So often we don't understand the impact or significance of a person who touches our life until their candle is snuffed out. My response to the death of Carrie Fisher was a visceral punch to the gut and I couldn't quite get a handle on it. I knew I was not a "Star Wars" fanatic, although I had seen all of them. My son Dan even got to meet Carrie and perform with her in the 2009 film "Fanboys" where she played a featured cameo as a wink to the audience. Dan was unabashedly awestruck. I was aware of her iconic cult status as Princess Leia but I was not mourning the character's departure since Leia would live on in celluloid eternity in a time honored galaxy.

No- I was mourning the unfiltered Carrie: The child of Hollywood royalty who took no prisoners in exposing the messy truth of a life that turned topsy-turvy and derailed with her parents' scandalous divorce when Carrie was two. Her life never quite got back on track on the normal train. Instead, of manufacturing the glitz and glamour fantasty so many of her ilk adopt, Carrie almost created an industry out of "Being Crazy in The Most Entertaining Way." She lived a life of no boundaries with overindulgence in addictive prescriptive painkillers. This substance abuse created a momentary euphoria which helped balance the turbulence of being bi-polar. She had dysfunctional romantic relationships,and life long challenges with parental interaction. Rather than glossing over any of this or making apologies for how she led her life, Carrie spoke about it, wrote about it ,and took her autobiographical one woman show "Wishful Drinking," on the road. To highlight the absurdity that was her existence, Carrie even provided charts so the audience could better visualize and embrace her familial insanity. 

I sat in the audience and laughed and cried because I secretly identified with some of her revelations. I remember even turning to my husband when Carrie referenced her mother's narcissism and self-absorption and said, "Who does that remind you of?" I so admired her unflinching honesty. Her half-sister Joely Fisher revealed that, "Carrie's ability to expose all her flaws made others feel better about their own imperfections" (Hollywood Reporter,1/2/2017) Truth be told, I gravitate toward and have great affection for women who are uber-authentic and don't attempt to create a false narrative. Yet, I recognize that I am not as transparent. Carrie Fisher's untimely death made me want to explore my own relationship to what I share and why and what my fear is into shifting into full exposure mode.

I travelled back to my childhood to sort out early messages that may have framed how revelatory I am as an adult. What comes to mind is moving into our new neighborhood when I was six and about to attend a different school. I remember my mother instructing me that I should never ask people what they did since it was too intrusive and rude. What she really reinforced was that I should never share what my dad did. He was a rabbi and a psychologist. Even at my young age, I sensed it was the rabbinical part that created the real problem. What was a moment of dissonance that was so pivotal was a night my parents came to my spring  concert at our elementary school. I was standing near our principal and a teacher. When my dad walked into the auditorium, I overheard the principal say to the teacher, "Dr. Adler just walked in. We need to get him on a board or as a guest speaker. He would be wonderful." I remember in that moment feeling  surprisingly proud of my father but confused. It took a few years to make sense of this secrecy to which I was sworn. My dad's calling was nothing  to be ashamed of. It was my mother's discomfort with it. She was the anthesis of the rebetzin; the rabbi's wife and did not want to be scrutinized  or judged for the way she conducted herself. She made my father give up his congregation because she did not  want to deal with a sisterhood whose expectations for her were at odds with her own.  We had to keep this aspect of our family on the down low.

Another family secret was that my maternal grandparents who had both immigrated from Russia, were cousins. My maternal grandmother had been madly in love but when that relationship failed, she married her cousin on the rebound. Apparently, it was not kosher for cousins to marry. My grandmother died before I came on the scene. My grandfather was remarried and he died before I was five. To me, this was remote trvia but apparently also something I should not share. It was only when I was on faculty that a colleague mentioned that his grandparents were cousins and considered it the coolest thing. I learned in that generation, it was not an uncommon practice but also marvelled at how open he was about their relationship when I was sworn to secrecy.

Interestingly, my mother would share little windows into her younger self that she considered mistakes. Her purpose was to prevent her daughters from the same errors of judgment. Rather than welcoming her candor and openness, I was always uncomfortable by these bombshells.I vowed I would be a parent to my children and not burden them with cringeworthy confessions from my youth.  My mother continued that routine after she was widowed. At 52 , she was now involved what she characterized as a "raptuous romance," and wanted her daughters to know all the details. To this day, I wish I could unsee and unhear what she shared.

We lived in a household where we were told if you had nothing nice to say about someone, don't say anything. My parents never gossiped. Although my mother loved reading about the lifestyles of her favorite movie stars and their romances, they were not sordid tales or of the tabloid nature reported today. I was infact, shocked when I would go to a close friend's home, and hear her parents' routine scathing commentary on family, friends and famous figures. While it was often funny; it was always mean-spirited.

I think what really shaped what I share was the night I overheard my mother telling my dad that one of our neighbors was getting a divorce. The next day I confided that information to another friend on the block. Apparently, it got back to my mother and the woman whose marriage was about to dissolve. Both adults confronted me and told me what I did was inappropriate. I was reprimanded. I remember being humiliated and feeling that I had really violated some code of etiquette, I didn't quite grasp. I think that episode taught me that when you are in possession of information that is personal and confidential, you should not share it. It is not my story to tell and do this day I really do honor confidences.  Even when considering whether I should share something primarily about myself, I go through the internal checklist.  "Who else might be hurt if I share this? Would someone else be embarrassed or put into an uncomfortable position if I made the information more public?" It really is a guiding principle. Ironically people must sense I am circumpsect and  can be trusted because so many people both close to me and virtual strangers reveal such intimate and painful aspects of their lives to me. I do struggle with if it is appropriate to share these confidences with my husband and so ask for permission .

We live in the present landscape of Reality TV which is a misnomer since it is part of the scripted television division. In this universe, there is no such animal as TMI or Oversharing. To heighten the drama there may be kernels of real life, but everything is intensified, exaggerated with the volume turned up. Scandals, clandestine relationships, betrayals, bankrupcies, underage pregnancies, alcoholism, sex addiction, and closeted sexuality can occur in just the teaser for the upcoming episode. Teenagers have instagram accounts where they proudly post compromising nude photos. Everyone is sexting. It would appear that discretion is dead and nunace and subtlety are archaic notions.  None of this is really spontaneous or organic. Situations are set up. Through editing and the skewed lens, reality tv is anything but...The more  bizarre the better..

What distinguished Carrie Fisher is that her life as she lived it was not contrived or scripted by a franchise.. Although, she recognized and capitalized on it's fertile material for book and film. There was no topic that was off limits and she was unpredictable in her  responses. She said things that many people thought. She could articulate your fears and shed light on issues you were struggling with. She became a voice for women of a certain age.. And she was always a straight shooter and the person she spared least was Carrie.

This journey to revisit early messages and experiences that have shaped the way I present myself to the world confirms my Inner-Carrie has been muzzled.  Is this resistance to overshare fear of being vulnerable or judged like my mother was? Am I silenced by the echoes of her disapproving voice? Do I believe I am betraying others because my story does not exist in isolation.  I also am acutely aware that my truth and recollection of events may be a very different  version from others who are part of the fabric of my narrative. Factored in is that I am very reflective and do not seek the limelight that becoming "the outrageous, let it all hang out,shameless, nothing is sacred" kind of woman- attracts..

I am left with the words of my father who explained why he fell in love with my mother...."She was everything I was not,"----and  that perhaps explains my fascination with Carrie Fisher.

As the photo indicates---as per Carrie's wishes , her ashes were contained  in an urn that was a facsimile of a giant prozac capsule which had helped her attain temporary euphoria...Even in death Carrie was on the no apology tour.