Compassion does not mean forgiveness.

You can have compassion and still have anger, hurt, and pain.

Compassion does not mean giving up anything, instead it’s about making yourself whole.

Please don’t confuse compassion for condoning something.

You can find something morally reprehensible and still have compassion.

Having hate in your heart hurt you more than it ever done anyone else.

Only love and and compassion can heal. ❤️

Cleansing & Grounding your energy is like sweeping before you mop...

It removes all the loose debris so you can see what really needs scrubbing.

https://www.abstract-soul.com/meditations

Some would say I’m a workaholic, but I don’t know about that. But what follows is my personal experience teetering on the edge of workaholism and not in any way sound medical advice.

Workaholism is an addiction or compulsion to work. Some would say it’s one of the better addictions to have. If you’re a student, working all the time should lead to better grades and more free time. If you’re working, more hours spent working leads to more pay. So how can you go wrong with working? Other than the fact that it’s mentally, physically, and emotionally draining and your personal life suffers for the sake of your work, it’s otherwise fine.

There’s a blurred line between being a hard worker vs a workaholic. A hard worker knows when to stop working, a workaholic keeps working. When a hard worker isn’t working, they enjoy the break and can focus on other things like family, friends, or simply being present. When a workaholic isn’t working, guilt and anger cloud the mind because they should be working. Because who are they without their work?

Workaholism is different for everyone. For me, it’s more than a compulsion to work, it has become a lifestyle. I get nagging thoughts of upcoming exams, assignments, future problems, that I should work on instead of going on a trip or taking a break. Everything you do is for the work, every choice is efficiently made to optimize work output. The worst thing you can do to a workaholic is give them nothing to do, put them on vacation. Because there’s nothing left for you to do. Their life was built around work, around solving problems, progressing in life, and when that’s taken away there’s nothing left. So we hunt for problems that, sometimes, aren’t even there. We bury ourselves in small work, sometimes things that don’t matter, like straightening a crooked painting, obsessing about the color of the walls, or living in our minds, daydreaming the day away whilst foreseeing problems and situations thinking that this work will fulfill us. It will fix us. It will get us the love and warmth we need. You don’t just run out of work, you run out of hope.

Like any addiction, it seeps into all aspects of your life. The worst part about an addiction is not how it affects your choices overtly, it’s how it subverts your own autonomy. You can make a choice to hang out with friends but cancel because some work came up and rationalize to yourself that you do this. And sometimes it is urgent work, but oftentimes it can be pushed back. And you know that you lost again to the addiction.

If you do manage to get to a social gathering, things aren’t any better. As soon as you stop working, your mind gravitates to work. Constantly thinking about what to do next, what can I do now. Work is on your mind even when you’re not working. Your conversations often involve work, you only know about work, your vocabulary is work, your tone is work. You are working. This makes it increasingly difficult to form an emotional connection with people because your mind drifts to work rather than to the person. That every conversation is someone wanting something from you. I’ve caught myself thinking ‘how would a non-workaholic human respond to this situation’. As if I had forgotten how to be human.

Workaholism seeps into your mindset. It creates a filter that only shows logical choices that provide some sort of gain. Visiting friends or family isn’t worthwhile if all you do is talk. There’s no doing, there’s nothing productive to be gained so why bother? It’s easy for people to become means to an end to your work, and walk the edge of sociopathic tendencies. Workaholics become obsessed with wringing out every inch of productivity of their day. Not to say those who want to be more productive are workaholics, there’s a balance between passion and obsession. But for workaholics, it’s the nagging feeling to always work even when you’re on vacation. If you aren’t working then there is no purpose to you, to your existence, so you try to quit if you’re fortunate enough to realize your destructive behavior.

You can go clean for weeks or years even, but you can unconsciously make choices that lead you back to the high if you’re not careful. All the time you spent working to run away from your addiction, you didn’t realize you were working just as hard to get back. Like a dog running with a long leash attached thinking it’s free, only for the leash to restrain vigorously.

Dealing with pain is an odd way to look at addiction for most people because of the harsh brush with which society has painted about addicts. Most think it’s about getting the next fix. That we should stigmatize them, shame them, and cut them off from the drugs they’re using.

If we wanted to make a society where addictions are made worse, that’d be the way to do it. Instead of asking where the addiction originates or asking why, we throw them to the wolves. Detach them even more from society.

My experience with workaholism is my own and I cannot speak for anyone else with workaholism or addiction. I do feel a euphoria of working on schoolwork or projects or helping others. Being there for others, but hardly for myself.

I’m not sure if I have a complete workaholic addiction, but I know I have workaholic tendencies. Oftentimes I fell ill after long hours of working and to fix that, but I continued working. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best idea but circumstances forced me to keep working, or so I thought.

One thing I’ve realized through my introspection and reading books on addiction and social psychology is that what actually happens is completely different than how I perceive it. An argument with a family member can be a fiery battle with sharp words and hurtful comments in my head when in reality it was a mild discussion. You don’t react to what happens to you to react to what you perceive what happens to you.

When you can’t handle what happens to you, you turn to someone with whom you have a healthy relationship for support. And if you don’t have one or feel like you don’t have one, you turn to something else. To something like alcohol, social media, shopping, food, gambling, or you bury yourself in work.

I didn’t think it was a problem for a long time. I got more done, got good grades in school, and felt amazingly productive. But I started noticing how I prioritize my work over my own health, over my family, friends, and the older I got, the more I realized how unsustainable it is. I’d probably work myself to death.

The reason I bury myself in work is because I feel valued there. I feel that I belong, that I matter., that I am wanted. And even if things aren’t going well in my personal life, I can rest easy knowing that I can do some good through my work at the expense of my own health. At least, that’s how I’ve rationalized it. The work fills a void inside of me, trying to fix something inside of me. I keep working hoping the next completed assignment, project or accolade will fix what’s wrong with me. Just maybe the next one will fill the void.

Why did I grow workaholic tendencies? I’m not sure but from my own introspection I realized that I wasn’t able to feel valued or loved when I was younger. I know my family loved and cared for me, I owe them everything for making me who I am today, but when I was younger I didn’t feel their love. The love felt implied. So as a young kid, I rationalized the implied love as ‘I am not wanted or loved here’, so I buried myself in work which can be many things for me: school work, extra curricular, or volunteering, anything where I felt that I felt needed. Because if I wasn’t wanted earlier, they’re going to need me later. What better way to be wanted than to be an engineer? People will ask you to fix a lot of things and you’ll be wanted everywhere.

It’s not that I don’t know that working 24/7 isn’t harmful for my health, it’s the bond that I’ve formed with working that’s hard to break. I feel wanted when working all the time. And what’s wrong with feeling wanted and loved?

An addiction is a bond formed with something other than another human. And because we are social creatures, once you’ve got a bond that you perceive as vital, you’ll do anything to keep hold of it.

It’s more than just a matter of will power. This is a matter of human nature and diving into the voids we have within ourselves.

Most people think addicts do drugs or fall prey to addictions because they’re weak-minded or never grew up to make adult decisions or they should just say no to drugs. Addiction isn’t an impulse to want something, it’s an impulse to fulfill a void caused from a form of pain. Instead of asking why the addiction, ask why the pain? The void is different based on the addiction, upbringing, but for me workaholism fills the void of knowing your values or wants. Because somehow I rationalized early on in childhood, that I wasn’t wanted. From the outside, you’d see a happy, loving family, but I never felt any of it. The high for me came from the success of finishing a project or solving a problem and the accolades that come with it. You brush off the praise humbly, but subconsciously crave the narcotic dopamine from feeling valued and wanted. It’s the late night texts saying someone needs help. It’s the weekend meetings that make you feel valued and that you are worth someone else’s time. It’s being available at a moment’s notice so that you can get your fix. These voids often stem from childhood problems from the lack of a nurturing environment.

It’s a difficult addiction to combat, let alone admit it’s a problem. Western society, specifically in the U.S, glamorizes the late worker, the go-getter, the one who puts in the long hours day in and day out. I’m not saying you’re a workaholic if you do work long hours consistently. An addiction isn’t defined by how it negatively impacts you, it’s how it systematically destroys the relationships you have with people closest to you and the motivation behind your choices. Someone who works long-hours out of necessity to stay alive versus someone who works even if they don’t have to.

Society puts those who work hard on pedestals, and rightfully so. Give credit where credit’s due, but society forgets the nuances to working hard. When you hear that someone dies and they spent their lives dedicated to making the world better is admirable, but most of the time they worked hard at the expense of their own physical health. Workaholism can cause diseases due to the prolonged exposure to stress. So when someone is going through Chemotherapy and decides to continue working, they’re doing so at their own expense.

The body needs time to heal, yet we applaud people who work through illness. We wouldn’t tell someone with a broken leg to run a marathon, so why do we applaud and glorify those who work despite being physically, mentally, and perhaps emotionally sick?

And if you’re lucky enough to detox or work with a therapist on your addiction, afterwards you’re on your own. You have to hunt for support groups and additional help. If you relapse, you get ridiculed for not having will power to stay away or the motivation. And that’s just what others say to you, the internal ridicule is worse. No one is a better critic than your inner self.

Breaking an addiction isn’t a one time process, it’s like tending a plant. You have to constantly care for the plant for it to survive. You can’t take a day off else the plant will grow weaker or get sick. If you slip, then you slip far. For example, if you’re a recovering alcoholic and you’ve been sober 5 years, and someone offers you a drink, you turn it down because you know, you don’t just want one drink, you want 10 drinks. Things in your life may be going well, and you will still want 10 drinks because you’re an alcoholic. It’s not that I want to continue working, I want to never stop working because I know the high that’s coming if I do keep working because I’m a workaholic.

What makes addictions generally, well addictive, is how the addict feels. Addicts are responding to trauma.

The addiction isn’t the problem. The addiction is an attempt at solving the problem.

Most of the time, the trauma is emotional and deeply ingrained in their brains. If an addict takes medication to not feel pain or to feel loved or to feel valued or in control, is that wrong? Is it wrong to feel loved? To not suffer in emotional or physical pain? Who are we to force an addict to quit something that helps them live pain-free? There must be a better way to solve the problem than punishment, incarceration, and ridicule.

According to the CDC, there were more than 70,000 deaths in 2019 alone due to drug overdoses in the United States. There are ways to combat addiction through support groups and medication but there’s still a prevalent stigma with addiction and relapse that must be combatted first.

Almost 21 million Americans have at least one addiction, yet only 10% of them receive treatment. We can’t approach addiction as something to be shamed and ridiculed. If the addictions provide a sense of relief and comfort for addicts and we rip it away from them, what does that say about us? Is it wrong to feel loved or tranquil? We need a paradigm shift with addiction that brings compassion and mental health into the field along with physical care.

Instead of asking why the addiction, ask why the pain. Alcohol, cocaine, morphine, and other addictive habits produce endorphins and provide a temporary sense of relief from pain. There are clinics that provide supervised drug injection sites where addicts can take an injection of heroin or other drugs under medical supervision. Under supervision, taking the drugs will not be as harmful and the addict can try and fix the source of their pain.

Many of the world’s problems are caused by people who are dealing with their own insecurities. An addiction to power and attention creates autocrats in many countries and can get you elected president because an addiction to power is an attempt to fill the emptiness they feel, and maybe we recognize that.

Hurt people, hurt people. Our current “war on drugs” in the U.S needs a new angle, the hard crackdown on drugs and the shame brought about has not worked. A compassionate lens to help us solve problems that we once thought impossible.

Human nature is cooperative, community minded. There are more organizations lifting humanity instead of beating it down. We need to tap into our common humanity and reach out to the addicts close to us and those in pain. And care for them and be present. Say “I love you and no matter what state you are in, I love you and care about you.”

A Hungarian-Canadian physician, Gabor Matè, once said, we judge addicts because we actually see that they are just like us and we don’t like that, so we say ‘you are different than us and you are worse than we are’. There is no “other” in the mirror, it’s just you.

Social justice lawyer, Bryan Stevenson, once said, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.,...the character of our society, our commitment to the rule of law, fairness, and equality cannot be measured by how we treat the rich, the powerful, the privileged, and the respected among us. The true measure of our character is how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused, the incarcerated, and the condemned.”

The bitter work we all have to do is look at addicts and at ourselves and realize that they’re no different than us. That even the worst of us deserve some compassion and mercy.

The day started like any other day and I was nervous, kind of excited as well. Ah, would it hurt? And how long would the pain last??

As I walked toward the back of the line getting ready to give my information to Brian— I didn’t ask him his name- I felt lazy- and anyway, I did not use any sort of powers to guesstimate his name or give him a new name- again too lazy to come up with another name for the guy. All right, where was I going with this again? Oh, the guy, the guy who’s called Brian was getting me ready to take my first shot.

Well, this was not the first shot I’d be getting. Just to check, this is for medicinal purposes— my first shot was a flu shot. Not a shot of any alcohol! Even if I wasn’t the one driving...I think it’s not a good idea to mix alcohol and medicine.

Okay. Let me try to get back on track before I get lost again. It’s like my heads in the clouds today! Might this be a side effect?? Maybe, maybe not.

So, how did the shot go? It was not bad. The other guy, Adam, not in anyway related to the first man called Adam, had told me that he would be careful and that he has been told he gives shots gently.

Yeah, I would be the judge of that. The moment I saw the needle I took a deep breath. At least I had a note that read and showed the point that I got the covid vaccine. My Mom would be pleased with the news.

Oh, the shot didn’t hurt too much. I guess the folks were right! Adam does give A-OK shots.

‘’Captains Log, Stardate 1 04 2021. The Enterprise has been told to continue informing all ensigns & rest of the crew on board to keep wearing masks even if they all get their vaccines.

‘’At least for now we hope to get most of the systems back to more facial to facial recognition in person, than mostly being remote, or majorly online.

‘’I also look forward to traveling to other parts of the intergalactic worlds, still so many more places to explore.

‘’Captian Mnezz, signing off, thank you.

‘‘Live long & prosper.’’

#CloudywithachanceofShots

01.04.2021 copyright

Cancer. What a scary word, huh?

Hearing it at 28. Surprising, ya know?

Lucky. What a thankful word. Why?

Cause that’s me.

I have cancer at 28 years old and

I’m still so fucking lucky.

About 5 years ago, I noticed how at 23 years old that the growing pains in my limbs were a little strange. The ways my hands throb. The way my feet ache. The way my bones beg for a break.

Dramatic. Dramatic. Dramatic. Huh?

Growing pains at 28? Unlikely. Ya know?

Neglect. What a terrible way to treat my body. Why?

Cause that’s all I was made to believe I was by many of the people closest to me. Hell, even doctors. Just suck it up, Meghan. You’re fine. You’re just stressed out about nothing and it’s your sensitive emotional personality that’s causing this pain. The doctors said so. What a mystery, they say. Best friends* gave up or walked out. A boyfriend* tiptoed right behind them.

This is why people leave, Meghan. You are too much. You are not in pain. You’ve made it up. You are totally insane. That’s what I’d say to myself. How could I not listen? The same body screaming at me for Tylenol PMs and ice packs to numb limbs had a brain scoffing at the embarrassing weakness I was giving into.

A few years passed. Sure, I went to routine physicals and normal therapy but I never mentioned any of the pain again. Why would I? This was all in my head.

Then January of this year, for the first time, I was actually given accurate information about my bloodwork after a routine physical. (Something previous bloodwork also showed—prior to being severe—but doctors failed to acknowledge). It didn’t look right. It looked like, maybe I should do more.

Thyroid. Fucked up. Okay okay. That’s fine. Doctors forgot to actually call to diagnose me so, realizing these bloodwork numbers were a little bit off the charts (as I viewed on my own online), I make my own way to a specialist. Autoimmune disease. Hashimoto’s. Thyroid tripled in size (called a goiter). Okay okay. That’s fine.

Relief, huh? 5 years in the making and at least maybe this explains a little bit. I hear myself thinking maybe it wasn’t in your head. But ya know, still doesn’t mean I wasn’t dramatic or milking it.

Finally. A word I said with happiness I now knew what was wrong.

28 years old. Not so bad, only a few years not knowing. It’s fine.

Beginning. The real word I should have said

cause now I Couldn’t swallow anymore. Voice, a little raspy. Singing (and rapping) in the car, not as easy. Specialist says, let’s check out the goiter. See what’s going on. Ultrasound.

A standard ultrasound takes approximately 10 photos at most. Two radiologists and a doctor at Brigham & Women’s spent an hour taking 99 on me. Sympathy reeked from the eyes of the pretty, young, chestnut colored haired doctor.

I know somethings wrong but what, maybe I need to up medication? I said “So am I all set?,” pretty cheery. I prefer speaking like I’m sure sunshine would. I knew, though, her voice spoke like a heavy rain, a downpour—the kind that might or might not start a flood.

Still, with compassion, she said, “I’m worried about a few nodules.” She didn’t have to say what it looked like. Her eyes said it all. How could she hold that back? I’m 28 years old, seemingly healthy, and joking with radiologist when she came in. I don’t get cancer.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. But it’s okay. Huh? Yes. I promise.

A biopsy showed two very large malignant nodules on my thyroid. Perhaps a year or two of growing. So now I set up for surgery. I mean, I’ll really be fine. Totally. Sure, maybe there’s more. The end result last time was just the beginning. So we will see what’s next but I’m up to live and I’ll fight to get to do it. See, the difference now is: my heart is not angry with my mind anymore and my mind has asked my body for forgiveness. Without hesitation, my body accepts.

So, yes. I have cancer. A very curable kind. Should it have spread, I’ll know soon enough and I’ll beat that too. Cause I will live a normal life. Cancer-free. And I’ll do it with the people that never left and the new ones that want so much to stay and for me to stay too.

Pity party? Maybe. Woe is me? If that’s what you wanna call it. Release. That’s what I call it.

Because besides the physical lumps, I have trapped my voice and my feelings for years—it’s time I let the devastated, heartbroken endured lump in my throat heal. It’s time I remember I never deserved to be neglected: by anyone, by friends, by doctors, and even by my own mind.

So please, if you don’t feel right—you’re not wrong. You know your body. Do you know exactly what’s wrong? Not always. But get checked. Please. If you’re written off as a mystery or chalked up to your mental state? Time for a second opinion. Then a third. And, hell, a fourth. Cause I’ve been there. And look? Now I’m here.

I don’t know what will happen. Not technically. But I know what has. And I know how I am now. For the first time. And even if it’s a cancer patient, it’s a young lady with a much longer, fulfilling life left to live.

It’s Meghan. It always has been.

Thank you to my family, friends, coworkers, and few others that stayed by my side and continue to. I love you. Endlessly. Don’t worry, I got this.

*None of which ever left.

P.S. Dayo, Kairos, and Halia too.

Pepper’s hot.

Salt is not.

Agrimony can be bitter.

Turmeric, too,

(like witch’s brew)

seasons little critters.

Fennel’s cool

(like skipping school)

while Safron makes life grander.

The depth of food

turns inside-out

with Thyme & Coriander.

Anise, Fennel, & Nigella

fruits up breads

& veggies.

Turning bland

“vanilla food “

into something edgy.

Cumin, Mustard,

Poppy Seeds,

adds an air of murky.

Dash a bit

(here & there)

on fish & beef & turkey.

Pepper’s hot.

Salt is not.

Garlic lacks good discipline.

Honey’s sweet.

(It can’t be beat.)

But who can turn down Cinnamon?

Squash is an important part of my wife Jo-Lynn’s culinary repertoire—everything from a side dish, as shown here, to center stage as a casserole. Squash are jam-packed with Vitamin A, low in calories yet high in nutrients, help boost the body’s immune system, and much more. Why not add squash to your grocery list? You’ll be glad you did.

#nutrition #wellness #health #healthylifestyle

A positive test

Put her positivity to rest

Tears, more tears.

Daily, “What do I do?”

No answer will ever be best.

Face soaked in tears

Nauseous from a baby

Nauseous from the fear

I’ll hold her hair and stay right here

She’s scared

She’s worried

“Why me?”

“Why now?”

“My family will kill me.”

“The father will hit me.”

“I used multiple methods.”

“I only had sex once.”

“I swear I was safe.”

Pregnancy won’t discriminate.

Mifepristone.

The first pill.

There’s no going back.

Maybe she hesitates

Maybe she forces herself not to think.

She places the pill in her mouth.

She swallows.

Misoprostol.

The second pill.

She’s ready for the nausea and pain.

Hours later, it’s began:

Her undies soaked in blood clots and stains.

The pregnancy tissue passes.

She sees it.

She cries.

Girls and women

Any age, any income

Atheist or a belief in heaven

All face a difficult decision

No one does it easily

#poetry #abortion #healthcare #medicine #pills #nausea #pregnancy

Ever run a Marathon? I haven’t. But I worked on long-term projects at The Tampa Tribune that were demanding and challenging. Half-way points were significant milestones but not always satisfying. Despite the distance traveled—and progress made—there was a long way still to go. I’m there right now.

Let me explain.

Started this health journey about a year ago weighing the most I’d ever been. Going to the bathroom left me out of breath. Could barely make it to my wife's car in the driveway. When I did, couldn’t get the safety-belt clicked without help. Leaving the house became such an ordeal that I stayed home—no church, no birthday parties, anniversaries, or holiday get-togethers.

How did I feel? Empty. Lonely. All-day-long. Just me, the puppies, Stormy the Cat, and a little lizard that used to pal around my keyboard. (Don’t know what happened to Lizzie, but Stormy was probably involved.)

I know what you’re thinking: “Jim, this sounds depressing. What happened to Funny Jim? Happy Jim? Wacky Jim? Silly Jim? Where’s that Jim?”

He’s still here—but he’s showing a serious side today. Here’s why: There was this potato-sack race when I was a kid. I’m leading the pack (with the finish line sooooo close) but I celebrated too soon: Raised my hands in victory. Sack dropped to my ankles. Tripped. Face hit the dirt. Embarrassing. Humiliating.

As Yogi Berra once observed, “It ain’t over till it’s over” — and (for me) it ain’t over, yet.

Ever run a Marathon? I haven’t. But I’ve driven by half-built houses. Peeked in ovens at half-baked cakes. Looked at bits and pieces of a VW engine scattered on the drive-way mid-point through a re-build. Stuff like that.

Life gets messy. Discombobulated. Shook-up. Right now I’m standing at the corner of Messy Avenue and Main Street—headin’ in the right direction, knowing there’s bumpy roads, dark tunnels, unexpected detours, and washed-out bridges ahead.

Half-way there, folks. Half-way through my Marathon. Gotta keep on keepin’ on.

Sometimes it’s daunting. Scary. Formidable. But when I ponder where I’ve been—and what I’ve gone through—I’m motivated to take the next step, and the next step, and the next . . .

Watch this space … I’m still in a cocoon churning my way through a transformation. When I’m finally a butterfly, you better keep an eye on the sky. Why? Cause (Lord willin’) I’m gonna fly, baby. Oh, my, how high I’m gonna fly.

PS: In case you wondered, I can walk to the bathroom and not be out of breath, stroll to the car, clickin’ the safety-belt by myself—then go to church, birthday parties, anniversaries, and holiday gatherings. I’m on my way to getting healthy, one step at a time. Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. Lost 80 pounds since I got started this journey. Got about a hundred to go. Will keep you updated along the way.