She wants to keep it all secret.

My friend Julie doesn't want people to know that she's in depression. Or that she has a drinking problem.  But I know. And I don't always keep Julie's secret. It annoys Julie. That I don't respect her privacy. For a reason. I'm trying to get help. For Julie. And therefore, I find it necessary to explain Julie's problem. To others. I also encourage Julie to talk about her situation. Openly. Honestly. I suggest that would be a step in the right direction. Sometimes, Julie pretends that she doesn't have serious issues. With depression. Or with drinking. Of course, deep down, she knows better. But she finds solace. In pretending. Sometimes, she even convinces herself. That she's normal. And doesn't need help. I suspect that Julie is embarrassed by what she has become.  Little wonder. She wants to keep it all secret. --Jim Broede

Left to fend for themselves.

I know mentally ill people. Going about daily life. Without any help. Despite being desperately in need of care and treatment. They pose a danger to themselves. Some are homeless. Makes me wonder how they survive. Of course, some don't. They fall off the proverbial cliff. Everyone has a right to be free and to live pretty much as they please, associates tell me. Therefore, they argue, everyone deserves the opportunity to be judged as quirky rather than mentally disturbed. Hey, I'm quirky. And wouldn't want to be put away for my odd ways. But still, society has an obligation. To provide care for the sick. But I have an impression. That we neglect the mentally ill. Maybe because it's too troublesome. And awfully expensive. Little wonder. The mentally ill are too often left to fend for themselves. --Jim Broede

To live Hell on Earth.

I crave consciousness. Thought. But also, I need a break. A lapsing into sleep. Into total lack of consciousness. Knowing it is temporary. Knowing that I will wake. Refreshed. But I wonder about my friend Julie. She tells me. That she often wakes distraught. Tired. Beleaguered.  Wishing to go to sleep again.  That must be an illness. A sickness unto death. So sad. To live Hell on Earth. --Jim Broede

Not the least being dreamer.

Ah, for endless dreams. I have so many dreams. Some days, that's all I do. Dream. Dream. Dream. So many dreams. That some are bound to come true. One in 10 isn't a bad ratio. Because I'm dealing with thousands of dreams. On my calling card. I list many professions. Many pursuits. Not the least being dreamer. --Jim Broede

Desire. We need more of it.

I keep telling my friend Julie. That she can lick her depression. By cultivating desire. To get better. Julie lacks desire. Maybe that's why people go into funks. No motivation. No gumption. They get into a rut of negativity. Julie has many valid reasons to be happy. But she rejects them all. And chooses to be unhappy. Steering. Steering a self-destructive course.  As if she deserves such punishment. As if she's undeserving of happiness. Yes, she's all screwed up. I'm baffled. I find it so easy to pursue happiness. And Julie finds it so difficult. If not impossible. Wish I had the power and the ability to teach desire. --Jim Broede

Without getting angry.

I don't get angry. But occasionally,  I try to make people angry. Because it's good therapy. I often play the role of psychotherapist. I like to tick off my friend Julie.  By chiding her. To a boiling point. To seething anger. So that she opens up. And speaks the truth. About what she's feeling. Most of the time, she's passive. Hardly opens up. Except when she gets angry. It's a way for Julie to cleanse her sub-conscious. Fortunately, I'm able to probe my soul. And make amends with myself.  Without getting angry. --Jim Broede

Sure beats being a Doubting Jim.

I'm inclined to believe in creators. But not necessarily in a god per se. I'm able to see creation. But I have yet to see an actual god.  I'm waiting for an introduction. An opportunity to see and commune with god. With my own eyes. And my own mind. I see the masterpiece of creation. And therefore, it's easy to assume there must have been at least one creator. Or more likely, multiple creators. After all, creation looks like a team effort. Of course, some religions claim that a single god was up to the mammoth task.  That he/she/it didn't need any creative help. I'd certainly like to meet such a god.  Then I could better gauge the god's talents and skills.  And perhaps become a real believer. Sure beats being a Doubting Jim for the rest of my life. --Jim Broede

A bit confused. But conscious.

I am what I am. Because of my mind. Not my physical body. Without a mind, I would not exist. I am what I am. Because I am conscious. Aware. That makes the difference. If I lose consciousness, I might as well not exist. If some day I become a spirit. It will be only becase I have the mind of a spirit. Awareness. Consciousness.  Yes, I can be a non-physical being.  But only consciously. Otherwise, I don't exist. I have to imagine. Only then I am what I am. A bit confused. But conscious. --Jim Broede

Good enough for me.

The chicken evolved before the egg. If forced to make a choice. That's where I stand. The chicken. Then the egg. So that there could be more chickens. The chicken was artificial. Right from the start. An invention. By someone with a brilliant and creative mind.  Not necessarily god. Merely just another guy. I'm satisfied. With my explanation. Can't prove it beyond a doubt. But that doesn't stop me. From believing. I don't need proof. Better to follow my instincts. That's good enough for me. --Jim Broede

       

Good for the mind.

I like to stay up late at night. In order to think. About things. About life. And I like to get up early. So that I can think some more. That's my consuming hobby. Thinking. Thinking all the time. Even when I sleep. My subconscious mind takes over. To qualify me as a non-stop thinker. Of course, too much thinking may drive some people crazy. But not me. Because 99 percent of my thoughts are pleasant and positive and pulsating. Good for the mind. --Jim Broede

No more pretending. No more lies.

My friend Julie is nervous. Because I put the emphasis on being truthful. Going naked into the world. Having nothing to hide. Julie sees that as a privacy issue. She wants to protect her privacy. And not let anyone know that she's a drinker. An addict. And that she's in depression. In dire need of psychotherapy. I encourage Julie to face up to her personal calamity. And to admit. To herself. And to others. That she needs help. No more pretending. No more lies. --Jim Broede

A precious gift.

Imagination. That’s my saving grace. My route to happiness. I imagine being happy. So simple. Seems to me that I’ve always had a fertile  imagination.  The ability to think up stories. Scenarios. And live them. As if I’m the protagonist in a novel. A way to make everything imaginable come true.   I imagine a belief in a holy spirit. That’s all it takes. To perform miracles. On a daily basis. I’ve been blessed. With a precious gift. My imagination. –Jim Broede

My dream of longterm survival.

Real live people. From the 19th century. Are almost gone. Only three survivors remain. If what I heard on the radio yesterday. Is true. Imagine that. Everybody else among the billions and billions of people matriculating on Mother Earth today were born in the 20th or 21st century. Fascinating, isn't it? To reflect on an almost bygone era. Gives me pause. To think. That 20th century guys like me will all be gone at some date in the 22nd century. I'll never attain my goal to be the lone survivor from the 20th century. Because I was born too early. Too soon. The odds are with someone born in 1999, not 1935. Though I don't rule out a consolation prize. Surviving. As a non-physical spirit. Forever. That's my dream. My imaginative goal. Maybe that will give me the opportunity to converse some day with 19th century personages. Though it be in spiritual form. --Jim Broede

       

Nothing to hide any more.

Funny thing. Julie doesn't want people to know that she's an alcoholic. That she drinks excessively. In other words, being an alcoholic is shameful. She's not proud of it. It's something to hide. Julie didn't like it when I talked to my doctor. About Julie's drinking problem. It was an invasion of her privacy. But I look at it differently. I'd rather be constantly confronting Julie. Calling attention to her problem. Not only directly to her. But to others. To bystanders. To people that might be helpful. If they understand that Julie has this problem.  Instead, Julie tries to hide. Tries to keep her true self hidden to others. I think it's better that Julie feels shamed. Feels embarrassed that others know what's going on. They know her secret.  Oh, what shame.  They see her naked. The real Julie. Let this be motivation.  To clean up her act. Once and for all. So there's reason for Julie to be proud of being Julie. Yes to be proud. Even if she goes naked into the world. Honest. Truthful. Nothing to hide any more. --Jim Broede

For my own sake.

My happiness shouldn't depend on the people around me. Because some of 'em are chronically unhappy beings. Addicted to alcohol and other drugs. Some are masochists.  Or sadists. And in varying states of depression. Yes, sick people. Little wonder that the world is in trouble. Because troubled people are almost everywhere. Fortunately, I've learned to get on with life. By associating with relatively happy and well-adjusted friends and compatriots. Oh, I don't totally ignore or write off the troubled and beleaguered. I try to help. To do my part for humanity. But there comes a point when disassociation becomes necessary. For my own  sake. --Jim Broede

As life goes on.

I’d love to be a minority. In the musings section of the Alzheimer’s message boards. Outnumbered by other posters of original musing threads. Not a good sign. That over 90 percent of the postings come from me. Some related directly to Alzheimer’s. Some not. For a reason. It’s good for those dealing with the Alzheimer-riddled to divert their minds. To other subjects. Other ways to muse. As a diversion. As a form of respite. A way to relieve one’s mind from the daily stress of care-giving. Anyway, part of my message is that there’s life after Alzheimer’s. Normal life. Wonderful life. My dear sweet Jeanne died from complications of Alzheimer’s. In 2007. Since then, I met a care-giver. On the message boards. An Italian. Now she’s my amore mio. We split time. Living with each other. In Sardinia. In America. And when we are apart, we really aren’t apart. We communicate daily. On Skype. We have found happiness. Together. More proof. That there’s life after Alzheimer’s. Take heart, beleaguered care-givers. And please begin playing more active roles in musings. Make this a place of respite. A place for hope. About a bright tomorrow. As life goes on. --Jim Broede

Where do rights begin and end?

This idea. Of guaranteeing everyone their autonomy. Isn't always a good idea. For instance, I have several friends on obvious self-destructive paths. Maybe even headed for suicide. When is it appropriate to intervene? And to compel the friend to get help. Or to even be committed against his/her will. To therapy. Maybe even confinement. And forced treatment. Yes, not always an easy choice. Anyway, I see a controversial societal obligation to help those in need of help. That especially goes for the mentally ill. To people that might potentially hurt themselves or others. In theory, I think people have a right to commit suicide. Unimpeded. But before they do it, why not require them to get counseling/psychotherapy? It'd be nice if one could be required to pursue happiness. Rather than unhappiness. But pure and simple, some people would rather be dead than alive.  Do they have the unalienable right to make that choice? --Jim Broede

I'm at a loss for words.

Wish I had the power/wherewithal to save alcoholics and depressed people from themselves. Including my friend Julie. She has to save herself.  Unfortunately, she has no desire to steer off her self-destructive path. All I can do is watch. And I'd just as soon not do that. It's too painful. To be an observer of the deterioration of a once wonderful human being. To addiction. To mental illness. Yes, I know it happens to other people. All too frequently. Julie has fallen out of love. Once upon a time, she cherished and savored life. I encourage Julie to pursue happiness. Suggesting many, many ways. All of which get ignored. So sad. Julie is sick. And refuses to get well. I'm known as a pretty persuasive guy.  But I can't find the words to persuade Julie to become happy again. --Jim Broede

       

Speeding. On the highway of life.

I try to adjust. To circumstances. On a daily basis. Here it is. Just past midnight. On Wednesday.  Don't know yet when I'll go to bed. Or get up. Or what I'll do Wednesday. Depends on how I feel. And circumstances. I could spend the day in many different ways. In different activities. I have no set plan. No schedule to do this or that. I like that. Having an unplanned day. Of course, I'll write. Because I write virtually every day. But don't ask me what I'll write about. I have no idea. Again, depends on circumstances. And my mood. My inclinations. Always, I find something to write about. It's an obligation. Because I am a writer. I feel compelled to write. It's what I do. My pastime. My stimulation. Makes me feel alive. And skillful. Maybe I'd be less of a thinker. If I didn't write. I'm sitting at my computer. Looking at the keyboard. And I'm using two fingers. To type my current thought. It's a nice skill. Better than writing longhand.  I scribble. Which is a shame. Because in the sixth grade I got perfect grades. In penmanship. With perfectly formed letters. Now my handwriting is barely legible. Speed. Speed. Speed. That's my emphasis. I need to record my thoughts. As fast as they come. Which is very fast. In the sixth grade, I was able to take my time. No hurry. Neatness  on paper was the order of the day. I was not yet being taught the craft of fast-paced living.  But didn't take long. For the circumstances to dictate. That I had better speed up. Or risk being left behind.  On the highway of life. --Jim Broede

The uniquely imperfect me.

I like being vulnerable. Knowing and accepting my failings.  Really, my imperfections. They give me my identity.  A feeling. Of being human. Some of my friends. Give me critiques. Tell me how I could be a better man. A better writer. A better everything. But I choose not to be better. I'd rather be the vulnerable and uniquely imperfect me. --Jim Broede

Like Zorba the Greek.

Another thing. Julie hasn't gone to a hairdresser for months and months. Such a long time. She's beginning to look like the wild woman from Borneo. She needs a refreshing new look. She needs to indulge herself. And to begin again. To feel what it's like to be nice to one's self. To be beautiful. Inside and out. To find her way out of the negativity. Of depression. If she follows my advice, I'll dance in the street. In front of her house. Like Zorba the Greek.  --Jim Broede

It ain't too late, dear Julie.

My friend Julie always wanted to be a writer. Of children's books. But her father discouraged such a pursuit. Thinking it was too crass. Instead, Julie became a people-pleaser. Trying to please everyone. But herself. Indeed, she pleased her father. Maybe far too much. I'm encouraging Julie to put herself first and foremost. Suggesting that she pursue her longtime dream. A writer of children's books. She's a natural. And at age 62, it ain't too late. To pursue true happiness. Might be a way for Julie to come out of depression, too. --Jim Broede

The sometimes brutal truth.

I've said it before. And I'll say it again. I like to annoy people. Especially those I take umbrage with. Because that's a sign that they've been reached. I've made my point. They deserve to be ticked off.  Often because they don't want to hear the sometimes brutal truth. --Jim Broede

My dearest friends.

I love it. When people (especially friends) take issue with me. Over virtually anything. And dare tell me I'm wrong. About this or that. Because that makes me think. To examine myself. My thoughts. My approach to life. Usually, I conclude that I am right. And they are wrong. Not always, of course. Helps me fortify my position. Forces me to mull things over. And that's what people (friends) are supposed to do. True friends don't remain mum. They are forthright. And truthful. Especially with me. That's why they remain my dearest friends. --Jim Broede

Keeping a positive frame of mind.

I'm a self-styled part-time amateur psychotherapist. Really, it's a hobby. And that's the way I want to keep it. I couldn't handle being a full-fledged full-time psychotherapist. It would drive me nuts. Trying to constantly deal with other people's mental and emotional problems. Better to focus on my own. I give myself psychotherapy virtually every day. By talking to myself. And listening to what I have to say. It's some pretty dazzling stuff. Keeps me in a positive frame of mind. --Jim Broede       

To an animal of significance.

Sometimes, I talk to myself. Out loud. While walking. Some people find that strange. But maybe it seems less strange. When I take the neighbor's dog, Sasha, for daily walks. She becomes my captive audience. My psychotherapist, too. I talk to Sasha. Treating her. As a real being. Sasha makes it easier. For me. To express by inner thoughts. To an animal of significance. --Jim Broede

For the better.

Of course, that's what I want. For an alcoholic friend to drink no more. For a depressed friend to be happy again. So that's what I strive for. Not only for myself. But for others. Especially those close to me. Yes, I'm trying to change the behavior of others. Most of whom have no overwhelming desire for change. So it should come as no surprise. If some friends tell me to butt out. To mind my own business. But I insist. It is my business. Granted, I can't change the world. But please, allow me to try. At the very least. To try to influence my friends. For the better. --Jim Broede

Also known as drunks.

Terrible. Terrible. Watching a dear friend. Deteriorate. Before one's eyes. And feeling helpless. To do anything about it. Because of presumed societal rules. Here in America. That it's all right for people to choose to be self-destructive. As long as they don't bring the rest of us down with them. People have the right to immerse themselves in alcohol.  Until they hurt others. Such as driving drunk. And getting caught. And even then, the penalty may not be severe enough.  Drunk drivers often live to see another day. Of driving drunk. I suspect my friend J. has driven under the influence.  But hasn't been nabbed. Thought about tipping off the highway patrol. Thinking it would be a good thing. For everyone. But especially for J. I'd be serving the best interests of society, too. Wouldn't I? So many questions. About right and wrong. When dealing with alcoholics. Also known as drunks. --Jim Broede

Easier to laugh than cry.

Don't know, my fellow compatriots, whether to take J. as a pathetic or a comical character.  Maybe a little bit of both. She refuses to allow me to carry in her bags. From the car. She's quite adamant about it.  Which makes me suspicious. There's something which she doesn't want me to see. Wine. Because she knows that she'll need it. For her daily fix. Of course, she's ashamed of it. Doesn't want to announce to the world. That she's an alcoholic. Doesn't even want to admit it to herself. Yes, pathetic. And comical.  For J's  sake,  I want to laugh. Rather than cry.  All of us close to J. know that she has a serious drinking problem. And here we are. Stuck. Not knowing how to deal with our dear friend J. The real difficulty. Is that I know. If I were king and ruled by divine right, J.  would be committed. Without a moment's delay. To Hazelden. For 30 days of alcohol rehab treatment. I would find a way to get J. to recognize that she's an alcoholic. Meanwhile, I'm being momentarily judged by J. as her enemy. The gestapo. Yes, that's what she's calling me. The gestapo. Funny. Funny. I'm not the least bit angry. I'm laughing. Because it's so much easier to laugh than cry. --Jim Broede

Beyond a doubt.

Every day. I remind myself. That I am alive. And conscious. Can't think of a more incredible thought than that. I actually exist. And I'm aware of it. Some days, I keep pondering that thought. Over and over. Other times. I merely get on with life. Without being fully aware. Instead, going through the motions. That can be frightening. That is, when I stop to think about it. But the fright eases. When I remind myself. That I am very much alive. And very much aware. Knowing it. Beyond a doubt. --Jim Broede

Simply find another purpose.

Not sure that I need a single purpose in life. Sometimes, I'm most comfortable picking and choosing a different purpose every day. It's called flexibility. My calling of the moment. To stick by a single purpose for a long, long time doesn't always make sense. My purpose can hinge on the day's unforeseen circumstances. I have a friend. Whose husband suggests that she's gone awry. Because she's lost her purpose. If so. Simply find another purpose. --Jim Broede

Merely a matter of focus.

I've never fully understood/accepted the concept of waiting for tomorrow. For the better life. For happiness. Waiting. Waiting isn't for me.  I find ways to grasp happiness today. Now. Happiness is a state of mind.  Over which I have control. Therefore, I find 100 reasons to be happy. Then I stop counting. And embrace happiness. Always, there are many more reasons to be happy than unhappy. Even my depression-riddled friends can find at least one reason to be happy. Then it's merely a matter of focus. --Jim Broede

In search of other spirits.

I can imagine being a spirit. A non-physical being. With the ability to converse. With other spirits. Not sure how a spirit  would relate to the physical world. Presumably, a spirit would be invisible to physical beings. Though one could still sense the presence of a spirit. I do. Frequently. Therefore. Little wonder. That I can imagine. Being a spirit. Actually, it's my fervent wish. That I become a spirit some day. Of course, that means shedding my physical being. Which ain't a bad thought. A spiritual life would free me from physical restraints. And allow me to move about. To virtually anywhere in the cosmos. Sight unseen. I could become a spy. Eavesdropping on virtually everything/everyone in the physical realm. Not that I would want to spy. Because I would have better things to do. Such as visiting the planet Uranus. In search of other spirits.  --Jim Broede

For peace and tranquility.

I like to ponder. And wander and wonder. Where I've been. And where I am. Now. Reminds me. That I'm on a journey. The final destination doesn't matter. Because I'm going. With the natural flow. Meeting people along the way. Some come. Some go. But always, it seems. I love. And am loved. Can't ask for more than that. That's enough. For peace and tranquility. --Jim Broede

The right and wrong dilemma.

I'm confused. Over right and wrong. Sometimes, I do the right thing. And ultimately it proves wrong. Or I do the wrong thing, and it turns out to be right. So tell me, dear readers, is there a clear cut and undisputed right and wrong? I find that what's right for others is often wrong for me. --Jim Broede

       

That's reality.

Reality.  It's a state of mind. My state. At this very moment. I'm capturing a thought. That I am very much alive. And with it. That I'm feeling good. Upbeat. Of course, I could choose another reality. One that makes me less happy. If not downright disconsolate. I have friends that choose the latter. Some tell me they really have no choice,. They are compelled. Sentenced. Cursed. Fated. To self-destructive lives.  A slow and agonizing form of suicide. I try to intervene. With varying degrees of success and failure. Which means that I celebrate and lament. All at the same time. That's reality.  --Jim Broede

My addictions.

I'm a Cubaholic. Yes, a longtime Chicago Cubs fan. Addicted to the Cubs. But you might call me a recovering Cubaholic.  I have learned to treat the Cubs with restraint. With caution. Wasn't always that way. Used to be when the Cubs lost a baseball game, I went into depression. Especially if it was a tough loss. A game they should have won. I lamented over the many missed opportunities. Had difficulty sleeping. I lamented for days on end. Yes, it had become a truly negative addiction. Caused me immense stress. But years ago, I gave myself psychotherapy. Decided not to watch Cubs games. Better to check the score. After the game. If the Cubs lose, I avoid the details. If the Cubs win, I devour the game story. Relishing every detail. Because it makes me feel good. Anyway, it's obvious. That I know how to treat addictions. Some positive. Others negative. One can live happily and contentedly. With certain addictions. Including the Cubs. But it takes a great deal of self-control. And moderation. Exactly the way I learned to handle the beloved Cubs.  Alcoholics, meanwhile, have a more difficult challenge. They'd be better off being addicted to the Cubs. Because they could still learn to practice restraint/moderation.  Not so for most alcoholics. They need to quit, period. Only then are they in recovery.  Fortunately, alcohol ain't my problem.  Don't get me wrong. I have more than one addiction.  But they are positive addictions. I'm addicted to exercise, for instance. Have to workout daily. Otherwise, I'd start climbing a wall. But exercise is good. Keeps me svelte. I'm also addicted to my Italian amore mio. She's my daily fix. Makes me feel high. All the time. And in love, too. --Jim Broede

       

Yes, a paradox.

Maybe that's what we lack most in our relationships. True intimacy. I don't mean physical intimacy. More a sharing of souls. With words. With thoughts. A connectedness.  The natural flow/poetry of life.  Shared. With an individual. Or the masses. Even a rare politician can be intimate. A writer, too. Someone from virtually any walk of life. I find it easiest and hardest to convey intimacy in words. Yes, a paradox. --Jim Broede

Believing what I want to believe.

Better to believe what I want to believe. Rather than allowing others to tell me what to believe. That allows me to design my own life.  For instance. I believe in happiness and my own version of reality. Others may tell me that I'm wrong. Living a life of self-deception. But that doesn't matter. I possess the secret to happiness. Because I believe what I want to believe.  --Jim Broede

Fortunately, I took control.

As long as I'm fully immersed in today, tomorrow doesn't really matter. Seems to me that the worry warts of the world, get too far ahead of themselves. Into tomorrow and next week and next year. Before they have lived today. Better to take care of the moment.  To get satisfaction and happiness now. No delay.  The other day. I asked a troubled friend to give me 10 minutes of her time. She claimed to be too busy. Yes, too busy to be happy. Too busy to talk to me. She had to focus on her troubles. Therefore, I became demanding. And cited examples of her wasting time. When she would be better off. Allowing me to practice psychotherapy. To get her refocused. Now. Not tomorrow. Fortunately, I took control of the situation. And helped to turn her day around.--Jim Broede

Until I fell in love. With life.

Love. It's the greatest discovery of my life. I really wasn't looking for it. It just happened. Appeared. In a flash. There was no love. Then there was love. A blessing. I wonder. How I could have gone so many youthful years? Without a true sense of love. And then have love. In an instant. Could be. That I wasn't truly alive. Until I fell in love. With life. --Jim Broede

I ploy my way for free.

Really, nothing wrong with living in an imaginary world. As long as it's a happy one. Don't know for certain if my long stays in Paradise are imagined or real. But they seem real. So it really doesn't matter. Unfortunately, I have a friend or two or three living in hell. Or so they tell me. But I suspect that with a psychotherapy session (from me) they could easily find their way to Paradise. Another thing. I don't charge a fee. I ploy my trade for free. --Jim Broede

Getting on with foolish lives.

Sometimes I pretend. That I'm not a fool. Funny thing. That's when I'm the  biggest fool of all. Meanwhile, my favorite people. Are the ones that know. That they are real fools. And get on with their foolish lives.  Happily.  --Jim Broede

The nature of my priorities.

I can live the good life. Without throngs of people. Because I am able to settle. For my dear animal friends. Not the least being Loverboy. A cat. I hate to say my cat. Because he doesn't really 'belong' to me. He's independent. His own being. Though he lives with me. And comforts me as much as any human friend.  Except for my amore mio. Yes, Loverboy is second on my list. But that doesn't bother him.  He knows the truth. And accepts the truth. That he's a cat. Though he really acts human. He speaks to me. I speak to him. We have wonderful conversations. True dialogues.  My other dearest friends are neighborhood canines. Dogs. That almost seem human. Stinker. Polly. Sasha. Jake. Nicholas. Daisy. I know all of 'em. By names. But still. I have some neighbors. Without names. Goes to show. The nature of my priorities. --Jim Broede

To cleanse one's soul.

I have a friend who lies to herself. Frequently. And to other people, too. Maybe for legitimate reasons. Such as not wanting to hurt someone's feelings. But the worst lies are to one's self. I've suggested that she try to go a full day. Without a single lie. To anyone. Imagine that. A day of truth. Can't think of a better psychotherapy. Venturing into the world. As one's naked self. I do it often. In an attempt to cleanse my soul. --Jim Broede

Little wonder. Julie is in depression.

Another thing about Julie. Her younger sister is a bad influence. A  bad actor. Not at all good for Julie. The sister causes great amounts of agitation. In Julie. Drives Julie over the edge. But Julie still puts up with her sister. And hides her true feelings about the sister. I encourage Julie to cut ties with the sister. At least temporarily. Because the sister causes stress.  Meanwhile, Julie doesn't speak the truth to her sister. Instead, she tries to be nice. And courteous. Doesn't want to hurt the feelings of  the annoying sister. When really, Julie should learn to speak the truth. Even if it's brutal. To express her true feelings. To the sister. Or at least suspend ties with the sister. In order to avoid stress that drives Julie deeper into depression.  Julie has never learned to speak the truth. To others. Or even to herself. Little wonder that Julie is in depression. --Jim Broede

Live your dream, Julie.

Discovered something about my depression-riddled friend Julie yesterday. That she long-dreamed about being a writer. Of children's books. But that her domineering and somewhat abusive scientist father tried to steer her in other directions. To not be her true self.  Makes me wonder if that's one reason why Julie is unhappy. I've suggested that she write. The truth. About what she wants to be. A happy writer. Do it. Do it. Do it. Live your dream, Julie. --Jim Broede

Into more and deeper love.

Drunks live mostly on the dark side of life. At least, the ones that I know.  They tend to drown their sorrows. In alcohol. That is their basic affliction. Sorrow. Sadness. And they don't know how to get rid of it. Here's a suggestion. Examine the reason for the sorrow.  Usually, it's over the loss of something or someone. Perhaps a loved one. But that doesn't mean one can no longer be a lover. Once a lover, always a lover. One can continue to love. In so very many and innovative and happy ways. True lovers know how to turn sorrow into more and deeper love. --Jim Broede

Exactly where I belong.

Maybe there is no such thing as brutal truth. Because truth is inherently good. Think about it. Going through life as a liar. Not only to others. But to ourselves. Doesn't seem like the right thing to do. Better to live by the axiom that the truth shall set us free. Don't know if I always speak the truth. Because I don't always feel free. But occasionally I feel free as free can be. Maybe that's an indication that I have found the truth. Temporarily, at least. And I don't feel brutalized. Instead, I feel peace and tranquility. As if I've arrived in Paradise.  Exactly where I belong. --Jim Broede

On savoring the least.

Once again, people want too much in their lives. They want everything. And that's the problem. It's like having all the money in the world. But what good is it? It still may not be enough to buy happiness. Might be just the opposite. I'd be wretchedly unhappy. Spoiled. By having too much. My happiness should be rooted in the smallest things. On savoring the least of what I have. --Jim Broede

Living happily ever after.

I'm repeatedly saved. By my imagination. By pretending. That all is well. So easy to concoct a story. Makes me a master of creation. I put myself into the story. In whatever way I like. As hero. Or villain. Any and everything. No limits. I am capable of creating my own world. Where I can live happily ever after. --Jim Broede

Settling for less.

Shouldn't matter. If other people are unhappy. As long as I'm happy. I wonder if that's a selfish attitude. Thing is. I ask unhappy friends what it is that would make them happy. And some don't know. An indication that they haven't even started the search for happiness. Others seem to want too much. Virtually everything. All they need do is lower their goals. Settling for less. Rather than for the impossible. --Jim Broede

A selective memory.

Life is merely a game. Like a sporting event. You win some. And lose some. It's best, of course, to take it all in stride. Without overly lamenting the losses. And savoring the wins. Unfortunately, I have friends who dwell on the downsides of life. When they'd be better off focusing on the upsides. My off-and-on friend Julie is a negative thinker. Most of the time. Especially when she flirts with depression. And her favorite beverage. She doesn't know how to cope with life's losses. And seldom counts the wins. Oh, life would be so much better. If we celebrated the wins. And forgot the losses. That's one of my attributes. A selective memory. --Jim Broede

The worst shame of all.

Several sick friends. I have 'em. A blend. Both mentally and physically sick. And I'd like to see them become well again.  The most difficult ones.  Have varying degrees of depression.  And difficulties with alcohol. Sometimes the mental problems seem more difficult to cope with than the physical ones. Partly because in America, there's a stigma attached to mental disease. People try to hide from it. Both the victims and the onlookers. As if it's a shame. More shameful than cancer or heart disease. I'm frustrated. By efforts to get help for my mentally-disturbed friends. First, they are often resistant to help. And second, they have limited options. Especially if they require substantial round-the-clock care and treatment. We need more and better mental health sanitariums. Where they can become well again. And be confined. Away from the stresses and rigors of every day life. They should be committed. Even against their wills.  For their benefit. For society's benefit, too. The worst shame of all. Is to see my needy friends wasting away. Before my eyes. When they could be saved. By proper and effective mental health care. --Jim Broede

The disappointments of friendship.

I'm disappointed. Not with life. But with certain friends. Yes, they disappoint me. Because they aren't in love.  With life. They are terribly depressed. Or lackadaisical. Or indifferent. Hard for me to be around such unhappy people. Of course, I try to be cheerful. Empathetic, too. But often, it's a waste of time. I'm better off steering clear of such friends. Makes me wonder why we ever became friends in the first place. Maybe it was in better times. Over the years. I've had friends. That come and go. Very few lifelong friends. Thing is. I can handle only so many friends. Because true friendship takes time and effort. And a willingness to make sacrifices. Despite the disappointments. --Jim Broede 

My spoiled and affluent friends.

I have materially well-off but unhappy friends. In depression.  Some of whom have taken to drowning their sorrows in alcohol. I also have impoverished  acquaintances. African  migrants. Living in Italy. And they seem happy. In the pursuit of new lives. They have fled. Through Libya. By perilous sea journeys. They live hand to mouth. As street vendors. But still, they find ways to savor life. With great dreams and aspirations. About the future.  I feel closer and more happy for them than for some of my spoiled and affluent friends in America. --Jim Broede

My strange and immature mind.

I like to penetrate minds. To learn. About what makes people tick. In the process. I discover strange and fascinating minds. Yes, all sorts. But no mind as strange and fascinating as mine. And to think, It belongs to me. I have created this mind. It more or less started. From nothing. Can't even remember squeezing my way out of the womb. Awareness of my own mind probably didn't come until two or three years later. And now, it's all a mystery. Makes me wonder. If my still immature mind will ever become fully developed. --Jim Broede

Would the world be a better place?

Give me credit. I dare to muse.  Under my real name. About stuff on my mind. Sometimes in poetic fashion. It is sort of like going naked. Into the world. How many of you would risk becoming a fool? On a daily basis. In a public forum. Yes, it’s a bold act. Maybe stupid and risky, too. But so be it. It’s my chosen way. I do it. To set an example. On how to live. And to be reasonably truthful. About life. About love. About almost anything. I wonder. If we all did that. Would the world be a better (or worse) place? –Jim Broede

Beyond poetic words.

I relish feeling my way through life. Not knowing what's around the corner. Other than something grand and glorious. To be discovered. Occasionally I forget. That I was put on Earth. To be an explorer. Not only of the earthly environs. But deep into my incredible inner sanctum. Where I find abundant love and joy. And stimulation beyond poetic words. --Jim Broede

A pedestal. Above the fray.

Forgive me. For bringing up. Less than poetic subjects. From time to time. Unfortunately, that's the nature of life. To focus on the suffering. Mostly of the unhappy others. I refuse to join them. To be dragged down. Instead,  I remain on my lofty plateau. A pedestal. Above the fray. Though sometimes it seems. That I've joined the crowd. Truth is. I know better. Really, I live in wonderful isolation. Some call it a cocoon. Believe me. I know paradise. When I see it. --Jim Broede

Where all is bliss.

Some of my friends. It seems. Don't believe in anything. Not even in themselves. That's sad. I survive. And thrive. Because I believe in me. And in happiness. Oh, I gripe and complain. But nothing deters me. From achieving my fanciful goals. True love. Inspires me. Goads me on. I am adrift. And fearless. Doesn't matter where I land. Because I'm in Paradise. Where all is bliss. --Jim Broede

More practical than a walk on water.

I dare to think. All sorts of thoughts. By using my fertile imagination. No limits. But mostly, I zero in. On pleasant and happy thoughts. Even if that means make-believe. Like walking on water. I'm told. By someone who has done it. That such a simple act. Can be achieved. By merely believing. Without a single iota of doubt. But I have no need to walk on water. When it's sufficient to tread on solid ground. Really, far better to sail a boat on the Mediterranean Sea. To an island. Where my amore mio lives. Though I often settle. For a one hour air flight. From Rome to Sardinia. That's a more practical way. Than the days it would take. By performing the miraculous circus feat. Of walking all the way. On water. --Jim Broede

Knowing I'm no fake.

I'm happy. Being me. Never have wanted to be someone else. Because then I wouldn't be me. I'm unique. One of a kind. Come to think of it. That's what makes me happy. There's nobody exactly like me. I take pride in that. Makes no sense having  two of me in this world. We'd probably become rivals. I might want to get rid of my clone. Because he could anticipate what I'm up to. My next move. We might begin to manipulate and spy on each other. To see if one or the other is truly the real Broede. Of course, there's no doubt. I'm the superior and real me. The other guy is a pretender. Gives me a good and happy feeling. Knowing I'm no fake. --Jim Broede

       

Helping a friend. In a devious way.

Tell me. Would I be doing the right thing? if I helped get a friend arrested for drunk driving? Believe me. I'm tempted. To tip off the cops. When I have reason to believe that she's tipsy.  Maybe some would say that ain't a way to treat a friend.  Better to find a way to get her into treatment. Anyway, I'm flirting with the idea of being a snitch. In a blessed way. After all, an arrest for driving while intoxicated would most likely get her into court-ordered group therapy. That's a good thing, isn't it? Maybe the therapy won't work. And she'll continue to drink and drive. But it's worth a try, isn't it? Maybe I'll give my 'friend' a forewarning. Of what's to come. I'll willing to try almost anything. To help a friend. All be it, in a devious way --Jim Broede

       

Merely a confounded human.

I'd like to be a life-saver. Of certain dear friends. Bent on self-destruction. One in particular. Who drinks too much. Actually, for her. Even smelling a bar rag is one sniff too many. Booze, in her case wine, is a potential killer. And the  ruination of her life. She should know better. But like many addicts, can't find a way to stop. She refuses to pull herself up by the bootstraps. Which I have long advocated.  Of course that takes guts. Gumption. A fervent desire to get better. Instead, she's a weakling. A procrastinator. A coward. Yes, I tell her the brutal truth. To the point of maybe severing our friendship. But that's the way I am. I take risks. In an effort to save what could be a wonderful and glorious life. Unfortunately, I'm not god. I'm merely a confounded human. Without the ability to perform life-saving miracles. --Jim Broede

Until she stops drinking.

Listening. It's an art. I have a so-called friend. That doesn't know how to listen.  She hears only what she wants to hear. I might as well talk to a wall. I'm wasting my time. I've put the friendship on hold. On suspension. In her relatively sober moments, I'm deluded. Mistaken. Thinking I've penetrated her thick skull. But the next day, she doesn't remember anything. Maybe she's in an eternal daze. I'm told that some alcoholics, after recovery, often can't remember the years they spent in a drunken stupor. Because their minds weren't functioning at the time. Indeed, a sad state of affairs. Instead, they are focused on their new-found recovery. That's the good part. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that my friend will ever recover.  Anyway, I've told her our friendship is over. But she's forgotten. I have to remind her daily. We're through. We're finished. Sayonara, baby. Until she goes in for treatment and stops drinking. Yes, that's my ultimatum. Time to listen up. --Jim Broede