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kapEveryone seems to have an opinion on Colin Kaepernick’s pregame National Anthem protest. In the last week or so, other players inside and outside the NFL, including Megan Rapinoe and Denver Bronco’s Brandon Marshall and high school football players have been reported taking a knee during the Anthem. News Media has also rumored either some or all of Seattle Seahawks may be is planning some sort of protest at Sunday’s, September 11th game.

Yet when a player doesn’t receive their adieu to take a knee, they get pissed. Megan Rapinoe opined:

To be honest I didn’t hear (the anthem) and I wasn’t exactly sure why it wasn’t played, but (expletive) unbelievable,” Rapinoe said. “Saddened by it. I think that it’s pretty clear what the message is that I’m trying to bring to light when I knelt in Chicago and what I’ve continued trying to talk about the last few days and what I intend to talk about and clearly with (Spirit owner Bill Lynch’s) actions, I think that that’s a necessary conversation.”

Kaepernick’s protest (for lack of a better word) started because he couldn’t show pride in a flag of a country that oppresses black people and people of color. To him, this is bigger than football and he couldn’t look the other way. The problem with all these protesters is that the message of hope gets lost and does little to foster proactive conversation about how people are treated. Instead, it’s about Kaepernick. It’s about Rapinoe. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Throughout the last several weeks, I’ve traveled between Chicago and Indianapolis. In neither city have I heard one person discuss either Black Lives Matter or police brutality. Kaepernick’s discussion has not produced enlightenment upon police brutality or even racism. No one in either city said, “Hey, let’s talk about racism and what we can do to help narrow the gap” or “Let’s talk about the plight of the disadvantaged in our neighborhood and how we help.” The only statement I overheard was from a wickedly honest seven-year old boy in O’Hare International Airport who wondered if Kaepernick slept with a chia pet.

If the mission was to create an open dialogue of race as sports fans guzzled beer and eating nachos while huddled around fifty-inch televisions as teams pounded the shit out each other, then Kaepernick needs to think of something else. If Rapinoe believes that supporting Kaepernick will create proactive race discussion as sports fans watch women play soccer, she’s woefully misinformed. There’s no honor in public policy or triumphal banishment of systematic hate at the 50 yard-line. Sunday afternoon is about the pigskin. It’s about legalized brutality.

Participating in a brutal sport while condemning societal brutality seems over played. Professional sports players like Kaepernick and Rapinoe make an eloquent pay-check. Each can protest and theoretically ride off into the sunset. They will move on quite comfortably.

The crux of the argument is that we (as a society) must do more than protest. There’s more to making a statement than simply taking a knee. Whether we’re against cancer, police brutality, child abuse, animal rights or the right to education. Regardless of the movement, protest is only effective if it’s a start, not an end. Each of us have to be active in the cause that calls our heart.

And that’s the difference. Where was Kaepernick’s protest three and a half years ago, when Trayvon Martin died? How about Michael Brown in 2014? For that matter, Eric Gardner was choked to death only a few miles from where the Giants practice. Philando Castile was killed just outside of St. Paul, Minnesota, mere minutes from where the Minnesota Vikings play. I would love to see their expressed outrage for 12-year-old Tamir Rice or 7-year-old Aryana Jones and the scores of others who have died at the hands of police since 2012.

Would this conversation have been different during the years the self-absorbed Kaepernick was declared one of the best quarterbacks in history? Hard to say. But by dissing the American Flag, Kaepernich and Rapinoe have done little for the movement they claim to support. It becomes about them, not the cause.

A more powerful message would been Kaepernick saying, “I am retiring from football, donating my millions and will begin working side-by-side with those helping to change the dialogue of race.” Now that would be worthy of real conversation.

Then again, real change doesn’t take a knee.

imageWayne Dyer passed away a year ago today. And after reading many of his books and reflecting upon his spiritual insight, I looked for some remembrance. From anyone.

I used to think of Dyer as the go-to spirituality guru. I listened to his audio books while at the gym. For a time, he was everywhere. By my count, he starred in 10 National Public Television specials—featuring his books Manifest Your Destiny, Wisdom of the Ages, There’s a Spiritual Solution to Every Problem, and the New York Times bestsellers 10 Secrets for Success and Inner Peace, The Power of Intention, Inspiration, Change Your Thoughts—Change Your Life, Excuses Begone!, Wishes Fulfilled, and I Can See Clearly Now—which raised over $250 million for public television.

I thought of Dyer as I thought of my life’s value. Now, nearing the end, I’m amazed that I only now started to think of personal legacy. As if I had any. I spent a lot time helping – mostly myself. So why now do I think of my own personal legacy so late in life? Since I am no Wayne Dyer, I wonder if anyone will remember me? Did I do anything of positive value or do I simply focus on only what went wrong in my life?

In truth, it was because I presumed I always had more time. Guess what? I don’t.

Like others who read of or participated in Dyer’s books and seminars, I received a lot of insight. Yet, a simple Google search reveals little remembrance for a man so many claimed to have been touched by. No lasting memorial. No profound statement that embers still in the depth of the soul. Nada!

And for most of us, this is what happens. We take when given, but remember only infrequently, if at all. Only the exceptional are remembered. The exceptional are few, for you and I will only be remembered by close friends or family.

If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, it’s that all of us are not that exceptional. We all can’t set the world on fire. We can only set ourselves on fire. According, paraphrasing Shaw, the only torch we must set aflame is the crucifix of our own love – a depth of love that must be willing to surrender unto life’s nails. Have you done that?

Sorry to say I learned love’s crucifix far too late in life. I’ve been rewarded much, yet recompensed poorly. Lasting fruit of life’s seeds came to fruition based upon the depth of love given.

Individual legacy rests not in the hands of newsprint or mass media. Real legacy is the depth of love we choose to give one another. Unfortunately, I chose only my own. Now, I wear life’s burden.

I Sit silenced. By the grace of God, I now understand my legacy. I will be remembered for burden. As Marley said, it is a chain I forged in life, link by link and yard by yard. And not one moment will I be free.

 

imageLife offers a first-time and last-time for almost everything. Today I accomplished two: telling a friend my body was giving up. Telling someone I was dying was a first. And it’s the last first chance I will have to accomplish that. She was the first.

After running the conversation sequence through my mind, playing out all scenarios imagined, it is hard to predict how people will actually react. Generally, the people who love you will feel shocked and overwhelmed. Some people may try to be cheerful while pretending nothing is wrong. So while I hoped for a more realistic moment and opportunity to express my feelings, that did not happen.

I started the conversation by saying what a good friend she was. Having been through all the shit I gave these past ten years, I acknowledged her love and friendship. But my body was at a point where it had to let go of any lengthy time expectations.

Being a psychotherapist, she picked up on the hidden meaning and went straight into Kubler-Ross’ first stage of death, denial. “Nope not happening,” she said. “Miracles happen every day.

She’s right, miracles happen every day. Unfortunately, it’s going to be someone else’s miracle, not mine. I’ve lived nearly 36 years with a major diagnosis – longer than anyone expected – but miracle or not, my body is tired. It’s wearing out.

Having worked in hospitals these past 12 years, I’ve see death intimately. Most people die in hospitals and nursing homes, where they receive the extensive nursing and medical care. Their loved ones have less opportunity to be with them and often miss sharing their last moments. We’ve isolated the living from the dying; consequently, death has taken on added mystery and fear.

For me, I am at peace. As such, I believe it’s important to cultivate some form of positive, happy virtuous state of mind and abandon the non-virtuous, harmful, suffering states of mind. My death is definite, but its time remains a shadow. According, I will aspire to be ready by being mindful of the preciousness of life and the uncertainness of length. I will spend time with those who’ve loved me.

Regardless of my time, I don’t want to only love only those who’ve loved me.

I am stunned after writing that last sentence. Allow me to digress for a moment. Years ago, in some over-the-top self-improvement class, each participant was asked to write their mission statement on index card. Here’s what I wrote:

Paint each person met with beautiful brushstrokes of love.

While I did some of that, much of my life has been lived as a self-centered asshole. And inspite of being an asshole, I believe I know, with certainty, my after-life destination – albeit I have no clue what happens once there or how long I’ll be there (stage or phase). It’s neither perfectly bad nor perfectly beautiful. Its perfect for me.

I cannot possibly achieve the mission statement from years ago. But I do want everyone that I’ve angered, in any form, to let go and have the chance to live a happy and beautiful life. It’s miserable to wallow in life’s misery. Everyone has to find peace and move onward. I want everyone to become to special to another. Hopefully, each person can pay back my lack of love with love to one another.

To all I meet over the next few months, I will try and peacefully assist with the process of letting go. To help them move onward. Maybe, I can help a few that I’ve pissed off to live and move on As well.

Through God’s grace, there is no stage one for me. Rather I’ve learned death is not a be-all or end-all. I want people to embrace the fact that I have a deep sense of love for them and I want each of them to embrace the world beyond. The idea of just living as a physical presence is nonsense. That fell by the wayside when I realized that physically embodying one’s form is not the way to live.

I simply wish for each of you that correcting any of the wrongs brought unto to others is more important than being physically planted on earth.

entrepreneur-livingLet’s be honest. The last ten days sucked. The unexpected deaths of two black men in Minnesota and Louisiana were absurdly connected to the deaths of five Dallas police officers. Combine those tragedies with deaths in Nice, France, everyone should acknowledge the internal wake up call that we know, but rarely acknowledge, our demise can occur at a moment’s notice.

It’s strange how life’s last moments seem unremarkable. The New York Times reported Philando Castile of Minnesota finished getting his hair styled, called his sister Allysza, and offered to deliver dinner to the suburban house she shares with their mother. Over a meal of Taco Bell takeout, the two alternated between laughter and serious discussions, including about the fatal shooting of Alton Sterling by the police in Louisiana. He never returned home.

The five murdered Dallas officers were spouses and parents. They volunteered in schools and church and swore to serve and protect. One officer gave a homeless man a meal the night prior to his death. Officer Patrick Zamarripa served several tours of duty in Iraq only to be felled by a fellow vet.

As French revelers celebrated, a 19-ton refrigeration truck was driven nearly 70 miles per hour over a 1.1 mile stretch of road. The driver directly aimed for and struck celebrants before being stopped by French officers. The aftermath left trails of family ruin and death. One moment, a great celebration. The next moment, despair.

This post is not about the value of a life, whether it be Castile or Sterling, Dallas police officers or French victims. Each have been duly honored for giving more than I ever will. This post is not about the merits of concealed carry, the right to bear arms, Black Lives Matter or the fight against terrorism. This is about “understanding,” as Elizabeth Kubler-Ross noted perfectly:

“It’s only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth – and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up, we will then begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had.”

What I thought about were those brief moments when loved ones said goodbye and were never heard from again.

I am curious how life interacts, becomes separated from the interconnectedness and reconnects by some seemingly unrelated event. Any of us can be connected to family and friends one moment only to be connected to some tragic event later. We forget the number of lives we have touched today is like counting waves in the ocean, because each wave follows another until it vanishes from us. Through the lives of one another, everyone has already lived so many lives, so many forms, so and participated in so many stories.

In a noncritical way, as I look upon life’s ocean waves, I cannot but wonder what could have been – if Castile never purchased a handgun or achieved a concealed carry permit; if Castile’s officer had taken a more conciliatory approach; if a veteran sought help rather than a weapon; if the damn truck in Nice, France didn’t start or if someone offered its driver an open hand. Would all that were lost be alive?

I doubt if each victim imagined their life would end so abruptly. You and I share similar backgrounds, faiths, experiences, thoughts and love. Rarely does one think that before day’s end, one would move onward. Yet that very fact is all too common.

Readers, like those whom love and share our journey are the characters of our story. Most never want the story to end. Like you, we’ve invested significant effort into the knowing, molding and loving, the highs, lows and middle. We find it extremely difficult to near the final chapter.

Rarely do we have the ability to control our goodbye, there’s never enough time. We human ants are too busy with workouts, meetings, plane flights, doctor appointments, family and social functions. We replace brief moments of sharing with football, baseball, working late, burning the midnight oil and fixated upon this or that. Meanwhile, the readers of our lives wonder of the story within, the writer’s composition and homily. Oh how the writer becomes a stranger, even to himself.

Unlike many, I haven’t chosen a one and true path. I’ve traveled far. But have I lived richly? My soul’s youth yearned to changed the world. I didn’t. I only changed myself. I know many would have loved my spontaneity, my energy, my ability to make people laugh. Yet I hid and cloistered my soul, even from those whom I loved. I forgot the last time I made love, lightly caressed or kissed.

The lesson this Buddha learned is that life and living life are completely different. Living life means recognizing our interconnections. This week’s memoriams demonstrate true living, people who embraced life’s highs, lows and middles. Life was about embracing their readers, about being human in the most vulnerable way, reaching out toward interconnectedness and rippling the ocean’s waves.

So, for all who passed, please … please relish, live and connect with the readers of your book (life).

dallasListening to President Obama’s memorial speech in Dallas, I reflected upon Baltimore.

When Freddie Gray died April 19, 2015, and riots erupted, Baltimore and its residents were forced to confront issues that had plagued them for decades. Personally, I was about 1200 miles west when Baltimore protests erupted over the death of Freddie Gray. Like most, we’ve watched too many protests, from Ferguson, Baltimore, Chicago, Florida, Atlanta, Oakland and many others via the comfort of some easy chair. What had been mostly peaceful protests erupted into rock-throwing, looting and fires.

This past year has seen me working at hospitals in the Baltimore and Washington area, with one hospital a mere four blocks from the original riots.  There is much to praise and much work remains.

A year later, dozens of Baltimore legislative proposals resulted were generated because of the death of a disadvantaged, young, black man from West Baltimore. From policing and criminal justice reform to efforts to Baltimore neighborhoods and lead poisoning referendums, reforms are underway. Other things have remained the same. Officers involved in Gray’s death have not been held accountable. DeRay McKesson (Black Lives Matter leader) was not elected mayor and the makeup of Baltimore legislators has essentially remained the same.

Yet, when I look at protests in Dallas and other cities, I often ask myself, What’s next? What happens after the march? What happens when to burning singe of hatred is cooled? Where does the movement go?

While not completely agreeing with President Obama on every issue, I do believe that if we truly want to improve a community, the police cannot do it alone. Societal effort is required. Police, residents, schools, elected officials, along with those who work in housing, transportation and health must all work together to make difference.

We must also learn to love one another. In his book What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Raymond Carver noted:

“I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making. Not one of us moved. Not even when the room went dark.”

That is what interdependent love is. It is listening to that beating heart, and when we hear it, it is our job to interpret it to the best of our abilities. We need to find a piece of each other in our daily life.

We have to get past yelling. It is true that the most important things to say are the hardest things to say, but we have to do it.

PrayerI watched in horror last night as five Dallas police officers were killed and another seven wounded in a racially charged attack that ended when police used a robot to kill the sniper. The killings came at the end of a largely peaceful protest over a pair of fatal shootings of black men in Louisiana and Minnesota. These killings culminate a string of killings of black men by police officers, including Ferguson, Missouri, New York, Baltimore and Chicago.

Several things concern me.

First, looking at the tactics and weaponry used last night, one has to ask, “Are we at war?” When does disagreement and the thirst for political integrity justify the use of heavy weapons?  As noted by Carl Philipp Gottfried, “War is the continuation of politics by other means.” When do we lose our ability to communicate that our only option is to don camo-pants, an ill-fitted bulletproof vest and weapons? Does it matter if one is pro-Black Lives Matter, pro-abortion, pro-life, anti-religious this or that, anti-this or anti-that?  Must the next logical step be shoot first, dialogue later.

Secondly, our current juncture in history lends itself to the fact we are exceptional at destruction. We suck at repairing. Whether the issues are Iraq or homeland infrastructure, healthcare, abortion, left leaning judges, right leaning judges, whatever … it seems our current nature leans toward complete and utter destruction. We lack the ability for common interfaith dialogue.

Jay Parini echoed similar comments on an CNN opinion piece earlier today.

“Are we a people at war with ourselves, unable or unwilling to control our most violent urges? Must we settle every dispute with a gun or a bomb? Who is responsible for this mayhem that plays out on many fronts?

We quickly blame the other guy: the Mexican or Wall Streeter, the immigrant, Muslims, “millionaires and billionaires.” In our confusion and malaise, we have become a deeply angry nation. As such, we reach for scapegoats, and they’re easy to find. Anyone who doesn’t look or sound like ourselves becomes suspicious.”

The real pain of Ferguson, New York, Baltimore, Chicago, Orlando and Dallas is that someone always wakes up fatherless, motherless, daughter-less, brother-less, sister-less, uncle-less. As a Buddhist, I — along with communities and practitioners of all faiths — stand in solidarity with those who seek to live in peace and nonviolence, and grieve for the loss of life

Yes, I concur we have too many freely available weapons. However, I also believe we have too many disenfranchised people. Theoretically, we could fix the gun issue. We wont. Just look no further than recent bipartisan gun legislation condemned to legislative purgatory.

If society is to survive, we must fix disenfranchisement. If we don’t, all we’ll get is one more prayer service.

Anderson Cooper 360 began with the names … Right on Anderson.

PrayIn 1991, Barbara Poma’s older brother John died battling HIV. Twelve years later, Poma and her friend Ron Legler founded Pulse Orlando in memoriam to her brother and as a safe space supporting the LGBT community.

According to police, alleged shooter Omar Mateen opened fire early Sunday morning at Pulse. An officer working at the club initially responded, “engaging in a gun battle” before the suspect went back into the club, Authorities say that at least 50 people have been killed and at least 53 are injured, making it the deadliest mass shooting in modern American history.

Playwright Arthur Miller wrote “violence in our streets is the violence in our hearts.” So much so that violence by weapon has weaved so much into daily life we hardly notice. To add support, BradyCampaign.org notes on average, 31 Americans are murdered with guns every day and 151 are treated for some form of gun assault. Additionally, every day, on average, 55 people kill themselves with a firearm and 46 people are wounded or killed via a gun. In contrast, if 86 people were dying each day from the mosquito bred Zika Virus, there’d be holy hell on the streets of America.

Over the coming days, thousands will pay their respects, reefs laid, memorials held, tears shed and promises to remember will be made. Homage and prayers were offered by Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders and many celebrities. Donald Trump? Well, Trump congratulated himself. But at the end of the day, even this shooting will have little positive impact for the Washington electorate to implement anything more than a few moments of silence.

The important part of Sunday remembrances came not from celebrities but rather from those who survived the shooting. Brothers, sisters and children were not overly idealized or enlarged in death beyond what they were in life. Each victim was remembered simply as a good and decent person, who saw wrong, tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it.

Pulse Orlando was about was Love.

And what set Pulse Orlando and victims apart from the hate was their depth of love – not only for each other but their community as well. It’s the same love Christ and Buddha offered. And that form of agape love can never be forced, even by a whacked out, mentally deranged idiot. Why? Because power never wins. A true God does not want subservience, but love. Pulse Orlando and all those LGBT rights activists chose the sometimes slow, hard way of agape love. It’s a conquest from within.

George McDonald captured both Christ and Buddha’s approach, “Instead of the crushing power of force; instead of destroying what we believe to be infidels, these victims encouraged making one another better people. (paraphrased)” Better citizens. They chose to love one another.

Victims in this shooting are voices speaking from heaven. Some will try to dismiss them but each victim is dazzling proof of love’s transfiguration. Each one is beautiful and may their voices roar to the power of love.

After learning of a colleague’s death (You Are Not Alone), I flew from Baltimore, landing midday in a Midwest city I’ve haven’t seen in months. I’ve chosen to name my colleague Daryl. Though not this person’s true identity, Daryl is interchangeable between male and female.

I attended Daryl’s wake late Friday. As the parlor doors opened, some 50 or so of Daryl’s colleagues huddled in the receiving line. Pictures donned poster-like billboards both before and after the viewing and covered Daryl’s life, from childhood. Daryl’s life appeared well documented and many shared storied with uneven tears and bewilderment. By the time I left, mourners reached 250. Awe struck by the deep tenderness and love, I wondered throughout the wake if Daryl knew. Would Daryl have passed if this depth of love had been known?

Landing back in Baltimore late Friday, I sat in an easy chair of the Marriott. I typed a quick Apple iMessage to Amy (not her real name), one of Daryl’s coworker’s who sat two (2) cubicles away.

I was impressed and shocked by the amount reverence Daryl’s family received. By the time I left, there were close to 250 or more well wishers,” I texted.

Several minutes passed before receiving a response.

That’s nice. I didn’t go, as I did not know Daryl.

In the twenty-six hours since starting this post, I remain befuddled. How can someone sit two cubicles away and not know your coworker; not say hello, talk about the weather, a favorite sports team, politics, a good restaurant or show; vacation, children, wife, love, hopes, dreams or sorrows? I don’t get it. The cubicles of life are five by seven, yet for many they are chasms.

Of course disappointment has been with the human race for centuries. Disappointment did not vanish in from the earth in Jesus’ day and hasn’t vanished in the two thousand years since.

More importantly, where was God? In a time of crisis, a time of faith, I can’t believe Daryl needed smoke, fire and a burst of light or heavenly songs. Daryl was a common human being from the middle of nowhere who played in the backyard, celebrated friendship over a drink, watched fireworks on July 4th, celebrated the seasons and volunteered at church. Yet somewhere between this life and the next, Daryl lost faith. Life lost a wonderful soul. A spouse lost a partner. Children lost a parent. Parents lost a child.

I’m often asked if God is unfair. Hadn’t the prophets promised God would wipe tears, heal the sick, raise the dead? Instead, what we receive today is eBay auctions of people selling faith of Christ-like images on toast, in the clouds or some other trivial form. Jesus did heal some people, but many went unhealed. Lazarus was raised from the dead. Yet, Lazarus eventually passed, as does everyone. Obviously, at His word, Jesus could have healed a multitude, but statistically speaking, only few merited such intervention.

Did Daryl experience the same loss faith John the Baptist experienced? He prophesied Christ’s coming. However, a few years later, he smuggled a message, “Are you the one who was expected to come?” Some days, I wonder myself.

I don’t believe Daryl ever wanted a miracle or a visible sign of power or glory. Daryl wanted the touch of a friend, a gentle smile, to share a cup of coffee, to laugh. Daryl wanted faith, love and hope. And when we silently walk past those in our life, we become indifferent and ignorant.

Whether you’re Christian, atheist or Buddhist, say hello to as many people as possible. You never know how that simple conversation will empower someone. So Monday morning, when I get to my client, I will purposefully walk at least two cubes and introduce myself. It is my silent memoriam to Daryl to find someone who thinks they are alone and convince them they’re not.

Don’t let the cubicles of life become chasms.

You Are Not Alone

Not AloneA client acquaintance of mine passed away this past Sunday.  While I did not know this person particularly well, I understand from other coworkers that this person may have ended his life.  Somehow, on a Sunny Sunday, this middle-aged person, two children and a good career passed away.

Those of us outside the family’s inner circle remain perplexed. And like armchair coroners, for better or for worse, many scalpel this person, slicing open their life, peeling the facade like an onion. Why?

For those like me, who experienced so few interactions, why must we strip this person’s dignity on the cold steel table of our imagination? We care so little for others that we walk past people, day-in, day-out, with nary a glance. Yet we presume to have the right to dissect the dead, to explore, to investigate, to simply satisfy curiosity.

Think I am wrong, then look no further than Prince. Not into Prince? How about Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley or Robin Williams?

We need to autopsy ourselves. If this acquaintance really did commit suicide then we need forgiveness – forgiveness for not saying hello, forgiveness for not being supportive and forgiveness for being so god damn arrogant. We need to understand that at the basic human level, pain often wins. We need to understand that when hope loses, faith does as well.

In reference to her husband’s death, Susan Schneider, Robin Williams’ widow said, she was beside herself in agony. She fought to the end, but didn’t know what she was fighting. Our battle is similar. When someone dies, we often don’t know why. In our angst, it’s even more important not to stop fighting for one another, living and loving – in life, love and pain.

As many of you know, I once considered suicide. Not because of the degrading physical pain I currently experience, but because of mental pain that incessantly encased me. Like many, I often thought there was no escape. But like many, I made it, just as many others made it. There is life beyond the pain.

So … if you’re contemplating suicide, my advice is go ahead and kill yourself. But don’t do it with a rope or a gun or a knife or a handful of pills. Do not end your life by destroying your body. Kill yourself by cutting off your former life and going in a completely new direction. Kill the old life by starting anew. Be someone different. Live, love and learn in ways never imagined.

Yeah, it wasn’t easy. And there were times I thought living to be impossible. Yet things changed and when they did, they really changed.

Lastly, if you feel alone you’re not. If need to talk to someone, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. They will fight for you. I will fight for you. Everyone one of us should fight for you.

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