The Feel Better Box

Depression.

Anger.

Guilt.

Hopelessness.

Grief. 

Hurt.

Melancholy.

Misery.

Sadness.

Agitation.

Rejection.

Suffering.

Hysteria.

Overwhelmed

Agony.

Shame.

Apprehension.

Regret.

Anxiety.

Worthlessness.

Alienation.

We all have all of these feelings at some point. The majority of people struggle to keep them hidden, because no one likes a "Negative Nelly." (Puh-lease! This is a social network, a public forum. How can you be so crass as to express such negative emotions for me to stumble upon in the midst of my cute kitty pictures and inspiring quotations?!) 

To be clear, the Feel Better Box was not my idea.

It originated in therapy for PTSD and Borderline Personality Disorder, and I'm sure they got it from some other place as well-- possibly Marsha Linehan, creator of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy.

( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsha_M._Linehan ) There's both good and bad in this model -- one of the bad things being that group therapy can sometimes have a detrimental effect for people who are shy or severely damaged, and because in the hands of the wrong therapists the model seems to me to undermine all progress some people who are brain atypical have made. But that's all a subject for another blog entry -- Tonight I'm simply telling you how and why the idea of a "Self-Soothe" kit appealed to me, and also that it works.
The process of creating your own Feel Better Box (My daughter named it that) involves learning how to be kinder toward yourself and to make healthy choices when experiencing powerful emotions or a personal crisis.

A personal example: I ask someone for the 5,000000th time if they can please help me get to an appointment (I haven't been able to drive since my car accident almost two years ago now). They turn me down rather sharply. Doesn't sound like much of a crisis compared to the Twin Towers, does it?  But I'm feeling as if the sharp end of this rejection has punctured my composure, releasing the all of the emotions listed at the beginning of this topic in a hiss of steam, and I'm feeling them all at once, like a punch in the face. These feelings have been building up for nearly two years now, and this one additional crush of shame and helplessness breaks my composure. I've been toughing things out for a long time now, pushing back anything that might be misconceived as weakness or drama queen material by others. I know that this moment won't last forever, but in the moment I feel helpless and dependent, and all the shame society places on that state of being. What should I do? Well, Marsha Linehan says this: 

A more serious example: A couple of years ago I lost my fifth apartment since my divorce and had nowhere to go. At one point I had spent all morning looking for a new place to live, a better job to afford living there, transportation, food, and help moving my things as well as figuring out where I was going to store them this time. Five o'clock rolled around and I still hadn't solved anything. I was alone in my apartment with no heat or electric, one stick of butter in my fridge and one random of watercress in my cupboard. I couldn't do anything else that night to solve my problem -- I just had to wait it out and survive it. My primary instinct was to to curl up in a ball under my quilt and sob. I tend to want to suffer somewhat, tend to believe my circumstances are my own fault and I should be ashamed of myself for not having it all together like everyone else seems to. But really what I needed to do was simply get through that moment, move through those negative feelings and embrace a more positive outlook on myself and my life. I read Number 3 in the blue text box above as: "You could fall into a deep depression and never leave your room again!" but different people might express their fear in different ways -- You might scream at someone who is trying to help you, you might consider doing drugs or drinking if you have an addictive personality, you might be a cutter, you might be suicidal, you might isolate yourself from all your friends instead of reaching out and asking for help because, like me, you aren't so sure that you deserve any help." I have been depressed before. Although I've never abused alcohol and never tried drugs for fear of my addictive personality getting the better of me, I do know what it is to be so depressed that you don't know how you're going to get through each day. For a long time the only way I could cope with my feelings of worthlessness ultimately was to isolate myself so no one would have to see me that way, to ignore the problem and power through, or to try snapping myself out of it by being stern with myself. All of these approaches seemed only to make things worse. I was emotionally distraught, overwhelmed, and I just couldn't think anymore.

My Feel Better Box: Everything 
You Ever Wanted to Know About 
Helping Yourself Feel Better 

The idea behind The Box is a simple one -- To have some good things available with which to distract and/or help yourself in times of emotional distress until things start getting better again -- And hopefully to feel better about yourself regardless of your circumstances. The goal is peace

To put together a Feel Better Box admittedly poses some potential challenges:  

1. Lack of creative ideas or imagination might make it difficult to put together, but you could always just use my ideas, or simply Google "Self-Soothe Kit" and use the best ideas you can find that way.
2. Creativity can often come of as seeming very childish and self-indulgent -- but pay no attention to that and everything will not only turn out fine; It might even turn out to be a lot of fun. The sillier you get with it, the better. Most importantly (from an amateur psychiatrist standpoint), consider the wounded child from within, or at least picture yourself as a child. Remember all the things that once made you happy, and revisit those things. It's only a visit, after all. There's no harm in that. In fact, it's a beautiful feeling.
3. It's easy to get hung up on the idea that you have to have money to buy fancy stuff for the box, but really you could make one that doesn't cost you more than paper, pen, and maybe a Ziploc bag for easy storage. 
4. Probably the hardest part of making a Feel Better Box is making yourself use it. You will come up with all kinds of excuses, including that it's actually easier to be upset than to get up and do anything about it. Or maybe you are so depressed that you can't act in your best interests. 






5. You have to make something in that box worth getting up for, worth going to when times are tough. And it's kind of like getting up and going to the gym -- If you have everything set up in advance and get up and go first thing in the morning without thinking twice about it, the momentum can help you get it done.

Here are some examples from my own personal box, and also some items I'd like to add eventually. Because of these things, one break-through idea for me was to create tickets to cover the items I couldn't fit in the box. Because I really didn't have a lot of extra income at the time I put together the box  that I've got now, I created some tickets for free things that had the 

potential to cheer me up. With these tickets, I was 

giving myself permission to take care of myself. 
I highly recommend it -- You can really get used to this taking care of yourself business after a bit, and not know why on earth you haven't been doing this all along in the first place -- but be kind to yourself about it.
That's the whole point.

Lilac-Scented Wax to Warm

SMELL

In Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, they suggest that you try to fill your box with things that soothe all five of the senses. Not that you have to be soothing them all at once or anything, but I like the idea anyway. Who knows in any given moment of anxiety or depression if you might be uplifted by something as simple as the smell of the lilac bush in the yard of your childhood?

We can't all go to Ireland,
but you can purchase things
 that make you think of
someplace pleasant that you'd
like to escape to for awhile.

I've got a sachet of sweet-smelling heather plucked from the purple and yellow hills of Ireland that I bought while I was there. This eternally fresh odor brings back happy memories and a sense of being part of a world too beautiful to be overcome by misery or fear -- memories of standing on the top of the hills out on the moors with the wind blowing in my face and rolling hills of bright green, yellow with the gorse and purple with all the heather. It was such a strange and wonderful feeling to stand there on that spot and think of how ancient were the castles and outposts -- older than the oldest of stone buildings at home in the States. Along with the sachet I have a little ornament that depicts the Celtic letter "H," and some Euros that I brought home in my pockets. Do you own anything that always reminds you of something that was absolutely perfect from your past, from moments in time when you felt as if you should live forever and ever because you were strong and beautiful and full of hope and promise? Keep those things. Tell yourself that you will have even more adventures in time, for you will, one day. And if nothing else, you had those moments that no one else can take away from you. Be proud of that person that you were, be proud of  who you have become. The rocks and the rolling hills and the heather have survived so many years -- and so can you. You'll always have ground underfoot.

Bubbles! How about a little plastic container of bubbles, smelling like summer in the backyards of my childhood? For for some reason I find the smell also bring to mind those little plastic, water-filled bird whistles -- I should find one of those and put that into my box, too.

Cinnamon sticks. That's for Christmas and French Toast and multiple other delightful things -- apple pie, apple crisp... I just have to be careful not to go running for too much to eat when I smell them. I had some cinnamon sticks in my box, but I think they were hijacked by my daughter. I fully intend to keep after that child to create a box of her own for days when things don't seem likely to go right for her. I think passing along this one important concept could make a huge difference in the lives of my children -- The sensation that bad things do happen, but you can get through them without self-abuse or shame. In fact, you get through the mood created by trying times just that much more quickly, and in the space it leaves behind you can find peace.
How about a really good, soothing lotion with a fresh, clean smell -- or something flowery if you like instead? Other things I mean to pick up and add to the box over time: More scented candles and candle warmers, scented bath oils or salts, and room spritzes with pleasant odors. Maybe one of those misters.
How about good old-fashioned scented markers to color with? Coloring is very soothing if you can get past the fear of appearing childish (If I troubled myself to worry about that my life would be very dull indeed, and I fear I could never paint again. Not worth the loss!) I imagine a visit to Bath & Body Works just might possibly be in order.

SIGHT

So many lovely things to see! I've been creating an illustrated dream journal, which is really just a fancy way of saying that I cut and paste things out of magazines into a book. There's this theory that if you visualize something often enough and with enough concentration, you can manifest that thing in your life. With that in mind, I'm cutting out pictures of my dream house, my favorite writers, and various works of art in random forms.


One year I created 100 Positive Self-Affirmations and then strung 100 pretty beads into a bracelet for myself. When I'm feeling especially crushed and miserable, I lay my hands on these and feel their smooth surfaces as I tick off each happy thought like a rosary bead. Another spin on that would be to use the beads as a tactile gratitude list. "I'm grateful for the love and support of my family, I'm grateful for my friends, and for the sunshine..."
I can always go back to the bubbles, blow only one or two at a time, and then just do some deep breathing as I watch them float effortlessly away and pop, imagining each one to be a fear or worry that has now disappeared right before my eyes.

A book of my favorite photos of my children and family, and optimistic pictures for me to color  and then use as stationary for my letters to my kids

Decorated stationary that I use to write "Thinking of You" notes, letters of encouragement or gratitude for my friends and family, and letters to my children. I've actually got an entire box of stationary and stickers to send love letters to the kids. When I focus on them, my problems fade a little, too.
Pictures of my children and my family -- all my favorites.

I go to my book of family photos, but only the ones that make me feel happy instead of bittersweet.

I can put on nail polish of several different shades. I could buy one small jar a week and have all kinds of colors to play with. Anything can really be soothing if you focus solely on that simple act.
I wrote myself a love letter one day. Or here's a thought --- Write yourself an encouraging letter and -Mail it to yourself. Silly waste of money? Or you could see it for what it is, which is deciding that your happiness and well-being are well worth the price of a postage stamp? I hope it's worth much more!!!
--

Positive or encouraging little notes and quotes. You may have noticed that I've got an obsession, Each quote connects us to both the wisdom and the folly of the past, lest we "forget and live to repeat it."
A mandala coloring book -- very soothing. You'd be surprised. You can turn on some peaceful music and get right to work coloring an intricate picture with some colored pencils. Don't let yourself get so hung up on being an adult that you forget what made coloring fun for you as a child. Hum to yourself as you work.

Be sure to keep and save every special card or letter you ever get from a friend, or any other memento from when someone did something special that made you feel loved. Write down every single compliment you ever hear and stick that in the box, too. You never know when you might find yourself needing to see it and be reminded to believe it for yourself again.
If I could add anything else to my sight collection, it would be pretty little postcards, illustrations of pretty places, pretty colored pens, a fun activity book, and a magazine on a favorite topic.

TASTE

You could store some of these ideas right in the box. I'd go with dark chocolate, Jelly Bellies in all my favorite flavors, mint chocolate, raspberry chocolate, dark chocolate orange, minty gum, packs of hot cocoa or tea, a snack bar -- or maybe some Pop Rocks!
Because I have some self-control with food issues, I generally use my tickets in the box in place of actual edible items. If I grab one of those things from the box, it would say"Eat one square of chocolate, mindfully."

"Make yourself some homemade chocolate pudding and eat a bowl of it warm, get some crisp, fresh fruit, some sugar snap peas in season, or some sour candy." Whatever you like, but make sure first if you're doing it for the right reasons, and if you can have enough self-control not to eat it ALL. Stuffing your body with junk food is only stuffing your emotions inside someplace where they don't belong, and that can cause you over time to turn into a person you never meant to be.
Oh, but for the chocolate!
Dark, rich, delicious chocolate!
My absolute favorite is Godiva's raspberry granache truffles...
Yes, So, anyway, I write myself a coupon for such things, and I give it a lot of thought beforehand to make sure that I'm not going to eat an entire box or bag of something.
Love myself, love my body, etc.

TOUCH

Well, this one can sound really weird or maybe mildly inappropriate, but let me
show you:

The little pebble on the right I plucked from the sand back when I
was 12 yrs old. It's smooth surface feels like a time capsule to me.

Fuzzy fluffy stuff to rub against my cheek. Is this a toddler'type coping mechanism? Yes. Yes, it is. But I've got PTSD, and I can tell you for a fact that in that case you need to resort to childhood's comforts, because when you're thinking out of anxiety, fear, and a sense of helplessness, that's the wounded child inside of you crying for love and comfort. Give the poor kid a blanket or a lovey, and for pity's sake don't judge yourself for that.

Rock I got in divorce care group.

Seashell buttons. The ridges and smooth contours felt wonderful on my fingers, but I seem to have misplaced them. Lucy gets this box out and uses it sometimes, so she's a prime suspect. I think it was worth it if it helped.
Tactile rocks are solid and grounding in the midst of a panic attack, after a nightmare or a flashback.
The affirmation beads come back into play here because you can physically feel their cool smoothness as you tick off your positive traits in your mind.

Floam like I've got, or Play-Do, if you prefer. How about clay? Take up pottery-making -- the feel of your fingers slipping along the outside of a pot with the wheel in motion is one of the most soothing sensations I've ever experienced. A bean bag or stress ball are helpful, or you can use a rubber ball like I do, to bounce ideas up against a wall (Yes, I got the idea from House MD, but it works!)
Other ideas I've had but either not been able buy or not able to fit into my box would be: My great, big fluffy blanket, one of those heated neck pads, magnets if you believe in them, bubble bath doubles as a touch-related experience, exfoliating scrub for your face or your feet, soft, warm clothing, or a nice warm heating pad. A travel-sized Mancala game, or marbles, or a bag of jaxs. A pair of warm fuzzy socks! Your imagination is the only limit, which is why I'm lending you so much of mine.

HEARING

This category universally brings to mind rain-sounding mood music,
a waves on the beach track, crickets, a tinkly little music box if it makes your heart glad. I think a white noise machine would work equally as well, or a sweet-sounding little bell or chime, or the sound of drums, or fluting, and music from your childhood that brings up only your happy memories. I've got Celtic Lullabies, and I listen to Deep Relaxation music on Pandora or You Tube. I had a little i-Pod Shuffle that I liked to listen to on brisk walks when I was especially troubled. I put only happy, fun-

loving songs in there, and then a few Girl Power types as well. Unfortunately, mine is broken and I'm left waiting in hope that someone remembers to get me a replacement for Christmas.
And I made a little ticket for myself to seek out of video of a laughing baby on YouTube, because almost everyone I have ever met has not been able to resist smiling at that bubbly, uncomplicated burst of joy that pours out of a happy, healthy child.

Frankly, I made this box because I reached a point in my life where it felt like I was ensnared in an endless loop of misery that was never going to go away. Time really does heal most things -- But wouldn't it be better if we stopped passively waiting out the storm and instead started actively pursuing our happiness?

 The Artist's Date Book  is a Great Resource for Adding Variety to Your Box!

I am mostly happy these days, when once it seemed I would be crushed under the weight of my own grief.

I hope that you are inspired to create a Feel Better Box for yourself --or a drawer, or cabinet, trunk, or a child's wading pool just chuck full of happy thoughts for yourself. Decide that you are worth it and get it done. I'm always available for thoughts, kind words, encouragement and advice. And give me a message or a post on my wall any time you run out of positive thoughts about yourself. I know plenty, and I'll bet a lot of other people do, too.

Pictured last is my original Feel Better "Box," created for me by my daughter when she was only seven years old. She said that it was mine to keep for when I miss her and she's away at her dad's house without me. I never once complained, and have always tried not to let them see how much sadness I have tied into their comings and goings from my house to his, but somehow her sturdy little heart found me out and created this magical bag that brings her close every time I open it and look at its contents. It is full of photographs, little drawings all folded up to squeeze them in, a note that says "I Luv yoo,"tiny little toys that she one played with and enjoyed, a Scooby Doo Valentine, a bracelet that she must have found somewhere out on the dirt road her dad lives on (It was missing several fake diamonds and crusted with dried mud), the "Love" pillow that she ripped off an old teddy bear, and my very own Frog Prince in case I should ever get lonely and decide to settle down with someone again. These days the entire bag resides right inside my Feel Better Box with the rest of my things for me to take out and look at whenever I'm sad, anxious, or simply missing my children. Looking at this bag once again brings to mind what I said when I was discussing money at the beginning of this entry, when I said that you don't need a whole lot of money to create a box that will lift your mood and help you carry on. This simple little bag  with my daughter's huge heart sprinkled inside really warms my heart for me exactly as it is. No, the really important matters of the heart only need a little bit of love and a lot of patience and kindness toward yourself. 

With Love, 

~ HH

"Reach Out In the Darkness!"

I have learned many lessons about people this year.
The most disappointing lesson is that not everyone is drawn to be supportive of struggling, marginalized misfits the way that I am.
The best thing that I've learned is that, in caring for people worse off than myself, there is the discovery that A.) No one is necessarily "worse off" than me, and B.) When I really need a friend myself, they are there for me in a heartbeat. All the best things that have happened to me in my lifetime have been because in my suffering and reaching out for support, I have also caught the reaching hands of others.
And my life is all the better for it.
I feel a mixture of pity and disdain for people who shelter themselves from anything or anyone that might really make them feel something strongly -- People who won't reach out to the loner out in the streets, the sobbing woman standing in the grocery line, the man in the suicide ward who was still trying to steal kitchen knives in order to off himself.
These people are "THOSE People," the ones you should never associate with, the ones who will drag you down, burden you, take more than they will ever give back, have bad attitudes, struggle with depression or mental illness.
It is just as easy for these people I disdain to speak about all kinds of altruistic pursuits -- Just so long as they don't have to get their hands dirty doing it. These are the people who recycle trash, but refuse to give broken people a second chance with them. These are the people who passionately argue for social justice from the safety of their nice homes, but who would never volunteer at a shelter -- or anywhere else for that matter. They talk about poverty in Haiti, but don't donate to any charities. They say that it's a shame that mental illness isn't considered equal to physical illness, but you will never see them befriending anyone they met in the waiting room who seemed a little unstable. And

they would never ever actually strike up a conversation with any of "THOSE people."
I make friends easily, and I make a lot of them. 75% of my friends are such purely because at some point in their lives they needed someone to be there for them, and I made a point of being that person. The people toward I feel so much pity are not the people I met in homeless shelters, not the people I met in psychiatrist's offices, on the suicide ward, and neither is it the people I love who seem incapable of fitting in, or of holding back their most naked thoughts. No, for these marginalized people are stronger than the ones I pity so much -- and far more interesting to talk to.
The people whom I pity so much, are the people who can't seem to see that.
How very lonely it must feel to be perfect, to always get things right, to sit in the waiting room and stare down at your phone for fear of having to meet anyone's eyes and be forced to talk to them.
How very limiting it must be to only associate with "whole" people, with "normal" people --- With only the people you can benefit from as opposed to people who could benefit from you.
How commendable of them to not associate with lower life-forms.
They will live and die bereft of true friends in their lifetime, having left the world no better than they found it.
And absolutely certain that they were clever enough not to become entangled with anyone who might need them.
How empty must their lives be, how depressing!
But how very neat and tidy.
I don't go into any friendship thinking to myself, "What can I get out of this person?"
I don't ask myself, "Gee, I wonder if they've got their shit together, or if they're going to create unnecessary drama in my life?"
I think, "That person needs a friend; What can I do for them?"
I think, "This is a complex person -- What can I learn from them?"
You learn a lot.
You learn, for example, how much you really have to offer to the world, and how important it is for you to do that.
You learn to value every person you meet, to learn from every experience you have.
You learn that the woman with the incurable, degenerative disease who lives on welfare and was once an alcoholic is also a beautiful artist, and a kind soul at heart.
You learn that the girl nobody else liked during your grade school years is the kindest, most generous person there is -- quite possibly because she knows what it is to be mistreated, and she knows how it feels to have nothing -- And she just might have learned from you what it feels like to just give anyway. Or maybe you learn that from her.
You learn that even drug addicts can love their children and hope for the best for them.
You learn that people who never went to college can still be geniuses, gifted people with a purpose in life.
You learn that people are more important than things.
You learn that acts of kindness have no statutes of limitations, that a kindness done for another can

round back up on you, years after the fact, and become something kind that that person will now do for you.
You learn that helping others takes away that nagging emptiness you hold inside.
You learn that your life isn't about feeling safe or being stable; It's meant to mean something, to care about something, to give something without expecting anything back -- but getting everything that you need anyway -- perhaps by realizing that you have everything you need.
I never turn down a friend, and I try to make myself the friend of anyone I see who seems to be struggling in any way, and I try to use my own struggles to empathize and encourage them.
I pay it forward.
And for that I am never sorry.
The ultimate pity I feel toward these Avoiders is that they look at their life and relationships as some sort of zero-sum game, as if they will run out of time, energy, resources -- love -- if they give to much.
Why can't they see that the more you give, the more you have to give -- that the more people whom you love, the more love that you have and you get?

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.

Acceptance

At my Traumatic Brain Injury education/support group my Neuropsychologist told us that many of his clients return within a couple of years with pretty severe depression. I told him that I think perhaps that part of my brain must have been altered by the accident, because most of the time I feel just fine. I feel I'm coping fairly well, but he gave me a sort of pitying look and told me, "Heather, your brain is still so stunned right now that all it can really do is concentrate on one or two things at a time. It's years later, when the brain stops showing signs of improvement, that people look back at their lives and start missing the things they were too injured to take note of." 

Despite his rather bleak sentiments on this occasion, the doctor is a delightful man. He's recently moved in both of his parents because his mother has dementia and his father is failing physically. He calls me personally to answer my questions any time of the day, but often long after work hours have ended. Some of the people in the group have been attending for longer than twenty years, and often the doctor knows the names and occupations of all their family members, and asks after their children by name. For S---- (who once was the fastest female Corvette racer in the state of Michigan!), he attended her husband's funeral, and he never fails to tell all of us what a wonderful man her husband had been. Whenever he starts to explain a specific brain function using a former patient/client as an example, he will say, "Oh! I haven't called or written Sarah in a while!" and make a note on his stenopad reminding himself to drop a line and see how she's been doing. I'm told by the Brain Rehab that this individualized, personal approach is rare in Neuropsychologists, so I lucked out in getting such a good one. 

I've received the results from the Insurance Company's Independent Evaluation from the Neuropsychologist they had hired. The results are mixed and rather incongruent. 

Although I scored in the 23rd Percentile for auditory attention and concentration, in my spacial organization and visual-motor processing speed  I tested in the 99th percentile.

The speech language pathologist is assisting me in learning coping skills to counterbalance my deficits. 

I have to learn "self-cuing" strategies, and other things that are very similar to what I'd do with a struggling reader or a special needs student. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Speaking of which, 

I also have a hard time doing all this typing, although I am loathe to relinquish this form of communication because I find writing about what's going on in my life enjoyable and often quite therapeutic. It helps me to organize my thoughts. But my right hand has lost some dexterity because the left side of my brain was damaged, which causes me to miss a lot of keys on the right hand side. I know to proofread everything, particularly words like "you, mom, ploy, yum, hop," etc. I am from the generation of students who were still taught good touch-typing skills, and I learned in college to type words just as quickly as they came to me. Recently I was disconcerted to discover that my hands haven't been keeping up like I thought they were. I'd actually miss a lot of words without even knowing it, because my brain overcompensates by trying to behave as if there's nothing wrong, so my fingers are at work the entire time but many of the words aren't actually being typed, like "I ran the and thought was fine." Another function of the left side of the brain is sequencing, which aids in spelling. Once again, thank god for spell check.

Not addressed in the report would be the visual therapy recommended by the behavioral optometrist. Of all the things that aren't the same, it's the reading that troubles me the most. My eye muscles were damaged in the accident and the therapy is to help redevelop them so that they converge and diverge smoothly together again. They are also not anchoring well, so when I read I skip lines all the time and have to use a bookmark to follow. This is discouraging in a woman who used to be able to read something like Don Quixote, listen to my sister telling me about her day, and compose a grocery list in my head -- all at the same time, without missing anything. Then, even a year later, I could pluck Don Quixote off the shelf and find the exact passage where he first attacked the windmills. Now I have to look at words like ordinary people and have a harder time concentrating and visualizing what I read. I have to read lines over again. If someone interrupts me it's harder to find where I left off. It's like torture. The insurance company is sending me in for another independent evaluation specific to address these symptoms, because of course they always need a second opinion on everything.

If all goes well, I might be allowed to drive again before the end of the year, although I do wonder how that's possible when I get distracted and overwhelmed in busy places where I have to pay attention to more than one thing at a time, and there's the right hand dexterity issues in addition to the eyes. Right now the brain rehabilitation center is playing a waiting game to determine if the insurance will cover a road test with an evaluator who specializes in brain injuries, and there is also some question of whether or not they're going to cover the car service that's been taking me to and from all my appointments. I have vision therapy, speech therapy, speech and language pathology, vocational therapy, yoga, and they want me to have a therapy for eye-hand coordination skills that I'd need for successfully returning to work, but it sounds likely that I won't be getting it.

Sometimes I feel as if I could just google most of this therapy and do it myself, though. It involves a lot of worksheets and computer games to challenge my diverse attention and concentration skills.

I've also got a Vocational Therapist now whose job it is to help me find a part time volunteer position that will lead into a part time job, and within six months, a year from the original accident, I'll be working full time again. The Therapist thinks she can get me a job in an assembly line at a factory, where the work is steady and predictable and my moderately impaired diverse attention and focus won't prevent me from achieving vocational success. They say I should be able to transition into some basic entry-level position without needing any accommodations. Apparently they know of a corporation that hires people with disabilities part-time. 

They don't tell me as much, but it seems to me like no one but my Neuropsychologist believes I'll ever go back to teaching in any classroom. Or at least they don't see it happening any time in the next year or two. It doesn't mean I'm going to quit trying. How can I stop? This has been my whole life, trying to get there. I don't feel I have to let this stop me.

 Still, I was in Cognitive therapy last week trying to do a worksheet beginning with one sentence, and running underneath down the sheet there was a row of twenty-five simple directions (Ex: "Switch the first vowel with the fourth consonant from the end"), and when I got to the last line it was supposed to spell out a completely new sentence, but when I finally got there it was just garbled. I used to give worksheets like that to my eighth graders all the time as a warning to them to pay close attention when reading the directions of any given assignment, and right now I can't even do it myself. The Therapists are teaching me to take careful notes and ask clarifying questions to compensate for this condition. 

Then today they gave me a map with numbers instead of street names, and read directions to me that were meant to help me guess which road had which name, such as "Harrison begins at Brookview but ends running North-West along the third intersecting street. Which road is Harrison?" and I can't listen to directions like that and reason them out in my head anymore. I would forget "Harrison" but remember "Brookview," and I would forget which direction the road was supposed to be in, so I'd ask her to repeat the entire question so I could focus on that. Then I would remember North-West but forget the names of the roads. Once I combined them and asked if street number 9 was the "Harrisview" I was looking for. 

I played a board game with my family for two hours on Saturday, and then suddenly it was like my

brain shut off and the generators kicked on, but I didn't want to be the one to stop all the fun, so I hung in there for nearly another hour as the game wrapped up, until my head was falling forward and my eyes were closing involuntarily. I was struggling to keep them open without being too noticeable, but when I felt forced to bring it up, my sister sent me straight to bed. 

My Neuropsychologist told me that I have to pay close attention to how I'm doing, because this is going to keep on happening to me for the rest of my life if I don't learn how to pace myself better. My sister said sarcastically that he should come home with me then and follow me everywhere, because I can sit and read that long just fine, or write a marathon email, but apparently I'm always one more involved board game an hour away from being as bad as if the therapy had never happened. Too much physical activity can bring on fatigue, or too much mental activity, and I'm having a hard time figuring which activities are going to cause it.

I feel a little discouraged today. Being out of commission for an entire year feels like yet another setback for me. Still, I am a lover of words of wisdom, so whenever I feel defeated by the bulk of changes in my life and despair of anything ever working out, I defer to this quote:

 When I was watching Family Ties in the 80's,
I never would have guessed that Michael J. Fox
was ever going to be such an inspiration to me.