I first decided to try it in 2010 to see if it would be able to help ease my lifelong sleeping issues.

Usually I put a lot of thought into the medical providers I work with. In this case, I did not do any research into which practitioner I wanted to use; I simply chose the acupuncturist located one block from my house. It was certainly convenient, and seemed like a good idea at the time.

I recall those sessions as being strange. In addition to needles being placed all over my body, my sessions also involved smoke and fire. Sometimes, an herb would be placed on top of the acupuncture needles, then set on fire. Smoke was used in a procedure called “cupping” where glass jars were suctioned all over my back.

Craniosacral therapy was also used on me. My acupuncturist would rub two bones on the back of my skull at a very specific point. All of this was supposed to make me sleep. When pressed as to how this would all work, my acupuncturist would sometimes use the word “magic.” Magic? Really?

I went to these sessions four times, as I was told this was how many visits were needed to assess if my treatment was working. I saw no difference after four visits and stopped going. My western mind told me the process was all a bit much for me. If I felt the magic was working, I could have gotten over it, but I saw no progress. Plus, acupuncture is not covered by health insurance and my visits were getting expensive.

A few months ago, I started to feel my inability to sleep was at a point where it was greatly affecting my life. I have a variety of sleeping pill prescriptions, but nothing seemed to be helping me as much as I hoped. I was starting to feel desperate and out of control. This is when I thought again of acupuncture.

I wondered if a different practitioner might be able to help me more than the first one had. I did a good amount of online research and settled on someone. I’ll admit, aside from good online reviews, part of the appeal of this new provider was that everyone in the office was from China. I thought that a practitioner of Chinese medicine who was actually from China may have different viewpoints and use an alternative approach. This supposition was really based on nothing, but it made sense to me at the time.

When I called to make an appointment, the person on the phone did not ask me any questions or tell me what to expect. She simply wanted to know when I would come to the office. When I went to the office at that specified time. I found a dark hallway and a locked door. When I called the office’s phone number, I could hear the phone ringing on the other side of the door. No one answered; no one was at the office. I had been stood up.

I soon received a call explaining there had been a scheduling error. I understand that these things happen, but decided not to make another appointment. I had a bad first impression of that acupuncturist’s office and did not want to move forward with them.

This led to more Internet research. I settled on a group of acupuncturists not far from my house. When I called to inquire, the person who answered the phone asked me a great number of questions about why I wanted to come and what my symptoms are. This made me feel comfortable.

I filled out a lot of paperwork before the first visit. The paperwork contained very personal questions about my body and health, with some of the questions being highly detailed. I answered to the best of my ability.

At my first appointment, I handed in my paperwork to the acupuncturist and we talked for a long time. She wanted to know more about my patterns of insomnia and anything else that was wrong with my well-being. We settled on insomnia as my primary issue, but also addressed headaches, nausea, and neck pain.

This acupuncturist did not use smoke, fire, or magic. She simply asked me to remove my shirt and lie face down on a table. She then placed needles all over my neck, shoulders, back, and calves. I lay like that for around 20 minutes, then the needles were removed. I replaced my shirt, then turned onto my back. The acupuncturist then placed needles in my forehead, arms, wrists, and legs.

The next two sessions proceeded much like the first, but with less interviewing. Each time I would go, we would check in on my sleep and other ailments, then I would lie still while needles were placed in various areas of my body. The needles would sometimes feel uncomfortable, but the sessions were, overall, relaxing.

At my third visit, I was given my assessment. I was informed I had imbalances in the Chinese medical organ systems of spleen/stomach, heart/small intestine, and liver/gall bladder. I was also told my blood needed additional nourishment. I did not understand what this meant, but went along with it.

To help my treatment of these problems, I was given a prescription of Chinese herbs. I was prescribed the herb blend of Suan Zao Ren Tang. This came in a powder and I was instructed to mix five scoops of granules with a cup of water. I was told to take it at night, two hours after eating dinner. It seemed imperative that I take the herbs on an empty stomach and with no other medicine.

The herb drink did not taste good, but it wasn’t terrible. The flavor reminded me of celery. I began drinking my prescribed dose every night.

When I started taking the Suan Zao Ren Tang, I began to feel like I was falling asleep with more ease and had less frequent headaches. I began feeling positive about the acupuncture treatments and my herbs. I felt like it was all working.

My acupuncturist soon added another herb blend to my routine. I started taking Si Wu Tang in the morning. This one came in pill form and I took seven of them as soon as I woke up. I found swallowing seven pills immediately upon waking to be strange.

This was followed by a bad couple weeks of sleep and I became discouraged. During that time period, I had an acupuncture treatment that did not seem to help. I couldn’t help but associate the downward turn with the addition of the Si Wu Tang pills. When the bottle ran out, I did not buy more.

I started to feel more negative about my acupuncture treatments. For the price I was paying, I wanted to be sure it was doing something. At my next session, I asked the acupuncturist what I could reasonably expect from the treatments. She said she did not understand my question. I found this vaguely annoying — if a health-related service is being provided, I think it is fair that a client understands how long interventions will take and how to assess if they are working.

The acupuncturist reviewed my paperwork with me and pointed out the areas in which I was making progress. She had a point on some of the issues. I was then given the unsatisfying answer that treatment takes time and everyone responds differently. Because we were trying to fix the underlying cause of my insomnia rather than mask its symptoms, it would take an undetermined amount of time. I understood what the acupuncturist was saying, but would have preferred to assign a time and price assessment to my treatment. The costs of the treatments and the herbs were quickly adding up.

At that same visit, my Si Wu Tang was officially discontinued. It was replaced by something called Free and Easy Wander Plus. This was in a pill and I was instructed to take five of them when I woke up in the morning. I started taking these the next day.

I have now had eight acupuncture sessions and have purchased three more. I am still unsure as to if this is working. I seem to be sleeping a little bit better, but I don’t know if this is because of the acupuncture or other factors. When all my acupuncture sessions are done, I will have spent $800, plus the cost of the Chinese herbs. I would like to know if this money has helped me with my insomnia, but how can I tell for sure? This makes me feel highly frustrated. I had hoped my results would be more concrete.

People seem to have strong pro or con opinions about acupuncture. I am still somewhere in the middle. I’m desperate to have help with my sleeping issues, but am unwilling to pump endless money into a practice that may not be doing much for me. The experience has left me feeling both confused and hopeful, a strange combination to figure out as it continues to unfold.

I often have thought of getting a fresh start somehow. I got that opportunity, but in an unfortunate way.

A failed suicide attempt left me completely disabled, unable to work and with a severe hypoxic brain injury that affected many aspects of my life. I had to start from rock bottom and completely rebuild my entire life.

Before the suicide attempt, I had a great job, made great money, bought a new car and had lots of friends that I hung out with often. In retrospect, I had everything and I was proud of myself for working so hard and doing so well.

Behind the scenes, I had a bad drinking problem and was constantly self-medicating my anxiety and depression.

Now I have no job, car, or friends. But I no longer have a drinking problem and do not self-harm or attempt suicide. It is so frustrating having to wait on things that are out of my control and coping with daily life along with a mental illness and a physical disability.

When I asked for a fresh start, I never imagined this would be it. It’s a thousand times harder than it was before, when I had a great life.

I didn’t consider what happened if I survived drinking antifreeze and taking hundreds of anti-anxiety pills. I don’t have a clue where I got the idea or the impulse to do that. I have no recollection of doing it and had no plans to kill myself in the past.

The previous week I was in a great mood, got along great with my family and didn’t feel overly depressed or down. I had just stopped taking a powerful anti-depressant anti-anxiety medication that I had been on for awhile because I switched jobs and lost my health insurance and the medication was outrageously expensive.

Because of that choice I made, I got what I wished for — and a whole lot more that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I went from being extremely independent to being completely dependent on everybody for everything. I went from working 40 to 60 hours a week to sitting in bed all day, bored and broke.

Eventually, I will work again and function like my old self, but the wait is nearly agonizing on a mind that is so used to being busy. Patience has never been a strong asset of mine, but the last year and a half of having no choice but to wait has taught me that patience truly is a valuable virtue.

Some days it’s impossible for me to see past the clouds of depression to the other side of the storm where it is sunny and calm and holds peace of mind. But I know I can make it through this day, too, and nothing lasts forever — especially emotions. Feelings aren’t facts and too often I trick myself into forgetting that and jump to impulsive, extreme conclusions.

I have to remember that this is a journey and it isn’t always pleasant. I can’t lose sight of my dreams or give up on hope, because then I have nothing to work toward or look forward to.

When a person hears the word “bipolar,” his or her mind usually immediately jumps to the depiction of roller-coaster mood swings and lashing out.

Yet, this is not always the case with bipolar disorder. Bipolar can also affect your thoughts. Some people — like myself — experience a different version of the mental illness where many of your symptoms are internalized.

My illness varies from depressive apathy to euphoric mania which can be accompanied by a delusion or hallucination. I have not had the more severe experiences in about five years, thanks to therapy and medication. Though my journey to recovery was a difficult one, it is not an impossible feat.

It was two days after my fifteenth birthday that I had a full-on episode. I can remember it as clear as day.

First there was the fever, then a slow numbing to the core with sounds around me heightening, and nonexistent pain causing me such unbearable agony. Light burned, sounds screamed, and the depression was unbearable — it left me nearly incapacitated. My mood was so flat that people who hadn’t seen me prior had quickly judged it as something more severe.

Prior to this episode I was living at a boarding school for high school students. My behavior was erratic for several weeks prior to my episode, and had also instigated feelings of neglect from other students, who either felt sympathy or who bullied and harassed me.

I could not be talked down from the mania. Eventually I had climbed so high that I crashed into a severe depressive episode. My dad consulted a doctor, who immediately jumped the gun by telling me I might be smelling things that weren’t there or tasting or sensing things that weren’t real. That didn’t happen, though.

What did happen was I listened to Sarah McLaughlin on repeat for hours on end, trying to divine any emotional contact from her words. Nothing I did was bringing me back to myself. I was trying, in my own way, but it was painful.

Then came the hospitalization — I had been betrayed by my parents. I was put on Risperdal, and thus began the catatonia and shortly thereafter a suicide attempt after missing a dose: I walked into a field of icy water and nearly froze to death.

The second hospital, which my dad had to fight the insurance to pay for, was a disaster. After the psychiatrist there finally told my parents that they could not keep me any longer for fear of making me worse — and several abuses which I reported in writing — I had post-traumatic stress disorder. At age 16, I left a meeting with my psychiatrist to find “paranoid schizophrenia” circled on a sheet of yellow paper.

This label continued to define me for several years, and caused me a very confusing internal dilemma. I began to mimic the behaviors of schizophrenics on forums, and applied the label to myself to understand what was wrong. My dad was utterly convinced of it, as it was something to explain the catastrophe.

But, I really do have bipolar disorder, which my doctor realized when I was 17. Trauma caused my condition to worsen. This was clear only after fighting with doctors who too quickly labeled my behavior as erratic, not eccentric. I actually began to hear voices for the first time when I was 17, inside a hospital before they sent me home.

So does it matter what you call it? Yeah, it does. If I had actually had someone to talk to those times in the hospital, instead of being ridiculed for my behavior from staff more than patients, I would have recovered more quickly. I’d not been so plagued if they hadn’t tried to diagnose what they saw, not the actual chemistry behind it.

At 24, I am still the same as ever, but there is definitely a wound. I endured severe trauma in an understaffed hospital. I wonder exactly what was going through their minds when they verbally harassed me. Did they not understand that I had just attempted suicide and was traumatized?

If it weren’t for my voice — the same one which spoke out against treatment in the beginning — I wouldn’t have recovered. The same stubbornness that told me to say I didn’t want a certain medication was the same stubbornness that said I wanted to heal and recover. You don’t break someone to get them to comply, you try to put yourself in their shoes and understand where they’re coming from. If you’re trying to break people who are sick, you are coercing them, not helping them. I feel that this point needs to be heard.

I am on medication now, and have been on just one for about six or seven years. It works to help with depression and mania. I would not be better had it not been for my family, though stubborn themselves, who have loved me unconditionally and were always there for me when they could be. We have all learned from this mental illness, so implore people everywhere to learn what they can about bipolar and other disorders. If people were more open to reaching out to those who need help, more people will recover. Insight is the key.

Plummeting into darkness on occasion made me a burden. When insomnia attacks, I get frustrated and the anxiety builds up — that deep gut feeling where everything is my fault. It’s 3 A.M. and I think about all the times people have promised me that things will get better. But they don’t.

I’m in the office with the psychiatrist and he diagnoses me with the “bad medicine.” He tells me it works for manic-depressive symptoms in children. It was the dark purple kind. In other words — bipolar. But my mood disorder is not that heavily diagnosed yet.

I turn to my laptop in my room. I take a sip of coffee or tea and close my eyes. I look at the blue capsules that hold my pills. I can’t forget to take my medicine or dangerous things happen. Terrible things. It’s never simple to live with but it keeps me stable most of the time.

I keep a list of the times I’ve changed myself. It’s located in the back of my closet, concealed beneath old sweatshirts that I don’t wear anymore. The pushpin binds itself to the wall from the cracking plaster; it reveals the times I’ve become a different person.

I track the months and color-code for whenever my mood changes, I switch crowds, or flip my attitude around. Sometimes, I think it’s getting better since I don’t let it interfere with my life or change who I really am.

It’s strange. I delved into emptiness because I focused on the absence of living. If I were really better off alone, I would not feel the need to connect with others. I would isolate myself and never need anyone. I had my illness to overcome.

With neglected makeup and last night’s eyeliner smeared over my face, it looks as if they’re tire marks. The sky is obnoxiously blue. If it rains it would match my mood.

It’s different with friendships. If I can’t fix problems between my parents, or my inner voice, at least I can talk to Linda. I grab the phone off the bedside table and talk to my middle-school best friend before she moved to California.

She listens while I turn on my crying-and-talking fast mixture. At the end of our conversation, she sings me a song (vanilla twilight), which makes everything okay again.

In a mid-second of a blink, I found out things get much worse later in life. If you are blessed enough that God doesn’t give you a crippling illness and anxiety to count the days until your life ends, consider yourself lucky.

I remember my psychiatrist telling me to be myself. That’s the only way.

It was a long struggle back to reality. After, I decided to keep a journal. I began getting my poems published by various magazines and journals. I also worked for The Student Review. Things started to change again.

Being diagnosed at an early age has helped my recovery since then. There was a time where all my social interactions were unethical because I couldn’t find stability. It’s like a virus, it takes all of my strength to fight it.

And the memories. My inspiration has always reached out to show me a different path. I believe there is faith in even the littlest parts of life.

Kessler tells the story of feeling like her life had derailed after her father died. She felt like was scattered and unable to focus and she couldn’t find a way to get back on track.

Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD/ADD) is most often discussed when talking about children, teens or young adults. But the fact is, many adults also suffer the disorder and don’t always become aware of it until well into adulthood.

Zoë’s story is an inspiration. Not only did she find a way to understand her condition and get help for it, but she writes about it for the world, sharing her own personal trials and tribulations in living with ADD.

Journalist Isabel Teotonio helps weave Zoë’s story:

“I became massively overwhelmed,” recalls Kessler, a writer who lives in Owen Sound. “I found myself spinning and going from room to room in my apartment and not quite knowing what I should be doing next.”

A friend suspected she had ADHD and suggested she talk to her doctor about it. At age 46, Kessler was diagnosed with attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder.

She finally understood why she had always been so impulsive, why she felt so overwhelmed in university and had such rapid-fire thoughts.

And these are the kinds of symptoms we often hear about in adults with ADD or ADHD. Yet this diagnosis is so often missed, or misdiagnosed, in adults.

Luckily, treatment is available for anyone with ADHD or ADD. All you need do is seek it out:

For Kessler [...] treatment has helped get her life back on track. Her therapy includes taking a stimulant and doing exercise, yoga and meditation.

“It helped me to cope with the challenges I had while being able to be more productive (as a writer) and accomplish my dreams and move forward.”

Kudos to Zoë for the courage to tell her story to the Toronto Star, as as well as to the newspaper for publishing it.

Read the full article: Could you have adult ADHD?

In October 2012, Taylor Swift became the first female artist in Nielsen SoundScan history to break record sales twice. “Red,” her latest album, sold over one million copies in its first week, and she reached that impressive mark with “Speak Now” (2010) as well. Not to mention, “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” her catchy hit single, is taking over the radio airwaves.

Since “Speak Now,” I’ve become somewhat of a “Swiftie” listener myself (apparently that’s the name of her fan club), and I was curious to see how her stories in “Red” would unfold. While her vocals matured, and the styles of music blur between pop, country and some rather eclectic dub step, I was even more pleasantly intrigued by her songwriting. Its bold nature discloses personal details about her life, her words reminiscent of words you would only find on a page in a diary.

Is this why so many adolescents and twenty-somethings can relate to her music?

I would argue that her specific writing style works — it allows the listener to capture his or her own emotions and confront those feelings in the moment. After all, isn’t it better to deal with those unresolved sentiments or pesky triggers head-on?

“Red” was the title track she wrote about a relationship “that was the worst thing ever and the best thing ever at the same time,” Swift said on an episode of VH1’s “Storytellers.” The color red covers a wide spectrum of emotions, the singer explained. Whether she’s focusing on its positive associations, such as passion, affection and fearlessness, or its negative connotations of anger, frustration and jealousy, she correlates her feelings to this strong color.

“All Too Well,” my personal favorite, showcases Swift on guitar with a very raw and nostalgic set of lyrics, as she depicts the beginning and end of an intense romantic relationship and all that’s in between. This song may strike a nerve and resonate with many, mainly because of how honest the singer is. There’s not much to decipher — it just feels very genuine and breaks your heart.

“For me, there are several songs I can relate to on the album, but it also depends on my mood,” Karen Sadetsky, an avid Swift fan, said.

“If I am looking for a fun, upbeat song, I most definitely would go with ’22.’ The pre-chorus, which lyrically states, ‘we’re happy, free, confused and lonely in the best way, it’s miserable and magical,’ describes the ups and downs of not knowing what a lot of 20-somethings want to do with their life. Swift is basically saying it’s okay to feel all of these emotions, and to just go with the flow and enjoy yourself now with all of your friends.”

“Holy Ground,” another lively track, epitomizes an aura of heartache, but also expresses gratitude for what was once very real.

Since I’ve listened to this album on loop and poured myself into these lyrics over and over, I really only have good things to say about Taylor Swift growing as a songwriter, and becoming an artist we can truly identify with.

Sure, some critique this album as lacking a “spark” that was present in “Fearless,” which she released as a young teenager. However, despite more of a collaborative production with newer sounds, I found quite a few precious and relatable gems on “Red,” which will definitely hold me over till her next venture.

A month ago I fetched cream for my coffee at a café in South Bend, Indiana. Naturally my family didn’t know a soul in the joint. However, by the time I returned to my table, I knew some incredibly intimate (not to mention interesting) details about the daughter of the man next to me who was reaching for a napkin: his daughter is bipolar; she was anorexic as a teenage ballerina; and she’s on some of the same meds as I am.

I ended up giving him a business card with everything but my email scratched out.

I didn’t want to have the conversation of what I do for living.

It doesn’t have anything to do with who I am.

And that’s why I get so annoyed that we have to start all of our conversations with that question.

As a country, we are obsessed with our jobs: An understatement. Our professions are central to our self-identities and our industries define who we are. We don’t even know how to vacation. It doesn’t matter that United States workers receive far fewer vacation days than other workers in other industrialized countries because American employees fail to take the time off that they have accrued. Our European friends shake their heads at that one.

I remember how refreshing it was to ask a French couple “what they did” (I plead guilty) at a swim meet for our kids.

“We are skiers,” they said emphatically. No equivocation. No insecurity. No approval-seeking.

That was who they are and were proud of being, and told me a hell of a lot more about them than had they rattled off their resumes starting with their last places of employment: “I’m an accountant with Ernst & Young.” “I’m a consultant with Booz Allen Hamilton.” “I’m a program manager with Northrup Grumman.” Snore. Snore like Gramma.

My conundrum is that I wear a few different hats at the present moment, so I, in fact, don’t really know what I am. I know what my ministry or innate purpose in life is — to provide hope to those who struggle intensely with depression and other mood disorders — but it’s not related to what I do for a living as a government contractor. One pays with blessings, the other is generous with benefits. And, unfortunately in this country, most benefits are tied to your job, so while following your dream is all good and noble, you might get screwed if your appendix bursts like mine did a year ago and you need some quick medical attention. Passion, at times, has to take a back seat to medical care and other life necessities.

Upon meeting someone new, part of me hopes I will never hear the dreaded four words (what-do-you-do) because then I wouldn’t have to assess how I am going to respond — with my pragmatic communications-consultant role, or with the idealistic wanting-to-save-the-world profile.

At the least, it would be nice to delay the work conversation toward the second-half of the conversation, after the other top three questions: Where are you from? Why are you here? (conference, cocktail hour, reunion, fundraiser, Chuck E Cheese), How many kids do you have and what are their ages and when were they potty trained?

For this reason, I’ve always loved writer Oriah Mountain Dreamer’s poem, The Invitation, that went viral 15 years ago and was later published in a book. May we all share this vision one day.

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

What you don’t hear enough about are the people who are down and out, in need of our help. Sure, it was great there was a 12-12-12 concert for victims of Hurricane Sandy. But what about everyday folks who just have fallen on temporary hard times?

That’s why The New York Times Neediest Cases Fund warms my heart. For the past 100 years, the Fund has provided direct assistance to children, families and the elderly in New York. Each day during the months of December and January, they highlight a story from their Fund. In a city of over 8 million people, it’s not hard to find people in need.

Today’s story is about a man who worked for over a decade as a home health aide, over 75 hours every two weeks. When he was most in need due to a kidney infection, however, he found his own health insurance wouldn’t cover his medical expenses. Which in turn sent him into a spiraling depression.

Thankfully, he had his hospital bill covered by government insurance, but that didn’t stop the depression from taking hold of Tolentino Gonzalez:

A social worker at Interfaith helped to secure him Medicaid on a temporary basis, which covered the hospital bill. When he was discharged, Mr. Gonzalez was told that he needed to schedule a follow-up appointment with a doctor, but he said that without coverage, he was unable to do so.

What followed was a depression so severe, Mr. Gonzalez said, that he did not want to get out of bed and stopped going to work. While he loves his job, he says it comes with a particular downside — a sense of rejection that would intensify his feelings of worthlessness.

“I haven’t seen them, haven’t helped them, but I get turned away,” Mr. Gonzalez said of some of his clients.

Men, especially, have a great deal of self-worth invested in their job or what they do for a living. Take away that job and many men suddenly face questions they may not have asked themselves for a long time — what’s my purpose in this world? What good am I if I’m not working? How can I be independent without a job?

This story has a happy ending, of course — the Neediest Cases Fund helped him with his back rent so he didn’t become homeless on top of everything else. “He soon returned to work part time and was able to avoid eviction.”

Betty Morales, a caseworker at St. Leonard’s Family Apartments, an affordable-housing complex in Bushwick, Brooklyn helped Mr. Gonzalez by listening to him, too. “When he came to me, he was still in that stage of depression,” Ms. Morales recalled. “He didn’t feel encouraged. There was nobody to encourage, nobody to listen.”

Sometimes that’s all we need — a little help, and a willing ear who will listen.

Here’s hoping you get what you need this holiday season, too — and that it doesn’t involve something you bought in a store.

Read the full story: Denied Insurance, Then Facing a Spiral of Depression

Last night was the first time in a week that I didn’t have to sleep in two layers and three blankets, with my muscles contracting and my body contorting itself in a very awkward position to ward off the frigid, New York air. I was also able to turn on the light and bask in my illuminated bedroom — sans the pitch-blackness circling around me.

There was light and there was heat. We emerged from the Dark Ages.

Since households all over the Northeast lost power because of the disastrous effects of super-storm Sandy, I couldn’t help but feel that we were stepping back into another era. Did women wear those bonnets in colonial days to keep warm?

Heat and electricity — two entities that I missed the most. Pretty basic, right?

Well, all of this made me think about the way people lived back in the ‘olden days,’ the days of yore, “Little House on the Prairie,” the 19th century… well, you get the drift. It’s certainly impressive, and it points up my good fortune in being born into a completely different time period. I only hoped not to trip on the stairs while holding onto a lantern to see my way down. I also wished not to light myself on fire whenever I lit a match to make tea on the stove (I could be rather clumsy).

As part of the current 20-something generation, I find these blackouts — along with the pioneering lifestyle — novel. I can’t even admit to you that I’m highly tech-savvy, since I’m really not, but of course technology is an integral component of our daily lives. Television and Internet entertainment aside, the mere invention of the telephone — whether rotary or cell — is really a wonderful thing.

The ability to stay connected to people you care about is definitely taken for granted. At least it was by me, as I scrounged for outlets any chance I got. Others had a similar idea, and the local coffee shop transformed into a charging station, flooded with people who took up every nook and cranny as they plugged in their phones and laptops and became happily technological. I even noticed a young girl sitting on the floor, enjoying her Wi-Fi connection near the restroom.

You might wonder how I occupied myself during the week-long outage. I’ll admit that one of those nights was spent examining how my pupils changed sizes according to flashlight adjustments (Not kidding.) And we could always gather around the candlelight and converse, but the cold, dark room didn’t provide much comfort.

How did those pioneers do it?

“Prosperity is not without many fears and disasters; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes.”
~ Francis Bacon

“When fear ceases to scare you, it cannot stay.”
~ Gary Zukav

“Most of the things worth doing in the world had been declared impossible before they were done.”
~ Louis D. Brandeis, Supreme Court Justice

“Saints are sinners who kept on going.”
~ Robert Louis Stevenson

“Fall seven times, stand up eight.”
~ Japanese Proverb

“The greatest oak was once a little nut who held its ground.”
~ Author Unknown

“With courage you will dare to take risks, have the strength to be compassionate and the wisdom to be humble. Courage is the foundation of integrity.”
~ Keshavan Nair

“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
~ Eleanor Roosevelt

“We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.”
~ Helen Keller

Image courtesy of davelandweb.com.

After living in one of the largest democracies in the world all my life, I get more and more disillusioned with each passing year.

Why? Because each year the same pattern repeats itself. Endlessly.

This is especially true every four years when we go to the polls to elect our next President. Presidential candidates regularly make promises and pledges about what they can do to “fix” every problem afflicting us today.

One politician says he can “lower gas prices” and “turn around” the economy. But when asked how exactly the presidency can impact gas prices, you just hear more rhetoric about “turning around the economy.” It’s a circular argument. And a ridiculous one at that, since the President has no more influence on American gas prices in the U.S. as the Queen of England does. That is to say, there’s little a President can do on his or her own to change the price of gas at the pump.¹

The same is true of the larger economy. We don’t live in the Soviet Union, where the government oversaw planning and exerted a large amount of control over their economy. We live in a free, capitalist society where the government has only marginal influence on the economy. American federal government isn’t at all like a big business — it’s like a big government, which is a completely different thing altogether.

From a psychological standpoint, I understand our human nature to want to believe these ridiculous things candidates say. We want a “strong leader” who can fix all of our modern problems.

But we don’t live in times where leadership strength is a guarantee for anything. In our system of government, bipartisanship is the only thing that gets actual work done. Without cooperation between our (largely) two party system, nothing gets done. So, somewhat ironically, the perceived strength of a President lies in the willingness of a Congress to cooperate through compromise.

About this point in time every four years, I simply get fed up at the ridiculous things both candidates say — both about what they can do, and what they say about their opponents. I tune out because all reasonable debate has now been thrown out the window in an effort to turn those handful of voters who haven’t yet made up their minds.

And I have to say that, if a week or two before the election, you are still “undecided,” you’ve got me at a complete loss. The two candidates have been talking about their positions for nearly a year now, so there’s no excuse for not having made a decision.

Whichever way it goes, you’ll find a democracy that will remain free, largely unchanged, and largely stuck in the same global economy morass that people around the world are experiencing. No single person can change things in a democracy (at least not any longer). That’s sorta the point of a democracy (versus, you know, a dictatorship).

We live in modern times, and it’s about time our understanding of the impact of one person — even if that person is the President of the United States of America — has on the world. It’s a lot less than some of us would believe.

1. In fact, the U.S. is poised to overtake Saudi Arabia as the world’s largest oil producer!

This is my own voice almost eighteen years ago. In 1994, I subjected my late epileptic uncle to inhuman treatment and suffering.

Nearly two decades later, this voice continues to reverberate in my mind and ears. It haunts me like a ghost since I last attended a workshop on mental health and mental illness conducted by the Carter Center and the Ministry of Health & Social Wealth in Monrovia, Liberia.

Epilepsy, I learned, is not a mental illness. However, it is included and discussed as such because it is a brain sickness.

I was born to see my late uncle suffer from epilepsy. Matter of fact, the illness treated him very badly — so badly that I hated him for it.

I meted out the most severe treatment against him because of his condition. Among other things, I ‘drowned’ his head in a calabash of unfiltered water; I even publicly humiliated him. Evidently, whenever I chained him besides a fire or ‘drowned’ him in the water, he became violent. This violent response I understood as a lesson for him to steer clear of me and a motivation within him to want to die earlier to end his suffering at my hands.

Despite my harm toward him, he loved me the most among my brethren. This love I also translated into hate for him ‘because his loving me will bring him closer to me and cause my friends to chastise me.’ Before his death, I remember him saying, “You think I chose to be sick? It is God who put me in this condition. Suppose you keep treating me like this, then I pray to God to make one of your child (children) like me?”

This was something I hated to hear. So, I swiftly retorted. “Just shut up! Let God punish you for saying that! It’s not God who made you sick. In fact, you are not sick. You are crazy. Don’t lie on God. God knew you would have been a witch to disturb our lives. So, he changed your evil plans and made you crazy.”

My father resented it, but the love for a child (me), even compared to a brother’s, would not allow him to stop my mistreating his brother. Although he allowed it on the surface, deeper in his heart, I could read that he deeply resented it. And so my uncle passed away. While others cried, I rejoiced for my new peace of mind. So, the story ends.

Never did I remember all of this until three weeks ago at that mental health and mental illness workshop, where, after learning some causes, signs, preventive measures, types and treatment for mental illnesses, that I first expressed my guilt. Workshop facilitators, Dr. Janice Cooper and Karine McClean have consoled me not to feel guilty or blame myself. But I know they were only being diplomatic. Deep in my heart, since then, I have always felt guilty and blameworthy of my uncle’s death.

If this education had come much earlier, I know my uncle won’t have died the way he did. I am a Muslim and a very traditional person from the Mandingo tribe of mama-Africa. I believe in predestination. I believe one dies if it has been so appointed only by Allah, the Almighty. Yet, without my mistreatment, I believe my uncle would not have died in pains and an anguish that could not be revenged. Like me, many people would not have treated their epileptic and mentally ill relatives the way we did. I know I was not alone in this. As young persons, we held amateur meetings on how to treat our mentally-ill.

Had I known that an epileptic person is and can be as normal any other person; had I known that epilepsy can be treated; had I known that epilepsy is only a brain sickness and not necessarily a witchery; had I known that my chaining him besides a fire and ‘drowning’ him into water was what provoked the violent response from him and inflicted physical and psychological injuries on him; had I known that if I had been a little caring and understanding, he would have lived a little longer and never died in pains; had I known that part of keeping an epileptic person safe is keeping him or her away from fire and water and away from crowds … only if I had known …

Even more painful to me is that after the Carter Center training, I returned to my father to ask about the cause of my late uncle’s epilepsy. He told me for the first time in his and my lifetime that his brother’s condition was a result of a heavy tree falling on his head while they went on the farm in 1944. Out of curiosity and wanting to express my regret, I had to travel to Karnplay, Nimba County, my birthplace and the place that sad event occurred. Standing with my father beside the tree that fell on his brother 48 years before his death in 1992, I sobbed and regretted in sober reflection my past treatment. Had I known … Only if I had known …

So, after all, his epilepsy was not a witch. It was because of a natural disaster. I am so sorry!!!!

In any case, my new education is of no use now to my late uncle. But with it, never will I let another person die the way my uncle did. The education I have gotten is a sufficient tool to let others live and enjoy life as I do. I may not have the finances to take care of them, but transferring the education to a wider audience, I know, is even more powerful because ‘prevention is better than cure’ and because the right education is the most powerful weapon.

This new education was only revealed in a few hours over two successive days. Yet, the impact in my life has a tremendous effect — more than thirteen years of secondary education, four years tertiary education, and many tears of professional education because it affects me directly and society as well. As a society member, it is a moral responsibility on me and any other person to keep it cordial and cohesive and not discriminate or segregate. Hence, my own effort to educate people on mental illnesses.

This became even more important when we were taught at the workshop that “mental-illness is everybody’s business; that every medical illness has a mental condition attached.” Wow! This means one way or the other, we all have mental illnesses at some times. Worse, the population of Liberia one way or another saw and experienced the civil war, which can cause post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Various researchers have shown that 44 percent of all Liberians suffer PTSD. No one should be discriminated against for being mentally ill. Everyone must join in advocating for the right policies and budgetary support toward mental health and mental illnesses.

Budget makers as well as budget passers must ensure that appropriate policies and financial allocations are given programs on mental health because doing so will mean doing one of the single-most important good for all Liberia, ye mama-nature.

Mental health clinicians and support advocates have indicated that only less than one percent of the national budget is given toward mental health, which is a national shame. Mental health or mental illness is everybody’s burden at one point in time or another, considering what percent of our overall population is directly affected by this condition.

I strongly believe that reconciliation, for which the government has budgeted $5 million (in U.S. dollars) within the current draft national budget, will be difficult to achieve if a significant percentage of those who are supposed to be reconciled are people suffering from mental illnesses.

How does one reconcile when he or she is not even normal? Reconciliation comes from the mind and brain! If that mind is non-responsive, how does it decipher what is good as reconciliation, or bad as disunity and grudges? Palava hut reconciliation discussions are great ideas, of course. But these discussions are only good if the mind and brain speak well of them. If the opposite is what the minds and brains interpret about the palava hut discussions, then I see a challenge toward achieving reconciliation.

So, the issue of mental health or mental illnesses has many folds to consider: natural health of the population; achievability of reconciliation; citizens’ physical contribution toward national recovery processes; and their interpersonal relationships. All these can be achieved if the appropriate approaches, including policies and budgetary allotment, are taken toward mental health and mental illnesses.

Words cannot explain it all. But my heart at first was heavy for hurting my late uncle. Now, my heart has become light on the realization that not doing what I did then, many mentally ill persons can live normal lives.

As a journalist, at least I have a better advantage now than before. When I could only speak to a few persons before, I can now speak, through the pages of my newspaper and airwaves of radio stations, to a wider audience far and near. This opportunity I can’t let go. I have it, others don’t, and so I must make use of it. I am launching a Facebook page and a new column in the Public Agenda newspaper soon and on our website upon return from the interior.

I invite one and all to help rid society of misconceptions about mental illness and encourage society to pay more attention to and give care to the mentally ill. They, too, are us.

1. Trust

For your wounded inner child to come out of hiding, he must be able to trust that you will be there for him. Your inner child also needs a supportive, non-shaming ally to validate his abandonment, neglect, abuse, and enmeshment. Those are the first essential elements in original pain work.

2. Validation

If you’re still inclined to minimize and/or rationalize the ways in which you were shamed, ignored, or used to nurture your parents, you need now to accept the fact that these things truly wounded your soul. Your parents weren’t bad, they were just wounded kids themselves.

3. Shock & Anger

If this is all shocking to you, that’s great, because shock is the beginning of grief.

It’s okay to be angry, even if what was done to you was unintentional. In fact, you have to be angry if you want to heal your wounded inner child. I don’t mean you need to scream and holler (although you might). It’s just okay to be mad about a dirty deal.

I know [my parents] did the best that two wounded adult children could do. But I’m also aware that I was deeply wounded spiritually and that it’s had life-damaging consequences for me. What that means is that I hold us all responsible to stop what we’re doing to ourselves and to others. I will not tolerate the outright dysfunction and abuse that dominated my family system.

4. Sadness

After anger comes hurt and sadness. If we were victimized, we must grieve that betrayal. We must also grieve what might’ve been–our dreams and aspirations. We must grieve our unfulfilled developmental needs.

5. Remorse

When we grieve for someone who’s died, remorse is sometimes more relevant; for instance, perhaps we wish we’d spent more time with the deceased person. But in grieving childhood abandonment, you must help your wounded inner child see that there was nothing he could’ve done differently. His pain is about what happened to him; it’s about him

6. Loneliness

The deepest core feelings of grief are toxic shame and loneliness. We were shamed by [our parents] abandoning us. We feel we are bad, as if we’re contaminated, and that shame leads to loneliness. Since our inner child feels flawed and defective, he has to cover up his true self with his adapted, false self. He then comes to identify himself by his false self. His true self remains alone and isolated.

Staying with this last layer of painful feelings is the hardest part of the grief process. “The only way out is through,” we say in therapy. It’s hard to stay at that level of shame and loneliness; but as we embrace these feelings, we come out the other side. We encounter the self that’s been in hiding. You see, because we hid it from others, we hid it from ourselves. In embracing our shame and loneliness, we begin to touch our truest self.

Most of the time, the easiest way to deal with these encounters is to simply tolerate the grumbles and complaints. But at some point, the objections, peevishness and continual negativity become too much to handle; they begin to detract from your work day, impact your mood and leave you feeling drained at the end of the work day.

According Robert Sapolsky, an author and professor of neurology and neurological sciences at Stanford University, exposure to negativity can disrupt learning, memory, attention and judgment (The Wall Street Journal, September 12, 2012).

5 Ways to Respond to the Complainer

1. Validate and Suggest Change.  People are better able to hear suggestions for change when they feel you understand where they’re coming from.    Remember, it’s not necessary to agree with their point of view to convey that you understand their point of view.  So, try first to validate.  You might say something like, “You know, I’m frustrated too.”  Then add a suggestion for change, “but the more I think about it, the more upset I get.  Let’s focus on something else.” If you’re not frustrated, you might try validating with “I can tell this is really bugging you,” and then follow up with, “I can’t help you solve the problem.  Why don’t you try talking to HR” (or a supervisor or whoever might be appropriate).
2. Tell them you’re not going to listen.  This direct approach may sound difficult.  How do you tell someone you’re not going to pay attention to a noxious behavior without creating more friction at work? You might say, “I’ve heard you go around and around on this and my being a sounding board for you isn’t helping. It’s not doing either of us any good.”  In meetings, you might allot a specific amount of time to air complaints and then make the rest of the meeting off limits to complaining that doesn’t involve constructive problem solving (The Wall Street Journal, September 12, 2012).
3. Don’t respond at all.  When a previously learned behavior (in this case, complaining) is in some way reinforced (for example, by people paying attention) then it becomes more frequent.  You can reduce behavior by not responding in a reinforcing manner.  In the case of complaining, you might just leave the situation; nod, or say something like,“hmmm” and walk away.  Or you might pull out your phone, tap out a message and walk off, as if busy with whatever was on your phone.  One important note: often when we begin to ignore what we previously responded to, you get a behavior burst, that is a brief increase in the behavior.  If you respond to the person during their behavior burst, you’ve likely increase the behavior.
4. Respond to behaviors inconsistent with complaining. Seek out non-complaining times and respond to that.  The person can’t complain 100% of the time.  Start with any small instance of non-complaint and fully engage during those times.
5. Tolerate it.  Let’s face it, some people aren’t going to change and can’t be avoided.  If this is the case, find some strategies to tolerate their negativity without letting it bring you down.  While you speak with them, you might try visualizing a force field that protects you from their negative energy, or think about how lucky you are not to have so many problems, quietly engage in deep breathing or gently focus on relaxing your muscles.

Complaining, whining and negativity can impact job performance; it can decrease your motivation, leave you irritable and make problems feel insurmountable.  If you can change your work environment into one that’s more positive, you’ll feel less drained.  If you can’t change it, begin developing strategies to help you manage it.

When we visited, I have many fond memories of sitting on that front porch doing what people did back then — watching the cars go by and talking (although, when you’re a kid, it’s mostly the adults doing the talking).

If you looked across the road, all you could see were the shale banks of the long since-abandoned coal mines.

A waft of pipe smoke drifted up from my grandpap’s (pictured above) pipe.

And like most kids, I wanted to be anywhere but there.

This was the 1970s, so of course there was no Internet and no cable television. My grandparents’ TVs received all of 3, maybe 4 broadcast channels. The telephone was still considered something of a novelty in these houses, with both of them having only one centrally-located phone (usually in a hallway between two rooms).

The 3+ hour car drive to visit didn’t help matters, especially when we were younger — the five of us would pile into our old brown Ford Maverick. Not a car you wanted to spend 3 minutes in, much less 3 hours.

But despite these “hardships,” I really have nothing but fond memories of these visits looking back at them now some 30+ years later.

My dad’s parents

I couldn’t appreciate it at the time, of course, but those long days taught us the value of figuring things out on your own. You didn’t have to rely on others — the Internet, TV, whatever — to entertain you or keep you busy. You relied only on yourself and your own sense of adventure.

Many of those childhood adventures with my two older brothers involved exploring those old shale banks. It was not something I think our parents looked forward to, the inevitable, dreaded¹ question asked nearly as soon as we arrived, “Can we go over to the coal banks?”

“Yes, but be home in time for dinner.”

And off we went. We tried to make it home for dinner, and most times we did, but sometimes we got lost in whatever storyline we created, whatever exploring we took on.

The coal banks represented an almost-alien land of endless gray and black. We sometimes tried exploring how far they went, but inevitably never really found the “end” of them.

The huge shale banks were the byproduct of coal mining there. It’s the useless rock that doesn’t burn. It’s sharp and loose on the banks, and it was easy to lose your footing going up or down the sometimes-steep inclines. You could find plenty of actual coal in those banks, too, but it’s really hard to start a fire with just coal (as we learned from first-hand experience). They were largely devoid of vegetation at that time, since there was nothing there for the plants to take root of.

Other times we’d hang out on the train tracks that ran behind my uncle’s house, including the little overpass bridge down by Old Cranberry. We’d tentatively walk onto the bridge, always afraid an oncoming train was always just around the bend.

Sometimes, it was. And then we’d run off the bridge in a ridiculous game of backwards chicken — can you outrun a train in time to make it off the bridge? These are the games children have been playing in America for decades.

Despite all of this unsupervised play on potentially-dangerous coal banks, active railroad tracks, and a myriad of other completely unfit-for-childhood consumption activities, we made it through those long days largely unscathed. An occasional scrape up, but nothing serious. My oldest brother suffered more serious injuries riding his skateboard than we ever suffered while playing on our own, far from adult eyes and ears.

We know now that the 1970s was not an era notable for its concern for the safety of children. Toys were still dangerous back then (I remember distinctly the sharp edges of one of my favorite toys, a metal gas station and garage that cut me more than once), and adults were largely unconcerned about the possible dangers (“Aww, they’ll be fine.”).

And you know what? It all turned out alright. Our imaginations took us where we needed to be then and there, and we were put in charge and fully responsible for our own fun and entertainment.

We’re all grown up now, and I haven’t been back to West Hazleton for over 20 years. We still have family there, but I imagine it wouldn’t be quite the same. Looking at a Bing map of the area, I see the coal banks are covered now in vegetation and greenery. The old train bridge down by Old Cranberry is still there, and so are both of my grandparents’ homes, filled not with familiar, friendly faces any longer (“Eat, eat more! You’re so thin!!”), but strangers.

As you age — I turn 44 tomorrow — memories of other, perhaps simpler times, drift back into your head from time to time. I’m not sure it’s nostalgia — I don’t want to relive those moments and it’s not really a yearning. It’s just a memory, encased in the sepia tones of my photos.

I can still smell my grandfather’s pipe smoke when I close my eyes and think back to those times on his front porch. Perhaps one day I’ll try taking up the pipe, too.

1. Dreaded only because we often would arrive home quite blackened by our play on the coal banks.