Too Much Joy

I was raised by a harsh father (he had many good qualities, too) who believed in a cruel and punishing God.

I reject his God, and his way of looking at the world, but those feelings he implanted in my young brain linger on like toxic mold.

One feeling, implanted very very young, is that when good things happen, and when I dare to enjoy them, to really revel them, I will later be punished. One never knows where the punishment may come--it is God you are up against after all.

Perhaps the birth of a perfect child means the death of someone you love. Perhaps enjoying your job means your relationship will fall apart. Perhaps loving yourself means you are vain and God will find a way to punish your vanity and take you down a notch.

I was not even aware of how deeply lodged this "good-thing-will-be-followed-by-something-bad" fear was in my brain until I wrote a story about a strange, but fascinating program called The Art of Living. The program was all about using this secret yogic breathing technique to purge yourself and make your dreams come true.

Before the secret breathing exercises we had to write on a card our deepest dreams. At the time my deepest dream was to have a second child. I wrote it on the card. But even wanting--I had been taught--was bad. So I watched what happened when I wrote.

I wrote: "I hope I have a child. I hope I have a healthy child. I hope my other child will not die. I hope my husband will not die. I hope I do not get a horrible disease." It went on and on on like this on my little 5"x7" index card. Each time I asked for something--even if it was just maintaining hte status quo, fear broke out like a cold sweat that something else dear would be taken away. I kept the card for years because it was like the Diary of a Madwoman.

What this has meant in my life, in practical, therapy terms, is that I am scared to want anything. If I believe that good just happened to me, that I did not will it, or desire it, or make it happen, then I will not be punished. But if I go after it, I begin to fear. If I get it, the fears begin to grow like radioactive vegetables. They cannot be stopped.

I have been told, by a wise therapist, to just soldier through. To dare to dream, and to dare to dream bigger, and when bad things do not happen, I will learn it is OK. And my fear, gradually, will begin to diminish. Could take years. Maybe life. But that is my work.

And I have gotten better.

Still.

When something is truly great, like this summer, the fears run wild. They cannot be stopped.

I had the sweetest of summers, in the most beautiful places, with wonderful friends. I feel full. Full of beauty, of love, and of delicious food. That should be good.

Yesterday, as we walked to our gate at LaGuardia, I saw a man sitting, avidly reading the Koran. How do I know it was the Koran? Well, I don't. But it was a Holy-looking book, it was written in Arabic, it had an elaborate gold tassel of fine silk, a beautiful cover, well-fingered pages, and he was reading it with great devotion (I swear!)

I panicked.

I was sure I was going to die.

I had had a perfect summer and now my family was going to go down in a terrorist plane crash on the way home. My beautiful boys, my gorgeous husband. We would crash into a fiery field. I tried to hold my paranoia in. But I couldn't. I was ready to pay hundreds of dollars on our non refundable tickets to change to another flight. I just wanted to live. It all made sense. American Airlines (its always American) out of New York (always out of New York) and late August (probably some elaborate date composed of adding and subtracting and 9-ll and important numbers and dates on the Muslim calendar). I knew everything I was thinking was crazy, but I couldn't stop.

I told Jonathan who said we had nothing to worry about.

Then a dark (very cute) young guy sat down and pulled out a computer. He looked Arab, too. It was starting to feel like a team job. Now Jonathan started to get paranoid. But then his mother came over and we thought a terrorist would not take his mother on his final trip to meet the 400 virgins.

So I kissed Jonathan sweetly and told him I had loved my perfect summer. I watched my boys and was not bored when they told me over and over for an hour about each airplane that was landing. I was devoted.

Well, obviously we did not die.

And when we reached the John Wayne airport, the Koran-reading man was hugging his relatives and looked so sweet and huggable I hated myself for even thinking he was a terrorist. I wanted to apologize. To say, "I am sorry, I saw you reading the Koran so I thought you were a Muslim terrorist, but it is not fair. It is not fair that every time I see someone reading a Koran at an airport I am sure I am going to die!!!! I mean if you really were going to kill us, you wouldn't have been so obvious as to bring your Koran and read it to us, would you? I like Muslim people. I do. I don't care if you build a mosque two blocks from the world trade center site, I don't. You should. You really really should."

Later that night Jonathan laughed at me. You always think you are going to die when soemthing is great, he reminded me. It just means you had a perfect summer.

True.

And I must celebrate my life by not giving into the fear of a tyrannical God that my father planted in my head before I had a chance to say "No."

NO, says my 43-year-old self. I do not believe it.

I will not be punished for desiring, for dreaming, for enjoying.

Talk to me next summer, and I will let you know how it went.

Does this ever happen to you? Do you ever believe you will be punished for too much happiness?

post script: Benji was conceived during that Art of Living seminar. They told me to write down my dream and it would come true. And it did. And no one died, or got a horrible disease.