Larry L. Franklin's Blog, page 6

Victims Make The Best Birdhouses

Book to be released late April 2022 at retail stores. Advanced copies online through WiDo Publishing Company.

“I should have known, on that sultry summer day in 1950, when my five-year-old naked body was laid out over a bale of hay, that this was not normal. I should have known… Thus opens Larry Franklin’s memoir, recently acquired by E. L. Marker, and thus begins a decades long journey of sifting through the known and the unknown to find the truth and the lies of his past.

Franklin’s physical and sexual abuse began at a young age and continued into his teenage years. What is harder to know, is the beginnings of his repression of those memories. It wasn’t until a chance conversation with his mother, just before his fiftieth birthday, that he learned his father never loved him, not even a little, and his brother physically abused him. Following this conversation, Franklin is plagued by nightmares, disturbingly specific in content and which leave him “hugging my bathroom stool and vomiting through the night.” These nightmares lead Franklin along a journey to unlock a past his mind has protected him from for almost half a century.

In his memoir, Franklin speaks candidly of the challenges and dangers of memory, especially repressed memories. “Who would believe such a tale,” he asks readers, “and more importantly, how can I separate fact from fiction?” These questions of belief, of fact, and of fiction, form the thematic fabric of Franklin’s book. As a result, his story is not just about a journey from victim to survivor but the nature of memory and truth.

In a better world, Franklin would have known that those trips to the barn were not normal. What his mind knew then, even if he didn’t, is that those trips must be hidden behind psychic doors piece by piece, if he were to survive. Thankfully, when those doors opened, Franklin was not only willing to face what he discovered but to share it.

Hey funny man, show me your pain.

HEY FUNNY MAN, SHOW ME YOUR PAIN

I think the saddest people

always try their hardest to

make people happy because

they know what it’s like to feel

absolutely worthless and I

don’t want anyone else to feel like that.

                                                                                    Robin Williams

Robin Williams, John Belushi, Chris Farley, Freddie Prinze were all funny men who chose to die. They lacked any resolution to that harmonic pedal-point of misery–a can’t-move sadness creating the illusion that death is more attractive than life. Not only does this illusion lurk in the darkness of night, the underbelly of a rotting rat, or the heart of a seven-year-old boy subjected to horrific abuses, it’s everywhere. It is a formidable enemy we call depression.

My mother referred to depression as having a bad case of the nerves. “I’m having trouble with my nerves today,” she often said. To me, depression feels heavy, like a cloud of tears; it’s the darkness that yearns for a glimmer of light, a reason to get up in the morning, a promise from God that light overcomes darkness.

Causes of depression can be a genetic makeup, physical and sexual abuse, conflict, death or loss, physical or emotional pain, reaction to medication, to name a few. Some or all can contribute to a chemical imbalance in the brain, a misfiring of neurons that can bring you to your knees. Normally, when information is transferred from one neuron to another, the gap between the terminals and nearby neurons is filled by chemical substances called neurotransmitters which fire across the space, sending signals to other neurons, like tiny sparks of electricity. Imagine a well-lit midway at a county fair, with hundreds of rides and booths operating simultaneously.

There are some 50 different neurotransmitters in the brain, and too much or too little of these neurotransmitters may contribute to schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder, and other emotional conditions. When a person’s neurotransmitters do not function properly, it is said they have a “chemical imbalance.” Since communication between and among neurons dictates how our behavior is controlled, a chemical imbalance can impact how a person walks, raises an arm, sits on a stool, or orders a cup of coffee. Those of us suffering from depression are excruciatingly aware of its impact on our behavior, and we must regularly evaluate our actions against our perception of what is “normal.” We are always trying to signal normal behavior to those around us.

I remember a certain day when I was barely fifteen. It was a time when Johnny Carson was the funny man of late-night television. Sitting in the isolation of my home, the idea entered my mind that I could become the next Johnny Carson. I seemed to have a talent for saying “witty” things, acting crazy, and making my friends laugh. An abuse victim needs tools for survival, and for me, those tools included humor, alcohol, and ongoing conversations with God. I can’t speak for Robin Williams, John Belushi, Chris Farley, or Freddie Prinze, but for me, humor was a method of dealing with my misery. Just as in the wintertime, when the temperature hovered around zero degrees, I didn’t go outside without my coat; when depression was dark and heavy, I didn’t go outside without my humor. But perhaps humor, by itself, can only keep the tormented soul from death for a time. Perhaps if I had not met Olivia, my therapist, humor would not have been enough, and I would have died. Perhaps that is what happened to those other funny men. 

Decades later, I asked Olivia, my therapist, if my humor was annoying and whether I should refrain from being “funny.” She asked me to imagine myself without the humor and whether I liked that person. I quickly concluded that the imagined person was boring and without feelings. She smiled before saying, “Hey, funny man. I like who you are.”

Olivia suggested that I try medication to reduce my anxiety and depression, but I wanted to understand how it worked before I agreed. I learned that the medication, a pea-sized pill, moves through the body like a mouse through a maze. First, it is absorbed in the stomach, penetrates the lining of the intestines, and races through the bloodstream to its intended target–receptors on the surface of certain neurons in the brain. To achieve the intended effect, psychoactive drugs must bind to and interact with these receptors, changing the functional properties of that neuron and thus, paving the way for healthy, “normal” behavior. However, only a small portion of the medication is attached to the intended receptor in the brain at any given time. The rest of the drug languishes in other parts of the body where it may cause unpleasant side effects before it is metabolized by the liver and excreted by the kidneys. The process is repeated until the desired level and duration of the drug is reached and a steady state of “chemical balance” is maintained. Although pharmacology — the science of drugs — has made rapid strides since the middle of the twentieth century, it is not an exact science. Side effects from the drugs are not uncommon and sometimes require a period of trial and error to find the correct medication and dosage. My initial experience left me with side effects similar to a bad case of the flu. When I switched to a different medication, it eliminated the negative side effects but didn’t reduce my anxiety. I agreed to try the original medication again and give my body more time to make the necessary adjustment. Fortunately, it worked. My depression and anxiety lessened, leaving me in a more receptive state of mind where I welcomed the therapy and medication that offered a better quality of life.

Funny or not, a happy face filled with laughter or the funny twist of a story is a mere cosmetic fix to depression. Healing is a combination of therapy, medication, and the willingness to find a better life.

When light overcame darkness.

My manuscript is moving into the final edit and then onto the book cover and formatting process. The book blurb appears on the back cover where the prospective reader can get a feel for what the book is about. The book will be published in early Spring 2022.

“WHEN LIGHT OVERCAME DARKNESS”

            Larry L Franklin believes he should have known on that summer day in 1950 that this was not normal. But he was the youngest and smallest of the four boys in a place where the unspeakable was quite normal.

            In 1992, when Franklin turned 50, a chance conversation with his mother opened the door to repressed memories of physical and sexual abuse. The worst left him hugging the bathroom stool throughout the night. As his mind began to crumble, a piece here, a piece there, he learned that the trips to the barn were far from normal. Separating fact from fiction was like finding a gnat in the forest.

            The 90s were damning times for the believers of repressed memories. Non-believers shunned those who claimed to be victims of childhood sexual abuse. These doubts and Franklin’s reluctance to believe the unbelievable, increased his anxieties and likely added years to his struggle. 

            With the guidance of his therapist, Franklin began his twenty-year journey from sexual abuse to a better life.  He went from short-term to long-term therapy with a psychologist and a few individuals who became Franklin’s support group. Together they served as a non-judgmental team that helped him through the most challenging time of his life.

            “When light overcame darkness” is a blueprint for moving from victim to a survivor; a place where injured souls can flourish when light is allowed to shine. The story is an emotion-packed memoir designed to allow the curious reader to visit a different world.

When light overcame darkness

“When light overcame darkness: A journey from sexual abuse to a better life” by Larry L Franklin will be released in early Spring. I’ve been working with my editor on the final manuscript for some time; more than I thought possible. I’m delighted by how much better the writing has become. Yes, you can teach an old writer some new tricks. This copy of my Prologue is current, at the moment. There could me additional improvements as time passes.

The photo was taken when I was eight. The story is about this little boy and who I became.

PROLOGUE: A Shard of Light

         I should have known on that summer day in 1950 when my seven-year-old naked body was laid out over a bale of hay, that this was not normal. I should have known, but I was the youngest and smallest of the four boys in a place where the unspeakable was quite normal. Even at this very young age, my brain managed to compartmentalize daily interactions whether they be good, bad, or indifferent. The horrific ones were hidden from me for decades, leaving me with a mind resembling a spec-house built on a burial ground — nothing but empty rooms, painted a lifeless stark-white color. The truth, hidden beneath the superficial rooms, walls, floors, and ceilings that my brain had constructed, churned with secrets never meant to be revealed.

            In 1992, a chance conversation with my mother opened the door to these repressed memories. As my mind began to crumble, a piece here, a piece there, I learned that the trips to the barn were far from normal.

            It has taken me twenty-five years to tell my story. Public uncertainty of repressed memories in the 1990s and my reluctance to believe the unbelievable were challenging. Early into therapy I shared a few repressed memories with a friend and told her that I was working with a therapist.

            “I think you should get a different therapist,” she said. “Some therapist plant false memories into your head.

            False memory syndrome together with my friend’s lack of support and the horrific nature of the memories delayed my acceptance. It likely added years to my struggles.

            Some memories generated depression that led to years of therapy where past and present behaviors were examined. The worst ones left me hugging my bathroom stool while expelling vomit throughout the night. Who would believe such a tale, and more importantly, how could I separate fact from fiction? While memories are God’s most precious gift, they lack perfection and can become as invisible as a gnat in the forest. Memories serve as a witness to our struggles. Too often, though, they record the unimaginable that can break a man’s soul.

            I still remember the day after cataract surgery. I removed my sunglasses and stared at a pear tree full of white blossoms that stood in front of our red-brick house. The shapes and colors appeared as three-dimensional figures, and the intense hues and minute details struck me as being unlike anything I had seen before. It was miraculous.

            But it pales in comparison to the day when I began to feel. Not the superficial, trivial, and insignificant emotions I had experienced throughout my life. No, I’m talking about the calm after a storm when I first embraced a depth of emotions never encountered before. I felt a giant sigh release the tension that swallowed me whole. The miracle was not in type of emotion. It was the ability to feel, potently and uniquely; a time when light overcame darkness.

When light overcame darkness: A journey from sexual abuse to a better life

A voice from your past. I’m nearing completion of my latest book, “When light overcame darkness.” I’ve been hiding in my writer’s cave for the past year searching for the perfect words to tell my story. I’ve signed a contract with E. L. Marker for the publication of my manuscript, and with the help from my editor, Jay Christopher, we’re determined to make this my best writing. The work is to be completed in November. I’m sharing a sample of what is about finished.

Prologue

This is a work of nonfiction that has taken me twenty-five years to write. To the reader, that might sound a bit far fetched. Normally, it takes me one to two years to complete a manuscript worthy of publication. But this was different. The time required to complete this manuscript was due to public doubts and my struggle with the truthfulness of memories that visited me in the middle of the night. Some memories generated depression and anxiety. The worst ones left me hugging my bathroom stool while expelling vomit throughout the night. Who would believe such a tale, and more importantly, how could I separate fact from fiction? As the author, it is not my job to convince you that I am a victim of childhood physical and sexual abuse. But I can share my journey, leaving you to draw your own conclusions.  

Because of the severity of my struggle, I went from short-term to long-term therapy with a psychologist and a host of individuals who became my support group. Together, they served as a non-judgmental team that helped me through the most challenging time of my life. My educational background initiated my investigation into the alleged perpetrators, family history, repressed memories, cognitive and emotional studies of the brain, and the combination of psychological and spiritual growth. 

Do I still have the residue carried by victims of physical and sexual abuse? Of course I do. But the occasional skirmish with depression and anxiety is now controlled by coping skills, medication, therapy, meditation, writing, and the availability of a support system.   

While the struggle was exhausting, I am thankful for who I have become. To experience the depth of feelings, whether they be happy or sad, is remarkable. And to feel love is a gift from God. I have changed names in the story for liability purposes. While every word in my story is based on what I believe to be true, I recognize the possibility of a minor discrepancy in human recall. It is my hope that fellow survivors of physical and sexual abuse will benefit from my sharing and become stronger and wiser in the process.     

CHAPTER ONE

Trauma is a vampire, but light, as any student of folklore or Freud knows, will kill it. The problem is, when the shell-shocked try to exhume their memories –to bring them into the light — the result can be a death struggle so fierce they may fear it’s them, not the suckling pain that’s about to die.

                                                                                             Katherine Russell Rich

I should have known on that sultry summer day in 1950, when my eight-year-old naked body was laid out over a bale of hay, that this was not normal. I should have known…  But when four country boys hunger for adventure or accept the latest dare, the unspeakable becomes quite normal. Being the youngest and smallest of the lot, I was the focus of their curious ways. 

Decades later, when my mind crumbled–a piece here, a piece there–I learned that survival depended on my brain’s ability to compartmentalize daily interactions whether they be good, bad, or indifferent. My mind was like a spec-house, a collection of rooms painted in a lifeless, stark-white color, and forbidden rooms with concrete walls, floors and ceilings that held secrets never meant to be revealed. That’s when I learned that the trips to the barn were far from ordinary. 

“When light overcame darkness: A journey from sexual abuse to a better life” is a work of creative nonfiction; a memoir beginning with the emergence of repressed memories that led to years of therapy where past and present behaviors were examined. It has taken me twenty-years to tell my story. To the reader, that might sound a bit far fetched. Normally, it takes me one to two years to complete a manuscript worthy of publication. But this was different. The time required to complete this manuscript was due to public doubts and my struggle with the truthfulness of memories that visited me in the middle of the night. Some memories generated depression and anxiety. The worst ones left me hugging my bathroom stool while expelling vomit throughout the night. Who would believe such a tale, and more importantly, how could I separate fact from fiction? 

It could be argued that memory is our most precious gift. Whether from God, or an evolutionary product developed through the generational pressures of natural selection, memories record our history. But they lack perfection and can become as invisible as a gnat in the forest. Perhaps it’s the temporary loss of a name, a forgotten appointment, or possibly something more serious: amnesia, Alzheimer’s, dementia, brain injuries, tumors, disease, and yes, repressed memories. Memories serve as a witness to our struggles and desires for a satisfying life. Too often, though, they record the unimaginable that can break a man’s soul.

It was 1992 and I was training to run in a half-marathon race. Having turned fifty placed me in the beginning of a new age group, providing a better chance of winning a trophy. I was part of a running group that hit the local running circuit and the annual St. Louis marathon and the half-marathon in Chicago. In addition to our daily runs, we ran 10 miles or more on Saturdays followed by our weekly trip to Mary Lou’s restaurant known for her famous biscuits and gravy. At five-feet eight-inches, weighing in at one-hundred-fifty pounds, I was built to run. The “runner’s high” and the camaraderie with my friends encouraged me to log in several miles per week. While I was an average to good runner, I pretended to be an elite runner. I was at the top of my game. 

I was a self-employed, certified financial planner in southern Illinois, held a bachelor and master’s degree in music, an MFA in creative writing from Goucher College, and had taught music at Southern Illinois University for five-years. Sandwiched in the middle was a four-year stint in the U.S. Navy Band located in Washington D.C. Although I was not rich, I was comfortable. My wife and I had two wonderful daughters who were the loves of our life, and yes, we had a dog named PJ.

My running days were preceded by racquetball, an earlier obsession of mine. I was engaged in league play, tournaments, pickup games and had recently purchased an expensive racquet, thinking that it would add a few points to my game. I was determined to be a great racquetball player. Hours focused on technique, reading books on the sport, and increasing my physical stamina were all part of my plan. I seemed to be programmed to accomplish my goals. Whether it was work related or just something I wanted to do, I attacked it with an aggression few experienced. When I was in the 4th grade, I became obsessed with playing the trumpet. But when I pressed my lips against the mouthpiece during a long practice session, a sharp tooth cut into my lips. That’s when it began to bleed. It took a few days until I could resume playing the trumpet. Upon my music teacher’s advice, I went to a dentist who filed down the sharp-edged tooth until it was smooth like a fish belly. Now I could practice without the insides of my lip looking like a chunk of ground beef. My obsessive behavior could be seen in the endless hours spent practicing my trumpet, running, racquetball, changing jobs, etc… It has never ended. 

Of course there were the funny times and painful moments like the time when I slid across the wooden racquetball floor and felt a two-inch splinter slide into my ass. It was the right cheek as I recall. After pulling my shorts down to take a look, it became obvious that I had a problem. Mike, my opponent and friend, retreated to the locker room with me to take a closer look. The location of the splinter prevented me from extracting it. I looked at Mike while the two of us began to laugh and estimate the length of the splinter. 

“I’ll remove it,” Mike said. “What are friends for?” 

After securing a pair of pliers, Mike slowly and carefully tried to remove the splinter while I grabbed hold of the locker door. Each attempt to pull the splinter caused it to become more embedded into the flesh of my ass. The choice was to take an embarrassing trip to the ER or use the pliers to remove the splinter. By now, some racquetball players joined us in the locker room. In addition to the humor, they moaned and groaned each time they watched the pliers latch onto the splinter. We paused while my breathing increased and I broke into a light sweat. 

“Okay, let’s do it. Make it quick,” I said. Finally, after one strong pull the splinter was jerked from my ass. 

I then asked Mike if he would like to finish the match. This was my chance to move into first place in league play. We stepped onto the court and began the match. I thought I could win  but questioned whether that would be disrespectful to my friend who removed the splinter from my ass. Despite my concerns about doing the right thing, I won the match. My obsession to win trumped doing the right thing. 

 It was on that Fall evening in the late 1980s when I became a legend in the racquetball community. The owner of the court took ownership of the splinter and showed it to anyone willing to hear the story about Larry Franklin, the man with a two-inch splinter in his ass.  

A few months later I began running when I wasn’t playing racquetball. But as soon as I experienced my first “runner’s high,” I decided to stop playing racquetball and spend all of my time running. Training led to longer runs, allowing me to experience more intense highs. My body was light as a feather as I floated down a country road where my feet barely touched the ground. The high was better than smoking some weed on a cloudy day. The peak of the runner’s high came while running alone on a seven-mile course with a light breeze at my back. While I was “in the moment,” there was no concern for maintaining relationships with my racquetball friends. 

Even during my four years of playing trumpet in the U.S. Navy Band in Washington, DC and five years teaching trumpet and playing in musical groups at Southern Illinois University, I was totally focused. You might say that each endeavor became an obsession. 

My mother asked me to accompany her and spend the night while recovering from cataract surgery. Her request occurred when least expected. I was about to run a half-marathon in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. She could have contacted me before scheduling the procedure. Cataract surgery was not brain surgery and could have been scheduled at a more convenient time for the two of us. But that was my mother. She did whatever she wanted and if I hesitated, she invoked the mother’s shame — “I’d be ashamed if I was you. God would want you to do the right thing.” It was near impossible to say no to her. Decades ago, when I was a young boy, my mother used to discipline me by hitting me across my face with a flyswatter. But later, when I had grown in size, I wrestled the flyswatter from her hands and shouted at her to never hit me again. While she never hit me again, she did something worse. “The mother’s shame” became a common occurrence and the fear of the Lord was  a close second. 

When my mother told me about her decision to have cataract surgery, she asked if I would transport her to and from the hospital and spend the night at her house. It was decided that I would arrive at her place around 6:00 am, have her at the hospital by 8:00 am, spend the night, and head home on the following day. 

I neglected to tell my mother that my friends and I had plans to run a half-marathon in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. The challenging course was known to be one of the favorite road races in our area. It was not a race for the feeble minded, and required the runner to carefully plan their running schedule in the weeks leading to the race. The preparation was a spiritual event for me. 

I did not have any prior knowledge of her last minute decision to have the cataract surgery. While I would have appreciated being part of the decision making process, this was the way my mother operated. After all, a good son would accomadate her decisions. That’s what she believed. 

I should probably take some of the blame. After all, she was not aware that I was so involved in the running scene. That was another piece of my life that I had not shared with her.  She would have considered it a silly thing for a grown man to be doing. And there’s always the blame game where my mother has the skill-set to inflict shame. If I didn’t accomadate her request, she would have said, “Well, I’d be ashamed if I was you. It’s not what the Lord would want.” But it’s not like she was going blind and the surgery had to be on this date, or the fact that cataract surgery is not the same as a heart transplant. 

Taking her to the hospital for cataract surgery was a commitment I didn’t embrace, and I didn’t know why. For some reason, I didn’t feel the closeness that is expected between a boy and his mother. I always performed my son-like duties with a degree of detachment similar to a janitor mopping the floor at the end of a long day.   

We arrived at the hospital where I helped my mother check in. She was handed a hospital gown and told to place her clothes in the locker and wear the gown. I was asked to help my mother if needed. While I felt a bit awkward being in this situation, it quickly escalated. She removed her clothes and stood facing me while completely naked. I handed her the gown and quickly looked the other way. She acted as though she had done this many times before. Her lack of proper boundaries was troubling.  

Decisions were like a book of unrelated essays where each story stood on it’s own. The need to accomplish one goal after another was intense and without consideration for my family and friends. I was president of my high school class and popular among my friends. But as soon as I graduated and went to college, previous relationships ended. Upon my discharge from the US Navy Band, my military friends were ignored. After five-years of teaching music at Southern Illinois University, I decided to leave music and become a certified financial planner. My career changes required a new location and the ending of my current friendships. Each action became another obsession intended to better my life. Ask me if my obsessive decisions made me happy and I would have said yes. But in reality, I didn’t have a clue. A logical person might have said, “there’s a Problem in River City.” 

I had convinced my wife that each obsession was an opportunity to improve both our quality of life and to increase our income. Naturally, she supported my decisions. She had my back, some might say. Some decisions required relocating to another community while ignoring our life-long friendships. Obviously, some changes were mistakes and very self-centered on my part. While life seemed good, it was an illusion. 

An unexpected trauma chiseled an opening into a horde of traumatic memories previously untapped. The memories, a psychologist would later say, were stored in my amygdala located in the temporal lobe. After processing, the memories moved into the hypothalamus where they resided untouched by any outside source. It was there where they could propagate unsettled emotions, create a trauma-induced disorder or steer me into the decisive escape — suicide. 

When light overcame darkness — Prologue

PROLOGUE

6 Feet

a brick of a man
nose smeared
cauliflower ears
rugby forward

pictures
memories
like a cluster bomb
destroying
shards of a broken life

she looked at him
and did the only thing she knew to do

she held him while he cried

John King

     While memory is our most treasured asset, we are stretched to fully understand its mysteries. A simple explanation defines memory as the capacity to store and retrieve information. While some deem recollections to be fixed, others claim the brain is not static nor etched in stone. Any remembrance, they say, can be influenced by outside forces, leaving the  possibility of minute changes. Science is even wrestling with the idea that traumatic memories can be totally erased from the brain. Whether that is good or bad is certainly up for debate.

      While science moves forward and disagreements continue, imagination will lead the way. Writers of fiction continue to broaden the boundaries of truth, allowing us to explore the secrecies of the human brain. It is their imaginations that motivate, in part, future discoveries in the scientific community. What has become real, was yesterday’s fairy tales.

***

     It was an earlier time, late nineteenth or early twentieth century, perhaps, when three learned men. — Hermann Sorgel, Daniel Thrope, and Major Barclay — gathered in an English pub. They had entered a day-long Shakespearean conference in London, listening to lectures on the works of William Shakespeare and experiencing a lively discussion on the structure and theme of their favorite sonnet. What better place to finish the day. A bar lined one wall, smoke-stained fireplace stood against another, and several like-minded patrons circled small wooden tables separated just enough for an intimate conversation. The cigars were strong that night, and the dark, warm beer was smooth and plentiful.

     The major abruptly changed the conversation when he pointed to a beggar standing outside. “Islamic legend has it,” he said, “that King Solomon owned a ring that allowed him to understand the language of the birds. And a particular beggar, so the story goes, somehow came into possession of the ring. Of course the ring was beyond any imaginable value and, as a result, could not be sold. Legend has it that the beggar died in one of the courtyards of the mosque of Wazir Khan, in Lahore.”

     Sorgel jokingly added that the ring was surely lost, like all magical thingamajigs. Or maybe some chap has it, he said with a chuckle, and can’t make out what they’re saying because of all the racket.

     Thorpe weighed in. “It is not a parable. Or if it is, it is still a true story. There are certain things that have a price so high that they can never be sold.” Thorpe went mute and stared at the floor. He seemed to regret having spoken at all.

     The darkening of Thorpe’s mood and the lateness of the evening moved the major to call it a night. Thorpe and Sorgel soon followed suit and returned to their hotel. Thorpe then invited Sorgel to his room to continue their conversation. It was there in the privacy of Thorpe’s room, that he asked Sorgel if he would like to own King Solomon’s ring. “That’s a metaphor, of course, but the thing the metaphor stands for is every bit as wondrous as the ring. Shakespeare’s Memory, from his youngest boyhood days to early April 1616, I offer to you.” Sorgel fell silent as he struggled to find a word.

     Thorpe continued. “I’m not an impostor. I’m not insane. I beg you to suspend judgment until you hear me out. I was a military physician and worked in a field hospital when a soldier who had been shot twice was about to die. What he told me might sound quite startling, but strange things are the norm in times of war. The soldier, Adam Clay, offered me Shakespeare’s Memory, and then, in the final minutes to his life, he struggled to explain the singular condition of the gift. “The one who offers the gift must offer it aloud, and the one who is to receive it must accept it the same way. The man who gives it loses it forever,” he said to me.

     “And you now possess Shakespeare’s Memory?” Sorgel asked.

     “I’m now in possession of two memories — Shakespeare’s and my own. They seem to merge, or maybe I should say that two memories possess me.”

     I’ve searched the words of Shakespeare for years, Sorgel thought. What better gift than to know the inner workings of Shakespeare’s mind, and maybe touch his soul. “Yes,” Sorgel declared with an assertive tone. “I accept Shakespeare’s memory.”

     Shakespeare’s Memory is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges. While the work is fiction, Borges’ insights into memory are both precise and profound, and as real as life itself. Borges leads us through a maze of discoveries as bits and pieces and chunks of memory begin to unfold.

     Sorgel recalled Thrope’s words. “It will emerge in dreams, or when you awake, when you turn the pages of a book, or turn a corner. Don’t be impatient. Don’t invent recollections. As I gradually forget, you will remember.”

     Sorgel’s sleepless nights were mixed with the fear that it was a hoax, or possibly an illusion, and the longing hope that he might in some way become Shakespeare. Memories returned as visual images and auditory sounds came to him when Sorgel sang a melody he had never heard before. In a few days, Sorgel’s speech took on the r’s and open vowels of the sixteenth century. He began to sound like Shakespeare.

     Memory was not the stretch of rolling hills with green meadows and natural springs that Sorgel had hoped for. It was a mountain range with beautiful and, at the same time, terrifying peaks, frigid temperatures, and the threatening crevasse just around the bluff. Some memories were shadowy, and some were so traumatic that they were hidden forever. Sorgel enjoyed the happiness of the moment, and then his mood darkened from an unwanted memory.

     At first, Sorgel’s and Shakespeare’s Memories were separate and easily distinguishable from each other. Then they began to mix, and finally Shakespeare’s Memory overpowered his own, causing Sorgel to question his sanity and wonder how little time was left before he was no longer the man he once knew.

     It became clear that Sorgel had no choice but to give Shakespeare’s Memory away. He dialed telephone numbers at random. At first they were met with skepticism and then an abrupt hang-up. “Do you want Shakespeare’s Memory?” And to Sorgel’s surprise, the voice answered, “I will take that risk. I accept Shakespeare’s Memory.”

     Shakespeare’s Memory was transferred a little at a time, and it was irregular at best. But years later, some residue still remained. “I am not a man among men,” Sorgel wrote. “In my waking hours I am Professor Emeritus Hermann Sorgel. I putter about the card catalog and compose erudite trivialities, but at dawn I sometimes know that the person dreaming is that other man. Every so often in the evening I am unsettled by small, fleeting memories that are perhaps authentic.”

***

     While Shakespeare’s Memory is a work of fiction, it does open the mind to the beauty and
complexity of the human brain and serves as a prelude to the story you are about to read. Memories serve as a witness to our struggles and desires for a satisfying life. Too often, though, they record the unimaginable that can break a man’s soul.

When Light Overcame Darkness

EPILOGUE

                               “For what it’s worth:
it’s never too late or, in my case,
too early to be whoever you want to be.
There’s no time limit,
stop when ever you want.
you can change or stay the same,
there are no rules to this thing.
We can make the best or the worst of it.
I hope you make the best of it.
And I hope you feel things you never felt before.
I hope you meet people
with a different point of view.
I hope you live a life you’re proud of.
If you find that you’re not,
I hope you have the courage
to start all over again.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

It’s been decades since I began my struggles with depression, anxiety, dissociative patterns, self-blame, guilt, abandonment, learning problems, sexual relationships, and fear; all symptoms of childhood physical and sexual abuse. And now, several years later, I’ve reached a place much better than before.

     I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) with dissociative features. While PTSD receives an abundance of media coverage, dissociative features requires an explanation. Dissociative features include loss of memory, detachment and feeling as if one is outside one’s body. Add repressed memories to the mix and we have confusion, loneliness, and isolation. No recognizable warning, just relentless and continuous attacks meant to make death more attractive than life.

     There were choices to be made. (1) Determine if I preferred to tough it out or reach out for help. (2) Acknowledge the fact that I couldn’t do this on my own. (3) Hire a mental health professional to be the captain of my ship. (4) Recognize the determination and strength that will be required. (5) Don’t give up. (6) Determine if I needed short-term or long-term therapy. (7) Decide whether to take medication designed to trick the neurons in my brain.

     For me, the decision to reach out was easy. I had lost my identity and questioned my sanity. The fear and confusion from horrific dreams made it obvious that I needed help. That’s when I chose Olivia Jennings to be my therapist. She pledged to support me throughout the duration of my therapy. Together, we created a bond that has lasted for decades. And I currently take medication to treat depression and anxiety, and to trick the neurons into believing that I’m in control of my shit.

     DNA and life’s experiences — nature and nurture — determined the development of my cognitive and emotional functions. Since I was physically and sexually abused, my emotional development was frozen in time and lacked any maturation. In other words, my inner child remained the same throughout my pre-therapy years. It was Olivia’s job to help heal my inner child and allow me to grow; a process that addressed past, present, and future behaviors.

     I’m reminded of a day-care facility that was located across the street from my office. Each day one of the teachers took the children for a walk. Each child was connected to the teacher by a walking rope. It could be one or many children attached to the single rope. That’s the image I see when I think about Olivia leading my inner child through the healing process.  

     The journey began in my imaginary laboratory — Olivia’s office —  where we studied my behavior — past, present, and future — and improved my quality of life. This was where the magic occurred.

     My condition required more than a quick fix or a bandage on an open wound. It required time. The insurance coverage was running out and I was deep into therapy. This was when I chose between short-term and long-term therapy. While I had weeks of insurance coverage, it didn’t cover the time needed to address my problems. The logic for long-term therapy was based on the fact that I had more problems to be addressed. I needed more time. Thankfully, my income made it possible for me to continue. It’s sad that one’s salary determines the level of mental health care. If I had gone with short-term therapy, I would not be the man I am today.

     So, the big question:  Was my journey worth the effort, tears, time, pain, and money? For me, the answer is obvious — yes, yes, yes…

***

     I still remember the day I returned home after cataract surgery. I removed my sunglasses and stared at a pear-tree full of white blossoms that stood in front of our red-brick house. The shapes and colors appeared as three-dimensional figures, and the intense hues and minute details struck me as being unlike anything I had seen before. It was miraculous.

     But it pales in comparison to the day when I began to feel; not the superficial, trivial, and insignificant emotions I had experience throughout my life. No, I’m referring to the new-found feelings that rushed through my body and woke my soul. Some emotions were joyful, sad, and others were indifferent. The miracle was not in the type of emotion, it was the ability to feel in a potent and unique manner. Unleashing my ability to feel emotions in a nonjudgmental way changed my life; a time when light overcame darkness.

     I encourage victims to use their past abuse as a springboard for a better life. While the journey is more challenging than anything I had ever faced, the rewards were life changing. If there are secrets for recovery, they are simple and doable — find a therapist with the knowledge and love needed to complete the journey. And put in the effort because your life depends on it.   

     The growth of an abuse victim into an abuse survivor can be difficult to explain. Each time I search for the magical words, I come back to the birth of the butterfly as a metaphor for the transformation of an abuse victim into a survivor. It is truly magnificent.  

The Birth of a Butterfly

     The butterfly. The symbol of transformation, new beginnings, and the embodiment of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Few creatures on this earth can evoke such a strong sense of wonder in human beings like the butterfly. Secluded within its chrysalis, the butterfly hides itself from the world, swathed in the secrets of the universe as it grows, changes, until the moment it emerges to make the world more beautiful, one butterfly at a time.  

                                                                                                Jean Perry

WHEN LIGHT OVERCAME DARKNESS

A boy with a bent neck and a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Any fool can be happy.
It takes a man with real
heart to make beauty
out of the stuff that
makes us weep.
Clive Barker
***
“Larry, you have so many wonderful qualities,” Olivia said. “You are a very honest and compassionate man. Tell me what you were like while growing up on the farm. Tell me about that little boy, your inner child.”

     I reacted quickly. “I was disgusting, dirty, old ragged clothes. A weakling. I should have stopped Ben.”

     I was speechless. Olivia leaned back in her chair and watched in silence. Several seconds passed as I felt ashamed. “I can’t believe I just said those things about myself.”

     “Maybe you hold your inner child responsible for the abuse. That is a common reaction among abuse victims. But you were too small to stop your brother, who was six years older and much larger than you. There was nothing you could have done to stop him. Reach out and hold the hand of your inner child. Let him feel your love.” Olivia reached over and held my hand.

     That exchange between Olivia and myself, which will be etched in my mind forever, occurred well into therapy. It was my first exposure to the idea of our inner child, an image I recognized but didn’t fully appreciate. There’s a belief held in the mental health community that each of us carries a child that resides deep within our bodies. The child, who represents our childhood, is as we were many years ago. If our child was the beneficiary of a wholesome childhood, then the positive influence will be experienced in our adult life. If, on the other hand, the child was abused, then the adult will take on the symptoms of an abused child: lack of trust, inability to experience intimacy, low self-esteem. Only when we heal the inner child can we expect the adult to be free of our traumatic past.

     Olivia suggested that I write a letter to my inner child. After a few attempts I told her that I couldn’t come up with anything, and the subject was dropped. Months later, Olivia renewed her request and once again, I was faced with the uncomfortable task of communicating with my inner child. After much thought, I came to the conclusion that if I wrote in the third person, I would put some distance between myself and my inner child, making the effort manageable. What evolved was a story loaded with truth but camouflaged in the form of a fairy tale.  

***

The boy with the bent neck and a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag.

     It’s the story that’s best told around the campfire under stars and a full moon, and the distant sound of whip-poor-wills. The story originated, or so I’m told, when man first experienced the emotional pain of life and began the struggle to liberate himself from the misery of unhappiness. Some of the details may have changed over time but the meaning of the story remains the same.

     There was a middle-aged man who, when viewed according to modern standards, lived a successful life, enjoying the material things needed to be happy. Still, relentless pain dwelled below the layer of his skin and bones. This pain was so great that he searched the countryside looking for the secret to happiness. He came upon a woman who he found unfamiliar but alluring. There was a quiet peace about her. Upon questioning, she told him that true happiness could be found at a Buddhist monastery located in a remote part of Colorado. The monastery was occupied by a group of monks led by Father Ramero, a man wise beyond his years. As an initial test of resolve, anyone seeking Father Ramero’s help had to make the twenty-five mile trip on foot over rugged terrain leading to the monastery on the mountaintop.

     Without hesitation, the man who we will call Larry, took the woman’s advice. Two days and two nights into Larry’s journey, he reached a small monastery with walls of reddish sandstone that blended into the mountainside. Surrounding the buildings were gardens filled with lush vegetation, donkeys, rabbits, dogs, cows, and several men dressed in brown robes with sandals strapped to their feet.

     Under a large tree sat Father Ramero, a lean man built like a long-distance runner with a freshly shaved head, who seemed to be in deep thought as his mind visited another time and place.

     As Larry moved forward, Father Ramero opened his eyes and a slight smile quickly grew on his face. “Welcome, Larry. I’ve been expecting you. Come, sit, and tell me of your pain.”

     Larry told Father Ramero about the sadness of his life and about a childhood squandered away by physical and sexual abuse. “Let us sit together and find the source of your pain,” Father Ramero said. “Meditate and let the secrets of your life come forward.” They sat for two-hours without speaking. Larry opened his eyes. He felt sadness but didn’t know why. He looked at Father Ramero and was shocked to see teardrops running down his face. The front of his robe was wet. Clearly upset by his experience, Father Ramero spoke, “I saw the boy with the bent neck and a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag. Larry, your child is in a great deal of pain. You have neglected his needs, and only when you learn to love him will you have true happiness. Sit with your child, learn to know him, learn to love him. You’re welcome to stay with us while you begin your journey.”

     Except for the brief moments needed to eat bread and fruit, and drink some water, Larry spent all his waking time sitting or walking in meditation while his energy was focused on the child within. Silence was only interrupted by the occasional words of encouragement from Father Ramero.

     It soon became obvious why Father Ramero had been so upset when they first sat together. Larry discovered his child, a little boy some seven years of age, dressed in scuffed shoes, a faded flannel shirt that hung lower on the left side because the buttons and holes were unmatched, and a cap made of brown vinyl, cracked and peeled from the summer sun. The boy’s necked pointed downward at a forty-five-degree angle. The boy had no reason to lift his head. In time, atrophy froze the muscles of his neck. No matter how hard he tried, the child could not move his neck. Leaning against the child’s leg was a grief-struck dog that continually looked up at the boy’s face. Like the boy’s neck, the dog’s tail could not move. This was a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag.

     During meditation, Larry envisioned getting on the floor, looking up at the boy, and trying to make eye contact. Only after hours of struggle did they look at each other, but only as strangers. Larry went to Father Ramero and shared his disappointment and concern about the lack of any noticeable progress.

     Father Ramero looked deeply into Larry’s soul. “Larry, do you love your little boy?” Silence followed.

     “I’m not sure. I know that I should. But I never thought about him before. I tried to forget him. He represented everything sad and evil about my childhood. If I get too close to him, will I feel his pain? I don’t know if I could handle it.”

     Father Ramero put his arms around Larry. With some hesitation, Larry put his arms around the Father. “Larry, let’s hold on to each other for a while. I want you to feel the love I have for you. There’s nothing dangerous or abusive about my feelings of love for you. I expect nothing in return. It’s my hope and expectation that you will view my feelings of love as the presence of God. Nothing else could be so wonderful.”

     They embraced for a very long time. Finally, the Father asked Larry if he trusted him, and Larry responded by saying yes. “I love you.”

     “And I love you,” Father Ramero answered. “Your child cannot heal without your love. Yes, you will feel his pain, but nothing of value ever comes easily. Go and be with your child.”

     Larry, focused and committed, would face the demons that ruled his boy, the boy with the bent neck and a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag. The two of them, Larry and his boy, began by holding hands and becoming familiar with the touch of their skin. The similarity in appearance was unfamiliar; Larry was looking at himself, a young boy living in the past, while the boy was looking at Larry, the older man living in the present day.

     For the longest time, Larry apologized to the boy for his neglectful ways. He wanted to make things right. But not until Larry asked the boy to tell him about his past, about the abuse he endured, did the boy begin to speak. The boy told of a life with an older brother who beat him, raped him, and when finished, walked away with evil in his eyes. He told of being held by his ankles, dangled out the window of the hayloft, and warned that he would be dropped if he revealed such horrors. He told of a life with a father who, because of his own misery, chose to neglect him, but did give him one week of love in the summer of 1949. He told of a father who, when he divorced his wife, kept his older son and sent Larry to live with his mother. There was a car wreck in which the hood decapitated his father and crushed the head of his brother. There was a mother who denied him of a childhood and expected him to take care of her needs, those of a divorced young woman who craved the physical love of a man. The boy’s emotional pain felt like raw flesh burning in the summer sun. That’s what his inner child said.   

     As the boy told his story, the tear lines running from the dog’s eyes to his nose became wet from a steady flow of tears. Moved by the story, Larry picked up the little boy and his dog, placed both on his lap and held them for hours. Tears that began flowing down Larry’s face dropped onto the little boy and his dog. Something magical happened. The boy’s neck began to move. The boy looked up at Larry and said, “I love you.”

     “And I love you,” Larry said. As their faces took on a smile, the dog’s tail began to wag. Gone was the boy with the bent neck and a dog whose tail wouldn’t wag.

***

Hey funny man, show me your pain.

Another piece for the manuscript to be completed.

***
I think the saddest people
always try their hardest to
make people happy because
they know what it’s like to feel
absolutely worthless and they
don’t want anyone else to feel
like that.

Robin Williams

***

 Robin Williams, John Beluski, Chris Farley, Freddie Prinze:  all funny men who chose to die. Robin was my favorite. His improvisational skills had no boundaries, as he hurled funny lines fast and furious, seemingly from a place where few have ventured. These comedians, ambassadors of humor, sang lyrics meant to tickle your soul, while suffering an inner dissonance that challenged their ability to get out of bed. They lacked any resolution to that harmonic pedal-point of misery, a can’t-move sadness that creates the illusion that death is more attractive than life. They call it depression.

Depression can be caused by many things — genetic makeup, physical and sexual abuse, conflict, death or loss, physical or emotional pain, reaction to medication, to name a few — causing a chemical imbalance in the brain. The misfiring of a handful of neurons can bring you to your knees.  When information is transferred from one neuron to another, the gap between the terminals and nearby neurons is filled by chemical substances called neurotransmitters, which fire across the space, sending signals to other neurons. At times, brain activity might resemble a well-lit midway at a county fair, with hundreds of rides and booths operating simultaneously.

Medication and psycho-therapy are the preferred treatments for depression. Medication controls the level of neurotransmitters that flow from one neuron to another. This is done by “tricking” the neurons into changing their actions based on the assumption that they have received an increased or decreased level of neurotransmitters. Certain medications force the release of the neurotransmitter, causing an exaggerated effect, while some medications increase neurotransmitters known to slow down or reduce the production of other neurotransmitters. Some medications block the release of neurotransmitters completely. Medications can be a godsend, but the side effects can be intolerable for certain individuals. Maybe the newfound drug will work, and then, without warning, cause the individual to curl into a fetal position and wait for the pain to pass, or choose to die. The next drug will bring them peace, it certainly will.  Perhaps….

Psycho-therapy is the art of understanding and creating strategies to deal with the tormented soul. Reliving the physical and sexual abuse was my journey. In the process, I became desensitized to the emotional trauma, leaving me with a soft melodic hum that I hear each day, warning me if depression is on its way. Some people check the weather each day, I check the forecast for depression. Is it going to be a cloudy or sunny day?

 Hey funny man, where does the humor come from? How can you suffer through such sadness, spout jokes and act crazy all at the same time? For me and my fellow comedians, it’s quite clear. Psychologists call it coping mechanism. Coping is a method of dealing with the misery. Maybe you learn techniques from your therapist, perhaps the medication, or some self-imposed means — drugs, alcohol, meditation, compartmentalization of memories, dissociation.  And yes, we can’t forget “humor.”

I remember a certain day when I was barely fifteen. It was a time when Johnny Carson was the funny man of late-night television. Sitting in the isolation of my home, the idea entered my mind that I could become the next Johnny Carson. I seemed to have a talent for saying “witty” things, acting crazy, and making my friends laugh. Then, I added alcohol and hours of practice on my trumpet to form my identity. If I had not become Steve — the boozer, funny man and trumpet player — perhaps I would have died.

If my misery ever became too much for  me to handle, I had my ace in the hole. Death was a way out, an escape-hatch of sorts. During childhood, throughout my teenage years, and well into adulthood, my imaginary conversations with God were direct, “Keep sending the misery,” I challenged.  “I’ll deal with what I can, but if it ever becomes too much I’ll end my life.”  Surprisingly, this gave me the element of control that I needed.  I had a way out, and I was in control. Hey, funny man, that’s pretty cool.

Decades later, I retired from playing the trumpet, became a social drinker, but I’m still considered a funny, crazy man. I asked my therapist if my humor was annoying, and whether I should refrain from being “funny.” She asked me to imagine myself without the humor, and whether I liked that person. I quickly came to the conclusion that the imagined person was boring and without feelings. She smiled, followed by a few silent seconds. “Hey funny man,” she said. “I like who you are.”

I know why some comedians appear to be so funny. For many, it’s how they cover up their misery. I’m not surprised that so many have committed suicide. Perhaps their misery was greater than mine. Maybe I was just one of the lucky ones.  Or perhaps my therapist saved my life.

My Melancholy Baby

Another part of my manuscript to be assembled at a later date.
***
Man’s main concern is not to gain pleasure or to avoid
pain but rather to see a meaning in his life. That is
why man is even ready to suffer, on the condition,
to be sure, that his suffering. has a meaning.
Viktor Frankl
***

Not only does it reside in the darkness of night; the underbelly of a rotting rat; or the heart of a seven-year-old boy, it’s everywhere. A formidable enemy, I might add, that doesn’t need a space to be present. Sometimes referred to as extreme sadness, downheartedness, melancholy, but more often than not, we call it depression. While we can’t see depression, we certainly feel this inanimate object unrecognizable as a living being. It looks like air, but feels heavy, like a cloud of tears.

In my mind, that’s where it resides if I don’t run it away. My mother referred to depression as having a bad case of the “nerves.” “I’m having trouble with my nerves today,” she often said.

To talk about depression by itself, is leaving out part of the equation — trauma causes depression that demands a coping mechanism to survive. In years past, I was unaware that trauma was the cause of my unhappiness. For me, it was simple. When I felt down, alcohol  made me feel better, allowing my mind to embrace a happy place, or a place where I could wallow in my misery.

Now, as an adult and well into therapy, I’ve identified my trauma and know when the depression is about to appear. While it’s invisible, I feel an imaginary, dark-cloud moving my way. As with any storm, that’s a signal to take cover.

Throughout society we’ve seen a caravan of famous people who committed suicide. National media suggests that the victims were addicted to drugs. While that might be true, we need to examine what caused their drug addiction. It could have been the sweetness of a joint, the glow from heroin, a chemical imbalance in our brain, an escape from the trauma induced depression, or the use of drugs to reach higher levels of creativity.  

The recent death of American actor, Philip Seymour Hoffman, brought admirers to their knees, and gave reason to reflect on his magic. Hoffman was possibly the greatest actor of our generation. Each time I’ve viewed one of his performances, I came away with a clearer vision of life. His creativity was never in question, and the mastery of his craft was always on display. Now, we are left with his work to examine, enjoy, and yes, even taste the power and sweetness of its nectar.

 Mr. Hoffman, tell me your secrets, from where does your magic come? Creativity and technique determine one’s artistry. Of the two, creativity can seem elusive, leaving us to lurch for fire-flies in the night. Other times, creativity seems to swallow us whole; oh, such a glorious feeling, as if we are falling in love. Where did Hoffman find his magic? Were they random thoughts, these bits of creativity, ideas that blossomed at will; possibly rare like a whip-poor-will’s call at morning’s first light? Or were they biological, originating from a handful of neurons located in his brain? Was his creativity there for the taking or did it sometimes appear in private moments or in the night when the soul longs to be fed. And who can deny that Philip Seymour Hoffman was a hungry man.

Viewed from above, the human brain appears as the two halves of a walnut — two similar, convoluted, rounded halves connected in the center by a thick nerve cable composed of millions of fibers that cross-connect the two halves, which are called the left and the right hemispheres. The left half of the brain controls the right side of the body, the right hemisphere controls the left  It could be said that we have two brains in one, each able to operate independently or together as one.

 Kay Redfield Jamison, author of “Touched With Fire:  Manic-Depression Illness and the Artistic Temperament,” writes about the connection between mental illness and the artistic mind. While some might doubt whether a mental illness has creative advantages, Jamison makes a strong case from her study of numerous artists — poets, musicians, writers, painters — who suffered from depression. Ancient Greeks believed in the link between creativity and madness. The Renaissance thinkers held a slightly different view. They believed that total madness prevented the artist from using his abilities, but that the sane melancholic could find a path for artistic achievement. By the eighteenth century, balance and rational thought trumped the previously held beliefs that inspiration and emotions were the primary entrance to genius. The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries reflected a moderation of earlier views due in part to the influence of academic psychology and psychiatry. Extreme madness lacked the sustained discipline and balance needed to reach great heights. Still, melancholy associated with mental illness, combined with one’s talents, produced extraordinary works.

As writers, we must find the gems of creativity that reside somewhere in the grayness of our brain, and then we develop them. Philip Seymour Hoffman did. From desperation, perhaps, or just plain curiosity, artists sometimes turn to drugs to find that special place that legend describes; a place without emotional boundaries where we seemingly float in complete ecstasy. But we all know the problems with prolonged drug use. We might die or exceed the “recommended” dosage and simply lose control of the mechanics needed to perform.

 Is there another way to reach our creativity?  I believe there is, and I promise, you won’t die. Watch a young child’s reaction to music. They dance around, bend and twist, laugh and giggle, and soak up the magic in the air. They are creative. Now fast forward to a later time when the aging process brings on restrictions, inhibitions, stiffness, and a concern for what others might say about our behavior. Find the child within; learn to dance in the clouds.

 My path to creativity was not predetermined. It came from my struggles as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I was in a bad state of mind but had a therapist who literally saved my life. Through her help, meditation, and self-exploration, I began what I later believed to be a spiritual path. My life changed, not instantaneously, but slow and steady. I learned to feel, to trust, and ultimately, to love; accompanied by an openness to see the previously unseen, and an ability to be nonjudgmental. I found the “sweet part of the bat,” where I hit home runs whenever I chose. Creativity is there for the taking. Ask and you shall receive.

The second step is to develop our technique. The better command of our medium, the more success in communicating with our creativity. The artist writes, practices, or paints  every day. It’s such a rush when it all comes together; maybe a sentence or two, a phrase, chapter, or possibly a book. Take what you get and savior the taste. Remember the process and how it felt. Next time will be easier.