My Neuro Psychologist says that the majority of brain injury patients fall into depression – after their therapists have given them the go-ahead to return to “normal” life, that they are now free to live their lives without having their weeks plotted out for them and mailed to them on a rotation anymore. Instead of being happy, they are deeply depressed.
“And why’s that?” I recall asking.
Being a shrink, he gave the question back to me: “Why do you think that is?” Because, you know, my answer is more relevant than his facts. How I see it, what I think of it, lends insight into how I would feel.
I imagined it must be because it was easier for them not to have responsibility for their own lives, which were being dictated for them on a daily basis. Now they were on their own, they would fail or succeed by their own merits. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be done myself, maybe after two years I was dependent on them after all.
But today was my last “Family” Meeting at the brain rehabilitation center, and I can tell you right now how I’m going to be feeling in the coming weeks:

A.) Relieved to have my own life back.
B.) Disappointed that for some reason I have been thinking for the past couple of years that when the therapists moved out my life could pick up again right where I left off. No one promised me that, but I’m pretty sure they did promise more than what I’ve got.
C.) Wishing things could have happened differently. Wanting to bargain with somebody somewhere in the past – What if I had been more aggressive about getting the level of therapy I really needed? What if they had gotten me into Occupational Therapy sooner? What if I’d had some kind of case manager who could have helped me to get those things done?
D.) Angry because there are things that I’m always going to struggle with. Angry because I want to be like everyone else and skip the naps and burn the candle at both ends and push my way up to the top of the heap.
E.) Guilty for not being grateful enough for all the things I have, for remembering with every breath that I am alive, and that is all that matters.
F.) Wanting really badly to just forget that the whole thing ever happened, to pretend that I’ve always been here and always been this way, and I’m okay with that, I’m doing fine, I don’t want for anything. The bills are being paid and there is food in the house, I have my bus transportation and my friends here – I don’t need anything more.
G.) Daring to hope. Always at the end of everything bad, down at the bottom of a great big pile of bad, always I’m looking for the hope therein. I think of what a beautiful world this is, what wonderful kids I have, how much I love my family, how much I love Dennis, my friends. How I still have a lot to say in life. I’m not teaching in a classroom, but there’s something shining inside that I have got to share with others, and I can still do that in writing, in painting – in how I love others.

My sister wasn’t able to be at the meeting this time around, but she sent an email that pretty much summed things up: “…My understanding is that this will be the last family meeting at that you are all done treating Heather. Please let me know if Heather's interpretation of the situation is incorrect. I wanted to thank you and your staff for all the hard work you've put into Heather's rehabilitation. It's been a long and interesting process and I've been happy to help as soon as I realized how involved I needed to be. It's been very educational. I also just wanted to make sure that I understand where Heather is and what will be needed for her from here out. There are a lot of skills and steps that Heather has progressed with through the combined efforts of [you, and Heather’s] Tuesday group. Obviously this list isn't exhaustive, but off of the top of my head: · Speech and conversational skills · Information Processing · Memory and scheduling compensational skills · Physical exhaustion management · Surviving relatively independently · Initiating an application for social security · Transportation · Neural fatigue management · Accepting changes to her quality of life (ongoing)
“Obviously Heather could not recover to her full capacity from before the accident, so things that she will continue to struggle with and hopefully improve on include: · Neural fatigue (which leads to greater problems managing even skills that she is typically doing well with) · Information Processing · Problem solving · Sleep hygiene · Medication management · Scheduling and memory compensation · Budgeting · Driving skills
“Things that she is currently unable to do include: · Drive at all other than the 15 minutes from her home to work · Complete more than roughly 4 hours of work a day · Manage a day successfully without a nap in the middle of the day · Complete her masters degree in education · Work in a classroom · Work in a fast-paced position · Work without compensation for her disability
“Questions that I still have include: · Will you provide a therapy wrap up/release statement that details her capabilities? o Heather's understanding was that she could contact your offices whenever she needed a statement for Social Security, housing, food stamp, and other considerations. Is that accurate? What kind of turn around can she expect when she needs something like that? · What happens if she moves, or changes jobs? o Will she need further driving instruction? o Will she need further vocational therapy? o Where can she get further therapy if she moves away from Lansing? o Could she get a referral? I might have more questions that I haven't thought of yet. but this is basically what I would have brought to a family meeting were I able to attend. Once again with sincere thanks...”

Judging by what I understood from the meeting, Thea wasn’t wrong in her assessment of my situation. Origami is signing off. The Vocational Therapist will touch base with me a couple of times within the next couple of months to help with the transition between my old boss and my new boss (There’s actually kind of like a whole committee of bosses, who fortunately are going to be sticking around to help as well). I am by all reports doing well in the quiet, organized atmosphere with the routine schedule (Unless I’m overtired, which is when all bets are off regardless of what I’m doing).

“Heather, we have discussed that you might be able to work a couple of extra hours if you were to have a more repetitive job, but you have expressed concern that you might not be challenged enough by such a job and, frankly, I would have a really hard time with a job like that myself. If you were to change jobs at some point in the future, know that I’m always here for you if you need me. Meanwhile, I’m happy to see that you have finally been contacted by the social security administration regarding your claim, as you will need to be compensated for the work that you are no longer able to do. Although they do usually turn everyone down initially, I think you have a good case with them, given the extremely debilitating effects that neuro fatigue still has on you after two years of recovery.”
The Occupational Therapist then listed things that she feels I am doing well. Since January (when we had our last meeting) and now, I have transitioned into independent housing and am caring for my children relatively well. “And we have a new system in which Heather is keeping her weekly grocery money in envelopes so that she can keep track of her spending and also use the checking account solely for bill paying purposes. So, Heather, how’s that going so far?”

“Um… I lost the envelopes.”
“…and we implemented a new pill reminder system so that she will stop forgetting to take her pills…”
“It’s kind of working – I only missed them twice last week…”
“Well, ANYway, Heather is probably always going to struggle with budgeting, sequencing, organizing, problem-solving when there are sudden changes in her plans or schedule. Rest breaks and time management are always going to be the key to her success in any endeavor. I estimate that we should be done within the next two weeks.”

Why am I so organized at work and not at home? Because I get the great privilege of working first thing in the morning, when my brain is working to its fullest capacity. Also, work has a built-in schedule, tasks that are the same from week to week, and people who worry that things won’t get done, or notice when things don’t get done, and are sure to remind me. In other words, I have the same level of supervision as I did when I lived with Thea and Paul. More. And the bonus is that I actually get paid for doing this stuff, which surprisingly I really enjoy doing. I think it’s because I love people and helping people out, and there are enough creative things to do to keep that side of me satisfied as well.
But I sat at the meeting and marveled at how I could have been just a few classes short of a master’s degree in teaching just a couple of years ago, working full time and considering a job teaching online -- and now I’m weighing the pros and cons of a part time office job over an assembly line job at a factory. With no one but myself foreseeing my ability to do much more in the future.
The medical doctor from the rehab who has been prescribing my treatment told me at the meeting that they are all very proud of how far I’ve progressed, that they would write up a summary of what I have done and what their recommendations will be for my future. She explained that sadly they had not gotten a report back from the driving inspector regarding my future at the wheel yet, but that in the meantime my family should be compensated for helping me go back and forth to pick up Stuart and Lucy for the weekends, and in the future the auto insurance company is still obligated to cover any travel I need to brain-related medical appointments or therapies. The brain rehab will contact me via email when they get further information regarding the driving issue. If I have any further brain-related problems in the future, they are, of course, always there for me... I just have to get a referral from a medical doctor before approaching them.
Now that they are closing shop, it's probably too late for my Neuro Psychologist’s Office to get further therapy for me. He had said that I needed it, and had told me several times that he had sent the recommendation to the new doctor and therapy program he wanted for me (that he felt would be better than what I actually got), but even with his referral and several phone calls on my part, nothing ever came of that in time to be of any use to me. I mean, what are the chances that the auto company, after finding out they are all done paying for my brain treatment, are going to welcome more payments toward an all new therapy program for me? Certainly not after getting the report from the brain rehabilitation folks stating that my therapy is finished and that I am doing the best that I can do now.
That’s it.
It is kind of depressing, isn't it?
I'm not sure anymore if ANY therapy was really ever going to end with any kind of peace or sense of closure -- Maybe I could have gotten OT sooner and would be further along (the neuro psychologist thought so), but regardless I'm still stuck unable to do the things that I used to do, or to live the life I planned and spent thousands in college to achieve. There's no way this was ever going to be a happy conclusion... Except that I do love my current job, still get to paint and to write, and if I can master my fatigue and time management, I now have more time to do those things.

Maybe it was the only way that was ever going to happen, and maybe that's what I can look at as the reason behind it all. I am not one of those people who really believes that everything happens for a reason -- sometimes bad things happen, and they are random, and they will never make any sense. The “reason” isn’t the important thing, but my reaction is. Writing and painting have been my calling since a very young age, and somehow, despite all the distractions and sincere efforts to do other things that seemed more practical at the time, these are what I have left in me that I can still do without any doubt or question.
It’s all still up to me, and always has been.
That’s not depressing at all.

The Two Year Mark

I want a t-shirt that says this.

Disturbing Day Yesterday, no doubt about it. First I talked to the car insurance company's claims adjuster, and that conversation was alarming. We discussed how my recovery is going, and I explained that I'm almost done with Vocational Therapy, waiting to get the results of my driver's test, and still struggling with some of the symptoms. (Is it a symptom anymore when it's been two years?)

He asked if the brain injury rehab center  and Doctor Cook had gotten copies of my independent evaluation yet or not because, from his standpoint, they must all agree with it. All he has on file is what Dr Fabiano gave him and, according to Dr Fabiano, I should have been working full time within two months of the date the insurance company received the results of his IME, which TECHNICALLY is in two weeks!
He said he would send a copy of Dr Fabiano's report to Dr Cook for me, and that I should bring a copy to my family meeting for Origami, and that they all have just this one month from receiving these copies of the IME to send their rebuttals.
I happen to know that Dr Cook, at least, has been working hard on mine, but what I think I correctly read between the lines was that the adjuster is actually WORKING WITH me on this a little in that he's provided them an extra cushion of time in which to present him with some evidence to support their diagnosis of me as opposed to Dr Fabiano's.
I don't think he Had to do that.
So I went in to the tri-monthly family meeting at the brain rehab feeling angry with themi and ready to give them a piece of my mind, because Two Months ago my two remaining therapists told me that they had put in a strongly - worded report to the insurance company detailing what treatment I still needed and providing evidence as to why that is. Then after I handed them a copy of my IME, I found out that their report was never sent because Michael, Care Coordinator, had talked it over with their resident doctor and decided that if they sent that report to the insurance company asking for an expensive transition into independence, they might just get my case cancelled completely.
But talking with the adjuster made me mad, because I had told them that it was MY treatment and MY life, and all I wanted was for them to TRY. The worse that could happen is that my insurance would be canceled, and I would have to try to do their jobs for them (which sometimes I feel like I'm doing already) at home for myself. 

When I got to the family meeting and started to tell them what the adjuster told me, their response was, "DID we get your IME? The insurance company  is supposed to send us your IME. This is good, though, because now we can just SAY we only just got it from you today, and then we will still have a month to send our rebuttal." (Finally!) 

When I reminded them that I already gave them those test results two months ago, they didn't deny it. They were far too eager to throw Drew, Doc "Fab," and Dr Cook under the bus over getting things done in a timely fashion. It's frustrating. Thea has reached the conclusion that they're giving me the short end of the stick because I don't have good insurance, but I don't believe that. I think what's happening here is that they don't often get cases like mine and really aren't prepared to handle it. They'll make suggestions and recommendations, but then they keep ending up pulling the rug out from under me when they find out I don't "quite" fit the established criteria for a certain program. For example, they suggested moving me into occupational therapy housing- based independent living arrangement that is a test environment where the Occupational Therapist would monitor me for a year or so to make sure none of my particular issues would hinder my progress. They all agreed I needed it and were supposed to send that report -- And then they found out that the program prioritizes families over individuals when deciding who gets in -- And they chickened out.

Huh. I just remembered that my friend Sam whom I met through the brain rehab was recently moved to the assisted housing -- She lives alone and has no children at all...

That said, here's the brain rehab's current plan:
With Kathie the Vocational Therapist  this week, I'm going to continue following up with the Social Security Office. She doesn't think I can ever work full time again, so something has to be done to pay my bills. The plan was never to live with my sister forever.
One option she mentioned would be to work at the church in the morning, go home for a nap, and then work a second job tutoring or something to supplement my income -- But she wanted to be clear in saying that this is more of a future aspiration for me, as she doesn't think I could do more hours right now, and I can agree because I keep trying to work longer hours just to push myself a little, and the doctor keeps reprimanding me for pushing. Neuro fatigue can NOT be "Pushed" through.
According to what Kathie is putting in her report, if I continue with the job I'm doing right now, I will be done with Vocational Therapy within the next month, because I'm doing great.
If the insurance company insists on transitioning me to full time work as Dr Fabiano suggests, THEN we're looking at another 12 months, and  with almost certain knowledge that I won't be capable of doing it.
Transitioning into Independent Living, the maximum amount of time I would need for continuing OT at the assistant living apartments would take another 12 months, but they've since determined that families are prioritized over individuals, so I won't be able to get in there (not "MIGHT," as it should be). I'm wondering why they ever brought it up in the first place.
Thea thinks they must spend about 75% of their staff meetings training in ways to manipulate clients into choosing the safest path for them as opposed to the best path for the client.
I think they just worry a LOT about getting paid by the insurance company or not, and legitimately struggle between what they think is Right, and what they think is the most cautious approach.
If I get approved for housing through the Housing Commission, they're thinking they could withdraw services in more like only 6 months, because honestly it's more affordable and I could make it on my own once they've gotten me settled in and helped me work out what

my challenges are and have provided coping skills for them.
Meantime, Jessica the Occupational therapist says she'll revisit do-it-myself home therapy exercises for my fine motor coordination because my coordination still isn't up to par, and she's holding off on everything else waiting to get me out of my sister's basement so she can get an accurate measurement of my progress.
She and Thea got off on a tangent about how I get locked into a task or plan and struggle with being flexible. For example: It's pouring rain when I get off work. My sister can't take me home, so I decide to just get some work done until either she CAN, or until I come up with a plan B. I get so engrossed in what I'm working on that it's four o'clock before I even realize it. Jessica is hoping to help me develop the coping skills I need to overcome my mental inflexibility. She was vague as to HOW, but when I see her in my appointment this week, I'll be sure to bring it up. Dr Cook suggested setting a timer for each task, though, and I'm going to experiment with his approach.
While waiting for the Housing Commission's response (which by their word should be next week at the latest), Jessica is going to look into other potential housing with me because she spoke to their transitional housing staff person and discovered that from Eaton County I could take the bus into Wacousta and even Lansing if I needed to, because either they're not as restrictive as Clinton County's public transportation, or they have special rules for a "disability." (Whatever. I don't have to use that word. I can look at it as having some challenges to overcome.)
Michael, Care Coordinator, emailed the TBI Driving Specialist, asking once again for the results of my evaluation. If he hadn't done it right in front of me, I would have gotten snarky and asked him if he really sent it, or was just talking about sending it.
Michael doesn't foresee having more than one final wrap-up meeting with me and my family once Kathie signs off on me, because they don't coordinate those meetings for single-therapy clients who have been declared independent. This makes me really happy, because it's been almost two years now, and I'm getting really tired of feeling as if my fate is completely controlled by therapists and the auto insurance company instead of, oh, I don't know -- Like mySELF and God.
I feel I'm ready for this.
Tonight I talked to Dr Cook and made sure he's aware of the time-line I'm facing in case he could get those test results rolling in any more quickly.
He agreed that the auto insurance adjuster is offering us more time because he would like information with which to help me. If that's the case, I understand it's gotten to be a huge exception to the average claims adjuster.
Dr Cook isn't one to brag, but I'm always happy to do it for him: The first Independent Evaluation I had with Dr Fabiano went about the same as this one, with him twisting my words to fit with what he had predestined to be my test results in the five minutes he spoke to me before his assistant administered the tests so that he could go type his version of the results. Not kidding -- They place bets on who's going to finish first. But THEN Dr Cook sailed in with his rebuttal, and he backed up all of his points with extensive testing data. And from that day, insurance adjuster seems to have realized that I don't fit the mold. (Thea joked to the Origami Team that Dr Cook convinced the man that he was, after all, only a mere claims adjuster, which made them laugh.)
Dr Cook says that Dr Fabiano is attempting to convince the insurance company that I'm not brain injured at all, but rather that I have always been this way, and he said plenty to both Origami AND the Insurance company about what he means by "this" way: He claims that his abbreviated version of the psychological part of testing revealed that I have a dependent personality that is so bad that I would become dependent on any further assistance that the insurance company would allow, even stooping to the point of convincing myself that I'm too brain damaged to do anything for myself.
"Wow," I said. "That's convenient. Now when I tell the insurance company that I don't agree with Dr Fabiano's report because there really are still symptoms that I struggle with daily, he can claim that my protest just proves his point!"
Dr Cook smiled encouragingly at me. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, "Sounds to me, Heather, like you're not the one with the psychosis here."
It feels good to laugh.
"Don't worry about Dr Fabiano," He said. "You focus on healing and using that uniquely designed brain of yours to improve your life just like you're doing right now, and let me send the claims adjuster my rebuttal. As you know, I do the FULL 500 Question psychological report, and what Dr Fabiano claims is pure fiction. There is no sign of any such diagnosis. A woman who fakes illness to get 'taken car of' doesn't insist on choosing the hard job over the assembly line, never leaves her ex husband or go to college, doesn't strive tirelessly to become a full-time teacher for so many years, doesn't have a 3.8 GPA, and doesn't work so hard at therapy, push the limits of what everyone tells her is possible, or aspire to live independently even when she has a loving family who has made it clear to her that she can live with them for as long as she needs to, even if that means for the rest of her life. 

"And your tests will speak for themselves. They will explain once again how you can be such an excellent speaker, beautiful writer, and in general just the charming, witty person that you are and, yes, STILL have a BRAIN INJURY. You called it Swiss Cheese Brain once [I totally stole that term from Quantum Leap]. Well, that's an apt description -- you do. There are parts of your brain that no longer work as they used to. Because it's a diffuse injury, you can be really clever in one area, and still terrible at something very close to it. We're taking about multiple fissures too small and complex for the naked eye to perceive. Add to that the medium to severe damage in that area behind your left ear, and what do we get?"
Me: "Swiss cheese?"
"A woman who could write a better rebuttal than any of the very experienced and professional staff of therapists at the brain rehabilitation center, but who can't make a logical argument when confronted point-blank in person, and doesn't understand the nuances everything that what was said until writing it down later, or discussing it with a sounding board. A woman who can glance at a puzzle and tell me what it is without putting it together,  but who would take weeks or even months to physically sit down and put the pieces together. A woman who can paint a masterpiece in vivid fine detail, but will miss important details when baking a cake from a recipe if there's too much noise in the background. A woman who can write for hours at a time and not hear a thing going on around her, but can't focus on a conversation for more than 15 minutes. People who simply do not understand brain injury are always going to try to tell you that you're faking it or that you're exaggerating, and they will use your symptoms against you to "prove" it -- 'You can spend five hours painting, but you can barely work five hours? You can read and completely tune people out, but a little noise is supposed to mess you up when you're reading a recipe? If you have a brain injury, then how can you go to work, how come you can write like that? Why are you taking naps every day? You're just being lazy.'"

Randy spoke up: "You really gotta learn not to give a shit what people think. You're fine. You're fiiiine! And funny, too!"

"Thanks, Randy --  Dr Cook, you do realize, right, that saying I have like nano fissures in my brain that nobody can see sounds AWFULLY convenient too, don't you?" 

"It may SOUND that way, but your tests SHOW the way. I'll send my rebuttal bullet - pointing your results and how they compare to Dr Fabiano's, and then the test results themselves with a detailed explanation of your neurofatigue and how it affects your capabilities."

Knowledge is Power! Right, guys?!

Paul's response to the Brain Rehab's Family Meeting was, "You're being awfully nice, considering this is your LIFE they're messing with!"

The problem is, once I'm there hearing out their side of the story in person, with their smiling

faces, I fully buy into it. I would need an advocate who could trouble -shoot problems and follow up more aggressively than I seem able to do. PAUL would actually be GOOD at this, if he could make the time. I try really hard to advocate for myself, but I can't be direct about a problem that I'm just not seeing at the time. I have to have time to think about what was said. It's something we were all talking about in TBI Group tonight, how having a brain injury can mean delayed processing. In a detailed conversation with a lot going on under the surface,  I might not always get what you mean at first but, given a few moments afterward, it all comes to me, along with all the nuances I need to read between the lines. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people with TBI describe this very thing. They have a complex conversation with a therapist, doctor, lawyer, or claims adjuster. They don't get mad about what was said until after they've left the office and gotten back into their car. In that moment of quiet, reflection hits with a vengeance. 

The two positive outcomes I get out of all of these discussions about therapy are that, A.) It appears I'm reaching the finish line, and B.) When I get the results of all these things I've got up in the air, then I will finally know for sure what I've got to work with and be able to plan ahead. Granted these two things, I think I can make peace with myself. 

It occurred to me a few nights ago that I'm coming upon the two year mark since my accident -- It just hit me all at once: Although I don't believe in limiting myself within a numerical standard, statistically, after two years, the drastic, most significant improvements in brain functioning have already taken place. From here on out, I can go ahead and expect miracles as I prefer, but to the average observer I will never make as much progress again as I have up to this point. So says the average results, and the hypothetical deadline is in only two months (By which time, for Dr Fabiano's money, I should be working full time again)

Then my freak - out session commences:  But -- Wait! HOLD ON just a MINUTE  here !-- NEVER?! BUT -- but -- I can still only work between four and five hours a day before I'm too tired to think productively anymore! I can't read all the time because my eyes get bloodshot and my head starts feeling squeezed. I still develop headaches and pressure in my skull on a daily basis, I still get clumsy when I'm tired, I still struggle with world-finding issues if overtired, I still have to take a nap every afternoon just to be able to FUNCTION for the rest of the evening, I feel sick and dizzy when I over - do it, I still get overwhelmed in crowds, still get confused if there's too much going on at once, have to be SUPER organized and work from a list, need extra time to get complex jobs done without making mistakes or leaving things out, can't do simple math in my head, can't drive a car with any background noise or in heavy traffic or at night, and I'm still living in my sister's basement. 

THIS CAN'T BE IT!!! 

THIS would mean that the brain rehab is RIGHT when they keep shaking their heads at me and patiently explaining to me that I have a "disability" now, that I can't push my way through things anymore and expect good results -- That I can't work full time anymore unless I want to focus all my attention and all my strength solely on a job, leaving me no energy or intellect with which to even raise my children properly, or do anything else in the shadow of the kind of down time I would require to recover from one simple eight hour shift. I can't teach in a classroom with thirty kids to manage without suffering extreme neuro fatigue, never be able to drive the 2 1/2 hours alone to pick up my kids for weekends unless I plan on taking a nap every couple of hours...
Never?
Of course not!"
But all this blasts my brain and batters my emotions like a gale, like rain pounding against my skull in a thousand simultaneous water tortures, one fearful, negative thought per drop, administered by the thousands at lightening speed --

And then Dennis, who normally tends to be a half-empty sort of a guy most of the time, completely surprises me, takes my hand and simply looks at me until I'm forced to meet his gaze (I have to be looking at you to listen. You must always get my full attention before you start to tell me anything, because I will NOT HEAR you if I'm reading or completing any given task while you're talking. I need to focus only on you, and I will always need to take notes if it is anything that I have to remember). 

Dennis looks me in the eyes, gives my hand a firm squeeze, and he says, "Heather, there isn't anything wrong with being exactly who and how you are RIGHT NOW. Lots of people love you. You are one of the smartest people I know. You are talented, witty, and kind. You are stronger and braver than anyone else I know, and you've got empathy and compassion enough for every single person that you meet, even when most people wouldn't  think that they deserve it, even if it means having to humble yourself a little to do it. You don't work long, but you work hard. You don't think fast, but you think deep, right? You can't work long hours, but you're doing a GREAT job with the time that you've got.
You never thought you'd be able to enjoy reading again, but you do. They didn't think you could do the call center job, but you did. They keep saying you can't do the job you're doing, but you are. And you're not just doing it; you're doing it WELL. And that goes for all sorts of things, more things than you obviously can appreciate.
If you stay just exactly the way you are right in this moment for the rest of your life,  I won't love you even a little bit less than I do right now."

Pause.

Me: "I still MIGHT get better, right?"

"You are absolutely, 100% perfect just the way you are."

"Smart answer."

"The truth? Of course it is."

I may not know for sure what's going to happen with my therapy, my brain or my life, but one thing seems clear: 

This guy's a keeper. 

He just has to wait until I have successfully transitioned back into an independent lifestyle, have finished painting my series and finished becoming the greatest Office Administrator I can possibly be. I'm going to cut him some slack so far as finishing my novel goes, seeing as how I have been writing it on and off for well over twenty years. Some things I can save until later, and the best for last. 

I think that phrase means simply that being last is actually what makes a thing special in the first place, makes it the best.

That's cool, because I was forty before I met Dennis, and unless it's a job or an appointment,  I'm very nearly always late. 

Painting Happiness

Tonight's the revolution.
Tonight I shrug off the blues and get to work painting the last two little "gift" paintings that I'm doing for my support group so that I can move on to the other work.
I'm going to pick up my brush and spread thankfulness and love instead of mere paint.
I'm going to daub on chunks of happiness and drip some joy.
As I said last night, happiness is a choice.
And I'm choosing it.
I'm still alone, but I'm going to fight back against the sadness.
I'm going to create my own happiness.
I'm going to nurture my own sense of peace and goodwill.
I'm slinging these words around like spackling, and if I keep it up the meaning of it will be lost.
Sometimes you can ruin a beautiful piece of art just by fiddling around a little too long, trying to polish it up for others to see.
It's better to keep it raw, keep it real, to present it as an unblemished representation of what you've got inside you.
One of the most wonderful things about artwork is that you can say some really hard things, instantly and urgently, without opening your mouth at all.
And one of the even more wonderful things about artwork is that another human being has only to take a glance and have an instant reaction.
One of the mysteries of artwork is how it means one thing to me when I paint it, but when I pass it along to someone else it can take on an entirely different meaning.

When I painted Joy, the woman I gave it to saw the love of her sister-in-law speaking to her from beyond the grave.
Even more mysterious is the way that my artwork creates a bridge between me and other people, a silent but strong understanding between us of something either tragic or beautiful that draws them into the painting in such a way that they can both interpret it using their own experience and also understand my experience.
A connection.
Contact.
And a new bond is formed.
It was Gandhi who said, "Find yourself in the service of others," and his words repeatedly prove themselves to be true in my life.
It's especially powerful when I paint something specific for a person I've gotten to know quite well, such as any member of the support group.
One woman has had a very hard life and struggles daily against a disease that she knows is going to win out in the end.
We have absolutely nothing in common. In an ordinary setting, I might have no reason to address this woman -- Actually not much chance of ever having met her at all. My life takes me places far from her world. But over time, as I hear her story, I feel a powerful empathy with her capacity to love people who can never love her back.
So when I paint something for her, a simple something just as a keepsake, I make certain that it will tell her what is good about her and about her life. I will tell her with my painting that she is beautiful, that what I see inside her is stronger and more compassionate than what she sees herself. I give her the painting, and with it my friendship. It's a gift to me as much as it is to her. It changes both our lives.

I know from the group a young father who struggles with alcoholism. He doesn't have custody of his son and doesn't see him regularly, but he loves that child with a fierce determination that I know there is no power strong enough to keep him from being there for that child... except his own weakness. He bolters himself up with anger and despair.
I know those feelings. I know the anger of having my children taken from me, the grief of shuttling them back and forth and trying not to hurt or confuse them by my determination not to get myself entangled with their father, or anyone else like him, ever again.
I know the kind of people I want my children to be when they grow up, and I know that it's my responsibility to finish college, get a good job, follow my dreams, and find a proper life partner, because this is the only way they're ever going to know how to do it.
I don't judge him for his addiction. The things that have happened to me in my lifetime have stripped me of many of my self-righteous judgements from the past. I understand now that we all have our demons, we all have bits and pieces of our pasts dogging us incessantly. We all struggle in that space between where we are and where we want to be -- of who we are and who we want our loved ones to think we are.
I ran up to him after the group last week and pressed the painting into his hands, breathlessly explaining that I made it for him and I hoped that he'd take it in the spirit it was intended and not feel that I was judging him, because I was so not judging him -- and I think on his face I saw something for a moment that wasn't angry, just lonely and afraid. He was touched, and he thanked me.
I told him that simply by caring so strongly for that little boy, he is a good parent. He cares. That's a whole lot more than a lot of children have. I told him that he's good enough, that he tries hard, and so long as he doesn't quit that will be enough. I'm hoping it will be enough.

One woman from the group has a processing disorder. I think nine or ten months ago I would have had no idea what this was, but now that I've been mildly brain damaged (or severely, if you take into consideration the 47 point drop from the car accident), I know now that it's a condition in which you see and process everything differently than the rest of the world.
In her case, I see that she is almost constantly all keyed up, tensed and harsh in her effort to push the world back a little so as not to become overwhelmed.
But her love of music is her salvation, her peace and her soul, so I painted for her a reminder.
I think her harsh, anxious voice would have once been all it took for me to want to avoid her, but I know now what it is to have the world press at me from all sides to the point that I can't think and I feel far too much. I can relate to having grown up in such an invalidating environment that I'm constantly wired up, waiting for the next attack instead of being myself and minding to my life with no concern for the judgements of others. But I think at one time it was me who did the judging, and it's a little bit as if these paintings are my way of making amends.

This painting on the left was for the woman who seemed every day to fall deeper and deeper into that dark place I could now traverse with my eyes closed.
I saw her flirting with death, lying stranded on the island of her depression thinking that no one would miss her after she was gone. I knew that darkness, and I couldn't stand seeing her sink into it week after week.
I told her one week that I'm beginning to find that the most depressed or otherwise mentally ill people that I meet are nearly always also the most creative and funny people that I know, and in a hollow voice she said, "Yeah. I'm sure they said that about Robin Williams -- 'Oh, you're so funny! I'll bet everyone loves you....'"
I think if I had passed her on the street I would never have known how much she hated herself and how sick she was of living alone and in pain. I would have seen a smiling, laughing person with a great sense of humor and a keen wit, gregarious and seemingly well-loved.
I wouldn't even have known that she needed me.
She wouldn't have known it, either.
In fact, I'd often felt a sort of distance between us, a sense from her of being held at arm's length.
Every week I would come dreading that she might not be there this time, might not be anywhere anymore.
I painted her this picture. I gave it to her and watched as a flood of happiness flashed over her features.
And now she smiles every time she sees me.
We smile at each other because we understand each other now.
She knows that I care and understand.
I've caused her to care and understand me as well.

And now for the woman whom I've known the longest, the sweet, kind, mild-mannered woman with the big heart and the gaping wounds of verbal abuse and invalidation pulling her to her knees. Her label is Bipolar Disorder, but she is not a label -- She is a human being. She is smart and funny and friendly, but she seems to think, as so many women do, that she is stupid and silly and not worth very much at all. She has good days and bad days -- Days she stays in bed, days where she could clean and organize and otherwise fix the entire world.
She is troubled by these boxes of things that she would like to sort and get rid of the bulk of, troubled week after week, for the entire year that I've known her. It sounds like those boxes never get done.
Once I offered to come out and help her, but she looked so horrified at the idea of me seeing how she lived that I changed the subject and never offered again.
She has an irrational fear of homelessness and an ongoing abuse of herself for being too ill to work.
She lives with her aging father, who sounds to me like the most miserably manipulative person I've ever heard of. She has sisters who won't help her but are always quick to judge the job that she's doing, and the fact that she doesn't have an official job that makes her any money. She seems so beaten down by her life, but more and more she comes into our group and displays a tremendous capacity for love, strength, humor and grace.
If only she could free herself of the people who drag her down.
She longs to be free but is frightened to death of it.
And I understand.

The only group member remaining is the one I have had the hardest time understanding. She came to the group with ropey scars marring her wrists, a flat, expressionless voice and a body that seemed to have eaten the real her alive, and was now just masses of flesh.
I couldn't stop looking at those scars. At first she spoke very little, but those scars spoke volumes.
The only other thing I knew right away was that she loved cats with the same passion as I had loved them when I was ten. Cat earrings, cat binder, cat notepaper...
I thought there was nothing the two of us could possibly share. She was desperately afraid of being left alone, and possibly even more afraid of being alone in a crowd. She ate and cut and bought things to stuff down her pain and self-hatred.
I understood that kind of pain.
Hell, if I'd ever had any kind of money I would have bought things to ease my own pain. Sometimes I buy things that I can't afford, and those times are always when I'm feeling lonely and depressed. I feel as if they'll cheer me up, but they never do for long.
In time I learned that she's funny -- Oh, probably the funniest one of all, because her humor is so sarcastic and her punchlines delivered with deadpan accuracy every time. I didn't have to think twice about what to paint for her, but it took me a long time to find the right words to go with it. We're so different in so many ways, and she has always been so careful to choose words that never entirely give her away. I look at those scars, and I don't have to ask what she's hiding.
And all I can do is paint her a picture and hope it eases her pain.
It's all very well that my artwork makes me feel happy as I'm working on it, but ultimately it's more about who I'm painting it for.
On nights like last night, I think I need for someone to notice my pain, someone to make or give something to me so that I know they understand.
But on nights like tonight, I realize again that I notice my pain. My pain is real because I feel it, and not because someone else does or does not understand it. I understand. And I can make and give what I need to myself.
I can paint happiness.
That's such a great gift, and you'd be surprised how often I forget that, how often I devalue myself and tell myself that I have nothing to contribute to this world.
Like they say, we are all facing some kind of battle, and that is why it's so destructive when we judge other people. In so doing, we are also placing a judgement upon ourself.
Only when we strive to understand the experiences of others do we completely understand ourselves. This is because we are nothing if not part of the world that we live in, in connection with the people around us. If we can understand them, if we can make an effort not to judge them, then maybe we could show that same kindness toward ourselves.
Maybe

Stuffing Emptiness

I get this lonely, empty feeling sometimes when it's time to turn in for the night.
I don't want to go to bed when I feel this way.
I tend to scour the web for signs of life and some sense of connection.
On these nights, it always seems as if I've already checked every email, and written every person who could possibly answer back.
Some of the most important people in my life don't answer back on nights like this.
I turn to Facebook and search first my wall and then my newsfeed for signs that there's anyone else in the world feeling as empty as I do, or signs that anyone else cares to know how I really feel at all.
I read one joke after another searching for something to laugh about.
I read one inspiring quote after another, searching for something that will make me feel less alone.
I stuff myself with food and media, filling in the hollows of my soul and the cracks in my mind with as much -- or more -- than they can hold, as if this overflow of information is going to stick to my ribs instead of running out the cracks and leaving me feeling emptier than before.
On these nights, I can hear the clock ticking on the wall.
The ironic thing about this is that probably I could pick up the phone and give someone a call if I wanted to. An actual call is likely to evoke a response.
Or I could paint and all the emptiness would disappear.
But now that I've remembered that, I realize that I have to go to bed.
I'm going to be doing some volunteering in the morning. There will be smiling people and lights and children, and I will be helpful and friendly and brave. I will walk those halls with an answering smile to a question no one is even thinking to ask me -- Are you all right?
My smile says I'm fine, doesn't it?
And I am.

Fine is an apt description.
Fine means that I'm coping.
Fine means that I've got it under control.
Fine means I don't need anyone to help me.
Fine means that I'm observing my life from a distance and don't know how to actually live it.
Fine means that intellectually I am aware that loneliness and emptiness are not permanent states.
Fine means that I will be able to fall asleep so long as I imagine that there's someone there holding me and reassuring me that emptiness and loneliness are not permanent states.
Fine means that reading a blog or "Liking" something on Facebook is contact enough for anyone.
Fine means that even though I want people to care enough to answer my emails, I am aware that the world doesn't end when they don't because I could go out and find new people who do care.
Fine means that I can always shove down my sadness and find something funny to joke about.
Fine means that I can joke about my sadness, even -- make it just one big joke.
Fine means that if I do find someone on Facebook who is hurting, lonely, sad, or discouraged, I will take the time to post something encouraging on their wall the way I wish someone else would do for me.
Fine means that I will continue to struggle with my diet of food and information overload for as long as it takes for me to stop being fine and start choosing to be happy.
Because, damn it, being happy is a choice.
I can make that choice.
Fine means that the reason I don't just pick up the phone and call a friend or family member, or paint that cathartic picture, is because I haven't decided yet if I deserve to be happy at all.
Fine means I'd better get to bed so I can sleep until the morning, for in the morning I will be distracted from the emptiness for a few hours, sometimes days or weeks.
I almost wish I didn't feel fine at all.
I wish that I would feel motivated instead.
I wish that I could learn to love myself.
I wish ...

All these people in the world, and yet so many of us feel so alone.
So much stuff in the world, and yet so many of us feel so empty and needy.
And there is nothing fine about being empty and needy. In fact, it's an unspoken taboo.
To admit that you are not fine, that you are empty and need to be filled with love and acceptance, is like admitting that you've stolen from people or lied to and cheated people. To admit that you are not fine is ugly and scary because it means that maybe no one else is really fine, either.
And so i don't.
Except here.

Because no one reads it anyway.

Good For Anyone

A year ago today I was sitting in the day room with a motley collection of misfits listening to a discussion about relaxation techniques and guided meditation. There was Larry, a man who walked with the aid of a cane and sometimes seemed lost inside his own head, Merte, who kept bemoaning the fact that no one would give her a ride to Vermontville, Sadie offering cigarettes to everyone and hoarsely

warning them they'd get herpes if they kept trying to smoke cigarette butts from the ashtrays out on the patio, Jane who wore the same scrubs every day and played her guitar every night, Greg slinking around in a hospital gown trying to locate and steal sharp objects so he could kill himself, John with the anger management issues, Alan from Africa who wanted to go back to his own country, Lin from China who had been on a wait list for an apartment for over three months now, my room-mate Sarah who'd been admitted by her boyfriend and girlfriend so they could have a break from her, Lisa who lost her little boy and didn't have the will to live anymore, and finally James, a pleasant fellow who seemed to have gotten lost in the city, except that he was trying to convince the nurse that he needed more drugs because they were better for him than all the alcohol he must have drank to appear drunk from it even then, five days into his stay. I could try to say that I didn't belong there with them and that there had been some kind of mistake, but truthfully I felt perfectly natural and safe in their company...except for maybe with Greg, because I wasn't a hundred percent certain that he wouldn't decide to take someone out of this plane of existence along with him if he finally located the elusive sharp object.

I heard the intercom asking for me to appear outside the door to the counseling offices, so I left the group early and stood beside the glassed-in nurse's station waiting for them to unlock the door. In a moment, it clanged loose and the counselor on the other side held it open for me. I was glad to see that it was Tracy and not Laura, because Laura's sympathy seemed forced and strange to me, while Tracy was very empathetic and matter-of-fact. I followed her to her office and waited for her to sit down before sitting across from her myself. Tracy looked the way you might look if you'd been up on third shift all night long and now had to stay at work because your replacement never showed up that day. She looked that way because that is what happened to her, and it wasn't the first time I'd notice it happen. 

"So," she asked, "Are you excited to go home with your sister today?"

I wondered if she was disappointed that I couldn't muster a more enthusiastic response than "Yes."

"I saw your painting on the table in the day room last night," Tracy told me.

I smiled because I'd hoped I could show it to her before Thea came to take me home.

"Tell me about it," she said, "What made you decide to paint a bird, and why does it look like its nest is on fire?"

I quoted Emily Dickinson: "Hope is a thing with feathers. It perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words..." Dickinson would have gone on to say "and never stops at all," but I didn't think that was true at the time, so I stopped.

Tracy had this reaction to me, that I've often encountered in people who held some manner of authority over me, where she seemed delighted to have me there, as if I were the bird in the painting, stuck someplace it didn't quite belong, and had broken out in song. She also had the other reaction toward me that I've often seen, the one where she had no idea what I was doing in there singing instead of out singing to the world at the top of my voice.

I don't have much of a singing voice. It's why I started painting.

"You're going to do really well," Tracy said happily, "You've come a long way since you came to us a couple weeks ago, and the program we've put you into is good for anyone, really, but I think it will be especially helpful where your PTSD is concerned."

Everyone kept telling me that the type of therapy they'd referred me to was so great that anyone would benefit by it, but it was like we really were sitting in the shadow of an enormous elephant holding his massive foot to his pursed lips and wheezing "shhhhh!" 

When Thea arrived to take me home, I felt as if I were leaving a warm and dark cave. I climbed into the passenger seat of her car and leaned my head against the window, blinking at the golden glow of leaves scattered over the ground in the sunlight. It was like the world had been painted fresh that morning and hadn't even dried yet.

Probably the most unpleasant part of counseling is the first meeting with a therapist, in which you have to tell your life story in exchange for assistance changing the ending. I've done this several times in my life, and I'm not ashamed to admit it anymore because I'm always hoping that someone else might feel just a little bit less alone if they knew about it. Mental illness is a scary thing to carry around with you, because no matter how smart or talented or strong other people may think that you are, you spend most of your life attempting both to accept and to hide this problem from yourself as well as everyone else, trying not to burn out before your strength runs out or your fears become real. Neither of these things is really going to happen, but when you're struggling with depression you simply don't know that. I'd been referred for DBT, which stands for Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. It's kind of like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, except with elements of meditation and PTSD coping skills thrown in for good measure. I was to see my new therapist once a week, and also attend a DBT Group on a weekly basis.

On the first day of DBT Group, I encountered another white-walled room crowded with misfits, and I wasn't there more than ten minutes before once again I felt right at home. Within half an hour, I was extremely uncomfortable and just wanted to go home, because it turned out all of them -- ALL of them -- had at one time or another tried to commit suicide.

It was as if the elephant had accidentally sneezed out the secret he'd been holding back, and it hit me like a stream of water from a firehose. Tracy was right that this therapy was good for anyone else, but she hadn't really mentioned that everyone in it had, at one time or another, been sitting beside absent-minded Larry listening to Sadie talk about Herpes and wondering if Greg was going to kill them before they could do the job themselves.

I found myself listening closely to everyone else's stories, trying to find differences and similarities from myself so that I could figure out if I really belonged there with them or not.

I was telling myself that this was some kind of mistake. I shouldn't be here with Becky, who had had her stomach pumped no less than ten times in her lifetime, or with Matt who kept making up wild stories about his adventures strolling around town in a speedo so that he didn't have to talk about how scared he actually was of always being socially awkward and dying alone. But then Bonnie spoke up and said, "I'm really good with people. I'm always trying to cheer them up and make them laugh, draw them out of themselves and look at the bright side of things. They don't know I'm doing that because I really badly need someone to do those same things for me. They see me smiling and I think they think I'm really wonderful..."

I could tell that she didn't believe that she was wonderful, that she thought she'd somehow managed to fool all those people. I understood this about her because I have often felt the same way about myself. 

You can say what you want about Group Therapy, about how cheesy, embarrassing or cliche it looks on tv, about how you're not really a "people person" and therefore would never benefit from it, how there's no way in hell you'd talk about all your deepest secrets in front of a room full of strangers, or that sitting and listening to people complaining about their lives doesn't seem productive or especially helpful to you if none of them actually have your specific problem -- and I mean, you can say that if you want to, because I certainly did. And I actually am a "people person," but just at that time in my life I really didn't want to be. 

The reason I'd been hanging out in a "Crisis Prevention Center" in the first place was because, like an alcoholic, my life had "become unmanageable." It unravelled and I just wasn't able to roll it all back up -- again. I felt like I'd somehow ruined and wasted my life and could never catch up, that I was useless and had nothing more to contribute to the world. I wanted to be physically, mentally, and financially stable like everyone else seemed so effortlessly to be, but I'd given up on the idea of ever making that happen. 

Here I'm going to do something outrageous and tell you that giving up on the idea of being physically, mentally, and financially stable like everyone else was the best choice I've made in my life to date, and I'll tell you why: 

• I've never been physically stable; I'm a serious clutz, and I've decided to be proud of it.
• Mental stability is in the eye of the beholder. As my Neuropsychologist likes to say: "All the truly intelligent people in the world have some level of neurosis -- that's how they're able to see the world differently than everyone else, and that's what makes them unique and special."
• I looked up the definition of neurotic because I've always assumed it meant "CRAZY," but really it's a much more human concept than that; It's "a relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease, involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behavior, hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality." Think about this definition very carefully before you go judging anyone else, and ask yourself this: "Do I have any of these traits?" I'm willing to bet that you do. If you're one of my friends, then I know you do, because my friends are all very highly intelligent and funny people.
• I don't have to be financially stable like everyone else, either. First of all, because not everyone else is financially stable. All I really have to be is financially stable enough to take care of myself and my kids. I don't have to be like everyone else. Even everyone else isn't like everyone else.
• The reason I feel at home among misfits is because I know how they feel and they know how I feel, and together all we have in common is all that matters -- That our lives have been such that we're forced to be more honest with ourselves and others than makes us (or others) entirely comfortable. 
• We meet in DBT group each week and we make ourselves roar with laughter at how funny life is, cry for each other when we hear how harsh the world can be, and how broken the world can be, that the people who occupy it think that the worst, most embarrassing thing they could ever do is to be entirely honest about their faults, their pain, their problems and struggles. 
• We meet in that room and we see, over and over again, what great strength and courage it takes to admit our weaknesses, and how much more beautiful we all have the potential to be when we learn to show empathy and compassion for someone else. The question is not "What could I possibly get out of discussing my problems with people who have no way of relating to me, let alone helping me?" 
• The are actually two questions, and they are: "At what point in my life did I decide that my problems are so different from everyone else's problems?" and, "At what point in my life did I decide that I'm so much better or more important than anyone else that I think my problems are more worth listening to than theirs?" 
• Or maybe it's more positive to ask ourselves this: "Why do I think my problems mean I'm worthless and have nothing to contribute to the world when having them enables me to light the way through the dark for other people who struggle?"

I've attached a painting that I've done for a person who is in my DBT Group. Because it is for a person in my DBT Group, it is also good for anyone else.

The Sequel

The first painting, to the left, I created during my Junior Year of High School. 
It's called "Shame."

The painting to the left was just finished last night, 
and it is entitled "Validation." 

Perhaps the most devastating aspect of PTSD is that the sufferer 
seems forever barraged by bits and pieces of the past
 from which their mind seems incapable of escaping. 

PTSD therapy, the coping skills related to that in particular, 
has a lot to do with using imagery to lessen or even eradicate
 the flashbacks and their triggers, so I decided
 to use imagery in my own fashion to combat a past state, 
a mindset that kept me frozen in time. 

Society is not judging her for being unique
 -- that's a sort of teen angst issue. 
And so Society wears a warmer, more encouraging visage. 
The woman on the beach who is hiding her face 
is no longer crushed by the weight of her own dark thoughts. 
She breaks free of the position that she's held for so long,
 reaches out her hand, and reconciles with her past. 

I paint my perspective.

I dip my paintbrush in empowerment.

I spread all my hopes and aspirations across the canvass, 
colorful and unique.

Each brushstroke covers my past 
and all my fears and worries
 transform into something beautiful, 
something that's part of who I am as a person 
-- a gift, a little miracle, that I can never lose.

Painting in the Moment

I'm starting a portrait series to advocate for mental health awareness. It's one of those bursts of inspiration that comes from inside and out, a strong conviction that this is what I need to work on right now. I've always been most strongly inclined to address issues of social justice and human rights, and yet the paintings always end up kind of more beautiful than they are tragic. There is something so beautiful and powerful in how our weaknesses develop into our greatest strengths, how over and over again the message is that all things can become new that grow toward the light, beauty from ashes.

I've been a little sad and fearful tonight of all the things I think I'll never possibly get done, or may never again do, but as I've been trying to focus on the things that I can, and am, doing right now, I feel lighter and more at peace. This is what's made a writer of me: It's the only and the best way that I have ever been able to think. My thoughts and feelings get out into the light of day, and from there I see the fear is clearly just a shadow falling back behind them underneath the rays. Have you ever noticed how fears are like that? They seem HUGE and Insurmountable as we dwell on the past and worry about our future, but in my experience less than 90% of them turn out to ever be true.

I am re-learning daily to live in the moment.

Confidence

Sometimes I wish I had the brazen confidence of a little boy. They may screw up a lot, but I admire the way they come out swinging and are unafraid.
I even wish I had a little more of Calvin's ego.
How nice to know who you are at your best and to expect due treatment from all the rest.
Put me in my areas of strength, and I think I do have this confidence.
I have the confidence that there is no teacher in the world who can stand before a class and set up such an intricate, well-balanced performance that contributes, entices, involves, entertains and engages students in such a way that they find themselves demanding to learn. This is me at my best and most confident in a public forum. (Conversely, on a bad day, I would probably tell you the opposite)
I feel confidence when I'm doing any presentation. I'm not a Communication Minor for nothing, I tell you. I love to stand before an audience, get them on my side, and use nothing more than the power of well-chosen words to move them. I've gotten both laughter and tears in the same performance when I've chosen to do so.
Of course, High School students are a much tougher audience. They prefer that you be quick, sharp, and hilarious.
I'm a good public speaker because I can read an audience and know what they require.

I was not always this good.
I will never forget the time when I first stood before an audience and heard the sound of laughter and applause. It was, as I have mentioned elsewhere, when sharing a story I'd written with my fourth grade peers.
But time and circumstances chipped off my shiny veneer of confidence. We moved three times in one year, each time to a different school district. My father's drinking went out of control and frightening things began to happen. A vat of venomous negativity began pouring into my ears every evening after dinner when he came home from work. Nothing and no one was ever ever good enough. I became a  perfectionist who could never meet her own standards. I shrivelled up inside of myself and became all but invisible to the world around me. Social situations had never been easy for me, but once I accepted a vote of no confidence in myself, I was finished.
I dreaded the scrutiny of public presentations with an extreme level of fear equivalent to someone being thrown into a pit of lions. I would become physically ill. I would sweat and shake. I would miss school. I would do whatever I could to get away from standing in front of people and reading anything that I had written. I had this sense that no one would want to hear what I had to say. If it was well-written, they would sneer at me for being arrogant. If it was poorly written, as I suspected, they would laugh at me for being incompetent.

My artistic abilities somewhat relieved me of my low self-esteem. I could always paint, and no one

ever disliked anything I created after my Junior Year of High School. But I didn't get over my fear of public speaking until I was in college. I had to do a speech class, and the Professor had everyone give their speeches in the most nonthreatening environment that she could possibly devise. Our first speech had to be ten whole minutes long, and an introduction of ourselves. I remember observing my classmates, all of whom seemed to have a deadly fear of public speaking themselves, squirm and tremble before the class as if they were in a firing line. In addition to their great discomfort, they were presenting their personal information with all the organization and variety of a resume. After a certain number of days of this with no one dying of anything but perhaps a little boredom, it began to seem just a little bit silly. I decided to bring in one of my paintings, because I knew from High School that a good visual could break the ice like nothing else. I tried to think of what things I had to say about myself that might be interesting or funny. Interesting I wasn't so sure of, but funny, now - funny happened to me all the time. Or maybe I just saw something funny in most situations. Either way life was a little more bearable.

I don't remember exactly what I told the class, but I remember that I opened with one of my favorite stories from art college. One day, my friend James and I were walking down the street together when a man came panting up to us and was begging us for money. "My car just broke down!" the man was explaining urgently, "I got out to get help, and somebody mugged me. I was on my way to my grandmother's house. I had some food to bring to her. She's going into the hospital. She had an accident!"

I was thinking his story sounded a little suspicious and wondering when he was going to mention that there had been a wolf in the house wearing his granny's pajamas, but then I caught sight of the man's feet. Seeing the direction of my gaze, he embellished with a grand sweep of his arms: "And then they stole my shoes!"

"Oh, gosh," said James. James was from a small town in Louisiana and had the most pleasant Southern drawl I think I had ever heard, primarily because he was also the most laid back, pleasant person I have ever known. "That's terrible!" James dug around in his deep pocket and fished out a roll of quarters that I happened to know was for his laundry. "Here you go."

The man grabbed his quarters and ran.
I looked at James accusingly. "James, obviously the man was making all that up!"
James smiled at me slowly and drawled, "Aw, come on, Heather - It was a good story, wasn't it?"

My audience laughed.

I had succeeded in both getting their attention and killing two of the ten minutes that I was supposed to be talking about myself. I segued into my actual story, which was about how I ended up in art college to begin with, and also about how frightened I used to be of being myself around other people. (I secretly still was, but talking about it in the past tense really did seem to help some) I talked about how, through art, I was able to express things to people that I had been unable to do before, and then for a finale I revealed the painting that I'd brought.
My only self-conscious moment occurred just then, when I found myself apologizing that I couldn't draw hands as well as I'd like. My audience loved my painting and the speech anyway, and I got an A.
In this way, I learned something that I have used in all my dealings with people: That, as a general rule,  if you make yourself even a little vulnerable before people, they will be drawn to your side. Get the audience on your side, and from there make them laugh, and from there you can make them do whatever you want - get angry or motivated, cry or feel touched. I have always been a natural storyteller, and now I had the confidence again to do it.