When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.-Henri Nouwen

This week I have been reflecting on my understanding of pain. I encounter many people who are experiencing, dealing with, and healing from different forms of pain. I have always thought I could see peoples’ pains through their eyes, and I believed that this is how I am able to share compassion and empathy with others. 

A unified experience of pain. 

This week I spent some time with someone experiencing an amount of pain that he has chosen to alter the course of his life and as we talked I could see the pain in his eyes.   And I acknowledged his pain, I empathized with his pain. It was pain that I can relate to. I told him I cared about his well-being and replied, “I know you do, I can see it in your eyes.” The hard part about pain is that we sometimes think we know how another experiences pain. We imprint our on pain experiences on the person and sometimes believe that what they are experiencing is maybe not the big deal they think it is. We discredit, minimize, and undervalue what the other person is experiencing. Why? I think for many it easier; to not share in another human being’s pain. And maybe this is okay for many. Maybe everyone is incapable of compassion and empathy. At times I am exhausted by practicing my own empathy and compassion. But the more I use these, the more I am able to use these. For a long time I did not want to live my life like this; I didn't want to hear or experience other people’s pain. I had my own to deal with. I had to learn to understand my own pain before I was ready to show empathy to others. I still experience pain; I still have hurt feelings, anger, stress, rejection, poor self-esteem and self-worth. But I am able to  better understand these things and take care of myself.  Please don’t assume you understand another person’s pain…I don't

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Hope...

This morning I have been contemplating HOPE and what it means, where it comes from and my relationship with it. Much has been written, studied, discussed about hope. All the great “smart” and “important” people in history have had an opinion about it, both good and bad. But what is it? Where is it? Where does it go? And how do you have a relationship with it? When I think of hope I instantly think of desire and then dream. But are these the same and how are they related? And how does wants and needs effect hope? I started this line of thought thinking I would find an easy answer and yet I continue to discover more questions. What is it that people hope for? Is this what people pray for? How are small hopes different from large hopes? Has hope become undervalued because of our quickness to use it? Can Hope be taught? Is hope only inspired? Are their people who do not hope?

1: the feeling of wanting something to happen and thinking that it could happen: a feeling that something good will happen or be true,
2: the chance that something good will happen
3: someone or something that may be able to provide help: someone or something that gives you a reason for hoping
These are the three general definitions found online. It seems so simple when I read the definitions...

The nature of the work I do has me involved in the third definition on a daily basis. I want to inspire others to have hope. Hope for a different kind of life. A hope that motivated me into recovery. A hope that I think most who suffer from any kind of illness hope for. Anyone who is sick will normally tell you that their hope is to get better. But what if they can’t get better? How does hope change? What if you are told you are going to die? How would your hopes change? What if you were condemned to prison or an institution for the rest of your life? How would you have hope? Is it possible to inspire hope when someone has given up hope?
I don’t know the answers to all these questions but I am certain I will continue to assess my personal hopes and my relationship with hope…and I hope you do to!

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I want to be loved...

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.” ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

I want to be loved. I want to be cared for. I want to be liked, respected. I want to matter. I want others to think I’m okay. Often times I think about my funeral. I imagine what people may say about me in my passing. I think about the ending of the story of my life and does it end well or in tragedy. I am not perfect, nor will I ever be. Probably better to not be perfect as I need a reminder where I need to grow as a person.  I want to be okay with me. I want to look in the mirror and know and be comfortable with the person I see. I want to smile more, laugh more. I want to let down my guard more. I want to feel safe more. I want to be less scared; scared of myself and the world.
For those who take a minute out of your days to read this please know it means the world to me. I find it strange that anyone cares what comes out of my mouth.

I’m glad you’re listening…makes me feel like it matters and that you care.
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Who am I and why am I here?

Who am I and why am I here is a question that I ask myself daily. I was asked to address a conference for mental health recovery and this was the title of my speech. I believed the committee assumed I would be bringing answers to this questions not spend my hour discussing why I continue to ask myself this question. I have always longed for a different “version” of myself. 
     I have never felt comfortable with myself. When I look in the mirror, I sometimes don’t know the person reflected there. Most days I struggle through feeling scared. Not scared of the world, but scared of how I am reacting to it. Many people have observed and commented on my “laid back” demeanor. This has taken years of self-reflection and practice to keep my emotional state on a level plane. I know at times I project a “stand offish”, intimidating, mean expression on my face. I do this not by choice. This is part of my natural self-defense mechanism- (insert fight or flight). I do not want to mean or thought of as someone who is a jerk or scary. I really am not. One of the saddest and meanest things anyone has ever said to me is, “no matter how hard you work on recreating who you are, people will always know the true you by the expression you carry on your face and in your eyes.” This was told to me over twenty years ago and it haunts me. It’s not like I am trying to be someone I am not. I was given an opportunity through recovery to change the way my story ends. This is what I call the “gift and curse” of recovery. I believe that if I or anyone else wanted to write the story of my life, I have been given the ability to affect the outcome of how that story ends. This is what I am doing. 
To be continued...
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I didn't want to die but I didn't want to live-by request and censored by request

The first time I cut my wrists,
a great light came over me,
not only had I found a way to release my sadness but I also found the perfect way to illustrate my emotions. I had this mark on my body that conveyed a message for all to see. A message that could only be interpreted one way, I was hurting. My self harm was a perfect complement to my substance abuse, I could intoxicate myself, cut on myself to amplify the high, release my sadness, and send a message to those around me that my life was spiraling out of control and that I had deep rooted emotional issues. I wore the cuts on my body like huge billboards, “I’M HURTING”. I never wanted to kill myself but romanticized the idea that I could cut deeper, more, bigger and come close to death. In fact the closer I came, the better it felt.

The more I cut, the better I felt.

What started as an experiment with emotions and pain quickly developed into an obsession.
I cut on myself everyday; designing patterns of marks that somehow exemplified the number of times I had felt pain. The only problem is I didn't have enough skin. I cut on cuts, I cut on scabs, and I cut and cut. The group of people I hung around were impressed with my cutting. Other kids at my high school, with whom I had never spoken, came forward to compare their cutting to mine, an exchange of desires, dreams, and shared pain; a somewhat intimate exchange. Finally they must have thought someone we can relate to and someone who needs us. I never wanted to gain any relationships from my self-harm, only bring attention and resolve to the destructive nature of my own existence. I became obsessed with using different instruments to cut with razor blades, utility knife blades, broken glass, pins, and needles. As the sensation of cutting began to numb, new ways became a last option. I began to burn “blue circles” into my wrists using a cigarette. I would lie in bed and choke myself. I would punch myself repeatedly in the face and stomach. I didn't want to die but I knew I didn't want to live.
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