Nancy's Musings

This is going to be a confession, which means that I am giving you permission to judge me -- not because I want absolution or abuse or absolution through abuse (I am only a secondary victim of my own ignorance), but because learning from the mistakes of others can make the world better, and I will sacrifice for that. For those of you triggered or injured by this confession, I am sorry, and I hope you hold me accountable in whatever way you need to. Be safe. Be well. I grew up in Southern Utah around ranchers and other white stereotypes. When I was a teenager I volunteered to help with a boy scout merit badge activity. I was assigned to help at a knot-tying station with an older man (probably in his sixties). I was much more interested in learning a new skill myself than I was in helping anybody. I'm sure I was mostly useless. Between rotation groups, the man teaching the boys how to tie clove hitches and granny squares sensed my eagerness to learn. He got a twinkle in his eye - a...

Because mental illness is alienating, one of my favorite things to do is exchange perspectives and experiences with others who share some part of my struggles. One of my dear friends was willing to write his perspective down, and gave me permission to share it here. I was intrigued by his ideas, and I think you will be, too. " Anybody with anxiety—any mental or physical illness—is often told that their illness doesn't define them. I disagree. Growing up I was always somewhat anxious about things; I was careful about how I handled and used my toys, or who I let play with them; I was not interested in being an Astronaut when everybody else thought it would be exciting; I didn't seek out the thrill rides at amusement parks, instead favoring the down-to-earth attractions like bumper cars; I was not interested in the "dares" of other children… But it wasn't until my late teens that I started to become clinically, chronically anxious. My first majo...