Guest Post by Stina Lindenblatt Edgy Dark YA

Today's post is from Stina, one of my favorite bloggers who has become a friend. Stina and I have corresponded a bit about the topic of "dark" YA, and I asked her to write this post to share her thoughts.

 Stress. Unfortunately it’s an issue not isolated solely to adults. Today, teens face more negative stress than ever before, but they don’t have the same coping skills as adults. This is why edgy dark young adult novels are so beneficial.

So what does edgy dark YA have to do with stress? Plenty. Topics typically dealt with in this type of story include: death, eating disorders, bullying, cutting, rape, drugs. None of these are cute and fuzzy. But the beauty of YA is it doesn’t matter if you write a paranormal or thriller or contemporary story, each genre allows you to approach the topic a different way. This means that even though Laurie Halse Anderson authored a contemporary novel about a girl struggling with anorexia, it doesn’t mean you can’t write a thriller with a girl dealing with the same issue. The stories will be very different, and yours might snare the attention of teens who weren’t interested in Winter Girls.

If you want to write edgy dark YA, figure out why you are passionate about the particular issue you want to approach and what you are hoping to achieve. Let’s take suicide as an example. Thirteen Reasons Why is a brilliant YA contemporary novel that addressed the topic of suicide in two ways. The first one dealt with a boy struggling to understand the motives behind why a girl he was crushing on killed herself. The author, Jay Asher, also wanted to show teens the warning signs to look out for in case someone they know is considering suicide. Thanks to Jay’s passion about the topic, his book has saved lives.

Passion is also important because it helps you create an authentic story. You care so much about the topic, you want the story to succeed. And how do you that? Through research. If you don’t do the research, someone will catch your mistakes. Unfortunately, it won’t be your agent or editor. It will be a teen dealing with the same issue who will notice it. You’ll lose credibility with some of your readers. And loss of credibility is a danger thing.

How do you avoid this problem? Read as much as you can on the topic, and make sure you are studying information from qualified experts, such as child psychologists. You also want to make sure your research is relevant to teens. For example, teens don’t deal with depression the same way adults do. If you can, talk to teens dealing with the issue (either the individual is experiencing it or knows some who is, depending on your story). This will ensure your voice is genuine, your character is authentic, and her experiences are true to her situation. For example, if your character is a cutter, make sure you understand how it feels (or doesn’t feel) when she takes the blade to her skin. When done correctly, your character won’t sound like a clinical case study.

By bringing the psychological issues that affect teens’ lives (directly or indirectly) to light, you can give hope to those who felt there was none, empowerment to those who felt there was no other choice but the path they took, and increase awareness and understanding to those sitting on the sidelines, uncertain if something is wrong. You can change a teen’s life, hopefully for the better. You might even save a life. Now what could be better than that?

I agree with everything Stina says here--especially about figuring out WHY you want to write about a particular topic, and then doing the research to make sure you are respecting those who've been through these things by portraying their experiences accurately and sensitively.

Do you read dark YA? If so, why? Do you write it? Was it a conscious decision or just what came to you? How do you make sure what you're writing is true to life?

And of course, check out Lydia Kang's Medical Monday and Laura Diamond's Mental Health Monday!

Guest Post Addictions and Development

Today's guest post is by Emma Haylett. She decribes growing up with an alcoholic father who literally tried to recruit her as his drinking buddy, and in the process put her smack dab in the middle (triangulation) of her parents' relationship. This may be a telling example of someone in the role of go-between.

A Revelation

My father bought me my first 6-pack of beer. I was only 14 at the time and drank it behind closed doors, away from him and the rest of my family. It was a late summer night and I remember my mother was already hidden away in her room, lights off, TV on such a low volume like she was whispering with ghosts. Dad sat in a broken recliner watching western violence, occasionally calling my name to come drink with him. Instead, I wrote. I started writing before I popped the first cap and continued to do so after all of them were empty and stagnant around me.

I knew the other kids at my school drank. I knew my dad drank. I watched him every day, but what I didn’t realize was the problem he held. Within the next two hours, I was dizzy and tired. The spoken words of my father were surrounded in quotation marks intermittently written down the page, phonetically spelled out: “Em-uhh,” “ehmm,” and “c’mon to the livin’ room, now.” 

As my state of clarity became more and more unclear, my dad’s stayed exactly the same. I didn’t know he was permanently inebriated until pouring over my notes the next morning. This revelation became something of an alcohol abuse study for years.

My mother never noticed the extra beer my father bought. I think she always assumed Dad was going to drink them, and it was a fair enough assumption. As he pressured me to drink them, I would sip slowly and watch him become more intolerable by the bottle. It didn’t taste good and I don’t remember it feeling good either. 

His speech slurred to the point of intelligibility and his breath was something similar to a laboratory experiment gone wrong. His actions embarrassed me – he would yell at the television if a star delivered a line poorly, and wrap his arm around my shoulder to tell me how to buy liquor underage. Whenever my mother entered the room, his face became tired and uninterested.

One evening, after Dad was snoring deeply in the chair, my mother sat me down and asked me if I drank with him. Of course I didn’t lie – I told her he would give me a few bottles and we would watch TV together. She told me Dad wasn’t healthy and that what he was drinking wasn’t, either. She told me he was always cracking cans since he was about my age, partying much too hard with his friends and family. I wasn’t old enough, she very sternly told me, “and your dad’s decisions reflect poorly upon this family.” I stopped drinking with him after that night.

Family Treatment

Dad was kinder in the early hours of the day and progressively became more incoherent and rude towards the time he usually passed out in the recliner. I come to realize, from lengthy trial-and-error experiments, that the trick to getting lunch money, permission to go out on school nights, or even a small favor was asking him in the mornings after his first coffee with a whiskey cream substitute. 

My mother took the opposite route and, when she thought I wasn’t around, suggested rehab programs later in the evenings, or else, she threatened, she would leave…again and again. But she never did. Their relationship became empty threats with the two of them screaming about whose turn it was to buy essential toiletries with the little money we had, and who was going to raise their daughter standing behind them unnoticed.

There was more hidden behind my father’s alcohol addiction than what was obvious: the empty bottles clacking together as he put another one down was always accompanied by false affection when we had father-daughter talks around the dining room table late at night about being a responsible adult, trust, and his image of love. I learned that being responsible was saving a bit of grocery money for a tall bottle of cheap alcohol. Trust was believing him when he said, “Just one more,” and love was “don’t tell your mother” followed by a bribe.  

Promises to attend my school-sponsored activities came to a screeching halt as the more dangerous drugs became the better part of him. I once found him asleep in the truck idling in the driveway with the windows down and a burnt cigarette between his still fingers. The long stem of ash flaked away as I shook him to remind him that he was supposed to take me to school.

Emotional Detox

I lied to my friends. I lied to my teachers, and I lied to myself - for years. It goes without saying that I don’t trust long or often. I had a hard time believing my ex-fiancé Jake was going for a quick run to the gas station without bringing home a brown paper sack around a bottle or plastic baggie of some substance. I am reminded of being alone when my new neighbor’s empty beer cans crash and echo against each other as she pushes her trash bins to the curb every Thursday morning. I am still angry at my mother who should have tried harder to get my father some help.

I always wished he would have even considered alcohol rehab. I firmly believe our family life could have been different, saved even, with detox and therapy. As an adult, I hesitate to show affection and honesty. I have daylight visions of my father wrecking the truck. I lose hours of sleep over the conversations I should have had with Jake about trust and what it means to be loved without stipulations.

Looking back, it’s hard to know what it is I was feeling. From adulthood, it is easy to know that my father was using me as a crutch, as a tool with which to hurt my mother. And I dutifully played the part of loyal daughter to both of them. I was a substitute, in many ways, for their relationship—an embodiment of the good in my father as my mother saw him, a (albeit young) drinker still capable of offering love - and so she ignored it. For my father, I was a female who served as his caretaker and confidant, a secret-keeper who acted without judgment, an enabler. While my father was dependent upon alcohol, I was simply (or not so simply) using it—more on that here. This was my first experience as an enabler too.

I do remember feeling trapped in between them and, because they were my parents equally, wanting to please both. If I could do it simultaneously, even in secret, it felt like a win. I didn’t like the taste or feel of alcohol, but I also didn’t like the way my father breathed my name until I came out. For me, this drinking was easier, especially since I never outright lied to my mother. Like my father, I had my justifications.

Therapy

I’ve learned that addiction is better treated as a disease. With a non 12-step program, doctors treat addicts with proper medical treatment as you would any other chronic medical illness. Working with addicts in this program has taught me that sometimes you can’t rely on having faith or attending self-help meetings. Sometimes real help (however you find useful to define it) is necessary. 

Addicts can come to an understanding of trust and commitment, as well as formulating a self-betterment plan that is supported by people like me. I provide the guidance and encouragement as well as sensitivity to the issue.

My father would always get upset if the word “addiction” was even quietly muttered.

I realize what it is like to be an addict. I watched and recorded one my entire life. To approach the issue with proper intelligence and caution is critical – to provide them with real courage and motivation rather than standing idly by will push the addict towards getting the appropriate help and the chance of staying healthy will greaten. It’s a very rewarding opportunity to be there for somebody and to see them succeed.

I help myself by helping people overcome these dangerous addictions. I help them make that sensitive reconnection to their family and children. There is always hope that they can raise their kids to live without being exposed to the fear and emotional emptiness that that I hold inside and that is so overwhelming. Getting help can change more than one life. That first step is always the hardest, but I know in my heart of hearts it can make a difference.

Author Bio: Emma Haylett finds comfort in writing. When she’s not helping coordinate non 12 step recovery programs for addicts and their families, you can find her watching terrible made-for-TV movies.

Guest Post Writing About Your Family Lessons I Have Learned

Today’s guest post is written by Sharon Hicks, author of How Do You Grab a Naked Lady, a memoir about her life with her bipolar mother. I reviewed the book here. The best way to gain insight into yourself, in my opinion, is by learning about your family, even if what you learn is somewhat painful.

Sharon Hicks

A few years ago, I met with Mother’s psychiatrist, Dr. Amjadi, to ask him a few questions about my mother. I was writing Mother’s story. I wanted to know more about her. Why did he tell me years ago that she was obsessed with knowing the truth? Aren’t we all?  Is obsession a symptom of bipolar? She was diagnosed as manic-depressive with schizophrenic tendencies. What does that mean? Another psychiatrist told me: “Can’t be both.” Could it?

After a few hours of discussion, he said he was amazed that I was writing her story rather than entering a field like psychology or social work that might help me understand mental illness better. Many of the family members of mentally ill patients he had previously encountered had done that. Then, he suggested I make it my memoir: showing the differences between mother and daughter, mentioning the things I had done that mother couldn’t, describing our roles as mother/daughter, etc.

My story! Impossible. She was the colorful, sexy, crazy one; the one arrested over thirty-three times mainly for parading around town naked, in and out of mental hospitals, multiple shock treatments and meds. For Pete’s Sake! She drove around the island in her yellow GS Buick convertible (she named Goose Shit) with the top down, naked. Well, okay, she did wear a yellow Gucci scarf around her neck, but only to blow in the wind. She especially loved coming to a stop sign next to a truck or bus so they could look at her, naked. “Those people can be so stupid. Haven’t they seen a naked body before? Wow, the stop light; ever see anything so fucking red as a blinking red stop light!”  

But, now it was my story. Well, my life with mother: how she was crazy and I was perfect. Heck! I had proof. Mother’s police records, documentations, her audiotapes. And, my senior class voted me Most Ideal and Homecoming Queen. We were clearly opposites! I was determined to prove it.

I wasn’t prepared for the agonizing writing process. The crazy ride on the roller coaster of emotions. Laughing and crying. Pacing, fidgeting and then exhaustion.

I wasn’t prepared for the ending. After the writing, I loved her and connected with her in a way I never did before. After the writing, I learned that the best parts of me were also my mother’s best parts: her inquiring philosophical mind, her raw honesty, her free spirit. And I learned I was not perfect! 

Today, I wish I could reach out, hug her and whisper in her ear: “I can’t possibly understand, but I want you to know I am your biggest ally. I love you.” 

Mother would quote Erhard: “Understanding is the booby prize.” Then she would snicker: “Who gives a shit?”   

Then we both would laugh and eat her “fart” cookies.

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Others ask me to share lessons I learned in writing my memoir. I don’t think any are hazardous, but some may be considered dangerous and scary, like diving into the deep end of a dark lagoon where the monsters live. You really don’t know what lurks in the darkness or crevices of your mind. Give up the fight to be right and know that “What you resist persists.” (Carl Jung) Once you face honesty in the face, humility bathes your body. And, you can shake hands with authenticity.

Lessons I have learned:

Be honest. With each event: what were you doing? Wearing? Thinking? Feeling? Be as honest as you can with each episode. Re-live it!  During the writing I paced, cried, panted, took deep breaths and ate dark chocolate. With your honesty, readers will relate whether they share the same experience or not, much like The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls, The Liars’ Club by Mary Karr or Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs.

A memoir (non-fiction) is written as a novel (fiction). Fiction has three parts: The Set Up/Climax/Resolution. A movie producer interested, asked me quickly: “What is Act 1?” I answered: “Growing up with crazy/manic Mother.”  “Act 2?” “Marrying squeaky clean proving I am nothing like Mother.” “Act 3?”  “Discovering I am like my mother. Her best qualities are my best qualities.” He then said he was interested and wanted to read my memoir.

He did offer a movie option. But wait, not so easy: How was my life resolved?  Who am I?  Who is my authentic self? Part 3 was the most difficult to write. To resolve. Oh shit…Mark Twain to the rescue: “It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.” Then I relaxed with the understanding that Part 3 is a work in progress.

Focus on what your memoir is about.Write a couple of sentences or what is called an elevator pitch. Write a synopsis of one page to indicate the three parts as described above. Focus.

Legal advice may be neededwhen writing about others. Does writing about this particular incident/person contribute to my story? Will it damage my relationship with this person or harm this other person unduly?

Do your research.Attend Writers Conferences, Storytelling and Writing Workshops. Read. Learn. The best work I read is On Writing by Stephen King.

Focus on writing to one person. I focused writing to my only sibling, my brother who is four years older. David says my book answers many questions in his life and he has a deeper understanding why he does certain things a certain way. And, the biggest bonanza: he now knows me at a deeper level.

Know that there will be questions.I thought after I wrote my memoir, I would feel relief and satisfaction. It was over. The burning desire inside me to write “mother’s story” was finally completed. Published. I could relax. Oh no! The questions keep coming. I am reliving it over and over: painful, yet cathartic, exhausting and consuming. No end to the story.

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My dad told me I broke his heart when I was ten years old. I asked him the most difficult question: “Will I grow up to be like Mother?”  We were driving to the mental hospital to see Mother. I noticed him gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white and, looking straight ahead answered in a low voice: “no.”

The question lingered. Others continually asked me the question. Friends, husbands, lovers. “Are you anything like your mother?”  Anger would boil inside me as I answered with a loud “NO. Absolutely not!”  I broke off relationships. He doesn’t even know me. I am perfect. Mother was the crazy one. Screw him.

Today, after publication of How Do You Grab a Naked Lady? I am asked again at book signings, meetings, and interviews; in emails; on face book and twittering, “Are you anything like your mother?”  I answer calmly and proudly:  “I hope so.”   

Sharon L. Hicks is a retired executive living in Honolulu, Hawaii. She is the daughter of businessman and community leader Harold E. Hicks, whose company, Hicks Homes, built over 20,000 affordable pre-designed homes in Hawaii. How to Grab a Naked Lady is her first book, inspired by her mother.  It is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Guest Post Always the Mediator

Today’s guest post is by Ashley Hardway. She discusses her personal experiences being in the dysfunctional family role  of the mediator, the one in the family who always tries to help settle disputes among other feuding family members. It is an version of what Murray Bowen called triangulation, the process by which two people in an unstable relationship rope in a third member to contain the conflict without actually solving it. When one person in a family is the one who always volunteers to mediate disputes, and/or is the person who everyone else always turns to to fullfil this function, the role often may then spread to variety of other relationships, particularly with spouses and in-laws. It may also happen that the persons everyone turns to is criticized for the way they are carrying out the task as wells as frustrated in their attempts to accomplish it, and yet also criticized if they stop mediating.

As far back as I can remember I have been in the middle. I am the middle child and I began mediating between my two siblings when we were just wee children. This carried on into adulthood with me being the mediator between practically everyone. I really do not know why. Maybe it was all the practice I had growing up, or maybe I thought I was good at it. I was always trying to make peace but it never seemed to work out the way I planned.

When I got to be an adult I was still mediating between my siblings and between my dad and siblings. No one seemed to be able to communicate their feelings and I was constantly trying to enlighten everyone to what someone else was truly saying. Our family was not exactly a cohesive unit but we always did have the fundamental foundation of love which kept us trying.

When I got married I became the mediator between my husband and my family and between his family and mine. My family has very few boundaries and would drop in without announcement. I was used to that, but what made the boundaries fall even more by the wayside was the fact that our mother lived with us. So it was pretty much no longer considered my home - it was mom’s home and anyone was welcome at any time. This did not go over well with my husband or his family as you can imagine. I tried to make peace and I tried to set my family straight but life-long habits are hard to break.

My husband’s family was the type that scheduled days to see their parents and make arrangements with each other in advance for any visits as well. So you can easily see how our situation could cause resentment. Now, not only was I hearing about it from my husband but his family began to chime in as well. I was caught in between trying to talk to my family about the situation and at the same time smooth things over with my husband and in-laws. I was trying to do it all without totally breaking off ties with either side of the family and keeping my marriage together. Along with all the mediating, I was doing my best to not only hold down but also excel in a full time job and raising two children whom I adore.

One of my siblings eventually moved out of state, which alleviated some of our problems for a while. But it was not too long afterwards that my mom’s sister and her mother, my aunt and grandma, moved to get closer to mom because they were all alone too. They moved in about a half mile down the road, and thankfully mom went over there most of the time. The trouble started when my mom’s brother, a dear uncle, was diagnosed with brain cancer and could no longer work. He too moved in with my grandma and aunt, but before long he became quite ill.  He loved to drop in and play with my kids. And not too long after that my youngest sibling got a divorce and was also dropping by constantly and unannounced for visits and for meals.

Everyone had legitimate needs and I loved them all, but this once again made my position of mediator more difficult. I found myself constantly talking to my mom and siblings about the problems created by everyone gathering at our house and how it upset my husband and his family. I was also constantly explaining to my husband that the reasons for the frequent visits by my family was that everyone was either sick, lonely, or hurting. It upset my mom when I would talk to her about this situation because she is the type of person who has never been able to say no to anyone - and of course she loved them all. It upset my husband because he did not have the same feelings towards these people and did not understand them. I found myself drowning in a churning whirlpool of emotions that never seemed to stop.

Nothing I did seemed to solve these problems in my marriage or in my relationships with my or my husband’s family. Nothing I could say or do seemed to help and I eventually just gave up talking and let things happen as they happened. I thought that maybe if they duke it out on their own, then things would get better.

Being in the middle for so long and trying to make things perfect had completely exhausted me. The reason that I finally gave up was that my family began criticizing me as well as teasing me about being so high strung. When I had worked as hard as I could to make things work and no one cooperated I ended up angry or in tears. I remember one Christmas they were actually betting on how long it would take before I had my meltdown. My husband normally acted unhappy or somewhat indifferent, but when the betting took place he joined in on it! So I decided to give in and let everyone fend for themselves except for my kids. After that my relationship ties were mainly with my children.

Of course this did nothing to help the situation but it also seemed to make my marriage and my relationship with my in-laws even worse than before. Throughout the course of a full decade I had done my best to talk to my husband about what was going and let him know that I was trying to set boundaries. I was fighting a battle I could not win. After all, my family had been used to me trying to mediate all my life and they had the ability to just shut me out when I talked.

I tried to talk to my husband and see if he could help me find a solution. Perhaps if he could step up and let my family know how he felt in a controlled manner it would help. But he was not that type of guy; he felt like I should be handling it and if I loved him then I would make it work. He would basically sit in the background and complain to me or just disappear and/or complain to his family. Do not get me wrong - I do not blame him, but I sure could have used his help because I was purely and utterly overwhelmed.

I believe being a mediator is hardest when you are mediating between family members.  This is especially true when you dealing with a family with no boundaries in the first place. In pretty much any other arena you can lay down facts and work at getting people to see other people’s views.

I hate to say it, but the only way I got out of the role as mediator was to give up and let things fall where they might. My family then wondered why I was distant and sometimes indifferent. As time went on my husband and I became almost strangers living in the house together and my marriage ended in separation and eventually divorce. At that point it was somewhat of a relief even though of course it was still painful. It felt something like the death of a terminally ill patient whom you know is now no longer suffering.

When they all started making fun of me I really realized how little I could do to help anyone. I wasn’t helping myself, certainly, by putting on all this extra stress. I figured out something. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” No matter how hard I tried I could not make everyone happy. In fact I could not make anyone happy, not even myself.

When I finally gave up on trying to mediate with the adults I invested myself in my kids. Of course I went from one unhealthy situation to another. I made my kids the focus of my whole life and, rather than finding happiness within myself, tried to find happiness through their lives. One of them handled it badly, seeking to run away. The other one seemed to do great on the surface but after a long time finally admitted to me how hard the strain was of trying to be my happiness for me. I didn’t even realize I was doing it, of course, because I never wanted to hurt my children. It has taken me a long time, and is still a work in progress, but I have started to look for happiness inside myself instead of trying to make everyone else happy thinking that would make me happy.

I finally learned that I can’t please everyone and saying yes to everything does not make their lives or my life better or happier. By finally setting boundaries with myself, I could at last set boundaries with those around me. I had to give up my need for love and affection, at least as I wanted it, and learn to be happy within myself. It has been a struggle, but I am working towards a healthier way of living. It has certainly helped that many of the family members that perpetuated the chaos have passed away or moved away. A little peace can go a long way!"

My attempts to mediate failed pretty much my whole life, but I kept trying because I hated to see people unhappy and misunderstood. I put myself in a place that I was not really capable or qualified to handle. Now I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it is not possible to make everyone happy all the time. I cannot be responsible for any one else’s happiness but my own. I still have no idea how I could have handled that situation any differently. But I do know when you put yourself in that position you are certain to fail.

Always curious, Ashley Hardway is constantly learning and passionate about sharing what she learns with others. Based in the Houston, Texas office of Morningside Nannies, she loves to help families grow stronger, help their environments and communities, and keep moving forward! Check out @NannyLady on Twitter to connect and find out more.

Guest Post The Good Enough Parent How Children from Abusive Families Sometimes Do Not Seem To See Their Own Abusiveness

Today's guest post is by Sara Dawkins. This is the second post in which a writer recounts his or her own experience in a family with a problematic history. She addresses the confusion a child can feel when parents who have themselves been abused by their own parents do unto others what had been done to them. ~ D.A.

This is a topic that is very close to my heart so it is difficult for me to write about. Let me start with something that is a little easier. First of all, I will talk about my partner. His father, to be precise. My partner’s father was abused as a child. As was his father. I am sure the cycle continued for many generations. However what got me to really recognize this idea in my own life was something my partner said to me the other day:

“My father is proud of the fact that he is a better father than his father was, but that’s not very hard to do.”

Wow. He was so right. Just because the father came from an abusive home, that did not mean that his own abusive behavior was better in some way. As a matter of fact, my partner’s father can’t even see how abusive he is, as a father and as a spouse.

That brought me around to thinking about my own family. Both my mother and grandmother were from abusive homes, as was my father.

My father was practically abandoned for most of his life and when his parents were around they were verbally and physically fighting with one another. Although he was not hurting in material things, he did not get any instruction about how to behave, and was left to his own devices. He turned into a very selfish individual. Instead of trying to avoid repeating his history of abuse with his children he simply gave up. He stayed home for much of my young life, yes, but withdrew to his bedroom as soon as he got home and only left it to go to work. He did not interact much with my brother and I;  when he did it was only the minimum required so that he could feel as if he had “done his duty.” 

Eventually the stress of even that much involvement got to be too much for him and he left. He never did seem to see that he was falling into the same cycle of abuse that he had suffered through. After all, he could tell himself, he didn’t leave… for a while.

Likewise, my grandmother came from a difficult home. Her father was an alcoholic and the family lived in basements and with relatives because he would drink away his paycheck or simply not go to work at all. From this lifestyle my grandmother learned to work hard and try to keep everything as perfect as possible so that she, hopefully, would not have him get angry at him when he got home. 

She later married a man who was much like her father, and as her children grew up under his verbally and physically abusive hand, she cleaned and kept everyone looking good. To this day she defends her father and is in denial about the abuse she lived through. By keeping everything whitewashed in her mind, she was simply repeating the process of enabling abusers and was keeping the process going.

Needless to say my mother grew up feeling abandoned by her mother and abused by her father. Shockingly, she chose to fight the trend. Although she could not fight off the effects completely, she did not give into the same habits that had plagued the generations before her. Don’t get me wrong. She still had many issues. She was prone to rage and verbal abuse. However, she decided that her children were not going to suffer like she had. 

She was determined to break the cycle. I have to admit, she works really hard to do so. She is not perfect by any means, but when she does fall into those bad habits she always makes sure to apologize for them and tell us what she should have done instead. By thusly changing the pattern, she has been successful at breaking most of the bad habits that plagued our family. Although we are not completely unaffected, my brother and I are moderately well adjusted. I believe that the most important thing she taught us is to be mindful of our actions.

Sometimes people that have been abused do not seem to see the abuse that carries on in their lives. They have many of those same habits and ways of thinking. Sometimes they just assume that they are better parents because they do not do exactlythe same thing or do not do everythingtheir parents did. Being a ‘better’ parent does not make you a good parent or even a non-abusive one.

It really hurts me to see that my uncles are not as cognizant of this as my mother is. They have many of the same abusive behaviors in their homes and yet they act as if they can’t understand why their children are acting out, being rebellious, running away, or just giving up. They don’t see that they are just continuing a cycle of abuse.

I know how difficult it is to break habits that you have grown up with and I am thankful that my mother was able to give me some understanding and insight into her mind. This has helped me to break the cycle within my own relationships and live a healthier, more balanced life.

Author Bio

Sara is an active nanny as well as an active freelance writer. She is a frequent contributor of http://www.nannypro.com/.  Learn more about her at http://www.nannypro.com/blog/sara-dawkins/.

Guest Post! Lydia Kang on Mind Body Connection

A special treat today--Lydia Kang, who has one of my favorite blogs ever, is guest posting! Lydia is a physician and recently-agented writer, repped by Eric Myers of the Spieler Agency. She also happens to be one of the nicest people I've come to know in the blogosphere.

Sarah invited me to do a guest post today. What fun! Look at this place. Hey, Sarah, why is there a painting of an incontinent T-rex on the wall?

Oh. It’s a Rorschach blot? Okay, please don’t analyze what I just said.

Anyway. Since I tackle a lot of medical stuff on my blog and Sarah handles the psychological ones, it made sense to discuss the Mind-Body connection.

I see evidence of the mind-body connection all the time. Here’s a smattering of real-life examples.

• Stress causing headaches and elevated blood pressure
• Laughter lowering blood pressure, increasing infection-fighting cytokines in the blood, and lowering cortisol (a stress hormone)
• Depression as a risk factor for heart attacks
• Broken-heart syndrome (Takasubo’s cardiomyopathy) 

As a writer, why does this matter? Because you have to consider how a stressful situation might make your character feel and what it might do to his/her body. If they have multiple sclerosis, their disease might flare. If they lose a spouse, they’d be at higher risk of dying within that same year. If they have a new diagnosis of a chronic illness, depression may rear its head.

As a writer, you should also consider this—fiction is one thing; YOU are another. I know that snacking and sedentary habits often go hand-in-hand with a writer’s lifestyle. I rarely get on my doctor’s soapbox to lecture, but in this case, I shall for the benefit of my many writer friends out in the blogosphere.

In order to have a healthy mind to produce those amazing, brilliant pieces of writing you produce, a healthy body truly does help. Exercise can do wonders for writer’s block, and healthy eating can do wonders for a writer’s end.

Yes, I’m talking both THE END and the REAR END.

*jumps off soapbox*

Sarah, thanks for having me. I hope that T-Rex practices her Kegel exercises.

And readers, remember to make an effort to stay healthy and always consider the mind-body connection for your characters!

*looks up from scribbling down theories of Dr. Kang's deepest unconscious urges* Thanks, Lydia! I have to admit I sorely neglect my poor body, so this is a great reminder to take better care of it.

Don't forget to visit Laura's blog today, where she answers this month's Sisterhood of the Traveling Blog question: "How do your pets/kids/plants (something you take care of) influence your writing?  Do they help you, or distract you?  Do you include them in your stories?"

Now--what's your mind-body connection? Do you try to ignore it, like me (and then realize you can't actually get away with it)? Or do you find exercise and eating right is an essential part of your writing routine? What about the mind-body connection in your characters?

Summer of Bloggerly Love Guest Post By Michelle Simkins

Today I am honored to share a guest post by the astounding Michelle Simkins, aka Greenwoman, as part of her "Summer of Bloggerly Love" tour. The general theme: Love. I'm guest posting on her blog today, so be sure to visit. Here, I give you Michelle and her take on our lexicon of lurve. Nom nom nom!

_________________________

Y'all, we have a problem. It goes a little something like this:

Love [luhv]

noun

• a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
• a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
• sexual passion or desire.
• a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
• (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, love?
  

verb

• to have love or affection for: All her pupils love her.
• to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).
• to have a strong liking for; take great pleasure in: to love music.
• to need or require; benefit greatly from: Plants love sunlight.
• to embrace and kiss (someone), as a lover.
  

And those are just the official definitions. The dictionary forgot "to, like, really totally enjoy?" As in, "I love avocados." Or, "to find unbearably cute," as in "I love puppies."

And forget about defining love as "want to stalk" or "think you own". That's much deeper than I really want to go in this post.

Do you see my problem here? Our love lexicon SUCKS. We REALIZE there's an enormous difference between the affection we feel for a parent or child and sexual desire (unless, of course, you are reading The Collector's Edition of Victorian Erotica, in which it appears that people only have intimate encounters with their relatives or their teachers, or both. And usually there is a switch or riding crop involved somewhere. And excessive use of the word "lascivious". Not that I would know from experience or anything.) And we know that sometimes sexual desire comes without "profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person."

We won't talk about sexual desire and avocados.

The lack of terminology for the varieties of love and affection gets us in trouble all the time. If I tell you "I love you" on Twitter, chances are good that I don't mean "I want to spend the rest of my life with you and would jump in front of a speeding train to save you." Rather, my meaning probably falls somewhere between feelings of friendship and enjoyment of avocados. Probably I like you more than avocados, but it's hard to say. I like avocados an awful lot. So what do we do? I think we need a new Lexicon of Love, people. I would like to make some proposals toward that end. Let us consider the following terms.

aff could be used when we feel affection for someone, such as a child or a friend or someone with whom we've had meaningful interactions. "I aff you." I think it's cute, don't you? And then we'd have a new noun too. "She's my affie." It's like BFF. Only, more sincere (because let's face it, BFF's never ARE Best Friend's Forever.) But that's another blog post.

fam could be a term for affection such as we'd feel for a member of our family.We could use it to express not just familial love, but also the kind of deep friendship that we feel for our chosen families. "I fam my friend Linda.".

lust. We already HAVE a word for sexual passion and desire, and it's a good word. I think we should start using it more often. Dude, if you just want to sleep with someone, call a hard on a hard on. No need to say you love them; say "I lust after you", and nobody gets hurt.

nom is a perfect way to express our deep enjoyment of certain foods. "I totally nom avocados." Because nomming is more than eating, right? It's consuming with gustatory delight and enthusiasm. It is the love of the eating world.

wub: I have often seen casual love and affection spelled "luv" or "lub" or "wuv" or "wub". I have chosen "wub" because of it's similarity to web. And I propose that "wub" should henceforth be used to denote the specific variety of love we feel for those who amuse and delight us on the internet (or web). It is, you see, web love. I wub you, Feral Pony. I wub the Goat Posse. And none of you expect me to drop to one knee with a little velvet box. Unless, of course, it's a little velvet box full of avocados, and someone just kicked me in the leg.

If we adopt these or similar terms, we could then reserve the term "Love" for "profoundly tender, passionate affection" and avoid confusion. I would be free to express my feelings for the funny folk I meet on the internet without anyone showing up in my driveway with a UHaul and a Justice of the Peace.

And I'm definitely open to other suggestions. I know I have many friends who are more clever than I am and who can help me solve this linguistic problem.

Let's nom some avocados, affies. I wub you all.