysregulation and criminal activity. It makes sense to me. Attachment trauma, loneliness, rejection, self-worth, and all the incumbent dysregulation accompanying these are at the root of the brain and body distortions that can eventually give rise to so much of the “craziness” and criminality we see.
It is hard to tease out substance use, genetics, poverty, race and huge disparities of justice, among many factors, and I do not, by any means, intend to engage in a debate about abortion or this ancient data. For me, however, it is food for thought, and being the one trick pony that I am, the primary attachment is where I always default to. I continue to believe that attention to the earliest attachment injury is likely as a place to “begin”, as we must choose how to approach and clean up this complex and tragic mess.
My heart goes out to the families of all the murdered children and adults, all the new trauma and attachment trauma that these devastating and senseless murders have wrought. Uvalde especially, where the children were so unbelievably young, is incomprehensible.
My heart breaks for the entire generation of school kids whose last two years of education were fractured by the pandemic, and now that they finally can, they may be scared to go to school. My heart is breaking. I fervently hope we can learn from experience.
For centuries, mental illness has been confounded with moral, social or legal non-conformity.
Today’s Song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
As I was pondering what to write about this week and thinking that of late, my blogs have been perhaps too “dark”, I happened to catch a whiff of the pungent dirty gym socks-like odor coming off ME! The unmistakable smell of Breve Bacterium Linens, or what those of us in the know affectionately refer to as “B Linens.” If you have had a ripe Muenster or Port Salut, B Linens is the bacterium additive that brings the lovely coral red blush to their rinds. I particularly love those two because I somehow remember them as being faves of our mom. And although they don’t bring the Proust-like flood of recall that some foods do, they do bring some kind of smile to my memory. Inhaling the stink rather characteristically clinging to my shirt, I thought, “maybe I’ll write about cheese!”
Last week I had the thrill and honor of appearing on the world YouTube stage for the first time. No, not as any kind of trauma expert; rather, my much-loved Australian cheesemaking teacher and guru Gavin Webber invited me to participate in his special event, “Twelve Hours of Cheese.” No, not for twelve hours, but for a one-hour interview about my own little story as an artisan home cheese maker. And that story I do remember. Not without trauma, the traumatic events were more like little “insults” that ultimately were mostly edible. When people say “cheesemaking! What an interesting hobby!” I say, “No, you don’t get it. For me, cheesemaking is not a hobby. It is a diagnosis!” What an oxymoron and identity shock for this invisible old child of neglect to be out there in the public eye. But before I go on, I better change this shirt because it really is kind of unbearable.
When people say “cheesemaking! What an interesting hobby!” I say, “No, you don’t get it. For me, cheesemaking is not a hobby. It is a diagnosis!”
My favorite album of all time is the Rolling Stones’ 1972 masterpiece Exile on Mainstreet. I remember at the height (or depth) of my dysregulation, bellowing along with Keith, “Everybody goooonnna need some kind of ventilator….” He had a rough childhood, bombs falling in London, a neglectful mom, hunger, an alcoholic father. No wonder he got so hopelessly addicted to heroin for so many years. I am grateful that I dodged that bullet. I can certainly see its appeal. And he is right.
The concept still stands. All of us with dysregulated nervous systems, with stressful daily lives, whether due to personal trauma histories or being a psychotherapist to the traumatized, or both, need these relief valves; ways to recharge and re-balance or simply rest. Perchance I fell into cheesemaking as just that. It really was a kind of an accident. I have always loved cheese, and it was a remote fantasy to try making it someday, like many other little fantasies that never materialize. This time, someone innocently lent me a book about home cheesemaking, and on a whim, I thought I would give it a try. I made the beginner’s cheese that most people start and many end with: quick mozzarella. Oy vey – I was hooked. It was a royal road to regulation. A friend affectionately nicknamed me “Cheese Wiz!”
Like sex, cheesemaking requires a delicate balance between sympathetic and parasympathetic, a focused presence floating on a pulsing excitement. Gavin’s book Keep Calm and Make Cheese is well named. You have to be calm to do it, and it is summarily calming. Perfect! But I get ahead of myself.
Suspecting I had discovered a new brand of self-care, I returned the borrowed book, bought my own copy and then every other cheese book I could find. And it was an amazing vehicle of focus – calm and fun, even though my first cheeses were nothing to brag about, with a failure rate of about 60%. I scoured the internet and YouTube and searched out all the tutorial videos and courses I could find. That was when I found Gavin, who became my go-to authority. I lived for his weekly live stream and live chat program Ask the Cheeseman, and I worked my way through his how-to videos, trying as many as I could. Now in about year four or five of my journey, it seems there is no going back.
And what a great teacher it is. Cheese is a living thing. It grows and evolves, and without proper care and hygiene, it drifts awry, with runaway unwanted mold growth and bacterial hitchhikers and vagabonds floating around where they can make havoc. It is also a great teacher of patience. When I first started making cheeses that had to age three or four months before being ready to eat, I thought, “no way!! How am I supposed to wait?!” Then I discovered the cheeses that take six to twelve months and more. Like trauma healing time, it moves glacially slowly. But ultimately, transformation occurs, and out of a shapeless mess, something new and delicious emerges. It is usually worth it. Not always, of course; that is why the essential brain function of learning from experience comes in!
Cheese is a living thing. It grows and evolves, and without proper care and hygiene, it drifts awry, with runaway unwanted mold growth and bacterial hitchhikers and vagabonds floating around where they can make havoc.
For millennia, around the world, people have been making this simple food with essentially one ingredient. They all seemed to spontaneously discover that although they could not store milk long enough to span the seasons when it was less plentiful, this simple procedure made a nutritious food that lasted much longer and was also delicious. Spontaneously and cross-culturally (no pun intended!), a growing wealth of styles and varieties developed, and a whole world unto itself of methodology and even language was formed. I was amazed as I got acquainted with that new to me little world, that there was a whole new vocabulary and set of concepts to learn, just like everything else. Who ever heard of Breve Bacterium Linens, of flocculation, or Mespohillic and Thermophilic Starter Cultures, to name but a few. However, these terms all became part of my daily life and copious reading.
Even before the pandemic struck and isolation became the norm, entering this world community of cheesemakers made me feel connected to people across geography and across time. It made me feel connected to cows and goats and sheep and all the other mammals that produce milk. And something about working with milk seemed to tie back into Attachment Theory, so although cheesemaking struck like a fallen meteor that lit up the sky and then landed, it also felt somehow very consonant with who I had already been.
When the pandemic hit and we were all locked down, cheesemaking became even more important as a means of regulation. There is something very steady and plodding about a process that takes a long time and a fair amount of fuss, much like therapy, but without (most of!) the pain. And because cheesemaking requires so much sanitizing and cleaning, all the guard rails imposed by the pandemic, with the exception perhaps of face masks, were well known to me. It became an effective, regulating pandemic activity; long days, including sometimes a 90-minute or two-hour stir – a fine opportunity to watch the wealth of webinars and virtual conferences, which were, to me, a welcome spawn of the times. My greatest teachers joined me in the kitchen, and all that stirring was like a gentle afternoon of kayaking in Kona.
Most of all, however, I discovered that almost everyone loves it. Most people I knew had never eaten artisan cheese and were more familiar with mass-produced, ordinary, or even processed cheese like Velveeta or Kraft Singlets. As my product became slowly better and even gift worthy, I began to find a source of great pleasure, joy and connection in sharing it. It made me feel happy and less alone. I started sending packages to friends and loved ones all over, and having my creation go into their bodies makes me feel a kind of organicity of connection. If the pandemic can widely and perilously unite us in fear and deathly danger, perhaps this other microorganism-infused agent could organically unite us in health and love. That is how it seems to me. If nothing else, I found it makes me happy! That regulates me and keeps me going.
All my cheeses are dated on the day they are made. Keeping up with my daily affinage, all the fussy little steps that cheese requires day-to-day during aging keeps me aware of the passage of time, which in “pandemic time” might otherwise seem static, stopped or a seemingly endless Groundhog Day. Time stands still in the brain of the traumatized. Life in present time does inch along forward.
Now, when I meet someone new that I like, the perennial question they are faced with is, “Do you like cheese?” It is rare to hear “no”. “Send me your postal address!” I say, and suddenly I have a new friend. It seems to melt barriers! And it is my favorite way to say, “thank you!”
Here in the US, it used to be rather customary, when taking family photos, for the erstwhile photographer to say, “Say Cheese!” to the assembled photo subjects in an effort to get a toothy, rather gritty smile of sorts. In Madonna’s iconic 1991 movie, Truth or Dare, she updates it to “Say dildo!” I have adapted her practice when I take a group shot and usually get authentic and charming expressions! Whichever you prefer, keep calm and have some cheese! It is alive!
There is something very steady and plodding about a process that takes a long time and a fair amount of fuss, much like therapy, but without (most of!) the pain. And because cheesemaking requires so much sanitizing and cleaning, all the guard rails imposed by the pandemic, with the exception perhaps of face masks, were well known to me.
Today’s Song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.