Why I'm just the big Scottish Woman who lives in the San Fernando Valley.

The atmosphere has been heavy here in the Valley this week. Though Christmas lights twinkle on trees, and lawns are littered with inflatable snowmen, and signs proclaim “Joy To The World,” there is sorrow in the air.

When it comes down to it, LA is quite a small town, really - an ugly, sprawling, unruly mess of a small town, but a small town nevertheless. Like, for example, Mark had to talk at quite a large gathering last week, and he happened to mention that his favorite way to relax was to sit in the living room and watch some shite on TV. Then, remembering himself, he said that he wouldn’t say exactly what TV shows he categorized as shite, as there were probably quite a few people in the room involved in the making of those shows, who… He didn’t get to finish his sentence for the roar of laughter.

LA is not a place where everybody knows everybody, but the degree of separation is very small. So, though I don’t personally know the Reiners, I am, of course, merely a stone’s throw away from many who do.

And spoiler alert, I don’t have any salacious gossip, and in truth even if I did, I wouldn’t say. But like many people, I can’t shake off the shock and the bewilderment and the sorrow, for the lives of those lost, but mostly for the lives that are left behind.

It’s a horrible time of year to have to deal with tragedy. But then I suppose any time of year is a horrible time to deal with tragedy.

But this is a story that doesn’t feel real. It feels like something straight out of the Oresteia: A loving mother and father killed in their beds by their profoundly troubled son. Except this wasn’t written by Aeschylus in 500BC. It was something that really happened sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning in a family home less than 20 miles from here.

I’ve found myself thinking about it all this week. In the middle of bland yet comforting domestic tasks - boiling the kettle or folding laundry, I catch myself wondering if or when they knew. My mind lurches into spaces I don't want it to go to.

I think back to all the developmental milestone points you have for your kids- like when the child sits up or takes their first steps. I remember Lachlan being late to talk, but then it turned out he was only waiting, because when he did talk, it was in full sentences. Lachlan, even as a baby, always had his own mind.

I remember Ferg in elementary school and his reluctance to play team sports, and instead to just sit on the bench with his head in a book. Now he's an adult, it makes complete sense. He’s never liked hustle, and he’s not at all competitive. But if you're looking for tender-heartedness or a philosophical discussion, he's your guy.

Yet I remember at each milestone as they grew, the fear of what whatever expert might say: Willing them to say that your kid is just fine - average in fact. And the kids who turn out to be fine. And the kids who turn out not to be so fine. And their parents, who take a breath and resolve to find a way to make whatever they can, better, no matter what.

One of the trickiest parts of being a parent is recognizing the person you have given birth to is not an extension of you, but their own individual human, whether you like it or not. I know I'm lucky as I do genuinely like the people my kids are. And I do see it as luck. Sure, nurture is a thing, but those kids told me who they were from very early on.

And sometimes I've struggled with it. Though looking back, often the biggest struggle has been about allowing myself to accept that what they need and what I need can be two entirely different things, and that both sets have to matter.

In your actual ancient Greek tragedies, the lead characters are important people: Kings and Queens. Characters who have experienced greatness. And the Reiners definitely fit that bill. But mental illness does not discriminate. It is the great equalizer in that it frankly does not give a fuck how important you are, and it can ravage through any family.

Recently I was asked what I would do if I suddenly got a billion dollars, and I muttered how I reckoned I’d pay off some people’s mortgages and maybe buy a house or two for my arty friends who never quite hit the financial success they deserved, and maybe splash out on getting myself my own plane (sorry environmentalists). Mostly though, I confessed I wouldn’t change much of my life at all. My life is messy but then so am I.

I worked with a woman a few years ago who was ridiculously blindingly rich. And while all around people revered her status, and assumed she must think great thoughts, inside her wee body she despised herself and could see nothing positive about the future. She really just wanted to die. Mental illness is the friend to nobody, though it very much enjoys the company of the disease of addiction, and the tiny rich lady was deep into hers. This was obviously not much fun for her, but agonising for her mother. She would have given up anything for her daughter to be ‘fine’.

It was pretty sobering experience to work with her, and it changed me. I learned to appreciate the mundane. The feel of a pair of warm socks on cold feet, or the way the sun sometimes catches the light through the trees at the front of my house, or in the ridiculous way the dog’s ears bounce when he's out for a walk. That the value in life is a feeling not a number. I felt incredibly fortunate that mostly nowadays my perceived difficulties are challenges I have to face for myself, and not challenges in trying to save someone else.

My own experience of dealing with individuals with addiction is that it's like dealing with someone who is stuck at the bottom of a well and calling out to be rescued. You can hear how much pain and darkness they are in, when they call out in agony. But then, when you try to help them out of the well, they either try to pull you in with them, or yell that you are the fucking problem and the only reason they're in the well in the first place is because you're such an asshole.

And you would walk away, but the sound of them desperately calling for help, always calls you back. Because you can hear the person under the illness, and you can feel the loneliness and agony of the soul trapped under the great burden. But I have been lucky. Because none of those addicts have ever been my kids.

My friend lost her son to the illness and talked about the pain of detaching from her own child. In the end though, for her own safety, she had had no choice. She said the way she came to terms with it was to think that she had bade him farewell and allowed him to go off and fight his monsters. Like Hercules, or Theseus. Like Ancient Greek Heroes. She said that just like the mothers in those sagas, she prayed that one day her son would return home, victorious. But for now she had to accept that he was fighting demons she could not see, and all she could do was wait.

And so my mind lurches back to the Reiners and I feel such incredible sorrow.

You know, according to Aeschylus for a tragedy to really be a tragedy, the lead characters have to have a fatal flaw. An error in judgment that ultimately brings about their downfall. But what is the flaw? Is it love?

And because Aeschylus he wanted to show life as being tricky, his characters faced brutal choices. And the choices for the Reiners were brutal. Were it my own child, I don’t know what I would have done. And I when think of the face of the mother of the tiny rich lady, I expect she wouldn’t have the answer either

But big brainy Aeschylus wanted us to know that great suffering is a necessary teacher that provides true wisdom.

And that’s why Aeschylus is celebrated as the father of tragedy and I am just a big Scottish woman who lives in the San Fernando Valley, because I have no wisdom about this. None at all. And fuck all by way of an answer. Just deep and profound sorrow for the loss of two people I did not know personally, but feel I kind of understand.

So, it is Holiday season. If you’re looking for gifts this year, they are to be found in the wearing the right pair of socks, in the wagginess of a dog’s tail, in the twinkle of the Christmas tree lights, and in the luxury of what it feels like to not be afraid for, or of, someone you love.

If you have all of these, you have everything.

May the Reiner family find peace.

XO

PS: If you click on the heart emoji to like this post, you will be talking to my algorithm, and agreeing that I’m too big and too Scottish and have too many feelings to be an ancient Greek philosopher.

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Why I’m just the big Scottish Woman who lives in the San Fernando Valley - Audio