One day, will we all be suffering with PTSD?

This is one of a series of five paintings. They all have the same girl, the same back ground, the same solitary tree, only what what she has in/rests her right hand on, changes. 

In the first painting she holds a blue balloon, in the second a chimpanzee, in the third she holds a flag with the Apple logo on it but with skull bones added to it, the fourth she holds an AK47, and on the fifth she is "holding hands" with a missile.

Is there a message behind these paintings? 

For me, yes, it's about loss, the loss of innocence.

Although words are commonly considered the optimal tool for communication, in my view, sometimes they just are not enough.

Are there words that can communicate properly what one feels after watching school-shooting after school-shooting on the News? Especially the school-shooting at Sandyhook Elementary School.

20 innocent children and six adults lost their lives in the space of minutes.

And the survivors? Suddenly the un-thinkable became reality and the world would never again look or seem the same. The shooter did more than kill his victims, he forever removed innocence from all the children who survived.

The shooting took place six years ago but I can't help but wonder how the survivors are doing today.

Not to mention all the children who are survivors of wars, famines, dreadful diseases, loss of their families, etc.etc. Traumatic events, whatever they may be, leave scars and although the passing of time can assist in helping us to move forward and onward, for many of us, the scars never really disappear, we just learn to live with them.

Innocence, once lost, in my view, is lost forever because it is hard to unknow something once we know it.

Some say that denial is often our first line of defense when we experience something that is hard for us to grasp. We may find ourselves scrambling for rational explanations or feasible excuses for why what happened, happened. From what I can gather, this is common in for example, domestic abuse situations. 

A child in a domestic abuse situation more often than not defends his/her abusive parents (nurturers) behaviour: "it's only because he/she was drunk that he/she hit me, it's only because he/she wants me to be strong that he/she is so tough on me", rather than entertaining the thought that his/her parents are "bad" and or does not love him/her.

For a child, the thought that he/she is not loved by his/her parents is unacceptable and so must be rejected, and denying how things are in favour of how one wants things to be (denial) is one way of doing so.

Denial as a coping strategy however, as a child grows and matures, rather than being helpful can easily become a stumbling block. In order for a child to be able to make sense out of something they don't understand, to be able to deal with difficult situations and events, the onuses is on us adults to try to explain those situations and events to the child in a truthful yet also compassionate way.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, is not something only adults experience, children do too.

School shootings, floods, fires, car crashes, wars, abuse and violence of many diverse kinds, etc. are events that affect us all and often alter how we experience our existence. 

(I have no facts or figures to substantiate whether our world today is more violent and brutal than ever, but I think you would agree with me that we have more knowledge and information of it.

A child does not even have to leave its home in order to become traumatized by images of mankind's

violence, all it has to do is watch the news.)

We can not protect children, ours or others, from ever experiencing traumatic events, but we can make sure that we stay ever vigilant and open to listening to what they have on their mind, what they worry about, and what they are scared of. We can encourage them to share their feelings with us, and we can make sure that they know that they matter to us by spending time with them in which they have all of our attention.

As Frederick Douglass said: "It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men."

"It is not our job to toughen up our children to face a cruel and heartless world. It is our job to raise children who will make the world a little less cruel and heartless." (L.R. Knost)                                                

On not letting pride stand in the way of new discoveries.....

Sometimes things are not as they seem to be.

But often, even in the face of new information, we can find it hard to change our views once we have settled on them.

This is intriguing to me.  Why is it at times so difficult to change our perspectives?

What exactly do we feel we are "losing" if we change our perspectives?

Do we lose something if we change our opinion/perspective on something?

If we do not lose something, then why is it so hard at times to let go of an opinion or way of seeing something?

Is it possibly pride? If so, then what is pride?

Skimming through a bunch of definitions it seems to be the case, like with most words, pride, is also quite an ambiguous term. Some definitions offer this: self-esteem, dignity, honor, a sense of deep satisfaction derived from one's own accomplishments and skills. On the other hand, there is also a definition that pertains to the "flip-side" of pride: an un-realistic and over-blown sense of one's own achievements and personal value. 

In some religions, pride is not viewed as a "good" thing, rather, it is the root of mankind's perpetual mess-ups, yet at the same time a good person takes pride in his/her work, in the way he/she presents him/herself and his/her family. in doing good deeds for others, etc. etc.

Confusing, methinks. According to Wikipedia: "Philosophers and social psychologists have noted that pride is a complex secondary emotion which requires the development of a sense of self and the mastery of relevant conceptual distinctions through language based interactions with others."

Bit of a mouthful, but in my view, a helpful definition, after all, pride is a different kind of emotion compared to for instance happiness, satisfaction, or joy.

If someone you are speaking with said: "I am proud of what I have achieved with.....xyz...." would such a statement seem fair to you or would you consider the person to be a bit "full of him/herself"?

What about: "I am proud of my children, or I am proud of my partner, or I am proud of the way I dealt with a difficult situation"?

Is it okay to be proud of some things and not other things? If so, how are we to know which is what ?

If we define pride as an "overblown sense of oneself and one's achievements" then pride is not something to be proud of methinks, but if we define it as a "healthy dose of self-respect and esteem for and in one's own capabilities", then pride can perhaps be an effective motivator for achievements and goal setting.

(I used to practice the piano a lot, and with a lot, I mean sometimes 8-10 hours a day. I would spend four hours just on scales and arpeggios and in order not to get bored I decided to use the metronome as a motivator. My goal was to be able to play all scales in all the different keys at 220 bpm.

The first day I was able to do so, I felt proud of myself, or should I say, I experienced  a great sense of satisfaction and achievement.)

A child comes home from school beaming with pride, holds up his/her painting that he/she did at school and says: "Mom, look, I did a good painting at school today." 

The mother looks at the child and says:

a) -Don't be so boastful!  b)-You sure did!  c) -It looks wonderful, well done!  d) -Don't praise yourself, that is for others to do.

Perhaps it is possible to err on the side of too much praise and risking an inflated ego, but is it not also possible to err on the side of too little praise and risk a fragile sense of self-worth and esteem?

(Life, in my view, often finds a way of letting us know when we need to adjust our level of pride if it is unproportional.)

"Human beings, more than anything else, desire to be right" someone has said. Sometimes we discover (much to our dismay), that something we thought to be "true", may not be true at all.

With true, I mean based on proven and established facts. Once upon a time, it was a "fact" that brain cells cannot be rejuvenated, today we know that they can, based on new scientific facts.

The more shame we attach to being "wrong", the harder it seems to be to alter our perceptions.

(Shame, as in a sense of humiliation, it seems to me, has a tendency to go hand in hand with pride. Ask Fonzie, he couldn't even say the words: I am wrong without choking on the words.)

Here is something I have discovered and would like to share with you: There can be a great sense of freedom in having an open mind, to be open to entertain many possibilities, and to rather than seeking to be right seeking to acquire a greater understanding and insight.

Changing our opinions and perspective now and then, is not a loss, rather, it's a gain methinks.

"There are two kinds of pride, both good and bad. 'Good'  pride represents our dignity and self-respect. 'Bad pride' is the deadly sin of superiority that reeks of conceit and arrogance."

(John C. Maxwell)

About the painting: what do you think it depicts?

Feel free to see what ever you see,  but what I actually painted was bits of a broken beer bottle on top of a ledge with the sun streaming through the broken glass.

Why do good people sometimes do bad things?.............

- Sloane here, how can I help you?

- You are the senior officer?

- Yes, I am, what seems to be the trouble?

- I think that Mrs Griffith was murdered by her husband.

- I see, and who may you be?

- That's not important, but I think you should look closer at Mr Griffith's alibi.

           Sloane was just about to ask the caller why he thought so when the caller hung up. 

He was familiar with the Griffith's case but it was a slow day at the precinct so he decided to grab the Griffith file and have a read though again.  Mrs Griffith had been stabbed multiple times and so far they had not been able to find somebody to pin for the murder. Commonly, the husband is at the top of suspects, but Mr Griffith was a respected member of the community and all the people they had spoken to said that he was a good person and a devoted husband.         
                                          He spent everyday except for Sundays in their book shop, opened the shop at 9 am and closed at 6 pm, bought his lunch every day from the take-away next doors, and more often than not had a brief chat with the delivery boy while waiting for his lunch to be made. Mrs Griffith rarely made an appearance, only ducked in and out occasionally. As far as the delivery boy and the owner of the take-away were concerned, the marriage seemed harmonious.

                                     The delivery boy was the person who provided Mr Griffith's alibi, it was he who had said that he had seen Mr Griffith in the movie theater at the time when the murder had taken place.

         - What was Mrs Griffith doing at a truck stop 9 pm on a Sunday night? Sloane asked himself.

The mutilated body of Mrs Griffith had been found by an elderly man walking his dog on a path near the truck stop late on that Sunday evening.  - Why stab someone nine times and why so viciously? Sloane muttered under his breath.  As Sloane read on it seemed as if the general consensus of all of those who had been interviewed was that Mr Griffith was a good man.

                                   - Good men don't stab their wives nine times and then leave them laying there  in a bloody mess next to a truck stop, Sloane thought.
    As Sloane got up to get himself his fifth coffee, he accidentally pushed the file off the desk and all the papers scattered on the floor.
 - Damn! he exclaimed and then bent down and started to pick up the scattered pieces of paper. 

     - Hey, what's this? A small piece of paper had slipped under his desk. -A ticket stub? Ah, of course, it's the ticket stub from the movie theater that proved that Mr Griffith had been there on the night of the murder. Looking at the stub, a thought dawned on him. -Now hang on, this stub only proves that Mr Griffith was there to buy the ticket at 8 pm, for all we know, he could have bought the ticket, gone in to the cinema, made sure that the delivery boy saw him, and then he could have left. He could have arranged to meet his wife at the truck stop, 

                                                Mr Griffith could have left the movie theater, driven to the truck stop, met his wife in the truck stop car park, which I know is quite large and badly lit, stabbed his wife, dragged her body into the bushes next to the car park path, and then driven back to the movie theater before the movie had ended.  
- I need to speak with the delivery boy again and ask him if he can verify that Mr Griffith was in the movie theater the whole time, Sloane said to himself as he fumbled through the papers looking for the delivery boy's phone number.

             - Is this James? The delivery boy at Foster's take-away?

             - Yes, this is James.

             - This is Sloane, Officer in charge at the Lexington Police station, would you be able to come to the station for an interview this afternoon?

             - Yes, Sir, what time, I finish work at 4:30 pm. That okay?

             - Yes James, that'll be fine.

- Now James, can you say with certainty that you saw Mr Griffith in the movie theater the whole time while the movie was playing?

               - Well, no Sir, because he sat a few rows behind me, but I did see him leave when the movie ended, but he is a good man Sir, he would never hurt anyone.

                - Thank you James, that will be all, you can leave now.

The delivery boy left, Sloane got up from his chair and got himself yet another bitter tasting coffee.

During his 30 years on the force Sloane had seen good people do bad things and sometimes even bad people do good things so he had concluded years ago that human beings confounded him.

                          He decided to ask Mr Griffith to come to the station.

- Mr Griffith, thanks for coming in, I just have a few questions for you, coffee?

- No thanks, Mr Sloane, I am fine.

Sloane looked at Mr Griffith as he sat on the edge of his chair, his coat buttoned up, his glasses smudged, and his face flushed. An ordinary man, supposedly a good man, but his hands are shaking,  and he seems unsettled, nervous, I better be careful here, Sloane thought.

                 - Now, Mr Griffith, can somebody verify that you were in the movie theater the whole movie through?

                 - Why? Somebody said I wasn't? Pearls of perspiration slowly slithered down his flushed face and Sloane noticed that his breathing seemed laboured.

                 - Mr Griffith, did you murder your wife?

  Mr Griffith looked at him, slowly unbuttoned his coat, let his hands flop into his lap and then said:

 -Yes, I did, I murdered my wife Mr Sloane.

                       They both sat silent for a few seconds. - Why? Mr Griffith, why did you murder your wife, I am perplexed because according to many of the people we have interviewed in regards to this case, you are a good and diligent man, Sloane asked.

                          - Surely Mr Sloane, in your line of work you must have come across other good men, or women, doing bad things?  Don't we all have the potential to do bad things regardless of how good we are? Do we not all have breaking points? Times when we just snap? Well, Mr Sloane, I snapped.

My wife, with her constant criticizing and belittling of me, making fun of my passion for books, never showing any affection or softness, and speaking to me as if I was unworthy of any civility or compassion, finally, after 30 years of marriage, her behaviour got the better of me. 

                       - Even so Mr Griffith, you stabbed your wife nine times and left her on the side of the road like a common piece of trash, Sloane said and could feel anger rising inside of him.

                       -Yes, Mr Sloane, I did, because after having stabbed her all I could think of was that I would finally have peace. All my life I have tried to be a good person, to do right by everyone, to be decent and hard working, and treat my wife with respect. And now, I have undone that. 

I do realize that I could have left her, divorced her, talked to her and told her how I felt.

                                   -Why didn't you, Mr Griffith?
  -Perhaps deep down I felt she deserved it after all the pain and suffering she put me through.
 Once the thought that I deserved better took a hold of me, I guess the "good" part of me got pushed aside and I began to find justifiable reasons, well, in my view, for why she needed to be gone. 

- Well, Mr Griffith, there is not much I can say to you now other than this: Mr Griffith, I am arresting you for the murder of your wife.

                       - Officer Perkins, please handcuff Mr Griffith and take him to a cell.

                 After Mr Griffith had been lead away, Sloane found himself lost in thought:

-Everyday, we choose. If we are smart we choose actions, thoughts, words, behaviours that will have the outcomes we prefer and that are in congruence with our moral and ethical codes. But I guess Mr Griffith was right in saying that no matter how good we may be, we all have the potential to do bad things at times. On the other hand, perhaps it works the other way too? 

     - Hey Sloane, daydreaming again?

     - Oh, Perkins, sorry, lost in thought again.

     Sloane looked at Perkins and thought to himself: Bad turning good? Perkins is the very epitome of  it. Kid had a rough start and now look at him....

  - Coming Perkins, wait up.

*******************************************

The words bad and good, especially connected to what kind person a person is, is highly contentious

in my view, so let me clarify my definition connected to this particular story: good, as in someone who considers others needs and comfort as much as their own. Bad, as in someone who does not consider others needs and comfort.

Pay it forward.......

He had been searching for a dry place to sleep for hours. 

His legs were aching, his feet swollen, and every coughing-fit he had almost knocked him to the ground. Standing in the doorway of a deserted office building, back against the glass doors, suddenly he had a feeling that he needed to turn around and face the doors.

So he did. Taped to the front door was a poster of a missing cat. "Poor kid" he thought, "I bet she is real sad about the kitty going missing".  Gently as to not damage the poster, he removed it, folded it neatly, and then put it in his trouser pocket. "I'm going to look for the cat, moving about will at least keep me warm" he said to himself as left the doorway and walked out into the rain.

"Is this 55-0534172?" 

"Yes, it is, who is calling please? a woman asked.

"Mam, you don't know me, but I think I have found Missy, your cat, and I wonder if you would like me to bring her to you?"

"Really? You have found Missy, oh, I am so glad and yes please, please bring her to us, here, let me give you our address."

Standing in front of the brownstone with the cat inside his jacket, he felt nervous. The building looked well cared for, there were flower boxes, a welcome mat and and a gold plated plaque with a name on it. He felt out of place, and very self-conscious of his disheveled appearance.

Contemplating whether to just ring the door bell and leave the cat on the mat, the door suddenly flung open.

"She is here, Missy is back!" a girl's voice excitedly exclaimed.

Before he knew it, the cat jumped out of his jacket and ran towards the little girl.

The girl scooped up the cat in her arms, hugged it, and showered it with little girl kisses.

"John, please come in out of the rain and let me reward you for your effort, we are so grateful that you have brought Missy back to us." 

The mother had a purse in her hand and was about to hand him some money when he stopped her. "No, mam, I don't want any money. Seeing how happy it made your daughter to have her Missy back is enough."

The mother nodded her head, smiled, and then asked: "How about a nice, warm over-coat then, we have a spare and it would please me if I could give it to you, so would that be okay?"

A few minutes later he walked out of the brownstone proudly wearing a warm, almost brand new, woolen over-coat and a big smile on his face.

"Mom, the man who brought Missy back, was he a homeless person?"

"Could be Lisa", answered the mother.

"Could we do something nice for other homeless people? Like, could we give away the toys and clothes that I don't use anymore, and maybe you and daddy have some stuff you could give away as well to the homeless?" asked Lisa.

The next day Lisa and her mother drove to the homeless shelter and dropped off boxes loaded with clothes, toys, blankets, towels, and cans of food. 

At the homeless shelter, Lydia and her two small boys quietly sipped their hot drinks. 

Clara, one of the volunteers at the shelter who knew Lydia and the boy's circumstances, 

grabbed two large blankets out of the newly dropped off boxes, and walked up to Lydia. "These should keep you nice and warm, here, hang on to these, and boys, there are some toys in one of the boxes. 

Why don't you come with me and choose some?" Clara said as she took their hands and lead them to the box of toys.

Amy, a runaway, watched the boys faces light up as they rummaged through the box of toys.

It reminded her of happier days when her family was still whole and how excited she and her brother used to be on Christmas mornings. "Amy, look, look what I found! I found a little horsie and you like horses don't you Amy? Here Amy, I wanna give it to you cos you like horses so much!"
Roland, Lydia's youngest said as he handed over the figurine to Amy. Against her will, Amy felt touched by Roland's gesture. 

She knew that Lydia and her boy's had fled an abusive relationship with nothing more to their name than their clothes on their backs, and that for two weeks they had had to call the homeless shelter "home". In spite of all the horrid stuff Lydia and her boys had been and still were going through, somehow Roland was still able try to make her happy?

Roland's gesture seemed to melt something inside of her, because for the first time in a long time, 

she wanted to hear her brother's voice, her mother's voice, and even her father's voice,

 although he was a major douche-bag. 

With the little toy horse in one hand, and the phone in the other, Amy dialed home.

"Amy? Is that you? It's so good to hear your voice again". Amy's mother could hardly breathe when she heard her daughter's voice. 

After Amy and her mother had finished their conversation, Amy's mother put on her coat and walked 

to the Salvation Army Youth Center nearby. She walked up to one of the youth workers and said: "I want to make a donation, can I do it here?"

"Sure you can, what kind of donation would you like to make?" asked the youth worker.

"I would like to give you a cheque, is that okay?"

Amy's mother took out her cheque book, wrote a sum on the cheque and handed it to the youth worker.

Impressed by the number on the cheque the youth worker thanked Amy's mother and said: "Thank you so very much, you have no idea how helpful this will be for the Center."

Amy's mother smiled and then said: "I believe in paying it forward."

"Our job on earth isn't to criticize, reject or judge. Our purpose it to offer a helping hand, compassion and mercy. We are to do unto others as we hope they would do unto us."

(Dana Acuri)