Life really ain't simple.

When Julie had her last drink. Yesterday. She vomited. All over herself. Julie suggested. That might be a good sign. A good lesson. That if she continues to drink. She’s going to puke.  Believe me. Puking is the least of Julie’s woes. She’s not only an alcoholic. But a victim of devastating depression. Languishing. Hopelessly, it seems. Unable to grasp the severity of her condition. Unable to gain control of herself. That’s my definition of mental illness. Julie should be put away. And treated. Until she’s capable of taking charge of her life again. It’s that simple. But life is too complex. It really ain’t simple. --Jim Broede

But still, awfully horrid.

My friend Julie. She’s not my favorite subject. Because. Too often. It’s bad news. Julie is trying to cope with a miserable downtrodden life. Burdened by two curses. Depression. And alcoholism. Julie is making a valiant effort. But so far, it’s not valiant enough. Julie went into therapy. To dry out. Yes, rehab. For an extended period. Imagine that. Forty-some days. Without a drink. Seemed successful enough. For Julie to come home. For a break. Before resuming institutional 24/7 therapy. But turns out. Julie wasn’t able to handle freedom. She relapsed.  Yes, a great disappointment. For Julie. And for everyone around her. A reminder, too. That an addiction is an addiction is an addiction.  A devastating disease. That has taken a toll. And control of Julie. Rather than Julie taking control of the disease. We’re all feeling let down. But we’re learning, too.  That there can be no let up. Alcoholism is a horrid malady. Maybe not as horrid as Alzheimer’s. But still, awfully horrid. --Jim Broede

Funny stuff.

I try to make sense. Out of everything. Knowing full well that’s impossible. But still, it’s worth the effort. To find meaning. In life. Even if that requires going on imaginary flights of fancy. My imagination. That’s my salvation.  Allows me to put no limits. On my thoughts. On my musings. Often I pretend there’s meaning. Where there’s no meaning. That makes me laugh. I see humor in the senseless and absurd. That’s meaningful, isn’t it? Life is full of funny stuff. --Jim Broede

Nothing shameful.

I’m seldom at a loss for words. Don’t know if that’s an attribute. Or a liability. Occasionally gets me into trouble. But often, having something to say. Can lead to better understandings. And better relationships. People tell me that I have a big mouth. More kiddingly than seriously. Or so I assume. Maybe I’d be better off. Keeping some thoughts to myself. But I’d rather say too much. Rather than too little.  I’m a good listener. Mostly because it creates opportunities to respond. To stir conversation. Once upon a time, I might have been considered shy. Hesitant to approach strangers. But that didn’t make sense. Because I’m naturally curious. About life. About people.  About the ways of the world.  I’m compelled. To figure out.  What’s going on. What’s happening. Don’t want to go through life harboring secrets. Give me openness. Nakedness. Yes, I have nothing to hide. Nothing shameful. --Jim Broede

A rainy day, made to order.

I’ve decided to like a rainy day. Because it happens to be rainy.  Makes no sense to dislike the day. Just because it’s rainy. Might as well make the best of it. By telling myself, in a convincing manner, that I’d rather have rain than shine. Makes me feel good. That today’s weather was made to order. -Jim Broede

Or whether it really matters.

Don’t know what it means. To act one’s age. As a kid, often it was best and wisest to act older. And now as an octogenarian, better to act younger. Maybe that’s what I’ve become. An actor. Indeed, that’s a skill, a craft, an art. A worthy pursuit. To be or not to be. Whatever I choose. In the moment. I can play all sorts of roles. Makes me wonder. Whether I’m acting or being my real self. Or whether it really matters. --Jim Broede

I'd rather be me.

I speak my mind. Openly. Often telling my friends and acquaintances what they don’t want to hear. My perception of the truth. Even if it’s brutal.  That may make me seem mean. But actually. It’s an act of kindness. To speak the truth.  Yes, I know. Some people would prefer. That I be a liar. Anyway, I’d rather be me. --Jim Broede

Doing what comes naturally.

I’m writing at 2 in the morning. After having slept solidly for 3 hours. That’s often my pattern. Seldom do I sleep 8 hours straight through. Oh, I get 8 hours of sleep. Almost every night. But I break it up. Maybe into 3 sleep sessions. Because it feels natural. Feels good. Gives me opportunity. To refresh my mind. And my body, too. Maybe it’s that I am learning to listen to my body and mind.  Rather than to traditional dictated concepts. Of how to sleep. I make my own rules. To accommodate my natural way. That’s also why I walk 10 miles daily. Because I’m listening to my inner sanctum. Doing what comes naturally. --Jim Broede

My mind. My heart. My gut.

The mind. The heart. The gut. Combine them all. And one has the makings of the spirit. The very being that I want to be. Full of desire and love. For life. There’s no stopping me. In the pursuit of happiness. Nothing else will suffice. I am on a mission. Unafraid.  Because I allow my creator-given spirit. To be my guide. My mind. My heart. My gut. --Jim Broede

Great acceptance is best of all.

My Chicago Cubs are exceeding my expectations. They’ve won 14 of their first 19 games. The best start since they last won a World Series. In 1908. I know. I know. I could be setting myself up. For great disappointment. But really doesn’t matter. Yes, I’ve learned. Great acceptance is better than great expectation. --Jim Broede

In the amazing physical realm.

When I awaken. From a dream. Like I did this morning. I wonder. If my entire life is but a dream. So brilliant. So detailed. That it’s as if everything was real. Yes, no mere dream. Instead, real physical life. When really, it’s only a dream. Of someone. A spirit. Other than the physical me. And that ultimately. Instead of dying. I will truly awaken. Out of my lifelong physical dream. And become aware. Of who and what I am. Someone other than me. A spirit. Living a physical dream. For 80 years, and counting. Perhaps I will be in an advanced civilization. In a spirit dimension. Almost beyond my imagination. Where spirits are routinely put into dream states. So that one can live dreams  of physical lives. That seem so fantastically real. As if I had actually lived. In the amazing physical realm. --Jim Broede

Free as free can be.

I create my own world. By interpreting what I see and feel. Yes, by finding my own meaning. Maybe that’s the way it was meant to be. The original creator blessed us. By allowing us to create. Nothing less than our own exclusive selves. By giving free rein to our imaginations. Being whatever I want to be. So here I am. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. Yes, I am who I am. Because that’s what I choose to be. Free as free can be. --Jim Broede

If only...

Nothing stops me. In my pursuit of happiness. Of course, my friend Julie. Takes a different approach to life.  She allows herself to be unhappy. To be depressed. To be disappointed with her lot in life. Oh, Julie has occasional breakthroughs. Spurts of happiness.  Unfortunately, they come and go. Yes, it’s called very temporary happiness. But goes to show. That Julie has the capability of achieving bliss. It’s a matter of sustaining a delightful existence. I’m a master at it.  Julie could learn so much. From me. If only she put her mind and heart to it. --Jim Broede

No limits.

I like to think.  About anything. Sure beats having a blank mind. I’m in a constant conversation. If not with my friends and associates and strangers. With, guess who? Yes, me.  That’s why I could survive. On a desert island. Or in solitary confinement. I’d talk with me. Furthermore, I’d have the opportunity to commune. With the spirits. That’s the nature of life, isn’t it? The ability to commune. If not with others. One always has the self. An opportunity to turn inward.  To explore the world of thought. From within.  That, more than anything, makes life thrilling.  One adventure after another. No limits.--Jim Broede

Never too late to face the truth.

My friend Julie is a liar. She not only lies to her friends and to husband Rick. But to herself. That’s the worst kind of liar. I tell Julie that she’s a liar. But Julie doesn’t want to hear it. So she runs away. And hides. But I keep telling Julie. That I still believe in her. It’s never too late to face the truth. I’ve been told that the truth sets one free. Yes, dear Julie. Please put that adage to a test. --Jim Broede

Is that asking too much?

Believe me. It’s a good feeling. Being 80. I look at the obituaries. The rock star Prince. Dead at 57. My step son Jack. Also dead at 57. And here I am. An octogenarian.  My favorite composer. Mozart. Dead at 35. Schubert, too. Dead at 31. I would have hated dying in my 30s. Or even in my 50s. I’d have missed so much. I’m greedy.  I want to live forever. Is that asking too much? --Jim Broede

Trying to do the best I can.

I’m puzzled. By mentally ill people. Many of them addicts. To alcohol and other drugs. Mostly, I steer clear of them. Acting as if it’s not my business. Furthermore, I wouldn’t know how to intervene. Effectively. That’s the case with my friend Julie. I know it’s going to be a long haul. For Julie to recover. And there’s a chance she’ll never make it. Because there’s no sure-fire treatment for Julie’s many and deep mental disorders. I’d like to put Julie away. Into a sanitarium. For as long as it takes. To protect Julie from herself.  From addictions. From her depression. But I’m told that’s impractical. Or that there are no such facilities. That at best, Julie will be treated on a hit-and-miss basis. And besides, Julie must be willing and able to respond to treatment. That’s more unlikely than likely. Yes, that’s the way it is. That’s life. All too often. The mentally ill are left to fend for themselves. Yes, it seems heartless. But that’s the way the system works. In a heartless and ineffective manner. And here I am. Sitting on my hands. Musing. Musing about what to do next. Perhaps feeling as helpless as Julie. But I have a choice. I can throw up my hands. And retreat. Trying to do the best I can. With my own life. --Jim Broede

A critical point.

My friend Julie cannot survive on her own. If left to her own devices, I doubt that Julie would last for more than a few months. She’d grossly mismanage her life. To the point of doing harm to herself and probably to others.  She needs help. To deal with depression and alcoholism. Lately, she’s been getting help. In an institutional setting. For a month. Now she’s at home. Where the only thing  saving her is the watchful eye and loving care of husband Rick. Without him on the scene, Julie would be in big trouble. That’s why Julie needs to go into an extended  drug rehab program or a mental health center. Where she will be cared for 24/7. Until she’s willing and able to cope with life – on her own. She’s in no condition to do that now. And Rick is running out of the patience and stamina to care for Julie. Yes, the relationship is at a critical point. Julie is reaching the do or die stage. Unfortunately, she does not recognize the degree of her mental illness. Otherwise, she would check herself in to a psychiatric ward. --Jim

For a moment. Of feeling alive.

Imagine. If I had never lived. It could be. That when I’m gone. It’ll be the same. As if I never was. Such a thought. Used to bother me.  But now I wonder. If it really matters. Yes. Maybe I should be grateful. For a moment. Of feeling alive. --Jim Broede

A favorite mantra.

One nice thing. About being alive and conscious. It’s never too late. To express what’s on my mind.  I can merely sit down. And write about it.  Now. Do it. Do it. Do it. That’s one of my favorite mantras.  --Jim Broede

The crazy quest for the impossible.

I don’t have to be perfect. Because, in my opinion, everyone is imperfect. Including the creator himself. Yes, life is mistake-prone. One was created. To be imperfect. To learn from one’s mistakes. Anyway, I’ve learned something from life. That life wouldn’t be worth living. If not for all of the precarious mistakes. That’s what makes life so interesting. So captivating. The crazy quest for the impossible. --Jim Broede

Yes, I'm better for it.

I practice. Not letting life’s setbacks get me down. Using the setback. As a stepping stone. To better things. Like my experience as an Alzheimer’s care-giver. I let it turn into a blessing. For me. And really, for Jeanne, too.  Stuff happens. And it needn’t be something to lament. I am where I am today. In large part. Because of the Alzheimer experience. And I find no reason to complain. Yes, I’m better for it. --Jim Broede

Love: A form of rebellion.

There’s something far better than being a rebel. Yes, I’d rather be a lover than a rebel. Though come to think of it, falling in love may be a form of rebellion. Against a humdrum life. It’s a way of getting revved  up.  To feel alive. And spontaneous. To have a pulse beat. To be at one with the cosmos.  --Jim Broede

To deceive one's self.

I wonder if lying is an art. Everyone lies. To some degree. That’s all right. I accept friends who lie to other people. For good reason. Often to avoid trouble. And to not hurt feelings. Those kinds of lies are tolerable. Acceptable. Because I differentiate. Between good lies and bad lies. Unfortunately, I have several friends that continually lie. To themselves. Often without knowing it. They believe their own lies.  If they merely lie to me and others – well, that ain’t so bad.  As long as they are honest with themselves.  Acknowledging that they are liars.  Often for the sake of convenience.  And even kindness. But if they lie to bamboozle themselves –that’s where the line should be drawn.  Yes, that’s the worst kind of lie. Shameful. To deceive one’s self.  --Jim Broede

It ain't all bad

My dear sweet Jeanne died of Alzheimer-related stuff. Eight years ago. After 13 years of coping. But I don’t lament any more. Instead, I rejoice. Over happy and fond memories of Jeanne. The good stuff. I almost forget  that Jeanne had Alzheimer’s. Merely another unfortunate way to die. But no big deal anymore. Passage of time does that. Better that Jeanne lived to  81. To die of a disease mostly related to old age.  Better than if Jeanne had died at 51. Of cancer or heart disease. That’s the way I look at life. I’m 80. And hope that I don’t die of Alzheimer’s.  I could pick better ways to go. But hey, I’m thankful. That I survived this long.  Makes it a little easier to accept inevitable death. Though I still dream. Of living forever. As spirit. It’s possible. Because I commune with Jeanne’s spirit. She tells me it’s all right to love again. Now I have an Italian true love. Cristina. Met her . On the  Alzheimer message boards. Shortly after Jeanne entered the spirit world. Could be. That Jeanne set the whole thing up. Because she wants me to stay in love. With life. Come to think of it. There are side benefits from the Alzheimer’s experience. It ain’t all bad. --Jim Broede

A wonderful life.

Sometimes I allow myself to be spoiled. I have so much. That I become downright greedy. Oh, I don’t covet material things.  Such as the stuff that money can buy. Money rarely brings me happiness. Instead, I want the Chicago Cubs to win baseball games. And to go to the World Series. The Cubs have the best record (10-3) in major league baseball.  Off to one of their best starts ever. But when the Cubs lose. I lament for a while. Imagining ways they could and should have won. Instead of focusing on their amazing record. I want more and more wins. Lengthy winning streaks. Yes, I want to be spoiled. Like the millionaire with an insatiable desire to become a billionaire.  Yes, sometimes it’s better to settle for less.  And savor what one already has. A wonderful life. --Jim Broede

A remedy for anger.

I used to get angry. Over all sorts of things. But now. I hardly ever get angry. Maybe it’s that I’ve learned to recognize. The self-defeating nature of anger. Anyway, most of the time I have no control over the stuff that pisses me off. Therefore, it’s a waste of time to get stressed and bent out of emotional shape. Better to get on with the more pleasant aspects of life. Steering clear of politics and annoying people and bureaucracies. And do you know what?  It works. --Jim Broede

For a timeles overnight snooze.

I feel at one. With the universe. With creation. Some call it a cosmic consciousness. Who knows? Maybe some day I lose my consciousness. But maybe my awareness. Comes back. Again and again. Upon my return to time. I wonder. If when I drift asleep. Every night. I have journeyed. Outside the dimension of time.  Where one can stay. For one million years. And upon awakening. In my reality. It would seem as if one were gone. For a timeless overnight snooze. --Jim Broede

The undeniable facts.

We Americans are supposed to be proud of our declaration of independence. But for me, as an individual, there’s a more important declaration. Yes, a declaration of happiness. Every morning, upon waking from sleep, I boldly declare to devote the day to the pursuit of happiness. Even if I have initial reason to feel a little bit sad. After all, I can counter with 100 reasons to feel happy. Usually, at the top of my list. Are the undeniable facts that I’m alive and conscious. And in love. That does the trick every time. --Jim Broede

A rule of political nature.

Being strange. Isn’t necessarily the worst thing to be. Think about it. Strange can mean being different. Even in very nice ways. For instance. Being honest. With one’s self. And with others. Can be construed as very strange behavior. Or as an attribute. As an example. Take an honest politician.  One might conclude that there is no such species. Perhaps there was one. Once upon a time.  Or maybe it was in a fairy tale. Anyway, here’s the question I’m putting forth. Can an honest being (man or woman) be honest and a politician? All at the same time?  Maybe that’s an impossibility. Perhaps there’s a rule of political nature.  Honesty and politics don’t mix. Never has. Never will. --Jim Broede

A forthcoming declaration.

Maybe. As I age. I’m evolving. Into a philosopher. There could be worse things to be. Such as a politician. Or a heartless criminal. With complete lack of compassion. I’m beginning to wonder. If I missed my calling. That of philosopher. Maybe it’s not too late. To emerge. As a bona fide philosopher. Makes me wonder. If it takes. Training. And a degree. Or can I put up a shingle? And merely declare myself. A philosopher. --Jim Broede

For me to feel fantastic.

Life is far more fantastic. Than humdrum. Because it doesn’t take much. To rev me up. Upon reflecting. That I’m a romantic idealist. Capable of falling in love. With today. With being alive and conscious. Imagine that. Takes no more. For me to feel fantastic. --Jim Broede

Better to get on with life.

I recognize. That life is tenuous. Especially for Julie. Because she’s allowed her life to crumble. Into depression. Exacerbated by a drinking problem. Notice that I say problem. Rather than addiction. Guess it’s a matter of semantics. Julie prefers to not be known as an addict. Anyway, it’s a thin line. I’ll call Julie anything she likes. Even the Queen of Sheba. If she stops drinking. And learns to cope with her depression. In positive ways. If she chooses not to. That’s her business. No reason for me to fret. Better to get on with my own life. Over which I have  reasonable control. --Jim Broede

It's been rollicking good fun.

Life is fun. Despite the disappointments. Thing is. The pluses far outnumber the minuses. I’m disappointed in people. Even in some of my friends. But I’m not disappointed in me. Because I’ve learned to adjust. And adapt. To fall in love. With life.  And with a precious few. That keeps life interesting.  And so compelling. That I’d like to be around forever. But if that doesn’t happen. It’s still been rollicking good fun. --Jim Broede

A superior pretender.

It’s silly. To lie to one’s self. I try not to lie. To be truthful. Put it this way. I sometimes pretend. Being someone I’m not. Knowing I’m pretending. And usually, I do it for laughs. Like when I’m with my Italian true love. I pretend being the late Italian movie star Marcello Mastroianni. Which is funny. Because I look more like Boris Yeltsin.  I pretend, too. That I’m a superior being. And that Lake Superior was named after me.   Occasionally I dupe myself.  Into believing that I am superior. A superior pretender, that is. --Jim Broede

Yes, Julie is on the upswing.

Julie is coming home. On Sunday. For only a day or two. She’s been gone for over a month. In treatment.  She’s better. Sober. But she still has a long way to go. In her battle. Mainly against depression. Drinking. That’s the secondary problem. Julie will return to more extensive treatment. Because now she’s deemed ready for it. There are no guarantees. That Julie will stay on the road to recovery. But we all have reason to be optimistic.  Yes, Julie is on the upswing. --Jim Broede

Being honest. It ain't easy.

I love psychoanalysis. That is, when I probe myself.  Inwardly. Figuring out who and what I am. Always have been that way. As a kid. As a young man. In middle age. Now at age 80. It’s fun. Trying to understand myself. No need to go to a professional. When I’m my own best psychotherapist. And I work for free. Hey, I’m a natural born psychotherapist. It’s my hobby. I’m skilled at it. Having psychoanalyzed myself. Routinely. For as long as I can remember. With good results. I’m reasonably happy. Contented, too. Of course, I don’t solve other people’s problems. They are on their own. As it should be. I make suggestions. And give advice.  Such as. It’s good to become one’s own psychotherapist. But remember. It takes being honest. With one’s self. And that ain’t easy. --Jim Broede

A true believer. In a fantastic reality.

I’m trying to grasp the infinite enormity of creation. And the possibility of the cosmos teeming with life. Distances so great. That we measure them in light minutes. And light years. Light travels at 186,000 miles per second. Anyway, our galaxy, the Milky Way, has billions of stars. Like our sun. The next closest star is over four light years away. The Milky Way galaxy is 90,000 light years wide. And beyond our galaxy there are billions of other galaxies. Each with billions of stars. Tell me, that in this vast creation, Planet Earth is the only planet with life. That would be a lie. It ain’t so. Life really abounds. Human life. And other forms of intelligent life. And here I am. A miniscule speck. Thinking about it all. Makes me wonder. If it’s my imagination. Playing tricks. But I’m being told. It’s real. Just as real as me. Wow! Wow! Wow! Imagine that. It’s my reality. My life. Yes, tell me again and again and again. I’ve been blessed. Given an instant in time. To grasp such an overwhelming reality. No doubt about it. I’m in love. With precious life. Oh, it seems so real. Almost too good  to be true. But I’m buying into it. Fully. I’m a true believer. In a fantastic reality. --Jim

Some people are very strange.

A strange, strange thing about unhappiness. I know unhappy people.  Who don’t have to be unhappy. After all, from my perspective, they have many, many reasons to be happy. But they choose not to be happy. Indeed, that is strange. I have many, many reasons to be unhappy. But still, I’m happy.  Relatively speaking, of course. Possibly because I have an innate desire to  be genuinely happy. No matter what. Makes me wonder. If certain people have an innate longing to be unhappy. It’s just their way  Their choice.  Maybe being unhappy makes them sort of happy. In their inimitable way. Because they are being their true selves. Like I say: Strange, strange, strange. Some people are very strange. --Jim Broede

Proceeding on faith alone.

I‘m a believer. In what I want to believe. That’s my philosophical foundation. I make it up. As I go along. Thing is. Life is complex. And extraordinary. One will never fully understand everything. Therefore, I might as well follow my instincts. And create me. Into what I want to be. Yes, a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. A philosopher. Please note. That I keep adding to the list. I’ve evolved. Into a philosopher. Merely to make sense of life. Lately, I’ve been reading Plato, Aristotle, Socrates. And so many, many others. In the process, I’m forming my own philosophy. Of life. To suit my own needs. My own whims.Yes, believing what I want to believe. When there’s no absolute proof.  That’s no problem.  I proceed. On faith alone. To become. --Jim Broede

Out to bring about change.

Doesn’t surprise me. That I want to live forever. Sure, there are bad moments in life. In everyone’s life. And maybe if I were ill and destitute and oppressed, my optimistic outlook would be more pessimistic. But still, I might find a way to have a good and productive and fulfilling life. By being a rebel. A revolutionary. Out to bring about change. --Jim Broede

Give me a whiff of sauerkraut.

Amazing. Life ain’t so bad. Once one slows down. And finds reason. To savor the moment. A rigor suddenly becomes transformed. Into a pleasure. Simply by recognizing the futility of being in a hurry. Some call it. Taking time to smell the roses. Instead, I merely take time. To rejoice. That I am me. A conscious and living being. Capable of being in love. With life. I can find better things to do. Than smell a rose. Today, I’d rather smell slowly simmered sauerkraut served with a bratwurst. --Jim Broede

Just to make life interesting.

I’m a philosophical being. Always asking questions. About life. Don’t know if I really want the answers to everything. Because then I’d have to quit searching. Quit asking questions. Indeed, that might make life very boring.  Makes me wonder. If the creator knows everything. Or chooses to be baffled about some things. Just to make life interesting.  --Jim Broede

Nothing less than great expectations.

I have great expectations for my Chicago Cubs this baseball season. And that could be dangerous. For my well-being. If the Cubs don’t go all the way to the world series, I could become despondent.  Last year, I had reasonably low expectations for the Cubs. But they overachieved. And almost got to the world series. I was happy. Because the Cubs exceeded my expectations. This year. I’ll settle for nothing less than great expectations. --Jim Broede

A flip of the coin.

I wonder. If the greatest human weakness. Is the failure to replenish one’s self. Or is it failure to ever do anything so strenuous and taxing that it even requires replenishment? To find the answer. I may have to flip a coin. --Jim Broede

On top of the cosmic mountain.

So much that we don’t know. About life. About existence. About time. About space. We know only what we can sense. And our senses are limited. There must be many, many other senses. I want to live beyond my senses. Even beyond my imagination. To the highest form of intelligent life. Is that asking too much? No, it isn’t. I deserve to live on the top of the cosmic mountain. --Jim Broede

An extraordinary care-giver, & more.

I’ve been talking. And writing. About dear friend Julie. A whole lot. In her longtime struggle. With a drinking problem. And with depression. It’s a saga that has lasted for over a decade. But maybe. Just maybe. It’s on the road to a solution. With Julie in the early stages of rehab. With the possibility of recovery. If that happens. I’ll nominate the real hero. And it won’t necessarily be Julie. Instead, it’ll be her primary care-giver. The man who stuck by her. All these years. For better or worse. Yes, it’s husband Rick. I suspect that most husbands. Finding themselves in similar situations. Would have abandoned their spouses. And gotten on with their lives. They would have had enough of emotional turbulence and turmoil. Sure, Rick had dire moments. When he thought about walking away. But at critical times. Rick was always there. Sticking by Julie. Even when Julie didn’t appreciate his devotion. His love. Because she was too far gone. Too inebriated. Too mentally disturbed. To fully understand what was happening. Not only to herself. But to Rick. Believe me. If this love story ends happily. I’m giving most of the credit to Rick. He’s been unbelievable.  An extraordinary care-giver, and more. Yes, a true lover. --Jim Broede

The real me. Living forever.

My thoughts exist. But they are not physical. Same goes for my spirit. I’m convinced. That my spirit exists. Though it is not physical. Of course, many of my thoughts elude me. They disappear. Some to never emerge again. Unless I record particular thoughts. In writing. Or in a computer. In a blog, for instance. As for my spirit, I’m assuming that it’s far more than a disappearing thought. Spirit will always be. Living forever. Even after my physical demise and disintegration. The spirit is spirit is spirit. Indestructible. That’s the real me. Living forever. --Jim Broede

A day by day thing.

That’s where my mentally-disturbed friend Julie has been for a long time. Telling lies. To herself. Self-deception. It’s put her into a whole lot of trouble. But there’s a good sign. Julie is beginning to recognize the truth. Beginning to grasp realities. And the necessity of getting well again. Especially, if she wants to be genuinely happy. In control of her life. And no longer mired in the quick sands of depression. Progress is progress. Julie knows she doesn’t have to do it all at once. It’s a day by day thing. --Jim Broede

The worst lies.

I have no qualms about telling the truth. Even if I’ve told a lie. I make amends. By confessing. That I was a liar. Furthermore, if I do something bad. Such as cussing out a friend. Unjustly. I’ll apologize.  In fact, I may apologize. Even when I’m in the right. Because I’m a gentleman. And gentlemen don’t swear.  Of course, I’ll also admit. That I ain’t always a gentleman. Now that’s the truth. And I want to be truthful. At least most of the time. Frankly, one can’t help but tell an occasional lie. That’s the nature of life. We’re all liars. To some degree. The worst lies. Come when we lie to ourselves. Without even knowing it. --Jim Broede

My favorite pastime.

Shutting out the rest of the world. For a few hours. Maybe a day. That’s an all right thing to do. I practice such an endeavor. To achieve solitude. It’s a form of respite. Getting away from it all. From other people. From human events. Yes, I love my moments of solitude. Of course, I also embrace the camaraderie of being with people. Being a participant. In the grand world. I need balance. A blending. A little bit of everything. But I have to admit. My favorite pastime is solitude. A time to replenish myself. --Jim Broede

One way or another.

Don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing. That Julie cares. Maybe excessively. About what people think. About her somewhat deplorable mental and physical state.  She’d like to keep secret.  That she has a weakness for alcohol. And that it has gotten her into trouble.  I leaked that information. To the nurse caring for Julie. In a place called a health and rehabilitation center. The new nurse had just come on duty. For the first time. And apparently the nurse had not been fully briefed. About why Julie was acting up. In an agitated and belligerent manner. So I informed the nurse. That Julie was in recovery.  In withdrawal. After going three weeks without a drink. Julie overheard what I told the nurse. And Julie was pissed. That I had volunteered the information.  And maybe she has a right be peeved. Yes, I have a big mouth. I believe in facing an issue. Head-on. With the truth. No secrets. That’s my nature. And it doesn’t always suit others. I rub some people the wrong way. Maybe I should be more cognizant, more respectful of Julie’s ways and concerns. Yes, some matters aren’t easily resolved. There are different approaches. To the common problem. I confess. Don’t always know what I’m doing. Blundering my way through life. In dealing with people. Sometimes I’m right. Other times, I’m wrong. Maybe that goes for all of us. But one thing is for sure. I’m willing to take risks. Every day. I was put on Earth. To live life.  One way or another. --Jim Broede

To have endearing faith. In Julie.

Believe me. It’s scary. Watching friend Julie. In withdrawals. Three weeks after she’s had her last drink. I start to have doubts. About the prospects of a full recovery. I’m told by so-called experts. That presumably know far more than I. To not worry. To not overreact to what I’m seeing. That it takes time. Sometimes weeks. Or months. To return to normal behavior. Yes, that’s the most scary part. The unceasing abnormal behavior. The agitation. The hallucinations. Weeks and weeks after quitting. There are physiological explanations for it all. And there are effective long-term treatments. I’m told, dear Julie, that the underlying cause for your situation is depression. And long-term stress. Such as being an Alzheimer care-giver.  Without adequate respite. That most likely was the triggering factor with you.  I can understand that. After all, I was a care-giver. For 13 years. Too many years as a 24/7 care-giver. I became addicted. Not to alcohol. But to exercise. That may have helped save me. But my main salvation. Was daily respite. Daily breaks. My dear Jeanne went into a nursing home. For 38 months. I remained her  supplemental care-giver. For 8 to 10 hours daily. That allowed me to come home. For rest. For exercise. For a break from the daily grind.  Yes, I became a recluse, of sorts. For the sake of my sanity. Yes, I learned to take care of myself. Yes, Julie. That’s your problem. It’s necessary to take care of yourself. First and foremost. In a positive (not reckless) manner. Your next step. Is to come out of withdrawals. So that you can go down the road to full recovery. Your devoted husband Rick will be there. To hold your hand. And to give you love and moral support. At the same time. He’s setting a fine example. For the rest of us. We have endearing faith in you, dear Julie. Believe me. --Jim Broede

Julie's sweet dream.

Dear Julie has gone three weeks. Without a drink. She’s rehabbing. Nicely, in some respects. But a little bit delusional. For instance. She cleaned out her closet and packed clothes in plastic bags. Claimed she had to catch a flight later today. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘Norway,’ she replied. Yes, a positive sign. Julie is dreaming. Sweet dreams. Husband Rick wants to make Julie’s dream come true. That is, after she completes rehab. Julie’s roots are in Norway. --Jim Broede

One of my greatest achievements.

There are much worse fates. Than becoming a fool. I’ve learned to relish being a fool. Makes me feel good. And gives me the opportunity to laugh at myself. There’s no one funnier than me. When I play my natural role. As a fool. That is one of my greatest achievements.  Makes me a better lover. And a better dreamer, too.   --Jim Broede

On being protective. Of myself.

Maybe I should care more about my friends. But sometimes, it’s necessary to draw a line. Especially when it comes to very troubled friends. Mental basket cases. They drink too much. They go into bouts of depression. It’s very difficult being around them. Stressful, indeed. I need to get away. For respite breaks. Otherwise, they’ll drag me down. Into the pit.  With them. I’ve learned to not let that happen.  I’m protective. Of myself. --Jim Broede

An extra day to achieve.

The way I look at life. Almost everything I do. Is an achievement. That helps me. Feel good about myself.  Unfortunately, not all of my friends look at themselves as achievers. My friend Julie, for instance, considers herself a failure. Because she can’t seem to overcome daily bouts of depression. She has cultivated a low self-esteem. A defeatist attitude. She’s paranoid. Too often thinking that the world has teamed up against her. I’m trying to convince Julie to adopt another mindset. That of an achiever. Taking life one day at a time. All she needs is a single achievement. Every day. For a year. Imagine that. A string of 365 achievements. In a single year. Wow! And this year, she’ll have a bonus. An extra day to achieve. Because it’s a leap year. --Jim Broede

Keeps me from being bored.

I’m never bored. Even if the day turns out to be uneventful. I take time. To reflect. About the wonders of life. About being alive and conscious.  Indeed. That’s astounding. A blessing. More significant. Than anything else that’s happening in the world. Just knowing. That I’m me. Unique in some ways. But so are other people. Each unique. In their own ways. How did this happen? I really don’t know. But it gives me something to ponder. In search of an answer. Which keeps me from being bored.  --Jim Broede

I'll keep trying.

I’d like to think. That it’s easy. For everyone. To be happy. Anyway, I find it relatively easy. Simply by focusing on stuff that make me happy. And by disregarding the things that don’t. Yes, so simple. Turns out. I’m a natural born happiness freak. My friend Julie isn’t. She’s deplorably glum. Virtually round the clock. In my estimation, Julie has many, many reasons to be happy. Even joyful. But still, she resists. Qualifying as one of the unhappiest people I’ve ever known. Of course, it’s common knowledge. Julie is in depression. Forever, it seems. I’ve tried to intervene. In positive ways. By being cheerful when I’m around Julie. But to no avail. Meanwhile, believe me. I’ll keep trying and trying and trying. --Jim Broede

Love stories with unhappy endings.

It’s gotta be difficult. Living with Julie. But husband Rick has managed it. Which is indication of true love. Rick has weathered many storms. Not least being the six years that Julie’s dementia-riddled parents lived with them. Little wonder. That the care-giving experience wrecked Julie. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Led to alcoholism. And depression. Yet, Rick remained stalwart and supportive. He still loves Julie. And wants her to find happiness. But Julie may be too far gone. No longer capable of happiness.  I wish that weren’t so. But some love stories have unhappy endings. --Jim Broede

And to hell with the housework.

Out of the blue. Julie becomes obsessed. With the notion that she must do housework. Scrub the floors. Clean the closet. Fix a meal.  She excuses herself. So that she can complete her domestic chores. But Julie is in a nursing home. Being tended to. She has no obligation. To do housework. Everybody tells her that. But still. Julie insists. That she must complete her chores. Instead, I encourage Julie to lean back. To look out the window. To observe the beautiful day. The sunshine. The glorious feeling. Of being alive. At this particular moment.  To forget about her household tasks. I suggest. That we go outdoors. In her wheelchair. With her beloved pet dog Sasha. Yes, we all go out. And bask in the sunshine. And feel the balmy warmth. It’s a 60-degree day. With a gentle breeze. Yes, Julie is learning. How to take a break.  To savor the precious wonders. Of life. They occur. All  the time. Around us. All we need do. Is grasp and fall in love with  the moment. And to hell with the housework. --Jim Broede

No easy remedy for addiction.

Julie is an interesting case study. As she tries to recover from her addiction to alcohol. She’s in her 18th day without a drink.  Julie can’t be admitted to a full-fledged, long-term alcoholic rehabilitation program until she’s ready to handle it. Her mental acuity has been affected by alcohol consumption over a long time. But the situation is getting better every day. She’s now biding time in a nursing home. But will move into an elite and expensive alcoholic recovery program eventually. The prognosis is good. For entry into the rehab program later in April.  But even then, there’s no assurance of success. No easy remedy for alcohol addiction.--Jim Broede

Despairing friends don't bother me.

Some call it a soul. I call it a spirit. That’s what I have. Can’t prove it.  But that doesn’t matter. Because I believe what I want to believe.  Without verifiable proof. Might as well. I have nothing to lose. By believing in whatever makes me happy. That’s my major goal in life. To be happy. And content. Every day. I find reason to be happy. May take no more than a sunny day. Yes, I’ll even settle for a cloudy and rainy day. Just the fact that I’m here to witness the day. That’s good enough for me. I have some unhappy friends. Just because they can’t believe what they want to believe. In happiness. So they navigate through life. Dwelling on their unhappiness. Fortunately, those despairing friends don’t bother me. After all, I’m occupied. Being happy.  -Jim Broede

What is life with a pickled brain?

There’s a possibility. That Julie will never fully recover. That she will be plagued. By the effects of alcoholism. For the rest of her life. A slower mind. A slower body. Now. Seventeen days since she had her last drink. Julie’s sluggishness mimics Alzheimer’s. The very disease that ravaged her mother and father. The experts say. Julie has a fighting chance. For almost full recovery. If she finally sees the light. And never drinks again. But still, there’s a possibility. Of devastating after-effects. Her heart. Her liver. Fortunately. Have made it through. In decent shape. The question remains. What about Julie’s mind? Can Julie still bounce back? Mentally. Mentally. What is life with a pickled brain? --Jim Broede

For better or for worse.

I keep confronting my dear alcoholic friend Julie. With what she doesn’t want to hear. The brutal truth. Julie is living on the edge. She’s gone 16 days. Without a drink. Only because she’s in the early stages of treatment. And has no access to alcohol. The detoxification has taken a heavy toll on Julie. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Julie bounces in and out of reality. She doesn’t fully understand why she’s in her current treatment facility. She doesn’t remember much of her inebriated past. I asked Julie yesterday. If she knows why she’s being confined. And why she feels lousy. And confused. I ask Julie if she can recount how she got into this mess. I try to tell Julie the truth. About her sad plight. But Julie would rather forget. Because it would only drive her into deeper despair. I write to Julie. Every day. To tell her the truth about herself. About her fractured life. Because I truly care. Because I want Julie to get better. But Julie refuses to read what I write. Refuses to listen. Makes me wonder. If I’m doing Julie  more harm than good. Maybe I should butt out. Mind my own business. And write off Julie. Just let her live life. In whatever way she chooses. For better or worse.  --Jim Broede

In love. WIth precious moments.

Despite occasional heartbreak. Life is wonderful. Because without moments of sadness. One wouldn’t know how to be exuberantly happy. Makes me appreciate. That I had dear Jeanne in my life. That’s why I was momentarily stunned. Distraught. And grieved when Jeanne was riddled by Alzheimer’s. And died. But I soon grasped. That I was blessed. By having Jeanne in my life. Still do. Though it’s of spiritual nature. I’d not learn to appreciate night. Unless there was day. The same goes for life and death. I am living fully. Because of the prospect of my inevitable demise. I am so very much aware of being alive and conscious.. Little wonder. That I am in love. With life. With precious moments.  --Jim Broede

The world's most talented fool.

Believe me. I’m a fool. Always have been. I was born a fool. But I don’t mind being a fool. Really, that’s no fooling.  No joking.  No joshing.  I maintain. That most of us. Would be better off. If we were genuine fools. Not mere fakes. A good fool. Can be very entertaining. In the olden days, they became court jesters. Yes, in a previous life. I have a feeling. That I was an elite court jester. Being a fool. Is in my blood. It comes naturally. I am the world’s most talented fool. Makes me feel. Beyond a doubt. That I have achieved the ultimate in life. --Jim Broede