"Surely I MUST Have Money In The Account...I STILL Have Checkes!!!"

 

“Surely I MUST Have Money In The Account…I STILL Have Checks!!!”

06/15/13

 

 

 

 

To my very, very dearest friends, and ever-kind and loyal readers,

 

 

 

This is for everyone who has to try to live on a fixed income, such as SSDI--like me--who have no secondary source of income, and are too ill to work.

 

I am so very grateful for my SSDI, which--after all--is a sum arrived at by Social Security, who calculate your last, best 40 quarters (10 years!) of your past employment.

 

This means, of course, that this limited income is not--as many have said to me--'free money'; no, no, no, it is the sum I would have been given when I would have retired at age 65. 

 

The fine folks at Social Security must—perforce--calculate this amount by reading tarot cards, or divining sheep entrails, or...most probably… by throwing darts at a target. 

 

These wonderful people (and yes, some of them have been extremely courteous and helpful), apparently read the Farmer's Almanac, so that they will not only be able to arrive at some sum you hopefully will be paid each month; it also tells them the best time to plant soy. 

 

For weeks after my disability, I received SSI, which was $158.00 a month.  Granted--then--that our little family unit consisted of myself, my late mother (who was 85 at the time, and beginning to have health problems for which I was her caretaker); and--not to be left out--my best, 'dog-on the planet', “Daisy”, who is now over fifteen years old.

 

Financially, we died, as my SSI and my mother's social security was simply not enough to survive on.  It was then, that I began to ramp up my Visa card to pay for groceries, utilities...everything beyond which our combined incomes would cover; until....I owed Visa thousands of dollars in unsecured debt. 

 

Even so, I did not go on shopping blitzes, and still, the order of our comfort and living levels dropped precipitously. 

 

When I could no longer make the payments to Visa, good, old B.O.A closed the account (even though I had taken out insurance that should have covered debt accrued after my disability), and--please keep this in mind, as it is important--let loose the ravening hounds from hell, who are collection agents.

 

I fully believe that these agencies look for, and hire sociopaths and criminal minds to do their dirty work.  They proceeded to launch into a campaign which I might refer to as, “those who cannot pay, should die!”  Now I realize that people need jobs; however these collection agents seemed to take especial pleasure in being telephone Nazis.  I was alternately threatened, sworn at, and harassed at least once, twice, or, three times a day, every day. 

 

And, when I once mentioned--as I always did--that although I never denied my indebtedness--that was why I had insurance, who often assured me that all would be made right, I was always ignored by these 'sub-humans'. 

 

 On one occasion, a woman I spoke with stated, " I don't give a goddamn about your insurance...I just want my money"; and, one call that actually made me laugh, when a young man telephoned me, and told me that ," Well, ah...$12,000.00 would make it sweet for me."

 

 I mentally composed a picture of a nickel con, with a fifty dollar, slicked back, and greasy haircut, a shirt opened to the waist to display yard, and yards of 'gold'; and pants with dirt on the cuffs from dragging them on the sidewalk as he stood, flipping a quarter, whilst lounging against a lamppost, truly a 'fourth-tier' member of organized crime.

 

Just the thought still makes me laugh.  When I stopped laughing at him I replied, "Honey...if I had $12,000.00, I would make it sweet for ME.", even as I deleted him to the twilight zone on my caller I.D.

 

Two years after B.O.A closed the account, the indebtedness was passed from collection agency to collection agency (sort of like the coterie of prostitutes who always seem to trail-behind marching armies), and, with each change, the settlement buy-out amount lowered), and I was weary of playing hide and seek.

 

I finally--although I hated to do so--borrowed the money from a friend, and accepted their settlement amount, after which B.O.A wrote the account off as paid, but not to the fullest amount.

 

Somewhere along the way, B.O.A claimed I had missed four, lousy payments, which, as you might know, wrecked my credit. 

 

 

I did have two savings accounts for my 'old age', but in 2006, my mother (who stated she didn't want me to bathe her, or dress her, change her, or feed her (which I could understand, as few 88 year old mothers want their past, middle-aged sons to in any way, cause a loss of dignity), she had to be admitted--perforce--to an excellent, though extremely expensive long-term nursing facility.

 

She had long since run out of Medicare, and Tricare days, and so, from after the first week in June, 2006, I had to pay for her stay in cash until the end of November of that year, until we could get her on Medicaid. 

 

Friends, that was about $395 per day; you count the days, and do the math.

 

What that did (and I’d do it without hesitation again had I had to, as I loved my mother dearly, and this facility was renowned for its excellent, and compassionate care ), was to vaporize two, savings accounts which included almost a dozen years of savings from my former place of employment; our, 'joint', account; and, anything by way of cash that I could lay ready hands to.

 

I would have to say without equivocation that May, and June of 2006 were about the worst years of my life, prior to my mother’s death, and my subsequent diagnoses of Lupus, Diabetes, Fibromyalgia, and, you name it...its all on my, “MDJunction profile.

 

Also--in just that ONE month of June, 2006-- my then-shrink took me off ALL of my medications, in favor of others which he thought might work better.

 

I should have known (as should he), that in stopping all the meds. abruptly, that I would lapse-into severe withdrawal; plus--that week--my mother and I were both food poisoned, sent to hospital. I left as there was one to take care of my dog. My dearest mother was admitted.

 

You might know, that, had I stayed in hospital, they would have discovered the pneumonia that I had already had for some time.

 

So flipped out was I, that I very nearly lost P.O.A. of my mother, to a distant cousin, who threatened to take Mom back with her to northern Florida, where I knew I probably would never see her again.  I should have been admitted to a psychiatric hospital--for between the withdrawal and the pneumonia--I was so delusional I hardly knew if I was on horseback or on foot. 

 

For if I happened to pass a mirror, I dared not look, as what I saw was not me, but a monster. I thank God that a dear friend stepped in to right things, dropping the incompetency hearing against my mother (as she mentioned to them that she no longer wanted to live!), and transferring her from a psych. hospital to an A.L.F., where--during her first night there--she slipped on her way to the bathroom, and broke her hip.

 

Luckily, my former meds were restored sufficiently to allow me to go into hospital to be treated for the pneumonia. I apologize for going on so long, but I will get to the point soon, I promise!

 

Fast forward to the Present, in which I am now on an SSDI that is easily a third less than of what I used to earn when I was employed.

 

Instead, most of us--including retirees—depend upon miniscule c.o.l.a’s (sightings of U.F.O.s have been more frequent!), while in almost every aspect of our lives, the prices of everything have doubled, or more.

 

To my electric bill has been added not one, but two fuel adjustment increases; my telephone cable bill, which allows me to write these plangent diary entries to you, my dear friends!

 

BTW, a dear friend gave me this computer for my last birthday! Else—considering that I no longer watch or have a television, I would be staring at the four walls in a pique of indignant hopelessness).

 

Food and gasoline, and insurance have risen into the stratosphere.  And since I am not, 'old enough', to be eligible for, “meals-on-wheels”, or other, county and State senior program. We are in an enormously large County, and it is a poor County, besides. And so I depend upon the, “Volunteer Way”, for one, small carton of food every month; or use the County’s, “Medicare Transportation” in order to be able to visit my various medical Providers.

 

So I am denied whatever services that might exist just to help me survive now. Anytime I need the yard mowed, or my laundry done, or the house straightened up, or groceries, or prescriptions that have to be picked-up for me, (as I no longer can drive, and—in fact—no longer even have a car) I have to pay people out of my own pocket, to the tune of whatever they tell me the price is.  What choice do I have?

 

I HAVE to have my medications, as--frankly  (and, please do not think me somehow melodramatic)--often, I think I would rather die, than have to live in unrelieved agony and despair.

 

Maybe I am weak-willed...call it what you like, but for those of you who know exactly what complete days of unmitigated agony, and of drifting from med time to med time, even pushing the times forward sometimes in order to obtain some semblance of relief; even when both the constant pain AND the medications conspire to leave one listless, immobile, bereft of interest or desire, and when a kind of total mind fog, makes one careless and forgetful.   And this affects relationships all around you--about which--you can do little, if anything.

 

Gradually, that little, mostly reliable income check became less and less able to get me through the month. And little indignities pile upon one another, and somewhere along the way, everything formerly held dear comes into question: Morality, Fairness, Justice, and Reason, culminating in crises of Conscience and lapses of Faith.

 

 

As the body and mind wearies, so—eventually—does the Soul.

 

 

Once--in going to a visit at my Pain Management Primary--I neglected to bring my wallet along, and even though I was in major pain, and on fumes for medications I still had left, the receptionist would not allow me to see the doctor, because I could not pony up the $12.80 co-pay.

 

All they could do for me is to call up a ride to take me home.  Although I think I remained to be polite (as this PM will as likely drop you for any infractions, sort of like elementary school!) inside I was seething, sad, depressed, sorry, regretful on top of the pain. 

 

While there, I died a thousand times inside, as I asked another patient in the waiting room if--perhaps--she could loan me the money, that I would pay it back; of course, she looked up, and past me, sort of smiled, but said she couldn't.

 

And this was after my PM's assistant said my records showed that I was out of pain medication.  He asked me what bank did I use, and I replied, B.O.A, he said, "...well, there's a BOA branch right across the street. Maybe you can get the money there."

 

 

Now, my very dearest friends, I walked into that office wearing my portable oxygen, and had difficulty walking, even with a cane; AND, I'd have to try to cross six lanes of traffic, in the rain, no less, and besides, ' Tears of Christ ', I hadn't brought my wallet along (the PM won't take checks), and they knew my wallet and debit card were at home.

 

There are tears of joy, tears of sorrow, tears of sadness, and tears of loss; but there are also tears of anger.

 

 

Think about it, there I was, clearly in need, yet was turned away at the gate for a lousy$12.80!

 

 

 

And so, from now on, that sum is burned into my brain.  For in that brief instant my need and wont of treatment, and of those lousy little pieces of paper that are blessed prescriptions, for the first time, my medications made me beg. 

 

And while I know it isn't so, I felt like I was a junkie, pleading for the next fix; and, in a way—I suppose—I was; and maybe am still to this day.  Sigh.

 

Last month--when my little check came in--I arose early to begin paying bills, so that—by the end of the week—I was not only broker-n-Hell, I was again overdrawn…for the third month in a row.

 

This included a trip to the grocery store, made for me by a kind neighbor (as by then, I was out of everything, and had prescriptions to be picked up); I now have exactly $10.00 in the account, and will be overdrawn again.

 

I've already had to borrow money from a friend.

 

Several years ago, or, maybe a little longer than that, my SSDI managed to carry me through the month; now, my checking account and my also-overdrawn savings account lie lifeless before me. I've had to ask kind persons to hold, ‘my’, checks until I get more money into the account. I hate that, too.

 

For when I was younger, and working full time, and making decent money, I had more than enough to survive on; whenever I wrote a check, it was as good as my word.

 

These days, I could easily use another $5-750.00 (as...who couldn't?) coming into the house each month; But even if it did, I would still be beneath the national poverty level, but can guarantee you that I would still be grateful for, and could use that money a month, and could probably even put a fair amount of it in savings.

 

In all—since I became, ‘disabled’, in about 2005—it has been a nightmare ride; previously, I had been employed almost thirty-four years at a number of jobs, of course.  Illness has piled-upon illness, and I have become all too familiar with bouts of absolutely, unutterable pain. 

 

After a botched dental procedure, and the infection and cellulitis that followed, my whole life, and everything I might have hoped it would be was torn-apart like wet cardboard.  Had you shown to me (when I was forty-eight years old) what today would be like, and all the yesterdays before, I would have called the whole thing a lie; an impossibility perhaps part and parcel of some alternate universe.

 

If I can just hold out until I turn sixty, I should-by then (should the county still have program funds!)—be eligible for, ‘Elder Nutrition’, good, old, ‘meals-on-wheels’. In-home nursing care should be available.

 

Still, I cannot help but pray for some much-desired, ‘Deus Ex-machina’, to descend and make everything all pretty, all new, all better, and more safe and secure.

 

And for you, my friends at MDJunction who have families and children, the going must be near impossible, and that, on top of your distress, suffering, and pain.  To you, you have my utmost respect.  You also have what strength I can lend, a ready ear, and--I hope--an open, and honest heart.

 

I most sincerely hope that pain shared, is pain better understood, and pain perhaps a little better tolerated.

 

I wish with all my heart for more well days, than ill. And I wish you peaceful, and untroubled nights; and whilst I am wishing, I wish for you serenity, strength against adversity, clarity of thought, and purpose, and that you and yours may never have to do without.

 

 

I know I have gone on overlong, maybe making it impossible to read…but my feelings remain the same.  And I hope they always will.

 

 

My dear, dear friends, please know that I think of you often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

 

'Zahc'/Charles

"A Jar OF PIckles"

 

“A Jar Of Pickles”

 

 

06/09/13

 

 

To my ever dearest, kind, supportive friends, and loyal readers,

 

 I thank you for a friendship that has come to mean so much to me; it is a thing I value, and truly treasure; in addition, I am ever grateful for your readership, and for your thoughtful comments; for they remind me just how wonderful you are, and how wonderfully accepting of me you have been.

 

 

In knowing you, and reading your diary entries, and treads, and ‘hugs’, I’ve found a genuine privilege, and the pleasure of a gladdened heart; I most willingly credit you with my transformation from idle loneliness, to feeling as if I might have some purpose after all.  And that also makes glad my heart.

 

 

And should I prove in some small way to be of help or interest to you, dearest friends—instead of a continued rant about my pain, or of my circumstance, or of the thousand irritations that these days seems to diminish me—in lack of self-aggrandizement and complaining--I find in your special friendship an anodyne to pain, and a greater understanding that causes me to treasure our similarities and differences, and makes so crystal clear your added meaning to my life, and better appreciation of your beautiful uniqueness.  And for all those things, and more, I shall be as ever grateful to you.  I wanted you to know that.

 

 

 

Some twenty years ago, more or less (as memory often is an irresponsible, and unreliable liar, in choosing what truths it wishes to recall and follow), while still my health was good, I had moved back home, then stayed to try to care for my elderly, and increasingly ill father and mother, my schedule was often full, with working full time nights, and running errands for my folks in the morning, after work.

 

I would do the grocery shopping then, on my way home from work.

 

On one occasion, I stopped at a grocery store on my way home; and after having worked the night before, was naturally tired, and wanting nothing more than to discharge my errands, and then get home as quickly as I could, in hopes of finding no elapsed calamity had occurred meanwhile, and so I could have a quick bite of breakfast with my mom and dad, and then hit the bed as soon as I could.

 

For those of you who have ever had to work at night ( and, try to sleep during the day), it is in direct conflict to a zillion years of evolution, as—perhaps—9/10ths of the globe snooze the night away, while being up and functioning during the day is taken, quite for granted as the ‘norm’.  Our bodies simply are not used to working a ‘night shift’, and so, trying to sleep days, when all the world seemed to be awake, moving, and making LOTS of noise, daytime sleep becomes as precious as spun gold. And since I was usually on my feet for six of the required eight hours, I was ALWAYS tired, and, frequently just exhausted, and whenever I had to ‘stay up’ to run errands, I wanted them done and over as quickly as possible, before I fell asleep at the steering wheel of my car.

 

When usually I had groceries to get, it was from a list, pretty-much adhered to, and so looking neither to the right, nor to the left of me, I would try to breeze-through the store as if on roller skates, particularly as an hour spent at the store, was a potential hour less sleep available to me.

 

As was usual at that time of morning, and—really, too often an occurrence at stores during the day—there would—out of maybe twenty-five registers, be only two open: one for those with over-loaded carts, who stretched behind out in a line like coal cars, into the man aisle, and pushed by understandably sullen customers, and one ‘express aisle’, wide-advertised with admonitions of ‘ten items, or less’, that I wondered if in presenting twelve items, would warrant the death penalty ?  Were the managers armed?

 

Oh well…on this particular day, it happened that I had, maybe, eight items in my cart, and I most gladly steered-around all the other shoppers to race to the express line.

 

 

But somehow, there was a problem, a quiet commotion, something serious that ground all commerce to a halt; I scarcely gave it notice as I put my trophies on a conveyor belt that had ceased to function.  And waited.  And waited.  The problem seemed so inconsequential to have left me in a state of stalemate with the cashier.

 

On the conveyor belt ahead of me was a single, large jar of pickles, and the customer, a tiny lady in perhaps her late eighties trying to proffer to the cashier a small and crumpled coupon.  The bright eyes of that older woman, and her faint, apologetic smile while not quite knowing what the commotion was about as she was hard of hearing, began to fade as the cashier explained and explained to her that the coupon—for a goodly amount off—was for the purchase of three jars of pickles….not one.

 

I could not help but see—somehow—the light go out of her as she gently put the jar of pickles back on the conveyor belt, and, slowly began to limp away.  I watched all this.  Could her simple happiness depend upon a stupid coupon being able to afford a simple treat? How often in life are we all similarly crushed when even little, minor dreams are taken from us and destroyed?

 

Without thinking, I told the cashier to get the lady back, and to put the pickles on my tab; for God’s sake, they could not have cost more than three dollars.  “But you don’t have to do that, sir,’ the cashier, who was maybe all of eighteen said, “Its not necessary.”

 

I saw that single jar of pickles, and the distance from it to an old lady’s happiness.  “Its alright”, I told the cashier as she gave the lady her pickles, “I want to do it, and I think it very necessary.”  The cashier shook her head as if in disbelieve, or else that I had lost my marbles; but I hardly cared.  What I was watching was that older lady, who—in some confusion—smiled at me (and yes…that tiny radiance was there!), and, in taking the jar from the cashier, slowly carried it out of the store, cradling it in both arms.

 

And these twenty-some-odd years later, what I can still recall are her crinkled, fading eyes, and the uncertain, hesitant, but miraculous return of her small, but happy smile.  After a lifetime of dreams fulfilled, and—more often—dreams that failed, that morning, her hopes were pinned on a simple jar of pickles.

 

As Humans in an indifferent world, while we do on brief occasion experience the ethereal, and the ecstatic in our hopes and expectations, too often we—too—well know when dreams are lost, or pushed aside; to have our even tiny hopes destroyed; our hopes ground into powder often by an idiot, whose only power is to say, “NO”, and who do so only because they can.  Except for the occasional fantasy that we entertain, I think that—by and large—our true hearts and souls are made content by that which is more reasonable, which should be more easily attained, except for life’s real, and drummed-up demands?  And while it has become a catch phrase about ‘random acts of kindness’, what about ( instead), my dearest, sweet and loving friends, ‘random acts of Altruism’, done without thought of thanks; or expectations of repayment; or of seeking self-appointed sainthood?   For ‘good’ that’s done for ‘good’, rather than for ‘Self’?  In this case, is full-derived the term: selfishness.

 

That long ago, jar of pickles did not confirm upon me any moral superiority, but, later—though—it did allow my soul to rest more easily in itself.  And, you know, dear friends, I may have even slept a little better that day…who knows?

 

My very dear, and dearest friends, and ever constant, loyal readers, I wish for you a long, and pleasant weekend (and more!) of much-lessened, or of ‘no pain’; compassionate in your dealings with others; full-surrounded by those you most love, who truly love and care for you;  happy, balmy days and afternoons free from want or care; quiet, and lazy afternoons free of worry; and oh…dear friends, of untroubled nights, of solid, blissful sleep, kept ever safe, and comfortable; “May flights of angels to sing thee to thy rest!”

 

 

Please always know I love you dearly,

 

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"First You Must Forgive Yourself"

First...You Must Forgive Yourself”

 

 

06/05/13

 

 

To my very, very dearest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

 

 

I would like to wish for you a most quiet and peaceful Wednesday, free from pain or care.

 

 

 I wish happiness for you and your family, free-at least for today-the worries, or any demonstrated ill-humor, which might otherwise cloud a wonderful day; actually, as all should be as wonderful, save for that which our various complaints would sully.

 

 

How often are we enjoined to keep our voices down and make peace with children running, laughing through the house; of being perpetually late to meals; or a spouse, who would rather retire as soon as possible to a basement lair, to hide in their ‘den’?

 

 

The pure fact of the matter is, often, we just don't care; the house may be in complete discord, with clothes, and pets-under-foot everywhere.  Beds are unmade, and piles of laundry are often ignored; dishes and glassware correspondingly gather in the sink to the ire of our family members.

 

 

At times family members may well-view us as non-contributing, of being selfish, of monstrous pretentions in order to be—in many ways—slackers, lazy, or worse, both unloving and unlovable?

 

 

 

Despite our pain, our weariness, our limited range of motion, or our collective inability to even near in full assume our responsibilities and thus fulfill society’s expectations of our successful functioning within the tribal, family unit, those most close to us often seem to understand us the least.

 

 

How many times do we castigate ourselves as being useless, and as failures?  We would have hot supper upon the table waiting if only we could.

 

 

 

And, how much of this ill-apportioned blame do we so readily take upon ourselves? Because of illnesses, mental difficulties, panic, depression (NONE of which was ever sanely asked for, desired or wanted?).

 

 

 

Society’s pronouncements are hardly any better; what we can demonstrate as, ‘visible’, illness, is the exact amount we can receive as grudging, ‘pity’, by those who really know us not at all.

 

 

But as I ask you to kindly find some quieter moments for mental exploration, I would ask you to more fully consider your present, ‘circumstance’, as being solely and irrevocably genetic, situational, inherited, and otherwise quite beyond our control.

 

 

 

Do you consciously choose to have fair skin or dark?  Straight hair or curly?  A propensity towards substance abuse?  Or—rather—is your unique genome already mapped-out, with, say, mental or physical illness an ever revelatory and unfolding process completely beyond your conscious control?

 

 

Please observe that I not say, ‘utterly’, beyond conscious control, as we have seen demonstrated that frequently, a combinations of therapies, evaluative, cognitive, therapeutic, and medical, to name a few HAS helped so many individuals cope with their conditions, and even often able to assume a more, ‘natural’, life (I patently refuse to say, ‘normal’ !).

 

 

 

That these many treatment modalities to not—as yet—often 100% relief, 100% cure is NOT because they are shoddy, or invaluable methodologies.  One might more correctly call them as yet, ‘incomplete’, methodologies.

 

 

 

But as difficult as acceptance is, either personal, or societal, we fail most—I believe—at, ‘forgiveness’.

 

I see this theme repeated again and again throughout the discussion threads: much more debilitating than a failed degree of familial expectation is that of both familial forgiveness, and personal forgiveness.

 

 

 

And it is personal forgiveness to which I would wish to draw your attention in this entry.

 

 

 

As we all are quite aware, daily living is full of the distractions and, little’, seemingly inconsequential failures with which we who are affected must deal day and day after day. Everyone experiences them: life for us all in the 21^st. century demands vigilance.

 

 

But repetitive vigilance or, societally-conditioned, ‘wariness results in cumulative stresses and the eventual inability to cope with measured wholeness.

 

 

 

Think—please—of even those small slights, and indiscretions, such as having your parking spot ‘liberated' out from under you before you can get it; surely store personnel; car and sirens blasting, etc., all combine to make the average mind wild.

 

 

Stress after stress pile up unresolved, or at least not ever really resolved to our natures or satisfaction.

 

 

There are very real worries about those who make up our most singular family tribe; the safety, education and opportunity of our children.

 

 

 

The necessity of having, in Western cultures in particular, a regular, and spiraling form of income to meet our needs, especially as we—as no other—place more value upon security than we do creativity.

 

 

 

Financial worries come most readily to mind; and with them—since when one financial, ‘card’, folds, so seems fast upon it the deck, and frustrations about security, shelter, food, are fully met as equals with—for example—the ability to make the car payment, or the pay the electric bill.  And, increasingly, how to provide adequate health care for ourselves and our progeny.

 

 

 

 

 

In America—in particular—one is not asked whether the accumulated stresses are too much to bear, one is simply expected to bear them, or drop off the end of the earth.  Our own families expect as much.  As do we, ourselves.

 

 

 

 

We tend to forget that no one asks to be disabled; no one asks for Lupus; or P.S.T.D. Nor could you so arrange your genes and chromosomes in such a fashion, that I would make you ill, afraid, despairing. Often with pain that makes you cry...or pain that ties you to your bed...or pain, that frequently reshapes every life vector that you may have. Until you often feel exhausted and undone.

 

 

 

Where is the love?  Where is the kindness?  Where—my very dearest friends and ever-loyal readers—is the forgiveness and the acceptance that should follow.

 

 

 

 

The answer springs from love, fully as it does for trust, for regard, valuation, commitment, and joy!

 

 

I would hazard a fairly certain guess that each of us at MDJunction (and, elsewhere), have already plumbed the depth of their own illnesses, their own fear, pain, despair, and basic ability to cope.

 

 

 

What I ask of you (and, really, your family members as well), is to look within—not the body, for its symptoms are easily evident—the heart, wherein lies all felicity for hope, comfort, appreciation and love, and to forgive yourself.

 

 

 

Never ever—at any time you can recall from memory—did you ask for unutterable illness, jarring, and insensate pain, mental anguish that seems so able to transform a life of purpose, into one of hopeless, and a kind of most unhealthy and unending a life of sickness and tired martyrdom.

 

 

 

Fortunately for us, the America that expects so much from us is also—I believe an America that is generous, and friendly, even as we are inheritors of vast freedoms and discovery and privilege. We have—despite difficult times—remain a giving and helping Nation.

 

 

 

There remains a very great need for heightened awareness, both from our Society, our neighbors, friends, and family members.

 

 

It is to be most fondly hoped that from out of this awareness and knowledge, caring, compassion, and...forgiveness will follow; this is in part the great Epiphany to which each of us strives.

 

 

 

Only in that way can we more fully celebrate the special commonality of Man, a greater, and more proactive sense of self, but in, ‘forgiving’, of others AND ourselves we are somehow, elevated, made more temperate, and somehow brought closer to an abiding sense of personal peace, tranquility, and happiness, which may—itself—ease what would otherwise be unbearable suffering.

 

 

 

And—for those many who have such leanings—forge a new, and joyous harmony with the Creator. And as we tend to the contents of our souls....only then, may we be better in full as can be to contemplate the many, diverse, miraculous and possible conjugations of others’.

 

 

I wish for you, my dear, and dearest friends, a measure of inner peace and accord; of satisfaction; I wish for you certainly days of lessened or of ‘no pain, or contention.

 

 

And if, upon an evening you offer up your thanks--in being thankful to others--never forget to be most kind to yourself, for healing, for a quietness of the mind, for a general ease, and for liberation of the soul.

 

 

My very, very dearest friends, please know that I think of you so often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles