My Oh My

There’s a lot of people struggling these days. Some folks put on that “I got it together” front, but they don’t. They are being strong, if not for themselves, then for someone else. We all know people like that. You may be that person. Others don’t deal with things so stoically and it is so very clear they are struggling. That’s okay. 

I’m reminded of a song that came out, I guess in 1983—I think, so don’t quote me on the date. It was by a band named Slade, and the song was ‘My Oh My.’ Some of you may know a song of theirs made far more popular here in the U.S. by a different band, Quiet Riot and the song was ‘Come on Feel the Noise’ (yes, I know that is not the correct spelling. I changed it on purpose, so no need to point that out). 

Anyway … when I was a kid, maybe 12 or 13, MTV had become a thing. When my brother and I were home with no parents around, we pretty much kept it on MTV. That is where I heard ‘My Oh My’ the first time. I remember thinking how terribly sad it sounded. When that song would come on, I would stop what I was doing and watch the video. I remember the singer walking and singing and looking so lonely. I never wanted to be in that place.

Sadly, like most people, I found myself in that place multiple times, walking down a street, hands shoved into my pockets, head down, dejected, sad, lonely or maybe angry and full of rage. There were a lot of those days. But not a lot of people knew that. 

Back to Slade. I watched the video for ‘My Oh My’ this morning on Youtube. The lyrics, though the same as always, kind of struck me different. 

We all need lovin’, my oh my …

We all need someone to talk to, my oh my …

Those lyrics still strike me as sad. Other lyrics push the bigger meaning of the song, which is you don’t have to do things alone. You don’t have to be strong and stoic. You can ask for help:

You need a shoulder to cry on

Call me, I’ll be standing by.

I can lend a helping hand,

If you ain’t got nothing planned. 

One other thing this song gives: hope. But it’s not just some hope for things to get better. It’s hope with one simple condition:

We can ride the stormy weather

If we ALL get out and try

So let’s all pull together, my oh my.

We need one another, now more than ever. If we want a better future for ourselves, for our children, for our world, then we have to pull together. We can ride the stormy weather if we ALL get out and try. So, today, tomorrow, next week, next year, if you see someone struggling, don’t be quick to judge them, or criticize them. They may be doing the very best they can. They may just need a lending hand, or someone to talk to, or a shoulder to cry on, my oh my.

Love and peace y’all. 

Hi

Hi.

It’s me, A.J. Brown.

I just wanted to pop on here and say hello and give a, hopefully, quick update on things. This shouldn’t take too long.

Type AJ Negative is in it’s tenth year, which absolutely blows my mind. I started this blog/website in June of 2012 as a way to promote my work, get my name out there and connect with readers. There have been times where I have kept the site updated regularly and times where I didn’t. So is the ebb and flow of life and writing. 

I took a six or so month break last year to reevaluate more than just writing, but life in and of itself. Around that time, I really looked at me, at my head space, at what I wanted in life. You could say I was going through a midlife crisis if you want, but I think it was more of learning how to prioritize, well, me. I started a workout program and dropped thirty pounds of fat and found a confidence in myself that had been sorely lacking for years. I felt better and I was able to run again for the first time in twenty years. That was monumental for me.

I got rid of Twitter, which I found to be the most toxic form of social media. I also culled my friend’s list on Facebook from nearly 3800 to about 700 people. Suddenly, a lot of toxicity was gone from my feeds. I removed in person people from my life and had long conversations with other people I did not want to remove. 

And I wrote, but differently than before. I wrote for me, for my enjoyment, without the pressure of needing to get my work published. I wrote some of the best stories in years. I wrote a course on story telling (so if you know someone who might want to learn hot to tell a story … ). Then, after I reached a place where I was happier, I set out into the publishing world again. I put out Five Deaths in September of last year, then GRIM in February of this year. I’ve written an amazing love story and have three books that are interconnected around the theme of love. Talk about stepping outside of your comfort zone.

One thing I had to look at was holding myself accountable. The biggest of those is not making excuses for not doing things, or why I can’t do things. I think most people are in the habit of making excuses. I had to cut that out. I’m still working on it, but for the most part, it’s a habit I have broken.

I also had to look at RIGHT NOW. There is no tomorrow. It is always today because once you reach tomorrow, well, it’s still today. I know, confusing, but the point is don’t put off until tomorrow because tomorrow never arrives and you only have so much time in this world. Do what you want to do in life RIGHT NOW. 

Before I go, I want to talk about Type AJ Negative. I am currently revamping the site. Please, check out the menus and the links, check out the book pages. I’m adding purchase buttons to each book page, so if you’re interested, check back soon and you should be able to purchase directly from my site. If you’ve read my work, comment on those pages, please. I will be adding my social media links, probably in a menu tab as well as a sidebar menu. I’ll also add my Patreon page on here, which I hope you will give it a visit, and maybe subscribe to it. More on that at a later date. 

I am going back to promoting my books and stories and maybe some other writers as well. I’ve been thinking about a WHO AM I kind of thing where I invite other authors on here to talk about themselves and their works. I know some fabulous people in this business. I will still post stories from time to time, but maybe not as much as before. I hope to post more inspirational things as well. 

I hope, even more than all of that, you will stick around for this. 

I have 370 followers. To each one of you, I want to say Thank you. I know, in reality, it’s probably more like thirty people who follow this site regularly. To each of you, a big thank you. If I’m able to bring one person some entertainment and joy into their life with this site, then I’ve done what I set out to do. 

Okay, so this is important. If you follow this site, if you have read this post, can you do me a favor? Yes, please like the post, but more than that, can you leave a comment? Let me know who you are or say hi. If you’ve read my work, tell me about it, tell me if you liked it, hated it, used it to balance a table. 

I’m done for now. I have a lot of work to do, but it is work I am happy to do. I look forward to hearing from you and thank you for reading. Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

Losing …

We lose people in life. Every day, we lose people. Sometimes they leave our lives by moving away, getting other jobs, getting mad and cutting us off. Sometimes … we lose them in death. 

Sometimes people lose us. It happens. We move or get another job or get angry. Or maybe we just lose contact. We mean to get together, say we will, but never do. 

We lose people. It’s the way of life. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes it brings a sense of relief. 

We lose people. 

In the end everyone loses everyone else. Again, that’s life.

Sometimes … sometimes we lose ourselves. And that’s the real tragedy. Sometimes we change to fit the needs or desires of others, not because we want to change, but because we want other people to like us and to accept us. We trade our individuality for acceptance. We trade who we are for who someone wants us to be. 

Change is good and bad. For the right reasons, it is good. For the wrong ones, well … you get the picture, right? I don’t have to paint it here for you, right? 

If you make changes for your own betterment, then you’ve either figured out a few things in life or you are on your way to figuring it out, to figuring out who you are as an individual. If these changes are going to make you a happy person, a better version of who you are, then good for you, rock the casbah and all that jazz. But if those changes aren’t going to make you happy, aren’t going to improve your life in some way, and are only because you want to impress or get noticed by others, in the long run, you’re going to be miserable. That’s when you lose yourself. 

Don’t lose yourself—it’s all you truly have in life; who you are, who you want to be, who you will become, and how you will be remembered when the world loses you.

Patreon: One Step Forward

What’s up all you … hmmm … what do I call the followers of Type AJ Negative? My handful of fans? My new Patreon subscribers? I honestly don’t know. I used to call them Roadies, but something happened a few years ago involving a shady person so I stopped calling y’all Roadies. That actually sucks, because I created a lot of marketing material using that term. But sometimes you have to disassociate with people or businesses and remove all connections to them. 

But that is for another day.

Today, I want to post the link to my new Patreon page. It’s under my name, but I call it One Step Forward

One Step Forward is one author’s take on writing and life. It’s exclusive short stories, videos, background information on characters and books you can’t get anywhere else. It’s discounts on books. It’s exclusive first looks and early content. It’s also a look at the struggles, the doubts, the rejections, as well as the acceptances, the confidence and those moments of success that makes you scream at the top of your lungs ‘What’s going on?’ Oh, wait. That’s not what I scream during the successes. Actually, I don’t scream at all about the successes. Maybe I should. 

It’s the path taken and viewpoints of that path. It’s honesty as one writer sees it. Life is all about taking one step forward at a time, and this is one I chose to take. I hope you will walk with me.

Here is the link. I hope you will consider checking it out. Yes, a lot of content is subscription based but I think it will be well worth it for my Patrons. 

https://www.patreon.com/onestepforward

I will still have content here, on Type AJ Negative and I have a post coming in the next week on what I am striving to do, both as a writer and as a person. 

Also, before I go, if you can think of a name to call my fans and subscribers, drop it in the comments below. Please like, share and comment, as well. And, please, stop by the Patreon page, check it out, subscribe to one of the four current tiers. I truly appreciate it.

Thanks for dropping by, be kind to one another and keep taking one step forward. It’s the only way you get anywhere.

A.J.

WHY?

I wrote a letter at the end of 2020 that I eventually sent to my publisher, editors, proofer and select friends. It is titled, Why I’m Getting Out of the Publishing Business. When I wrote this letter, my resolve to leave the publishing business was so strong I almost sent it without letting it sit, without letting my strong emotions run its course before making such a decision. Instead, I sat on the letter for nearly a month longer, watching things play out, seeing if I would have a change of heart. 

I did not.

One of the biggest reasons for my desire to leave the business of publishing is I feel the system is broken. I feel there are too many small presses with the right ideas but without the funding and/or the understanding of how to make those ideas work for both them and the authors. I feel there are small press publishers who steal the ideas of others to benefit themselves within the writing and publishing communities. I feel there are so many writers out there who don’t care about the readers and will throw anything together to make a buck. 

I feel the business model in publishing is broken. Authors submit their works to agents or directly to publishers, who, if accepted, make more money off the authors’ hard work than the actual authors make. But the business of editing, creating cover art, marketing and so on is why the publisher makes X percent of the royalties and the author makes x percent. Please, understand something important that has been lost throughout the years: without authors, there are no publishers. 

There are rights—so many rights—to published works that authors lose for either a period of time or forever when they sign certain contracts. But those authors get advances, you say. Only with certain publishing houses, but if the book doesn’t sell well enough to meet the advance amount that puts the authors in a precarious position. Sometimes part or all of that advance has to be paid back if the book doesn’t meet the publisher’s expectations. To go with that, sometimes authors have to fight to get the rights to their work back, even after a publishing company has folded. 

That’s not the worst of it. I once had a publisher tell me he would give me the rights to my book back if I paid him five hundred dollars for what he paid out on the book. I asked for receipts and he sent me a bill. I asked for proof work had been done on a book I had not seen edits for though the book was scheduled to be released in less than two weeks. I had not seen cover art, either. The publisher had not done anything he said he would in the contract, and I pointed that out. We had a bitter back and forth until I finally told him he can talk to my lawyer from that point forward. I had already been in touch with an attorney and he had found the contract was null and void and that I could sue the publishing company if I wanted. I did not want to do that. I just wanted the rights to my book back. In the end, I was lucky. The publishing company’s contract provided an out that they didn’t realize was in there. A lot of authors aren’t so fortunate.

Then there is Amazon. I loathe Amazon. There is a mindset among some readers that if your books are not on Amazon, then you must not be that good of a writer. That’s a bogus mindset. Amazon is not a publisher. It is a provider. It provides people who want to publish their books with an avenue to do so. It also provides a means for readers to get those books. It is, in no way, an actual publisher. They don’t edit, they don’t proof. Don’t try to get them to market. They just provide. 

What it boils down to is a story is an author’s intellectual property. It is also an art form—yes, even bad stories are artistic in some way. More than those things, a story is the brainchild of the author. It is a part of them, one the author cherishes. At the end of the day, publishers should respect the authors under their imprint. They should treat them like customers they long to get and keep. A writer is not a dollar sign, and yes, I know the business of publishing is about money. Or is it? Rather, should it be? Maybe it should be about entertaining the readers and giving them the best bang for their buck. I honestly feel doing that will lead to more dollars down the road.

The thing is, it’s not just the publishers doing this. It’s the authors. I work hard on crafting atmospheric and emotional stories. I work hard on putting stories out that move readers. I work hard to give the readers an experience. I work hard on the logic of the stories I tell. I don’t just write some words on a screen and call it good and publish it to make money off readers. That would be tantamount to screwing them. But many authors do. Sadly, readers eat those writers up, hang on their every misspelled word or poorly constructed sentence. 

The art of telling a story is dying and we’ve watched it happen. Sadly, authors have allowed it to happen. It makes their job easier. They don’t have to invest time and energy and heart and soul into crafting something memorable or something that moves you. Just give the readers a beginning, middle and somewhat of an ending and call it a day. Smoke your cigarette. Drink your wine and smile your yellow-stained teeth smile.

I can’t do that. For every story I’ve published, there are at least ten stories I have not. If you do that math, only nine percent of the stories I have written I feel are worthy of seeing the light of day. Nine. Percent.

I’ve always done things my own way. I question things. I question rules. One of my favorite questions is simply, Why? If I’m given an answer I feel is satisfactory, then great, if not, I ask again. Why? The biggest of those questions is why is it done this way? Because it always has been is not a good answer.

So, I left the business for about six months. I wrote more in that six-month period than I did in the previous two years. I cleared my mind. I didn’t watch the business. 

When I decided to step back in, I went with a book I had released in January, then pulled before it could get a head of steam. It’s a good book, one of my favorites. I also went about it differently. I focused on the fun side of the business, which has always been about creating. In September of 2021, nearly seven months after leaving publishing, I rereleased Five Deaths, and I was excited to do so. I was excited to talk about it. I was excited to promote it. I was excited to get it in people’s hands. What a glorious feeling.

That leads us to here, to Patreon. Why? Why Patreon? Patreon is a platform for artist, and as I stated before, writing is an art, sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes it can be amazing. Patreon allows the artist to offer you, the fans of such an art as writing, the opportunity to get content no one else can get through a subscription. It allows fans to help artists continue to create. It allows the artist more control over the content you receive. It allows the artist to actually make a little money off their work. 

I’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve seen how writing organizations treat those who are not members and it is shameful. I’ve witnessed biasness firsthand. I was once told by a publisher who rejected one of my stories that he would have taken the story if a more well-known author hadn’t sent him one for consideration. Someone had to get booted so the well-known author could have a spot. He went for name recognition over quality of story. Sadly, that happens a lot in this business. 

Admittedly, I see things differently. I feel this business fails its readers more than it should. I won’t kiss butts to get further in this business. I won’t lie to a reader. If I feel my work is not a good fit, I tell the reader. It might cost me a sell, but if it’s not for that person, what are the chances that person will read it to the end? And what are the chances they will ever buy from me again?

I stated earlier without writers there are no publishers. There’s one other thing that goes with that: without readers, there is no reason to write and be published. The most valuable person to a writer is not the publisher, editor, proofer, cover artist, or beta readers. It’s the book buying reader. You are the most important thing to me, as a writer. Without you, then I’m not writing this. 

So, what do you get by subscribing to my Patreon page? Depending on the tier you subscribe to, you get exclusive stories, either in a series format or as stand-alone pieces, once a month. You get first looks at new books, you’re the first to know about new releases and you are the first to see cover art. You get a quarterly print booklet, much like my original Brown Bag Stories or Southern Darkness booklets, mailed to you in February, May, August, and November. You get an exclusive first look at my novel Unbroken Crayons—once a month (over a twelve-month period) a new portion will be posted, and you get it all before it is released. There is a 25% discount on print books. You also get what I call ONE STEP FORWARD—one writer’s journey in this business of writing. You also get a birthday shoutout video from me and your name goes in the Great Big Page of Appreciation at the end of my books. Again, all that depends on what tier you subscribe to. I absolutely must stress that. It’s not free. 

So, if you are here, I thank you. You’ve taken time out of your life, from your daily activities, to come here and read my words. Thank you for your support, here on my Facebook page, and hopefully, over at Patreon.

On January 1st, I will share the link to the Patreon page. Why not now? It’s not quite ready yet, and it won’t be launched until January 1st. I hope you will consider checking it out, and subscribing to one of the four tiers. And please spread the word. Help me build this Patreon page. 

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another and keep taking one step forward. It’s the only way you get anywhere.

A.J.

Prioritize Yourself

I’m 51—a number I can’t even begin to fathom—and for the first time in my life, I honestly like who I am and where I am and the possibilities for the future. I’ve always had a sort of quiet self-loathing so few people ever see. I’ve always said something like, “Nobody loves Jeff Brown the way Jeff Brown loves Jeff Brown.” It’s a true statement, but maybe not in the way I present it. I do love me, but I’m not really sure I ever liked me. It’s like being my own relative. You can’t choose your relatives and you can’t choose the person you’re born as. You love your relatives, you just may not like them very much. That’s where I’ve spent most of my life, loving me, but not liking me. 

Until this year, I never really tried to work on me. I never really tried to make myself a priority. There were other things far more important than my own well-being. I worked hard at everything because I hated the idea of failing—not necessarily actually failing, but the very idea of it. I hated it so much that I failed a LOT. So, I worked harder and I failed more spectacularly. I pushed myself to the point of physically hurting myself, then refusing to let me body heal, claiming, “I’m a man, I got this.” Okay, that’s a bullshit mindset. I don’t care if you’re a man. You still have to allow your body to heal or you will deal with it much later in life when your body is breaking down due to your bullshit mindset. 

I dealt with physical pain on an everyday basis because of injuries I didn’t allow to heal properly. Broken bone in my foot? No problem. I’ll walk it off. Blown out knee? I got this. I’ll just limp for the rest of my life because, I don’t know, I’m a damn man. Torn up shoulder? It’s okay. Just a little pain. Yup. I’m a man for sure—a dumb one. 

Back to my point: until this year I didn’t really work on me, mentally, physically or emotionally. And I never really liked myself, partially because, well, I’m a man and expressing you have limitations or flaws just isn’t allowed. Hold on, I need to sneeze. Ahh … ahhh … ahhhbullshitchoo.

Excuse me. Sorry. That one was building up for a while. 

Back in February I left publishing for what I thought would be for good but came back with a different mindset a few months later. I took all the pressure off that I had put on me. No one else put this pressure on me. I did it to myself. And when I left, I felt like I had spent nearly 30 years on something I failed at. 

I did a few things during that break that I should have done and kept doing for all these years: I focused on me. I put myself first for a change. I started looking at who I was and all the things I didn’t like about the person I was, who I claimed to love so much. I began working out, eating less junk food, writing for me and no one else. I got rid of several social media accounts and the ones I kept, I culled the friends’ lists and follows’ lists. I got rid of Twitter all together. On Facebook (my primary social media presence) I cut my friends’ list from around 2800 to just over 600. I slowly began removing people from my life who were a negative influence. I got rid of a lot of toxic people (and yes, some of those people had a positive mindset I found to be toxic).

One of the biggest things I did, outside of the ones mentioned above, is I stopped making excuses. You know what I’m talking about. You probably do it, too. I said things like, ‘If this would have happened …’ or ‘If I would have done this, then my life would be different,’ or ‘If I had a better job …’ or ‘If people would buy my books …’ or ‘I don’t have time to do this,’ (Ooooo, that one got a few of you, didn’t it?) or ‘I don’t know how’ (Ouch … got a few more of you, didn’t I?).

When I stopped making excuses, I started seeing a change in my attitude, my mindset, my physical well-being. When I stopped making excuses, I attacked my workouts with everything I had, even on days I didn’t want to. I changed how I viewed writing and publishing. I started smiling more. 

I never look in mirrors except to comb my hair. I’m not a bad looking dude, but I’ve never liked what I saw in the mirror. I walked by a mirror in Target last night, glanced at it, took a couple of steps, then stopped. I took those couple of steps back to the mirror and looked again. I only looked at myself for maybe five seconds. I smiled and thought, ‘Damn, that’s me,’ then, ‘Damn, I look good.’ I walked away, a smile on my face, my head held a little higher.

Physically, I’m in the best shape I’ve been in in over 20 years. Mentally, I’m in the best place I think I’ve ever been. Emotionally, I’m also in the best place I’ve ever been. By prioritizing myself for the first time in my life, I’ve found a balance that works for me, that has helped me get to a place of actually liking myself, of liking who I am and where I am in life. 

By prioritizing yourself, you’re not being selfish. You’re not saying that nothing else matters in your life. You’re saying, ‘I matter,’ and when you start believing you matter, you change. You don’t become selfish. You don’t become arrogant. You become a better person, because the more you change for the better, the more you benefit. Those around you will notice, and if they try to drag you down or talk shit about what you’re doing, you know who to remove from your life. You begin to surround yourself with people who will lift you up, not tear you down. Why? Because you matter to yourself, and at the end of the day, you go to bed with yourself and you have to like who you are in order to truly experience this beautiful thing we call life.  

So, hear I am, deeper than ever, maybe even truly happy with who I am for the first time in my life. So, I say this to you: prioritize yourself. It may be the missing link between who you are and who you wish to be.

Much love to you all and be kind to one another.

A.J.

Be Astounding

What do you want in life? No, I’m not talking riches and popularity. I think most people want that (at least the riches part). What do you REALLY want in life? Do you want a better job? Do you want to get in shape? Do you want a better marriage or relationships with your friends, family, and the people you care about most? Do you want to write a song, a book, a play? Do you want to play a musical instrument? Do you want to paint, draw, or sculpt? Do you want to go back to college or go for the first time? Do you want to learn a new language? 

What do you want in life? Think about it. I mean, REALLY think about it. 

I listen to people when they talk. Some may not think I do, but I do. I listen to what they say, how they say it. I pay attention to their body language, facial expressions, and the tone in their voices. As a writer, all these things play a huge part in my stories, and I’ve gotten good at listening and hearing what people say. 

I’ve seen or heard a few things this week that have made me ponder the question I posed above. One of those things—and to me the greatest deterrent from chasing dreams—is fear. That fear is based off the unknown. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if I will be any good at it. I don’t know what tomorrow holds or how this will play out. Some of that fear is based off previous experiences. This happened to me before so … 

In many cases, I see fear of failure. I’m afraid if I try, I will fail. What if I don’t succeed? What if I fail? 

Hey, in your mind right now, I want you to look me in the eyes. Come on. Whatever color your eyes are, I want them to look into my blue ones right now, and hear the words coming off my fingertips. Are you ready for this? I understand how you feel. I have been there, and I am certain I will be there again. I hate the very idea of failing at something. It is a normal feeling. 

The following are a handful of quotes from Thomas Edison, you know, that guy that invented a bunch of things. The first of these is fairly well known. A couple of the others are not.

“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

Yeah, so you’ve probably heard of that one. How about this one:

“Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.”

One of the things I feel is important in order to doing anything is to believe you can do it. So often we don’t believe we can do something. We see someone else do it better and when we don’t do it as well as they do, we give up. 

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” Not Edison, but Theodore Roosevelt.

You may not do something the way someone else does, but that doesn’t mean you failed at it. That means you did it differently, and sometimes differently is a good thing. Don’t make the mistake of comparing how you do something, how well you do something, or your success to how well someone else does something and how successful they are. Don’t do that to yourself. Again, look into my eyes: don’t do that to yourself.

Okay, here is the third Edison quote, and it’s powerful:

“Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.”

Did you get that? Seriously. Did you get that?

Giving up on something we want feels like failure. Giving up on ourselves feels like failure. It feels like shame and smells like regret later on. Keep trying. That next bit of effort might be what pushes you across the finish line.

Here’s another important thing to keep in mind: Not trying is worse than trying and not succeeding. At least by trying, you gave it your best effort. I would rather try and failed, than to wonder if I would have succeeded.

There’s one more thing and I promise I will let you go: we are a people of excuses. I can’t do that because I am too young, too old, handicapped, too fat, too thin, not strong enough, don’t have the money, don’t have the know-how, don’t have time. 

For those of you who say any of the things involving physical limits, go read my post called I’m Possible. (https://typeajnegative.wordpress.com/2021/04/07/impossible/). I understand the don’t have the money part. I deal with that on a regular basis. But there are ways around not having money to do things. The don’t know how I get as well. However, the University of Google and Youtube University are your friends and they are free. Also, you can ask people who know what they are doing for help. Sometimes they will surprise you and give you the information you need to do something. Google it. Youtube it. Ask for help. Do it. 

The issue of time. Whew. That’s a good one. Yeah, that’s mostly an excuse. If you have time to watch two hours of television at night or spend half an hour on social media five or six times a day, then you have time to pursue a dream or a desire or a better life for yourself. Sure, sometimes people are truly busy to the point of not having time for anything else. I get it. But, let’s be honest with each other, if you want something bad enough, there is always time for it because you will make time for it.

Cate and I have grabbed hold of a saying and it has become our mantra over the last half year or so: Be stronger than your excuses. We have developed separate goals for ourselves as well as goals for us as a couple. We will be the only reasons we do not reach those goals. Sure, things will come up, but excuses are no longer an option for us, and I don’t have time is the biggest excuse of them all. 

I guess there is one more Edison quote I want to share, and it’s good:

“If we all did the things we are really capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves.”

Wow. That’s just … wow. I have nothing to add to that.

So, I ask you again, what do you want in life? What do you REALLY want? Don’t be afraid to go after it. Don’t be afraid to fail. Don’t give up on that dream or yourself. Don’t make excuses. Be astounding. 

Much love and peace to all of y’all.

Abel

I was excited. That excitement and joy was short-lived when we found out that most of his friends were in another league and he ended up on a team where he knew exactly none of the kids.

We were an hour into our first practice of our first t-ball season. My son wanted to give baseball a go. After all, his friends were playing, and he was five and what kid at that age didn’t want to do the same thing as all of his buddies. We signed him up in a league close to home—one with a pretty good reputation for grooming young boys into good ball players. 

The coach was a big man with a mainstay five o’clock shadow along his chin. He had two assistant coaches I would later find out worked with him. One of those coaches was the son of the man who built the ballpark. I sat on the hill watching as the three men tried to corral the group of young boys, Cate beside me, my daughter playing on the play set across from the field. Then the behemoth of a coach walked up the hill. 

“We’re a coach short and could use the help.”

“Me?” I asked. I looked around, thinking he really was talking to someone else.

“You played baseball, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we could use your help.”

That was the beginning of my days as a coach in little league baseball. It was also the day I noticed Able, a shy boy with brown hair, and almond shaped eyes that didn’t seem to focus on any one thing. He looked at the ground, his shoes, his momma’s leg, back at the ground, his eyes and head never staying still too long. He looked as if he wanted to crawl inside himself and never come out. I could see him physically trying to blend in with the air around him, his elbows hugging his sides, his knees slightly bent in. He leaned into his mother’s legs. If he couldn’t disappear into the air, why not vanish into the black denim of her jeans?

I didn’t say anything at first, but I would later, at the season’s Opening Ceremonies, which other than having all the teams on the field at the same time and announcing the coaches, it was pretty much a waste of time. I hate to say that, but it is what it is.

During those ceremonies, the team mom, a lady named Patricia, held Abel’s hand as we walked onto the field to join the other teams, our hats in our hands. We waved at the crowd of onlookers when our team was announced. Like with his mother, Abel tried to fade into Patricia’s leg, the cheering and clapping from the crowd making him shake as if tiny earthquakes rumbled within his seemingly frail body.

Before the end of the ceremony his mom was on the field with him, and he clutched her leg and cried. I shook my head. I’m not going to lie when I say I thought the mother was being cruel for making him do something he clearly did not wish to do. I’m also not going to lie and say I didn’t think he was a bit on the spoiled side. I would soon learn I was wrong on both accounts, but not on that day. No, on that day, I looked down at my son, the eagerness on his youthful face, the dazzle in his blue eyes—there was excitement there, just like in the rest of the faces of the boys on our team. All except Abel’s.

The following Tuesday we had practice—the first of three that week before the season opener on Saturday. The coaches broke the team up into two groups, one dedicated to fielding and learning the bases, the other dedicated to learning the nuances of holding a bat and hitting, as well as learning how to stand in the batter’s box and keeping their eyes on the ball.  

I didn’t see Abel at the beginning of practice, and I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe his mother had come to her senses and decided not to force him to play. That relief fled as I saw her coming down the sidewalk, Abel melded to her leg. She stopped near Coach Jim, spoke a few words.

“Abel,” he said loud enough for all of us to hear. “Let’s get your helmet on and take a few cuts.”

From where I stood between Jeromy and Jamille, a troubled child with divorced parents, I could hear Abel crying and mumbling words I couldn’t understand. He finally let go of his mother. While Coach Jim slipped a helmet over his head, she ran to her car. Yes, she ran. A minute later, Abel held a bat in front of the tee, his shoulders hunched, legs bent in. He was still trying to disappear. The bat seemed too heavy for him and he held it near his stomach, the barrel pointing down. Coach helped him, putting his arms around his shoulders and easing him to the tee. He showed him the sweet spot of the bat, pointed to it and told him to swing.  

It was agonizing watching him barely get the bat to the ball, striking the tee or whiffing altogether. Then, he did it—he swung hard, struck the ball with good force. He jumped up and down, excitement ringing from his voice in unintelligible words. He swung several more times, hit the ball and squealed happily.  

When it was time for him to come into the field with me, he closed up again, his excitement having faded.

“Come with me, Abel,” I said and knelt beside him, trying the teacher approach of welcoming a new kid to class. “I’m going to be right beside you the whole time, okay?”

He looked up at me, his brown eyes slightly rolled up, his lips a twisted frown. My heart sunk. Not because of the realization that Abel was a child with special needs, but because of how I had felt about his mother, angered by her forcing him to play baseball. She wasn’t forcing him, but helping him, a mother hoping her son can adjust in some way or other into a world where he didn’t seem to fit in.

It was the single most eye-opening moment of my life.

Having friends with autistic children, I realized right then I needed something to relate to with Abel. I needed something he related to, something that could get his interest. That’s when I noticed he wore an Atlanta Braves jersey. Number 10. Chipper Jones.

“Abel, do you like Chipper Jones?” I asked.

His head jerked up; his eyes brightened. He smiled his crooked smile. “Chipper Jones? Chipper Jones? Chipper Jones?”

“Yeah, Chipper Jones,” I said. I glanced up at his mother. His grip had loosened, and I had a feeling I found the relatable content I needed. “Abel, do you want me to teach you how to hit like Chipper Jones?”

“Chipper Jones? Hit? Chipper Jones?”

“Yeah. Do you want me to teach you how to hit like Chipper Jones?”

He repeated his questions of Chipper Jones and hit. Yeah, that was the ticket I needed to get him to pick up what I was putting down.

“If you want me to teach you how to hit like Chipper Jones, you need to let me teach you hot to field like Chipper Jones, and how to catch the ball like Chipper Jones. Can you do that?”

Again, he said Chipper Jones several times. 

I stuck out my hand, “Come on, Abel, let’s go learn how to catch the ball like Chipper Jones.”

As Lady Luck would smile on a gambler from time to time, she smiled on me and Abel that day. He took my hand and walked with me out onto the field at some little elementary school I had never been to until we started having practices there. I helped him with his glove. I showed him how to stand and how to cup the ball in the glove using the alligator method. Chomp your bare hand down onto your glove hand when the ball gets to it. I pointed to the batter.  

“If the ball comes your way, you run and get it. Okay?”

He cringed a little but nodded. He could hear me; he could understand me. Then Coach D stepped up to pitch. He tossed the first ball, which was hit sharply by Cole, the boy at bat. The ball rolled toward Abel.  

“Abel,” I yelled, my heart lifting, “Get the ball!”

Without hesitation, he ran. The ball hit his foot, bounced off his shin. He picked it up and cheered himself for his efforts. I cheered, as well. Abel danced as the coaches clapped and yelled their “way to be’s.”

His mother stood from her car, clapping. Later, I saw her crying as she hugged him tight to her chest. I went up to her, tussled Abel’s hair and knelt beside him. “Abel, will I see you at the next practice?”

He smiled, gave a hearty nod.

“Give me five, buddy,” I said and stuck out my open hand. He slapped it hard and laughed. To his mother, I said, “Thank you for being a good mother.”

She smiled as another trail of tears slid down her face.

After practice, I went to my son and hugged him tight.

“Did I do good, Daddy?” he asked.

“Yes, buddy. You did great.” 

That’s not where this story ends. Where would the lesson be if I ended it here? I would love to say that Abel was the easiest kid to coach. He wasn’t. He tried, but his mind wandered a lot and so did he. But he stuck with it. His mother stuck with it. I stuck with it.

Coach Jim had a way about him that both scared the kids and enthralled them, so they listened, and our kids advanced far further than the tee ball level. By midseason our kids were hitting live pitching, whereas a lot of the kids on other teams were still hitting directly off the tee. Well, I need to correct that last statement. Except for Abel, the rest of the kids on our team were hitting live pitching. Don’t get me wrong, we pitched to Abel. He just couldn’t hit the ball. His hand/eye coordination and timing never seemed to flow together.

We had played nine games and Abel had not gotten a hit all season. I spent a lot of time with him, teaching him how to swing, teaching him how to hold his bat, teaching him how to stand, and no hits. I had not taught him to hit like Chipper Jones. Still, he tried. He swung as hard as he could, missing and usually hitting me with the follow through. I carried away many bruises that year. 

The season came to an end one hot June Saturday. Abel had been up to bat twice and had no luck hitting pitches thrown by Coach D. Then came his last at bat. I’m sure you can figure out where this is going, but I want to tell the story anyway. 

Abel came up to the plate, his orange- barreled bat in his hands, his dark blue helmet on his head. 

By this point in the season, I played catcher and caught the pitches Coach D threw that the kids didn’t hit. I had caught every one of them thrown to Abel. 

“Are you ready, Abel?” I asked as I knelt beside him at home plate. 

Abel nodded, but it wasn’t very confident. He looked like he did that first day I saw him, like he wanted to crawl into his own skin and hide away from the world.

“Look at me, Abel,” I said.

He fidgeted but didn’t look up.

“Abel, look at me.”

Finally, he lifted his head and held his gaze on me long enough for me to tell that somewhere in his mind he absolutely knew he couldn’t hit the baseball. I could almost feel his pain. Though he was special needs and I wasn’t, at one time I couldn’t hit a baseball, either. When I played the game, I got lucky to get a couple of hits every ten at bats. I just wasn’t that good of a hitter. I would get frustrated and down about it. I couldn’t imagine how he felt. My heart almost broke right then.

“Abel, you’re going to hit that ball, do you hear me?”

At first, he only stared at me. I repeated my statement, then he nodded. Again, it wasn’t a confident gesture.

I settled him into his stance and did the robotic diatribe I did with all the kids. “Elbow up. Bat back. Tuck your chin, Abel. Watch the ball. Watch it all the way to the plate.”

Coach D tossed the ball. Abel swung, missed and spun like a top trying to dig its way into the ground. I caught the ball, tossed it back and looked at Abel. He shook his head but didn’t look at me.

“Get your bat up, Abel. Elbow up. Bat back. Tuck your chin. Watch the ball, Abel. Watch it all the way until the bat hits it.”

Again, Coach D tossed the ball. It was just an underhanded lob to the plate. Abel swung with the ball still fifteen feet away. We did this two more times. The league had a five-pitch rule. If a kid hasn’t hit the ball after five pitches, then he has to hit it off the tee.

“Settle down, Abel,” I said. At this point I was sitting on my butt, legs criss-cross Indian style, the way they taught us in school when I was a kid. “Abel, listen to me. You’re going to hit this ball, and when you do, I want you to run all the way around the bases. Don’t stop, you hear me?”

He nodded.

“What are you going to do, Abel?”

“Hit.”

“That’s right. Then what?”

“Run.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop,” he repeated.

“Get in the box,” I said.

He stepped into the batter’s box. He was slouched over, the barrel of the bat touching the ground.

“Abel, bat up. Elbow up. Bat back. Tuck your chin. Abel, watch the ball, hit the ball, and then run.” Then I added, “Hit the ball like Chipper Jones.” 

I tapped him on the back of his helmet, a gesture I hoped he took as encouragement. I squatted behind the plate, looked at Coach D, then nodded. Coach D tossed the ball. It seemed to float toward home plate. I swear I saw the seams of the baseball.

Abel lifted his front leg and swung the bat as hard as I had ever seen him swing it … and it connected. The ball rolled a few feet in front of the plate. Abel stood looking at it. Well stood is not quite accurate. He appeared to have full body shivers.

“Run!” I yelled. So did half the crowd in the stands watching the game.

Abel took off down the base path, but instead of heading for first base, he headed for third.

“Abel,” I yelled and chased after him. “Wrong way.”

I caught him halfway up the third base line and redirected him. 

It was one of those moments I wish I could have caught on video. But, really, I don’t need it—I have it in my memory. Every detail, as if it were yesterday and not ten years ago.

The infield was orange dirt, covered in the footprints of all the kids who played that day. The on-deck circle was still pretty much a circle, but the chalk outline had spread out and had been scuffed up quite a bit. The outfield grass was as green as it would get that summer and the kids in the dugout were all jumping up and down. I don’t know what they were screaming, but I know they were cheering as loud as they could. 

Abel was still holding the bat as he cut across the field from the third base line to the first base side. I remember this because I yelled for him to ‘drop the bat, drop the bat, Abel.’ He did drop it just before stepping on first base and jumping up and down as if he had just won the lottery. In a way, I guess maybe he didn’t win the lottery, but the rest of us had. You see, we were witnessing one of the greatest moments in our own lives. We just didn’t know it right then.

One of the coaches from the other team pointed to second base and yelled, “Run. Run. RUN!” I yelled for him to run. Abel did. Head down, arms flailing and legs pumping in an awkward gallop that was simultaneously one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. The kids on the other team didn’t chase after the ball, as were their instincts to do so. They didn’t try to tag him as he rounded second and headed for third, then rounded third and headed home. 

I don’t know when I dropped his bat and fell to my knees just on the other side of home plate, but I had. I was yelling for him to ‘run, don’t stop.’ I waved my arms for him to run toward me. I don’t believe he ever saw that. His head was still down, and his arms were still flailing and his legs were still pumping for all he was worth. 

Halfway down the line he looked up.

He looked up.

Ummm … 

I get a little choked up here, and I’m hoping you will understand why.

You see, there was this … this … broad smile plastered on his face. His eyes dazzled brighter than I had seen on any child’s face before that day. I saw this through the face mask on his helmet, even as the helmet itself bobbed up and down on his head with each awkward step he took.

The little boy with special needs was living his dream, and for a brief moment in time, he was just like any other kid. But he wasn’t. He was flying. Somewhere in his reserved mind he was soaring through the clouds as he ran the bases. Then, just a few feet from home plate he dove, feet first. It was just as awkward as his gait, but just as glorious as well. He landed next to home plate and stamped one cleated foot on it emphatically. 

Then he stood and started his lottery dance again. I gave him a hug, just as I would my own son, then we gave each other a high five—him slapping my hand as hard as he could—and he continued to jump up and down, even as his momma stood in the dugout door, her hands over her mouth and nose, tears streaming from her eyes. 

That’s when I noticed everyone in the bleachers were not only standing but clapping and whistling and cheering. There were others crying, and there were tears in my own eyes, though I didn’t realize it right then.

Abel’s mom met him at the dugout gate, picked him up and hugged him tight. I don’t know if it was what she envisioned for him—I’m certain it’s not—but I know it was a proud, emotional moment for her.

It was over entirely too quickly. A season full of hours of practices and games. And it was over in less than five minutes. After the game, Abel’s mom came to me as I was getting my son’s gear together.

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Thank you,” I responded with a smile.

We talked for a few minutes. The words exchanged really doesn’t matter. What does is for a moment in Abel’s life he was just another little boy on a baseball team, wearing the joy in his heart on his sleeve as he ran the bases and slid into home plate. I bet in his mind it wasn’t just a hit, but a game winning homerun by Chipper Jones in the World Series that played out somewhere in his mind.

As I left the field with my family, holding my son’s hand, I was reflective of the season, of the first day I saw Abel and his mom and how wrong I had been in my assessment of the situation. That wrongful thinking drove me all season to help Abel play the game he loved. I think that was a heaping of guilt I carried on my shoulders until Abel got his hit. Then all that guilt was gone.

“Daddy, we played good today,” my son said as he tugged on my hand. 

I took his bag and slung it over one shoulder, then I picked him up. “Yeah, buddy, you guys played great today.”

***

If you’ve read this far, thank you. This is a true story. I changed the names of most everyone mentioned, including Abel’s. I chose the name Abel because I thought it was important to use something that showed it was possible to do this and what better way to show someone was able to do something than to use a name quite similar to the word ‘able?’

Abel would be around 16 or 17 now. I haven’t seen him since that last game. I wish I knew how he was doing, what he was up to. 

This story originally appeared in my short story collection, Ball Four. If you would like a copy of the book, drop me a comment below. 


Thanks for reading.

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

ImPossible

My wife, Cate, joined a fitness group. They support each other with words of encouragement, congratulations on achieving goals, and friendship on their quests to become healthier. I’ve watched my wife take on this fitness routine with a fierce determination that makes me proud of her. They also do check-ins through the Marco Polo video app. Cate listens to them throughout the day, whether it is while she is driving or eating or just sitting on the couch resting after a long day. Seeing how I’ve been in the vicinity of my wife on a few occasions when she listened or watched these videos, I have heard a few of them. These women seem to genuinely care about each other, which is something we don’t see a lot of these days.

On the first Saturday in April, Cate and I took a day trip to several state parks here in South Carolina. Before we visited any of the parks, we popped into an RC car shop in Monroe, North Carolina, then went and had what amounted to brunch at this little diner called The Village Grill. As we sat and ate (me eating a sausage, egg and cheese sandwich and she eating a salad), she mentioned one of the videos she recently watched. The woman’s name is Marcia and her check-in was kind of typical check-in fair, but the main part of it was about one word: Impossible.

Before I continue with my story, let me state that after Cate told me about it, I asked if I could listen to it. A couple days later, as we sat at the kitchen table (me working on the RC car I bought the Saturday before, and she watching Marco Polo videos), she asked if I wanted to see the one by Marcia, the one about the word Impossible.

“Of course,” I said.

She tapped the screen of her phone a couple of times, then turned it around for me to see. Though, I didn’t look at the video, I stopped what I was doing and listened. 

Marcia mentioned how, at the beginning of the year, they were challenged with coming up with a word … a word for the year. It sounded like this word could be the one that defines their year. Or, maybe, it was a word of encouragement or something to strive for. Marcia liked the words some of the others came up with, but none of them was her word. None of them spoke to her. 

Then, in one of her workout programs, the instructor mentioned the word Impossible. It clicked with her. It resonated with her, and I think it might resonate with you—it did with me.

Stick with me. This next bit is important. 

Marcia mentioned how she is older (no, I’m not mentioning her age), and how she might have a little more weight on her bones than she thinks she should be carrying, and how she has bad knees. They were all things she could use to say she couldn’t do something, or maybe, something was Impossible for her to accomplish. It may not be exactly the same, but we all have things that we make excuses for why won’t try to do something. I don’t want to say it was an excuse for her, but I believe she alluded to it. 

Ahh, but then the instructor said that word. Impossible. It hit her. The word Impossible is made up of two words: I’m Possible. By seeing it as I’m Possible, the concept of Impossible changed for her. 

I’m Possible. Do you get that? Read it again:

Impossible … I’m Possible. 

Marcia goes on to state, in a somewhat excited tone, that “I’m possible to be the wife I need to be to my husband, the mother I need to be to my children …” But the realization doesn’t end there. She can be so much more—the possibilities are limitless. This was a huge realization for her.

There is more to Impossible and I’m Possible than just breaking the word into two and putting an apostrophe in there. It’s a mindset. It’s about believing in yourself, in your abilities, in your determination. It’s not making excuses.  

It’s about Can and Can’t. Possible and Impossible. 

If you go into something with the word Can’t (or Impossible) on your lips or in your heart, then you’ve sabotaged yourself. You’ve already given up, but you don’t realize it, yet. Mentally, you’ve checked out and you might think you are putting a lot of effort into something, but you aren’t—at least not the effort you could put forth if you went in with the mindset of I Can. Can’t or Impossible truly limits you in what you will do.

When I was younger, I played a lot of sports. I was good, especially at basketball. Every time I stepped onto the court I felt like I was the best player out there. It didn’t matter if I was or wasn’t because, mentally, I believed I was. Believing in yourself is more than half the battle. I sized up my opponent before the game started, and in my head and in my heart, I always believed, “I’m going to own you.” I never went into a game thinking my opponent could beat me, that he was better than me. 

It was a mindset. Just like Impossible and I’m Possible is a mindset. If you think it’s Impossible, it will be. If you think I’m Possible, YOU will be.

What Marcia did was look at things with new eyes. Instead of things being Impossible for her because she was a little older, maybe a little overweight, and had bad knees, she began seeing all things are possible if you believe. 

I’m Possible is also about ownership. Ownership of who you are, what you do, and how you view life. It’s making no excuses. There are no I Can’ts with I’m Possible. 

With that in mind, be possible. Not just possible, but be possible without limits. Believe in the term I’m Possible. Believe that you have the ability to do anything you want, and not just be who you are, but be who you want to be. Don’t say I can’t. Don’t give yourself a reason to not be possible. Be like Marcia. 

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

They Seemed Okay

In April of 2018, I was sitting at a table on Main Street here in Columbia. I was eating a meal with my wife and listening to our favorite local band. The text tone on my phone went off. I didn’t check it. I have this pet peeve where I hate having dinner with someone and that person is constantly answering their texts or phone calls. So, the phone sat on the table, face down at I ate and Prettier Than Matt performed.

The text ring chimed again. And again. And again.

Finally, Cate said to me, “You might want to check that. It could be important.”

I flipped the phone over, typed in my password and checked the text. Cate had been right. It was important. 

I sat staring at my phone and shaking my head. I think I put one hand to my forehead and rubbed. 

“Everything okay?” Cate asked.

I shook my head. “No. (Name that shall not be mentioned) committed suicide last night.”

I wiped my mouth and responded to the multiple texts that I had received about the death of a friend. Just the night before I had talked to him—less than 24 hours earlier and he ‘seemed okay.’ 

Fast forward almost a year later. It’s now April 1st, 2019. I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed when I see an announcement that stopped my scrolling. A friend of mine’s son had posted on his mother’s page that she had died in her sleep. I thought it was a bad April Fool’s Day joke and I sent my friend a PM. 

It wasn’t a joke. She didn’t respond and by the time her mom responded a month later, her death had been confirmed by multiple people. It had been speculated she didn’t just go to sleep and not wake up. 

My friend had depression issues. She and I had talked about it on more than a handful of occasions. A few days before we had talked. Plans were being made for projects we were working on, for things she wanted to work on. She ‘seemed okay.’

In the last couple of years, four of my friends committed suicide. 

I’m going to pause here and let that sink in.

Fast forward to just a few days before Christmas of one of the toughest years ever, 2020. A friend of mine posted about his daughter’s sudden passing. I saw it, but said nothing right away. I thought my friend from my teen years probably needed his space, needed to grieve. 

The Monday after Christmas, I sent him a message. I’m going to be honest here: I was worried about him and I didn’t expect him to answer so quickly. Within two minutes, he responded and it shocked me to the point of nausea and speechlessness. His sweet, teenaged daughter had committed suicide. 

It brought tears to my eyes. His daughter was the same age as my son. My stomach knotted and I could only shake my head in shock and disbelief.

I’m still shocked.

I don’t know the situation behind my friend’s daughter’s suicide, but the two people I mentioned and the two I did not all had depression and anxiety issues. One of them suffered from PTSD and injuries he received while serving in the military overseas. My four friends all dealt with some form of mental illness, whether it was depression, anxiety or PTSD. Two of them didn’t think they measured up to the world’s standards. One of them was lonely and raising kids by herself. Her depression was debilitating, as was my military friend’s.

Listen to me for a moment. All of you who read this, all of you who follow this page, please listen to me. Mental illness is no joke. Depression is no joke. Anxiety is no joke. It’s as serious as Cancer and heart disease and any other sickness that can be deadly. 

Sadly, there is a stigma surrounding these things. You hear things like, that person is just seeking attention, or it’s not that bad, just a little sadness, or it’s all in their head, or, worse still, it’s just an excuse for whatever that person doesn’t want to do or deal with.

So often people who suffer from any form of mental or emotional illness are told to get over it, to rub some dirt on it, or any other way of saying this is a nonissue and they’re making more out of it than it is. I don’t cuss much on my website, but I’m just going to say this: that’s bullshit. People who deal with these issues can’t just get over it, can’t just move on or rub some dirt on it or man up. It’s a big issue for them. Sometimes it’s so difficult they can’t bring themselves to get out of bed or to go out around people. Sometimes the cloud of gray they are surrounded in is so thick and all encompassing that they see only one way out. They don’t see any sunshine on the other side of those clouds. For some—for many—there is only damp, cold and rainy days.

I’m not going to sit here and say I understand suicide. I don’t. I’ve never gotten why people choose to end their lives instead of seeking help. [[Let me clarify one thing before I continue: I think I do understand when someone is suffering from a terminal illness or who is losing their mental facilities thanks to illnesses like Dementia and Alzheimer’s.]] Here’s the thing: where are you going to get help from these days? It’s such a stigma that talking about it to others sometimes makes things worse in the fact that those people sometimes look at you differently once you air your depression or anxieties out. Sometimes reaching out can make things worse if you reach out to the wrong person. How wrong is that?

“They have issues.”

Don’t we all? Don’t we all have something that touches us in a way that hurts us on a whole different level? Don’t we all have our own demons we have to deal with? Just because someone can get over something doesn’t mean the next person can. Each person is different. 

We can medicate, but that’s not treating the issue, it’s treating the symptom. If you want to get to the cure or even to the ability to maintain this, you have to treat the root. You can snip the leaves all you want, but until the root is treated, the plant will keep growing. That’s not to say some people don’t need medication—they most certainly do, but that’s not always the cure. 

We can seek counsel from a therapist. That’s a start. Even that isn’t always going to help. 

What I think—and please understand these are my thoughts and how I feel about this and nothing more—is until we start taking the different forms of mental illness serious, it’s going to get worse. Until we start educating ourselves, our children and our leaders, about mental illnesses, it’s going to continue to get worse. We need to look at mental illnesses, not as a stigma or as something to be ashamed of, but as something that can be talked about, that can be openly discussed without being ridiculed or treated differently. Until we accept that many people can’t just ‘deal with things’ we’re never going to get hold of this.

And, again, listen. This is important. I mentioned ‘get over it’ earlier. Don’t say that. Ever. Just don’t do it.

She’s probably going to kill me for this, but my daughter has anxiety problems. Every feeling she has is amplified. She feels things on a much deeper level than I do. When she has a panic attack it’s a big deal. For the longest time, I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand she couldn’t control them or when they happened or how long they lasted. For me it was as simple as ‘you need to learn how to deal with this.’ Essentially, that is just a lousy way to say an even lousier ‘get over it.’

I want to say this and I want to be clear about this: I. Was. Wrong. It should have never been ‘you need to learn how to deal with this.’ It should have been, ‘talk to me, tell me what’s going on, help me understand so I can help you.’ Don’t get me wrong, my default setting wasn’t get over it. It was to try and help, but when I couldn’t help, get over it became that default setting. That was shitty of me. I hate that I couldn’t help, but I hate even more my eventual reaction. It was wrong and it could have led to far worse things. I know this now and I’m thankful my daughter has learned the warning signs for when a panic attack is coming and that she can put herself in a place, mentally, to handle it—not to deal with it, but handle it. 

A panic attack can be as debilitating as any longterm pain. It’s a heightened form of anxiety that grabs hold of you like an angry dog to a bone, and it doesn’t let go so easily. Depression is the same way.

I wasn’t raised to understand depression, anxiety, panic attacks or any other form of mental illness. If I was sad then that’s all it was. If I feared something, then it was me being irrational. If I was unhappy, I had to ‘get over it.’ It took me a long time to understand that this is something that can crush a person and lead them to make decisions that I still don’t understand. 

Life is precious and the minutes are so few. I always thought from the time you take your first breath you begin dying, so why speed the process up? I don’t understand suicide. I don’t understand the mindset you have to be in to make that decisions. I’ve written about suicide in some of my fiction and I’ve tried to understand the pain and sadness of someone on the verge of ending his or her life. It’s a dark space to go as a writer. I imagine it is so much darker as someone struggling with depression and any other mental illness.

So, where does all this rambling leave us? It leaves us with me saying—no, begging—please, world, stop frowning on those who struggle with the various forms of depression and mental illnesses. Please, take their hand and help them. Please, don’t just listen to them talk, but actually hear them. You don’t always have to have the solution, but have the empathy to be a friend, and for Heaven’s sake, love them. Love them in a way that leaves them feeling loved, in a way they believe they are loved. Don’t be critical and rude and don’t tell them to ‘get over it.’ 

We all need to know someone cares—All. Of. Us.—so be that person who cares. Reach out, even if your friend or family member ‘seems okay.’ My two friends at the beginning of this ‘seemed okay’ when I talked to them last. They weren’t.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.