As a young woman in my 20s, a book called Goddesses in Everywoman, written by Jean Shinoda Bolen, heavily influenced my way of thinking. I am of Greek descent so I’m sure that had something to do with my being fascinated by Greek mythology. I read the book until the pink covers fell off, and then I just taped the covers back on.
Bolen, who is a Jungian analyst, writes about how there are Greek goddess archetypes in every woman. Out of all of them, I connected the most with Persephone, who was abducted by Hades the god of the underworld, with Artemis, goddess of the hunt, coming in second.
I also have taken “Which Greek goddess are you?” quizzes and, yes, Persephone comes in first, with Artemis coming in second.
Let me tell you something about Artemis. While she loves animals and children, she can be very vindictive and downright mean. Offend beautiful Artemis and you can get shot to death by a poisoned silver arrow or have your tongue cut off or be turned into a bear.
And having a Persephone archetype is probably worse. Persephone women are kind of offbeat—prone to mental illness is a better way of putting it. And we don’t like to get old.
Age didn’t bother me too much when I drank or, if it did, I just drank some more so I could obliterate the agony of aging for a few hours or more.
Plus, I had a habit of using low wattage light bulbs in the bathroom. This was partially because I had horrible hangovers and could not handle bright light. But the low-level lighting served another, cosmetic purpose. When I looked at myself in the mirror, my face looked like a sepia portrait. Yes, it’s all in the lighting.
When I got sober in 2011, I was 49 years old. My first sponsor gave me an exercise. She told me to buy some high wattage light bulbs and stare at my reflection in the mirror and say, “I love you, Sevasti.”
I thought the exercise was retarded, but I did it anyway because I knew I could not drink again and she was my sponsor. So I exchanged the dim bathroom lights for bright ones, flicked on the lights and stared at myself in the mirror. Not only was the mirror in dire need of some heavy-duty cleaning, but the face that stared back at me was not me.
There was no way in HELL that was me!…Oh, my God. It was me. Instead of “I love you,” I said, “Oh, my God. I look like Abraham Lincoln.”
The wrinkles were intense. And there were some heavy duty bags under my eyes, plus I had all these tiny little creases around my mouth and my lips looked cracked, like I had just walked through the Sahara desert for an hour in the blistering heat.
And what happened to my nose? There was a faint little red mark on it, a scar I had gotten years ago from a nasty little Chihuahua, whom I tried to hug when I was drunk. I still had that goddamn scar! I burst into tears.
Besides shedding light on my face, sobriety cast another stark reality that I had not wanted to face: I was a baby boomer who hadn’t boomed.
Most boomers, or so I believed, had a solid IRA, perhaps a few stocks here or there or at least a few sound mutual funds. My boomer cousins back in New York all owned seafood diners and went to Greece once a year. I didn’t even have a Walmart prepaid card, let alone a checking account. And when was the last time I was in Greece? Oh yeah, 1989, when my younger sister got married in Piraeus—and, yes, they are still married while my own marriage lasted two-and-a-half years.
Persephone women can be dark and, shall we say, a little morbid. So with my age-resistant blinders now off, I checked out the website for the Neptune Society, “the nation’s most trusted provider of cremation services.” If sobriety gets too depressing, I reasoned, maybe I can go out in style. I downloaded the cremation answer guide. It made my eyes swim.
Apparently, the Neptune Society thinks it’s a great idea to make final arrangements ahead of time “to protect your partner or loved ones from unnecessary stress or confusion.” Really? What loved ones? What partner? I am the one with the goddamn stress and confusion! I am sober, I am 49 and I can’t handle it!
And then I saw something on the website that really boggled my mind. It’s called the Neptune Memorial Reef. Apparently, this reef is modeled after the Lost City of Atlantis and is located east of Key Biscayne, near Miami, Florida.
What was left of Sevasti would be packed away in a starfish-shaped urn and positioned underwater for eternity, swimming with the fish. Literally. According to the Neptune Society, my remains would be “creating life after life.” What the hell does that mean? I would become fish food? Even death will not give me peace!
So I did a little more research on Persephone. Yes, she goes to the underworld, but after her mom, the goddess Demeter, negotiates with Hades, she returns to earth. Sadly, Hades had tricked Persephone into eating pomegranate seeds and she eats six of them. That means she will spend six months in Hades, and then six months on earth. So she gets to die and live every year.
That’s powerful stuff. Why is it powerful? Because her dark past actually makes her really appreciate life. Plus, thanks to her personal experience of being in the underworld, she can help others who are prone to depression because, let’s face it, depression is hell.
So after some healing and doing the steps and dealing with my depression, I started thinking, “Okay, so I have issues with age, but the truth is I am an older woman and, really, what is wrong with that?”
This boomer just turned 53 and I feel more alive than I have in years. It’s kind of ironic how a goddess who hates getting old made me appreciate my life and feel like anything was possible.
Besides, there’s always plastic surgery.
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