Ultimate Game of Chance

2016 has been a terrible year. I try to undersand the hatred, the shame, and the violence, but it just doen't compute. How something that doesn't have any effect on someone can make that person hate.

In Europe, calls for harsher laws against humans are raised in every governing body. Leaders of nations, safe in their homes with three meals per day, a roof, warmth, and a bed, have decided that humans running from falling bombs and mass executions are worth less than the people in charge.

In Russia, a former KGB agent rules supreme and is persecuting his own people. In North Korea, a dictator is hunting his own people. We call them names, and by doing so, give them more power.

A new leader sits at the top of power in one of the most powerful countries in the world and everyone is freaking out. No, not everyone. This man got half of the votes of the electoral college, representing roughly half of the people who voted. Sure, he got less than the opposition, but he still won. When we belittle Donald Trump, we belittle those who voted for him, and by doing so, we give him more power.

Polititians are calling for the people to accept the state of things, to not work against the leaders, but that is not how a democracy works. There is an opposition for a reason.

Cercei Lannister said "When you play the game of thrones, you either win, or you die". In Roger Zelazny's Amber, the one who loses ends up blind in a dungeon, or meet a more merciful death. In Unadan, the champions can be banished, kept away for the sake of humanity.
In these epic stories, the weak have a chance of  becoming heroes, the underdog can win and save the world. We like these stories, because they give us an escape from our own world. We like to forget the fights we face and just move into a more managable narrative.

Humans are rarely that simple. Every human is a complex being, with wants and needs, desires, fears, and attractions. Some are accepting, some are not. Some are conservative, some are liberal, some just want a meal that day. It would be so easy if we could live in a world like in "Equilibrium" or the "Divergent" series - everyone is the same, just a different face.

But. We. Do. Not.

Humans are complex beings who need to be imagined complexly. We come in different sizes, colors, religions, ethnic backgrounds, and sexualities. We look different, we think differently, but we are ONE species! Our current leaders want to turn us against each other so we will forget to hold them accountable. Let us turn back to them, raise our voices, and make them answer for what they are doing.

Birth is the ultimate game of chance. A human doesn't decide their skin color, hair color, eye color, size, or sexuality. To hold someone in contempt for something we have no control over is a coward's way. Let us turn to our leaders and demand to know what they will do to not be cowards. To dare to imagine people complexly. To be brave enough to shout from the rooftops "We are different and it is awesome!!"

But, you know what? We can be the underdog that saves the world.
Do not accept the staus quo. Use the laws and oppose cowardly politicians. Do not stoop to violence or name calling, but make the haters powerless by being the braver person.

DFTBA

Alan would have turned 4.

Bombs are falling over civilian homes and people are fleeing towards the only safety they can imagine. When they reach the borders, soldiers and tall fences stop them and tell the fleeing to turn back. Soldiers shoot at children and old people. Politicians talk of a refugee crisis and the need to stop refugees from coming to their country. Children are drowning, getting shot, or starve to death along railway lines and in forests as they are running from bombs and soldiers, gas attacks and unlawful imprisonment.

The year is 1940, 1964, 1985.

The year is 2015.

In safety, the people asked to lend a hand scream about stolen jobs, freeloading bastards, and children eating our food. They look at an 8 year old boy in shock and call him a terrorist. They look at a young mother cradling a dead infant and sneer at her desperate, silent tears.

We who have everything have a chance to prove that we are humans, but all politicians can talk about is "room to breathe" and "systems falling apart". They refuse to see that it is humans we are talking about. The people running, fleeing for their lives, want nothing more than going home, but their homes are gone.

German bombs 1941. British bombs 1944. American bombs 1945. Russian bombs and Syrian chemicals 2015-2016.

We look at history and say "Never Again", then turn around and cheer the same politics repeating. In Sweden, we say that we don't have the resources to help fellow humans, then boast about the cleanest drinking water in the world and our food exports. We say there is no room for humans, then close down refugee housing and impromptu camps.

During World War 2, Sweden let Nazi walk through our country to invade Norway, then accepted Norwegian refugees. We grudgingly accepted Finnish refugees. During the Cold War, Sweden said nothing, and established research into "keeping the race clean".

In 2015, our Prime Minister calls for open hearts and accepting homes, then passed a law that would divide families, leave children without parents, and parents desperately searching for their children. The politicians are closing down housing for refugees, yet still claims to be a the forefront of humanitarian aid.

We are all humans. It is time to raise up against the de-humanization and show off our infinate potential for empathy, understanding, and to do good. Prayer is fine, but action is far superior and unless we want a repetition of the 1930-40s, we need to act now to push down xenophobia, hatred, and fear mongering.

Do not let Alan Kurdi have died in vain.

DFTBA

Memories of No one*

My mind is a weird place, both to inhabit and to describe to others. I have no way of relating to people who describe the world in just words, because, to me, thoughts and emotions are images on a reel, like the Cinematic Records in "Black Butler". This comes with the added difficulty that I have a very hard time separating memories from imagination. Unless I have photos to back up what I remember, I can't tell the difference between what happened and what I dreamt happened. Add in the fact that I've been through the wringer with gaslighting and physical abuse, and I have to have people I can trust to ask if I remember things correctly. I can talk about what happened to me in the past mostly because I can't really tell the difference. Sure, I can say "I have a hard time speaking in front of a group because of the humiliation I suffered from bullies" and my brain and my anxiety will confirm its truthfulness, but I no longer have an emotional reaction when I think about said humiliation. I no longer seek retribution and I no longer get angry if I meet any of the bullies.  I have the same response to that pain as I do when thinking about the nightmares I remember.

As I now get ready to move from Ireland back to Sweden, it opens up the possibility that I won't be able to tell with certainty if anything I've experienced here is actually real. I have photos and I have souvenirs, but will that be enough to quell the sensation of waking up from a dream? I don't know. I hope it will. This past year has been so much fun. Sure, my room mate could use some serious social therapy and I've been just as out of luck in the job department as I was before I moved here. However, being away from the pressure from society, the shaming from the Employment Agency and Welfare Office (I wonder if they know that shaming someone is the least effective motivator available), and the feeling of inadequacy I experienced in Sweden, I've managed to get a working foundation for myself. The memory of being on a daily dose of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication is already settling into "Are you sure that wasn't a bad dream?" territory and maybe this nagging dread I feel when thinking about my room mate will join my other bad memories in a faded lull between memories and imagination. In just one year, I've learned to control my social anxiety, to rely on Boy when my general anxiety and chronic depression gets to be too strong, and to trust my own judgement, both when it comes to decision about my life and what my brain can do.

And one day, many years from now, I might look back at all this and wonder if it was all just a dream, something I made up, or if this uncertainty is just something that's part of me and something I can control by photos and people I can trust.

DFTBA


*Title taken from the "Bleach" movie of the same name.

A family of many

Today is International Day Against Homophobia, Bi-phobia, and Transphobia. It breaks my heart that this day has to be a thing, but it makes me proud to stand with the people defending the right to be an individual and to love whoever your heart has decided to love.

I have tried for many years to understand how people can hate others based on who you love or who you are. I understand hate based on actions. Hitler deserves to be hated. As does Mussoulini, Putin, and several others. They killed and destroyed for their own gain.
But to hate someone because they want to be left in peace? I just do not understand it.

In psychology, there are two terms I have taken to heart and now use frequently - Family of Origin and Family of Choice. Family of Origin means the family that raised you. Doesn't have to be biological in any way. It's just the group of people who raised you. Family of Choice is the group of people you feel close to, but aren't necessarily related to, for example soldiers in the Marines, LGBTQIA+ allies, or a close knit sports team.

My Family of Origin is my mom, my dad, and my younger sister. My parents have been married for almost 33 years now. They both identify as straight and belong to the Swedish Protestant Church. Their church activities are limited to the odd Christmas Choir Conserts and not much more. My sister doesn't like labels and therefore doesn't use them that often, but when pressed, she says she's gay. She's also a Protestant, but mostly in name, like most Swedes. I am gray-asexual and a Shintoist.

My family of Choice is a bit bigger. There's my sibling Jackson, who follows Universe, my, I think, sexuality-fluid sister Sakuya, who's religious views I don't know, and my husband Andreas, who refuses to follow any creed except Ego Sum ("I am"), which makes labels exceptionally arbitrary, both in sexuality and religious views.

My family of Origin are all of Germanic descent. My maternal grandmother came from Germany, my father's ancestors are of Swedish-Norwegian descent.
In my family of choice, there are people of Irish, Latin-American, and Germanic descent.
In my combined family, we all have varying degrees of hair and skin pigmentation. We speak different languages, we see the world through different lenses. We have freckles and ginger hair, we are big bodied and slim bodied. We are tall and short.

And we are all family.

I will never understand hate based on who you were born as. You can't change who you love. You don't choose who you are.
Stand proud as who you are! Do not let others dictate your individuality! Yes, it sounds much easier than it is, and trust me, standing up to oppression is the hardest thing you will ever do, but living in hiding, living in fear, crushing who you are to make others accept you will just make you hate yourself more.

You are a miracle just the way you are, and if we stand together, one day, we will win.

DFTBA

When toys are no longer toys

When are toys no longer just toys?
When we, as adults, assign certain values to toys and tell children which values belong to which of the binary genders. We tell children that there are only two genders and that Girls can only play with toys with Girl Values and Boys can only play with toys with Boy Values. These values stay with the children into their adult lives and translate into jobs, roles, and interests. Check this article for same sentiments.

And gender swapping toys is just as bad!!
"Oh, I have my son play with dolls to break gender roles!" for me translates to "I know dolls are Girl Toys and I'm so hip for making my Boy play with them."

I will never stop being grateful for my mother being who she was when it comes to toys. She never tried to influence me or my sister when it came to the toys we wanted to play with. She encouraged me when I dressed up as He-Man and ran around the house, screaming "I'm He-Woman!!". This is where conservatives would go "What!? A girl, dressed as a male action figure, and telling everyone she's He-Woman? My mind can't handle the gender-ception anymore!" Psst - there are more than two genders, and generally, a 3 year-old don't really care either way.
My sister and I had a wide range of Legos, Barbies, cars, My Little Pony knock-offs, glass marbles, build-a-slide things, fire crackers, and basically any variety of toy that could get stuck in a bath tub drain, stepped on, lodged in the vacuum cleaner, brushed, braided, or beaded imaginable. We also rode bikes, skied, skated, built tree houses, and climbed hills and trees. My sister was in a soccer team, she played in U17 competitions in tennis (when she was 12-13 years old), and played land hockey. I was a competitive swimmer and practiced martial arts. I can't imagine not being allowed to play sports or collect plushies because of my percieved gender.

Someone, sadly can't remember who, gave me this gem:

Just change "For boys or girls" to "for all gender identities"

And this is really my view on toys. Toys are toys. They usually don't have genders and playing with a toy does not asign any values or traits to the player. Once society stop stereotyping gender and toys, we can all play and have fun and learn without bias.


DFTBA

TW: The destruction of Childhood

This post will be heavy. It will contain possible triggers for mental distress, trauma, suicide, self hate, self harm, bullying, mental disorders, and extreme loneliness.

Yesterday, I found this very interesting note on my Twitter wall and today I've decided to write about the moment that changed me.

I'm not sure when or why the other children in my class decided to turn against me. My Mom would tell me to not respond to the harsh words, that being ignored would make the bullies stop. She kept saying this for the five years the bullying was a part of my life. My teachers would say that it was because the other children were jealous, but no one would tell me why or what they were jealous of. The one thing that was clear to me was that it was my fault, because I was doing something to be jealous of or I didn't ignore the kids enough.

At first, it was words - witch, fatty, snail, slow poke, disgusting, filth, useless, waste of space, worthless, stupid, nasty.

Then came the addition of pretending that I wasn't there at all. People talk about being selected last for teams in PE. I wasn't even selected. The rest of the class would just pretend there was no one there when there was just me left.

Then came the violence. Snow filled with ice and rocks thrown at my head and face. My face pressed into mud and snow, depending on season. Being pushed from monkey bars, trees or the balancing beams in PE. Tripped and pushed whenever there was something painful I could land on. The water turned to freezing cold or blistering hot when I was showering after PE.

Then came the destruction of my things. A quilted pillow I had made for my Dad got cut open, the red panda plushie I was forced to take to school for "Plush toy Show and Tell" had its tail torn off, my back pack was ripped. Someone carved deep lines into my desk (luckily, the teacher saw who it was, or I would have been made to repair it) My jacket got stolen often, my shoes were hidden, and my books mysteriously lost their cover paper.

I don't think I managed to stay in school a full school day for two years. When the teachers finally figured out what was going on, it had been going on for almost five years. And then it just stopped. All it took was two parent-teacher conferences and one principal's speech to the entire school about the effects of bullying, and I was left alone. At this point, I no longer cared. Life. Death. Night. Day. I was just going through the motions of wake up, have breakfast, go to school, come home, have dinner, watch TV, go to sleep. Repeat. I was so far down into my well of despair that I didn't even consider suicide.

I went to another school for junior high and suddenly, I was among the popular kids. My homeroom class was filled with kind, intelligent, and funny pre-teens who genuinly liked me, and I could not understand why. After five years of daily abuse, suddenly, people were kind to me. It didn't make sense. So, I figured it had to do with my performance in school and in group projects. I belonged somewhere for the first time since I was seven years old, and I was prepared to fight for my place. We moved to another part of town around Christmas that year, and since some of my old abusers were in my class, I decided to change school again. In hindsight, that was a bad decision. It was hard to be accepted at the new school, but I managed to find a group of kids to belong in. I started martial arts and fell helplessly in love with my instructor's younger brother. Said instructor was also my math teacher for a while, and the whole damn school was convinced I was in love with my teacher. Someone even sent him letters in my name, which ended up in said teacher asking my Dad to tell me to knock it off. Yeah, that propelled me down into the pit again, and efficiently shattered any confidence I had in seeking the brother's attention.

Despite the set backs, I was making steady progress forward, getting more and more confident and dare-I-say happy by the week. This also ment that I worked myself up from I-don't-care to suicidal.

I was 13 years and nine months old, give or take a few days, the day I decided I couldn't stand being alive anymore. It wasn't that I wanted to die, specifically. I just didn't want to be alive. Life seemed completely pointless and too painful and too empty. I remember the light filtering in through the blinds of the one large window in my room, dancing in lines and spots on my white-with-pink-and-blue-dots walls as the blinds swayed in the slight breeze from the open window. It was a warm day for being September, but I can still feel the cold in my chest. I had located my Mom's sleeping pills and pilfered a handful when she was too busy to notice. I remember not bothering with a note, thinking that my diary would be explanation enough, even though I didn't think anyone would look for it. At sometime after 5 pm, I took the pills and layed down on my bed and waited. I must have dozed off, because it was almost 6 pm when Mom called that dinner was ready.
And I got up.
For 16 years, I didn't know why I got up from that bed. It had nothing to do with my mother's voice, the food being served (spaghetti, meat sauce, and grated carrots. Yes, that's how ingrained this evening is in my mind), or the potential grief I would cause if I died. Then, last year, I figured out that it was because I just wanted to experience more Everything. I simply wanted to live badly enough to break through the haze of too-many pills and too much pain. I had dinner with my family, I watched TV until 9 pm, then I went to my bedroom, grabbed the book I was reading ("Castle of Wizardry" by David Eddings) and the book after it, and sat down to read. I was convinced that I would die if I fell asleep, so I decided to stay awake that night. When I went to school the following day, I was in more pain than I could remember. Every step hurt, my head was just filled with buzzing, and my eyes felt like needles of ice. I managed to stay awake until 10 pm that night, and then I fell asleep and didn't dream.

I can never go back to the happy-go-lucky child my Mom tells me I used to be. The girl who would flirt with everyone and was absolutely fearless. That child died at the hands of bullies. I can also never go back to that 13 year old girl who felt that the only way to stop the suffering was to die. I don't want to be her again. That girl died on that bed 17 years ago.

I have known pain and trauma. I have experienced emptiness, coldness, and soul shattering loneliness. I was the tiny flame on top of a match in a locked, dark basement, fluttering with the lack of air.
And today, I am a woman who will never stand idly by when someone needs help. I will never ignore a child who needs support and I will never accept abuse from anyone or done to anyone, if I can prevent it. Because that feeling of betrayal and darkness is a part of me, a part of who I am, I will do whatever I can to prevent others from experiencing it.

DFTBA

Temple and Church - A trip to Dublin

Ten days ago, Boy and I went into Dublin city to do some touristing. This is a short account of the two days we spent in town.
First of all, I'd like to make the point that everyone, if presented with the opportunity, should visit Dublin and Ireland. It's a spectacular country, in which the boundaries between urban and rural are blurred beyond anything I've ever seen. I live in a small town, about 53 000 souls, just outside Dublin and I might as well live in a village for all the "city feeling" you get here. Swords is one of the oldest, if not -the- oldest settlement in Ireland, but I can recount its history later. This post is about Dublin.

So, breakfast cleared away, Boy and I rushed to catch the bus, and with its usually unreliability, the bus was 5 minutes late. Dublin Bus does that. You have to keep an iron hold on the bus app in order to know when the bus will arrive, because the time tables are just something between suggestion and place holder.
We travelled along the same way Boy and I had walkedto get to Malahide Castle less than a week earlier and it was as stunningly beautiful as I remembered.

There are two things you absolutely have to remember when taking the bus in Dublin county. First is to always have the correct fair in coins on you. The bus driver has no way of giving you change and has no access to the money at all, and notes are not accepted.
Second thing is to always thank the driver when you disembark. You will come across as incredibly rude if you don't say "Thanks", "Cheers", or "Thank you" when you get off the bus.

            After much bouncing around in the confines of the bus for 40 minutes, we got off at the corner of Talbot St and Gardiner St and went looking for somewhere to eat, since we were too early to check into our hotel. After some walking, we slipped into a small bar called J J Grainger, and heavens know I will always be grateful for that decision. They have -The Best- fish-n-chips I have ever eaten. Haddock smoked to perfection, then rolled in beer batter and deep fried. Boy had a Guinnes and beef stew that make me cry because it tasted just like my Granma's beef stew.





After lunch, we went to the hotel and checked in. Sadly, the hotel did not live up to expectations. There were exposed electrical wires near the floor, the stairs were steep, the bathroom was extremely cramped, and the breakfast was mediocre, but I'm getting ahead of myself. The bed was very comfortable and the room was clean and free from dust. It was a nice looking room. I was just expecting more based on reviews and the price tag.





Then we went looking for the Temple Bar District, and managed to get absolutely, undeniably lost. Getting lost in Dublin is one of the more enjoyable experiences I've had, because I got to see some great architecture, some brilliant murals, and I got to snicker at some fire fighters practicing water rescues in the Liffey.

We were both pretty hungry when we finally found ourselves outside Hard Rock Café Dublin. We got a table and ordered food - steak and mashed potatoes for Boy, and Macaroni, Chicken and Cheese for me. After Grainger, Hard Rock Café was very underwhelming. It was expensive, and while the food was good, it wasn't that good to warrant the price. After a while, a friend of Boy's showed up and we talked until the sun set. I think the waitress wanted us to order more things, but eh.

We followed Boy's friend to the bus stop, passing by the Dublin Spire (sorry, no photos. Phone had died by this point). and the Abbey.
Thanks to my coughing, neither Boy, nor I slept very well that night, but it was a lot better than back in the apartment. The hotel room had blinds!


The next morning, we went down to breakfast and were a bit disappointed. The "continental breakfast buffee" consisted of presliced cheese, ham and salami slices, eggs and toast you had to ask for (2 eggs per person and 6 slices of toast to share), yoghurt cups, müsli and Rice Crispies, and coffee, orange juice, and milk. I know I am critical, but the room was supposed to cost €120 per person per night, but thanks to a discount site, we payed €35 per person for that night, breakfast included. I've had a better room and breakfast in London for £7 per person per night.

Day was vastly improved as we checked out and stepped into the warm sunlight and made our way to the National Leprechaun Museum. I highly recommend a visit to the museum. The tour was a bit short, but it was fun, the settings were well crafted, and the guide was smart, funny, and knew her lore. I wanted to see a lot more things, but both Boy and I felt that we'd had enough touristing, and we went looking for the bus stop - and managed to get a bit lost.
The whole adventure was concluded with a cup of coffee and a slice of White Chocolate and Raspberry cake at Insomnia in Pavilions, Swords.




DFTBA

TW: Abstinence and so on

I promised to write about my extended absense and so I will.

Trigger warnings apply for depression, social anxiety, and generalized anxiety disorder.

After I turned 30 years old, I guess you can say I went through a crisis of sorts. I have never been one to get hung up on an age or on aging in general, but for some reason, my inner abuser decided to start pointing out that I'm 30 years old and I still don't have a finished education, a job, any close friends who live near me, or any way to help out around the house, because our room mate have banned me from using any kitchen appliance that's not the microwave oven or the water boiler. I'm not going to get into that, because it makes me angry and it's nothing I can change, so there's no point in ranting about it. The whole Serenity Prayer and all that. Try it, it really works. You can even remove/substitute the word "God" if you don't believe in the Abrahamic deity.

"God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference."

    - Reinhold Niebuhr 1892 - 1971

Anyhow, the reason I went off into my own lands was because of a combination of my inner abuser grabbing hold and convinced me that no one cares anyway, of some amazing opportunities falling through due to no fault of me (but the Abuser really likes to tell me it's all my fault), of me phasing out my anti-depressants, and me getting the worst cold I've had in years. I've been bed ridden for days, coughing for two weeks, and fighting a fever off and on for three weeks.

I have also discovered that the game Binding of Isaac is a great coping tool for me. It takes me out of my head just long enough for me to get a handle on my anxieties and depression and to start functioning again.

I want to write this blog for my own sake. Writing things down helps me think and sort through my day. It helps me get a third person view on the vile spew that comes out of my abuser's mouth and to get fight it. I want to update at least once per week, but I also need to remember that I'm not a bad person if I miss an update. 

Next post will be about Boy's and my trip into Dublin City Center for our tenth anniversary.

DFTBA

BPJ Inc: Being present

Wow, I haven't written anything for so long. I am so terribly sorry about this and I hope there are people who are still interested in reading this blog. My aspiration is to post at least once per week from now on, and my next post will address the reason for this impromptu absense.



But now I want to take on the topic for today, which was also given way too long ago - being present.

When I had my breakdown in 2013, I was forced to learn how to relax and focus on what was happening in the present instead of planning for things to come. My brain just couldn't handle planning beyond the coming 10 minutes, so I had to adapt.
Pushing myself into being present has helped me stave off anxiety episodes and crippling bouts of depression. It helps me in my relationship with Boy, and the rest of my family. It helps me be creative and positive, even though I struggle with the latter. I say "pushing myself", because staying put in the current moment is not a small feat. It is so very hard to do. It sounds like something that should be easy, but planning ahead is so much easier than staying in the present. Every single thing you see, feel, smell, or taste will either wake up memories or push you into plans for the future. "This reminds me of...", "Oh, that smells like pasta. Dinner tonight?" and thoughts like that. I have a well working way to push me into staying in the moment, but I've been informed that having sex everywhere, all the time, is very impractical and sometimes illegal. Sure, post coital cuddling is very grounding, but probably not recommended for all situations.
I know not everyone will find these tips helpful. These are just tools I have found useful, tools that work for me, and I know that changing the way you think about things can be a task Sisyphos would find impossible, but it gets easier with practice. Hell, it took me four months to get to my first successful attempt (that didn't immediately dissolve into anxious jibber-jabber of what-ifs) and I felt I had to try in order to remain sane in any capacity.

I want to recommend two different approaches, one for when you're with someone else and one for when you're on your own, for staying focused on the here-and-now.

The first one is for social situations and it is to listen.
I know, very odd idea, but hear me out (see what I did there?). I used to be the person who always had snarky reply or a sarcastic comment for everything. I thought I was being funny and edgy and interesting, but I was just being childish and very unproductive. And very very bored. When I stopped looking for things to snark about, I discovered that actually listening when someone else was talking made me feel entertained, informed, and very grounded. Time would fly away on its tiny bat wings and I would actually miss it.
Listening doesn't have to be hard. If you don't like whoever's talking, listen to the sound of their cadence, or the pitch of their voice, or the rhythm they use to emphasise syllables. If you like the speaker, you can focus on specific words or syllables. Don't try to interpret what they're saying, just listen to what's actually being said, the words in the order they're presented. Actually listening without interpretation or bias will keep you bound in the present, it will help you build rapport with the speaker, and, as added bonus, when you speak, you will sound a lot smarter, because staying focused on the conversation will give you time to think up intelligent contributions.

The second one is for when you're on your own, and it's physical sensations (not sexual).
Say you're watching a movie/TV show/play/trying to sleep and you feel your thoughts start wandering. Instead of fighting it, let your thoughts keep wandering around, but try to focus of the texture of the arm rest, the warmth of the blanket, the softness of your pillow, or the scent of that cup of coffee sitting next to you. Bus late and you're getting bored? Try to enjoy even the faintest warmth from the sun or the subtle nuances of the air on your skin. The bus will show before you realize time has passed.

So maybe you can start today by just hugging a pet, listening to a boring lecture, or have that cup of Bailey's coffee? You've earned it.

DFTBA