Women’s Psych 101

My name is Shira and I am in therapy.

Admitting it sounds funny, even though I’m sure that most people who read my blog are in therapy (no offense, but let’s be honest). I feel like there is still a stigma, like we whisper it when we leave the office for a  ‘50 minute hour’.

Truth is, I feel lucky. I found a great therapist when I needed the help the most and I could afford it. Therapy is so hard at first,  and it’s exhausting and it’s lonely sometimes. But it’s amazing and life altering when you put the work in and trust the process.

So  I propose to you that mental health is a human right. I am sure that I’m not the first feminist to assume that for most women, mental health comes at a price- either financial or personal- that they cannot afford. Not that having money makes you happy, but not having the financial means to talk to someone when you need, can cost a woman her life and future.

Recently, the price of my own therapy was raised- and this is within the national health care package in Israel. My American girlfriends struggle with changing jobs and changing health care providers and the issues of prescriptions covered by the previous carrier but not the new one, and waiting lists for appointments with covered doctors, new doctors.

So we turn to the wonderful world of Non-profits. Non-profits that provide therapy for those who need it and cannot afford it, are amazing. The work they do saves lives. But their resources are limited and they usually work off of some sliding scale of need, which cannot begin to take into account the diverse needs of  a multitude of women in different communities like those that exist in Jerusalem.

• It is valid that a woman who has a full time job and makes ends meet still doesn’t want to make yet another payment at the end of the month.
• Therapy is not a  “leisure” or “extra” activity, though it is deemed so when compared to her otherwise socially-acceptable needs.
• It is hard enough to get out of work, when, for example, one non profit in Israel could only offer my friend appointments during the hours of 9am and 5pm.

So, though I am sure they are understaffed and underfunded like the rest of us, women’s health non profits don’t quite seem to be able to help, across welfare lines.

3 stories, just samples of many, to rock your gourd:

1. In Israel, one such org  told a friend, who barely makes ends meet after taxes and has student loans coming out of her ass, that her income (before taxes, and not taking into account her debt) implies that she could afford full price therapy. She was welcome to come in for an appointment at 11am on a Tuesday. Thank you for invalidating our feelings, our financial state and our work day.
2. On my own mental health journey, when first inquiring within my national health care provider as to mental health  in Jerusalem, the person answering the phone had not yet had her morning coffee and she was brutal. When I asked regarding English-speaking therapists (I inquired in Hebrew, mind you), I was told to learn the language now that I live here and suck it up. She hollered something rude about immigrants and I asked her name and hung up. This person who answered the phone is the first stop for all people in Jerusalem who are looking for affordable mental health help and she’s heinous. To be judged or yelled at, in your vulnerable state,  is a mockery of such a department and all departments in the field. I called back after that first conversation, spoke to the manager and told him of the unfortunately incident. He was sorry to hear of the correspondence but he told me he was glad I called, so he could take care of it. I doubt he did. Thank you for embarrassing and traumatizing us after we muster up the balls to ask for help.
3. Another friend of mine had a wonderful, affordable  therapist through a non-profit. Her  therapist was fired, with no warning, and she was given no forwarding information to allow her to carry on her treatment. Thank you for giving us a glimpse into what privilege can buy. Thank you for showing us that only money, and not good intentions, assure you stable, consistent professional help.

Point is, it is hard to find cheap, quality, consistent therapy. Maybe the revolution needs to start, at least for now, in our minds. Because I want to see a day when a women’s mental health is as important as the needs of her children, family, work, car and even the puppy.

Without our marbles, ladies, how can we save the world?

choice and children

here is another piece that was printed this month in the coolest feminist zine in Jerusalem: Fallopian Felafel. I am honored to write for this cool ass zine. Check it out!

Personally, I don’t get why people have kids. They’re smelly, they’re loud and eventually they leave you and rebel against everything you tried to instill in them. But I do believe in choice and if you chose to make smelly, loud babies, then, well, good for you, I guess.

The thing is, choice is choice- if a straight woman can choose to keep or end her pregnancy, if a straight man can chose to stand up and father the impregnation he caused, then anyone, no matter how they identify- lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender (LGBT) or straight- should be able to chose the same for themselves. Problem is, my the LGBT community has less conventional, accessible, affordable and ’socially accepted’ ways of making this brave choice.

Adoption, insemination, surrogacy, shared parenting and other methods of having babies are becoming more available- although still not readily enough- to the LGBT community. Though often expensive and difficult, these methods have managed to sustain an awesome baby boom in LGBT communities all over the free world. And it’s really exciting

I’ve seen my friends begin and continue their families but I realize that having a close glimpse into the LGBT community is a privilege that not all people have, especially in homophobic, conservative Jerusalem. So let me let you in to a great world of colorful families.

As a fag-hag and LGBT community professional, I am honored everyday to closely know a community that, while contributing fully to society, including everything from paying taxes to serving in the army, is afforded less rights overall. Marriage is only the tipping point of the inequalities from access to proper health care and reproductive options.

The dream to be a parent, while not swimming around in my head at night, knows no socially constructed boundaries. My gay and lesbian friends are starting to plan their families along with my straight friends but it can be a struggle. Finding the right method, doing so with a partner or without, getting legal rights to your child, and in many cases finding the money and legal measures to create or adopt your child- can be difficult. And seeing these struggles, I wish that I could take away the road blocks between my giving, caring friends and the child they dream of. Because how could it be anything but natural for a person full of love, understanding differences and overcoming hardship, determination to accept all and be accepted, to make a great parent?

And then the baby comes. Now, most babies, we hope, come into the world to meet loving family and friends. But LGBT family babies are also celebrated by the community, still new to these great tiny little miracles. Grandparents who, at the beginning of their child’s ‘coming out’ process possibly feared they would not see grandchildren. Parents who worked so hard to make this baby and dreamed of it since long before it’s conception and delivery home. Friends, like me, who can’t contain their happiness for this new tiny baby and know that it is going to be cherished, cared for, nurtured and accepted for everything that they are.

Having children is a choice that everyone deserves to make, without exception. Women in Iran and Mea Shearim deserve abortion rights. Gay men, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender men and women deserve the right to create and give a great life to a child, if they want to be parents. But more than deserving these rights, they are integral to allowing each person, no matter how they identify, to live the fullest life that they dream for themselves.

The Beast- on quitting smoking

Reporting to you today, live, from the belly of the beast, I’m Shira and I just quit smoking. Again.

I’m sorry if this shocks some of you in America- my smoking habit was closeted in the land of “ew, smoking is so taboo, it’s so 1999.”  But in Israel, it was full blown, it was well supported and it was glorious.

I have been smoking for more time than I care to recount and this is probably my 4th or 5th attempt at quitting. Each time, I am so sure I’ve really kicked the habit. For months I brag, and preach about my sobriety like those little quirky D-list celebs on Celebrity Rehab after they complete a 7 day drama marathon detox with Dr. Drew (if you missed that metaphor, you don’t watch enough reality TV- get on that). And then I realize that I quit smoking so well and so forever that I’m strong enough to just have one drag. Well, that one drag turns into only one cigarette, only one a day, I don’t buy I just bum and then just one pack, and then, well, months of pure JOY.

That’s right, smoking is joy. It’s fun, it’s cool, it’s awesome, it’s social, it’s relaxing, it’s distracting. Sure, it also smells awful, makes you sick from coughing to cancer, it’s expensive and gross, but we all have flaws.

So today, as I write my blog, my body withdraws regretfully from Nicotine and all the other wonderful chemicals that I have been dumping in my body for the last 3 months (since my last quitting endeavor- I was ’sober’ for nearly 10 months that time). My blood and lungs miss the torture- the abusive relationship my body shares with cigarettes is a love-hate, push-pull kind of marriage. The cigarettes are bad to me- they treat me bad but I love them. I can’t imagine where else that would parallel in my past life…

So now I will take my angry, frustrated, anxious, furious, annoyed withdrawal symptoms and take them out on everyone I see today. And most probably tomorrow. So, for all you goody-goodies always trying to get my to stop smoking: Fuck you! You try it. It’s hard and it’s horrible. I’m probably going to lose all of my friends today- and maybe even one of my jobs- because you thought that I should definitely quit smoking:

“You have to!”, you said.

“Set a date”, you pleaded.

“Stop killing yourself slowly with those cancer sticks”, you teased me annoyingly to no end.

Well, now where the hell are you?! Are you willing to spend the next few days with me? Right, I didn’t think so.

“You’re on your own with this one, dumbass”, I tell myself.

“Well, then, fuck it, I’m going to buy cigarettes!”, I reply to myself.

But I don’t. Because I know I have to quit. I sing in a band, for God’s sakes.  But it’s hard.  I can’t live with it and I can’t live without it.

Maybe the fear of relapsing, as I have already so many times, is what keeps me from being optimistic and seeing past these next few days to a time when I will have clearer skin, clearer lungs, more sensitive tastebuds and whiter teeth. But I don’t see those times ahead. Because right now I am scared of failing and right now I am sad.

I’m mourning. Because cigarettes are like a best friend. They are always there, they always listen, they never answer but you know they feel you. I’m losing that friend today. Nothing fills that void. No amount of gum or licorice or chocolate can fill the place that cigarettes held. But I’ll be damned if I won’t try.

Now I’m gonna eat until the pain of quitting goes away. As Oprah would say, I’m going to eat my feelings. Bring on the lbs, my knees can take it. So instead of dying of lung cancer, I’ll die of one of the many side effects of obesity. At least obesity is socially acceptable in America now. Unlike smoking, which is gross.

Nightlight

Last night I slept with the lights on for the first time in a long time.

In the wake of an attack on my community last night, when a shooter opened fire on the LGBT youth group in a Tel Aviv community center. The group leader and a group member were killed, others were wounded, hundreds, even thousands, were traumatized and saddened by the murders, injuries and brual homophobic assault.

I was in the car when I heard about it and I clenched my heart in shock, feeling as if my own family had been attacked. I felt like my own kids were shot at- and seeing how as I have no maternal yearnings or instincts, I’d classify this as a very strong reaction.

As I slowly come out of my own little closet of sorts, I reveal more and more on my blog: I have been working in various awesome jobs in the Jerusalem Open House, the J-city LGBT community center for over 2 years. It’s my home away from home… a little because I’m a workaholic but mostly because I love it there.

This attack, that I understand barely made international news, is a heinous beating on the safety and security of all the citizens of Israel. Now no one can blame Jerusalem, or religious differences and holy sites, or sexual acts, or questional behavior. This act, in cold blood and blind, ignorant hatred targeted growing children and the sweet young adults that wished to ease them comfortably into their teens, as comfortably and happily as possible.

In the Open House I have seen young people blossom and stretch their potential in the youth groups. I have seen roudy, musical, fun nights of Open House youth group activity turn just kids into young activists, compelling, caring community members, budding leaders and family members. I’ve seen them come out, get on stage and rock a drag show like its their job.

I love this community and I love our kids.

I reject bigotry and homophobia, violence and blind hatred.

I join the community, and all freedom loving people in mourning the senseless victims of last night’s attacks.

that funny feeling

Ahh, that funny feeling. No, not the one you got when you found your friend’s dad’s playboy stash when you were 12. The funny feeling I’ve been thinking about lately is the one that sits in your core and you can only hear it when you get real still.

Oprah talks a lot about it, the feeling we get in our gut that tells us that something ‘just isn’t right’. Intuition- I’m sure we all know, or at least in hindsight we can see when the inner-nudging tried to reach out to us,  but we just didn’t listen and it altered our lives. Or maybe we did listen and we know we have our lives to be thankful for that we listened to our inner voice.

While I am talking about hearing voices, I’m not talking about coming down with a case of the crazies or all of those little anxious pushes and pulls throughout the day (oh yeah, like your neuroses are so must cooler than mine). I am talking about the feeling, the nudge in your gut, that pushes you toward a new direction or urges you away from a decision.

While I didn’t listen to that feeling, which I admit was more a pushing, shoving, screaming in my gut than a mere nudge, I learned to listen. I learned to feel it, listen to it. I’m still learning, always listening. It’s probably the most honest part of me. The part that forced me into therapy (the best personal decision of my life to date), that forces me to keep paying for therapy as they raise the prices (don’t get me started!), and pushed me to start writing this blog a year ago.

I’ll make more mistakes. I might be making one as you read this. It’s human. But I have the mistakes to thank for a new perspective on what and who is good for me and how to make the best life for myself.  I complain a lot, I rant like a madwoman but with good reason. I work hard, I live on a tight budget, I find myself in 2 court battles and I just can’t seem to catch a break sometimes. But that being said, I am so lucky. Lucky my funny feeling  screamed until I heard it, lucky I (eventually) listened, lucky I have great jobs, great friends, a great apartment and a new found perspective.

Say what you will about my gut, but since I started listening, I’ve been doing OK.

92 Days

Well, it’s done. I got my get- my divorce is finalized .

It’s over and I’m so relieved. It was a surprise- a pleasant one that got thrown together when the opportunity presented itself- and the quiet in my head is tangible. I think I actually saw the weight lift from my shoulders as he repeated the words after the rabbi in the rabanut.

To my surprise, the rabbis were sympathetic to my place in the unwanted relationship with an unstable man and they seemed to understand the urgency of this ceremony, allowing the arrangements to go on for hours, once the opportunity presented itself.

That having been said, the process in the rabbinic system is RIDICULOUS. The ceremony of divorce involved the man doing a lot of  ‘repeat after me’s and the woman doing a lot of ‘waiting outside so as not to worry my pretty little head over this big man business’. I spent the better part of the time in the hallway/waiting room. It’s mildly offensive. Also, I have not counted out the possibility that there was a game of circle jerk going on inside the courtroom while I waited outside during the “writing of the get”. I’m just saying, it’s possible. The sexual tension in that room was overwhelming!

At the very end, when they recalled that my ex was actually divorcing me and not the 9 bearded old men in the room, I stood up and did my part- no talking, no words, no voice- just catching a paper and walking to and from a door (that’s actually all true). As a part of the ‘repeat after me’s, my ex said the words that freed me from him and freed me for others. Thanks to no will of his own, while repeating after rabbi oldie mcoldberg, my ex acknowledged our divorce, my desire to get out and be free, out loud and in my general direction. It wasn’t heartfelt- it didn’t need to be- but it gave closure in retrospect. Somewhere, hidden deep in that nasty patriarchal world, I found something symbolic that only made that sweet day sweeter.

The rabbi informed me that it is now illegal for me to marry a Kohen- a Jewish man who is a descendant of the bibalical Aharon- and that it is illegal for me to get married within the next 92 days. So unfortunately for you, you will not be receiving a wedding invitation from me in the next 92 days- well, i guess 90 days now. Brilliant.

Thank god for the wisdom of… well, 90 year old Ashkenazi homo-erotic rabbis. Thank god for the strength and support of my friends and family. Thank god that part of my life is behind me.

Divorcing the Disney Princesses

—-this piece is actually printed this month on the coolest feminist zine in Jerusalem: Fallopian Felafel. I am honored to write for this cool ass zine. Check it out!—-

I’m 27 and getting divorced. I’m bitter and angry. But I wasn’t always this way…

Growing up, my favorite Disney movie was The Little Mermaid. Ariel (previously spelled Arielle like my besty) the mermaid wasn’t your typical Disney princess. She wore less clothes, always revealing a flat stomach (obviously!) and her belly button (racy!). She was also rebellious and adventurous, thoughtful and fierce. I identified with her curiosity and struggle to break a mold created for her. At that young age the symbolism of her main conflict, having given voice to the sea witch in exchange for a chance to be with the man she loved, was lost on me.

It no longer is.

I had a feminist upbringing and I undeniably identify as a feminist to the core of my being. But for some reason, those damn Disney princesses and their fairytale stories got into my head. At the age of 23 I got swept up by a “prince” and all of a sudden I wanted it all- the long hair, the red apple, the castle, the glass slipper, the land-legs.

And without even realizing it, I slowly gave over my voice in exchange for the man I thought I loved. I sort of fell into a deep, long sleep and I awoke only to find myself locked in the tallest tower.

In marriage and in Israeli divorce, I was and remain silenced. The wedding was a blur, the importance of my career and skills were sidelined for talk of babies and family. My dreams of traveling were shushed. My work was ignored. Our fights got worse. I was told what and when to eat, how much to spend, when to come and go, and all of my actions were monitored.

I didn’t talk about what I was experiencing. In fact, I was barely consciously experiencing what I was experiencing. But little by little, the reality hit me. My prince had turned into the evil sea witch, with my voice in his hands. The villain lived with me, in my house, and controlled my actions, my thoughts, and my feelings.

By the time I got the courage and resolve to leave, I had become totally dependent on him. But when I chose to take my voice back, I lost my prince, my sea witch, the magic villain, my crutch. I had to relearn how to do everything. I did. I bought tools, I created a home, I paid bills, I made decisions. I put one foot in front of another and I crawled until I could walk and run… on my own, self-acquired, self-sustained land-legs.

In Israel, when a Jewish woman marries a Jewish man, she gives over her autonomy as an independent citizen, in accordance with state law, which is based on rabbinic law. As long as things are going well for you as a couple, this doesn’t effect you at all. But the second you want out- separation and divorce- you can try and open your mouth but the screams will not be heard. And the evil sea witch- whether your ex or your neighborhood Haredi rabanut- has a tight hold on your voice. Even in the “secular” court system, you cannot divorce without a get from the man in the rabanut, and so a husband has no motivation to give a get and is allowed to refuse a woman a get until he receives all of his financial demands in the other court. In certain situations, you cannot change your name back, or gain full, autonomic control over your car insurance and other service providers without proof of divorce.

I don’t know what will be in the next few months and years with my divorce. But I do know for sure that if it’s not me, it will be another woman who is refused a get, delayed, and possibly tortured by the system.

You see, my life has become a bit more complicated than a Disney movie. My divorce, the main conflict of my current plot, is not going to be resolved within the next 90 minutes. But I am sure that I am not the only one who watched Disney movies as a girl and subconsciously tried to fix my daddy-issues with a prince, new glass slippers and a song.

There is no shame in dating or marrying the wrong man. Everyone makes mistakes. And the culture and the system does not make it easy for you leave. In fact, as a woman going through a divorce, I often feel like the ministry of interior, the rabanut, the court and the police conspire to make women pay for leaving their husbands. My conspiracy theory may be accurate, or it may not. It doesn’t matter. As hard as it is to leave the man and family you thought you loved, it becomes as hard to change your name, keep your assets, schedule the next few years of your life, and move on. But it is worth it. It will be worth it.

Because freedom from an unhappy future is priceless. You can and you must have the strength to leave if you want to. Get help: therapy, a social worker, a women’s organization, a friend or family member. Gather your resources, your strength and your thoughts. When you’re ready, trust me, it will be hard but not harder than staying. The worst moments after leaving are better than the best moments if you had stayed in an oppressive, abusive or unhappy marriage.

Marriage between a man and a woman has enough proponents: magazines, TV, Disney, your mother, my grandmothers, religion, state. I am here to applaud divorce when it needs to happen. When you know that the choice is between him and you– stay and give your life and fate over to him or leave and salvage you– choose you.

Always choose you, princess!

Lewd Acts

I am breaking the silence about a violation that I have experienced more than a handful of times. These lewd acts are random personal-space invaders coming at you on the street: public masturbation.

Public Masturbation, definition: a man, always a man, standing or sitting in a public place, masturbating while looking at live subjects.

Now, I know this subject is uncomfortable but this is obviously a problem in which very rarely- but prominently enough for me to see them- men can only (or preferably) get their jollies in public while watching passersby. Here are a few examples of various expressions of this  crimes that I have eye-witnessed, to my great regret:

• Man whacking off in car as I passed by with girlfriends near our off-campus apartments in New Brunswick, NJ. We scream. He drives away.
• Again in hub city, NJ, on the same street as before, while walking with a group of girls, we notice that the young man walking behind us is having more fun that we are– and he’s alone, with his pants open getting down with his bad self. Again we scream, we run into our apartment and lock the door.
• At a bus stop in Jerusalem’s city center (oh no! not the holy city! oh yes…) while some random girls  and I sit and wait, a man stands right in the middle of Jaffa street facing the bus stop, whips out his wang and ‘goes to town’ (pardon the pun, i couldn’t resist). The girls scatter- myself included. I decide it is a good day to splurge on a taxi.
• And lately, twice to be exact, a construction worker working outside a building across the street from my apartment building  stares at me while I pass and pleasures himself. He does not stop looking at me and touching himself. I drive away.

This act infuriates me. It scares me. It disgusts me. It disarms me. It objectifies me. It silenced me… Until now.

I want to be clear that this violation- being stared at and used in a live-fantasy unwillingly- is not personal or related directly to me, nor is it happening just to me. The act is directed at me because I am female and because I am in public. It happens to us because we are born and because we leave the house without a man by our side.

This last and latest violations hit me hard because it happened outside of my house and in my neighborhood, where kids walk around alone, because it is usually very safe. For that reason, I called the police.

The police are supposed to protect and serve but ever since NWA came out with “Fuck tha Police”, we’ve known better. So I was wary. When I called (imagine me saying “I’d like to report a man masturbating in public please” in Hebrew. oh no, not the holy language! oh yes…) a nice woman police officer (read, former frecha) took the report and my name and number in case they couldn’t find the house. She said they were sending a car. I don’t know if they ever did.

Before that day, I had never done anything in response to these invasive incidents because this is not an act you can easily fight. I didn’t respond because I feared that anything I do or say at that moment to stop it will actually encourage it. It doesn’t seem to warrant a violent reaction, and it’s so gross, who would want to get close enough to throw a punch?! Running away, escape, is the only option left to you and at that moment, all you want is to get the fuck away.

So calling the police isn’t the ass beating that this perverted fool deserves but it’s better than nothing. It did not make me feel safe. In fact, after calling be police I felt vulnerable, particularly because this was happening across the street, and I felt like I could easily be named as the caller, being the victim. I was scared to leave my house that evening.

I hope the police car came to the street. I hope, in the very least, based on my description, they got the guy kicked off of this particular job site, so that he won’t be around anymore.

I also hope, if nothing more comes of it, that I’ve opened up a discourse on a violation so foul and so humiliating that we never speak its name. The silence is part of what allows this and similar acts to go unpunished- objectifying us and violating our feeling of safety in public. If we start to talk about it, breaking the silence can free us from feelings of guilt, maybe someday inspire a solution and remind us that we are not alone.

let my *people* go

so today, in my continuing divorce saga, I got a piece of my freedom back. 1 piece of 3, it seems. But it’s a big piece of freedom- and the rest looks like it’s coming within the next month. i thank the women that shared the morning with me. thank you for the distractions and the support and the company.

• lesson #1: never, ever, ever, under any circumstances neglect your girlfriends. ever. they are the most important part of your life- past, present and future.

so after this big roller coaster of emotions day, i went out with another great girl friend. we had champagne and french fries! it was a celebratory night.

• lesson #2: always celebrate. the big things, the little things, the great things, even the hard things- always celebrate with a friend, champagne and fried food.

half way through my first glass of champagne, it hit me. i’m not wearing a bra.

for the first time since god gave me my beautiful breasts, i left my house without a fucking bra. i am the woman who puts a bra on to walk the dog. i pay $80 for a single, great, huge, supportive bra from a Jewish woman named Susan who owns a lingerie shop in NJ and she touches me and fidgets with the bra to make absolutely sure they are the best damn bras in the freakin’ world for my beautiful breasts.

i don’t only wear bras for comfort- i wear them so the boobs don’t sag. i wear them so they take a nice shape, so they stay healthy, so they look nice. but tonight, in celebratory, post-roller coaster 1/3 freedom mode, i walked out of my house, while still sober, without a bra on.

let my people go.

that moses knew what he was talking about. the girls wanted to breathe, they wanted to bounce, they wanted to frolic. they didn’t want to be restrained, the wanted people to stop telling them what to do. they wanted to be 100% free. and so they were.

• lesson #3: sometimes the body just knows what it wants- and it wants to be free.

Out of Egypt

I’m not a religious person right now. But I was brought up as a Conservative observant Jew and I have a great personal connection to our traditions, even if sometimes they feel like a chore to me.

This year the Passover story spoke to me more than if usually does. Maybe it was because I wasn’t at home with my family who have been so crucial in my surviving the past year, maybe it was because I was spending it with an adopted family that has really given me a second home during this rough past year. At the risk of sounding cheesy, maybe it was because I cannot think of a journey from slavery to freedom without thinking of my own.

I think most people can identify with a journey from suffering to relief, from oppression to empowerment.

Like the Jews in the Pesach story, I left behind so much. But I made due. With my parents’ help and other family and friends who gave me furniture and art and shopping help and advice. I still miss my things- the thoughtful, generous wedding presents from friends and the “stuff” that was only “stuff” but made my life easier, cushier. I went without the easy lifestyle for a while, in exchange for the freedom I didn’t have before. I hope my wedding guests understand, I remember every single present and I know the thoughts behind them, even if I may never possess them again (feel free to curse in the comments section).

And like the Israelites, when I left my Egypt, I had so much help on the way. Small miracles, community, little bits of matzah, great leaders showing me the way and some big miracles too. From when I found my apartment, which became my safe haven, shelter and my soft place to land, to when I finally got out of debt from my divorce; it all really felt miraculous.

But most of my miracles were hand made by my friends, my family, and my dog of course. Every time I called you and you answered the phone, when you came, helped me, took care of me, called me, held me, held my hand, lent me something for my house, gave me your art, your design, your talent and your opinion and support, it was the miracle I needed to get through this journey. And even though judicially and Rabbinically I’m not out of slavery yet, in my mind and in my life I am. I’m out and I’m free.

So thank you for providing me with your little miracles, keeping my spirits up during that long walk to independence. This year, I’ve had my fair share of salt water and bitterness, but looking back, it was a small price to pay for freedom.