eleven. She turned twelve, thirteen, fourteen—those hellish years when mothers and daughters both go mad. She was in rebellion about my new marriage.
She wanted to be first in my life and Ken did too. Impossible. They tore me limb from limb at the breakfast table. He wanted me. She wanted me. I felt like a medieval martyr torn apart by wild horses.
But then I began to notice that they did this little act for me. When I went away to give a lecture or promote a book, they got along fine. I decided not to react and see what happened. Five years into the marriage, they were pals. He became the steady father she needed. And she became his daughter of the heart.
They formed a conspiracy to make fun of my absent-mindedness, my dreaminess, my constant dieting, my tendency to spend fortunes on clothes. They bonded. And I was happy. We’d become a family. We even took vacations with Ken’s other stepdaughter, Samantha—and almost got along. It was tough, but it was worth it. Stepfamilies always take a lot of work.
Now Molly was sixteen, seventeen, and doing a lot of drugs. Some of them I’d never even heard of—like Ecstasy. They didn’t exist in my day. And the pot was lethal, a hallucinogen overbred to be stronger than anything anyone ever smoked in the sixties—or seventies. She’d stop for a while and burn all the dealers’ numbers, but then she’d start again. Like most parents, I didn’t want to know. But I knew. I knew something was very wrong. She graduated from Riverdale Country School and began Wesleyan. I knew when I visited her in a dorm room with a sticky floor and a rug you could have smoked to get high that she was miserable. I knew she was lonely. I knew she was at risk.
Colleges stopped being in loco parentis in the sixties. But the kids are not really mature enough to go away without any guidance, without parents, without friends. Molly was in bad shape and I didn’t know the full extent of the cause. She wanted to come home and see her shrink. I agreed. She was better off home.
For a while she continued with a shrink who couldn’t even figure out she was using. Of course she had contempt for him, as she later had contempt for a woman shrink who had no idea what was going on.
She applied to Barnard, my alma mater, and began school again. She went back to painting, for which she has a great gift. She worked in a gallery in SoHo and learned a lot about the art biz. But still she was miserable and going with a married guy.
Eventually she took a leave from Barnard too and worked at the Holly Solomon Gallery. And made various druggy friends in the art world.
The shit hit the fan when she was nineteen and had transferred to NYU. She was now, thank God, with a shrink who understood addiction.
One day she came to me and said:
“Mom, help me. I can’t stop using coke. I think I’m going to die.”
Her complexion was greenish, her hair bright auburn, her hands shaking, My first thought was to say, “It can’t be that bad,” but something stopped me. I didn’t want to believe my daughter was a drug addict—what mother does? But I realized that both our lives might depend on my believing her. I was not totally innocent about her drug use, but I didn’t want to believe how far it had gone.
“Tell me about it.”
“Mom—I thought I could control it, I really thought I could, but I keep wanting more. I stay up all night and then take downers to come down. I’m afraid I’ll be one of those people who never wakes up. I’m turning into a coke whore. You have no idea how easy it is to be a coke whore in New York.”
My daughter is a drama queen but somehow I believed her this time. I could see from the greenish color of her skin that she was telling the truth.
“What do you want to do?”
“I think I need to go to rehab. I really do. It terrifies me. I’ll lose my job at Holly’s. But otherwise I think I’ll lose my life.”
I hold her in my arms smelling the sour smell of cigarette
She wanted to be first in my life and Ken did too. Impossible. They tore me limb from limb at the breakfast table. He wanted me. She wanted me. I felt like a medieval martyr torn apart by wild horses.
But then I began to notice that they did this little act for me. When I went away to give a lecture or promote a book, they got along fine. I decided not to react and see what happened. Five years into the marriage, they were pals. He became the steady father she needed. And she became his daughter of the heart.
They formed a conspiracy to make fun of my absent-mindedness, my dreaminess, my constant dieting, my tendency to spend fortunes on clothes. They bonded. And I was happy. We’d become a family. We even took vacations with Ken’s other stepdaughter, Samantha—and almost got along. It was tough, but it was worth it. Stepfamilies always take a lot of work.
Now Molly was sixteen, seventeen, and doing a lot of drugs. Some of them I’d never even heard of—like Ecstasy. They didn’t exist in my day. And the pot was lethal, a hallucinogen overbred to be stronger than anything anyone ever smoked in the sixties—or seventies. She’d stop for a while and burn all the dealers’ numbers, but then she’d start again. Like most parents, I didn’t want to know. But I knew. I knew something was very wrong. She graduated from Riverdale Country School and began Wesleyan. I knew when I visited her in a dorm room with a sticky floor and a rug you could have smoked to get high that she was miserable. I knew she was lonely. I knew she was at risk.
Colleges stopped being in loco parentis in the sixties. But the kids are not really mature enough to go away without any guidance, without parents, without friends. Molly was in bad shape and I didn’t know the full extent of the cause. She wanted to come home and see her shrink. I agreed. She was better off home.
For a while she continued with a shrink who couldn’t even figure out she was using. Of course she had contempt for him, as she later had contempt for a woman shrink who had no idea what was going on.
She applied to Barnard, my alma mater, and began school again. She went back to painting, for which she has a great gift. She worked in a gallery in SoHo and learned a lot about the art biz. But still she was miserable and going with a married guy.
Eventually she took a leave from Barnard too and worked at the Holly Solomon Gallery. And made various druggy friends in the art world.
The shit hit the fan when she was nineteen and had transferred to NYU. She was now, thank God, with a shrink who understood addiction.
One day she came to me and said:
“Mom, help me. I can’t stop using coke. I think I’m going to die.”
Her complexion was greenish, her hair bright auburn, her hands shaking, My first thought was to say, “It can’t be that bad,” but something stopped me. I didn’t want to believe my daughter was a drug addict—what mother does? But I realized that both our lives might depend on my believing her. I was not totally innocent about her drug use, but I didn’t want to believe how far it had gone.
“Tell me about it.”
“Mom—I thought I could control it, I really thought I could, but I keep wanting more. I stay up all night and then take downers to come down. I’m afraid I’ll be one of those people who never wakes up. I’m turning into a coke whore. You have no idea how easy it is to be a coke whore in New York.”
My daughter is a drama queen but somehow I believed her this time. I could see from the greenish color of her skin that she was telling the truth.
“What do you want to do?”
“I think I need to go to rehab. I really do. It terrifies me. I’ll lose my job at Holly’s. But otherwise I think I’ll lose my life.”
I hold her in my arms smelling the sour smell of cigarette
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