How we show up for other people matters. We can provide that place of safety in which they can heal and flourish. Too often, we don’t, though. We don’t know what to do, so we don’t show up. We don’t understand the importance of showing up, even if it’s not perfect, just to let people know that they are not alone in difficult situations. Everything is harder when you go through it alone, so show up for your people.
England’s mental health care lacks money, yes – but it also lacks compassion
Study Reveals Barriers to Mental Health Support for Black, Latina Women
Reach Out And Listen: How To Help Someone At Risk Of Suicide
Researchers explore the relationship between childhood trauma, gray matter, and social anhedonia
So, someone like me, a middle-aged, professional, white male, can talk about struggling and get encouragement, pointed to good resources that are affordable for me, and there’s hope that I’ll get better. Someone living near poverty will say the same thing, and we start looking at whether they should have their kids removed from the home or how we can keep them away from a “safe” society.
It gets worse if they are not white and/or have a more serious mental health issue.
That’s not right. Everyone deserves quality mental health care. We shouldn’t divide who gets the care and who doesn’t based on what kind of mental health issue they have or who they are. That’s no way to solve this issue.
No, not really, but what we should do is be sure to maintain healthy boundaries. The article below is about Compassion Fatigue. It’s real. I’ve known people who’ve reached that point, and I’ve watched people online reach that point, where they write and share about every new abuse case they see until they just disappear online because they have become overwhelmed.
Over the years of having this website, I’ve had many people suggest that my abusive childhood made me more compassionate and a kinder human being. Or, maybe it gave me a better sense of humor or made me more spiritual.
Or maybe it didn’t. No version of me wasn’t abused. If there had been a version of me that wasn’t abused, he could be more compassionate. He could be a complete narcissist. He could be funnier or kinder. He could be a selfish ass.
No one knows. That version of me is Schrodinger’s cat. It’s all the possibilities because the box can never be opened to see what’s inside.
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