Progress?

I always find myself reflecting on the past year in the week following Christmas, and this one was no different.  I’ve been keeping a daily gratitude journal for a few years now (one New Year’s resolution I’ve actually managed to keep), and every year, I think of a title that encompasses my hopes for the year to come.  My first year was “The Year of Gratitude,” (which proved an accurate descriptor—this practice has made me much more aware of my blessings), and 2014 was titled “The Year of Progress.”

Oh, bittersweet irony.  I should not have tempted the fates by calling 2014 “The Year of Progress.”  

Last January, I had resolved to make true progress towards reaching my life goals in the coming year: taking major steps towards writing and publishing a book (or two or three books—I was very ambitious when I made these resolutions) and becoming a self-employed author so I could teach part-time on the side.  I also had ambitious plans to get my epilepsy under control and better manage my stress and get my act together and finally grow up and be the adult I’ve always dreamed of being.  

It didn’t exactly work out that way, though.  

Progress?  It’s hard to see any as I reflect on this past year.  I look at my health and see only regression.  I thought that quitting teaching would lighten my burden of stress, which would, in turn, quiet my epilepsy, but that has not happened.   

My epilepsy has actually grown worse, despite several attempts at medication.  My driver’s license was officially cancelled in September.  I am having seizures almost daily.  They are milder, but a recent MRI showed scar tissue in my brain from them nonetheless.   

Progress is measured by met goals, which imply a measure of control over our circumstances.  We work to achieve our goals. We believe that we can strive to better ourselves or change certain things.  But no amount of discipline or hard work is going to change the fact that I have epilepsy or that I am facing some terrifying and life-altering treatment options (brain surgery among them). 

As my goal this year was to become an author, I spent quite a bit of time writing, but not as much as I would have liked—I participated in NaNoWriMo for the fourth consecutive year (November is NAtional NOvel WRiting MOnth—participants write 50,00 words in 30 days), and this was the first year that I did not meet that goal.  I came in at a measly 41,021 words.  Every other year that I did this, I was teaching (some years full time, one year even overload) but I was still able to finish easily.  This year I had unlimited time at my disposal, but my brain was just too tired to work at that pace—I had several seizures in November, and seizures are exhausting.  I do have plans to finish the piece eventually, but I lack the mental stamina I once enjoyed.  So I didn’t exactly write the proverbial “great American novel,” much less publish one.  Even though I had resolved to make a writing career for myself this year, the only efforts that I dared to make public are these blog entries.  I have yet to seek a professional audience or publication for my work.  

Last January, I sincerely believed that 2014 was going to be my year.  And then, three weeks into that month, I had a seizure while I was driving, which changed the trajectory of my life, completely redefining the meaning of progress for me. 

I did everything in my power to make this “The Year of Progress,” but I did not progress at all in the way that I had hoped.  

I guess, if nothing else, I did gain a lot of good writing fodder through these frustrations and setbacks and experiences, which may eventually become a means towards the progress I wish to see.  (One can only hope.)    

I do plan to keep another gratitude journal in the coming year, and I’ve decided to call 2015 “The Year of Patience,” because I feel like that’s what I really should have learned this year. 

Hermit.

When I quit my job, I was afraid that a weird disease + no job + no driver’s license + living five miles from civilization would pretty much make me a hermit. 

And in some ways, I guess that it has.

I’ve always enjoyed solitude—it’s kind of a necessary part of the writing process, and writing has always been my favorite of hobbies.  But I always enjoyed my solitude as a retreat from life, not as my life, and at times this involuntary solitude feels a lot like loneliness. 

And that kind of scares me.

For the past two years, I have felt like I’ve been teetering on that sharp edge of loneliness, like my only option forward is via the edge of this cliff.  But every time that I think that I’m about to tumble off it, someone reaches out to steady me, to grab my hand, to encourage me to keep going, to give me enough hope to take one more step. 

I know it’s a trite metaphor, but our journey really is made only one step at a time, through whatever terrain we’re forced to cross.  (Right now, mine just happens to be a cliff that overlooks the Pit of Despair.)  It is only through the gentle nudges I’ve gotten from others that I’ve made any forward progress.

And, to my delighted surprise, a lot of these gentle nudges have come to me from former students. 

Yeah. 

From people who spent many of their formative years believing that I was not actually human, that I was a robot programmed by the government expressly to torture them.

It is beautiful to be thought of and remembered, especially by these kids (er, adults—some of them are in their mid-to-late-twenties now).  It was something I’d never expected, and hearing from them makes me feel like I managed to connect with them somehow, through all the noise that is adolescence and hormones and high school drama, and that connection feels like the exact opposite of loneliness. 

Sometimes these communications are small and school-related—a question about MLA documentation, or a request to support a fundraiser.

Sometimes they’re personal—a call for book recommendations, sharing a band I just have to hear or a music video I have to see, or just to say hi.

Sometimes it’s a text at two in the morning from a former student who nearly fell asleep driving, and that prompted him to think of me and reach out to ask how I’m doing.

Sometimes it’s a three-hour Facebook chat, including an apology for “being an arse” in high school (his words), praise for my teaching and understanding, and an offer to teach my foster son how to weld.  (I took a screen shot of this one and hung it up in my office, and I bawled afterwards—this, from a student I hadn’t seen since 2008, and one I never thought I’d hear from again.)

Sometimes (surprisingly often) it’s a recommendation for marijuana to help control my epilepsy.  (Hey—regardless of the message, these four kids still took the time to reach out to me and think of my health.)

And sometimes it’s friendship.  Sometimes it’s regular texting about great books and Game of Thrones theories and Mindy Kaling’s comedy and even a FaceTime book club.  (Which I love.)

I thought that leaving teaching would sever any chance of seeing a lot of these people again—when kids stopped by to see me before, they always came to my classroom.  They visited when they had college breaks—sometimes bringing vases of flowers or boxes of cereal or cards of encouragement or just open arms and a laugh.  But the school was close to their homes, and they were often bored and looking for something to do on their breaks, so the visits were nice, but not entirely unexpected.   They still had friends or siblings or other teachers to see in the high school, after all. 

But now that they can’t visit me at school anymore, I only expect run-ins in public places (malls, basketball games I manage to attend, movie theaters, the like).   

Imagine my surprise when they come to my front door.

One girl called me when she was on her way home from college, driving by my exit on the interstate, which made her think of me, and she asked if she could come over for a visit.  She stayed for an hour, and I cried when she left, because I just couldn’t believe that she’d thought of me, that she’d taken the time to drive out of her way and stop. 

And she’s not the only one, either.  Others have come to visit, too, and still more have made plans to see me over their Christmas breaks this year. 

I mean, I liked my own high school teachers just fine, and they did their jobs and did them well, but I can’t think of a single one I’d call up and visit now. Or ask for book recommendations.  Or FaceTime with.  Or text at two in the morning.  Or recommend marijuana to.  (Not that I’d recommend it at all, mind you, but you get my point…)

It’s nice to be remembered as an actual human being, separately from the institution of the school, especially by kids who often seemed to have little love for me during their time there, and it’s funny how something as small as a text message can yank me from the edge of loneliness and remind me of the connections I have made, and that just because my time as a teacher is done does not mean that those connections have been severed. 

It’s beautiful the way that these kids—nay, these adults—have managed to rescue me from my loneliness in these small ways.  I never dreamed that a 2 a.m. text message could have such an impact.  But it’s more than that—it’s a reminder of the power of connection, and that is enough to save me from shutting myself away, from becoming that hermit I feared I was destined to be. 

All.

I think there’s this really unhealthy and pervasive idea that eventually, if we work hard enough, we will “have it all” someday.  It’s the ultimate human goal—it’s Disneyland and the Powerball jackpot and the Heisman and a Nobel prize, all rolled into one and sprinkled with glittery awesome flakes.  It’s all of your wildest dreams come true.

All. 

The problem with “all,” though, is that it’s a transient concept.  “All” is all-encompassing and ever-changing.  My definition of “all” when I was twelve was certainly different than it is now.  (I had naïve dreams of Harvard medical school—hey, I was twelve…cut me some slack.) 

I wanted this pre-packaged “all” that would have been “all” by anyone’s sense of the definition.  I wanted it to fall into my lap, gift wrapped with batteries included, and I just wanted to open it up and live it out, garnering the envy of my friends with ease as I traipsed down the hallway of life with every single door of possibility open to me.  But as many of those doors slammed shut in my face (the Heisman? Yeah, I’m not going to win one of those…), I had to alter my definition of “all.” 

It has been a rather humbling prospect, redefining my “all.”  About a decade ago, my ever-changing definition of “all” had begun to settle out, and I figured that by the time I reached my 30’s, my “all” would look a lot like what my friends and peers had: I’d have an effortlessly perfect marriage, 2.5 kids, a successful teaching career, a newish car, and an incredible social life that involved lots of flashy parties and travel to exotic locales.   

As I write this, I can tell you that I am 32 years old, and that particular “all” is no longer a possibility for me anymore.  I look at that outrageous list now—one that I once thought to be so simple and normal and easy, practically my birthright—and I feel so foolish. 

Effortlessly perfect marriage? Our love has been tested and strained by things that had the potential to destroy us.  Although we have achieved a good and enviable marriage (though it’s far from effortless and perfect), the circumstances that made it so are dark and haunting, and I wouldn’t wish those horrors on anyone.

Those 2.5 kids?  Well, we can’t have our own kids. Watching my friends raise children of their own, seeing the way that those children have become their all and everything, has always aroused a sad, envious grief within me, and that particular type of happiness—the simplicity of seeing your husband’s eyes replicated in your child’s mischievous face—is one I may never know.  We are foster parents, and the experience has been amazing, but it was never part of our initial plan.  (We do have ¾ a dog, due to his accident—does that count as a kid?)

Successful teaching career?  Well, because of my “disability,” and the fact that I do not have a valid driver’s license, I had to give that up.  I may do it again someday, but right now, I am disabled and unemployed.  (Not exactly where I saw myself ten years ago.)

Car?  I have a 2010 Honda CR-V, which is awesome, except for the fact that I have not driven it since January 2014, so it is basically just a paperweight. 

And that social life?  I’m pretty much a hermit. (It’s hard to have much of a social life when both your geography and your disability confine you to your home.) We get out when we can, but we are perfectly content to spend a lot of time at home by ourselves, eating old popcorn from between the couch cushions and watching trash TV.

So I’ve had to learn to redefine my “all.”  I’ve learned to pay less attention to what could be/might have been and more attention to what is.  I am trying to learn how to see all that I already have instead of focusing on “all” that I don’t.  (Because, obviously, the “all” that I was grasping for fell through my fingers like so much sand.)

I have a strong marriage to a beautiful, supportive, loving, kindhearted, gentle, sweet, dorky hunk of a man.  And I have never been more in love. 

I have a son—foster or no, he is part of our family.  (We have the pictures now to prove it.)  He has taught me lessons about love and acceptance and patience that I know I could not have learned through having children of our own.  And I love my ¾ dog no matter how much of a mess he is.

I miss teaching like crazy, but it hasn’t ended—not completely.  I still get to teach our foster son how to do things (like how it’s not okay to use toilet bowl cleaner to mop the bathroom floor), and I have been overwhelmed by support and communication I’ve gotten from former students.  I love hearing from them, and there’s a freedom in speaking to them as equals rather than an authority figure.  I wouldn’t have gotten that as a teacher.

Even though I can’t drive it, I’m glad to have a car.  Someday, maybe, I’ll get to drive it again.  Perhaps even to visit a friend or two.  That would be nice.

And although I’m far from the jet-setter I’d hoped to be, I do cherish the time we spend with our friends. I no longer take it for granted.  It has made me realize how beautiful those relationships are, and I relish them like fine chocolate. 

So I guess, in a way, I do have it all. 

It’s just not the “all” I thought I was going to get.

And that’s okay.

A Broken Typewriter.

For my last birthday, my sister crawled through my parents’ grove and unearthed a beautiful, decayed typewriter to give to me.  It’s gorgeous.  I love typewriters for the same reason I love paper—they represent the possibility to manipulate language for story. 

But this typewriter is pretty much just for looks: the keys are stuck, the roller won’t budge, and it’s full of corrosion and filth, leaves and twigs and dust. 

October’s been a rough month for my brain.  I’m still transitioning to my new medication, and as a result, I’ve had a lot of seizures in the past few weeks.  Over a dozen. 

I’ve fallen into a sort of pattern with these seizures, as many epileptics do, preferring the same idiosyncrasies: I march in place, twiddle my thumbs, and talk nonsense, mostly about food—carrot nubs and garlic cloves in particular.  (I guess this is an improvement over a phase I went through in 2012, in which I would take off my own pants…)

In the moments before a seizure, during the wave of nausea and nerves that course through me, I always believe I can stop it, that I can maintain my composure, that I have some sort of control over this disease. 

I don’t.

But after my marching and thumb twiddling and food talk (which I never remember afterwards), I always believe that I somehow overruled my seizure, that I kept it from happening, that I overpowered it and kept it under control.  I pick up the thread of conversation where it left off.  The only indication that anything went wrong is found in those who witness it: this startled, sad expression, gentle words, an offer to sit down, a hug, a glass of water to swallow down my pills. 

I hate it.

Not their kindness, never that.  I just hate needing it.  I hate finding out that I didn’t have as much control over my own body and mind as I thought.  I’ll admit, watching people reenact my drum majorette march and my thumb twiddles for me is kind of funny. 

The part that’s really embarrassing is finding out what stupid things I’ve said.

During my seizures, I’ve said the following things, within absolutely no context whatsoever—these were lovingly recorded by my friends and family members who’ve witnessed my brain fails:

“You be the zombie sitting in the chair.”  

“Matthew in my lap—I’m going to eat his throat out.” (I said this while repeatedly punching my fist into a plate of cake.)

“The carrot nubs will make me stop marching.” (I said this while petting the inside of my purse.)

“You go through the door first.”

“The mermaids at the end of the driveway made me do it.”

“The garlic will make me stop marching.” (I said this while pointing at some garlic cloves and laughing hysterically.)

I’ve also laughed hysterically about our dog barking and about nothing whatsoever. 

I sometimes have this strange semi-awareness during my episodes, and I do recall that during the two where I was talking about food (the carrot nubs and the garlic), I was thinking that I should probably take an Ativan tablet, which can abort a seizure.  I knew I needed it, and I was trying to articulate that need, but the words just came out all wrong.  

I like words.  A lot.  I was an early reader.  I’ve been writing since I could hold a crayon.  I taught English for seven years.  So to have a disease that robs me—even momentarily—of the capacity to use language properly is devastating.  I lock up, I malfunction, my keys get jumbled, the paper gets jammed.  I feel like that typewriter my sister found for me—created to use words, but completely helpless to do so.

Lessons from Plants.

My foster son’s birth mother gave me some presents when we picked up his belongings and moved him into our house.  (She was in the process of moving and everything had to go.)  She gave me a gorgeous iron birdbath, a rusty old tractor tire rim (which made a perfect fire pit), and an umbrella tree. 

The umbrella tree had long since outgrown its small white pot.  It had slowly inched towards what little light it could reach, and in doing so, had developed a serious hunch.  (It could barely stand upright.) 

But the son was rather proud of it all the same.  It was a little piece of his home, his past, his history, and we were taking it into our home right along with him.  It was in dire need of a bigger pot and better light, so we picked out a new pot and together, the three of us (foster parents and son) gently replanted this tree. 

Perhaps “gently” is the wrong word here—our intentions were gentle, true, but the actual act was not.  The son held the branches while the two of us held the pot, and we grunted and tugged and yanked until it pulled free.  There was no other way to do it. I was worried we’d damage it somehow in the move, and there was talk of destroying the white pot to remove it, but together, we prevailed.  The son held the tree in the new pot and we poured handfuls of fresh black dirt around it, and we tried our best to correct that hunch in the process. 

I’ll say this up front: I am a notorious plant killer.  (I buy brand new houseplants every six months or so to keep up the illusion that I have a green thumb, but I just…lack the tender skill required to care for plants.  I am getting better at it, but I’m still not that great.)  So I was terrified that I was going to kill this plant, this piece of our new son’s old life, that it would shrivel and die in my clumsy care.  I was terrified that the repotting had stressed it, had damaged it, and that it would be beyond all help.

But that didn’t happen.

I mean, yeah, we had it a little too close to the air conditioner vent for awhile (it didn’t like that—it lost a lot of leaves), and there were a couple times when it got way too much (or not enough) water, but after we moved it somewhere warmer and brighter and figured out what its needs were, it flourished.  It stopped shedding leaves, and it started growing new ones. 

The other day, my foster son—a deep thinker if ever there was one—was standing over this tree, chin in hand, contemplating.  “It’s doing so well,” he said, reaching down to touch the new growth.  “I think it just needed a new place to live.”

I was struck by his choice of words: a new place to live.

I don’t think he was just talking about that plant. 

He’s right, you know—sometimes, it just takes a new environment to flourish.  (He is living proof of this.)  Sometimes it just takes eating right and sunshine and fresh air and room to stretch your legs (or roots, what have you). 

And I hope that is what we have done for him. 

Homecoming, Revisited.

I never really got into the homecoming hoopla when I was in high school.  The only thing it meant to me was pajama day and attending one football game a season. I know that homecoming is meant for the graduates, but after I graduated high school, I didn’t really care.  I only went to one homecoming game.           

One. 

That was it.   

When I was teaching, homecoming still meant pajama day (the second-best day of the school year!) and attending a single football game, but it became something more.  And not just an entire week of ridiculous dress-up days, either.  (Although, I participated in those with far more enthusiasm and school spirit than I ever did in high school.) I’m not much of a sports fan, but I always went to that single football game and cheered my heart out and rubbed elbows with the recent (and not-so-recent) graduates and their parents and their siblings and grandparents.  (Such is life in a small town--everyone turns out for the school sporting events.)   

It was never truly homecoming for me, though, because I was already home.

That made this year my first true homecoming.  

Homecoming never meant much to me as a student.  It meant quite a bit more to me as a teacher.  But this year, as a former teacher, I revisited the topic, and homecoming took on a new sort of significance.  

Last Friday I went to that homecoming game and “chaperoned” the following dance (I pretty much just danced).

In the spirit of homecoming, of coming home, I returned to the little school that had been my home for seven beautiful years, and for the first time, I understood what homecoming is all about.  It’s about hugs and spirit and face paint and shrieks of laughter and joy and the best pork chops (on a stick, even!) that I’ve ever had in my life. 

It’s about being embraced by those you’ve missed.

And embraced I was—I was mauled with hugs and love and kind words, and my dorky dance moves were a hit.  And although I did shed a few bittersweet and frustrated tears on the ride back to my house—I miss that school, those people like crazy, and I hate that my epilepsy stole that from me—I must, like a high school graduate, move on.  I must create myself a new home, but always remember and celebrate the first.

The Shrine in my Office.

This morning, for the first time since I was six, I DIDN’T have my first day of school.

It was so strange—getting the son up and packing him a lunch and rushing him out the door, and then…not having anywhere to go myself.  Not having anything to do.

Because I’m not a teacher anymore.

Oh, yeah.

It’s so weird.  I felt this immense freedom when I initially quit my job, and now…I’m embarrassed to admit this, but when I go into a store and see a school supply display, I nearly break down and cry.

I can’t stop thinking about everything I gave up.

I catch myself lesson planning in my sleep—I wake up with brilliant ideas about my classes, and then I remember that they’re not my classes to teach anymore.

I keep running into former students, or getting texts or emails or actual paper letters (from old coworkers, from past students, from parents of past students—I got the nicest one from a mom whose son graduated in 2009.  That’s FIVE YEARS AGO. I bawled.)  A 2014 graduate and her mother volunteered to help us decorate for my sister’s wedding and let us use their beautiful things.  (And trust me when I say, that wedding would not have been possible without their help.)

So, instead of heading off to school today, I spent quite a bit of time staring at the inside of my closet instead.

There, on the walls inside of my office closet, I have erected a shrine to commemorate my teaching experience.  

It can only be called a shrine.  It’s pretty spectacular—all my nerd posters, a ton of pictures, student artwork, encouraging notes, the wooden top of my first podium (autographed by the graduating classes of 2007, 2008, and 2009), and the bookshelf that was repaired and painted by the late, great David Sukalski.   I have a drawer full of letters and cards and thank-you notes and blessings and well wishes.  All of the “Welcome Back!” signs the kids made me after I was gone on medical leave are there, and, of course, the “We’re going to miss you…a lot!” poster that a bunch of kids signed for me on my last day.  (Which totally warmed my heart, even though “a lot” was written incorrectly as one word.)

It’s hard to open those doors without shedding a few tears.  It’s overwhelming, seeing all of those emotions/love/memories in one place. It’s nostalgic.  It’s beautiful.

But I had to shut those doors.

It’s one of the reasons I put the shrine in my closet.  (The main one was a lack of adequate wall space.)  But it ended up being a pretty cool metaphor: I needed to remind myself that those doors are closed now.  I can always open them up and feel that rush of emotions/love/memories, but they must close, so I can walk through the next door in my life.

And now, I sit here, alone, in my office, writing.

Which is exactly what I’ve always wanted to do.

Side Effects.

Medicating epilepsy is sort of a tricky business—you can’t really tell if a medication is working until it’s not.  There are no signs of improvement other than a lack of seizures, so it’s a total crapshoot.  It’s “working” as long as you don’t have a seizure.  You just kind of pop the pills and hope for the best.

No medication is without side effects; I know that.  When I was first diagnosed, my doctor presented me with a number of treatment options with a heavy recommendation for Keppra, as it is the “drug of choice” for partial epileptics.  But I shied away from it for one reason: it had the potential to alter my personality.

Yeah.

It had the power to change me, not just my epilepsy.  And not in a good way, either—we’re talking hostility, anger, aggression, irritability, mood swings, anxiety, and hallucinations.  (As if I need any more of those things in my life…)

Those words, that risk, terrified me, so I said no.  No, no, NO.

Hell no.

So I picked another drug from the list, a rather innocuous-sounding one called Lamictal, whose worst side effect was a fatal, skin-eating rash (among others, all of which sounded better than being something other than myself).

I played it safe and took Lamictal.

You can’t just start and stop taking epilepsy meds.  That can really mess you up, so you have to ease into them—you start at a super low dose, one that won’t even control epilepsy, and you work your way up to what you need.  (This is yet another complicated piece of the guessing game that is epilepsy management…)

I knew as soon as I started taking Lamictal that I’d made a mistake.

Not only did it make me super tired, but it destroyed my skin (I still bear those damn acne scars), it made my vision weird, and it made me want to kill myself.

There are countless commercials for medications that cause “suicidal thoughts,” which is a phrase that gets thrown around so much that it loses meaning, but let me tell you—they are no joke.  They are the most irrational, bizarre ideas.  They just pop into your head with their casual poison: Hey, what if you committed suicide today, okay?  Okay!  Put it on your to-do list! 

Killing myself: It seemed as rational and mundane as buying milk.

I had the meta-awareness to prevent myself from following through with these crazy plans, so I called my doctor, and we began the slow process of stopping this drug.

When I started the next drug, my doctor once again recommended Keppra, but after my last nightmare drug, I was loath to try it.  After all, it could turn me into a raging super bitch.

So we tried another. Its side effects were annoying (tiredness, dizziness, vision problems, coordination problems, dry mouth/eyes/nose), but I didn’t want to kill myself, so I was willing to put up with the other stuff.  And it seemed to work.

Until it didn’t.

I had that super seizure while I was driving, and then I knew I had to try something else.

My doctor brought up Keppra again (and brain surgery, which also sounded terrifying), and its risk weighed heavy in my mind, but after surviving suicidal thoughts, a year of medical leave, and a seizure-induced car accident, I figured I didn’t have much else left to lose…except my personality.

So, I took the Keppra prescription, and my hands trembled as I took that first dose, that yellowish horse pill almost bouncing out of my palm on its way to my mouth, but I sucked it up and swallowed it down.

You know what happened next?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

None of my fears about taking this medication came to pass.  I didn’t turn into a bitch.  (Well, not any worse than usual.)  I didn’t have any suicidal thoughts.  I didn’t get any more zits than usual.  I didn’t get super tired.  And I didn’t lose myself.

I’m still me.  Maybe even more than I’ve been since my diagnosis.  Time will tell.  I still don’t know how well it’s working to control my seizures (since I can only assume it’s working until it’s not), but I am learning to take one day at a time.  It’s all I can do.

There’s a lesson here: I let all that damn fear about what might happen keep me from enjoying and anticipating the good that willhappen.

Ohhhh, what a powerful metaphor that one was.

Fear and worry are powerful motivators, but only if we allow them to be.  We really don’t have any idea about what’s going to happen, and a lot of the things we worry about don’t even come to pass.  Worry is a waste of the imagination, and it just feeds our fears.  It’s a vicious cycle, and it’s one that we are responsible for instigating.

It’s best to just admit that—it’s a hard pill to swallow (pun completely intended), I know, but it’s impossible to live a full life if worry and fear keep you from doing so.

So face your fears.

Imagine something more beautiful than worry.

And take your meds.  Your doctor really does know best.