My prescription for Julie.

I only seem like an extremist. To some people. Who don't know better. I’m really a man of moderation. Especially when it comes to controlling my emotions.  I guard against excessive highs and excessive lows. Better to hover around the middle. Once upon a time, when my Chicago Cubs won a game, I became exuberantly happy. Made my day. When they lost, especially a game they should have won, I went into a funk. Maybe for a day or two. I went from very high to very low. Like a manic depressive. Like an extremist. When my dear sweet wife Jeanne had Alzheimer’s, I was an extremist, too. At the beginning. If she had a good day, my emotions went sky high. A bad day, and I ended up in the pits. Eventually, I learned to take it all in stride. With a moderate range of emotions. My friend Julie. She’s an extremist. And it’s doing her considerable harm. While care-giving for her Alzheimer-riddled father. She has set her expectation level far too high. When things don’t go right, she goes into deep despair. The contrast is something awful.  It’s making her mentally ill. Not a good place to be. Julie understands what I’m saying. Theoretically. In concept. But she has difficulty practicing a new, more moderate approach to her emotional life.  I tell Julie, that if I were king and ruling by divine right, she’d be committed to a sanitarium. For weeks. Maybe months. And doused with daily psychotherapy. She’d also get a much-needed physical exam. And she wouldn’t be released until she’s transformed. Into a woman of moderation. –Jim Broede