Chicken Soup For the Ass-Souls

How I survived growing up in a “self-help” childhood

Turning hippy dippy at an early age — Photo credit: wearethemutants.com

“What are you doing?” I asked my mom. I walked into her bedroom, and she was lying on the bed with earphones on. Normal for some, but not for my mom.

“I’m listening to a tape from Jean,” she replied. “Here, honey, come listen.”

Jean was the therapist she’d left behind in Connecticut. As I was only 11, I wasn’t sure why this lady was giving my mom a mixtape, but whatever, I’d give it a go.

I lay down on her bed, put on the headphones, and my mom hit play. She left the room, and I just lay there wondering what was about to happen.

“Close your eyes and get comfortable,” Jean’s voice said, “Try to relax.”

Before I knew what was happening, I had been talked into a drifty state, and then something weird happened.

“Imagine there are two taps at your feet, and when you turn them on, chicken soup comes out. Relaxing your legs as the warm soup flows upwards.”

I immediately felt sad and melancholy, like all of my self-esteem problems rose to the surface. I started to cry.

My mom got caught up in the self-help age of the 1970s. She wasn’t quite a hippy, but she tried in many ways to portray one. Our house was full of self-help books like “I’m Okay, You’re Okay” by Thomas Anthony Harris and “Your Erroneous Zones” by Dr. Wayne Dyer. The latter was on an antique desk in my bathroom, so every time I sat on the toilet, I had that creepy picture of Dr. Dyer staring at me as I wiped my nether regions. Gross.

Imagine this staring at you as a pre-teen — Photo credit Amazon UK

As far back as I can remember, my mom was in therapy. Couple that with the fact that she was on “mommy’s little helper,” aka valium, for a decade. When I reached high school, it wasn’t uncommon for me to borrow her clothes and find half a yellow pill in a pocket. At that time, my “experimental phase” was limited to beer and weed, probably a good thing.

I always heard a lot of therapy speak like “Don’t be afraid to express your feelings.” “I can’t cope right now”, and “Let me get my bearings.” The word cope was used so much that when I was getting bullied in 6th grade, I took it upon myself to tell my teacher that I didn’t think I could “cope” anymore with the asshole students who were making fun of me. I thought I sounded quite adult for a 12-year-old.

Before that, I’d tagged along with my mom to her therapy appointments but had to sit in the waiting room with my chosen Judy Blume book. One time when she was in “group”, I jumped out of my chair when, without warning, the room full of women started screaming at the top of their lungs. I thought someone was being murdered.

Do I call 911? Should I run out the door? Is mommy okay?

When my mom emerged from the room and saw my face, she laughed and said, “Oh, honey, we were having scream therapy; it’s good for you!”

“It scared me!” I told her, fighting back tears. “I don’t want to come here anymore,” and I buried my head in her side.

“Oh, Kristen, don’t be so dramatic.”

So much for sharing my feelings.

I spent my childhood balancing keeping my secrets and sharing my feelings as my mother openly walked around the house naked in between getting dressed and showers. It wasn’t a big deal, I suppose, except that the windows and shades were wide open and I know the neighbors got a fleshy flash on more than one occasion. She said she wanted to go to a nudist beach, but my father protested, and I honestly don’t think she had the balls to do so. She was only hedonistic behind closed doors. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been somewhat uninhibited. The extrovert didn’t fall far from the tree.

If we got upset, she’d tell us it was okay to cry, and if we got mad, to take a few deep breaths. The only time she took it to another level was when I was a hysterical mess at age 7 because I wasn’t allowed to go grocery shopping with my dad. Lord knows why I lost the plot, but after my mania reached a certain level, she slapped me across the face, which both stunned me and made me stop freaking out. Then I freaked out that “my own mother hit me!” said in an extremely dramatic fashion like Christina Crawford.

At Christmas, I’d get a yearly horoscope book in my stocking. I always thought it was cool to read how my Libra day would/could/should pan out. When I was young, my mom would talk about people in signs: “Oh, she’s definitely a Taurus, stubborn woman!” and I thought she was a bit nutty, but some of it rubbed off on me, and I find that usually it doesn’t take me long to figure out someone's sign from their personality traits.

And my mom was cool enough to let me buy a horoscope scroll from the corner store if there was a bucket at the counter.

Her continued therapy proved to be helpful, yet hurtful. She always told us what her therapist of the month said about her marriage, her children, etc., but clearly that was all based on what info she was feeding him or her. After we moved to Texas and she left Jean, it was always “him”. My sister Robin, an MSW (Master of Social Work), said it was because she could manipulate a male and if she’d go to a female, they wouldn’t put up with her shit.

She was diagnosed as having Borderline Personality Disorder, but I don’t think anyone actually did anything to help with that. She took a lot of meds for too many years and became addicted to big pharma, but remained a high-functioning (sort of) human until she developed Alzheimer’s Disease. I’m pretty sure the meds contributed to that, but it’s neither here nor there. Just my mother’s life gone at the expense of some CEO’s holiday vacation home. Hey ho.

[embed]Death by Prescription Pad — Big Pharma Killed My Mom I’m convinced my mom’s Alzheimer’s was fueled by the pharmacymedium.com

On a happier note, we were able to talk about anything, which was helpful; occasionally, my mom’s “openness” could make my sister and me cringe. She’d occasionally try to be the “cool mom” and toss in a swear word or make a comment to our friends that they thought was funny and we thought was horrific. In hindsight, if she had said some of her racy comments today, there would probably be an inquiry from some helicopter parent.

Thank GOD she never experienced social media.

The best part of my mother's self-help ways was that she was very loving and expressive. There was never any doubt that we were loved. She was active in our lives, would defend us to the death, and never turned her back on us, no matter how much idiocy we might do. And Robin and I did a lot.

She had not just a mother’s intuition but a sixth sense. It was a regular occurrence for Robin and me to call each other, starting the conversation with “Hey, so you know how Mom’s a witch?” Something big or small could be going on in our lives that we’d told no one about, and without warning, from 1000 miles away, our mom would call us and say, “Hi honey, what’s wrong? I know something’s wrong.”

Whoa.

Even with some of my mom’s personality issues, which could be a handful, I’ve realized over the years how lucky I really am. Hearing stories of neglectful or absent parents makes me feel beyond blessed, nurtured, cared for, and loved, and I know that the closeness we had to her isn’t something everyone gets to experience. So as I reflect on some of her weird ways, I also appreciate every one of them.

And hope she is leading some kind of weird scream therapy in heaven as the hardcore Scorpio she always was.

As the tears fell, I reached over and turned off the cassette player and sat up on the bed just as my mother walked in. “Oh, honey, are you okay? Meditation can do that to you sometimes, but it’s okay; let it out,” she said as she sat down next to me and let me cry on her shoulder.

I suppose it wasn’t really that ironic that I ended up being a yoga/meditation instructor almost 30 years later.

She probably predicted it in a horoscope scroll after chilling out with a Valium.

2026 Kristen Crisp — Not Even Wine With Dinner

Kristen Crisp is the founder of Not Even Wine With Dinner. A community/mission for those looking for peer support with sobriety, self-esteem, mental health, aging, and all the things that come with being human.

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