mental health

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Island Blog – Means a Lot

Today was one to get through. It took hours, long hours, long as snakes. We all get them, I know, but in our western culture of not admitting to anything sad, most, if not everyone, says nothing, as if to admit to being completely human suggests a structure broken, damaged, faulty. I don’t buy into that. I will say when I feel (and here even I falter for wording) sad, angry, lost in the tsunami of what just happened. It is as if there is something wrong with admitting (wrong terminology) to a weakening. Even that is wrong, somehow. How odd that, with such a vibrant and expansive language within our grasp, the aeons of culture control stultifies. We are a people of denial. To seek the help of a counsellor is something whispered, reluctantly, to a best friend, if mentioned at all. I am happy to say that I have had counselling for most of my life, and thank goodness for the lot of them, for they have been my helpers along my always tricky path. When I did admit, way back to seeking such a wise helper, I do recall my body language showing shame, my eyes averted, my body somewhat cowed. What ridonculous nonsense! That’s what I think now. We all need help along our tricky way, at some point. It is so damn British to think we don’t.

Today I felt the death of my friend harsh as spikes in the soles of my feet. I felt it in the way I didn’t want breakfast, nor lunch, even as I ate both and tasted nothing. I felt it every time I rose from my chair, awkward, stiff, sore. I felt it when I made myself do the 100 pulls on my rowing machine, miscounting, lost in some cut between time and untime, an airy space of nothing, of no sound, no feeling, a nothing place. I felt it when I went upstairs to read in bed for an hour, barely following the story, my eyes ever looking out to the hills, the sky, the gullfloat into a scud of clouds. I felt it when I swept the floors, watered the orange tree, watched walkers walk by. Beneath it all, I have gone away. I function, but the ordinary makes no sense. It used to. It had depth, gravitas, a point. Not now. And, this is crazy because she has a husband who adores her still. I haven’t seen her face to face for years. I know very little about her daily life over decades. And, yet, this is how I feel. We met at 6. We share a birthday year.

And that means a lot.

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Island Blog – Lonely, Again

Here’s a thing. That is a ridonculous phrase, but, nonetheless an invitation to stay put and listen. At least that’s what I hope. I am upside down right now. If I cast my eyes back to what has happened over the past forever, particularly the most recent past, I can allow myself this. However, and But, why would those events be knocking me off my feet now? Well, when I ask such a question with absolutely nobody here to engage with, to consider, to respond, t’is only me who answers. She, actually. She is so damn sensible. If I could catch her, I just might incur damage. And, yet, she is the one who walks with me. In this lonely life, and it is a lonely life, I must be cautious around death threats to the one who is always right beside me. I know this.

My day is organised to a great degree. There are many hours in a daylight day, and, as I write this, I chuckle. I remember endless days that seemed to nibble up the hours, condensing them into what I decided was a conspiracy, a plan set to falter me, to confound, to bring me down. Now the hours move like a snail on morphine. I wonder on all the others who might nod at that, although it isn’t always, so. If I have managed to set encounters in place, such as meeting a friend for coffee or lunch, or deciding that valeting my mini is an opportunity for huge laughter and fun, or to decide to drive very slowly over the switchback, setting off very early, noticing ducks and buzzards and white-tailed eagles, flowers, other drivers who do know about island road. I might park and watch, look, pay attention to the ripples on a hill loch, watch a cow lumber away, see her calf jink and bounce. I might play tunes as I ride. I might clean my wee home, marvel at the view, know I am safe and warm and free.

Even then, I am lonely. And, I don’t think it is just me. I remember feeling lonely in a crowd, around friends, in a marriage. Lonely is a thing. And a very big thing, a thing that doesn’t leave just because I don’t want it, or when i try to swat it away in all my pretending. It has a voice, a presence. It is solid and here to stay. Oh, I could fill my days with endless meets and commitments, jobs and nesessaryness, but lonely lurks in the shadows, well fed and just waiting to slide into the room. I don’t feel gloomy. I feel furious. I think, that, as any new shit hits the lifeline fan, the lonely, like an unburied ghost, finds opportunity, and grabs it.

My oldest friend died. Oh hallo lonely. I refuse, btw the way to give you a capital beginning. I know you. In you come. Again.

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Island Blog – Twenty Twenty Thrive

And so, here we are, landed in a new year, onto an empty canvas, into a story yet to be written. What will you make of it, I wonder? Some of us feel ‘meh’ about the whole thing, some have made a plan of action, resolutions, even, although it is a truth that most of the latter are set too high and dissolve around February 1st. So how might we approach this new land, begin our own new story?

We have talked much on this, here beneath an African sun, and, although ideas are manifold as stars, each one is apposite to that person’s development and growth. To become more healthy is to initiate a plan of action, perhaps to walk each day, perhaps to run, a ghastly idea to me. I could run to save someone or to catch a bus, but all that bounce and jiggle is not a thing I would ever choose to undertake. However, I respect and admire those who do. But if this plan doesn’t get begun, it only serves to bring a person down so that they berate themselves enough to give up on what seemed like a wonderful idea. We are so good at self-flagellation.

Personal growth – now there’s a good one. It could mean noticing everything and everyone: could mean searching out the work of someone who has studied the subject, spoken on it, made it reachable. For me, one who is always hungry for learning, I listen to what others say, how they feel about what they say, and I ask questions. To keep a mind off moans and grumbles and selfies, it’s essential to feed that mind, no matter how old that mind might be.

Connectivity is another option, more of it and among those who uplift and encourage. There is enough gloom and doom out there already. What the world needs is more bright thinkers, those who, in spite of their circumstances, in spite of their fears, choose to see the world as a place of of hope, beauty and opportunity. When I hear moans, I can feel the irritation rise in me. When I hear ‘Well, what can anyone do?’ I want to say ‘A whole lot,’ because each one of us has that power, if we so choose. We can’t change everything, but we sure can change something, and that something is actually ‘someone.’ The self.

Achievements, personal achievements are listable for all of us. They don’t have to be huge. Why do we plant seeds in Spring? Because we can, because we love beauty and that blaze of colour. Why do we smile at each other in passing? Do we, smile at each in passing, or is that ‘self’ so caught up in minutiae, that we just don’t bother? To decide to smile at everyone. A good plan. To pick up litter instead of judging whoever dropped it. Another good plan. To allow someone else the parking space we were heading for. Excellent. A real achievement. And there are many more ways to make a difference whilst moving towards our goal of independent choice, of control over self.

Jimmy Hendrix said ‘ When the power of love is greater than the love of power, our world will find peace.’ I may have misquoted him, but you get the gist. And it begins with one person, one with a resolution that is free to us all. We can all thrive this year, by setting goals or plans or resolutions which connect us to each other, which take our self-centred thoughts up into the sky, to blow away in the winds.

Let’s do this. And a very happy new year to you all.

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Island Blog – Endless Positives

I have a think. In this culture of everything positive and uplifting (good so far) after Covid lockdown delivering awkward separation and restrictions we left way back in the when-when of school, familial confines, fears around ‘others’ who didn’t behave like Us, I think we might be losing the self of us. It is almost as if we shouldn’t feel sad, angry, lost, confused and unsure about what to wear, how to move in a sudden meet. It is as if we have become strangers, when, yes, we used to move past and beyond each other without even clocking a face. Now, there’s a thing.

I know I live in the back of beyond (all welcome by the way), with a view of a tidal loch, nothing much shouting but gulls on the hunt as the Atlantic slews in, but I still notice and note the change in media stuff. So many positive uplifts, and it wonders me. Who is left behind in this? I remember being so low I seriously believed pills and me gone was a good thing. Now, I recognise that woman, and love her and wish I could have been there for her. I just hope she sees me now, and I believe she does.

Nonetheless, I do find this, almost denial, awkward. How do we, who don’t want to fit beneath a label, find a voice? Yes, I fell, yes I fell, yes I fell, but somehow, and with strong and loving help, rose from my lost self, and found just one step, and then another, into a better life.

Perhaps the endless positive is a good thing. I still think there are loads of heads in sand out there.

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Island Blog – The Upbeat

I hesitate to write a blog when I am not feeling upbeat at all. The upbeat, in musical terms, is the lift after the down beat, the one you might clap along to, the easy beat. To clap to the upbeat means you’re the only one clapping, but for musicians it is a chance for play. It is like an in-breath. However, a down beat sounds down. I am beat down, that sort of down. When I hesitate, after many thinks on the matter, I realise that nobody wants to hear moans. We want to run away from a moaner. But my writing is not written in search of sympathy nor fixing. I write from the place of many, if not all of us, at times. Some people’s ‘times’ stretch out like a ribbon throughout their entire lives. Some others meet a break in the page and founder on the wordless rocks. What happens next? they may say. I thought I knew, but now I have fallen off the page and it is up there, beyond my reading, flying in the upbeat, where once I stood strong, like a surfer on my board, mistress or master of the waves. All I am now is soggy. Everything that bounded along in my life, and for endless years like a merry puppy has turned on me with teeth and claws. And we, all of us who know this break in our storyline, have no idea what to do next.

Could be the Lonely, could be the Nothing; could be some loss or a change we are sure will sink us in the end. But, in any case, we are onboard a ship sinking, and so close to land that we can see what was, and clearly, but we cannot reach it because we are going down. I know this place of old. I also know that it passes, eventually. For me it is the Lonely. My life from the very start was filled with others, their noise, their demands. Mostly I dealt with it all, mostly I held back my infuriation at a gazillion things, mostly. And, completely, I took it all for granted. Although the musical phrasing changed, from many siblings to many children, I learned my place eventually, although I fought the barricades and restrictions often and a lot and mostly. But we all yearn for peace and thus, we compromise ourselves and it’s a good thing to a degree. All relationships are ships, and sailing together means shared info resulting in safer passage for all. I watch young families now and feel very thankful I am not in that place any more. However, and there’s a thing, when all have fledged or died, and I am old, those chaotic times I am thankful for, the not-ness of them in my life, there is a nothing. I am encouraged to embrace the nothing. Seriously? Well, that is the sarcastic me and she is not a healthy companion. I must think differently about a situation which only exists in my soul, in my heart and mind. Until, that is, I write it out.

There is much talk about mental health right now. It kind of irks me, the label, but it is way way better than the labels tossed over coffee tables by ‘goodly’ folk in my day, when the very word ‘mental’ put the hat of shame firmly on someone’s head, much like the word ‘gay’. It was the culture back then, the learned way of thinking, but deep down it was always only a way to be smug, to be the one who wasn’t tainted by anything weird, different or dodgy, as any alternative way to live. So dangerous and so very damaging. I knew it even as a teenager and could not believe what I heard nor saw. Now, it seems, a freedom is coming, although it may take a while to fly free. For those of us who know we are foundering on rocks or sinking, I can say that if we believe that everything passes, moments, events, even lifetimes, we can keep on keeping on. I thought I would adore a singular life. I love the concept, but the daily trudge of it is not as I expected. I fill in the hours, yes. I am so very thankful for the wonderful place in which I live, the tidal views, the island weather, the community, my friends and helpers. But, it isn’t enough.

The sun may be shining. It might be a bank holiday, family may be incoming friendly. But unless we, who feel we are sinking, believe in a possiblest time to come, we are doomed. So, un-doom. I am awfy busy with the undooming thing. There is light, maybe light we cannot see, but it is there, nonetheless. Just keep with the small things, the ordinary stuff, the washing, the watering, the waving, keep with those and be at peace, my many friends. Bin the shame, bin the inner judge and sit peaceful in nature and know, of all things, that you have a gazillion others out there, somewhere, who know how you feel right now. The upbeat is coming…..

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Island Blog – A Doorway and a Sister

For three wonderful nights, I have slept well, nightmare free. I have no flipping idea why they come, the nightmares, although I do know that they only come in tough times, when my equilibrium decides to unequilibriate itself, tipping me into a sort of confusion, as if I had forgot who I am and which way is up. To be honest, I don’t spend much time a-wondering about this because ‘this’ just comes like that visitor you really hope never appears at your door, and we all have at least one of those. I just know it will pass like everything does, as long as my antenna are vigilant, strengthened, aware for what I may have missed heretofore because there will have been warning signs. For starters, it is no way possible that a mammoth can travel silently, even on tiptoe. Although I wasn’t around in those days when mammoths pounded over the earth, I am guessing that everyone heard them coming, even just the one. Must have been earth shaking. All that bulk and belly and weight could never just slip into a situation. Even an ‘it’ might have been heard a whole country away, thus giving plenty of warning. Oh, hear that? There’s a mammoth in Cumbria and heading our way so take cover! Simple.

So, I must listen for those big earth-gouging hooves, the pounding of them indicating both body density and danger. Ok, I’ve got that now. But once the damn thing is in the doorway, there is another thing for me to learn. First off, it can’t come through. Why not, You might ask. Because the doorway is human sized and a mammoth, weighing about 10 tons and 11 foot to shoulder height, never mind the body width and bulk plus hair and stuff picked up on the way all entangled and thoroughly woven in, is never getting through. It’s legs are four square and there’s a gap between the drop of its belly and my lino. An easy crawl if I can get past those tusks, which I can, easily, because there is no opportunity for a free swing of those great pointy things, not least because the door frame prevents any such free pointy swingery. I can see where I want to go, if I crouch down, the light coming in the picture window beyond the arse of this rufous beast, well, the swinging tail really, as the arse is massive. I just have to crawl beyond the tail of it, the tail of the nightmare-inducing eejit. How hard can that be? As long, and this is important, I do not clock eyes with the threat, pay no attention, nor give any level of import, to the growling (or whatever mammoths say when being their best at threatening) of the face, the teeth, the horns, I can find myself. I am more than a match for a stuck mammoth. It is only my mind playing tricks, that mind, well, bless it and all that, that only works on what it has already experienced. It has no way of thinking for itself. It might tell me I am no match for such a threat, that this threat is real, that I may as well submit, and I have done so many times over the years, hearing pre-recorded voices telling me I will never succeed, that I am not good enough, that I Told You So is all you’re going to hear today. But, the minute I employ my own intelligence and trust it, trust it, I see the stuck-ness of the mammoth. I see the light beyond its rufous arse, no, tail, I see who has the power here for I am in my right time, my right era, the Holocene era, not the Pleistocene epoch, and it’s Spring (apparently) and the mammoth is not. Perhaps that’s how it got stuck in my doorway. I push under and out and up, moving into the light of right now, of right Me.

When anyone mentions anything at all about anything mental, such as demon wrestling, nightmares, times when life appears as a mammoth in all doorways, folk don’t know what to say. There’s a stigma around anything of the mind. It is all in your mind, I’ve heard ever since I was 13. Well, yes, you’re right, although the way you say it sounds like a judgement instead of what it is, something to be cherished and nurtured and recognised, for it is real and the more you pretend to yourself that we, who do swingle t’ween your reality and the vast empires of our minds, are somehow in need of fixing, the more minds will become lost forever.

There are mammoths in a gazillion doorways but who will stop this rush of humanity towards gain and power, to even stop and notice we with supposed mental health issues? Perhaps just one (and one is more than enough) like my sister, a tiny bird of a woman with a huge personality, ditto heart and with the tenacity and courage of a terrier. She said ” I’ll shoo off the mammoth.” and, I believe she did.

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Island Blog – Swanlift, Labels, Honey and a Captain son

This day I drive the switchback to the harbour town. I only go there these days on a specific mission, never to wander nor to dawdle, as once I did. As I heft right down the steep brae and see the tongue of the Main Street sticking out like thirst, it is coloured up with tourists, the many who are here for a longing, an escape from lockdown. I am so not joining them. They wander, holding ice creams, takeaway coffees, bags of shopping, children, all loving the tidal sweep of the bay, the seagulls fly, the fisher boats, the chip van. I swing right into the harbour car park and meet a tailback. There are just so many places for the parking and I get it. You arrive and you want to park. That’s all, but it is not enough because all the spaces are taken so we tailback, hover, pause, exercise patience and not patience. I am here to meet up with my captain son as his boat is in the harbour for a couple of hours before turning seaward once more with his passengers. We bench sit for I cannot go aboard. He brings tea, a chef made biscuit wrapped in a paper napkin and delicious. We talk of our lives, his young family, my aloneness. We watch the in and out of boats, of visitors in yachts, of locals checking their own launches and sailors. We say hallo and I watch faces. Of the ones I know as friends, I see the toll Covid and isolation has taken on them. Some visitors come too near and my mask hand twitches. They laugh, cough, move on and here I sit scared as a mouse, even on a bench in the sea air.

What happens to us in such times? It thinks me, much, of those (including me in the past) who felt scared just being around people, never mind an invisible virus. We were labelled as those with mental health issues. Now, I am one who would fight to the death to blow all labels into the stratosphere, no matter the smug relax of those who choose it at some committee meeting and then tootle home delighted with the fact that they don’t fit the confines of any label. So, right now I am afraid. And then I am not. This fear is tidal. It rises, full moons itself and then subsides into seaweed and sand. It is real. Very real. But I would stand at the gates of Challenge and shout ‘ Don’t label us!’. I would. And I will tell you why. Any label fixes a person. It might be on medical notes. It might be a long term tenant in someone’s mind. Oh, he, or she, has mental health issues. How ridiculous and how wrong is that! Does this mean we who have gone down like a swan in a swamp, cannot find a way out? Of course not. We can fly again, lift from fear again, become wonderfully white and light and flighty once again.

It is a thixotropic place. In the language of honey spinning, that honey gift from the bees, this word means honey that refuses to spin. It is mostly heather honey which is why it is common to buy heather honey in comb squares, wax included. In life it symbolises the same thing. A refusal to spin, to melt and demur. What I find in these times is that I oftentimes need to remind myself to relax my shoulders, raise my neck, breathe and go forward, especially en route to what I consider the Big City, bubbling with way too much busy life, a life I felt so easy peasy in before. Suddenly it presents menace. My honey refuses to spin. It is still there but affixed in a wax hexagon that will not let it free. I am not saying I like it. I love to flow. I love people, connectivity, chance encounters, but now I am confounded, afraid and my body is telling me she is not happy.

I know that I am bereaved broken. I know that learning how to live alone after almost 50 years is not going to turn me into a confidently independent woman overnight. I know, because of this, that I have mental health issues. Fear, accentuated; sleepless nights; hypervigilance; squewed thinking. of course I flipping do. It thinks me of anyone who is so labelled and who feels less-than, diminished, isolated because of that awful label. (all labels are awful). When any one of us is in a dark place the last thing we need is labelling. We are not what ‘they’ tell us we are. We are just in a dark place, a dark well, looking up at the light and just a bit terrified of moving towards it because we have no idea of what that light might throw on who we really are now, in the aftermath.

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Island Blog – On Being Vulnerable

I watch the far shore disappear behind the rain. It’s a little warmer this afternoon although it was a mere 5 degrees earlier. Going out to collect the wood required a few warm layers, but the burner is strong and cheery and lights like a firework every time I spin a match. I don’t mind the cold, nor the crazy west coastal weather. I am well used to it and still wear my frocks, my legs bare, my boots sheepskin lined. I walk in the early hours when most others are making tea or accepting a warm cup from a proffered and loving hand. When we get warm here, we get rain, and an islander or someone who knows this place well through regular visits, accepts and accepts again. I remember a visit to Iceland where the cold is frightening unless you have sheepskin knickers, or, as nowadays, thermals. I am pre thermals. I also have never worn sheepskin knickers but that is by the way. And Iceland is so beautiful.

I see the birds shelter and then flit when there is a wee break in the rain. I watch them, think I want to live this way and then remind myself that I already do. For long years I have dived out into such a break, grabbing with open arms the light and the bright of it and, sometimes caught on the other side. Sometimes. But not often. I have rarely found myself right out there in among the ancient rocks, the wild open space, and realised my poor timing, my poor understanding of how Nature works. Perhaps, I tell myself, after 43 years of living this wild place, of breathing in her breath, of hearing her voice, I am able to notice her offerings of sudden space to live, to really get out there into a language I am only just learning to speak. Sometimes I will say, let’s go, but by the time the ‘let’s go’ team have coated and booted up, the clouds are downing once more, the wind rising, the weather talking, saying, uhh, too late mate. Maybe this is why and this is how I am beginning to love being alone, because a wee Poppy dog needs no coating or booting. She just needs a wheech off her resting place, a touch that tells her something is afoot and that something is us and right now. It thinks me.

Being vulnerable is a very present thing. I know that being vulnerable can be seen as a weakness. What? There is nothing wrong with me. I am fine thank you. And, sadly, I am happy (not) to be seen as doing ok. When I am not. There is a distinct lack of congruence here, of authenticity and yet we persist in keeping the game going. Well, not me. I know who I am and I know my vulnerability. I know where I am weak and where I am super strong. I know that my mind, the dizziest broad you will ever meet is a part of me. I know I have black spells, I know shame and I know regret. I know I am a woman, long lived who still fights demons, her own, and I know how consuming they can be, given space enough to develop.

The hills that disappear when rain sheets them over are vulnerable. Are they really there when I can see nothing of them? The birds, the wildlife are vulnerable when unexpected cold continues as they work to fledge their young. I see young birds, tails short, flight a whole new thing to them and sorely compromised under sheets of rain, lift and fall, moving just a few feet to land again, puffing like bellows. The trees that trusted the early warmth are pushing out blossoms, only to find petals at their feet. They are vulnerable too, for without the bees and other flighty things, they risk their future. And, yet, it is how it is, how it always was and how it will be again. This is vulnerable living and we are all in this living thingy. Together.

Unlike the trees, birds and insects, we have an intelligent choice. To seek help. I get that it is super difficult to reach out to someone who has the experience we lack. The internet is full of quacks and crooks. But, if you want to heal then I say Keep Looking, because every single one of us knows how it feels at any age or stage to be sick of being sick. I am one. Aged 68, a grandmother, a woman of great experience, a woman who has gone through many hurdles. I like saying I am vulnerable because I always want to learn a better way for me. There is one out there and I know it. There are many of us, particularly now, who seek help, who want change. But, first off, we must admit we are vulnerable to whatever haunts us. There is talk of Mental Awareness as if it was a new thing. I scoff. It has always been a ‘thing’, but only now is it noticed. I hate the label. I hate all labels. But, if it is, at the least, being accepted as something that will eventually become accepted then I can go with it. I had a dad who came back from the war with obvious issues that he ignored, pushed down and which only came out in anger and excess. He was a wonderful man but broken and not least because being vulnerable and admitting ‘fault lines’ was not acceptable. Now things are different and yet not. Still the question comes. So, what is wrong? Well, nothing and everything and where does anyone start with that almost judgmental question? I never got it and always reverted to silence.

So, I will continue to be vulnerable, and yes, I know it is easier for women #flakes to speak out. For men even now it takes balls (sorry) to admit such a thing. But it is key and there are going to be young men out there who will fly the flag, who will push through the What is Wrong nonsense and who will broad the walk for those to come. Because we all know it. All of us. At some time in our lives.

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Island Blog – Three Keys in My Hand

I have one, no, two meetings this week. One on Tuesday, a zoom with a writer friend, and one on Wednesday with my counsellor. In my opinion, many of us need to find someone just a bit more above things than we are. I have always found that a hand reaching down is a huge help, despite the initial shame I felt at asking for it. And there’s a thing. As this lockdown keeps us stuck/imprisoned/safe, there are many who are finding it super tough, whose mental stability is being seriously challenged. I get it. As one who has always been mentally turmoiled to a degree, and who sees that last week was Mental Health Week (as if one week would ever be enough) I am more than happy that the world is getting it, or, at least, the slowmovingrulemakers are thinking wider, perhaps. In my life I have met many who could flower but cannot flower within the confines of stigmatism and of what is socially acceptable. Hence the hidden pain. And the most destructive judge of all lives within. We are all flawed, broken to varying degrees, doing out very best to fit in without sticking out in ways that might draw attention to our faults.

Looking out upon the natural world is key, but we must also look within. As I have been a student of self-improvement for decades, I have absorbed a million positive phrases and still found myself not quite at home with myself, no matter how bright the epiphany. However, I am finally beginning to understand that time holds the second key and time requires my patience, my faith in the strength of a human spirit and my trust that the goodly gods are working for me, and not against me. When the world demands something I do not want or cannot give, I need this trust. If we were all meant to be the same we would be mere automatons. We are far from that, thank goodness. Although we are currently required to live as such, it will pass eventually. Confined to home, required to wash our hands a hundred times a day, separated from loved ones, stuck in the wrong country and so on, we have this time to reflect on who we are and on the life we want for ourselves once we are freed from the chains that bind. Think on that.

I watch the young birds fly through my little garden, feathers awry, all ruffly spot and unsure of where to land. New life learning old ways. For them, survival is the teacher. They cannot suddenly square up to a cat or challenge the dive of a sparrow hawk without almost certainly turning into lunch. But we can. If we consider our predators, our demons, our self-doubts and our fears to be in control of our lives, then they will be. Noticing every thought and questioning it is key number three. Even if I am uncertain of my path, my voice, the strength, or lack of it, of my own human spirit, if I decide to turn this thing around, to turn myself around, then wonderful things begin to happen. I don’t need to run from my doubts and fears, my thoughts and worries, I just need to about face and question. Do I really think this or is this thought thinking me? Then, if it isn’t useful, I say cheerio. I don’t need you. Every time I do this, I empower my true self. I am not controlled by my thoughts. I control them, and in this uncertain life when a single day can throw a tidal wave over my carefully constructed sandcastle, my thoughts are the only thing I can control.

I know what it is like to be in the darkness of depression. I know how overwhelming life can be. I also know how to rebuild my spirit and I am thankful for all my guides over the years. Not everyone finds their way. Some souls are lost. Most of our illnesses come from inner stress, manifesting in the physical body, sometimes destroying it. This time of reflection is a gift to us all, not only to make new ways to live for ourselves by taking a long hard look at our core values, our life choices, our work and our families, but to look and to see others who may need our clear and open friendship. Those, whom we might have dismissed before as misery guts or gloomy or bad tempered. Nobody wants to live like that. Nobody. But everybody needs somebody to lift them at some point in their lives.

There are less of us still breathing in the world today. This virus is greedy and it isn’t done with us yet. Let us make sure that the ones who will emerge back into the light of ‘normality’ even more broken, even more damaged and even more fearful of their futures, do not have to walk alone.