Phillip Davis's Blog

File this under, “advice I’ll be better at giving than taking.”

This won’t be easy to read for some: You can’t fix everything. I balk at the thought too. I understand there are some things I don’t have the power to repair; relations in the middle east, economic inflation, terminal illnesses, but everything else? Clearly I’m exaggerating, but not as much as I wish I was.

Wait, I’m a What?

I suppose I’ve always known it’s my nature to want to help. As a teacher, it’s my job. But I want to help colleagues too. I want to make their lives easier; help them navigate issues with students, parents, curriculum, administration, etc.. When a friend has a problem, I want to help them solve the issue, or at least get closer to a solution. Need a favor, an errand run, another set of hands for a task? I’m your man.

“You’re a fixer, and this can’t be fixed. Right now, there is nothing you can do, and that’s where your anxiety is coming from.” Insert a knowing look.

-My Therapist, Dave

You called me what? To make matters “worse,” in the crisis response training I attended last week, one trainer said, “many of you are fixers…” and I thought, “Okay he’s talking to me. I get what he’s saying, but at least I’m not alone.” Several heads in the audience nodded at his comment.

But that’s a good thing, right? If something is broken, it needs to be fixed.

Yes, but that’s not always what it’s about

And I know that. Sometimes it’s about just listening. Sometimes it’s about letting things play out and “being there” for the person with the problem. I’m 100% certain that’s true. And I like to think I’m good at that. But I’m not. I have to fight my natural inclination to offer advice, to share a story that shows I understand, to offer another perspective on a vexing situation. But sometimes it’s better to keep my mouth shut.

That is not generally how I’m described; as someone who keeps their mouth shut.

But if there are things I can offer—advice, perspective, options—why wouldn’t I do it? Why would I just let a problem lie unaddressed? I’m not saying I have the answers, but if I can offer anything at all, why wouldn’t I? Because sometimes a situation needs to run its course. Sometimes a person has to feel their way through it, come to answers on their own, or simply doesn’t want to hear it.

But, there’s a problem, and it needs fixed, right?

Yes, but it’s not my job

Oh boy. Then what is my job?

Nothing. Sometimes my job is to do nothing. My value as a friend, colleague, partner, family member, etc. is not based on how well I can help solve problems.

I’ll say that again (as much for me as for you.) My value as a person is not dependent on my ability to fix problems. This is true even when the problems are shared. I am not a character in a story with a specific role to play. I don’t have a job. Or rather, my job is friend, colleague, partner, or family member, and not “fixer.” Dave has helped me see that I’ve seen this as my job since I was a child. Whether it’s a role I stepped into voluntarily or one I filled because I figured someone needed to fill it, I was there when it seemed things needed fixed.

As I’m typing this, I get a text message from a dear friend who isn’t feeling particularly well. I offer sympathy, but my instinctive response is to say, “how can I help?” knowing full well there really isn’t anything I can do. My fingers hover over my phone. I don’t want to say, “Sorry to hear that,” and let it go at that. She might not know I’d fix, it if I could. She might think that’s a throwaway response.

And if I could understand why she’s not feeling well, or help her identify the source—if she doesn’t already know—I might be able to offer some kind of aid. I’ve even brainstormed a couple light-hearted responses that quietly wrap fixer suggestions in them; things I can’t actually provide, but the idea of might offer comfort. I just can’t help it. For now, I left it at asking why she wasn’t feeling well. It doesn’t matter, really. There’s nothing I can do for her at the moment. I can’t fix it.

And it isn’t my job. That’s not what she needs or wants from me and my value to her, her opinion of me, will not change if I don’t probe at it and try to help.

But she has a problem, and it needs fixed, right?

Yes, but sometimes there are more questions than answers

The problem with being compelled to fix things is that answers aren’t always readily available. In fact, for most problems, they’re not available at all; not right away. So, we ask questions. We might ask the person or people involved with the problem, but we definitely ask ourselves. It’s a lot of “what if-ing.” Dig for possible causes. Brainstorm possible paths the problem took. What about branches off those paths? Does each branch need a solution? Does one remedy cover all the symptoms or does it create others?

Enter anxiety. To the analytical, this sounds like research. And there is certainly a component of that to it. But when the answers lead only to more questions, the problem remains unfixed and you’ve created another one. Now, you have your own problem. Enter the words above of my erudite therapist.

A fixer who can’t fix something is spins in circles. He or she becomes an Energizer bunny, beating the drum relentlessly until, eventually, the battery runs out. Nothing is fixed and now you’re out of juice. Now you need fixed. And worse, in the process, you may have added to someone’s problem you were trying to fix or become someone else’s problem.

And when a situation is completely beyond your control, all you have are questions. All you have is the need to fix things that can’t be fixed, not by you at least. So where does that leave you? This is the part where I wrap up with words of wisdom, explain what I’ve discovered as the solution to viewing yourself as the fixer, right?

No

I’m sorry, but no. It’s something I’m working on; something I will continue to work on. The single word of wisdom I can offer is this: acceptance. We fixers need to learn to accept two things. First, problems exist that we can’t fix. Second, that’s okay.

Deep breaths? Stay distracted? Find another problem to work on? Sure. Maybe. For me, the biggest lesson, and one that is connected to a host of other anxieties and insecurities, is the one about it not being my job. If I can accept that, then the problems generated by being a fixer are on their way to being. fixed

The post The Fixer: Or How you Can’t Make Everything Better appeared first on PL Press Books.

Over the past few days, I’ve been chasing the sunrise. Sunrises, sunsets, and starry night sky have always been among my favorite things. And I find they usually inspire some kind of reflection. I stumble across analogies to the human condition. I’ve been fortunate to have a few muses in my life, and the sunrise is one of them.

If you can’t beat them, join them

I’ve been waking up before dawn for months now, and not on purpose. It doesn’t seem to matter what time I go to bed, what’s on my mind, or what’s going on that day. I can’t stay asleep. Most of the time, I do a little writing. These blogs are often published, or the rough drafts written at least, before 6:00 am. During the school year, that means by the time I’m finished writing, it’s about time to go to work.

I get to work a lot earlier than I need to, regardless of what time I get up. It’s my quiet time. I guess, though I hate to admit it, I might be a morning person. That doesn’t mean I want to have a conversation before I’ve had a few cups of coffee, but the early hours seem to be where I find my peace.

I’ve been out of school for three weeks now. So, I can write first thing in the morning, but then what? It’s frustrating to be up that early when you don’t have to be. Try as I might, there’s no falling back asleep and unless I have an inspiration to write, I find mindless ways to keep busy.

Then it hit me. I’ve been taking walks lately. It’s another way I clear my head and another place I find peace, or at least time for reflection. I go to the park, put my headphones on, and stroll. If I’m going to be up this early, why not take those walks and watch the sunrise?

Making the Choice

In a previous blog, I talked about choices we can make to fight anxiety. One of those choices is focusing on the positive. Here, it was more about turning a negative into a positive. I could wake up and moan about the early hour, lament the pre-dawn malaise, and wish I could go back to sleep. I could open the coloring app on my phone and listen to an audiobook. That’s the routine before I close my eyes at night. It might as well be how I start the day.

https://medium.com/@plpressbooks/three-choices-you-can-make-to-fight-anxiety-e4586d968806

But the sunrise… It sounds like trite wisdom—often true wisdom does—but turning a negative into a positive is powerful. Now, I know not we can’t turn all negatives around. Some things are just hard, just ugly or painful. But we can look for opportunities. The maxim of problems being opportunities for growth, change, or innovation makes me cringe a little. As I said, I think some problems are just problems. However, maybe there is some angle, some part of the issue we can use to our advantage.

Four am is too early to be up if I don’t have to be, but I can see the sun rise.

Finding the Colors

This morning, I went to a different park than the one I usually visit. I arrived a half an hour before astronomical sunrise and oriented myself to be facing east when the time came.

The sky grew lighter; a soft blue replacing the darkness. But even as the blue took over, there wasn’t a single brushstroke of color. I walked around the loop a couple more times, double checking that I was looking for it in the right direction. I went off the path to make sure I had a clear view of the horizon, unhindered by the treeline. Still nothing.

It was frustrating. Up early and in a location I thought would provide better views than those I’d had the day before, and not a single pink or purple splash to be seen anywhere. I’d have to wait until tomorrow and see if I had any better luck. I’d find another location. Maybe I’d try again at sunset. That wouldn’t satisfy the point of taking the dawn stroll, but I’d find my color.

It occurred to me that if I wanted color in my day and didn’t find it in the sunrise, I’d have to find it elsewhere. And maybe we could all use a little practice finding our color. What can we find in our daily lives that adds a splash of inspiration, peace, reflection, excitement, or joy? Where can we find one of those “little things” or inject a little passion into something. It’s easy to let a mundane day pass; to allow it to be gray simply out of habit and routine. But if we yearn for something more, where can find the color?

Acceptance

I’m driving home from my morning walk and I glimpse just a hint of color out of the corner of my eye. It makes me smile to know I’ve found a little. Noting the direction relative to where I’m driving, I can draw a mental map from where I am to where I might try again tomorrow.

I know for certain of a place I’ve seen spectacular sunrises; out the back door closest to my classroom. I could go to school; could walk around the old neighborhood and position myself near the playground and stand a pretty good chance of seeing the seeing what I want to see. But what teacher wants to walk around school when they don’t have to be there? It’s June. It shouldn’t even be legal to find myself on school grounds, much less at 5:30 in the morning.

Where else might I go? I’m pulling up the driveway to my apartment and I realize something. There is a reasonably unobstructed view from the front porch. It’s not perfect, but I could sit on that porch and see something of the sunrise. And then that funny feeling I’ve just stumbled onto something strikes me.

It wouldn’t be the walk I want to take. I’d probably still find my way to the park at some point, but what if the best place to watch the sunrise is right where I am? A cup of coffee could improve it, or the company of a loved one. And the view isn’t perfect or a unique location, but maybe that isn’t the point. Maybe what I need is right here. As if to illustrate the point, when I started writing this blog, the Rolling Stones “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” shuffled to the top on my playlist.

“You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.”

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

Dreams and Tomorrows

I’m embarrassed to say as I thought about starting this paragraph the treacly lyric from “Annie” ran through my mind. “The sun will come out tomorrow…”

But it’s a fact. Maybe there won’t be a visible sunrise. Maybe there will be dark stormy skies. It could be overcast. You’ll have to find your color another way, and there will be another tomorrow. Maybe it will be a colorless day. It’s bound to happen. I’m aiming for positivity and optimism, but I’m not naïve enough to believe that we can turn every frown upside down. I know we can’t wrestle every day into peace, comfort, and joy. But we can look for it.

It’s hard to believe that every day is a blessing when so many of them can feel like anything but, but ask someone who has survived a life-threatening illness. Ask someone who’s lost a loved one. Ask someone who has experienced life-changing trauma. Tomorrows aren’t a guaranteed.

I have dreams of places I’d like to see the sunrise and people I’d like to share it with. I have beautiful mental images of picturesque places, quiet moments, shared experiences. Some of them are currently out of reach. It would be easy to lament their present inaccessibility. But I can set goals. I can try to find ways to paint those mental images into my reality. And I can be grateful for the day I have now and another chance to see the sunrise.

https://medium.com/@plpressbooks/who-doesnt-love-a-sunset-d95a191630

Who doesn’t love a sunset?

You can find companion videos, and some nice shots of sunrises, on my TikTok feed.

Phillip Davis is the author of Peppermint Lightning, Jack-o-’Lightning, and Justice for the Missing. (Sequel coming in 2023!) He is also an elementary school teacher and mental-health advocate. He writes on the topics of writing, mental health, and self improvement.

The post The Sunrise Walks: Dawn Reflections appeared first on PL Press Books.

“I am the servant of the power behind the Nothing.”

G’Mork: The Neverending Story. 1984

I don’t remember if it was a tip from an artist friend in high school or advice from Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way,” but I once encountered a suggestion to picture writer’s block; to actually find or create an image that personified it and place it where I could see it when working. The idea is, if you can face it, you can fight it.

Last night I wrote a blog for someone near and dear to me about a shared experience. In it, I included the actual intrusive thoughts that occurred as I was writing. I put them in italics to set them apart from “my own” words, the words of my conscious mind. As part of my battle with a recent increase in the intensity and frequency of my fight against anxiety, I have come to think of my anxiety and I as separate entities.The blog I mentioned above was the first time I separated them to the degree there was a bit of dialogue between us as I wrote.

Anxiety doubts. It questions. It suggests uncertainty. It undermines. It’s the unfiltered fear and worry of the subconscious mind. I’m borrowing and adapting this idea from Jen Sincero’s “You Are a Badass,” of which I’ve just read the first chapter. The conscious mind is the rational one. It’s responsible for logic and reason. It processes information and makes decisions. It’s the part of me in the driver’s seat so long as I’m winning the fight. Anxiety comes from the subconscious

The Monster

Anxiety is G’Mork; the nightmarish wolf-like creature from the 1984 film “The Neverending Story.” As a child, this was one of the scariest characters in any scene in any movie. He might be responsible for the fear of large dogs I had when I was young that, to this day, keeps me on the other side of the street when a large, pointy-eared canine is approaching. G’Mork has long represented fear. I don’t think of him often, but when I consider formative images from my childhood, he’s there, poking his head out of the shadows and issuing threats.

Today, I decided that he is my anxiety. When I wrote that blog last night, I could see a vague form in my mind’s eye of the beast who was speaking those intrusive thoughts. The more I thought about it, the more it took shape. When I was describing to my friend the idea of my anxiety being a separate entity I had to fight, I described G’Mork, and he became the “official” avatar for the anxiety-monster that plagues me.

And if I can see him, I can fight him. I bought a sticker I’m going to put on a notebook where I’m starting to journal those intrusive thoughts. The sticker reads “Fight the Nothing.” The Nothing is the lost battle. It’s the victory of my subconscious mind over my conscious mind. The Nothing is defeat and hopelessness. And I have no intention of losing.

I am on the earliest pages of a new chapter in my life. It’s a chapter full of hope and promise; one where I embrace who I am, where I grow personally, professionally, and in my relationships. It’s the chapter where The Nothing’s power is a memory, not a threat. And G’Mork isn’t welcome. The transition between chapters is difficult, as change often is. And anxiety is playing a key role. G’Mork is growling and baring his teeth. He’s staring at me with those chilling eyes and whispering lies. His domain is doubt, uncertainty, and fear. My conscious mind sees him for what he is; the foe in a fight I have to win.

And I will fight The Nothing.

The post Fight the Nothing appeared first on PL Press Books.

Anxiety

Sometimes, it’s a choice. I have no doubt there are those who would say it’s always a choice, but my humble opinion is those people have never experienced it to the degree some of us have or they have years more practice managing it and a perspective I haven’t found a path to. Sometimes it’s overwhelming and we have to find ways to mitigate it or simply ride it out. But sometimes it’s a choice.

I’m not going to tell you it’s easy. If it was, we’d all know how to do it and be able to make that choice—flip things around so well we wouldn’t need therapy, medication, meditation, yoga, and so on. If it was easy, a whole industry would shrink, if not collapse. But it can be done.

And it can feel trite. It can feel like throwaway wisdom; the sort of thing you put on a bumper sticker. Those little pearls of wisdom stick around because there is truth in them, though. Again, they aren’t easy to follow but when you choose to follow them, they pay off.

Focus on the Positive

The simplest of these is one we tell ourselves, as well as one another, in times of difficulty. I’ve got a bracelet that says it I put on when I know I need the reminder or when I’m getting ready to face a day I know will have challenges. But is it that simple? Yes. But again, simple doesn’t mean easy.

I went for a walk yesterday morning. My head was spinning. I was rolling over the same questions, the same concerns, the same problems that had vexed me for days, if not weeks. The day before I felt like they were wearing thin the edges of my sanity; that it wouldn’t be long before the circles I was running in turned from anxiety to depression. I had to do something different, something other than pace around the house, putter away at the same complex project, or watch parts of mediocre TV shows. So, I went for a walk.

It was a beautiful, quiet morning. The local state park hadn’t gotten busy with joggers or dog walkers yet. Bird song and the sound of the burbling creek filled the air. And I made a choice. For just a few minutes, if nothing else, I was going to focus on those sounds, on the greenery, on the sun filtering through the summer leaves. I had to drag my mind back from the intrusive thoughts more than once. Simple, not easy. But I made the choice.

And for a few minutes, maybe a little longer, my heart rate decreased. The tightness in my chest eased. Things felt like they were going to be okay. I made another choice. I looked at the problems I was chewing on and asked myself where they came from; asked myself what the outcomes could be, the positive results, the constructive reasons I was going through the difficulty in the first place.

I’d love to tell you it wiped the anxiety slate clean, but that isn’t true. It did lower the volume though, and a little peace and change to my perspective gave me a firmer footing for the rest of the day.

Practice Gratitude

This one could be a sibling to focusing on the positive.

Sometimes it feels like everything in our lives is out to get us, out to complicate and challenge. Sometimes it feels like everything is wrong. I wasn’t quite in that kind of hole yesterday, but I am familiar with it. I know what it’s like to feel isolated, hopeless, like it’s me against the world and the odds are not in my favor.

But there’s another choice to be made, and it too has to do with perspective. Rather than focus on the things that feel like they’re working against us, focus on the things that are working for us. And don’t just call them to mind, but be grateful for them. Maybe you thank your chosen divine entity. Maybe you thank the unseen forces of the universe. Perhaps you just offer a smile or a nod to acknowledge those things you have in your favor.

For me, it’s the people. I deal with loneliness and isolation a lot. It’s something I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember. I don’t have a circle of friends I can call on or socialize with. There’s no community I feel a part of, but I have people in my life I don’t know what I’d do without. I have an amazing supportive family and a few friends, some close by and some far-flung, whose company I enjoy and who would have my back no matter what. Pausing the merry-go-round of anxious thoughts long enough to acknowledge them lifts my spirits and makes me feel better equipped to face my challenges.

Maybe you feel you don’t have those people in your life. But you have something; your health, a roof over your head, a job—you don’t have to like it, but you can be grateful you have one—access to the internet where you can read blogs from people you identify with. You have something, and if you can latch on to it you’ve made a choice that can help pull you out of whatever spiral you find yourself in.

Grace

When you have persistent anxiety, the very fact of having it can increase it. Why am I so anxious? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just stop? I’ve thought about it all. But there’s a choice to be made here, too. And I’ll confess it’s the one I struggle with the most. You can choose to be okay with it.

There are ways to combat it. There is help to be had. And it won’t last forever. But maybe you need to allow yourself to feel it and forgive yourself for struggling with the issues that plague you. The challenges might be very real. They might have significant consequences. Often anxiety and depression can blow those out of proportion, but it can all feel critically important and world-shiftingly serious. So, forgive yourself for worrying about them.

Don’t wallow. Don’t allow yourself to get sucked down by them (another choice,) but don’t punish yourself for your feelings. Give yourself a little grace. Maybe you worry your persistent anxiety is going to rub off on others or push them away. I know one of my greatest fears—one of those things that doubles the already problematic anxiety—is that those closest to me will tire of it and their opinion of me change. I don’t want to be a problem or the source of someone else’s stress. But the people who care about you most, who understand that you struggle, will offer patience and give you grace. Why not give it yourself?

A Few Other Choices

Find the little things. Again, this one is a close cousin to focusing on the positive. It may not slow the circular thinking or derail a runaway train of intrusive thoughts, but it could slow it down. Smell the flowers, put on a favorite song, enjoy the stars or a sunset. Make the little things that can bring you joy also bring you a little relief.

Talk to someone. Make the choice that, rather than having to go it alone, someone can help. Talk out the thinking that has you in a spin. Someone may have perspective or a bit of advice that helps change your direction. Just the act of explaining what’s on your mind can take some of its power.

Distract yourself. It doesn’t always work for me, but it’s always worth a try. A good book, a hobby, a video game, something to watch on TV might help you escape. The thinking may still be there when you’re finished, but at least you’ve given yourself a break. Make the choice to sink yourself into something other than the quagmire of your own thoughts.

Maybe You Need More

These aren’t answers. They aren’t cures. Maybe, like me, you need additional help. Maybe it’s counseling to help you gain more tools and learn more strategies. It could be medication or a combination of these things. Don’t fight it on your own if it gets to be too much. There are resources. There is help.

The post Three Choices You Can Make to Fight Anxiety appeared first on PL Press Books.

I have packed and moved ten times in the past 25 years; two houses and eight apartments across four states. I know a thing or two about stuff. In every one of those moves—or nearly—I’ve purged boxes, closets, totes, and cupboards. I’ve thinned out and pared down, sometimes ruthlessly and sometimes judiciously. And yet, more stuff fills in the spaces—and then some.

But how much stuff do we need? The answer depends on your interpretation of “need.” I like my things. Much of it I liked more when I purchased it than I care about it now, but I must have purchased it all for a reason. And not only was the stuff purchased, but kept. Maybe it’s on display. Maybe it’s in a closet or a drawer or a cupboard. It takes up space. Do I need any of it?

Should it Stay, or Should it Go?

I am about to start a new chapter in my life and find myself packing again. What should I take with me into this new chapter? There is a strong temptation to box most of it up and “store” it. But what would I be storing it for? Do the things I’d set aside serve any purpose other than owning them? There might be some things of value. Ebay could help answer some of the question, but there is still a great deal of stuff that would remain.

Will I ever go looking for the things I store? Will I ever search for the things I put in boxes and stacked in a garage? I have a dear friend who lost, or had to get rid of, nearly everything because of hurricane damage. He said that he really hasn’t missed most of it. He’s never gone looking for the things he no longer has.

And that lends gravity to the other possibility I’ve considered. Just get rid of it. Minus those things I could recoup some money from through online auctions or a yard sale, is there are reason to keep all this stuff? If it’s otherwise bound for storage and unlikely to be sought after in the future, does it need to take up space anywhere? It’s a little sad to think of all my things in a landfill, but I could give much of this stuff away.

The Empty Spaces

But I bought the stuff for a reason. I spent money on it. How can I just throw it away? There’s a kind of guilt attached to the idea of just purging things again. But the money is spent, and keeping the items I spent it on doesn’t make me any richer. I covered my walls and shelves with things I like to look at, things that make me smile or bring back a fond memory, but do they truly bring me joy? Or are they weights? Is my life fuller with them or simpler without them?

We attach memories to things; memories of events, of people, of places. Another dear friend posted a story on social media about an item she came across while helping her grandmother sort through things to prepare for a move. It was a small item, but full of fond memories. And that gave me pause too. “Things are things but memories are forever.” Do I keep the stuff because of the memories attached to it?

When the shelves are packed and I’m starting at the empty spaces, am I letting those memories go, sacrificing them so I’m not bothered by the accumulation of things? Am I getting rid of reminders of parts of my life for the convenience of not having to pack and move all the stuff again? When everything else is gone, aren’t memories all we have? And if I get rid of the things that remind me of the journey I’ve taken to get to this point in my life, will the memories fade too?

In the End

It’s going to require careful consideration and a bit of shrewdness to decide what stays and what goes; what comes with me or gets stored, and what is simply tossed out or given away. It’s an emotionally charged task and one I’ve struggled with all week, but it’s a task that needs done.

My instinct is to shed most of it. A new chapter doesn’t need old things. And I’m not talking about family heirlooms, but stuff. The shelves are full. The closets are full. The garage is brimming with full boxes and totes, but is my life any fuller for it? Is there a place for it all in the next chapter? Is getting rid of all this stuff an insult to the memories or a release from the weight of the past?

In the end, I suspect I’ll take a lot photos and leave a lot of stuff behind. I’ll always like my things. I’m sure I’ll acquire plenty more as the years march on. But I’ve also always envied a more spartan life; simplicity. Money is better spent on experiences than things. Shelves don’t need to be full for a life to be full. And, as the adage goes, “you can’t take it with you.”

What about you? What about all the stuff you’ve gathered? Do you ever want to just get rid of it all? Have you done that? If you’ve ever moved and had to sift through everything you own, how did you decide? Leave your answer in the comments. Thank you.

The post How Much Stuff Do we Need? appeared first on PL Press Books.

A handful of years ago, my primary care doctor referred me to a cardiologist who ordered an echocardiogram. I had a murmur, but everything looked strong. There was also minor concern over my perpetually elevated heart rate. At rest, it was almost always over 100, sometimes as much as 120. But my blood pressure was fine.

I had a stress test, then wore the heart monitor over my school’s Christmas break. It was one of the more trying years, and I was concerned the results would not represent my normal daily life. But everything came back fine. I just have a rapid heart rate. No big deal. Case dismissed.

Over the next few years, one doctor or another would mention my heart rate was “a little elevated,” but because my blood pressure was within normal range, never said another word.

And then my numbers started to climb.

My grandmother had a heart condition. My father had bypass surgery. Then my mother had a stroke, after years of trying to keep an outrageous blood pressure under control. Dad had another bypass. Mom had a bypass and a year later, an emergency aortic dissection. There’s a history; a lot of history.

My younger brother took action early on. He’s been invested in fitness and his overall health for years, largely because of what he’s seen my parents go through and what their health issues caused us all to go through. I haven’t taken the same steps, but I’ve kept an eye on things.

A year ago, maybe more, my blood pressure started to climb. It wasn’t high enough for doctors to show any great concern, but it wasn’t where it ought to be. And it’s stayed that way. The numbers aren’t crazy. I’ve seen crazy. I’ve been in the hospital with my parents enough times to see what a high scores look like. They’ve put up numbers like a pinball game! But mine are high enough my new primary care doctor raised an eyebrow.

She referred me to a cardiologist and put me on medication. Naturally, she also suggested some diet and lifestyle changes, but was pleased that I already knew what I needed to do and had been taking steps.

After a week of the medication with no change, she upped the dosage. The effects are minimal. I check the numbers at least twice a day. I’ve cut my coffee consumption back. No, I haven’t increased my exercise much, but that’s the next step. School is out soon, and not only will that give me a little more time to get to the gym, I expect the break alone will help lower the numbers.

I hate the gym. I always have. But, if going to the gym helps get my blood pressure down, then I’ll go. If I need to cut my coffee drinking back a bit more, I’ll do it, reluctantly. Fine tune my diet, no problem. There’s a history. And I don’t want to carry that particular legacy. I will see the cardiologist later this week. I’m certain he’ll schedule some testing, so I won’t learn anything definitive just yet. And I have blood work that needs done and primary care follow up at the end of the week.

I’m not too proud to admit I’m a little scared. I’ve never feared a doctor’s appointment before. Sure, the first cardiologist appointment a few years ago was a little intimidating. Fertility testing had me on edge. But this time, I’m genuinely worried about what I’m going to learn.

When the doctor put me on the medication and referred me for this week’s appointment, she said, “Of course I don’t want anything to happen. But if it happens, I want it to be because you’re old, not because we didn’t do anything about it.” I’m in full agreement.

Then she updated my emergency contact information.

I’ve told my loved ones about the current state of things, and even shared I’m a little scared. I know I have support and that I’m not in immediate danger of a crisis, but I’m anxious. The results of cardiology testing, the results of the blood work, the ineffectiveness of the medication so far all, and the murmur have me a little wound. That probably isn’t helping get my numbers down.

And relative to the health concerns of some of my loved ones, I even feel a little guilty being as concerned as I am. It’s all treatable. But I’m only human and only have one heart and a lot of years I’d like to spend without emergency trips to the hospital.

I’m hoping there isn’t much to report, but I’m sharing this now in case it’s the beginning of a journey and my experience can lend support to anyone else going through it.

The post Under Pressure appeared first on PL Press Books.

Sunsets turn into sunrises, and the world turns. One day fades into another and—at times—they seem endless, for better or worse. Days become months, become years. Our patterns continue. Our routines persist. And so many days pass without our taking account of them.

But they run out, eventually. We only have one go at this. We learn the rules and our roles; play them and play by them because it’s what we know, because it’s safe.

We’re given this puzzle box at birth and believe it’s like a Rubik’s Cube. We spend our lives trying to find suitable patterns in the movement of its columns and rows, arranging the colors in neat faces. It’s tricky, but it is far from impossible. Sometimes, when we need a clue, we watch others twist and shift theirs. Other times, we spin randomly, hoping we’ll find the right combination to slide things into place.

The arrangement we work towards is all six sides, solidly its own color. Those are the rules. But is it the only way? Some people might prefer their faces more colorful, and they find their own patterns. They twist and arrange things in ways that look foreign, maybe even messy, to most. But they are satisfied with the colors arranged in a way that speaks to them.

But what if the puzzle isn’t a Rubik’s Cube at all? What if the point isn’t to arrange the colors, but to open the box? What if—after spending half a lifetime twisting and turning and trying to find satisfaction with the patterns we see others complete, we come up short? Maybe if it’s a far more complex puzzle, whose true solution is getting it all right only to realize it’s wrong or getting it wrong in all the possible ways?

Six colors. Six sides. But what if there’s more? What if we’ve learned the wrong rules because we thought it was the only way to play? What’s inside the box?

Rules and roles have their place. They give us a sense of order. They aren’t always easy to follow, especially when something inside us says we aren’t cut out to follow the same patterns as everyone else. There is risk in trying to play the game differently, working outside those rules and roles. It’s possible we find the standard way of doing things is the only way to keep the puzzle from breaking. It’s also possible this is where our greatest lessons lie.

What if we unfolded it; pulled it apart instead of twisting the sides? Would we find answers to questions we didn’t know we had, a key to a different life? Would we find another puzzle? Or would we find only a broken toy? If nothing else, we’d find those days we tried—those days we cracked it open—stand out. We could account for them.

We didn’t allow the sunset to become another sunrise without trying something different.

The post What if Life is a Puzzle Box? appeared first on PL Press Books.

It serves everyone being more knowledgeable about what it means to suffer from mental health issues. All of us should learn to show compassion and offer support when we can. When we understand one another, we create stronger communities. We need to listen to one another and shed our judgements and preconceived notions. The statistics on people who suffer from mental illness are staggering. If it isn’t you, you know someone. There’s no question. You can recover and you can help others recover. This is my story.

The Sensitive Kid

I was a “sensitive kid.” That’s what we were called—kids like me—”sensitive.” And it’s true. I was. Unfortunately, sensitive was often a euphemism. It was a label which explained things away—hid genuine problems. In the 1980s in suburban American, it was okay to be a sensitive kid. It wasn’t a label you wanted, but it was okay. It wasn’t okay to have mental health issues. And that’s what it meant.

I wouldn’t understand that for a decade, and I wouldn’t really grasp the implications for a decade more. I was a sensitive teen, too; “emotional.” It was probably hormones, or just the challenges of being an adolescent. Maybe I suffered from seasonal depression. That meant it was the season’s fault. Nothing was wrong with me. But if seasonal depression comes on in the gray days of winter, why did I feel the same way in the spring? When did the season start in the fall and end in the summer? If it was hormones and adolescence, why didn’t I grow out of it?

Early in my twenties, I decided I’d had enough. I was “down” too much. I felt alone, lacked motivation, worried all the time, and struggled every day to find a reason to put one foot in front of the other. So, I took to the books. It didn’t take more than a title or two from the self-improvement section to see the truth. I wasn’t a sensitive kid or an emotional teenager. It wasn’t seasonal affective disorder. I was depressed, and I had been since I was in elementary school.

I know now, even in an era of reduced stigma and greater acceptance, there are readers whose first thought was, “You can’t be depressed in elementary school,” or “What does a kid have to be depressed about—especially one from a stable middle-class home where he has parents who love him?”

People who ask those questions do not understand mental illness, nor are they part of the solution.

You Know What This Is

I’ll never forget going to my doctor that first time and explaining what I was experiencing. He asked all the questions he was supposed to; poking around the edges of what the issue might be. It only took a few minutes before he looked me in the eye and said, “You know what the problem is.”

It wasn’t a question. “You’ve studied. You’ve tried the things people skip.” And it was true. I’d looked at my diet and physical activity. I looked at the stressors in my life. I’d journaled and tried simple mediation. There were no answers there for me there.

“This is depression. How do you want to proceed?” That was my first prescription for a serotonin reuptake inhibitor, and it was 21 years ago.

Since that time, I’ve only been off of them a handful of months here and there. Now, it took me a few weeks from filling that prescription to actually taking the first dose. The bottle sat on the kitchen windowsill and then in the medicine cabinet, and then it travelled with me in the glove box while I commuted to the jobs I hated.

What did it say about me if I took them? Was I weak? Wasn’t this something I should be able to handle on my own? Was I going to be on these pills for life? Were they going to change who I was? The truth was, I was miserable, and change could only be for the better. Eventually, I decided I had to look at depression like any other illness and treat it with medicine.

And it changed my life.

There is still some discussion about whether things like depression and anxiety are truly “illnesses,” but treating them that way makes them far easier to manage and simpler to discuss. Those first pills, like all the ones that followed, didn’t fix everything. There were issues to deal with and there was work to do. And over the years, there would be changes in those medications. There would be other doctors.

And there would be times it didn’t work; dark times.

Hurdles

As a teen, I’d become adept at hiding, at wearing masks, at showing people only what I wanted them to see, but I was suffering. I’d thought about taking my own life. I never got so far as to have a plan. But I got close. What stopped me was considering what it would do to my already fracturing family. I didn’t talk about it to anyone. I held on and hoped that one day I’d just get better.

Three years after starting a course of medication, three years of being under treatment, and a couple of visits to a psychiatrist who changed my diagnosis and medication plan, I reached the first crossroads.

That time, I had a plan. A serendipitous text from a friend interrupted it. He knew I was in trouble, but didn’t know how deeply. It was a near thing.

I moved to Florida a few months after that, and things leveled out again. Another new doctor. A different prescription. A counselor who found the misadventures of my life entertaining. I was good at telling stories and perhaps even then struggling with the idea that something was wrong with me. I asked myself the same questions about medication I had in the beginning—even took a break from taking them. It didn’t last. I came to understand quickly that whatever being on medication “said” about me, it was keeping me alive and able to function something like “normal.”

A year later, another dark patch; project expiration date. I had hit bottom. There was still not a lot of acceptance. There was still enough stigma it wasn’t something one talked about openly. My father understood. He suffered from depression, but we weren’t close in those days—not so I could openly talk to him about it. And he was someone who wanted to find solutions, answers where there weren’t straightforward answers to be had. My brother was supportive but hundreds of miles away and starting his own life. My mother couldn’t accept something was wrong with one of her sons and suggested I just needed to join a bookclub or make some friends.

I made it through that patch, too.

Recovery

Fast forward. The doctors changed the diagnosis again, changed it back, added to it, then changed it again over the next 10 years. They added, removed, changed, increased, and decreased medications. It wasn’t constant change, and everyone involved meant well. Most of the time, it was for the better.

I saw another counselor for a while and have not, to this day, returned to as dark a place as I was at those stops along the way.

Here I am, 21 years from stepping thorough the door of that first doctor’s office to talk about depression, fully “in recovery.” I’m on the executive committee of my county’s mental health and addiction recovery board. I advocate for others suffering from mental illness. I’ve entertained the idea of becoming a therapist. I take two daily medications and two more when I need them. They don’t scare me. They don’t bother me anymore. I am not ashamed, and I am still myself.

I don’t announce my depression and anxiety, or bi-polar disorder—depending on who you ask—to everyone I meet. I don’t advertise it, but I don’t hide it. It’s a part of me. Learning to live with it, learning to understand the way it can shape my experiences in the world, has been transformative.

Battling with mental illness and usually coming out on top put me in a position to help others do the same. I will fight the stigmas and educate in the face of misunderstanding for as long as I have breath to do so. My fight isn’t over, but I’ve gotten strong enough I can lend strength to others.

The world has changed since I was a sensitive kid on that elementary school playground. It’s becoming okay to talk about not being okay. It’s okay to not be okay. We’ve learned to see sensitive kids and try to understand. We guide them to talk about it and we help.

Teenagers no longer have to struggle alone the way I did. Men don’t always have to be stoic and strong.

There is still a long way to go. We make mistakes along the way. There are communities and demographics where “toughing it out” and sweeping it under the rug are still the way to address the problems. But we have a come a long way.

The Road Ahead

I have scars that may never heal. Once in a while, something bubbles to the surface that threatens the stability I’ve found. For me, the road ahead—though not easy—is “simple.” Be open. Be honest with myself, those I care about, and those who care about me.

Stay the course.

But it goes beyond that. My journey has left its scars, but it’s taught its lessons, too. And if I can share any of those, if I can write about or speak to, or perform any kind of service for people who have not made it to where I have, it is incumbent upon me to do so. I share goals with others in the mental health community of offering support and advocacy, of building relationships and fighting the stigma. There is hope. There is recovery.

And through education, compassion, and love for your fellow man, you can be part of the solution.

National Alliance on Mental Health, NoStigmas, American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, National Institues of Mental Health, National Suicide Prevention Line

The post Looking Back on 21 Years of Mental Health appeared first on PL Press Books.

It wasn’t a single event; no big bang, no single tragedy or tectonic shift. It was a day at a time. Things changed. I changed. It was so gradual I didn’t see it. Erosion reshaped me as it reshaped the landscape. I saw a different self at the summit and I recognized it.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, but when I look to the past, I can see it’s been happening for a long time. A few loose stones here. A slip of debris there. Occasionally, the wind and rain would settle. The slippage would slow. But what time has shaped cannot be entirely remade.

There were periods of settling; the ground stable. There were periods where the forces of nature—of fate, perhaps—would deposit enough solid material I could climb a few feet higher. The skies would clear. I could stretch my legs and climb again.

And there were periods of flooding. The very earth slipping away beneath my feet. Scrambling—occasionally losing my footing—I’d find all the progress I’d made gone. I’d be farther down the slope than I’d begun.

I’ve been at the bottom. The view is daunting, and the trek seems impossible. The mud would flow, washing over my feet and threatening to take me with it.

But I’ve learned to find my balance. I’ve learned to climb.

Somewhere at the top is as self I’ve been trying to be; perhaps a self I once was before the erosion began. I’ve made it to the top—or nearly—a few times, but the rains came. The rains will always come. Freedom, pride, and peace wait at the summit. I’ve seen the toll time can take. I’ve felt the ground shift. And I have learned to persevere.

The view is worth the climb.

The post Slow Erosion and the Climb to the Top appeared first on PL Press Books.

The Circumstances

Recently divorced and relocated 20-something with no family for hundreds of miles. A diagnosed history of chronic depression dating back several years, and an undiagnosed history that can be traced back to childhood. A short, failed romantic relationship or two.

Debt. Loneliness. Despair.

It’s time to do something about it. It’s gone on this way for too long and this isn’t the first time l’ve felt this way in recent years. So I construct a plan. If something significant doesn’t change, and soon, I’m taking drastic measures.

The Plan

If in the next three months or what may have been Christmas or the new year, I haven’t turned something around significantly, there are going to be consequences.

I need a stable, happy relationship. I need a job that doesn’t fill me with dread. Or I need a roadmap to financial solvency.

To tell the truth, I don’t recall exactly what the circumstances I said I needed to achieve were. They were along these lines. The whole thing seems so surreal to me now, it’s hard to remember the details clearly.

Having failed any of those goals, there were three potential outcomes:

Give up. This had a very specific meaning. Give up meant pack my bags and move to Ohio to live with my mother. Find a job that would pay the bills, go to school for something I wasn’t interested in so I could get a job to pay the bills. Accept that my life was going to be nothing special and abandon aspirations of anything further. To anyone who’s never been in the rust-belt parts of the Ohio Valley, it’s where giving up lives. It certainly was back then. Once, my mother’s hometown was a bustling place. In the early 2000s, it was anything but. It’s not somewhere you went, but somewhere you ended up.Into the Wild; like the 2007 film based on the story of Christopher McCandless. Pack whatever fit in my Jeep; whatever food was in the pantry and what little money I had, and just leave. Maybe I’d find my place. Maybe I wouldn’t. I could fall into an odd job somewhere and limp along a little further, or I could starve to death on the side of the road. It really didn’t matter. The idea was just to run out the clock on my own terms. I couldn’t afford to get to Alaska McCandless, but I’d end up somewhere I’d never been. And one day, I just wouldn’t wake up. At least it would be interesting.The last possibility was garden variety suicide. I don’t use the term glibly, but compared to other options, it was simpler. I hadn’t decided how I was going to do it. When I made the plan, it didn’t really matter. It was the least likely option because I didn’t want to leave a literal or figurative mess for anyone to clean up. I didn’t want anyone blaming themselves. No one needed to get hurt; my parents, my brothers, my friends in Florida. I wrote the letter, anyway. I saved in on my desktop with the icon right in the middle of the screen. It wouldn’t be easy, but eventually people would understand.The Outcome

Since you’re reading this, it’s safe to assume the second two possibilities did not come to pass. In an ironic twist, the first did, but not under the plan’s circumstances and by a wildly circuitous route. I “ended up” in Ohio, right in that same small town where my mother lives. I’m not living with her, didn’t get a generic degree, and I didn’t become a townie.

In fact, between the creation of the plan and today, I have earned a Bachelor’s and two Masters’s degrees and have built a reputation in my chosen career. I’m married and own a home.

I made it past my expiration date.

I haven’t shared this story with many; partly because it’s sad and many of my loved ones do not know how far I’d sunk, and partly because it’s pitiful. It sounds almost silly. The plan was a cry for help, but since I never spoke of it to anyone, it was a cry only to myself.

I didn’t beat the plan alone. Before the expiration date, I met my wife. I learned just how good a family I had and clawed my way out of debt; at least enough to tread water. I put one foot in front of the other, sometimes stumbling, sometimes in long strides. I made it to another page on the calendar and took another step in my mental health journey.

Remembering

I’ve come a long way from that 20-something sitting at an oversized desk in a one-bedroom apartment in Florida. But I think back on Project Expiration Date often. Sometimes I shake my head at the absurdity of it. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t such a bad idea. What would life have looked like if I had moved to Ohio in 2007 instead of 2011? Where might I have ended up if I’d just taken to the road?

One thing I reflect on the most is that no one knew. Certainly, the few people closest to me knew I wasn’t doing well, but just how poorly was my secret. I held a steady job that, for all intents and purposes, I was good at. I had collegial relationships, had a few friends I talked to at the local coffee shop. I took reasonable enough care of myself that no one noticed. After all, the plan wasn’t to throw in the towel, but to try for a limited time before I finally called it quits.

I had miles to go on my mental health road before I found stability. There would be periods when I considered that final option of Project Expiration Date again. But eventually, I would find my way. No one who walks this path is ever truly done with it. There’s always a chance of sliding back, of a crisis. Recovery takes many forms and there are many ways to get there, but it’s a process and it takes maintenance and mindfulness.

In my darkest times, I look back on that plan and I see a signpost for how far I’ve come.

The Message

How many people around us are thinking the way I was when I wrote that plan? How many people do you encounter every day who have made the same kinds of promises to themselves; that they will not do this much longer? How many people have a bag packed or put that letter on their desktop?

More than you’d think.

According to the WHO, an estimated 703,000 people take their own lives every year, and for every suicide, there are likely 20 who have attempted it.

Now, that isn’t exactly what Project Expiration date was about; not entirely. But the despair was there. I was fortunate to have made enough progress battling my demons that I had other options. I saw a path to at least some minimally acceptable degree of wellness. But many haven’t and many don’t.

Not everyone has the support network I discovered I had. Not everyone finds the people and other resources they need to dig their way out. But there is a way out of that hole.

I’ve been struggling to find the right ending for this article. It’s a story I’ve always felt I needed to share. But am I writing it to suggest awareness, to suggest we’re mindful of those around us who are suffering and offer them grace and support? Or am I writing it for those who suffer to tell you that I see you and show you there is hope; a road to recovery?

Maybe a bit of both. Be kind to one another. Ask for help.

*In the United States, dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

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