Friday, December 27, 2013
*Priorities
When someone bound to the life of a nursing home says that all they really need to live is Church & their family, you really begin to rethink your priorities.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
"The Golden Moments"
The Golden Moments.
One of my absolute favorite things in the entire world is that time just prior to sunset, when the sun gives everything this deep and warm golden hue. It doesn’t matter what season it is or what is going on in the world, in those brief golden moments, everything looks perfect, and beautiful, and timeless.
These moments stop me in my tracks. They demand my attention in such a way that I can’t help but pause for a minute and be free of the stress and confusion of life. They are moments that follow me wherever I go, moments that make the world seem a little smaller.
As my internship with To Write Love On Her Arms comes to an end, and I begin to look to the next chapter of life, these times become increasingly valuable. This semester has been, in its own way, like one of those golden moments. It has been beautiful, and wonderful, and a much-needed break from the life I was pursuing back in Kansas. It has been a period that required reflection, and meditation, and intentionality.
This semester has been one of the best of my life. Silly fun like visiting all four Disney parks in one day. Seeing manatees and my first lighthouse. Singing loudly and dancing in the car at stop lights. Bonding over family and community dinners. Late night walks to the beach. Sharing in the lives and stories, victories and triumphs of supporters who message us. These are moments that stand out in my mind as some of the happiest I have ever known. Moments I can pinpoint in my memory and say with confidence have changed my perspective on life.
But the entire semester wasn’t always moments of laughter and happiness. There were moments of stress, and pain, and longing. There were nights I spent lying on the floor of the kitchen or the living room of the intern house, crying with conflicting emotions. There was the day I broke down at the office because I had sent important emails to the wrong recipients. There were uncomfortable talks, and reality checks, and the moments of dread as I watched the numbers in my bank account steadily get lower. And most recently, there is the stress of trying to figure out how to return to everyday life—how to make loved ones back home understand how this semester has been much more than just an internship. It has been a season of learning and growing professionally, but even more so, a season of growing personally.
The things I have learned about myself since that first day in late August are immeasurable. I have learned to take breaks when my mind is overwhelmed by the tasks at hand. I’ve learned that it is OK to be vulnerable and ask for help when I need it. I have seen the power of the written word, as it reaches and connects people from all walks of life. But possibly most importantly, I have come to terms with my ongoing battle with depression, and I have made the decision to step back into a counselor’s office in the New Year.
Like those golden moments, this semester was always meant to be temporary. But I forget that. I get completely caught up in the moment, captivated by life. When I pause to admire those golden moments of sunlight, I don’t think about the end, that the sun will set and the world will grow cool and dark. I bask in those moments which seem eternal, and that is how I want this semester to be. But though I am sad to leave, I am also excited and content. I am excited to apply the things I have learned here to my life and relationships back home; I am content because the beauty of these moments is not confined to their brevity.
These moments stop me in my tracks. They demand my attention in such a way that I can’t help but pause for a minute and be free of the stress and confusion of life. They are moments that follow me wherever I go, moments that make the world seem a little smaller.
As my internship with To Write Love On Her Arms comes to an end, and I begin to look to the next chapter of life, these times become increasingly valuable. This semester has been, in its own way, like one of those golden moments. It has been beautiful, and wonderful, and a much-needed break from the life I was pursuing back in Kansas. It has been a period that required reflection, and meditation, and intentionality.
This semester has been one of the best of my life. Silly fun like visiting all four Disney parks in one day. Seeing manatees and my first lighthouse. Singing loudly and dancing in the car at stop lights. Bonding over family and community dinners. Late night walks to the beach. Sharing in the lives and stories, victories and triumphs of supporters who message us. These are moments that stand out in my mind as some of the happiest I have ever known. Moments I can pinpoint in my memory and say with confidence have changed my perspective on life.
But the entire semester wasn’t always moments of laughter and happiness. There were moments of stress, and pain, and longing. There were nights I spent lying on the floor of the kitchen or the living room of the intern house, crying with conflicting emotions. There was the day I broke down at the office because I had sent important emails to the wrong recipients. There were uncomfortable talks, and reality checks, and the moments of dread as I watched the numbers in my bank account steadily get lower. And most recently, there is the stress of trying to figure out how to return to everyday life—how to make loved ones back home understand how this semester has been much more than just an internship. It has been a season of learning and growing professionally, but even more so, a season of growing personally.
The things I have learned about myself since that first day in late August are immeasurable. I have learned to take breaks when my mind is overwhelmed by the tasks at hand. I’ve learned that it is OK to be vulnerable and ask for help when I need it. I have seen the power of the written word, as it reaches and connects people from all walks of life. But possibly most importantly, I have come to terms with my ongoing battle with depression, and I have made the decision to step back into a counselor’s office in the New Year.
Like those golden moments, this semester was always meant to be temporary. But I forget that. I get completely caught up in the moment, captivated by life. When I pause to admire those golden moments of sunlight, I don’t think about the end, that the sun will set and the world will grow cool and dark. I bask in those moments which seem eternal, and that is how I want this semester to be. But though I am sad to leave, I am also excited and content. I am excited to apply the things I have learned here to my life and relationships back home; I am content because the beauty of these moments is not confined to their brevity.
"You are ready for this."
You Are Ready For This.
You don’t have to convince me that change can be scary. I cling to the comfort of tradition. I fall in love with places and people and never feel quite ready to leave them. Major changes in my life have brought uncertainty, questions, and even tears. This part of me is the reason my annual family vacation to Maine is the most important part of my year. It’s the reason I woke up crying on the day of my college graduation. It’s the reason I’m overly sentimental, nostalgic, and always ready to reminisce about the memories I hold so close to my heart.
But there’s another part of me that is never content in the places where I’ve grown so comfortable. This part of me is always searching for something new and exciting. This part of me is the reason I joined my high school indoor track team as a thrower, even though I had never touched a shot put in my life. It’s the reason I studied abroad in Australia. It’s the reason I stepped into a counselor’s office for the first time. It’s the reason I am here in Florida.
I constantly struggle to find balance between these sides. But in the end, I want to grow, learn, and make myself better … so I choose to be uncomfortable.
Six months ago, I graduated from college. I didn’t stop crying for two days. I wasn’t just hesitant to graduate; I was terrified. Endicott College was my home, my friends were my family, and my hobbies and passions were so wrapped up in that campus that I wasn’t sure I could remember who I was outside of it. I was a mess.
As much as I wanted to avoid the discomfort of change, it wasn’t possible. So, after a few days at home, I started to look for my next step. I knew I was going to be uncomfortable either way, so I actively chose to step outside of my comfort zone. I applied for jobs and internships I really wanted, but didn’t think I would ever get.
By what seemed like a miracle at the time, I found myself here, at To Write Love On Her Arms, an internship that perfectly combined the passions I wasn’t sure I’d ever find a way to utilize again. Moving to Florida to live in a house with people I didn’t know was scary, but listening to the side of myself that wanted to be pushed out of my comfort zone was worth it. I learned, once again, that discomfort is where you grow and become better.
So now, six months later, I find myself in a position very similar to the one I was in when I graduated. About to leave behind a place and a group of people I’ve come to love. Completely unsure about what the future holds. Dealing with the real world struggles of finding a job that feels meaningful, and paying off loans, and finding time to see people I care about. Yes, I’m a little scared. It’s definitely uncomfortable, but I am going to use this discomfort to push me toward my next great adventure.
So I challenge you to take your next step with me. Maybe it’s a conversation you need to have or a question you need to ask. Maybe it’s applying for that dream job or internship. Maybe it’s asking for help—or asking someone else if they need help. These things are uncomfortable, but more often than not, they’re worth it.
Step outside of your comfort zone, and you might find hope. You might find healing.
Believe me: You are strong enough. You are ready for this.
—Jessica Cooney
Fall 2013 TWLOHA Intern
But there’s another part of me that is never content in the places where I’ve grown so comfortable. This part of me is always searching for something new and exciting. This part of me is the reason I joined my high school indoor track team as a thrower, even though I had never touched a shot put in my life. It’s the reason I studied abroad in Australia. It’s the reason I stepped into a counselor’s office for the first time. It’s the reason I am here in Florida.
I constantly struggle to find balance between these sides. But in the end, I want to grow, learn, and make myself better … so I choose to be uncomfortable.
Six months ago, I graduated from college. I didn’t stop crying for two days. I wasn’t just hesitant to graduate; I was terrified. Endicott College was my home, my friends were my family, and my hobbies and passions were so wrapped up in that campus that I wasn’t sure I could remember who I was outside of it. I was a mess.
As much as I wanted to avoid the discomfort of change, it wasn’t possible. So, after a few days at home, I started to look for my next step. I knew I was going to be uncomfortable either way, so I actively chose to step outside of my comfort zone. I applied for jobs and internships I really wanted, but didn’t think I would ever get.
By what seemed like a miracle at the time, I found myself here, at To Write Love On Her Arms, an internship that perfectly combined the passions I wasn’t sure I’d ever find a way to utilize again. Moving to Florida to live in a house with people I didn’t know was scary, but listening to the side of myself that wanted to be pushed out of my comfort zone was worth it. I learned, once again, that discomfort is where you grow and become better.
So now, six months later, I find myself in a position very similar to the one I was in when I graduated. About to leave behind a place and a group of people I’ve come to love. Completely unsure about what the future holds. Dealing with the real world struggles of finding a job that feels meaningful, and paying off loans, and finding time to see people I care about. Yes, I’m a little scared. It’s definitely uncomfortable, but I am going to use this discomfort to push me toward my next great adventure.
So I challenge you to take your next step with me. Maybe it’s a conversation you need to have or a question you need to ask. Maybe it’s applying for that dream job or internship. Maybe it’s asking for help—or asking someone else if they need help. These things are uncomfortable, but more often than not, they’re worth it.
Step outside of your comfort zone, and you might find hope. You might find healing.
Believe me: You are strong enough. You are ready for this.
—Jessica Cooney
Fall 2013 TWLOHA Intern
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
"Charlies' Last Letter"
Michael Brook - Charlie's Last Letter
During the last week of classes before my college graduation, I also attended my last counseling session. Graduation seemed to line up perfectly with a natural ending to my time in counseling. I was in a very positive place— with much thanks to Lindsey, my counselor— and was ready for the next chapter. My last session was meant to be one of closure, and I had the opportunity to reflect on many of the moments that had gotten me to that one.
“These moments will all become stories someday.”
Those moments—many of which were dark, lonely, and painful—were now just chapters in a bigger story. The hours I spent bawling on a bathroom counter or in a bookstore parking lot and realized I was struggling with something more real than I had previously allowed myself to admit. All the times I was asked if I was OK and chose to lie. The letters I handed to Lindsey, admitting things I couldn’t bear to say out loud. Together, these moments reflect a time in my life when I was empty, numb, exhausted. At the time, they felt endless, and I thought they were my whole story.
“This one moment when you know you’re not a sad story. You are alive.”
Looking back now, I can tell you exactly how these moments led to brighter chapters. In the end, they gave me the courage to create an even happier story than if I had merely been content. For every painful moment, there were beautiful ones that reminded me I was not just the sad, empty person I once believed I was: the night I slept under the stars in the Australia Outback; the day I spent 12 hours doing random acts of kindness through a club at school (and realized I was proud to be part of a school I was once unhappy at); many evenings filled with laughter in the townhouse I shared with four amazing roommates; the day I watched a friend, who had left school to get treatment for an eating disorder, get married.
During those moments, I couldn’t help but briefly look back and compare it to the months I spent believing I was a sad story. These moments would have been great no matter what my past had been like, but because I had struggled, they were so much more meaningful. Because I had known emptiness, in those moments I felt something much better than just “happiness.”
“In this moment, I swear, we are infinite.”
Infinite. A word that is both vague and oddly specific. It has no real definition or limit, and yet, I know exactly what it means.
Infinite are the moments that are the complete opposite of numbness or emptiness. Moments when you are so full of emotions, they spill out of you through smiles and laughter. Moments that nearly bring you to tears, because you once didn’t believe they were possible. You can’t plan these experiences. They usually catch you off guard. But those who have known emptiness can also know what it is to feel whole, to feel full—to feel infinite.
I know my story isn’t over, and there will be more difficult chapters ahead. I will see pain again. I will know loneliness again. That’s just life. But I also know these chapters come with the promise of more infinite moments—and those are worth holding on for.
—Jess Cooney, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
"Charlies' Last Letter"
Michael Brook - Charlie's Last Letter
During the last week of classes before my college graduation, I also attended my last counseling session. Graduation seemed to line up perfectly with a natural ending to my time in counseling. I was in a very positive place— with much thanks to Lindsey, my counselor— and was ready for the next chapter. My last session was meant to be one of closure, and I had the opportunity to reflect on many of the moments that had gotten me to that one.
“These moments will all become stories someday.”
Those moments—many of which were dark, lonely, and painful—were now just chapters in a bigger story. The hours I spent bawling on a bathroom counter or in a bookstore parking lot and realized I was struggling with something more real than I had previously allowed myself to admit. All the times I was asked if I was OK and chose to lie. The letters I handed to Lindsey, admitting things I couldn’t bear to say out loud. Together, these moments reflect a time in my life when I was empty, numb, exhausted. At the time, they felt endless, and I thought they were my whole story.
“This one moment when you know you’re not a sad story. You are alive.”
Looking back now, I can tell you exactly how these moments led to brighter chapters. In the end, they gave me the courage to create an even happier story than if I had merely been content. For every painful moment, there were beautiful ones that reminded me I was not just the sad, empty person I once believed I was: the night I slept under the stars in the Australia Outback; the day I spent 12 hours doing random acts of kindness through a club at school (and realized I was proud to be part of a school I was once unhappy at); many evenings filled with laughter in the townhouse I shared with four amazing roommates; the day I watched a friend, who had left school to get treatment for an eating disorder, get married.
During those moments, I couldn’t help but briefly look back and compare it to the months I spent believing I was a sad story. These moments would have been great no matter what my past had been like, but because I had struggled, they were so much more meaningful. Because I had known emptiness, in those moments I felt something much better than just “happiness.”
“In this moment, I swear, we are infinite.”
Infinite. A word that is both vague and oddly specific. It has no real definition or limit, and yet, I know exactly what it means.
Infinite are the moments that are the complete opposite of numbness or emptiness. Moments when you are so full of emotions, they spill out of you through smiles and laughter. Moments that nearly bring you to tears, because you once didn’t believe they were possible. You can’t plan these experiences. They usually catch you off guard. But those who have known emptiness can also know what it is to feel whole, to feel full—to feel infinite.
I know my story isn’t over, and there will be more difficult chapters ahead. I will see pain again. I will know loneliness again. That’s just life. But I also know these chapters come with the promise of more infinite moments—and those are worth holding on for.
—Jess Cooney, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
"We are stories still going"
We are stories still going.
There's a lot of talk of stories these days. My friend and favorite writer Donald Miller has led the way, wondering if the elements that make for a great film or a great book - could those things also apply to the stories that we're living? Here at TWLOHA, we're inviting people to consider the possibility that their story is something sacred, something priceless, unique, worth fighting for. And we've come to believe that a good story will not just be the story of one person. It will require other characters. It will require people needing other people, leaning on them, loving them and being loved by them, knowing and being known.
There are parts of our story that we wish were different, things we wish we could change erase forget. We get stuck in moments. Memories turn to ghosts. We try to live in the past, but it never works. And then, somehow, inside the same story, there is good. There are memories that make us laugh and make us smile, relationships and conversations, dreams of jobs and families and places that we hope to go. Even things as simple as favorite books and songs and films - the way they remind us we're alive - these things are part of our story as well. And we've come to believe that all of it matters, that all of it is significant and the opposite of small. We've come to believe that you deserve to be around people who know these parts of you, people who laugh and mourn and celebrate with you, people who remind you you're not alone in this whole big thing called life.
Suicide is a story that ends too soon. Our hope and dream is that if you should ever get to a place where your life feels not worth living, where the pain is just too great - our hope is that you know it's okay to be honest and it's okay to ask for help. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and it doesn't mean you're something strange or some kind of burden. It simply means you're human. We pray you'lll be met by friends who remind you that your story is one they too will fight for - with words and tears and silence and whatever it takes. We pray you get to taste the privilege of having these sorts of friends and also the privilege of being this sort of friend. May you wake to the day when life feels worth living, when joy comes back, hope shows up, love comes back. May you live to be surprised.
Here is what we believe to be some very good news: If you're reading this, if there's air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren't finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are stories still going, you and I. We are stories still going.
Peace to you today.
jamie
PS: I wrote this while listening to The 1975's "Me" on repeat.
PPS: We have a new shirt called 'Stories' available in the TWLOHA Online Store. Click here to get yours.
There are parts of our story that we wish were different, things we wish we could change erase forget. We get stuck in moments. Memories turn to ghosts. We try to live in the past, but it never works. And then, somehow, inside the same story, there is good. There are memories that make us laugh and make us smile, relationships and conversations, dreams of jobs and families and places that we hope to go. Even things as simple as favorite books and songs and films - the way they remind us we're alive - these things are part of our story as well. And we've come to believe that all of it matters, that all of it is significant and the opposite of small. We've come to believe that you deserve to be around people who know these parts of you, people who laugh and mourn and celebrate with you, people who remind you you're not alone in this whole big thing called life.
Suicide is a story that ends too soon. Our hope and dream is that if you should ever get to a place where your life feels not worth living, where the pain is just too great - our hope is that you know it's okay to be honest and it's okay to ask for help. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and it doesn't mean you're something strange or some kind of burden. It simply means you're human. We pray you'lll be met by friends who remind you that your story is one they too will fight for - with words and tears and silence and whatever it takes. We pray you get to taste the privilege of having these sorts of friends and also the privilege of being this sort of friend. May you wake to the day when life feels worth living, when joy comes back, hope shows up, love comes back. May you live to be surprised.
Here is what we believe to be some very good news: If you're reading this, if there's air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren't finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are stories still going, you and I. We are stories still going.
Peace to you today.
jamie
PS: I wrote this while listening to The 1975's "Me" on repeat.
PPS: We have a new shirt called 'Stories' available in the TWLOHA Online Store. Click here to get yours.
Friday, November 15, 2013
"Soul Mates"
On “Soul Mates” and Sharing Moments.
I
have believed in “soul mates” my entire life. When I was growing up, I
thought this meant I would find a man, fall in love, and live happily
ever after. We would meet, and I would know that he would be the love of
my life above all others. I just had to find my knight in shining armor
in a perfect little fairy tale. It was easy to believe. Life was
simple. The universe had a plan to lead me to one person. And that’s
all I would ever need, right?
As I have gotten older, I have learned just how complicated this world can be. There is no fairy tale ending, just one long journey that gets more complex as time goes on. I find myself constantly reflecting, changing, and growing. Yet, despite becoming more confused about life, I have also begun to fall madly in love with it. And while I once lived my life in pursuit of one person to save me and sweep me off my feet away from all my problems, I now look for people to share in my moments. Some of these moments might be romantic, but most happen in the spaces of daily life and the embrace of community and friendship. These are moments shared briefly, but with people who have changed my everything.
Maybe those defining moments are what truly make a “soul mate.” For whatever reason, you and another human being share a space, one which you might never be in again, and it feels alive. It feels familiar, yet enticingly foreign. Somehow, by coexisting with another, you learn something about yourself you never knew. It goes beyond an exchange between people; a soul mate leads you to reflect on who you truly are.
For me, these moments are captured boldly in my mind as defining points of change in my life:
It was when he sat next to me on the beach and asked me about God.
It was when we all built a fort on her back porch and slept under the stars.
It was that weekend we started as strangers but ended in a warm embrace.
It was when we left the library and opted for cupcakes and Cool Runnings.
It was when we sat in the empty dorm until 3 a.m. and listened to her play guitar.
It was when we fell asleep on my kitchen floor after she read us poetry, and we tried to convince each other we would all be OK.
It was when I ran through the snow with her, digging out cars and singing out loud.
It was when he made me cups of tea, and we fell asleep to the sounds of the ocean.
It was when he hugged me and didn’t have to explain why.
It was when we watched her walk down the aisle.
Some of these people are still in my life; some are not. Some who stay by my side for now may not be there for much longer; some may be there forever. Some I have lost because of my own mistakes; some I have watched leave simply because of their journey of life. But, it doesn’t matter how long we shared our time, it just matters that we lived together. We learned together, we grew together.
It is really unbelievable when you think about it: There have been billions of people, millions of years, infinite moments. And yet, we have crossed paths with people in that one special and finite space, making timeless connections. Somehow, we ended up together. The sheer unlikelihood of our meetings makes them even more significant.
Some people think that soul mates are meant to complete you, to fill some emptiness. But I think soul mates are meant to show us where we are whole, to show us a fullness and a worth that we didn’t know was there. They force us to reflect on who we are and what we live for.
I don’t know if I am ever going to get married. All I know is that I am never going to restrict myself to leaning on only one person defined as my soul mate. I need all kinds of relationships in my life. No one person will ever save me. I can only learn how to better take care of myself, with the things I learn from encountering others.
I challenge you to reflect. Who have you walked next to in those moments that have changed you? How much of yourself have you shared and seen reflected in the lives of others? When have you let yourself be vulnerable and been supported? Feel the embrace of relationship. Grow with people. Let them reveal your worth and notice the worth of others. Do not get lost in worries about the future or insecurities of the past. Just embrace the energy and power in the fleeting moment shared with another.
—Andrea West, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
As I have gotten older, I have learned just how complicated this world can be. There is no fairy tale ending, just one long journey that gets more complex as time goes on. I find myself constantly reflecting, changing, and growing. Yet, despite becoming more confused about life, I have also begun to fall madly in love with it. And while I once lived my life in pursuit of one person to save me and sweep me off my feet away from all my problems, I now look for people to share in my moments. Some of these moments might be romantic, but most happen in the spaces of daily life and the embrace of community and friendship. These are moments shared briefly, but with people who have changed my everything.
Maybe those defining moments are what truly make a “soul mate.” For whatever reason, you and another human being share a space, one which you might never be in again, and it feels alive. It feels familiar, yet enticingly foreign. Somehow, by coexisting with another, you learn something about yourself you never knew. It goes beyond an exchange between people; a soul mate leads you to reflect on who you truly are.
For me, these moments are captured boldly in my mind as defining points of change in my life:
It was when he sat next to me on the beach and asked me about God.
It was when we all built a fort on her back porch and slept under the stars.
It was that weekend we started as strangers but ended in a warm embrace.
It was when we left the library and opted for cupcakes and Cool Runnings.
It was when we sat in the empty dorm until 3 a.m. and listened to her play guitar.
It was when we fell asleep on my kitchen floor after she read us poetry, and we tried to convince each other we would all be OK.
It was when I ran through the snow with her, digging out cars and singing out loud.
It was when he made me cups of tea, and we fell asleep to the sounds of the ocean.
It was when he hugged me and didn’t have to explain why.
It was when we watched her walk down the aisle.
Some of these people are still in my life; some are not. Some who stay by my side for now may not be there for much longer; some may be there forever. Some I have lost because of my own mistakes; some I have watched leave simply because of their journey of life. But, it doesn’t matter how long we shared our time, it just matters that we lived together. We learned together, we grew together.
It is really unbelievable when you think about it: There have been billions of people, millions of years, infinite moments. And yet, we have crossed paths with people in that one special and finite space, making timeless connections. Somehow, we ended up together. The sheer unlikelihood of our meetings makes them even more significant.
Some people think that soul mates are meant to complete you, to fill some emptiness. But I think soul mates are meant to show us where we are whole, to show us a fullness and a worth that we didn’t know was there. They force us to reflect on who we are and what we live for.
I don’t know if I am ever going to get married. All I know is that I am never going to restrict myself to leaning on only one person defined as my soul mate. I need all kinds of relationships in my life. No one person will ever save me. I can only learn how to better take care of myself, with the things I learn from encountering others.
I challenge you to reflect. Who have you walked next to in those moments that have changed you? How much of yourself have you shared and seen reflected in the lives of others? When have you let yourself be vulnerable and been supported? Feel the embrace of relationship. Grow with people. Let them reveal your worth and notice the worth of others. Do not get lost in worries about the future or insecurities of the past. Just embrace the energy and power in the fleeting moment shared with another.
—Andrea West, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
"Life Is Beautiful"
Life is Beautiful.
A couple weeks ago, I had the privilege of working the To Write Love on Her Arms booth at the first ever Life is Beautiful festival
in Las Vegas. This was more than just a music festival; it seemed to be
an attempt to bring us back to the root of why we create and connect to
music in the first place. It was more than just fans, fame, and stages;
it invited festival-goers to focus on all things that enhance our
life—music, food, art, learning—the things that help us to feel, that
inspire us to change, and challenge us to grow. In short, the things
that help make our lives beautiful.
Tucked away in Charity Lane, we bore witness to countless beautiful lives and stories of discovery, struggle, healing, triumph, sorrow, and joy.
Community is beautiful.
Healing is beautiful.
New life is beautiful.
She says: “My daughter used to self-harm, and you know what she told me? She said, ‘What saved me, Mom, was that you never yelled at me for it.’ And I didn’t. When I knew she was doing it, I would go into her room, and sit on the floor with her, and wrap my legs around her, then slowly wrap my arms around her and just hold her. I never yelled at her or anything. I didn’t know what was the right thing to do; I guess that was just my mother’s instinct. … I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I just feel like I’ve known you guys forever.”
At this point, tears are slowly rolling down my face, and the three of us hug each other. I fully understand the immensity of Brook’s actions—a powerful statement of love and acceptance offered in those moments of hurt and desperation.
Overcoming shame is beautiful.
They are worthy. You are worthy. We are worthy.
It’s a beautiful thing.
—Tina Alvarado
Tucked away in Charity Lane, we bore witness to countless beautiful lives and stories of discovery, struggle, healing, triumph, sorrow, and joy.
__
On Saturday, a young girl and her mom stop by to purchase a T-shirt
for the girl. They don’t say much until they start to walk away. The
young girl lingers and begins to tell us that TWLOHA has meant a lot to
her, then hesitates as she decides if she wants to go on. She continues,
saying she struggled with self-injury—but every day in school, her
friend would write love on her arm.Community is beautiful.
__
Later that evening, another mom-and-daughter duo comes up to see us.
It’s late in the day, and most of the other booths on Charity Lane have
closed up. Stacey* and Taylor* listen intently as Joe explains what
TWLOHA stands for. They are quiet, until Taylor says, “That really hits
home with us. I lost my dad to suicide.” Her mom adds, “It hasn’t even
been a year.” As much as they try to fight it, the tears that have been
welling up in their eyes spill over, and we walk around the table to hug
them. We embrace longer than is normal for four strangers—like this is
the release they’ve been waiting for. Then they proceed to buy shirts
for themselves and their family and return to the festival—a weekend
trip they’d planned for the two of them.Healing is beautiful.
__
On Sunday afternoon, a young, edgy girl with a bleached blonde mohawk
prances up to our table and greets me in an excited raspy voice. When I
ask her how she heard of TWLOHA, she says frankly, “I heard about
TWLOHA after I was in a treatment facility for three days when I tried
to ‘off myself.’ I’m glad it didn’t work!” Then she laughs, partly to
lighten the mood, but also as a testament to the journey that has taken
her from that place to where she finds herself on this day.New life is beautiful.
__
As the festival comes to an end on Sunday evening, all of the other
charities have closed up, and we’re the last light on at the end of a
deserted Charity Lane. We discuss closing up, but Brook* and her friend
walk up and thank us for staying open. We instantly connect because
she’s from a small beach town north of Los Angeles where my family
vacations. Her friend is the one initially drawn to us because she has
had a hard struggle with depression, but the more Joe and I talk to
Brook, the more she starts to open up about her daughter’s struggles
with self-injury.She says: “My daughter used to self-harm, and you know what she told me? She said, ‘What saved me, Mom, was that you never yelled at me for it.’ And I didn’t. When I knew she was doing it, I would go into her room, and sit on the floor with her, and wrap my legs around her, then slowly wrap my arms around her and just hold her. I never yelled at her or anything. I didn’t know what was the right thing to do; I guess that was just my mother’s instinct. … I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I just feel like I’ve known you guys forever.”
At this point, tears are slowly rolling down my face, and the three of us hug each other. I fully understand the immensity of Brook’s actions—a powerful statement of love and acceptance offered in those moments of hurt and desperation.
Overcoming shame is beautiful.
__
These are just a few of the countless moving stories we heard that
weekend. As you all know, To Write Love on Her Arms is more than “a
non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for
people who struggle with depression, addiction, self-injury, and
suicide” (which I now have memorized); it is a voice that screams “You are worthy!”
in a society that is working with all its might to make us believe we
are not enough. That, my friends, is powerful and far-reaching. It
reaches the grandmother, the stepdaughter, the father, the brother, the
high school student, the friend, the wife. It reaches the Cirque du
Soleil stage tech who values TWLOHA as an important part of her story;
the singer who just heard of TWLOHA, but is stoked on its mission; the
twenty-something who has supported TWLOHA since the beginning; the
therapist who has decided to re-evaluate herself; the bartender who
walked over to see what we were all about, but knows exactly who he
needs to tell about TWLOHA; even the security guard posted at the exit
near our booth who keeps finding himself drawn to our table.They are worthy. You are worthy. We are worthy.
It’s a beautiful thing.
—Tina Alvarado
Thursday, November 7, 2013
"Hope Breathes Life: Thoughts for Newtown."
Hope Breathes Life: Thoughts for Newtown.
I remember the many words written about what happened last year at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT. I remember the questions—so many questions and so few answers. Whether we were directly or indirectly affected by the Sandy Hook shooting, we could all relate through the pain. As a community, as a nation, we were lost. Tears and sleepless nights consumed us, and love took on a burden: fear.
I wish I could give voice to the lives lost. But I can’t.
However, this past weekend, I was fortunate to be a part of a group of people who attended MOVE: FOCUS in Newtown, CT. And now I hope I can give voice to them.
The day was about awareness of people—their stories, their desires, what they had to share. Teenagers and adults alike talked about their experiences, asked questions, and posed thoughts. Heavy conversations focused on hope, love, and healing. We discussed brokenness, depression, anxiety, and suicide, but left with the knowledge of recovery and community. Fear was right in front of us—but it had no place among us. It was absent from the room.
We entered the day as strangers, with diverse backgrounds, divided by what we did not know and the questions we had. We spent the day uniting through hope and love, relating through pain, peering into each other’s souls. We left as a community, grounded by a sense of purpose and determined to create a brighter future, for ourselves and for the communities we represented.
I spent much of my time in Newtown just looking at people. I wrote over and over in my journal to be aware of their purpose; I’ve written over and over again since about the same. The high school students, adults, volunteers, counselors, and TWLOHA staff who gathered there want to be like a rock dropped in water, carrying ripples of hope and strength out to the world around them. They didn’t come just for personal recovery, healing, or understanding; they sought to take with them a message of love. “Love is the movement” has never been truer.
That November day was about new beginnings. We took time, held each other’s hands, looked at one another, and gave each other permission to want something more. Something powerful happens when we give people license to ask questions and respect them enough to help them get the answers they deserve. The questions can be tough— questions of mental illness, hate, pain, potential, love, hope. The answers can sometimes be hard to find. But we can all join in the conversation, and that is where hope breathes life.
We live in a hard world, a broken world. But if you’re struggling, you are not alone. If you’re hurt, lonely, afraid, grieving, you are not alone.
I want to tell you to be aware of people and of their stories. Everywhere around us, people from amazingly different backgrounds grant us the opportunity to seek help, to have a healthy conversation, to want better, just by wanting the same for themselves. The fear, pain, and grief that has ingrained itself into the memories of so many can be combatted. We can rise above them, through connections, relationships, and a sense of love. And in the darkest of moments, hope is present.
I wish I could give voice to the lives lost. But I can’t.
However, this past weekend, I was fortunate to be a part of a group of people who attended MOVE: FOCUS in Newtown, CT. And now I hope I can give voice to them.
The day was about awareness of people—their stories, their desires, what they had to share. Teenagers and adults alike talked about their experiences, asked questions, and posed thoughts. Heavy conversations focused on hope, love, and healing. We discussed brokenness, depression, anxiety, and suicide, but left with the knowledge of recovery and community. Fear was right in front of us—but it had no place among us. It was absent from the room.
We entered the day as strangers, with diverse backgrounds, divided by what we did not know and the questions we had. We spent the day uniting through hope and love, relating through pain, peering into each other’s souls. We left as a community, grounded by a sense of purpose and determined to create a brighter future, for ourselves and for the communities we represented.
I spent much of my time in Newtown just looking at people. I wrote over and over in my journal to be aware of their purpose; I’ve written over and over again since about the same. The high school students, adults, volunteers, counselors, and TWLOHA staff who gathered there want to be like a rock dropped in water, carrying ripples of hope and strength out to the world around them. They didn’t come just for personal recovery, healing, or understanding; they sought to take with them a message of love. “Love is the movement” has never been truer.
That November day was about new beginnings. We took time, held each other’s hands, looked at one another, and gave each other permission to want something more. Something powerful happens when we give people license to ask questions and respect them enough to help them get the answers they deserve. The questions can be tough— questions of mental illness, hate, pain, potential, love, hope. The answers can sometimes be hard to find. But we can all join in the conversation, and that is where hope breathes life.
We live in a hard world, a broken world. But if you’re struggling, you are not alone. If you’re hurt, lonely, afraid, grieving, you are not alone.
I want to tell you to be aware of people and of their stories. Everywhere around us, people from amazingly different backgrounds grant us the opportunity to seek help, to have a healthy conversation, to want better, just by wanting the same for themselves. The fear, pain, and grief that has ingrained itself into the memories of so many can be combatted. We can rise above them, through connections, relationships, and a sense of love. And in the darkest of moments, hope is present.
Face Down
"Face Down"
"Hey, girl, you know you drive me crazy
one look puts the rhythm in my hand.
Still I'll never understand why you hang around
I see what's going down.
Cover up with makeup in the mirror
tell yourself, it's never gonna happen again
You cry alone and then he swears he loves you.
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend, one day this world's gon' to end
as your lies crumble down, a new life she has found.
A pebble in the water makes a ripple effect
every action in this world will bear a consequence
If you wade around forever, you will surely drown
I see what's going down.
I see the way you go and say you're right again,
say you're right again
Heed my lecture.
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend, one day this world's gon' to end
as your lies crumble down, a new life she has found
[x2]
Face down in the dirt,
she said, "This doesn't hurt",
she said, "I finally had enough."
One day she will tell you that she has had enough
He's coming round again.
[x2]
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend, one day this world's gon' to end
as your lies crumble down, a new life she has found
Face down in the dirt,
she said, "This doesn't hurt",
she said, "I finally had enough."
one look puts the rhythm in my hand.
Still I'll never understand why you hang around
I see what's going down.
Cover up with makeup in the mirror
tell yourself, it's never gonna happen again
You cry alone and then he swears he loves you.
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend, one day this world's gon' to end
as your lies crumble down, a new life she has found.
A pebble in the water makes a ripple effect
every action in this world will bear a consequence
If you wade around forever, you will surely drown
I see what's going down.
I see the way you go and say you're right again,
say you're right again
Heed my lecture.
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend, one day this world's gon' to end
as your lies crumble down, a new life she has found
[x2]
Face down in the dirt,
she said, "This doesn't hurt",
she said, "I finally had enough."
One day she will tell you that she has had enough
He's coming round again.
[x2]
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend, one day this world's gon' to end
as your lies crumble down, a new life she has found
Face down in the dirt,
she said, "This doesn't hurt",
she said, "I finally had enough."
~Red Jumpsuit Apparatus<3
End Domestic Violence.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
"The More I think, the less I see"
“The more I think, the less I see.”
Living with an anxiety disorder, all I do is think. My mind is composed of thousands of fragmented sentences, countless worries. I can never rely on myself for peace and quiet; I never could. When left to my own devices, I obsess and mull over tiny little things. I have always managed to turn minuscule situations into mountain-sized obstacles. When I am alone, it is increasingly hard for me to distinguish my fears from the truth. My world becomes irrational and distorted.
“I don’t let myself down, I don’t let myself down.”
As I have grown older, I have been able to seek help—but I still manage, every now and then, to end up in this same place where I internalize my thoughts to the point of imprisonment. I know I can’t do this on my own, so I can’t help but wonder why I continue to try. It’s easy to resort to handling my emotions this way because I know what happens when I do this. The results are unpleasant, but they are familiar, predictable. On the other hand, the moment I share how I’m feeling with someone, I have to allow myself to become vulnerable. It seems like I am relinquishing the little to no control I have over myself to someone else.
But that’s not really the case.
“I feel closer to the clouds, I’m touching all the highest leaves.”
There have been crucial moments in all of my worthwhile friendships where the terrifying opportunity to divulge a part of myself arises—to jump in head-first or flee. But when I let go of my mind and take a risk, I am able to connect, and there is great freedom in connection.
There are a few people in my life who have genuinely listened to me, who have chosen to put down everything to learn about me and my life, for whom I have been able to do the same. I can count them all on ten fingers, but these are the relationships that fulfill my heart and make me alive. These are the friends who make me happy, who help ease my anxiety with their existence and willingness to listen. They encourage me to keep going.
“So we let it rain on our skin. You’re holding my hand, I’m holding your life.”
I know, as an individual who struggles with perpetual anxiety, I have an awful tendency to attempt to bear my burdens on my own. It is much easier to do (albeit, more difficult to maintain) than reaching out for help. So much thought, so much worry, goes into a simple phrase: “I need someone to talk to.” Even more terrifying is to ask someone specifically, “Can I talk to you?” Hidden between these questions are millions of other questions left unsaid: Can I trust you? Will you listen? Will you accept me for all that I am?
The truth is we deserve to have someone walk into our pain with us. I deserve this; you deserve this. And once we allow this to happen, once we allow ourselves to depend on one another, our lives are intertwined. We have an emotional bond—with much at stake, yes. But with risk comes reward. With tears comes laughter.
“I show you my dreams to make them our dreams.”
We are not built to support the entirety of one person alone. We are created to function as a community, to love as a community, to realize what we are not capable of and seek help for each other. The people who have made a mark on my life the most have actively listened to me, as well as led me to other methods of help. Because of this, we can rejoice in our victories, never alone.
“Together with the rain and the sun.”
Thank you, Rachael, Melissa, Shalana, Ashley, Julie, and the others who have impacted me. You have shown me the beauty of life, the love I deserve through community. Thank you for walking with me through my pain, thank you for leading me to help. Thank you for allowing me into your lives and never giving up on me.
To whomever is reading this, there are people in your life, waiting for you, wanting to hear your story. It may take time to find them, but you will, and you will receive the love you deserve. You are loved. You are never alone.
—Alicia, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
"A Present Struggle"
A Present Struggle.
I suffered from depression in high school.
No, I still suffer from depression.
I’m working on being real with myself. On calling things like they are. On not belittling myself to the point of invalidating whatever this thing is I am feeling. I’m working on facing this demon, my Great Sadness. Coming to terms with myself and fighting the grudge I have held against myself for too long.
You see, I’m good at encouraging other people to embrace themselves. I tell them mental health should be a topic of conversation, not taboo. That we shouldn’t feel shameful, embarrassed, or guilty about what’s truly going on in our minds. That it’s OK to not be OK. But I’m bad at implementing these things in my own life—practicing what I preach, embracing myself, admitting that I might not be OK.
Whenever I share my story, I tell it in the past tense. “I suffered from depression.” I tell it as a story that has a conclusion, a story with a beginning, middle, and end, all neatly wrapped up in the package that was my high school career. I rarely speak past the point of my freshman year of college, and if I do, it’s to say something to the effect that I am now happily in recovery.
That’s true—but only to an extent. Recovery is an open-ended term. Does it mean that the one in recovery no longer struggles? Or does it mean the person is still struggling, but actively working to find healthy means to get through it? I don’t know that it has one definition, but when I speak of it in my own life, I limit it to the former—and I’m not convinced that is right.
The truth is, I still struggle. I often find myself in times of inexplicable sadness, dread, and hollowness. I find myself surrounded by people, yet feeling completely alone. Numb.
If someone asks me about it, I usually dismiss it with a wave of my hand and say, “I’m just in a weird mood; I’ll be fine.” Then I’ll smile, make a joke, and laugh until I’ve successfully convinced myself and everyone else that I’m fine. Ignorance is bliss, right? This has become my coping mechanism, and it was just recently that I discovered this might not be healthy. Coping doesn’t necessarily equate healing.
So now I am on a journey from coping and ignoring to healing. I’m starting by continuing to call this thing by its name: “depression.” I’m working on not wearing a mask. I’m working on being honest with myself, allowing myself to say the fight goes on. I’m working on fighting the stigma, not only in society, but in myself. I’m trying to love myself enough to believe the words I tell other people on a daily basis—that I am not alone. That better days are ahead, people need other people, and I am loved.
This is me giving myself permission to not only be vulnerable with you, but with myself. This is me saying that my story is still being written. This is me no longer exempting myself from the fight against the stigma.
This is me admitting I struggle with depression. Present tense.
—Brandi Mathis, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
No, I still suffer from depression.
I’m working on being real with myself. On calling things like they are. On not belittling myself to the point of invalidating whatever this thing is I am feeling. I’m working on facing this demon, my Great Sadness. Coming to terms with myself and fighting the grudge I have held against myself for too long.
You see, I’m good at encouraging other people to embrace themselves. I tell them mental health should be a topic of conversation, not taboo. That we shouldn’t feel shameful, embarrassed, or guilty about what’s truly going on in our minds. That it’s OK to not be OK. But I’m bad at implementing these things in my own life—practicing what I preach, embracing myself, admitting that I might not be OK.
Whenever I share my story, I tell it in the past tense. “I suffered from depression.” I tell it as a story that has a conclusion, a story with a beginning, middle, and end, all neatly wrapped up in the package that was my high school career. I rarely speak past the point of my freshman year of college, and if I do, it’s to say something to the effect that I am now happily in recovery.
That’s true—but only to an extent. Recovery is an open-ended term. Does it mean that the one in recovery no longer struggles? Or does it mean the person is still struggling, but actively working to find healthy means to get through it? I don’t know that it has one definition, but when I speak of it in my own life, I limit it to the former—and I’m not convinced that is right.
The truth is, I still struggle. I often find myself in times of inexplicable sadness, dread, and hollowness. I find myself surrounded by people, yet feeling completely alone. Numb.
If someone asks me about it, I usually dismiss it with a wave of my hand and say, “I’m just in a weird mood; I’ll be fine.” Then I’ll smile, make a joke, and laugh until I’ve successfully convinced myself and everyone else that I’m fine. Ignorance is bliss, right? This has become my coping mechanism, and it was just recently that I discovered this might not be healthy. Coping doesn’t necessarily equate healing.
So now I am on a journey from coping and ignoring to healing. I’m starting by continuing to call this thing by its name: “depression.” I’m working on not wearing a mask. I’m working on being honest with myself, allowing myself to say the fight goes on. I’m working on fighting the stigma, not only in society, but in myself. I’m trying to love myself enough to believe the words I tell other people on a daily basis—that I am not alone. That better days are ahead, people need other people, and I am loved.
This is me giving myself permission to not only be vulnerable with you, but with myself. This is me saying that my story is still being written. This is me no longer exempting myself from the fight against the stigma.
This is me admitting I struggle with depression. Present tense.
—Brandi Mathis, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
Friday, November 1, 2013
"Alicia"
Meet Alicia!
Who I Am:
My name is Alicia (uh-lee-see-uh), and I am a goofy, 22-year-old, creative writer with big dreams of changing the world with written words. I had the pleasure of growing up in beautiful Northern California, in a town called Vacaville. While I consider Vacaville my hometown, I moved to Anthem, AZ when I was 15. I went to school for film, and I graduated from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, AZ. I then moved to Allen, TX at the beginning of August, only to come to Florida a few weeks later to begin my fall internship with TWLOHA. I have learned that the true meaning of home lies wherever my family is, and in sleeping with my Australian Shepherd at the foot of my bed.
Stuff I Like:
I love video games, silly cartoons, and collecting seasons of television shows on DVD. My favorites are Supernatural, Game of Thrones, Catfish, Modern Family, Community, Adventure Time, and so many more. Lately, Marina and the Diamonds and Lana Del Rey repeat incessantly on my Spotify. I have had the pleasure of seeing Taking Back Sunday three times in concert (and it will be four by the time the term ends). My favorite movies are Silver Linings Playbook, Fight Club, Donnie Darko, and 500 Days of Summer. Books I forever keep in my heart (although I don’t read as often as I like) include The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick, Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir by Lauren Slater, and The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls.
Ever since I discovered creative writing in second grade, I have been in love with telling stories, creating characters, writing scripts—anything to be able to put my imagination down on paper. Despite having consistent writer’s block, I work through it and even managed to complete a novel last November for National Novel Writing Month. I feel I am meant to tell my story through writing. It is my ultimate goal to write a realistic novel or television series that helps erase the stigma of mental illness while encouraging the idea of the importance of community and getting help.
Since my arrival in Florida, I love spending my time laughing with my fellow interns and staff, taking spontaneous day trips, and squealing with excitement over every single lizard I see—and there are a great deal of lizards! I enjoy giggling with my roommate, Andrea, when we can’t sleep, having conversations with Jessica M. over the perils of being a writer, ooh-ing over wombats with Jess C., and recording everything Brandi says for future reference. I also adore going to work and being able to work alongside the amazing TWLOHA staff.
Why I’m Here:
I am a success story in my continuing struggle with an anxiety disorder. With support from my loved ones, counseling, and medication, the last few years have taught me that I can overcome obstacles I never thought I could. While my anxiety is a part of me, it is not who I am.
I want to encourage others to live out their own success stories as well. As a Resident Assistant for three years, I grew immensely by receiving and offering loving, supportive community. (Shout out to McConnell Staff 2010-2013!) During my time at NAU, I helped my good friend, Alexis, establish a TWLOHA UChapter in 2010. I served as Vice President for two years before filling a co-president role, and eventually took over completely as President when Alexis graduated. I send my love to TWLOHA NAU, and I am so proud of everyone there who has worked together to make it what it is today.
It is my dream that one day we can live in a world without the stigma attached to mental illness. Where our dreams surpass our fears. Where we can look each other in the eyes, be who we are, and love without bounds. I want to help make this a reality, and that is why I am here.
"Learning how to Laugh Again"
Learning How to Laugh Again.
“Don’t cry with the people you can’t laugh with.”
The above phrase was shared with TWLOHA’s fall interns during a training session at the beginning of our time here, when the discussion often focused on what made a healthy community. In a place that addresses topics of depression, self-injury, addiction, and suicide, it’s easy for the conversation to be heavy. So, at the very beginning of our internship, we were reminded of the importance of balance—of surrounding yourself with people you could cry with, but friends you could laugh with at the end of the day as well.
I immediately thought back to the spring of 2012, when my time was spent with a core group of friends whom I still consider to be some of the most beautiful people in my life. On the surface, we were the same as we always were: surrounded by friends, succeeding academically, RA’s, tutors, active participants and even leaders of campus clubs. But if anybody looked slightly below the surface, they would’ve realized we were barely holding it together.
It was a hard semester for all of us. One struggling with an eating disorder that would eventually send her to treatment halfway across the country, and the others struggling with depression, anxiety, and the general idea that life can be hard and dark and scary. We put so much energy into trying to save each other, but we couldn’t even help ourselves. It was a vicious cycle, each of us sinking deeper the more we tried to help one another.
It got to the point when someone actually used the phrase “misery loves company” to describe us. We wallowed in our sadness, in our helplessness, and in our inability to save each other. Finally, one particularly miserable day soon after our friend left for treatment, someone pulled a few of us off a couch and made us go to the art center. She made us look at art. She reminded us that we were not breakable. She told us to lean on each other, but to also learn to stand on our own two feet. We tried our hardest to listen, to prioritize ourselves, to look at art more. And as the weeks went by, relief came, little by little.
Toward the end of the semester, a random Facebook comment venting about homework led to an 80-comment conversation that left us doubled over in laughter. We decided to take a break from studying, stress, and our previous priorities to hang out and watch movies. One of our friends was still in treatment, and we were still tired and scared and unsure. But that night, we couldn’t stop smiling. We kept the conversation light. On the walk back, we took a minute to look at the stars and the moon over the ocean, and for the first time in months, we felt alive.
So I return again to this phrase: “Don’t cry with the people you can’t laugh with.”
We had always been able to laugh together—but that semester we’d forgotten how, and we suffered because of it.
There will be days when everything hurts, when there is nothing you can bear to do but sit on the couch and cry. There is beauty in heavy conversation, in telling a friend, “I am scared, I am alone, I need help.” But life is meant to be both heavy and light, and there is also beauty in the latter.
If there is anything I have learned, it’s that self-care means different things on different days. Sometimes it means being alone, letting yourself cry, or venting to a friend. But other days, it means changing your focus. Laughing. Looking at art and sunsets, and remembering the things that make you smile.
The world might feel like a broken place sometimes, but you are not breakable.
—Jessica Cooney, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
The above phrase was shared with TWLOHA’s fall interns during a training session at the beginning of our time here, when the discussion often focused on what made a healthy community. In a place that addresses topics of depression, self-injury, addiction, and suicide, it’s easy for the conversation to be heavy. So, at the very beginning of our internship, we were reminded of the importance of balance—of surrounding yourself with people you could cry with, but friends you could laugh with at the end of the day as well.
I immediately thought back to the spring of 2012, when my time was spent with a core group of friends whom I still consider to be some of the most beautiful people in my life. On the surface, we were the same as we always were: surrounded by friends, succeeding academically, RA’s, tutors, active participants and even leaders of campus clubs. But if anybody looked slightly below the surface, they would’ve realized we were barely holding it together.
It was a hard semester for all of us. One struggling with an eating disorder that would eventually send her to treatment halfway across the country, and the others struggling with depression, anxiety, and the general idea that life can be hard and dark and scary. We put so much energy into trying to save each other, but we couldn’t even help ourselves. It was a vicious cycle, each of us sinking deeper the more we tried to help one another.
It got to the point when someone actually used the phrase “misery loves company” to describe us. We wallowed in our sadness, in our helplessness, and in our inability to save each other. Finally, one particularly miserable day soon after our friend left for treatment, someone pulled a few of us off a couch and made us go to the art center. She made us look at art. She reminded us that we were not breakable. She told us to lean on each other, but to also learn to stand on our own two feet. We tried our hardest to listen, to prioritize ourselves, to look at art more. And as the weeks went by, relief came, little by little.
Toward the end of the semester, a random Facebook comment venting about homework led to an 80-comment conversation that left us doubled over in laughter. We decided to take a break from studying, stress, and our previous priorities to hang out and watch movies. One of our friends was still in treatment, and we were still tired and scared and unsure. But that night, we couldn’t stop smiling. We kept the conversation light. On the walk back, we took a minute to look at the stars and the moon over the ocean, and for the first time in months, we felt alive.
So I return again to this phrase: “Don’t cry with the people you can’t laugh with.”
We had always been able to laugh together—but that semester we’d forgotten how, and we suffered because of it.
There will be days when everything hurts, when there is nothing you can bear to do but sit on the couch and cry. There is beauty in heavy conversation, in telling a friend, “I am scared, I am alone, I need help.” But life is meant to be both heavy and light, and there is also beauty in the latter.
If there is anything I have learned, it’s that self-care means different things on different days. Sometimes it means being alone, letting yourself cry, or venting to a friend. But other days, it means changing your focus. Laughing. Looking at art and sunsets, and remembering the things that make you smile.
The world might feel like a broken place sometimes, but you are not breakable.
—Jessica Cooney, TWLOHA Fall 2013 Intern
"Dear Anxiety"
Dear Anxiety.
Dear bane of my existence, dear omnipresent excuse, dear crippling frenemy …
How do you manage to keep showing up at the worst times? No offense or anything, but that whole gig in the middle of that crowded Wal-Mart? News flash, but the frozen food aisle isn’t a cool place to freak out (no pun intended). And, just as I’m about to convince myself I have a hold on things, you remind me of how many different grocery cart paths I’m obstructing by just existing.
Oh, and how could I forget your tendency to butt into all of my conversations? When you jump in like you do, I overanalyze every movement, every facial expression, of the person I am speaking to. Friend, acquaintance, cashier at a drive-thru—every single one. You present me with all of the most intricate worst-case scenarios. What if they hate me? What if I just said something really stupid?
Don’t even get me started on text messages. With you around, a message saying “Hey” with a period at the end gets me panicking that there is a bitter undertone I’m meant to decode. With you, one simple “Hey” isn’t a greeting; it’s a matter of life and death.
Perhaps it would be easier if you were a person, to have conversations with you and hear your side of the story. But of course, you are no person; you are nothing that I can ever see. First, you came to me with the name of Social Anxiety Disorder, a companion to my attention deficit. But as time passed by, you earned another name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
It’s safe to say, although you still run rampant while I dream—God forbid I get an ounce of restful sleep for once—you don’t hold nearly as much influence over me as you once did. Thanks to counseling and medication, I can now self-talk my way into managing my time spent with you.
They used to speak as if, one day, we would part ways. After all of these years, I know you are a permanent part of my life, but that doesn’t mean you have to rule my life.
You’re the reason I have to remind myself to breathe, the reason why tiny tasks can send me into a non-stop frenzy until they are completed. You’re the reason I have to take pills every day, and why I can’t handle the days when I don’t. You’re the reason I have emergency Xanax when the normal dose doesn’t work.
For all these things, I used to blame myself instead of you. Doing so only encouraged you—it only made you stronger. But now I can claim the title of the stronger one. Despite the pain you’ve caused, I have accepted you as a part of me, just not all of me.
You are not me.
All in all, you have caused me a lifetime of pain and frustration. I wish I could say goodbye; we both know that’s never going to happen.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.
How do you manage to keep showing up at the worst times? No offense or anything, but that whole gig in the middle of that crowded Wal-Mart? News flash, but the frozen food aisle isn’t a cool place to freak out (no pun intended). And, just as I’m about to convince myself I have a hold on things, you remind me of how many different grocery cart paths I’m obstructing by just existing.
Oh, and how could I forget your tendency to butt into all of my conversations? When you jump in like you do, I overanalyze every movement, every facial expression, of the person I am speaking to. Friend, acquaintance, cashier at a drive-thru—every single one. You present me with all of the most intricate worst-case scenarios. What if they hate me? What if I just said something really stupid?
Don’t even get me started on text messages. With you around, a message saying “Hey” with a period at the end gets me panicking that there is a bitter undertone I’m meant to decode. With you, one simple “Hey” isn’t a greeting; it’s a matter of life and death.
Perhaps it would be easier if you were a person, to have conversations with you and hear your side of the story. But of course, you are no person; you are nothing that I can ever see. First, you came to me with the name of Social Anxiety Disorder, a companion to my attention deficit. But as time passed by, you earned another name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
It’s safe to say, although you still run rampant while I dream—God forbid I get an ounce of restful sleep for once—you don’t hold nearly as much influence over me as you once did. Thanks to counseling and medication, I can now self-talk my way into managing my time spent with you.
They used to speak as if, one day, we would part ways. After all of these years, I know you are a permanent part of my life, but that doesn’t mean you have to rule my life.
You’re the reason I have to remind myself to breathe, the reason why tiny tasks can send me into a non-stop frenzy until they are completed. You’re the reason I have to take pills every day, and why I can’t handle the days when I don’t. You’re the reason I have emergency Xanax when the normal dose doesn’t work.
For all these things, I used to blame myself instead of you. Doing so only encouraged you—it only made you stronger. But now I can claim the title of the stronger one. Despite the pain you’ve caused, I have accepted you as a part of me, just not all of me.
You are not me.
All in all, you have caused me a lifetime of pain and frustration. I wish I could say goodbye; we both know that’s never going to happen.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.
"The Perfect Therapist"
The Perfect Therapist.
“Well, there is one in every class, so don't be discouraged, Sarah!”
My head snapped up. I was sitting in graduate school, mere weeks away from starting a year-long internship program where I'd be practicing therapy in a private practice, a psychiatric hospital with adolescents, and a group home for kids in custody of the state. Our class had just taken intensive personality assessments the previous week, and we were receiving our results.
Apparently, I had scored painfully low in categories of compassion, warmth, and empathy. Pretty classic attributes we hope a therapist would embody, right? Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I had doubted my decision to become a therapist based on my personality and the stereotype I believed a therapist should fit.
I let all my anxious fears out to my friend:
What if no one connects with me?
What if none of my clients even like me?
What if I'm totally different from everyone else in grad school?
How in the world did I delude myself into thinking that a career in listening to people's pain was a good fit for me?
My friend, Allie, simply looked at me and said, “Not everyone needs the same therapist ... The people who will come across your path are the people who will click with you and connect with you because of all those characteristics that make you who you are.”
Part of my personality is that I don’t immediately connect with people without looking them in the eye and making a deliberate choice to be compassionate. I have to daily choose to treat my clients, co-workers, and friends with respect and love. But to walk in the light of hope of recovery and healing, day after day, is the career I’ve chosen, and because that doesn’t come naturally to me, I have to first experience this kind of grace and acceptance with my friends and family before I can share it with other people.
All you can be is the person you were created to be. You don't have to be perfect. I don't have to be perfect, and I won't do myself, my friends, or my clients any good by pushing myself toward an invisible standard which in fact isn't even true or attainable. So I’m going to quit striving for perfection, and instead strive for my best.
I am the best version of myself when I can laugh at the foolish things I say in a therapy session by accident because I was trying to look smart.
I am the best version of myself when I can apologize for when I have been insensitive toward the people I care about.
And I am the best version of myself when I build connection and relationship with my teenage clients as we crack up playing Jenga during group.
That is my prayer for you. That you would find a safe group of people who point out the things they love about who you are and encourage you not to hide them. That you would find a relationship with a friend—or a therapist—who will gently help you rest in the best version of yourself.
Perfect therapists don't exist. Perfect students, perfect parents, perfect spouses and significant others, perfect employees—they don’t exist. No matter how hard we strive for unrelenting perfection in every part of our lives, we will not succeed. And believe it or not, that’s a good thing. Because it is in our moments of imperfection and insecurity that we can lean on others to remind us of our worth and dignity.
Sarah B. is a therapist, a listener, and an advocate. Raised in the Midwest and now living in the South, she's made it her life's work to point people to hope and healing.
My head snapped up. I was sitting in graduate school, mere weeks away from starting a year-long internship program where I'd be practicing therapy in a private practice, a psychiatric hospital with adolescents, and a group home for kids in custody of the state. Our class had just taken intensive personality assessments the previous week, and we were receiving our results.
Apparently, I had scored painfully low in categories of compassion, warmth, and empathy. Pretty classic attributes we hope a therapist would embody, right? Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I had doubted my decision to become a therapist based on my personality and the stereotype I believed a therapist should fit.
___
A few weeks after I had been accepted to graduate school to get my master’s in counseling, I freaked out. I was driving around Atlanta with one of my best friends, bemoaning the fact that I don't look, think, or act like a “real therapist.” Therapists should wear flowing pastel skirts and have soft voices, right? Yet, I was once asked to leave a high school tennis match as a spectator because I was talking too loud, and my way of showing warmth and affection typically involves sarcasm and cackling.I let all my anxious fears out to my friend:
What if no one connects with me?
What if none of my clients even like me?
What if I'm totally different from everyone else in grad school?
How in the world did I delude myself into thinking that a career in listening to people's pain was a good fit for me?
My friend, Allie, simply looked at me and said, “Not everyone needs the same therapist ... The people who will come across your path are the people who will click with you and connect with you because of all those characteristics that make you who you are.”
___
Every single one of us fights the battle to accept who we are—and to extend the same grace to those around us. Accepting the parts of me that make me who I am will be a lifelong process, I think. But being in relationships and a community that affirms and validates my worth makes all the difference. I don't have to apologize for my loud laugh or hide my deep, deep love for all books when I feel safe and loved in a community.Part of my personality is that I don’t immediately connect with people without looking them in the eye and making a deliberate choice to be compassionate. I have to daily choose to treat my clients, co-workers, and friends with respect and love. But to walk in the light of hope of recovery and healing, day after day, is the career I’ve chosen, and because that doesn’t come naturally to me, I have to first experience this kind of grace and acceptance with my friends and family before I can share it with other people.
All you can be is the person you were created to be. You don't have to be perfect. I don't have to be perfect, and I won't do myself, my friends, or my clients any good by pushing myself toward an invisible standard which in fact isn't even true or attainable. So I’m going to quit striving for perfection, and instead strive for my best.
I am the best version of myself when I can laugh at the foolish things I say in a therapy session by accident because I was trying to look smart.
I am the best version of myself when I can apologize for when I have been insensitive toward the people I care about.
And I am the best version of myself when I build connection and relationship with my teenage clients as we crack up playing Jenga during group.
That is my prayer for you. That you would find a safe group of people who point out the things they love about who you are and encourage you not to hide them. That you would find a relationship with a friend—or a therapist—who will gently help you rest in the best version of yourself.
Perfect therapists don't exist. Perfect students, perfect parents, perfect spouses and significant others, perfect employees—they don’t exist. No matter how hard we strive for unrelenting perfection in every part of our lives, we will not succeed. And believe it or not, that’s a good thing. Because it is in our moments of imperfection and insecurity that we can lean on others to remind us of our worth and dignity.
Sarah B. is a therapist, a listener, and an advocate. Raised in the Midwest and now living in the South, she's made it her life's work to point people to hope and healing.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
Outward Appearance < Heart
"The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart." -1st Samuel 16:17 <3
There is more to everyone than meets the eye. Everyone you meet is fighting a hidden battle that you know nothing of, so don't judge them. We're all in the same game but different levels, dealing with the same hell but different devils. Everyone's stories go deeper than you know, so instead of judging them, take a look at your own life, and show them love instead. <3
T
"Would I believe you when you would say
Your hand will guide my every way
Will I receive the words You say
Every moment of every day
Well I will walk by faith
Even when I cannot see
Well because this broken road
Prepares Your will for me
Help me to win my endless fears
You've been so faithful for all my years
With one breath You make me new
Your grace covers all I do.."
Your hand will guide my every way
Will I receive the words You say
Every moment of every day
Well I will walk by faith
Even when I cannot see
Well because this broken road
Prepares Your will for me
Help me to win my endless fears
You've been so faithful for all my years
With one breath You make me new
Your grace covers all I do.."
-Jeremy Camp <3
"For we walk by faith, not by sight." -2nd Corinthians 5:7 <3
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
"All I Wanted Was You"
"All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you."
All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you
All I wanted was you."
-paramore<3
Jesus all I wanted was you.
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